hold on to your heart

Winter was Wanda’s least favorite season.

She loved summertime. Every part of the season felt like magic to her, the good and the bad alike. She didn’t mind the influx of mosquitoes or the way her hair would gain a stubborn frizziness amidst the humidity. She took the constant sweaty dampness of her skin and the way her thighs stuck to every chair in stride. Even the occasional and unbearable barbecues she was forced to attend were welcome to her.

The warmth of the sun and the blue of the sky made everything worth it. She wanted to absorb every bit of lush greenery that bloomed with vibrance in the last weeks of May, and memorize the songs of each bird she would hear singing in June. The white caps of the ocean’s waves last August was a memory she hoped would never fade.

She didn’t mind the mud or rain of spring. She could even find comfort in the coziness and fiery leaves of autumn.

But she hated winter. As soon as the trees stood barren and the wind started to bite, she could feel herself wanting to hibernate along with the bears. That miserable cold would drag on for what felt like the longest five months of her existence. She would start to forget what the real sky was like behind that sheet of white. That time from November to March felt sad to her, as if the Earth was sleeping and it desperately needed the rest.

As she stared at the tracks in the snow, she felt like the Earth on the brink of winter. She was teetering on the edge of misery, moments away from slipping into a barren hopelessness. She knew what the impurities in the fresh blanket of snow meant. 

The first scuffle marks had been found by Steve and Natasha, barely a half mile into the woods. There had been a struggle, but whoever encountered there was long gone by the time the rest of the Avengers arrived. The team had moved on after a quick analysis, knowing that time was of the essence and there wasn’t anything in those markings that could lead them to Violet.

The scene in front of Wanda different. She was careful to keep her own feet away from the tracks, because as soon as she had laid eyes on them, she recognized the same boot prints from Natasha and Steve’s site. The sunlight made it easier to make them out than in the dead of night, and she was sure.

Another struggle, but this one was marked with blood. A gruesome splatter that looked especially crimson against the white snow. She hoped it belonged to an enemy, but she knew better. Orderly boot prints marched off up ahead. Not five feet away, Wanda could see the distinctive outline of a body. It was muddled by footprints, but the truth could still be seen. Someone had fallen there, and by the way the blood sprayed out from where the head would’ve landed, Wanda knew that it wasn’t an accident.

“I’ll call them.” Clint’s voice was tight, painted with emotion. Wanda knew that if she let herself speak, she would’ve sounded the same. She didn’t need to turn her face to see the look on his. Even in her peripheral vision, his fear was evident. She could sense it pulsing out from him like ripples in an unsteady pond.

She tried to focus on his words as he spoke them into his earpiece. “We found something. I’m sending you our coordinates now.” She needed a way to distract herself from the scene in front of her. As hard as she tried, she couldn’t pull her eyes away. She couldn’t stop herself from seeing the similarities in measurements between this body in the snow and the girl she had spent every day of the last two weeks with.

At that moment, there was nothing that Wanda wanted more than to know that Violet was safe. She allowed herself to drift into a hopeful daydream, where a shape would emerge from behind the thick trunk of the oak tree ahead. Tall and lean, with deep caramel hair and a glint of emerald in her eyes. In her mind’s figment, Wanda saw that Violet was bundled in a parka with a winter hat pulled low enough to cover her ears. The tip of her nose was pink from the wind’s bite, but her jacket kept her warm. She had merely stepped out for a late night stroll, and lost track of time. She was on her way home. The blood never existed, and neither did the fearful shouts that Tony recalled.

A hand on Wanda’s shoulder triggered an involuntary flinch. Her dreamscape collapsed, and she fell all the way back down to the cold, hard ground, where the blood was still fresh at her feet and Clint was eyeing her warily.

“I’m fine.” The words trickled out instinctually. She was used to having to reassure those around her that she wasn’t going to cause a mass casualty event just because she was experiencing visible emotion. It bothered her sometimes, but she was self-aware enough to realize that her assurances were necessary. It wasn’t as if their fear materialized from nothing— Wanda had made many mistakes in her past, and she couldn’t blame the others for worrying. 

No one had ever been there to teach Wanda about the power that came with being the Scarlet Witch. She had to learn her limits all on her own, and that had often led her down the wrong path. She was capable of horrible things. She had done horrible things.

