Chapter Text
Death is a possessive thing. It does its due diligence—shepherding souls, guiding those weary few, and, giving a velvet-covered iron fist to those that are more rowdy—but that does not mean that it does not long. Longs for more; for a power that it cannot claim, as ultimately, Its gained the short end of the stick. That does not mean It has given up on trying to achieve whatever leverage that being the Being of End gives, on the contrary. It just means that Death's possession—obsession—is better felt than seen by most. Unfortunately for him, he's, by far, the most enjoyable for Death to watch over. Yet—like all things have to, even with him and by extension, his soul being something of a pet for Death to watch over, he had died.
Though it wasn't exactly in the way that Death intended. That even Fate intended.
It was ironic, in a way; for a man whose folly had to be his inherent narcissism and general unwillingness to give all parts of himself—so say critics and anyone that dares not to look underneath the underneath—to give himself up in an entirely selfless way. But it was done so much like him; flamboyant, exuberant, loud, that none could claim that it wasn't exactly meant for him. Again, that doesn't mean that the death he had faced was at all kind, let alone painless. His very soul was ripped from his body—not even a hint of dust left in his place. It was as if he never even existed in the first place. Wasn't so much of a death as it was total erasure, a ctrl + x on his lease on life. No matter how many memorials, holidays, or even sleazily given cheques any person would give, there is one thing very, very much certain: Anthony Edward Stark is gone, and no being alive could attest to that.
Death knew, deep down, that this little mortal would've gone out in much more than a bang, but never in its limitless and exponential lives has it even thought about this being the how. Or the why, for that matter. Death knew that Anthony would've died something of a warrior's death. That, even though he claimed the mark of civilian, he is anything but. He is a warrior; one who has seen death, has brought death onto others, and clung to his own sense of valor. That is why Death is so inclined to keep this mortal, why It felt something of distraught when the soul did not return to it, as it should've.
Those that have seen it, those that've done it, and those that dream of it all have a lingering of the hooded primordial within their soul. Those who use Death as a means to justify their slaughter automatically are sent to Hell, and those who repent for it go to the 'Good Place'. Though it may be unknown to any typical mortal, it is the truest truth that Death has ever spoken, ever laid into Law. But Tony wasn't just welcoming Death—Death welcomed him. Blessed with a title that even those on the living plane used to whisper with a reverent sort of fear, knowing it best not to insight the ire of the man that wields the title of 'Death's Merchant'.
Should he have faced a typical death, his soul would've been placed right next to Death's throne. To rule alongside the primordial; to be Its eternal blacksmith, companion, and friend all rolled into one, sarcastically charismatic man. It would've been nice, not to suffer in another eternity with 'boring', at least in comparison, souls. Gaining a permanent seat next to Death, worshiped just as he was when he was mortal—when he was breathing, when he was alive. Death sighs, breath unnecessary but the release feeling that much more gratifying, thinking about his demise.
Because that wasn't him dying. That wasn't what Death considers to be Its namesake, because death is supposed to be an end, to be a reset on the soul until either it joins the other courts or chooses to Fade. That was him being punished for a crime that he only committed because he needed to. Those stones weren't supposed to be around, nor awake, nor even on the mortal damn plane. But he touched them; wielded objects derived directly from the Creator, with no foresight or supervision. Many failsafes are etched into any object of the Creator, but especially those. Those that, if given into the right—wrong—hands, could easily and effortlessly undo that of which has been done since the Dawn of All.
It doesn't matter that Tony was overriding something that a megalomanic, genocidal idiot had done. Doesn't matter that Tony truly never wished to even touch the damned thing. He touched them, and so his soul must be punished. It was made worse, though, when the clear connection between Death and Its Merchant was found. Typically souls that committed a crime against the Creator were pitted against Death, as second only to Fate, Death has the closest—and near-obsessive—relationship with all things of Them. But even Death knew under Its role of Left-Hand, of dealing out any punishments the council saw fit, well, It would've gotten more and more lenient with Tony's. Death took it with grace when the sentencing was given out, but those that knew of the entity knew one thing for certain: It was pissed.
Death is known as the creator of Great Beasts and Dragons; the originator of the urge to hide and hoard, to overtake and claim. Of Reapers and Hellhounds, and so many other nasty, limitless beings that most just opt to not argue or bring forth Death's ire. Nor do they offer any kinship with the entity, though, as they all fear It. It is pestilence and sorrow. Death is, and somehow, someway, Death found just a glimmer of similarity within that soul that is now forever lost.
He is new. He is greatness, and he was Gone before he fully bloomed.
Most would've balked at Death's claim of Tony being 'greatness', however much philanthropy that he does. They do say that he is good for the environment, and good for the world, yes, but he was a part of the reason why the environment was on the decline in the first place! People would latch onto the bitter, less-than-stellar parts of himself and ignore just what's hidden beneath the surface. That doesn't mean Death ignored the very obvious red flags that the man employed—rather, it noticed them a bit too well—but, instead, saw all that is of Tony. He is a blasé playboy attitude, a man with a pension to ignore those that annoy him. He is not a good person, but unlike so many others, he never considered himself one. Just a person who wishes to do good; nothing more, nothing less. And that, that line of thinking is what leads to Death keeping the Merchant mark on Tony's soul.
