1960-03-07 - The Monk and the Wizard
Summary: The Scarlet Witch (Wanda) and Black Bolt (Blackagar) encounter one another in the mountains of Tibet, leading to an ancient city buried within a mountain and a cult seeking to become more like Blackagar. Takes place in 1960.
Related: None
Theme Song: None
wanda blackagar 


Spring in the thin air of the Tibetan Plateau should bring a resurgence of age-old rhythms. Children herding goats to the pastures opening up behind a retreating veil of snow would be a common sight, their gaily coloured garments fringed in orange, red, pink, and gold of a sunset. Older youths restoring the flapping prayer flags ruined by the winter cold are likely as common as Buddhist monks traipsing between the riotously bright, welcoming temples and monasteries. It should be a sight to welcome those wearied and tired of the long winter in the high mountains, but it is not. Eastern Tibet has been in rebellion, openly and silently, for the better part of three years. A year since the Dalai Lama was rushed over the border into Kashmir, then India, abandoning the ancestral homeland of his people, and the country is still in turmoil.

Even in the timeless villages, Chinese influence abounds. Two Communist officials in their grey collared jackets and pants assess the state of affairs, bean counting every yak, goat, and child. They whisper of sedition, and treacherous voices have murmured to them from further down the road that resistors to the movement have taken flight to these high valleys, accessible only by switchback trails and steps chopped into the rock.

They speak, too, of a foreign witch and the spirit of winter who guards her, a smiling young man capable of disappearing in sight. This, as much as anything, haunts the officials who answer to their mandarins back far to the east in a city whose name will change three times before the west ever gets it right.

Their Tibetan allies refuse to budge from the guesthouse made forcibly; a town this small only has accommodation for family and travelers obtained through kinship networks. Or the monastery, high up in the hills, where the meadows are strangely green late into the year and grow earlier and fresher than the surrounding mountains. That is a forbidding place, 999 steps not the least of them. One stares with binoculars up to it. They might see a rare monk or two walking in their saffron robes. They might even realize one is hooded, head not shaved, but not that she's a woman in a place where women rarely are. The nuns keep their counsel elsewhere.

Wanda Maximoff isn't an average visitor. She climbs with a painstaking ease on those icy narrow steps, not daring to fall to the gorge or the thin trickle of snowy water far, far below.

*

The Earth was a surprisingly large place. It stretched in directions far and wide with a history that was deep and filled with wonder. Understanding the world was a task that few could really endeavor to do, but Blackagar Bolt'Agon certainly tried to. It was his home now, against wishes but in many ways with his wishes and it had led him far and wide in search for something.

There was in fact, after years of searching, a place he had found that could be truly home for him. A place of refuge where those that resided not only understood him but could help him. These monasteries and these monks were the closest to kin that he had found across this world, a people who did not question his silence but understood it. Who understood who he was, without speaking of who he was and it created a relationship which benefited both.

He looked nothing like them but could easily be mistaken as one of them; the way he dressed and carried himself, the way he never spoke and simply existed. The meditations, the regimens and the aide offered to the villagers beneath the mountain; Blackagar was as if one of the monks himself. It was that day in fact that he was out upon the meadows, tending dutifully and carefully to a batch of flowers that were beginning their spring sprout and in need of nurturing.

*

Anywhere else, the pursuit of a fabled herb — or transformative caterpillar to herb — would be pointless. No one bothers looking until May, when the miraculous transformation occurs on the high, fertile slopes of the Himalayas. But here is another story; here they say it comes out much sooner. Chinese and Tibetan markets thrive on the priceless, matchless effect of yartsa gunbu; they call it the summer grass, winter worm, by any other name. And its powers are legendary, quite literally. The faultless treasure named in An Ocean of Aphrodisiacal Qualities can heal nearly anything that ails you.

Do they have that on the shelf of the monastery? Mayhap, and maybe not, but it's been about since 1470 or so.

Wanda's battered gloves give her some purchase on the slick stones, and she's long since given up on her pride to dig her toes in, ascend one at a time. When her calves and thighs burn, she flattens herself to the cliff wall and catches her breath. Something about never, ever looking down is lost on her. She adjusts the crudely knitted shawl around her face to protect it from being wind-chapped, and in the freezing shadows, suffers a different kind of pain that burns and freezes at once. It might be so much easier to just float her way up, but that would draw the authorities and the authorities will bring guns and arrows, and then it's game over.

And she really needs that stupid golden 'worm' as they call it, though it's a plant. So onward she goes, groaning softy under her breath at the leaden weight of her knees. Only two-thirds of the way up to the monastery path, and there's a goat track another 350 steps higher that should lead through a hanging valley up to the pasture.

It's not fast going, so he has time to knit himself a whole cloak at this rate. But Wanda doggedly carries on, the dusty and stained saffron robe too sizes too big dragging after her as she forces herself to use the least amount of energy to make it up and higher. He'll probably see her long before she sees him, if Blackagar is inclined to look over the edge.

*

Normally looking over the edge is something that he would not do, there's no point in it. However the intense racket that Wanda is making on her ascent is enough to draw his attention, tickling his sensitive ears. The silence of the mountaintop rarely broken so that these faint noises bring him over to the edge to gaze down.

There, below he spots the woman struggling up the mountain edge and Blackagar's head tilts to the side in a confused, questioning expression. Even were he able to, he would not call down and distract the creature making her climb, to do such would be rude and likely result in her falling. Rather he turns and retreats towards the monastery where he retrieves a few items. It takes several minutes and he is not worried about haste; for either the woman will finish her climb or fall, it is her own choice. But should she make it to the top, he will be there waiting. With warm tea, a blanket, and his slate with writing chalk at the ready.

*

Leather gloves, solid boots, and a monk's robe make no more sound than any other monk wandering around in sandals, she'll have Blackagar know. There might be a little more sound from the torn, ragged cadence of her breath as she insistently rises, putting one hand up to the next step, and scrambling while the burst of energy remains with her, though it will flag and the cycle will start all over again. The wind moans up the face of the cliff, the mountains shearing and tearing all gentler phenomena into ragged, violent pools of chaos. The prayer bells ring softly, prayer flags flapping persistently in the gorge below and on the high alpine reaches where solitude and contemplation are the name of the game.

It's all she has left in her to keep her hands stable, to push her knee up, and catch a stair with her toe. Another force pushing her ahead, the crouched position needed to maintain any stability. The wind knocks her about too much, making her robes swell and churn around her body. Then it very much comes to the point when the stairs twist back on a landing the inevitable happens, a glimpse of a figure above. Right, stealing from the monastery was never in the cards, but a monk waiting there causes the discipline who is not to cringe. The next step is a slip and she lands on her forearms, grimacing in discomfort. On her knees, one hundred more of those damn steps to go; the agony is written in those eyes of clear golden brown. Sides heaving, she digs in to find her last reserves, and even these are waning. No one wins points for lying under a savage Himalayan sky waiting for the weather and fortune to change. Biting her chapped lips, she forces herself up that last jaunt, bent double to massage out the side stitch, seemingly a hundred instead of nineteen. Maybe twenty.

*

The figure at the top has sat down by now, Blackagar folding his legs underneath him as he sits and patiently watches the ascent of the woman attempting to finish the climb. When she slips, there is no rush to aid or hastiness to assist. This is an undertaking one must make upon their own, without assistance. His head however does cant to the side with curiousity before returning to its normal look. He doesn't remember this struggle, then again this is a person, a human, climbing the mountain. Not him.

As she continues the ascent, getting closer, he begins to write upon his slate, drawing with the charcoal chalk upon it while watching the woman's climb. Patience is not just a virtue here, it is existence and would it take Wanda the next 7 years to climb, Blackagar would sit and wait until she finished, or quit and descended once more.

*

Finally she reaches the top, and the cleft in the mountain's face leads to some hope of traipsing about for a few hours scouring every bush and sedge grass in hopes of finding that fungus. It matters not how many she gains; one will do the trick. Men pay handsomely for it. A buyer is a ticket to other things. She drives her fingers under her ribs, furtively digging fabric and flesh into dimpled formations as her massage forces the twinging muscles to comply. Her lungs probably ache, the high altitude wresting its sickness from those unused to it. But still, her task is completed for a moment and she dares not show too much weakness by leaning against the stone or sprawling flat on the grass, soaking up a little of the springtime sunshine. Wanda puts one foot in front of the other, failing to wobble.

"Tashi deleg," she manages, voice thin but not altogether unfriendly. The accent on her Tibetan is ameliorated some by being breathless, and experience; she sounds much less like a foreigner chomping badly through the words, though her accent places her to Eastern Europe. Central, maybe. Hello; that greeting conveyed, she raises her gloved hand in wordless greeting and proof of no harm done, either. Her robes whip around her, revealing her no stripling boy or youth come to the monastery. Hair, for one. Boots, the other, leggings or quilted pants as the women around here wear as much as the men. A glance goes to the laid out display, her eyebrows arching in muted inquiry. Tea.

Tea earns weary smiles for the effort.

*

Blackagar's response is quite resounding; a nod of acknowledgement and a gesture towards the tea for the woman who has made the climb. It is not common these days for someone to make the climb, much less a woman but proper decency still demands a greeting. The traditional tea and blanket for recovery, then the bathing for cleanliness and to remove the impurities of the outside world before admittance proper to the monastery, but all those will come in time. For now it is just the tea and the silence of the man.

He is dressed in the traditional robes, but the hood has been pulled back on his features to allow some familiarity of look, it is more comforting then gazing into a cowl afterall. But he certainly does not look like any Tibetan or other from this region. While he sits, more jotting is done upon the slate with the charcoal as the tea remains there, steaming in a cup for Wanda.