And even so, as she stared at the crimson splatter, she knew that she would do as many horrible things as it took to make sure that Violet came home safely. From the moment Violet stepped into the training center, Wanda knew that she deserved the world. Violet was better than her, and she deserved a better life than the one she was given.

“We’ll find her,” Clint said, squeezing her shoulder gently.

She nodded in response, knowing that his words came from a place of hope and optimism. There was no way Clint could have known how that day would end, but he was trying to inspire faith in her. It was what all good people did in times of hardship and uncertainty. 

But Wanda didn’t need hope. Hope implied that the outcome they wanted wasn’t guaranteed. For her to have faith, she would have to accept that aspects of this world were out of her control.

And she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that this world sat in the palm of her hand. Her power was only as limited as the thoughts that lived in her mind.

Wanda had never needed faith to know that gravity would hold her to the ground. And at that moment, Wanda didn’t need to have to hope for Violet’s return. She would make it happen, come hell or high water.

She knelt in front of the tracks, studying the splatter in the snow. She would have to tap into dark parts of her power to do what needed to be done. Blood magic was never her first resort; she had only used it a few times before. Every mentor and witch she had ever met had advised against it. Even the Darkhold had warnings when it came to these types of magic.

But blood had already been spilled. Violet’s blood. 

No amount of Stark technology would be able to find her in time. Steve and Natasha were excellent strategist’s, but even their skills wouldn’t be enough. Wanda knew what she had to do. She only hoped that once they got Violet back, the other’s would forgive her for doing it.

***

Colors are smearing together like watery paints on a canvas. The walls have begun to ebb and flow like a river, their rigid forms giving way to a trickling stream. Reality is slipping away from me, and I couldn’t be more willing to let it go.

“Stop.”

The order is barked with authority, instantaneously ending the agony in my side. I pull in what feels like my first full breath in years. The rush of oxygen sharpens the images around me, putting the colors back where they’re meant to be and hardening that stream back into concrete. 

A hand grips my chin gracelessly, pulling my face upwards with a sharp movement. My eyes follow sluggishly, still clinging to the darkness that was almost mine.

“You don’t get to pass out.” His silvery eyes are too close to mine. I try to twist away, but his grip is strong. “That would be far too easy.” He pulls away roughly, dragging any hope of escaping this torture with him.

The sting of consciousness is brutal. Despite the exhaustion that makes my bones feel like lead, I’m wide awake now. The hag with the cattle prod is watching me with a smug look on her face, as if she’s proud of what she has accomplished. I notice the J stitched on her sleeve.

“Juliette?” I mutter, out of breath. “That’s ironic.”

Her smirk darkens slightly, her fingers tightening around the handle.

I tilt my head slightly, eyes narrowed as I study her features. “I mean, wasn’t Juliette supposed to be beautiful?”

She starts towards me, fist raised in what I’m sure would have been a real shiner, but Alpha grabs her arm before she can do any damage. The look he gives her is warning, and she shrinks away shamefully. 

A breathless laugh escapes me. “Down, girl.” Juliette’s eyes flare angrily, but I’ve lost all sense of self-preservation. “That one might need a leash,” I inform Alpha.

To my surprise, he echoes my laughter with a cruel snicker of his own. “There is nothing I would love more than to let her loose on you.” He shrugs, settling into the chair across from me. “There’s just one problem— she wouldn’t stop until you’re dead. And I need something from you before you take your final breath.”

I huff, my chin touching my chest, my eyes half-closed with fatigue. I’m so out of it that not even the thought of being ripped apart is frightening to me anymore. “I think we’ve established that you’re not going to get it.”

He yanks my face back towards him. “You’ve shown more resolve than I thought you were capable of. But even you can’t hold out forever. Whether your mind succumbs to the pain or your body to the damage, you will concede.”

“You’re wrong.” I look up at him, lacking the good sense to keep my mouth shut. “There’s nothing left in this world that matters to me. Not even my life.” I pull against my restraints in a harsh movement that makes Juliette flinch. “I will gladly die before giving you what you want.”

He smiles, the gesture uncomfortably wide and full of teeth that glint with evil. “If it were only up to you, I’m sure that you would. But your power is not tethered to your will. You don’t have as much control as you think you do.”

“I’ve controlled it pretty well so far.”

He sits back in his chair, perfectly at ease, as if he knows how this interaction will end. He’s sure that he’ll get what he wants from me. There’s no doubt in those metallic irises. “This power was never meant to be yours. You are merely a host for a living energy that you have no right to contain. It will not let you die.”