That, and the fact that the man hid so much from others—including himself, especially himself—that it made Death curious. Enough that plenty of Its duties were forgone just to watch a battle, even if most of them never included the drawing of weapons. Death would watch It's Merchant gain something of a cult following. Would watch as his empire grew to a point that even his world's governments had started to listen to him, even those that were so utterly inhuman that he most likely would've died the very second he laid eyes on them, unprotected, started to take notice. As that curiosity grew, the urge to claim did so as well. Let it be known that Death never was one to stop Itself when a whim grew too large, so exactly as planned, Death claimed Its Merchant. And watched, even closer, from that day forward.
Many times did Death see Tony take a glimpse at it. Enough that Death is sure that, had It appeared in Tony dream's, the man wouldn't so much as freaked as gotten annoyed. It did see some of Tony's annoyance when Serbia came around, pushing the Great Being's hand away with as much of his waning strength as he could. 'Not yet,' his eyes howled, raging like the snow that threatened to encase them in the place that was almost his grave. 'I'm not ready yet.' And, unlike Itself, against Itself, Death listened to It's Merchant. Which made it even angrier seeing the soul that was rightfully It's—carted off into a realm that It does not touch. Though, under extreme measures of arguments and threats, Tony's soul was subjected to Oblivion and not the Void for the crime against the Creator. Thankfully and luckily, a soul within Its court held dominion over Oblivion, but the soul had been given express instructions that Death was not to enter.
But it was odd.
Why, in fact, was the Creator's Will—the Infinity Stones as mortals had taken to calling them—around? Why were they awake; and, the last question, why was it that two mortal beings, at the very least, wielded at least 2? When every primordial, god, entity that has lived beyond one thousand years, or even a well-traveled and read mortal, knew of the stone's unused power. The single last thing made by the Creator before Their death, the cause of so much. Power radiates and nearly corrupts the area around the Great Corpse as all have taken to calling what is left of their Beginning, causing something of a scramble for all of the Great Entities to find not only a guardian of the stones but a plane where they could hide then succinctly. Death, Life, and Fate had too many occurring duties at the time, and still do if you'd ask It. The only one that never seems to have to do anything actively is, well, Time. The plan had been for Time to reside as the first guardian, but for Death to find one of Its souls to be placed as the Eternal Guardian, as it was the smart thing to do. Time vetoed it, though, claiming that Death was trying to gain more power in the Council, a reoccurring argument that Death just refused to entertain anymore.
Not when, sharply and viciously, did It realize that Time was the only one that should've kept an eye on the stones. That Time lost track of them at some point, leading to the whole events that happened in the 80 or so years to take place. It caused a wave of searing anger to rise up in the usually calm and collected entity, so much so that It just needed to confront Time. Shadows twist up from Its infinite well, and suddenly the dark and deep caverns that make Death's realm quickly shift to the open, bright expanse that is where the Hall of God's resides; a place in which all denominations of religion and anything that gained enough Worship could reside within. All had access, including any living or dead mortal, though most seldom walked those brightly lit halls because they were so much more used to the realm of Death. Gilded and frosted, the one place that Asgard, when it still was around. The mere thought of that supposed 'high, godly' place made Death snort, amusement just barely grazing the pounding fury It had.
To It, gods—and that's with a specific, lowercase spelling—that harbored that many levels of grandiose and opulence always grated on non-existent nerves. The fact that those gods needed worship to be around always made it laugh, and the biggest thing is that the Hall could've easily given them asylum, yet the prince-made King never thought to ask. Death never really felt any kind of sadness for the realm, as the death it gave plenty of courageous, powerful souls right at Its fingertips. And, the best part is, since they're souls and under Death's dominion, there was no need to worry about petty dominance battles or even worse, that irritating brightness that seemed to follow most that derived from the Norns, because there was nothing of the sort in Death's realm.
Death stopped in Its tracks as It started to stalk towards the throne room, feeling the pressure of a hand pulling at Its robes, but knew that there was no true hand there—instead, just a curious shadow of a soul, hitching a ride on their master's cloak. Most would've already bucked away due to the feeling of Death's fury, but not this soul. They stayed, knowing that at some point, Death would need someone who is firmly in Its corner as It goes to confront Time along with Its siblings. Death said not a word, but the soul clearly felt the, though exasperated, mirth coming off of the bond that they share; Death is glad for them.
Though the mirth quickly and swiftly once the doors to the 'throne room' were visible. Were it up to Death to decorate and create the Hall, there would not be so many bright colors. The beings that deal with those things that are dark and better work in more dulled areas almost outweigh those that don't, and somehow they gained the unlucky draw. Though It ignores it—drawing in yet another unneeded breath as the doors open. Entering without knocking, as it usually would in a sense of courtesy. Easily could Death just shadow into the room—has done so, plenty of times before—but that would be rude of Fate. And while Death feels vindictive against Time, that does not mean that Fate should be subject to It's ire. So, only slight disrespect rather than blatant. Time is just as great as always, so boisterous and loud that it sounded more like Time was trying to speak to someone across the hall a dinner rather than just lamenting towards Fate, who isn't paying any attention to the 'youngest'. Technically they were all born within a single instance—Life, Death, and Time—but both Death and Life subscribe to the idea that it first was Life, and with an absence of Life came Death, and to calculate when it was that they'd trade, Time came to be.
