Marvel One-Shots and Prompts

The Dream Was Death

Created 2 November 2021

Rating: Teen
For themes of genocide, violence, and mentions of torture and death

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He sat upon the wooden step, clutching his arm to his worn and broken body. The flesh melted and hideous to see, his eyes refused to glance down. The violet orbs, once so deep that they seemed blue, watched the sun as it rose that morning.

It was done.

He could rest.

And still, he found himself longing for something more, a purpose other than self-exile. 'It wasn't self-exile! This was a victory!' he told himself, though he couldn't quite convince himself of that fact.

What use was all the power in the universe, the stones, if they could not even solve the conundrum of his miserability? He, once more, tried to remove the remains of the golden glove, yet tight had it been upon his flesh, and melded down. It was a part of him, for however long it would be that the remaining heroes allowed him to live.

Ah, yes, what a telling concept. That of heroes. For he had seen them in their infancy, through the eyes of one who had called him 'Master' those many years before. He had seen their shortcomings and assessed their weaknesses from the start, and had known every point to prod.

He had prevailed. In every way. He'd slain the traitor, through whose eyes had once watched. Oh, and it was rewarding to say the least when he could at least say the one who dared defy him was dead. He'd disarmed the heroes, including Stark, who had seen as he had the void, the knowledge, and had not been driven mad by it.

They called him a madman.

He'd taken their stones, one by one, plucked them like they were mere fruits that were ripe. He had done it. Why did he feel so empty?

What did it cost?

His love, his life, and legacy. It cost everything he cared for, and everything he wished to preserve. They had almost all gone willingly; his word was their religion. It was obeyed as if a higher power was amongst them. He felt terrible knowing that it was this such sway that had gotten them killed.

Do not mourn, but rejoice, for those who have died the glorious death.

The sounds of the Chitauri leviathans moving through the air of the void filled his ears. A whip traveled through the air before striking open skin. Blood dripped to the stone of the Sanctuary. It reeked. Death was upon the air.

Even in death-

Death. What beauty it was, his lady. He gifted her with the slaughtering of the masses, the terrible ruin of civilization. Was it mercy he courted? Or her?

A cold breeze brushed over his good arm. A shiver ran up his spine and he felt something grabbing at him. "So, you found them all." He froze as he heard the baritone he knew so well.

"Lady Death."

A skeletal face looked at him from beneath a dark hood. A tall, lean figure of the woman he had come to admire. "Yes. Trillions of souls, all in your name." He did his best to kneel before his mistress, though his broken body made it difficult. He looked at her soulless eyes with his violet orbs, searching for something in her countenance that gave away at least a hint of compassion.