*

A resounding nod. Will the wonders never cease? She crunches across the faint traces of snow left in the wake of retreating winter, straightening to the point she looks moderately respectable. Palms touch together in a proper greeting and the genuflection is slim, but polite. Her footsteps carry her to the blanket where she pauses, wordlessly awaiting permission, then sits cross-legged when it is received. Her gloves are pulled off and set aside, revealing tawny fingers, bitten nails, hands used to at least some form of labour. She stifles a sound of pleasure and pain intermingled by reaching the ground, her back starting to ache under the absence of stress.

A look towards the slate is done as discreetly as possible, but she reaches for the cup. "Thank you." Tibetan, again. She has no cause to think otherwise. "One is glad for the gifts." Painstakingly she wraps her tongue around the words, giving them the right guttural balance. Then tea, sipped in gratitude, her shoulders dropping a few inches. Finally rest, after toil; rest, before toil to come.

*

The slate is turned to face Wanda then, presented to her so she could see the writing and the imagery there. Upon it is drawn, rather well, an image of Wanda and her making the climb. Beneath it, written in Tibetan, is a short phrase, «Why the journey?» A simple enough question but one which does hold meaning to voyage this far. No one comes here without meaning and purpose… o rthey come here because they have no meaning or purpose. It is truly a paradoxical thing.

As the tea is drank, Blackagar turns to fetch a bit more and to refill Wanda's cup politely while he sits and waits for a response to the question; his silence being in all things, even breath.

*

The artistry is not what she expected, certainly not in such an impermanent form. Through the steam billowing from the cooling tea, her face is a blurred mask of surprise, at least for a moment. Dark brows arch, mouth in a circle, a softening of the hard walls of politeness all around her. Her gaze follows the cramped knots of Tibetan script, so unlike anything in the west. Even Cyrillic makes more sense. But she can guess, dashing off an answer after biting the corner of her cheek in thought. Her cup is held out, and this too carries the weight of thanks.

"I am searching," she says, moderately fluent and grateful for escaping the pidgin used in Lhasa among the few foreigners left. Most fled with the uprising. Who leaves a teenaged girl alone on the roof of the world? "A plant grows in the grass there." A nod indicates the valley high above and behind them both. "It may be ready." The last word is a faulty choice, but it's not like she has the whole dictionary to call upon.

*

The slate is turned back to his lap as he begins to erase with his palm and jot, making marks with the charcoal and looking up at Wanda every once in awhile before he is finished. Shaking his hand some, he turns it to face her. This time, the language is not Tibetan, but he has tried Russian as the tilt of her accent has led him to that. At the very least he has travelled enough to pick up these words and learned them in his time. The slate reads again «All who come here are searching. Why plant?»

His eyebrow quirks up to accompany the slate, the expression matching the words with a curiousity and hint of sternness to his eyes. Reaching to his side, he digs through some items and produces a small pouch which is then offered to Wanda, within are dried berries, some nuts and dried meat.

*

The young woman's movements are controlled and precise, perhaps a touch too much so even for someone so fatigued. She might be alarmed by the transition into Russian, though her eyes narrow speculatively at the monk. A low, deep breath tries to replace the missing oxygen in her bloodstream, saturating her with a dose of light-headedness that even three years at this altitude never quite overcomes. The best opportunity is drinking her tea, giving a moment for the man to finish his chalk scribing. He might expect her to wait until the mountains are plains, India crushed to the continent's fringe, and new rivers sprung up from the planet's plates spinning around into a new formation. Not much is going to rush the brown-haired wunderkind.

"The plant only grows now," she says, "and it is valuable for healing." A legitimate reason, even if not the whole of the reason. "I can bring it to the healers, who put it to use." Her facility in Russian is much better, assuredly, making Tibetan look like a secondary shadow next to it. Still, she speaks slowly out of respect for what might be foreign. He offers berries and nuts and meat; she will take them, but not before opening a pouch on her belt and fishing around. The offerings are fairly slim; one is a twisted ribbon that looks like a fritter, another a fried roll filled by meat. She offers either in their cheesecloth wrappings, as traditional fare as one can get.

*

A polite hand is lifted up towards Wanda, indicating rejection of the offered items along with a shake of the head. Again the slate is taken into hand and erased with new writing coming upon it. «No woman has come here in my time with the monks. Much less for a plant.» This time, the writing is in Ukranian, another attempt having guessed that perhaps the Russian was not the correct tongue for the girl. More writing is placed upon the slate this time however. «You bring trouble with you.»

The expression of the man is questioning once more, although the tone of the question with it being a statement hints strongly to being a declaration. He is weighing her with his eyes, that much can be seen clearly.

*

She withholds the food, tucking it away for later. Hard work climbing and scouring the alpine valley, she will need all the energy she can get. More than most if those high peaks hold anything remotely like yeti or abominable yaks, unlikely as it is. Wanda adjusts the fall of her loosely knit shawl around her shoulders, pushing down the fringed edges to leave her face mostly exposed. The hood props back to show hair dusky in colour, a dark auburn so rich it looks brown. Her skin isn't cream fair, but neither the deep olive of native Tibetans, and the bone structure reveals her as so Occidental — a product of either Russian or German lineage — that it completely hurts. The shake of her head follows if he goes into Ukrainian. "I cannot read that," she adds, helpful as ever. "The Russian or Tibetan is easier." Then she resumes nibbling upon the nuts first, choosing the highest, densest of the nutritional options available to replenish what was lost on the burning path up the mountain. Meat will follow. For such a slim thing, she can eat rather fast.

If he writes in Russian, the response is given with a frown and a glance over her shoulder back to the gorge, the hamlet, and their distant smudge of humanity on the mountain. In this aerie, it's possible to feel impregnable. "Trouble came long before me, planted in the unhappy people. The Chinese claimed a free country." Shows exactly where her loyalties are, unusual if she's Soviet. Usual if she's not.

*

Blackagar looks down towards the lands below, a frown etching his phase. He had rewritten things in russian for her, and now does so again. «They do not come to this place. This place is under my protection. This is a place of peace, not trouble.» The man shows the slate towards Wanda before turning to gesture to the area behind them. His own features would make it very difficult to place where he is from. Not European, not African and not Asian… he is simply different. Like a blend of many, a genetic masterpiece.

Leaving Wanda to read the slate, he looks back to the building of the monastery, gestures and then erases to write some more. «If you bring trouble, I will not allow it. If you seek things, that is between you and the monks of this place. But know they are my friends.»

*

A masterpiece of genetics he may be; hers is a far more complicated story that she hardly knows the tales of, let alone the enormous truth. The reality can sit aside for a time. "I prefer quiet, calm places. They have no reason to care about me." Wanda sounds at least mostly sure of that, the brunette's mouth carving a muted ripple of a line that isn't entirely settled at the corners. Still, she takes more tea and follows his gaze upon the monastery. "I was not invited there. I will not bother them." This, without doubt, is much more solid in idea and form. There might be no helping if she has to fly off the mountainside to escape a horde of angry yetis, but they simply aren't there yet.

Going silent again, she tucks her feet closer to her legs and adjusts the battered saffron robes to sit more comfortably. Even here, the temperature changes are steep.

*

The man nods his head as he listens and then writes upon the slate, «These men are sound and chaste. If you are to press on, I would advise rest. This landing is too visible to the ground.» He motions off a ways towards the base of the continuing climb. «That would be better. I can will bring you clothes, blanket for warmth.» There's a long pause then as he erases the slate.

Hesitation etches his features, he looks quite distraught over something but then he writes, «We do not hear of the outside world. I am.. interested.»

*

Throughout she reads the slate, picking out the details of each word and anticipating the next in a quiet, patient manner. The young woman absorbs the heat from the fire and the tea, grateful for both and simply the rest without being asked to climb any further. It may be difficult, an unpleasant strain upon her thighs and aching muscles, but so be it. Rest and company are worth minor tribulations. But for a moment he gains a sharp look out of her, and she puts her hand to her mouth, almost warding off the suggestion. "I would never tempt them!"

Struck a nerve there, did he?

Her head dips slightly, face cast in charcoal darkness, and then it falls to her to remediate the debt given already. Shifting puts her squarely on her backside, legs stretched out in front of her. Hooking her heel, she points her toe back and then forward, assuring it hasn't fallen asleep. "I know a bit. What would you like to know?"

*

The man grins, he doesn't laugh… even to this point he's made absolutely no noise whatsoever. Instead he writes upon his slate. «I did not mean to offend, only remind.» Perhaps it has been something in the past, or perhaps just a question of test. Either way he moves on, writing upon the slate some. «Does the name Attilan mean anything to you?»

*

He would impugn her honour and suggest she is a loose girl, this wandering traveler about Asia. For that she should toss a rock at him, but hospitality is hospitality. "Their discipline needs no help from me." That much could be the truth and Wanda scrubs her face with the back of her hand, pushing away her dark hair in an excuse to keep the flush of pink from rising to her golden skin.

"Attilan?" A shake of her head follows. "It does not sound Tibetan. More… the old languages of the central part of America, Mexico and down to the narrow part. Panama. Or the very old names of the Fertile Crescent, where Jordan and Syria are now. Should I know it?" She chews on her inner lip again.

*

"Or Attila the Hun." Dun dun dun.

*

The man shakes his head, a relieved look on his face. «That you do not know Attilan is a good thing.» Blackagar explains it in such a vague way before he sets the slate aside and slowly rises to his feet. As he does so, he extends a hand downwards towards Wanda in a gesture to help her before turning to face the view that the mountain plateau offers of the land beyond. There's a relaxed posture, a happy posture to the man now that seems to permeate a content demeanor.