His tone is infuriating. I’ve learned too much about this power to ever believe what he’s said. I’ve fought for the control that I have. I’ve earned this power. I paid for it with my blood and the years of torment that I’ll never get back. 

He must know that. He must know about the circumstances of my birth and the life that followed. If he didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.

“It chose me,” I breathe. “There were dozens of other people in that warehouse that it could’ve attached itself to, but it chose an unborn baby whose mother was there by accident.” My voice burns with fiery spite. He thinks that he’s entitled to this force, but it has always been mine.

I have to believe that fate played some sort of role in the power I was given. Too many unlikely coincidences would have had to line up in a row for this all to have been some cosmic mix up. I was chosen for this life, maybe at the start of time or maybe in the fraction of a second where the beat of my heart in my mother’s belly was within reach of the stone. It may have been a cruel twist of fate that I will live to despise for the rest of my days, but I can’t deny the truth that I know.

I was elected by destiny to bear this cross. I was chosen for this life before I was born.

Something in his features shifts. “Yes,” he mumbles, and there’s a faraway look in his eyes. “There were so many souls for it to choose.” When he blinks, some malevolence has worked its way back into his glare. “But only one that it was meant for.”

I have to resist the urge to say, Yeah, you’re looking at her. The way he recalls the events of that day seems personal. He clearly doesn’t think that I’m the one the power was meant for. Who else was there? Who does he believe was passed over by the power stone?

And then I remember the footage— twenty years old and horrifying to watch. A young boy strapped to a chair, begging for death as the orb released its terror into the room. 

“Damian Cole.” My voice is barely louder than a whisper, but by the streak of shock that electrifies him, I know I’ve hit the mark. He seems stunned, as if he hadn’t expected that name to pass by my lips.

But it’s more than that. His emotion burns brighter than surprise. That name has awoken something inside of him, and not just because he watched the same footage as I did. His connection to that name is deeper.

I’ve crossed a line close to his heart— closer than a friend or family member.

I remember the way I tasted the bile as it crept up my throat, watching that young boy as he begged for the end. Strapped to that chair, screaming for the mercy of eternal nothingness. 

If the man in front of me removed his gloves and uniform, I’d bet that the mottled scar on his chin would extend to cover most of his body. A token from the stone. An eternal reminder of the power that had passed him by and chosen another.

“You’re Damian Cole,” I say, utterly sure. The boy from that footage looked to be thirteen, at most. That would put him in his mid thirties right now. There are flecks of silver in his dark hair that would suggest older, but I’d imagine that the stress of his existence since that day has taken somewhat of a toll on him. 

I don’t even need to look for the similarities in appearance between that boy and the monster in front of me. His expression was enough to confirm my theory. Who else would risk an attack on Earth’s mightiest heroes to find me? Who else would have such a personal investment in my power?

“My father believed I was worthy of the stone.” Some of the venom has left his voice. There’s a different darkness surrounding him now— one that’s filled with restlessness and regret. I can only imagine how many times he has thought back on that day, wondering why he hadn’t been chosen. Maybe what started as a deep insecurity morphed into a hatred for me over the last twenty years. Maybe Damian Cole has spent more than half of his life wondering why he wasn’t good enough, and the only way he knew how to soothe his own grief was by righting the wrong he believes was done to him. “I was his only child. His pride and joy. If I wasn’t worthy of the power, then no one was.”

I catch myself feeling bad for the man who attacked my home and tortured me for the better part of an hour. It feels wrong, but then again, didn’t my heart break for the little boy in that video?

“Do you even know why your mother was there?” he mutters.

I can’t bring myself to answer. I can’t even gather the will to shake my head. The terrible truth is that there are still a million parts of my existence that I am painfully unaware of. I had hoped that visiting my grandmother would clear up some of those unanswered questions, but I think deep down I knew that there are things I’ll never know about myself.

I don’t know why she was there that day, but I guess I had just assumed that the universe had placed her in that warehouse.

His fingers tap against his armrest. “Texas was getting hit hard by Hurricane Claudette. It reached Wimberley on December seventeenth.”

My birthday.

“Wind speeds were at a record high. The rain was coming down like someone was tipping over giant buckets in the sky,” he continues. “Your mother was driving home to Houston. She had been living in New Orleans for the past year, singing at some jazz bar. But she knew that the baby was coming soon, and she didn’t want to be alone. She was passing through Wimberly when the weather got too bad. She had to pull over and take cover in the nearest building.”

