#walkingthroughfire

𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐀 𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐄 plucked straight from the pages of her own novellas, a place where reality blurs with the fantastical. Is it a dungeon, with its shadowy corners and whispering echoes? Or a palace, with its opulent gold adornments and grand, towering doors? Could this be Asgard, the fabled abode of the gods she writes about? Nonetheless, it defies her usually unbridled imagination, leaving her at a loss for words—not that anyone is near to share them with. This unexpected transformation ignites a curious fire in her, pushing the fatigue that weighs on her bones into a forgotten corner of her mind.

Compelled by an inexplicable urge, she ventures deeper into this labyrinth of wonders. Her steps are slow, almost reverent, as she passes along the corridor. The walls adorned with gold that caught the light in a dance of shimmering splendor. Doors, grand and imposing, line her path—some ajar, others firmly closed, as if guarding the secrets within. Her brown eyes, wide with astonishment, remain fixed on the corridor's end, where light beckoned her forward, promising revelations unknown.

In this place, so reminiscent of the worlds she conjures in her own stories, she feels an inexplicable sense of serenity wash over her. The fears and uncertainties seem distant here, like shadows dispelled by the morning sun. She expects no malevolence, for it feels like a fragment of her imagination come to life, a peaceful haven sculpted from the depths of her most cherished dreams. Or can it be, she ponders, that her earthly journey has reached its end? Is this ethereal corridor, bathed in celestial light, the pathway to the very gates of heaven? The thought flutters in her mind. That notion, however, began to waver as a hiss, a whisper carrying the weight of ages, slithered through the air. Mystical, imbued with an ancient timbre, a voice that seems to reside within her own mind yet echoes as if emanating from the very end of the corridor. 𝑫𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒔𝒔𝒔𝒔𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒑... . 𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒆.

𝗕𝗘𝗡𝗘𝗔𝗧𝗛  𝗔  𝗖𝗛𝗨𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚,  smoky  sky,  the  ruins  of  the  avengers  headquarters  sprawl  out  in  jagged  lines. Peter,  the  star-lord,  blinks  rapidly,  fighting  the  disorientation  that  nips  at  the  edges  of  his  consciousness. His  fingers  instinctively  curl  around  the  grip  of  his  quad  blasters,  the  cool,  worn  metal  providing  a  sense  of  comforting  familiarity.    

Thrust  into  the  battle,  his  boots  skid  across  the  fractured  concrete,  his  body  moving  almost  autonomously  in  a  dance  of  dodges  and  retaliations. There's  a  heated  rush  in  his  veins,  every  nerve  alive  with  adrenaline,  and  yet  a  hollow  ache  throbs  in  his  chest. The  void  left  by  a  single  snap.    

Then,  there,  across  the  battlefield,  a  figure  moves  in  rhythm  with  the  elements,  her  form  intertwined  with  blossoming  foliage  and  sudden  gusts  of  wind,  her  eyes  bright  with  determination. Poe. The  name  echoes  in  his  mind,  as  if  whispered  by  the  wind  itself.   His  heart  hammers  in  his  chest,  pounding  against  his  ribs,  as  he  sees  her,  alive  and  fighting. She's  there,  just  a  stone's  throw  away,  so  near  yet  separated  by  an  expanse  of  chaos  and  fury. He  bolts,  each  stride  sending  jolts  up  his  legs,  his  pulse  echoing  in  his  ears  like  a  desperate  drumbeat.    

A  menacing  figure  of  Thanos'  army  closes  in  on  her,  weapon  raised  for  a  deadly  strike. His  breath  catches,  chest  tightening  as  he  watches. Pushing  off  with  a  burst  of  speed,  he  draws  aim,  a  low  growl  rumbling  in  his  throat. T he  blaster  kicks  back  in  his  grip,  a  searing  beam  of  light  piercing  the  invader,  collapsing  it  into  a  heap  of  ashes  before  it  can  touch  her.    

There  she  is,  framed  by  smoke  and  flickering  fires. His  heart  skips,  then  roars  to  life,  pounding  louder  than  the  cacophony  around  them. He  steps  closer,  the  world  shrinking  down  to  just  the  two  of  them  amidst  the  wreckage. He  lifts  a  gloved  hand,  the  worn  leather  brushing  against  the  softness  of  her  cheek. And  as  he  does,  a  torrent  of  memories  rush  back. A  shuddering  gasp  wrenches  him  back  to  the  dusty  surface  of  titan,  where  everything  had  changed  in  the  span  of  a  heartbeat.    

 Amidst  the  chaos,  a  lone  figure  stood  watch  from  a  nearby  rooftop. Her  hair,  a  cascade  of  deep  brown,  moved  rhythmically  with  the  gusts  of  wind  that  whipped  around  her.  The  woman  bore  the  ageless  gaze  of  a  deity,  her  dark  eyes  scanning  the  tumultuous  cityscape  below.      Here  she  was,  a  goddess,  her  very  being  thrumming  with  the  power  of  the  storm,  yet  bound  to  obscurity  by  her  oath  to  protect  the  princess  of  the  moon.

𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐆  𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋  was trapped  within  the  clinical  confines  of  a  hydra  facility,  a  place  as  uncompromising  as  it  was  daunting. The  surroundings  echoed  the  detached  precision  of  a  surgical  suite  —  steely  surfaces  and  harsh  lighting  that  stripped  away  all  sense  of  comfort. The  surrounding  air,  icy  and  sterile,  nipped  at  the  parts  of  her  exposed  skin,  as  the  distant  machines  whirred  and  hummed,  their  monotonous  song  echoing  through  the  cavernous  expanse,  a  lullaby  of  steel  and  wire. Her  small  form  was  huddled  in  a  corner,  a  frail  silhouette  etched  against  the  harsh  metallic  backdrop.

Suddenly,  the  mechanical  lullaby  was  interrupted. An  unexpected  harmony  came  in  the  form  of  an  echo,  a  rhythmic  clatter  that  reverberated  off  the  chilled  metal  walls  —  the  steady  cadence  of  boots  against  concrete. Then  there  was  a  man,  his  silhouette  filled  the  stark  luminescence  of  the  cell's  harsh  lighting.

[ ꜱʜᴏᴜʟᴅᴇʀ ] ᴀ ᴛᴇɴᴅᴇʀ ᴋɪꜱꜱ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀʀᴛɴᴇʀ'ꜱ ꜱʜᴏᴜʟᴅᴇʀ - ᴊᴀᴍᴇꜱ

𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓, Cassandra's eyes flutter open. There's a sense of emptiness beside her, and as her hand reaches out, she finds the cold void of where he should be. Moonlight casts a soft glow, revealing James perched on the edge of the bed, posture defeated, and head bowed.

Without diving too deeply into the depths of her empathic abilities, Cassandra senses the weight of his sorrow, its oppressive heaviness bearing down on her heart. Drawing the blankets close, she cautiously inches forward, mindful of each motion to ensure she doesn't alarm him. Yet, he's always attuned, aware of everything and anything. In silence, slides an arm under him, wrapping it around his middle, an attempt to mend the gaping wound of his despair. Words aren't exchanged. They aren't needed. Instead, she offers him the warmth of her embrace, and softly presses her lips to the shoulder of his intact arm, hoping her gesture would anchor him amidst the storm within.

𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐒𝐔𝐍  𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐒  slowly  towards  the  horizon,  casting  a  golden,  honeyed  glow  across  the  rippling  water.  The  salty  sea  breeze  tickles  their  skin  as  they  meticulously  repair  each  section  of  the  boat,  the  sound  of  hammers  and  saws  punctuating  the  tranquil  atmosphere.  The  occasional  cry  of  a  seagull  overhead  is  the  only  other  sound,  apart  from  their  quiet  conversation  and  the  gentle  lapping  of  the  waves  against  the  dock.  During  a  break,  Sam  leans  against  the  side  of  the  boat  with  a  cold  beer  in  hand,  a  watchful  eye  is  cast  by  Sam  towards  Bucky.  Although  his  expression  remains  stoic  as  ever,  Sam  observes  how  this  man’s  eyes  keep  wandering  towards  the  pier.  There,  Cassandra  is  laughing  and  playing  with  Sam's  nephews,  her  bright  smile  lighting  up  the  shoreline.

𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐌𝐔𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐓’𝐒  𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓  𝐈𝐒  𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆  as  she  enters  the  darkly  lit  premises  of  the  former  vault  that  has  been  converted  into  a  kind  of  treatment  room.  Her  downcast  expression  glances  around  until  they  settle  on  the  man  with  shoulder-length  hair guarded by armed men.  The  air  is  thick  with  the  smell  of  disinfectant,  and  the  only  sounds  are  the  faint  humming  of  machines  and  the  occasional  beep.   ❝ You  know  what  to  do.  Wipe  him. ❞  The  words  hang  in  the  air  like  a  weight  around  her  neck,  causing  her  muscles  to  tense  up  and  she  stands  motionless  until  a  hand  at  her  back  urges  her  forward  a  few  steps.  It's  true  that  it's  not  the  first  time  it's  been  asked  of  her  to  do  this  —  not  the  first  time  to  reprogram  this  man,  as  they  call  it.  There  is  a  hint  for  her  to  taste  why  it  must  be  done,  sensing  the  sweet  taste  of  wonder,  the  sourness  in  the  questioning,  the  shuddering  sensations  as  memories  try  to  creep  up.  Unstable  they  call  it,  and  her  abilities  are  supposed  to  fix  it  —  not  that  she  wants  to.  But  a  force  beyond  her  control  grips  her,  an  invisible  hand  that  tightens  around  her  throat,  suffocating  her  will.  It  whispers  to  her,  reminding  her  of  the  consequences  of  disobedience.  There’s  no  choice.  Unspoken  fear  slithers  inside  her,  leaving  her  paralyzed.  Like  the  man  before  him  she  is  a  puppet,  a  tool  in  the  hands  of  those  who  hold  the  strings.

Deflate,  the  mystery  of  living   In  the  most  heartless  fashion  I could  ever  Imagine   No  pretense  of  decor.