*

"You wanted to know about the outside world. Is it only if Attilan is a known word?" How strange, that a man would be content to leave it at that. Wanda does take the hand he offers, though, her own hands stripped of their gloves and warmer from the tea and fire. That's not to say they are toasty, but considerably better than when she appeared, frozen at the edges. The young woman bounces up on to her feet with a rapidity speaking of someone who gets up or off in a hurry. She falls in step beside the taller man, staring out. "Such a window over the world, it must be hard to leave."

*

The man nods his head towards the woman, gesturing towards the visage before them but doesn't speak. Instead he just sort of makes hand gestures, motioning with them to indicate the grandeur before them. He looks back to Wanda then, gazes at her a moment and shakes his head in the no style before turning, pointing further up the mountain with a questioning expression on his face.

*

She inclines her head towards that shape, a world crushed and rumpled by the endless pressure of the subcontinent. India has been colliding to the underbelly of Asia for at least fifty million years, the proof underfoot and in the devastating shaking that sometimes plagues the area. Light lances off glacial fields and barren rock, locking the valley in a bright patch of green and others in shades less vibrant, awash in their jade glow or shadows thrown by the knife-sharp peaks. No hand of humanity here, even if there are traces, the coils of smoke and the whispers of the village. She stands with him as long as he wishes to, hand in hand, even.

When he points higher, she is still half intoxicated by the spell of stillness. "The plant, or the monastery?" A flickering question burns in her eyes, pupils widening a fraction. "I'm Wanda. I should have told you earlier." As if it makes any difference.

*

Looking up towards the mountain, Blackagar slowly plies his hand from hers, most hesitant in doing so as he makes a short walk over to the slate to pick it up once more and bring it back to where they were standing. He writes on it quickly and shows it to her. «The mountain. It is very dangerous. Very sacred.» He offers a small shrug to her before managing an almost sly smile. He jots again on the tablet, «Blackagar»

*

The sacred quality of the mountain brings her eyebrows up. Then she nods, and gestures towards it with her freed fingers. Gloves will have to go back on, claimed from the belt at her waist, and she smiles a little. There remains a core measure of caution governing what happens, for a monk on a mountain could still be an agent. "Blackagar," she repeats, and then looks for a sign she has it right. "Lead on, then." That leaves enough room if she has to start calling down the powers that be for her own defense. Though to be fair, there isn't any explicit reason she might need to.

*

He looks up at the mountain, then back to Wanda and shakes his head, the smile and light in his eyes hint that he would be laughing, were he to make such a noise. He scribbles on the slate, «To voyage up the mountain requires preperation. Food. And rest. Few have ever made the journey and come back from it. It is not wise to just go without plan.» Blackagar looks at the girl and the amusement is etched all over his features still. «A.. female has never made the journey.»

*

"Because the mountain would be offended, or because no woman had the capacity?" That's a simple question, not barbed in European rage or feminist intentions. It's a legitimate question from the girl in the sun-kissed robes over her own, a Buddhist only in appearance and certain aspects of nature. Not much of a meat eater, her, except by utmost necessity. She runs her hand over her shoulder and then points. "Or because those stairs assure no one's ever rested unless they live in the monastery?" She might be onto something there, but leaves a hint of a smile in place rather than seem rude. He's challenging her, though, and some part of her is inclined to take it. When has she not taken the chance? When has she not risked everything? It's called every given day for the Maximoff girl.

"Let's plan, then. I can talk about it while searching for the herbs, you can sit in the sunshine, and I can answer whatever you wanted to know about down there. Or we can say nothing at all, and you still gain all the advantages of being out."

*

He writes again, this time it takes sometime for him to finish. The scribbling goes on for a bit and then, Blackagar turns it to face Wanda, eyebrow quirked upwards to supplement the questioning of the words. «Because there are things on that mountain that human eyes are not meant to see. It is not meant for them to travel to it. I do not care much for the world outside, only my people which are still safe. The struggles out there are not my struggles, that is why I am here. Away from all of that chaos. That is why you are interesting. You come here for something but only to want to leave, not to stay?»

*

Wanda's eyes, amber bright, tilt upwards to measure Blackagar's expression. If he's messing with her, if he… writes sincerely. How can one measure the sincerity of the heart through slate and chalk? "Staying without permission would not be right," she starts to speak slowly, measuring out an answer. "The things I need probably aren't up on the mountain. Not all of the answers. Those are my struggles. The places where humans were not meant to go seem to hold too many pieces to the puzzle."

*

His expression, and his eyes in particular, hold the sincerity she's looking for. He pauses and erases only to write again. «The truth is, many of the answers to our questions are upon this mountain. Because to know the answers, means to know too much. This is why humans are hindered in approaching the truth.» Blackagar falls silent then, a small sad smile on his face before he erases the slate and writes again, «I am sorry . I have not talked to anyone in three years.»

*

Three years. When her eyes alight on that end statement, flitting there before the rest, her expression changes and her mouth bleaches, lips pressed between her teeth, then released to a dynamic force of two plates sliding against one another, deformed in the process, fullness surrendered at one spot but retained in another.

"Why?" So many questions could pile up into that. A hoarse inquiry in Russian as she turns her face up towards him, and reaches out a hand, touching the edge of the slate. "Me, that is." Other options are chopped off, dammed up rather than pry. Prying is dangerous, and she recoils the only way she knows how. Motes of scarlet trace over her irises, and she shuts her eyes. "You waited for me. You guard your friends down there."

If only saying the facts would make them real, make them fit together instead of missing the obvious sweeps. She is soon to release the slate, understanding what it means, and staring at her feet on the cold earth again. "The mountain holds the philosophy or keys to insight? That's unfair. I said I wouldn't tempt them." Never said anything about him. "Did any humans walk up there twenty years ago and come back? I should be stuffing a backpack with a blanket, shouldn't I?"

It could be a doomed course. But she is not entirely without her ways.

*

«You are the first to come this far who did not come to be with them.» Blackagar motions to the monastery. «If you are not here to see them. Then you are here for something else. You are here, the way I am here. Because this, is not there.» He nods down below, to the world, the world behind. «I make certain that none that come here, come to bring harm. This is a cradle of the world. And I guard this cradle.»

His shoulders lift up into a slight shrug and he motions to hte mountain then, «To travel into the cradle is to face creation some say. Creation of the world, or creation of self, I do not know.»

*

She looks at him, the wind in her hair and ruffling through their clothing and their presence. "You have a long vigil," is as much a guess as a word. Her hands fall back as she measures the slope of the mountain. There are things to be considered, and she draws in a deep, chilly breath of the air. "We could go now."

Just like that, she might have forked her fate. "I have what I need. Do you?"

*

Blackagar looks her over and his eyebrow quirks before he starts to write upon the slate. «You have what you need? But you have nothing. Do you truly expect to make this journey without any aid? We will not even reach the peak until two days from now.» There's a skeptical expression on his face as he displays the words to her, giving Wanda the eye over again as if trying to measure.

*

Blackagar looks her over and his eyebrow quirks before he starts to write upon the slate. «You have what you need? But you have nothing. Do you truly expect to make this journey without any aid? We will not even reach the peak until two days from now.» There's a skeptical expression on his face as he displays the words to her, giving Wanda the eye over again as if trying to measure.

*

The look up towards the peak is met with the faintest of smiles. "I carry what I need. You could bring the rest from the monastery if it would make you company. Do you think I would require sherpas?" She shakes her head slightly and the calculated measure of the slope, the distance, the height of the peak are all done in her head, with rather startling accuracy given she has the time to do so. Holding out her hand to measure the height of things with her fingers, she finally drops her arm. "Camping at night might be the most difficult. Assuming it takes a full two days. It might not."

*

Blackagar shakes his head with a small smirk on his lips, scribbling occurs and he then holds it to Wanda, «I do not need anything. But I am still concerned for you. I do not think you would like to die on this trip from being ill prepared, but if you can't be talked out of it.» The man shrugs his shoulders in conjunction with the words before he turns and starts to walk across the grassy meadow towards where the lower steppes of the rest of the mountain climb await some distance off.

*

The young woman gestures to her own garb, the leather bag and the saffron robes. "I came prepared in case of trouble in the high valleys. Wait fifteen minutes and I will ask for supplies at the monastery, if you think it reasonable." He is the guardian of those celibate, silent brothers devoted to their meditations, but not above offering hospitality to a traveler who has nothing to do with interrupting the rhythms of their life. She tips her head towards Blackagar, leaving the ultimate decision with him.

*

«The choice must be yours. It is your journey.» Blackagar writes, managing a mused smile afterwards. But even as he does, he settles down to sit in the grassed pasture in a meditative posture to allow Wanda the time she may need to get supplies should she choose. Otherwise he just looks at her with his blue eyes, patiently observing and looking humored. Work on the slate begins again now, careful etchings with the charcoal as he observes and writes.

*

"I will ask them, then. There is no reason to be foolish, as you pointed out. Do not disappear on me, Blackagar." Then Wanda's rare smile shows, the quick curve of her mouth reaching as far as her eyes, even if that sunshine cannot fully banish the shadows concealed in her soul. She pulls her robes up to her feet and moves towards the steps, pausing by the fire and folding up the blanket, making a rather tight roll from it. This she hoists and starts to add to her pack. "Might as well keep it in case you get too lost in your thoughts." Or disappears, leaving her wandering around the meadows like a fool. Her hood is pulled back up over her head, concealing the traces of her hair and her feminine features; at a distance, she's just another youth, nothing to be overly concerned about. She then waves to him, and starts carefully picking her way down the steps. After the first fifteen, the aches in her muscles testify to the brighter action of sliding down on her backside as she crabs her way back down to the juncture where the path split off from the main approach to the monastery. It's there she will pause and chance the Fates, staring up at the long switchback flight and the distance mouth of the courtyard.