Death's strides remained quick and silent, coming up to the four chairs that they'd typically sit at. The 'Greater' throne room is where they were at; the one place where they, as the four first creations of the Creator would hold council with all others. Death rarely holds it here, but the sentiment is known and wryly appreciated. For once, Time was the first to notice Death and Its entrance, eternally-twisting face somehow fixing itself into one of pure anger and scowls. All-seeing eyes do not blink, though something akin to a low growl erupts from Time's lips. "Best you remember yourself, brother." Death slowly speaks, Its own hidden eyes narrowing as Time does the exact opposite. "You." Time hissed out, sounding far too mad for Death's liking. It's not like Their favorite mortal just passed away, under circumstances that They could not even stand. Circumstances never should've been in play in the first place, if only people would do their damn jobs.
Time's anger has always been a restless thing, something that Death avoided causing because the fallout that always happened was always something that It needed to clean up, no matter if It was the cause or not. Always Time's keeper, and for once? Death was sick of it. "Me." it snarled right back, though remained in a much tighter control than the 'youngest' sat. "You were tasked with watching over them! How could you have lost them!?" They ask, and Death fights the urge to laugh in Time's face, if only for Life and Fate. Life was watching with narrowed eyes and a tight look on Her face, and Fate was characteristically silent. Death knew that Fate was watching, though; as They always are. If Death wasn't so angered It would've cynically pointed out how 'untamed' Time had become. Looking as They did—tightly woven supernovas threatening to go cataclysmic, to erupt and leave no witnesses—it's honestly a boon that the room has inherent protections against this very thing happening. But that does not mean that Death would take such disrespect; on the contrary.
The soul that had been there the entire time opted then, to reveal themself to the others and take on a solid form. Bowing before Death, then Fate, then Life—but not Time. A direct snub, one that Time clearly noticed, but could do nothing against this soul as they are one of the other three 'shared' favorite. "My Lady Death, I have news to bring about the state of your lower courts." the Soul speaks, turning to bow before Death. "News that I am sure that Lord Time knows of."
The halls go silent as Time suddenly stops Their raging. But the soul bullies on, ignoring the weight of the trio of God's eyes on them. "Reapers and Hounds have been reporting lost time. Missions incomplete and even a few instances of Fades because, for some odd reason, they are either thrust into a Loop or time just slips from their hands." the voice is rich, calm, and settled, but even Time can spot the barely contained anger in the soul's frame. "And," the souls tacks, sounding more like an afterthought, but Fate and Life both launch up in their seats at the mention. "Those wards that you had asked me to rely upon where the Creator's Will has been broken. I had meant to send a missive to you, but only just now had I been able to leave my duties," they say, bowing down slightly lower before the mostly solid form they put on fades away as they return to the bottom of Death's robe, awaiting the fallout.
And it was glorious.
Death's anger is a glacial thing. It's a thing that makes you want to claw your own veins out—it's cold, it's so cold, and it'll remain lingering on your soul to ensure that you never forget it. You can easily attain Death's ire, but ensure that you never grace the path of true anger. Death stood tall and proud, layered voice causing Time to wince. It didn’t have the time to be gentle, Time needed to know exactly what they had done. “Reality is on the cusp of turning into itself.” Death hissed, watching as Time froze in place. “Planets are eating themselves alive, and fractures are even seen deep within my domains. My domains, Brother. I have not, nor will I ever be, tasked with safeguarding something from the Creator.” It said slowly. “You were tasked, given the grace and the power that having such a thing in your grasp would’ve given. But no!” Death said, raising Its arms up.
The mannerisms that Death has been using are more human than they typically would use, but It does not care. They had the right and also the means to utilize those human ways of showing disdain, anger, and vindication—because how dare They? Claiming that Death had done something that It would never do, lying on Death's name, all for what, some claim of glory? Losing something that predates Fate—Fate of all things—clearly notes that there might very well be something wrong with Time.
“You got cocky. You lost sight of it all, and I had to hear from one of mine that they were staunchly not guarded. You placed them on gilded, marble podiums with not a single protection weaved into the domain itself or the place that you had placed them. By the Creator, you even had them displayed! So easy to slip in, that even one of my darkest shadows managed to make their way in.” Death said, as glacially as the temperature within the room became. Fate turned to face Time, eyes still shut but nothing short of fury obvious. It seems, Death mused, that Fate did not know of what their Brother had done. It remembered back when everyone was vying for the prestige that being the ‘guardian of the stones’ would’ve given one. It didn’t even want it; far too many responsibilities were already piled onto Death from that time, and It knew that more was coming. Especially since Death had not a single stone directly named for It, and had a connection to Its vast domain. Sure, one could argue that Reality was technically under Death’s dominion, but when there was a stone that is literally named the time stone, one would be more than insane to ask for more responsibilities.
Of course, in hindsight, Death could’ve better hidden the stones, but that was in the past. A past that It might be able to fix—if Fate gave Their blessing. Right then the Soul comes back out again, this time bowing specifically and only at Fate; strange, but Death does not see any reason to anger. “Lord Fate, I have come before you to plead my case.” he starts, still bowed. Not even Death knows what the Hound is asking for, so all three sets of eyes stare at the recently-shaped soul. He doesn’t bulk under the pressure, nor does he preen. He just remains tall and proud, ready to speak of what he knows, what he wishes for, and what he feels Fate would grant.