The lump of emotion in my throat makes it hard to swallow. I can almost picture it— her round belly and eyes like the trees. A terrible storm that separated her from her parents forever. She didn’t want to be alone, but that was exactly how she died.

“Don’t you get it?” Damian rushes. “It was never meant to be this way. She was there by accident.”

I can still feel the warmth of my blood dripping from the gash on my head. The cold of my night in the snow is still set deep in my bones. My lips are dry with dehydration. I’m going to die here, and there’s only one thing I want to know before that happens.

I don’t care about Damian’s past or the vendetta he’s trying to settle with me. I don’t care about the experiment his father was running.

“How do you know so much about my mother?”

His jaw clenches in a way that radiates irritation. “I’ve spent the last twenty years retracing every step she ever took. At first, I thought she might have been there intentionally. But it was just a freak accident.” He leans forward, leveling me with his stare. It’s intense and full of hatred, the anger simmering as freshly as if it had been two hours since that day instead of two decades. “I have been scouring the Earth for you since the day you were born.”

My heart pounds in my ears like a kick drum. I may be cursed by the power stone, but I have a strong premonition that Damian Cole has always been the true source of my suffering. Maybe he’s even the reason I was forced into a solitary life of isolation and running.

“You’ve stolen something from me,” he accuses. I search his eyes for even a glimpse of mercy, but it isn’t there. He’s been fixated on a moment in time when he believes his life fell apart, and his obsession has muddled the truth. He believes that he was cheated by the stone, and he blames me for taking what was rightfully his. But I couldn’t have stolen this power from him, because it was never his to begin with. If he was meant to have it, the stone would have chosen him. “And now, I’m going to take it back.”

Whatever is left of my resolve starts to crumble. What does he mean? My mind bursts with a million fears and questions. How could he take my power from me?

Two weeks ago, I hated who I was. If he had met me then and given me the means to transfer this burden onto his shoulders, I would’ve gladly let him walk away with my power on his skin. But so much has changed since then, and even though I may be an inexperienced fool with a fiery temper and just enough control to prevent constant destruction, I would rather die than give him my power. Between the two of us, the safest place for the stone’s energy to live is in me.

There’s only a moment to wonder what his plan could possibly be before I hear the crackle of the cattle prod, and my world dissolves into a blur of agony again.

Moments stretch into hours. The pain is bright and crackles through me like lightning. It’s just as unbearable as it ever was, but some part of me has strengthened in those minutes of reprieve. I know his endgame now, even if I don’t have the faintest idea how he plans to get there. My life isn’t worth the chaos Damian could wreak if he gets what he wants. I will suffer eternally to keep this weapon out of his hands.

Noises dull around me. My vision pulses with the unsteady beat of my heart, fading at the edges as I prepare to succumb. As my breaths shudder and my body shakes with the electricity that tears it apart, I let my eyes fall closed, and allow my mind to take me somewhere better. 

My feet are bare and my hair falls over my shoulders in soft waves. A white slip dress hangs loose on my frame. A warm breeze brushes against my skin and pulls wisps of my hair into the air. The world around me is green and peaceful, alive with the songs of sparrows. Thick forestry spans in every direction. Trees tower above my head in clusters and imperfect rows, their branches lush with leaves. Afternoon sunlight filters between the canopy in dreamy beams that cut through the air. The place where I stand is a nearly perfect circle of grass, marked with wildflowers that bloom in a hundred shades. 

If the afterlife is anything like this, then I’m not afraid. If this is the last thought that I think before the darkness takes over, then I’m okay with that.

“Stop.”

My meadow is ripped away. The grass between my toes is quickly replaced with a wooden chair beneath me. My gentle demeanor is exchanged for heaving breaths and twitching muscles.

The room is as dark as ever. The air is dry and cold, my breaths curling away from me in little white clouds. This place will be the last thing I see, and even though everything about that seems unfair, I try to make my peace with it. 

I study the room around me, and Damian studies me. He stands, apprehensive. “This isn’t working,” he realizes.

“No kidding,” I breathe. He moves past me, and I hear shufflings and clangs, as if he’s searching for something.