Her eyes shut for a moment and then she holds up her palms, feeling the air moving through them. Slowly her lips form the shaped words given to her by wiser souls, and her fingers poised against nothingness might resemble a harpist about to play. She plucks two or three intangible strings, murmuring her incantation. Claret-shaded light wisps around her wrists and forms incised circles within a sea of mist… and then she disappears, stepping through the haze.

The next step emerges maybe fifteen steps below the monastery, flat up against the wall. She almost reflexively drops to her knees, squeezed up against the wall. Energy dissipates around her, leaving the girl more tired than she was but in a profoundly different way. The murmuring notes of the spell vanish, joining the prayer bells rung in her passing when she runs her hands over those mounted brass wheels, announcing herself wordlessly.

*

The clanking of the brass that announces her presence is met shortly thereafter by one of the solitude Monks, this one clearly of Tibetan heritage by his features. The stereotypical look of the man in robes, shaved head and disposition. At her arrival, he bows politely and opens his hands in greeting before… speaking. "Greetings Traveler."

*

The monks of solitude may look askance upon the saffron garments, the feminine face. On the other hand, she spreads her hands and bows deeply in response, folding from the waist. Spending a little time recovering her energy will not go amiss. "Greetings, brother." Her Tibetan is not terrible; she's had time to refine it. "This traveler has need of goods to climb the mountain." Whatever gifts is, she can't remember.

*

The Monk looks her over, apparently he is the one allowed to speak at this time as he gazes up the mountain then back to the woman. "The Guardian allows you to pass?" It is a surprising question but he simply nods. Behind the doors, a pair of silent monks have been listening and turn, going to fetch some things apparently.

*

Wanda remains rooted to the courtyard, as eternal as the statues of guardian foo dogs or lions, the hundred armed figure of Guanyin—or whatever they choose to call her here, whether in Tibetan, Mandarin, or a 5,000 year old language no one remembers. She dips her head to the question, the glitter of perspiration at her hairline being evaporated swiftly by the chilly altitude. "He granted right to try. I accept I may die." How calmly she speaks about that, but she's probably assuming she is invulnerable to whatever threats are up there. It's not the case, but after living under interdict of death from the moment of her birth, what else could she expect? "Would you have me do anything in trade for the help?"

*

The monk shakes his head, "The Guardian takes care of that." The pair of monks return, each of them carrying but a small package then in each hand and standing in front of Wanda. It is ironic perhaps, or premeditated; who knows how things of fate and mysticism work afterall. But one of the silent monks holds in their hands an offering of the plants which Wanda was seeking. The other holds a simple rock. "Here are your gifts. But, only one may be taken." The speaking monk looks up at her, no sign of amusement only stoicism.

*

The acknowledgement made with another bow is polite, but profound. She conveys her thanks in murmured words, and then regards those packages held out. The plant or the rock? One is freedom and incredibly valuable to the healers, the assurance of a good price, an exchange, and maybe freedom eventually for her brother and her into Kashmir or another disaffected region. Which is altogether telling when she reaches for the rock, her mouth lifted in a smile. The natural world is left to be as she folds his fingers over the precious fungus, the great healer. It is for them; she will take the stone.

*

The Monk simply nods his head when she takes the stone from them and then the duo turn and back away. The one who speaks remains. "I wish you luck on your journey. Should you return, you may find rest here before you journey back down the mountain." Then the door closes and the monastery falls quiet.

*

Wanda tucks the stone into the pouch worn around her neck, joining the other bits and pieces she wears. Her charms are faded these days, worn always in the event of trouble from Chinese, Indian, or Tibetan authorities. To say nothing of the Nazi sympathizers who still might dwell about, on the lookout for the white-haired young man and his darkling sister, she can take no chances. Then she sets out back down the stairs, taking the time to walk them properly. She chews on the nuts reserved from her last snack, her pack on her back laden by that blanket and more. The world is so small up here, mankind a twinkling in its eyes. She hikes back up to the valley, sparing herself the easy route of jumping the distance.

*

Blackagar is where he was when she departed, sitting in the same spot with the slate laying in front of him. It is approaching early evening most likely by time she returns but the patient man has not moved a hair instead he is simply breathing and listening for Wanda's return. Upon which, he would rise slowly as he picked up the slate and hold it out to her. Again instead of just words there is a drawing. Wanda, taking a rock into her fingers; much akin to what occurred below along with the words «I knew your heart would choose.» He cannot help it, he's smiling to her as his head inclines towards the mountain pass.

*

Slipped steps and arduous climbing requires effort from Wanda, and by the time she reaches the top of the stairs, she is ready to sit instead. At least for a little while, adjusting the fit of her pants around her boots, shifting her pack around, and making sure the straps aren't too deep, the kerosene container isn't too drippy, and they have water at temperature rather than frozen into a block if they intend to go higher. She displays the rock, and then she peers down to the slate. "So it did." Russian, again, unless the scribble is in Tibetan, in which case she prefers that. A dusting of her foot destroys the proof of their footprints, and then she passes her way on after him.

*

Blackagar begins to write as he walks, leading the way towards the mountain pass, handing it to Wanda whenever he is done for her to read. «We will travel up the mountain pass as far as we can before night comes. Then you will need to rest. We will wake and continue on the voyage then. At the peak, you may find what you are looking for, beyond the plants.» A glance is offered her and then, of all things, an arm to help her walk.

*

The pass imposes on the landscape, chopped into the stony backbone of the mountains that greet the sky. Here the air and the clouds are almost within reach, and the sky limitless in a way slightly less than others. She measures her pace; there is no need to rush, and no need to risk things right now. But Wanda is alert. She watches for trouble in expectation it will show, looking for the break to any given pattern. It falls to her to look for the weird, the strange, and occasionally the expected with a scrutinizing depth of distrust. Others, she simply enjoys the act of movement and the exceptionally fine views.

"We should not walk after dark," she agrees, nodding to that. Her gaze flickers up there. Faster ways of travel exist to her, but the risk is another thing. She nonetheless loops her arm around Blackagar's, a bit stiffly. If she is new to him, this is new to her.

*

Blackagar nods his head in affirmation before starting to write a bit. It isn't long and then he holds the slate for Wanda to see, glancing at her as he does so. «Who are you?» It is a simple question but so complex as well. Vague in the way it is presented and open to so many interpretations. It is a sight really, these two walking along the tallest mountains in the world towards some 'Cradle of Life' that Blackagar speaks of. The cold, the walking, none of it seems to really phase or bother the man; enough by this point to give hint that he is not just a normal person or monk.

*

"If I knew, would I be here?" The obvious answer, her name, they already covered. The shreds of their conversation have been laid out before, giving a hint of her purpose. Searching for a healing herb to sell in the villages, but she took the rock instead of the golden stalk that only grows in early May on. They're still early for it, but this place's rules are different. "I am an explorer, seeker of truth and knowledge. I want to know…" This is tricky territory, suspicion biting into her psyche, but she has to fill the time somehow. "Who I am. My parents may have come here, or people who knew them. So I come to see for myself what can be found."

It's a nice, solid truth without so much detail that it would imperil her. And really, it marks the start of the hero's journey, the question of identity when she can't turn back.

*

«I meant, who are you. Within yourself.» Blackagar writes back and shows to Wanda then, looking down at her and managing a small smile before stopping to write on the slate some more. «Who we are is not based on outside, it is based on within.» He taps his chest then to indicate where he means by within and writes a bit more. «I have wandered this world for years trying to see who I am. You wander to for the same reason?»

*

"I wander looking for the answer. I don't know who I am inside. Sister? Daughter? A bad person, a good person?" These questions and their adjectives tumble away. "They are subjective terms, not good descriptions. I want to know if I am made to live a quietly, moderately good life or have some change." So many answers are without, and she keeps her arm wrapped around his for stability until they get to icy patches, in which case, he can go first and show her the way.

*

Blackagar stops then and turns to look at Wanda, writing rather emphatically and then showing it to her. «You are who you are. If you want to be bad or good, you choose. If you want to hate, or love, you choose. If you want to run, or fight, you choose.» The last part is written the heaviest and he shows it to her. He points up towards the mountain slope then and looks back to Wanda. «The answers there are the answers of here.» He points to her heart. «If this is not ready, it will consume you.» Again, he taps his own heart then turns to start leading across an ice patch over a body of water, so that they do not fall in.

*

Wanda runs her hand up over her shoulder, moving around the straps. "Sometimes it feels like you do not get to choose but others choose for you. Raised in a place where they say you are bad, you must fight twice as hard to be good. Or how do you define good if you are surrounded by broken and flawed people? I never said I would not try. I say the measuring stick is not always the best judge."

The way forward is met with a crunch, and the demons of her history floating in her veins, dancing in her mind. "I have to be ready. There is only now, never the past which is unchanging, and the future, which is not certain. You can influence the now, you can change the future by being here. In this very second, this very place."

*

The crossing is not difficult, but upon the otherside, Blackagar slows up once again and motions towards an outcropping beneath which is some shielding from the wind. «Camp.» He writes on his slate as he nods towards Wanda then begins to make his way towards the location. As he walks, he scrapes and clicks on the board to produce words. «Always a choice, even when it does not look like one. Hardest choice is doing what is right, even if not liked by others.» He looks somberly to Wanda, tapping his chest to indicate this is himself that he is writing about. Then he nods again to the area of shelter. «You should rest. Night will fall soon. You can sleep safely.»

*

How easily they might walk these paths if they were flat, not tilted at drunken angles and designed by an irate architect who was also a toddler. Wanda at least is quick about detaching herself to find a place to establish what counts as a camp, laying out the blankets and finding shelter, clearing out any debris if there is an overhang or such they can hide beneath. "Yes, there is always choice. Plenty struggle to make us act one way or the other." She smiles up at him, grim, but not unkind. "Is it fine to build a fire? Temperatures are still terrible at night." A fire that will burn long, far longer than it should.