This soul is very, very specific. Not only one that sticks close to Death ultimately, but also one graced with so much more Grace than anyone else even in their court. Because this specific soul, with their pension to protect Death and the strength that they do it with. This soul? Is the one god that holds dominion over both Oblivion and the Void. The one god who has the potential to genuinely cause the Entities to fade, and also the tenacity to do so. Time knew that very, very intimately, and knew better not to speak a word. Fate raised Their head, turning to face the Soul with a warm smile on Their face.
Beings were trying to leave their bindings within the Void, leading to the soul being far too busy to leave. Though, there was a pensive look on their face, a face that took more and more form as Fate's eyes remained open. Once again wearing human skin, taking on the shape of the one and only mortal that it resided in. "Orion," Fate said with that floaty sort of glee that Death knew to be Fate showing off favoritism. Orion Lief 'Lufti' Duke; a name that means nothing, yet everything. He stands tall and proud, allowing the marks of Death to filter across his skin. A cloak as heavy as Death's own, though decidedly purple in color. His dark skin is marred with scars and runic etchings that only he seemed to understand, showing pride with the way that he opted to have the cloak sleeveless and arms barred.
His mouth, hidden underneath a mask; a creation of Fate, given to him on the day of his rebirth. Death knew not of why it was placed on Its Reaper's face, nor of what caused it to be created. All It knew was it was an item of great comfort to Orion and something that allowed his presence to be all but of a mortal. Not even in the halls of the Gods did he take it off, nor in private company in Death's realm. His hair, curled yet long in length, took on even more white than when it was alive. No longer so much of a 'salt and pepper' type of look, but more streaks framing his face and around his back.
“I had placed some protections over the resting place, similar to the ones surrounding the Creator's final resting place, but it seemed for naught. Unfortunately, I was tasked with keeping my dominion in check and was forced to rush out and contain yet another breach. You wouldn’t have wished to deal with the Void escaping its containment, would you Lord Time?” the soul said dryly as Time seemed to want to speak out again. Of course, like any soul that Death takes to being fond of, they gain godhood and dominion. This particular soul seemed to be not only powerful but also important, as it gained not one but two pivotal places; both Oblivion and the Void. They were the Balance of a Deathless death, completely fitting in the spot of being Death's personal Hound and Reaper. This particular soul is steadily moving their way into gaining a capital G in god, and also that stance of being primordial like their lady. Of course, it denies; far too humble in that regard even though Death knows intimately that the power would look wonderfully on their shoulder.
The Void has been something that Time, before when Orion took precedence over it, has problems with. Time does not flow as normal, nor does it flow even when Time was just a fledgling thing; if Orion let go of his iron grip on the whole thing, Time would not be having a good, well, time. He grins, his cheekbones well above his mask and it looks like he's nearly leering at the entity of Time, easily threatening him. And Time could do nothing about it; just gritting Their teeth and huffing. "That's what I thought." Orion mused before Fate laughed. Short, but enough that all eyes are staring at the eldest. Never has Fate spoken this much, spoken a name, and it makes Orion's leer turn more into a genuine smile. "I have heard of the plight that you and your Lady have been suffering from," Fate says, head bowed in condolences. All of them knew how much Tony meant to Death, and by extension meant to Orion himself.
"Things are not right, and even my own tapestries are in disarray."
Orion cocks his head to the side, confused as to what Fate is going about. But Time, seemingly, understood what Fate was going to do as his anger turned to the eldest entity. "You have no right! Those are my domains that you're trying to entangle with, and I don't need any void-touched hooligans meddling with my things."
Time, it seems, has forgotten that Fate is utterly at the top. That without Fate, there'd be no reason for Time, Death, or even Life to exist. That Fate keeps its anger in check because they cannot afford to show any true level of ire—that they keeps their eyes closed but ears open because judgment should be blind, that fate never should be subjected to something like morality or petty things such as relationships or even liking someone. That does mean, though, that when Fate does get angry, all could feel it.
It caused Orion to flinch into Death—who uses Its shadows to better protect each other. Life, who's closer than Death and Orion, was forced to curl in on Himself, eyes squeezed shut because even He has issues with Fate showing just a glimpse of Their power. Time, facing the brunt, screamed out—parts of Their whole rupturing and splintering. Fate is pissed, and they want it known. "I was the first. I supersede everything that you ever gleamed and is the whole reason why you can take your place. Easily could I cause your Fade, or ask the Void Watcher to do the same." Fate growls, and it feels like reality itself is bending. Fracturing; all because of Fate's anger.
"You had one job, one, just to make sure that the Will of our Creator would not fall into the wrong hands, and yet you go on and put it for display? You are no child, Time, but by the Light of All, I think you're forgetting yourself. Lady Death, Lord Orion, my most sincere apologies for you both being forced to see my sibling risk it all. Lord Life, my apologies for you to see my ire when I should've waited for you to move." Fate says, and bows before them. Rare beyond belief, practically unheard of for Fate to bow to anyone. Death and Life are shellshocked, but Orion sobers up quickly.