“Ah,” he mutters. “Here it is.” He appears back in front of me, facing away. When he turns, something in my stomach turns, too. He holds a knife— long and thin, with a delicate handle and silver blade that glints dangerously. It’s about the length of my forearm, and the width of a few fingers. I can tell that it’s capable of some serious damage, and I think that’s the point. Damain wants to leave me no choice but to let my power loose. The cattle prod was already a fight, so I’m not exactly hopeful about my odds against that thing. 

He catches me eyeing the blade, and a sickening smirk stretches across his face. He leans down, his left hand settling on the place where my neck meets my shoulder. He grips me tightly, his fingers digging into my flesh. His face is mere inches away, but I hold his gaze as if I have all the power in the world. 

The knife’s tip touches my right shoulder, directly below my collarbone. He holds it steadily, like he’s done this a thousand times before. My skin tingles with a pinch of pain. “You should’ve given up with the cattle prod,” he whispers, his lips so close that I can feel his breath moving my hair.

I never wanted to be rescued from this place in the hours I spent with that cattle prod jammed in my ribs. These people were well equipped and trained enough to make it into the compound undetected. I didn’t want to risk any of my friends getting hurt or killed while trying to save me.

But in the moment before he plunges the knife into my shoulder, I silently pray that someone will walk through that door and help me escape this fate. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in brutal agony.

Then he’s tearing into my skin, and my thoughts are lost to the sound of my screams.

The pain is bright and sharp, and not at all what I expected. It’s like fire tunneling through my chest, carving a path through my muscles and bones. It overwhelms my senses and takes control of my body. I thrash against my restraints, equal volumes of anger and fear spreading out from the place that he’s stabbed. I scream through my teeth as dark spots bloom in my vision. I can feel my heart like a hammer beating against my rib cage, trying to break out. The pain is all consuming and never ending, and those thoughts of stoic bravery are slowly slipping away.

And then the torture breaks from the rush of a familiar feelings. It’s stronger than the knife and more powerful than the man who wields it. It calls my name and offers me an escape. The gray streaks in my vision give way to a purple glow that lines the edge of my view. I feel stronger with each breath. It’s euphoric.

My hatred for Damian is magnified tenfold. The man who holds a knife in my chest is the same man who released a kill order on my friends. He said it himself: he’s been scouring the Earth for me since the day I was born. He is the source of all my misery and the cause of all my pain.

I have the power to destroy him. So why am I holding back?

The room brightens with a violet glow. It lights Damain’s face, casting his hungry smile in a horrible shade. All I want is for him to suffer. 

By the time I realize the reason my thoughts have shifted and understand the source of the glow, it’s too late. The power has crept onto my skin, shrouding me in its unpredictable wisps. The power that I’ve spent hours fighting to contain is sneaking out. It’s a built in defense system, coming out to defend me against his blade.

“No,” I gasp. I try my best to wrangle the energy back where it belongs, but there’s nothing I can do. A mechanical hum starts in the corner of the room, grabbing my attention. A device I hadn’t paid any attention to has come to life with noise and movement. It doesn’t appear to be anything special— just a large metal cylinder that’s coated with dust and grime. But as I watch, a panel slides away from the front of the cylinder. Inside, an empty vial rests, a pane of glass still separating it from us.

I watch in horror as the purple power starts to pull away from me like a cloud of dust being pulled by the wind. It separates from my body, drawing into the air and across the room. It funnels into the top of the mysterious device, collecting somewhere I can't see. A few moments of churning noises pass as the machine whirs and creaks. A hissing sound stands out among the cacophony. I can feel my eyes widen as a violet liquid streams into the vial, filling the glass tube about a quarter of an inch.

Damian has been watching the machine along with me, and his shoulders begin to shake with a maniacal laughter. “Finally,” he smiles. “You see? It’s much easier to let go.”

He twists the blade, and what little composure I had shatters into a billion fragile pieces. I detach from the world in a way that’s not entirely unwelcome. Something separates me from the pain, from my screams, and from the violet that leaves me. I can’t do anything to stop this now. This will be my end. I will leave this world in the same way that I came into it— amidst the chaos and torture, and the power of an infinity stone.

I can feel the life leaving me like an exhale. A gap opens in my soul, a terrible hole where my power used to be. The thing that killed my mother and made me who I am is vanishing. Maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Maybe I was never meant to wield it. 

I think of her face, and those eyes that match mine, holding on to the only part of myself that I know is true. A canopy of green flutters above my head. The sunlight filters through in a dreamy way. All I want is to disappear into that forest.

And I do.