*

Blackagar shakes his head, writing on his slate. «A fire could be seen from the ground, patrols may spot it.» Patrols of who he leaves off but then he nods to the blanket she has. «Blankets will help keep you warm. Part of the journey, to struggle.» The explanation is offered with a smile again before he leads the way towards the outcropping area. After a bit he holds the slate up for Wanda once more, «You will be safe, you need only focus on surviving.»

*

Patrols. That brings a confounded look to her expression. "Even this far up? I thought they were over the range." Sighing, though, the witch makes a point of pressing her hands to the stone and feeling for it. "Focus upon surviving." That means pulling her clothes tighter and layering them, then setting out some food. No charcoal fire for them to sleep by, but they can dine by it. She hastens to build something simple, relying on tea again or heating up the water. Melting snow in a canteen and then snuggling up to that throughout the long hours of the Himalayan night. A tent would be inexorably better than this, but she has something to her own advantage. There is almost no dead fall to speak of on a mountain, and the chill after the dark falls will only grow. Time to make preparations, which means meditation and worse. She works rather quickly, permeated by a hostile look towards the sky now and then. It's only once the fire must die that she bothers to interrupt it, throwing dirt and snow atop it. Unfortunately the fire is just bloody resistant to being quenched that way, and she frowns, kicking more dirt into the smoldering wreckage before the dawn falls. At least it keeps her warm to run around and gather up what she needs to kill its heat and light.

*

He watches. It is a studious observation, like one would do to look over a student taking an examination. Blackagar simply sits with his legs folded beneath him, ignoring the cold and the chill to watch Wanda work. The way she carries herself, conducts her survival and tries to balance the needs of the body to make it versus the needs of subtlety. It is only when she is running around to gather things about at the end that he produces the slate again, displaying an image of her from earlier, cradled around the cup of tea for warmth; again the drawing is rather spot on, carrying insight into it; of what his mind alone knows. At the bottom is written «You will be fine.»

*

Trust. Trust she will live through the night, trust she will somehow not be slaughtered by an angry guardian before dawn. Her pupils glow faintly red as the fire fades away, drinking its heat until there is nothing at all. She will long be huddled up to the dwindling fire in her blanket, as though that extra bit of body heat will be enough. There is no elegance here; just practicality, a stranger, a quest. "I have faith it shall. The odds are with me." If they were against, then what? Dead in Tibet, another ill prepared climber.

Instead, she gives him a light pat on the arm and retreats back towards the outcropping of rock that serves for shelter. "If you get cold, do not be foolish. Come in and try not to freeze." That much is an invitation as any as she curls up, bedding down to sleep. Her pack is under her head, and she pulls the blanket to her nose, higher.

*

A smile in the fading firelight as Blackagar shakes his head, patting his skin to show he is fine. He keeps his legs under him and watches Wanda for a time before allowing himself to meditate in that state. The evening begins to drag on, the winds of the mountain begin to howl and the chill that was present before starts to grow. From the surface cold to the sort that creeps deeper into the bones, the icy daggers that cut through to the heart. As the evening wears on, eventually Blackagar, several hours into the night, gently shakes Wanda's shoulder.

*

The brunette falls asleep after a fairly long period of restlessness, forcing her thoughts to go silent, and her mind to settle in. It's arduous but nothing she not overcome before. Buried underneath the blanket, she turns facedown into the stone that will maintain its heat long after the sun goes down. Curled up in the foetal position, she maintains a tight bundle to preserve what body heat she has. Dreams creep in, a swirl of colours streaming through her mind, the stone hidden between her breasts in that pouch on a cord.

It hurts. Oh, deeply it does, but her fitful slumbers lead her where they will. When Blackagar shakes her awake, she almost protests, murmuring in her native language; it's not Russian. Close, but not the same. Murmuring another sound, she cracks her eyes open and then stares at the sky, her pupils so pale in the moonlight they're slivers of the missing sun. "… breakfast or walk?"

*

It is dark still, too dark to really be able to see writing, but beyond Blackagar the swirling of the snow can be seen, being lifted down upon them from the upper slopes by the wind that is howling. The man's head shakes at her question and he points up above towards the slope and then makes the gesture of fingers waggling, like little flakes coming down. His fingers increase in tempo quickly until soon his hands are motioning rather than fingers. The expression on his face is patient but concerned, silouetted in the darkness by the full moon overhead that casts the light to see.

*

An unhappy look traces the white, storming sky. The gods are angry? No, they should not be. She pulls her hood lower, almost to her eyes, the shawl wrapped around her nose and mouth to preserve them in layers that make her look all the more smothered in layers. The urge to pull for power is steep, all the more because the full moon hangs over them. Then she forces herself to move in a smooth manner, pulling her backpack over her shoulders. The blanket is worn something like a cloak, something she doesn't intend to cast away. If she is overheated, so be it, but it seems likely that won't be the case. Her tramping over the cookie dusting of snow echoes with soft crunches, and she points up to the mountainous defile.

*

His brow raises, surprise certainly on his features but when Wanda begins to walk and points to the mountains, regardless of the stormy sky, the cold, the time of night; when she shows she wants to instead of harboring down, or retreating to press on.. well Blackagar nods his head and begins to lead the way once more. Deeper into the snow, into the mountains and the paths. The dangerous routes that they take and a journey that would take until the early hours of the morning when the sun would start creeping over the peaks to cast its light down. The storm was heavier below them, as they climbed up above it. Thinner air, colder air and a strenuous pace made the night. Often he checked on her, to make sure that Wanda did not fall behind but the pace rarely broke, it could not break.

*

What else is there to do? Run down towards an exposed valley through a route that may kill them, or ascend higher to a place that supposedly brings life as much as death? Maybe there is something to pressing on rather than halting back. Her words are silent, her head bowed, and sometimes all they have to go on is trudging through the darkness and the snow. Halting is death. Failure is death. Her feet are put ahead of her, and if she should fall, it means getting up. However cumbersome, she shuffles slowly after Blackagar, only calling out when she can't keep up. Food is used here and there: the fritter-like ribbon covered in sugar, the pork stuffed bun kept mostly soft, rather than firm, chewing as she walks. It hurts. Oh, it hurts. Forward, forward, and forward. Though if /anything/ presents itself as a possible landing page, she isn't beyond the concept of snatching him up and bending space to leap to it.

*

A short time later, his hand falls upon her elbow, Blackagar stopping to get Wanda to stop, lifting an arm to point ahead of them. Only a few hundred yards off it looks at first like the face of part of the mountain peak. But closer examination can be seen that it is part of an entrance of some kind, a cleverly disguised temple that is set to look like the rocks around it. Recessed into the mountain itself and shielded from the elements. The wind still blows here, cold and brisk with the thin air but a destination can be seen ahead, an end to this path; and Blackagar leads the way.

Within the walls just into the temple the wind stops, the cold lessens as there is no more exposure to the elements. He moves around some and then shows to Wanda upon his slate, what he drew during the night before. The image of them walking into the temple and the words beneath it. «We are here. Rest.» There is not much to see here, for it is the entryway into the depths of the mountain location, but it is dry, it is shielded and it is not outside.

*

Without Blackagar, it's wise to say she might be freezing to death in a clinging grip of hypothermia. It could well be that she would wander off a cliff in a haze, wracked by shivers, not sweating much to the cocoon wrapped tightly around her. The elements are harsh indeed, but the little brunette grits her teeth and murmurs her mantra over and over, a meaningless phrase imbued with a whisper of magic to hold the base temperature to herself. That is all she can do: walk. Follow. He can push or shepherd her through and she does not fight him, her clothing crusted with snow and ice, stiff and unmoving. Her footfalls crunch onwards, dragging into the safety and shelter of the entryway. When they land inside, she goes to her knees and rigidly tries to work her fingers back to mobility, curled and crabbed by clutching her clothing and the blanket shut. Sooner or later, she must succumb back to exhausted sleep, but not until she removes the damp the best she can, nodding. A bit of delirium might well be presented, but she isn't going to question that. Better to sleep, to capsize and surrender to the black seas of dreams.

*

Blackagar let's Wanda rest for several hours, patiently waiting for her until he hears it. Off in the depths of the temple location, a rumbling sound that has permeated this place for some time. Reaching over, his hand gently falls upon her shoulder, giving a shake to attempt to rouse her. The writing on his slate is already present; «Danger approaches.»

*

Sleep comes easily to the tired young woman. Bundled up in her robes and blanket, dressed in layers, she nestles into the relative comfort of them with her head pillowed on her pack and her arm. As far as sleepers go, she isn't the most restless of them. Unconsciousness claims her, and she drifts in the ebbing ocean of dreams until rattled awake, nudging her out of the lightless depths. Blackagar has little trouble there. The brunette tends to awaken instantly and bolt into action at a moment's notice. The situation is little different now, her honey-brown eyes cracking open and staring around for a moment, incoherent of her surroundings. Only for a second or two, critical moments when details filter back into place. The slate is among the first, then the man holding it, pulling together.

This is why she sleeps with knives. One pulled smoothly from the sheath at her side comes free effortlessly, and then she pulls herself up from the pile into a crouch. "Which way?"

*

Blackagar remains calm in demeanor, reaching out to make a soothing gesture towards Wanda as she gets up a bit more quickly and ready than he was anticipating. He slowly shakes his head to her and does some scribbling on his slate. It takes a bit of time before he holds it to her.

«This place was built by others. Different than us. But it has been claimed by offshoots of my people. A sort of cult. They migrate between sites and have come to this one at this time. I did not anticipate them being here. We can go, retreat if need be…»

His brilliant blue eyes, visible even in the dim light provided by the light from outside coming into the cave entrance sparkle while looking at Wanda. A small grin, almost sly on his lips as he erases and writes a bit more, «Or press on. I cannot choose for you. But if we go on…» The words get cut off as a low growl is heard, from somewhere deeper within the corridors of the temple that is echoed by others.