"No need to apologize, Lord. It is just as you've said, Time has doomed us all," he says, voice morose. Fate nods, no longer turning to look at the whimpering and wailing Time but at Orion. "But you have a plan to fix it." the entity of Fate says, not asks. "I do." Orion replies, head bowing slightly.
There is a smile on Fate's face now; slightly feral, looking like it'll easily inflict pain. "And this plan involves traveling through time, does it not?" Fate asks, ignoring the sharp breath from all. "You know me too well, Lord Fate." Orion says, his own eyes twinning the feral look on Fate's mouth. Fate moves off of the dais that the thrones are sat on. Fate's hands grasps Orion's own, bemusement in both of their eyes. Then, in an act of showing faith, and possibly a claim of Their own, Fate presses a kiss to Orion's cheeks, watching as the fledgling god blushes slightly.
"You have my blessings do so as you see as such. May the Creator look upon your favorably, and may your quest to right the wrongs of many be fruitful." Fate blesses, letting go of Orion's hands and leaving the room. There is silence, even Time had stopped Their shivering and shaking because all understood what just happened. Orion blinks slowly before suddenly stiffening, turning to face Death. With a smooth action, Death transports them into Its realm, ignoring the sudden quietness that overtook the Greater room. Orion looks dazed and confused, but a large smile blossoms high enough above his mask.
"I can save him." he breathes out, hands shaking with untold power. Death blinked, slowly before realizing what Orion was speaking about. Orion wasn't allowed to fetch souls from Oblivion; it's a decree that Fate made long ago, back when both They and Death watched over the place in a joint effort. It worked, but with their other responsibilities, a new being was sorely needed to reign sole watch over it. "I can save him," he repeats, looking at Death. Brown meeting black, hope meeting hope.
But, he will be changed, they both knew this. Stark would not be the same man before. Oblivion changes souls. Corrupts and blesses them at the same time; such an oxymoron of a place that it only made sense that it was beyond Death. Tony would not be the same man that they both knew and loved, as Orion never could be the same man that Tony knew and loved.
They knew each other. Back when they were still mortal, still alive. Orion staunchly ignores the bitter pain that had always remained as he watched Tony suffer from things he wished he could change, but having two beings mess with your life would've had odd effects on Tony's soul. Effects that Orion wishes not to have him deal with. But knowing that Orion could again hold the man; could feel the warmth of his skin under his palms and hear his laugh?
Oh, it's simultaneously the cruelest and softest thing that Fate could give to them.
"Go." Death urged, walking through their realm with a sense of purpose. "Find our merchant. Save his soul, and make sure that things are set right."
Because, of course, the blessing came with a stipulation. Orion was to bring Tony out of oblivion to fix the wrong that Time caused and that Orion had 'meddled' in. Since Orion couldn't technically go into mortal affairs, not unless someone called him down. By bringing Tony back, though, Orion could finish what he started. Ensure that the Stones are kept within His realm, which no one else physically could get into.
Oblivion welcomed Orion with heavy, open arms as he searched; there to find Stark and bring him anew. Fate, just watching from Their place amongst all, chuckles. Watching as Their hands weave and overwrite what once was, into what will be. Things are certainly shifting, though They cannot tell if it's for the better or for the worse. Only time will tell.
----
The last thing that Tony felt as he took his last, staggered breath was heat. No, not heat; bitter cold. Like the Stones were trying to burn and freeze his body at the same time; his flesh charred and brittle, frozen and stiff. Like his very soul was protesting against the snap, which wouldn't have surprised him. Strange had called the usage of them as a 'crime against reality', and with how everything went on, Tony feels more and more inclined to calling it exactly that. He is a man of science; of unequivocable truths carried by inexplicable, tangible evidence. Things like magic—like the Gods, as so many have claimed themselves to be in his presence—are not real.
Even with the inclusion of Asgard—with their technology so like the mythos he'd read on a whim—there is a proof of their abilities. They are alien to his planet, so it makes sense that things are different. That biology is different; that their nature as people are utterly different. 'Magic' is not so much as something mystical, at least in his eyes, are more of something that they as a people have evolved into gaining a grasp of. Magnetic pulses or the ability to use telekinetic forces not just from inside the brain, those things make sense. Gods are not real, nor is the divine.
But, as he stands here, shaking in unimageable pain, Tony can find himself doing something that he seldom did even as a child of faith: praying. Less than praying, honestly, and more like begging. If Thor was right—if so many others were right—and Gods do, in fact, exist, why is it that none decided to meddle at all? Clearly they're also included in the 'half of intelligent life' parameters as Tony himself heard of the sudden lack of Asgardian's on Earth. He's thinking back of a time from before, before all of this mess even started.
It brought him back to when he was a kid. Bowed next to his bed, hands clasped together and tears springing in his eyes. Begging for God to help him; to take his father's evil away and make him love. To take his mother's coldness and make her see. To keep Jarvis and Ana and Aunt Peggy and them all safe, no matter what happened to him and his soul. Of course, nothing happened, if anything things got worse. That day was the last time that Tony had prayed, even as a child.