*

While he writes, Wanda bundles up the blanket with a military precision, folding in the corners and rolling the whole thing up. Lashing it to the bottom of her pack, she punches up the supplies a little to distribute them evenly despite the night spent sleeping on them. Her weariness and suffering from the cold is not going to be solved in a moment, but she does chew on several of the high-energy nuts scooped out from a pocket. Methodically breaking them down until every bit of energy might be pulled out, she reads the statement and nods.

"Can they sense you at a distance?" That's a very odd question to be asking, on the whole of it, but Wanda is not exactly the most normal of people. She flips the knife to remain in her primary hand, where it acts as a tool and a defense all the same, worth using as a guard as much as anything. "I did not walk up a mountain to be stopped by a cult."

Perhaps she has an opinion on cults. Stranger things have happened. A nudge of the point indicates the exit out, not the way they entered. "We go ahead. I hear anyone, I try to keep you out of sight."

*

Blackagar looks steadily at Wanda as she responds then nods his head to her. It is a gesture that he feels to make more than thinks to make and offers his hand outwards towards her before leading into the tunnels of the temple.

It winds and descends downwards, a light being present that emenates from below as the light from above begins to fade. Deeper into the mountain they travel for nearly 30 minutes before reaching a threshold at the bottom of the rounding path.

Beneath lays the ruins, embedded into the mountain, of what was once a city. Not overly large but definitely notable. Stone carved buildings, streets, other significant landmarks that lay out in a geometric pattern. Standing there with her, Blackagar takes the chance to write again. «Created by those that created us.» He explains simply to her, gesturing below. His eyes stop looking at the city after a moment, turning up instead to the dark haired woman to measure her reaction.

*

The knife makes the least of the defenses, but at least it feels good to hold onto something strong enough to pry open doors, scratch at questionable runes, and distract potential enemies from the real threat: a girl who can change the world, at least on a very small scale.

Never mind that the man beside her could pulverize the mountain. They are a match made in pulp heaven.

The way she moves is graceful enough for someone running on broken sleep, brokered by long experience of creeping through places she shouldn't be. She feels ahead of the path when unsure, her hand firmly in his. The monk knows his direction, presumably, and he can see better in the dark than she supposedly can. Though even that is a lie, as she relies on the suppressed arcane talents to see into the mystical spectrum. Vision is one of those areas she actually has little difficulty with, and not much gives it away, if the light is absent.

They turn around and around, spiraling into the roots of the earth, and she is silent. They delve into the world below, and when it becomes apparent these are man-made paths, the girl used to a great many strangenesses is rendered speechless temporarily. Dim memories of Mount Wundagore, of her early childhood, dig themselves from memory.

The pause lingers long, as she stares at it all, standing almost on the tips of her boots to see further. "Who?"

*

Who. Such a vague term. Blackagar looks at Wanda and writes on his tablet for her to show it. «We are the Inhumans.» A simple enough explanation, the title of Blackagar and his people. Reaching out to touch her elbow, he nods downwards to where there is a group of what looks like regular humans, about a dozen of them following two figures in robes. They are gathering towards a large building in the center of the mountain city. A tug is given to Wanda's elbow and he inclines his head. «The cult here seek to turn humans into Inhumans. To create an army.» The writing is scribbled very quickly and messily, the haste being present there as he looks at Wanda with a tilt of his head downwards, a questioning expression if she would be going down there with him, to attempt the descending climb.

*

Does it satisfy him to know of her ignorance, the fact the name does not strike a particularly strong chord for the woman he escorts? Her cheeks warm under the exertion of spiralling around and around, gathering her wits as she stretches her legs. The stillness then gives her time to breathe, and adjust to the changed state. "The cult, too? Or does it use another name?" Whispers in the dusk follow. She adjusts her stance, glancing across the details as though measuring every possible path that might lead up to them, and whether there are any defensible positions, cover, and worse. "You do not want an army." A question, it almost borders on a statement. Her fingers stray to the pouch with the stone at her throat, and then she nods. Might as well. "We lay low. Let's go."

*

Blackagar looks at Wanda then and shakes his head in the negative. He draws out some on the slate before motioning with his hands. He has drawn a pyramid on the slate in which he has filled it in. The bottom layer he wrote Humans. The middle layer he wrote 'Others'. At the top he has written 'Inhumans'. Holding it for her to see a moment he erases it then writes some more. «An uncontrolled Inhuman army would be dangerous for all. They must be stopped. My fight, not yours. If you come, I cannot guarantee I can protect.» The blue eyes look at her, measuring and weighing.

*

A shrug of her shoulders follows, accepting the situation as it is. Pulling the hood of her saffron robes up leaves Wanda's face in shadow. "No one can guarantee protection," she says in Russian. The language carries a certain fatalism of the culture behind it, and she arcs a smirk at the silent man. "I want to know." To know is precious and priceless. It may explain herself, and it may give nothing but valuable insight. Their adventure may well determine a future, if they both survive, and that is important, worth following. Perhaps she takes umbrage to anyone wandering around an alien town, shaped beneath the mountains. Her fingers curl protectively, testing the tension and grace of mobility available to her.

*

He nods, accepting her position and then turns to start leading from the balcony terrace to the winding ramp that descends from it. The climb down wrapping around a stone pillar in the depth of the mountain before emerging at the edge of the city. Here, the light from the unknown source casts it into an eerie blue hue, alien feeling in aura. Blackagar's grip does not tighten or lessen, he remains casual as he produces the slate again to write upon it. «To transform, they will be led to a place where they are exposed to the material which does so. It will be in the center chamber. They treat this as religion, not science. So they must undergo a ceremony. We will disrupt.»

Locking his eyes to Wanda's, there's a very sly grin that crosses his lips for a moment. The gaze lingers, silent but speaking volumes before he inclines his head towards the main street just around the corner from where they are that leads towards the central building.

*

She does not speak in response to that. Wanda reads the slate, her eyes darting back and forth, and then she affirms her consent or understanding through a quick nod. It could be something more complex than that, but not while silent. They shall have to understand one another on that wordless front, the hardening mask of her features akin to adopting a theatrical mask. Don one and become someone else, the warrior or the thief or the wise counselor. In this case, the lengthening of her mouth and her intensifying gaze chips away at the remainder of sleepiness or wonder. What an impact this place must have, and her resilience to withstand the level of a threat facing her is enough.

Eventually they will get to the secrets. Or perhaps they are never going to, and this was his intent all along. Only one way to know. She follows; it doesn't suit her to walk around an unfamiliar city so freely, wearing borrowed robes and more.

*

They approach down the main street, it has a slightly downward slant to it as it heads towards the main building, the addage of all roads leading someplace coming into play. The progress is uninterrupted for sometime as they move until they are just outside the entry. It is the voices that are heard first.

"And so, we become who we are. To rule this world and all on it as we were meant to. For we are the superior to these others."

Blackagar casts a look to Wanda and inclines his head to indicate that it was this that he was referring to. He looks into entryway, into the interior of the pillared building with chips of wear and rubble having fallen in some places. There are the dozen or so humans and three other beings, all three looking to be well, not human. One has dark fur, the other is scaled and the third, the one in the middle which looks like a leader, is very large with spikes instead of hair and glowing red eyes.

*

Nothing quite irritates a girl raised with the specter of the Second World War at her back like ideology. As it happens, having a twin brother who looks like the prototype of Aryan perfection while she herself is the very opposite surely does not help. Still, she strains to hear and, foremost, understand. If they speak something obscure as a language, the best she can do is concentrate and shift her awareness towards understanding, borrowing their own language with a jot of sorcery. As spells go, that one is painfully easy.

It's just she would rather not cast, not yet. She slips into the darkness of another building, opposite from Blackagar, showing a definite capability for sneaking about and dropping out of sight. Shying back and making herself small helps. So do drawing her arms in and hugging herself fairly tightly, shrinking her profile. The world might be well if the humans weren't watched over by Scaly, Furry, and Moe.

*

Blackagar looks back to where Wanda is and tilts his head, a confused look on his expression unable to tell if she is hiding with intent to stay hiding or t help him. Either way, he has to press on and turning back he starts to walk into the main building area.

The language being spoken by these people is English, a thick American English at that. The conversation being held by the cult ceremony is going on, the usual things . Being purged and reborn, enlightened, etc. etc. It gets a bit mundane after a bit. The real chaos and surprise comes when Blackagar enters into the view of those conducting the ceremony, immediately drawing the eyes of the Trio of Inhumans followed by the 12 recruits that turn and look at the man as well. Slowly, patiently, his arms fold over his chest in response to the stunned silence of the group who have been interrupted by his arrival.

*

The glimmer of the knives might be invisible, unless one looks. She hasn't especially treated the blades to be darkened, but the light in its eerie blueness gives her a somewhat greenish quality that will trend towards purple as the orange mixes with the blue well enough. Her proper colour isn't this strange shade, but it will help. Her movements are couched by stealth, the advantage of surprise one never to be overlooked or not appreciated.

It does present a challenge to anyone who wishes to look for her. When the monk steps out, though, her eyes narrow. Not exactly unexpected, she nonetheless is forced to slide along the wall and stay largely out of sight until the corridor ends, such as it is, and the choice is enter the chamber or not. Little about her heavy robes in Buddhist style really differentiate her from any other of the monks of Tibet, nor is her gender entirely a matter of importance. She might simply appear to be a traveller in step behind him, hands hidden by long sleeves, the blades tucked to her forearms as a precaution. It may not go violent.

It might not. But she can read probability, and further, she can speak English.

Let the shock settle in. She lingers behind his shoulder, hanging back, letting him be the surprise that keeps on giving

*

Oh he's chalk full of surprises. Most of them aren't going to be revealed however, at least not here or now. Looking at the Trio that spoke english and the recruits, Blackagar's hands slowly move to retrieve his slate and he writes on it slowly. With the words spelled out he holds it up and moves it around so all can see. «Give me the Crystals and leave.»

Crystals? He never mentioned anything about crystals.

The three inhumans, who really look the role of not being human glance at one another and the leader of them steps forward towards Blackagar. "Who are you? What the hell do you think you're here?" The growl of his voice is echoed by the others, even the dozen or so normal people look antagonized and everyone begins to fall out into a flanking towards the distraction that is Blackagar. Three of the humans moving behind him, drifting closer to where Wanda is at.

*

Twelve on two; not exactly the fairest odds. Wanda drops back a step from Blackagar, letting his shadow fall over her. It might not be seen as the best of choices, but the girl isn't running away. Her tongue pressed to her palate, she gazes at them, haunted dark eyes stitching measurements and probabilities.

The knife in her left hand is slowly, carefully slid into a sheath at the angle to hide the purpose. They might see or not, they might interpret this as a sign of resignation or possibly something different. The three humans headed her way gain a shake of her head. "Take his advice." Preferably the slate doesn't say 'Eat all the chickens and throw yourselves off a cliff' or something absurd. Her English is accented but good, understandable at least. "Walk away in peace, and peace will follow you."

*

With Wanda behind him, Blackagar casts a quick glance to her and nods affirmation at her arrival before his look goes back to the Inhuman threats before them and he produces the slate again, writing on it visible that he turns and displays to all of them; Wanda included.

«There is no walking away. But you should still Surrender.»

Turning back towards Wanda he nods towards her, the motion seeming to indicate to the regular humans they should charge, which they then do. The first handful going towards Blackagar and another 2 going for the smaller, more diminutive looking Wanda.

*

Some time after this, they might need to have a lesson in human diplomacy, a talk about how one can encourage trust and possible cooperation by not threatening the parties involved. Even if he means to harm them, not saying that outright could be helpful. Lessons in deception from the archdevil's own daughter… Terribly compelling, no?

The diminutive woman resembles very little in the way of a threat. Someone in a robe belted around her waist, holding a pack with a blanket. That pack she jettisons with a roll of her shoulders, the wool bundle striking the ground and skimming away with a noise. The knife in her hand slips down, point first, to a rotation of her wrist. The long saffron sleeve likely still covers the point until those two close upon her, when she gazes up at the walls surrounding them, in a building old when the world was so much younger and less known than now. One can almost read the sorrow in her eyes.

But old things exist for a reason. They serve their purpose and this empty shell no longer will be a cultists' meeting site. Her fingers rise and she whispers a sound as they close towards her, two fools marching to their doom. Only when they are a little more than arm's length away, maybe double that, does her purpose become clear with a shuddering groan. Eyes glittering with a pomegranate light mark the sparks forming upon the walls near their bases, and without warning, the old construction collapses to entomb the two under their weight.

*

The group that moves to Blackagar discover that the monk like man is not much like others. Perhaps in the way he fights, fluid and striking, but the strength that sends them flying to the backwalls and the speed that he does it with is the true testament to not being 'human.' The bodies fly and roll, landing with thuds that are almost sickening with the heaviness which they fall

*

The group that moves to Blackagar discover that the monk like man is not much like others. Perhaps in the way he fights, fluid and striking, but the strength that sends them flying to the backwalls and the speed that he does it with is the true testament to not being 'human.' The bodies fly and roll, landing with thuds that are almost sickening with the heaviness which they fall.

He turns quickly towards Wanda, to see if she is alright and his eyes widen in her direction with expression. The slate which he carries has been broken in two during the scuffle and has ended up on the ground. There is no indication that the man has struggled or is in any sort of distress but the concern he has for his companion is quite present. Especially when the three non humans, the Nuhumans, growl at the disruption that has been made of their religious ceremony and begin to approach, speaking out in English. "You will be destroyed interlopers."

The magenta eyed woman is glared at by the scaley Nuhman, the colors shifting of his scales from brown to blue and then a darker black as he hisses, tongue which is forked, flickering out.

*

The broken slate is an understandable loss, a silencing of a man limited in so many ways from communication. Wanda might go recover one, but then the chalk can probably be written on the dusty rubble filling the air, obscuring a clear view of her. She might have lost her pack, but then she just reduced twelve to ten. Having cleaned out his fair share, Blackagar is probably leading that tally, as if they were elf and dwarf keeping score on number of strikes. The slightest of nods is given to him as she is still processing the whirlwind of motion he became, and the outcome. Good thing she's a fast calculator.

She turns towards the Nuhumans, a frown touching her lips. "No," she says. No more, no less, but she answers them in English. The knife remains downpointed, a good measure.

That scaly man presents a rather nasty figure with his tongue flicking out. Most colourful things in nature tend to be poisonous, so she does not wait around for his prehensile tongue to lash around her arm or prove to be caustic. Instead she dives for the collapsed wall, the pile of rock and other building materials — what do Kree use? — giving some cover and instability. It also lets her measure how stable Mr. Monster is up there, for it will be to his woe when she boosts the instability of the rock with another hex hurled at it, a reddish wreath of radiance circling around her hands.

*

Blackagar actually does not like the odds, but he is unable to express this to Wanda or display his concern. Rather he starts to slowly back, attempting to keep spacing between the remaining two and himself, a triangle of angles while stepping backwards slowly, step after step. His eyes glance then towards Wanda, a questioning look but without a question. An expression of expectation but without any way of delivering what he is expecting.

His steps are taking him back further towards the Witch, the Nuhumans converging on him and the scaled one moving to leap over the rocks to get to Wanda, to pounce and … do whatever it is he may have in store, but that tongue lashes again quite longer and reaching, seeking for the woman.

*

Tolerance only stretches so far. The witch's eyes shine with a glimmering light mirrored in the glow around her hands, and the stirring reflection on her saturated robes might only strengthen a connection to one of the bodhisattvas littered about Tibet. When the scaly one jumps, her loosening of the scree pile made from the building walls proves rather less effective. No matter, she's prepared for that. The few seconds taken to sheathe the knife may seem a foolish waste. They would be, too.

Did she not move her fingers through rapid forms, concentrating that glowing halo. Focus carves out lines on her brow, tightening her lips as she spins and turns that energy. The result is plain as the spell clashes, running along the tip of the Nuhuman's tongue. She backs away slowly with the pressure tightening her muscles, demanding her full focus. But momentum slows. Slows…

And that tongue isn't going anywhere.

"I cannot keep him like this for long!" she hastily calls in Russian, more likely they cannot understand it. "He's yours."

*

His.

Blackagar grimaces at Wanda but then he looks back to the Nuhumans and shudders believing he knows what he must do. His lips part, ever so slightly and he speaks. It is not even a whisper, it is less than that. "Hide." The word is meant for Wanda, but it is directed away from him.

In the tight confines of the mountain city the strength of Blackagar's voice crushes outwards, echoing like a nuclear detonation with the same energy that starts to shatter the walls of the city, to bring it down around them; Nuhumans, Wanda and Blackagar alike.

The word barely has left his mouth before Blackagar is turning to run and grab Wanda, to drag her to some kind of outcropping to try and avoid the destruction of the mountain around them.

*

The young woman holds the Nuhuman to his death. She will remember that, the look on his face when the vibrations of the earth and sky meet in this narrow confined space under the mountain. She will recall, in her dreams, what it meant to tremble and the force that rolled through him, the way that the world cracked as though to make her small hex seem so… minute. Insubstantial.

Telekinetic force flings the lizard away, a powerful surge running through her limbs as emotion feeds into the backlash. Another day she might curse her own luck, or lack thereof. Today, she will thank her stars at the escape. Already starting to move back as the ground shudders and the peak vibrates to trailing soundwaves, her arms open as he emerges out of the dust to seize her. There could be distrust, but Wanda's own sense of survival flatlines the spike in terror in her. Syllables formed on her tongue follow the mystic arts, far different from Tibetan or Russian or German. She shakily pulls her hands in a rotation based on her wrist. They've done this so many times before, found the tethers of gravity and twisted them.

But never like this. Never with her head ringing to a whisper that will haunt her for months. Years.

Light halos her, the same tones of scarlet as before. Let them run, run they shall, but Blackagar might realize he's released from the ground as she buoys them up. Running may be faster when aloft, flying.

*

Blackagar's arms are around Wanda as she starts the running, flying combination that is carrying them away from the destruction. The main center building doesn't collapse, it had been flattened, wiped to the back area of the cavern by the whisper along with many of the other buildings. The Nuhumans who had been there lost to the rubble, along with the cultists that were with them as the internal cave begins to collapse.

Above the chaos they rise, the slides of the walls of the Kree built cave wiping out downwards sending up dust and debris beneath them. It carries on, the thunderous rumbling and chaos for several long moments before it starts to dissipate; the city gone and the cavern in utter disarray.

*

She lacks what will constitute a shield around her. As far as Wanda can concentrate, her thoughts lie entirely upon the need to maintain that separation of flesh and stone. They lie above the terrain, no longer inhibited by stairs or vertical walls. A falling column approaches them and she yanks them both upwards on a trajectory covering a leap the average soul could never make, let alone on a dime. Being able to see is essential to those fine tuned movements, but the rest is only focus. If Blackagar runs, the radiant light around him keeps him up and away from the fate laid upon the unfortunates he left behind.

They can worry about the cost of burying a city later.