But, standing there, as reality reaped and took what Tony had firmly thought was his, he prayed again. But not over himself; never over himself. No, he prayed for the safety and stability of those around him. Of the families that had been broken up because of this snap, and the families that gained a reprieve only to be thrusted back into the agony brought upon any person that had originally been snapped. To ensure that his legacy would remain as a symbol of hope to whomever, and that the footholds he had left were not too deep. That people can see the man that he is, the one that he was, and become something better. Do as he struggled to do in the past 10 years, and work with what he's left.
As his body staggered, falling to the ground, all Tony could do is smile through the pain. At least, for the first time, people would believe that he's done something selfless. That, that he could die in pride with. He felt tears trail down his face, mirroring his younger self in a way that would've made him laugh , if not for everything fading to black that very moment. He closed his eyes, though, feeling nothing but a sense of rightness as he allowed whatever being to take his soul away to whatever place they seemed fit.
That , he believed in.
His body felt heavy.
Beyond heavy; stiffness similar to the pains he had suffered with for the month or so after he fixed the reactor. Like his body has since fused with the ground around him, never to be moved again but his mind active and trapped. But then he suddenly gained the ability to move—as well as the nausea that came with moving far too quickly, far too soon. He expelled the contents of what he had eaten last—which wasn't much—as well as more of his acid. His throat felt raw, lips dry, and chest strangely light. His fingers slowly dragged down to feel a reactor embedded in it, but none of the accompanying pain that he'd since grown used to. A bitter sort of smile went on his face, realizing that none of the aches and pains that he's used to had followed him in the netherworld.
It felt weird; being so damn light. He glanced down at his clothing and noticed fairly quickly that he was wearing some random band T-shirt and jeans. Nothing that really screamed afterlife ready, but hey, it fit Tony to a T. Everything was bright, weirdly so. Like, not in a 'oh I just left my dark house to grab the trash up from the lawn and the outside is too damn bright' kind of way, but like a flashbang. Minus the ear piercing sound, or the usual gunfire that followed suit. Just bright, and annoyingly so. He remembers Thor's talks of what might happen before he balks.
He's not in Death's realm. Nor is he in Hel's, or Anubis, or Hades, or even fucking Tartarus or any version of Hell. No, he's somewhere far worse, and he's started to panic. Panic that he hasn't felt in years. That cold sort of panic, one that makes you realize that you have teeth, where your blood runs unrecognizably cold and all of your veins ache . That sort of deep-seated panic that Tony thought he got over.
Thor seldom acted serious, mostly that of a boisterous war-prince who relished in loud words and even louder actions. Tony found it endearing sometimes, as long as he wasn't at the butt of it all. But there were times when Thor would reveal another side of himself; one that's been shaped by suffering, by stories and by age. "Man of—Tony. " he said, days before they went on their reverse time-heist. The pain of losing his home fresh on his mind, still visible in his stomach and the stench of beer on his skin like it would linger there. "I know that you'll take the gauntlet." he says, quiet yet strong. He didn't try to persuade him to not do it, but it was obvious that he didn't want him to. Especially with how he said his name and not a nickname.
"But know of what you shall face when you perish. Because you will and your soul will not carry onto any semblance of an afterlife that you know of. No mortal soul was meant to brunt the weight of something placed from Creation, and Laws will make you suffer. You will not meet Death, but Oblivion and all of its facets. Mind yourself, and you may be able to remain relatively unharmed." Thor had warned, and with a haste did Tony take stock of himself. Strangely enough, his nanobots remained with him—however damaged they may be. With just a simple thought he put them on repair mode, noticing the buzz of the hive leaving him to note other things. His reactor remained highly powered, the thrum of it felt in his chest even more amplified as the pain of it has since left.
As his sight has since left him, he let his hands view everything for him. There are some bumps and bruises that came from the final battle—he had thought dying was supposed to repair you— but the oddest thing he had felt in his pocket. He only checked it on a whim, expecting nothing in it as he didn't have anything in his pockets. But he felt it; slim metal, warped in the leftmost corner. Cold to the touch, not at all skin warm as it usually is, and the slightest of chips in the center right near the bridge. A pair of glasses—a special pair of glasses. He placed them on his face with shaky hands, and gasped wetly when a familiar voice spoke out.
"It has been far too long since we've last spoken, Sir. I was starting to believe that you've replaced me." that smooth, British voice spoke out. "JARVIS?" Tony whispered, and Jarvis whispered in return. "I am here, sir. I am real, and I will protect you." he vowed, and Tony knew that it was real. He must've stood in place for far too long because something growled in the distance, though everything was far too bright for him to see. JARVIS must not have the same qualms as he urged Tony to duck and walk twenty paces forward. "Is that a rock? " he muttered under his breath, feeling the texture of stone yet everything was still the same shade of blinding white.
"Yes, sir. Now if you wished to survive for a bit longer, I sincerely urge you to head two clicks north. There is a cave system that I scanned earlier that had water that is safe to drink and more than enough cover for you to rest in. Do not worry, I shall guide you." he urged, leading his creator to safety. Tony listened without much fuss, more worried about the fact that he couldn't see anything. JARVIS didn't seem too worried about the fact, and honestly? Tony just decided to focus on the main thing first. Sight could come later, as well as figuring out why and how Jarvis made it into Oblivion with him.