*

The chaos dissipates, settles and the destruction is complete. Blackagar glances towards Wanda, nods in the direction of a place where it looks flat and not severely damaged for them to go to. He can't speak to her, clearly and his writing slate is at the bottom of the rubble. This means he is stuck making an expression of apology, somber and sorrow that etches his face and his eyes.

*

The chaos shudders around them, patterns settling within the drifting falls of cliffs and centuries-old buildings, following the ripples of a voice. Wanda will be the witness whether she likes it or not, staring over her shoulder, arms firm if not tight around Blackagar's shoulders the whole time. It is only right and good she should be aware of this. What is one stone to all of this?

How long they run, how long they fly? They are reduced to nearly nothing, her pack down there too, and the whole slope of the mountain to face.

…while flying. Thinness of air that would halt a helicopter apparently won't halt her.

"I have to rest to get us out," she explains in a low, hoarse voice. The dust isn't good for breathing. "Down to the valley." A pause follows and she coughs into her sleeve, coated white and grey. It will be hell for the next few days. If they survive. If he doesn't throw her over the side of the mountain for being a sorceress. "You don't want to go to Lhasa, do you?"

*

Looking at her, Blackagar shakes his head at her question of Lhasa. Instead he tilts his head towards the south of where they are, rather than where they came from. He points at himself and then holds up fingers showing them 'walking' then pointing at himself again; attempting to communicate that he will be followed.

Again that sorrow touches his eyes and he reaches up to touch her cheek, if allowed, and then folds his hands under his head in the universal 'sleep' gesture and points to her.

*

Wanda nods, catching onto that. "You have your duties." To whom and to what, she is quick enough to catch onto. He touches her cheek and she tilts her chin up, surprised clearly if the widening of her eyes is anything to go by. But she does not pull away. Considering they are both dusted liberally in rubble, no wonder.

Her hands hitch around her knees for a moment when they are safely down, and then she sinks into a seated position. It may not be the most comfortable and she is dying, dreaming of a bath, but there are easier ways to cover herself up. "Is it safe in the monastery? If I take you there." Already she is sketching in the dirt and stone, drawing out a map of what she knows to be the landscape. Inaccuracies abound, but using her fingers or even a bit of blood isn't exactly the hardest way of managing this. "I am sorry about your slate. You must have many questions." The puff of breath means her lips are turning slightly more pink. "I am a sorceress. A magic user. That's how the walls fell the first time."

*

Drawing in the dirt helps. Blackagar pulls himself up alongside of her, sitting next to Wanda once they are safely down and watching her sketch. When she speaks of her magic, he just smiles at her in a reassuring way and points to the monastery then himself. He writes in the dust, shortly due to lack of space. «They told me. Thank you.»

It is certainly cryptic, they told him what? That she was a sorceress, then what is he thanking her for unless he needed her. Blackagar's eyes travel to where they just came from, from the chaos and again, he reaches up to touch her cheek in as close to a reassuring way he can manage, attempting to communicate something.

*

Wanda pulls out the battered little pouch from under her soiled robes. She might ditch them, but knowing how violently the weather wails outside, every layer is essential. The pebble is pulled out from the other bits, and she holds it out. No food. No shelter. No extra blanket. Simply a pebble. "Would this help in any way? Help you?"

Her fingers slide up the back of her neck, and she peers at the stained dust showing there. After she rests, a small bit of magic to divest herself of those unwanted layers of grime will be the first thing on the agenda. A little hardship is nothing new, but being dirty isn't tolerable. "Thank you. For helping me out of there." As if an explanation were needed, as he touches her. She hesitates for a moment, the awkward position of crouching on the ground overlooked. It may be hard to understand what he's saying, but the sorcery at her command is not full telepathy, without the nuances of the great sorcerers roaming around the world and the plateau.

*

Blackagar shakes his head, reaches out to close her hand around the pebble and points to the monastery location she drew, then to the closed hand with the pebble. The expression he carries is a gentle one, but again it is difficult to read. Fortunately he is patient, it is his fault he cannot speak; rather will not speak for obvious reasons hopefully to her now.

He gestures to the map, points at Wanda, makes the walking motion with fingers and then the monastery is indicated. Then he points to himself, makes the walking motion and points to the south, over the mountains and deeper into the Himilayas; where he is going.

*

It may be his fault, but she is not stupid. Wanda can rationalize and reason, and she can listen, piecing together what she understands. The rock goes back in the bits and bobs carried in the pouch, the piece tucked underneath her robes again. That much, Blackagar won't have to fear her confused. She looks down to the map, and then back up. "You mean to keep going. Am I to go back to the monastery by myself?"

*

He nods to her, attempting a reassuring smile. Reaching down into the dust he traces with a finger, drawing a stick figure and pointing at himself, then a small army of stick figures behind him. He writes, «They come for me now.» Blackagar doesn't look afraid, or emenate that feeling about him. He just looks at Wanda, expecting that she understands what it is to be on the run, the need to move to the next place. A finger motions to her and then the monastery and he nods with affirmation.

*

"So this is goodbye. You to escape that cult, and go somewhere safe. Does the monastery need to know you will not be there?" Pragmatism is moving on, without a question. It's running back down the road without throwing a look over her shoulder, or peering for redemption over the horizon. The only way sometimes to survive is to keep moving, one foot in front of the other. Doesn't mean Wanda has to like it. Doesn't mean she has to stop calculating, considering. Her jaw sets for a moment.

*

Blackagar looks away for a moment then taps himself and motions to his neck with the universal cutting signal, the 'dead' sign. He shrugs at her, shoulders lifting as if that is an explanation. His hand reaches up towards her, stops there a moment then lifts again to her cheek, eyes apologetic in expression to her. There is a smile on his lips, a bit sad but it cannot be concealed, blue eyes gazing to her with that look of regret.

*

She understands that all too well. "Tell them you are dead. Or they will assume it." Wanda's tone darkens, a bitter black painted upon the echoing chambers they acknowledge. "Yours is not an easy path." His touch brings her face up, too young by half to be so old in the eyes, but acknowledging the reality that is, not that fantasy that would be. "I'm sorry. So sorry for this. Is there nothing to be done?"

*

His head shakes slowly. Hand lingers on her cheek for a moment then he reaches up to his head, tracing a line around his forehead to the back, almost like something wrapping around it. A hat? A crown… He points to himself then and shrugs. Shakespeare. Heavy is the head that wears the crown.

Blue eyes remain there on Wanda and then he points up to the sky, then to the horizon then her. To the ground he points and himself. The expression matches and the words that are unspoken seem to reflect that he will stay with her until she is ready to travel, before they part.

*

She knows that line, would he but write it. Whether she can guess that he is crowned, as opposed to requiring a bandage for a bump to his head, that's another story. Wanda puts her fingers to her temples, and stares at the map, then wipes away the relative position of the mountain and the village beneath it. She draws a line beyond the Indian subcontinent and west, always west. "I go that way. Tibet is not my home. Maybe Berlin. Wherever I am called."

Huffing out a breath, her decision is made. "It would be selfish to keep you here too long. Not at risk from those cultists. Since you won't let me take you somewhere safe then I owe you a debt. What can I do to repay it?"

*

That brings a smile deep to Blackagar's lips and it grows to his eyes. He taps his chest 'I' then motions to her, bowing his head in thanks. 'I owe you' may be the gesture he is giving before he reaches to the dirt and traces out the words. «Live Long. Live Happy.» A small shrug crosses his shoulders and then he settles himself back some, looking at Wanda with that same warm smile. He looks at her map, where she drew her arrow and he nods his head, showing he understands the place, where she is going. His place of preference seems to be Nepal or that region based on the fact he pushes a dimple of dirt there.

*

"I don't want to sleep. I cannot do less than you ask. Maybe it will be happy." Protest of every child everywhere. The sorceress claps her hands three times, and hisses, "Lasa-ma!" By the third clap, the dust vibrates off of her robes and falls off his, sloughed away. It's a small price to pay for curling up comfortably and staring disconsolately at the rocks pretending to sleep for hours. But such the sorceress must do, chasing her own thoughts, unable to escape the price of a fate.

*

Blackagar himself does not sleep, he simply sits next to Wanda, taking turns between looking at the horizon then looking down to her while she struggles then to the sky. His silence surrounds him but after sometime, he reaches down and rests a hand on her shoulder reassuringly, as if to let her know that she is not alone and he has not left her, yet.

*

Let there be some escape, some relief. Some sense of a dream. Some sense of an outcome, but an outcome cannot be found that will suit them. Even her feverish brain gives up, splintering into the depths of sleep. She curls up the best she can, and surrenders to the depths of her own dreams. Come the predawn morning, risen by hunger or the awareness that she cannot forestall fate, Wanda awakens. There are no words to say, none whatsoever, to ease the frustration settled into her soul. "There is always tomorrow. Remember that. No matter what, there is always tomorrow. A sorceress' certainty, yes?"

And then she opens a hole in the web between reality, throwing a circle of sparks against the mystic focus concealed in that pouch, a garnet-infused ring coming ablaze when she calls it down. Beyond is the wavering sight of elsewhere, a distorted view of a dusty old storeroom of a sort, filled by sacks of grain and cleaning supplies in bottles. Not the most thrilling view of the outside world, to be sure. "Thank you. Remember me. Wanda," she taps her chest, in case somehow hw forgot. "Be happy. Be wise."

*

Blackagar taps his chest in respone to Wanda, watching as she slips through the hole in time and space to dissipate away to whatever room. It had been an interesting journey. From attempting to find herbs to her joining him in the ancient city to destroy it, to seal away one of the stolen Terrigen Crystals.

As the gate slides shut behind the departing woman, he sighs softly, almost wistfully before turning and looking to the south, deeper into the highest mountains on Earth. With a small smirk, he begins to walk through the snow into their depths and the next chapter of life beyond.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License