Days seemed to flow just as they did on Earth, as JARVIS dutifully noted the day-night cycle to be around 22 hours; 11 of daylight, and 11 of moonlight. The AI in the glasses noted that his solar panels were working optimally in this weird realm, noting that as long as Tony at least sat out in the sun for four hours a day, he'd be fine to stockpile charge for the eternity that they'd be here. It took a week for sight to return to the dead man, though the week was carefully monitored and subjected to JARVIS' will. He kept his Sir safe and sane; leading him to food that he had scanned to not cause any ill effects, even though they both did not think it mattered much, on account of Tony being dead and all. No creatures dared to enter the cave and clearing that JARVIS had led them to, though every time they'd venture just farther out they'd hear it. Low, dangerous calls.
When his vision came back, he briefly lost his voice. Because, lord was Oblivion beautiful. Not like the horror that Thor described, not at all. No, this place seemed to be the subject of many poems; the muse of all muses, the reason why art existed in the first place. Yet there was something underneath all of that beauty, haunting and eerie. The grass is much greener than anything that Tony had seen. The sky the bluest of blues, and the air so crisp that Tony gulped it down greedily. It's picturesque; technicolor gleaming and nearly hurting his eyes until they get used to it. This is his new normal, and wow is it something that he thinks he'll never get used to. "Has it...always looked like this?" he asks his companion, eyes quickly darting around as he takes in everything.
"Always has, Sir. I am glad you now are able to take in the beauty of the surrounding areas, as there was no way I could feasibly explain how things looks." the AI speaks, watching as Tony's eyes look into the cave. They've been set up at the mouth of it—nice and dry. The rest of the cave looks deep, the explorer in him itching to map out the rest of it, mostly as a just in case. JARVIS remained silent as Tony explored the outside world. The cave seemed to be large, deep and dark and something that made Tony curl up his nose. His shoes remained silent as he walked in the grass, aimless in this venture and just wandering. He saw no creatures in his path, which should've raised alarm bells but he was far too busy feeling nothing but glee at the area. Greenery he's never seen, and it felt amazing.
Until he heard a growl.
So deep that it caused his bones to rattle; the hairs all over his body standing at attention. Deep and guttural, and somehow pained? JARVIS' voice could be heard faintly in his ears as he suddenly took off deeper into the forest, ignoring his quick cries out for Tony to turn right back around and into the safety of the cave and clearing. He's kept him safe for a week now, though; JARVIS should've known that his Sir would've gone to save someone by now, even though this is a lot more reckless than he would've been, pre-death. Call it brazen, or call it completely idiotic, but there was a sense of curiosity that brew within Tony with all the growling. He walked closer to the source and quickly wished that he didn't.
There were things fighting each other. And unlike the flora that Tony knew of from his time on Earth and being alive, the fauna clearly did not follow such rules. They looked to be elk—with the coloration and the build in some sort—but they were not. Their sides were exposed, leading its rib cage to go up and over the spine like some sort of armor. The organs were visible, showing off a still beating heart and blood that rushed through far too large veins in a monstrously huge body. Just staring at the elk-things made Tony's brain ache.
The elk-monster's winning the fight, somehow, even though there was only one of them. What it was fighting was wounded; a paw picked up and hanging limply, useless. The other thing looked to be a wolf, but much, much bigger. Like a dire wolf, if those things had bones outside of its body acting as a fucked-up sort of armor. Unlike the elk-thing, it was clear that the wolf-thing's bones were not of the inside of its body, but something on the outside. Tony ducked behind a tree, making sure that he could watch the battle raging on but not be spotted.
Until he saw why the wolf-thing was fighting.
A pup.
A much smaller version of the wolf-thing, curled into a tight ball and staring with what Tony assumes to be worry. Its—mother, father, sibling?—is fighting for their lives, and is losing. Drastically; enough that if Tony did nothing, the elk-thing's would kill both the larger and smaller wolf. "Sir, it would be best if you'd—" the AI tries in vain, but Tony isn't listening to him. Something nearly ancient wells in him—long forgotten, felt only when he was a child in one particular instance—Because he loves dogs. Loves anything related to canines, and even has many shelters that are under the Stark name. Donated to plenty of canine facilities, and sometimes even visits this particular wolf restoration center that even does tours on some days. He’s spent countless hours there, so much so that he remembers a few of the dogs being named after him. There is a four legged Stark running around, somewhere. He adores dogs, even though he'd never taken care of one personally.
So it's natural for him to call on the nanite swarm that's typically just hovering in the cave to his hand, forming a gantlet similar to his typical Ironman suit. His aim is true—as always—as a blast of pure kinetic energy leaves from his hand. Shockingly enough, he does not have to deal with any level of recoil, shooting the elk-thing before it could land another blow on the wolf-thing. The fallout of the blast, though, is large; much more than he intended, as he looks down at the smoldering gauntlet. There is nothing for as far as his eye can see—not a tree, nor a creature, not even a rock. His anger at the whole situation must've taken a bit of a precedence over the attack, he muses. "Huh." he says, staring at his hand as the nanobots go back into invisible dormancy. "J, be a doll and be quiet, would you? Kinda in a situation right now." he murmured, ignoring his AI's outraged cry as he put him into low power mode.
Slowly, with his hands outstretched to show that he is not trying to be perceived as a threat does he approach the larger of the two wolf things. Funnily enough, the wolf thing does not move to growl at him, nor does it look particularly vicious—it just looks tired. A bond-deep type of exhaustion, that Tony resonates deeply and understands. There had been a few times that some of the wolves from the pack that he'd frequent would bring their elderly towards him. The two of them would just rest, watching as the rest would play, hunt, or sleep, and Tony would keep the wolf comfortable as they'd pass. There was one specific one—a timber by the name of Klaus—that stayed alive for two more weeks past what the handlers had thought was going to be his date, only to pass the very second he had gotten comfortable in Tony's lap. He knows death in wolves well, and even though this isn't like any of them, Tony can see the signs brightly.
A cold nose presses to Tony's hand as he inches closer, memories flashing by in his mind as he gasps, just barley able to stand on his own. Moments between the wolf and its pack; the mother of this poor little pup behind him. He notices that the pup has now inched closer to the two, whining low in his throat to get the mother's attention, but she ignores him still, feeding Tony more and more information. The way of this world; how to not only survive but thrive. That the elk-thing's she fought valiantly against are called 'Forest Walkers', and that she's something that people call 'Great Hounds'. Those words, sadly enough, mean nothing to man and beast. She huffs, allowing Tony to readjust the three of them so that her large head rested on his lap, the small wolf curled into her side, still very much whimpering.
"Lykos." he mutters, naming the wolf as she huffed again, something akin to a smile on her face. It take another few hours for her to succumb to her wounds, Tony not even trying to heal her as he knew, deep down, that it wouldn't work. Lykos dies in the arms of someone who protected her, knowing that her son will remain safe, knowing that her savior now has the proper tools to best not only survive, but thrive in the world that took her life. Instead of a body, though, dust like gold cascades down from her body, covering both Tony and her son. He looks over to the smaller wolf and is genuinely surprised on what he sees.
He doesn't grieve in a loud way; just silently closed its eyes and lets outa low howl. Distant howls meet his calls, but he makes no move to seek them out. Instead, he just stands in front of him, looking at Tony very expectedly. Yawns, showing off all of his teeth, and before Tony could come up with a response, JARVIS takes the opportunity to only then come off of low-power. He's cursing up a storm—rightfully so— before Tony spoke again. "JARVIS the apple of my eye and the literal only thing that I can have an actual conversation with right now, now is not the time to lecture me. Listen, I just saw some shit and—" he starts, and JARVIS growls.
Like an honest to god, animal sounding growl that made Tony stop talking. "You do not know of some of the things here, Sir , and I must remind you that I was created to keep you protected . I cannot do that nearly as well if I'm forced to fight against low power mode." he hissed, sounding genuinely mad. Like a human; even though it was impossible for that. Tony did feel remorse though, as he let a finger drag across JARVIS’ frames, in lieu of a verbal apology. "You know that I love you J, right?" he asks, and heard a reply after a few silent moments. "I love you too, sir. But do not go running into battle like that again. Not without me." he said, and Tony promised under his breath.
"Think I have a dog now though." he notes, watching as the wolf pup moves to now sit in front of him. He's only calling it a pup because it had been significantly smaller than Lykos had been, but there is nothing 'puppy' about this thing. He's the size of a damn fully grown wolf, with large paws that indicate that he'll be even bigger than his mother. He follows as Tony stands up and heads towards his cave-home, bounding after some time to go check the parameter, which Tony knows is very much a wolves prerogative. He lets him, looking out into the area and world that he has claimed as his own. Everything has shifted, his perspective widened even before it fully settled into something. Oblivion seemed not to be the paradise that Tony saw it at first, nor was it the horrorscape that Jarvis and Thor led it out to be. It was a kill or be killed world, Tony knew that, but somehow it felt right to be here.
He and the pup grew up together, as the years blended on by. Changing and learning in tandem; like how Tony could not rely on the bots that he still has at his disposal, that his cool one-shot blast solely resonated with his emotions and emotions only. That, and, while he could put the bots on recall and repair mode, it didn't help much if the swarm he'd call onto is little more than a puddle. It was a joint effort between the wolf and JARVIS to get Tony to sit down and engineer a new fix to the problem, fashioning himself a bow and arrow, made from the fletching he had learned on a whim many years in the past. Clint would be proud of how good a shot Tony became. They all quickly realized that whatever those trees were, aided by the loose rocks that Tony found in their cave home, had to be much more dense than Earth trees.
Because whenever Tony shot, well, it always without fail killed. And at first he floundered with that knowledge, hating how easy it was to kill everything—how much new blood he had on his hands—without even a thought. As long as he had his bow, or the wolf was near, there was no such thing as a 'foe' to them, and more of a person who's yet to be knocked down. But as the years filtered by, so did the more human morality that Tony had employed up until that point. He is alive; breathing, able to see the 11 hour sun beating down on his back and sleep under the 11 hour nights. To play with the wolf, and talk theories and remanence with JARVIS.
Tony has been reborn; in a man that he had long since thought was dead. Death's Merchant was thriving in its new environment, equipped with a familiar and his son, even if Tony did not fully call the two of them that. He had changed, Oblivion has left its marked just as many would have feared, but Tony has virtually made the whole realm his bitch. By the time that Orion managed to even locate it, well, there had certainly been changes.