The color violet

'Brand New City'

Hela's senses are assaulted as she jolts awake, a cold sweat coating her skin. The throbbing ache in her head and the accompanying dizziness leaves her disoriented. Blinking rapidly, she's relieved to see colors dancing in the dimness of her room. The memory of the monochrome days sends a shiver down her spine; she never wants to return to that desaturated world.

She rubs her eyes, trying to clear the blur that clouds her vision. It's still dark outside, the gentle rustle of the breeze nudging her curtain. With a frustrated sigh, she curses herself for her worsening condition. The sporadic bursts of pain and illness are becoming more frequent, a grim reminder of her mortality. However, she takes solace in the fact that it's not a constant agony.

The unsettling imbalance in her chest adds to her discomfort, making her feel physically ill. Determined to alleviate some of the discomfort, she resolves to get some fresh air. Uncertain if Agatha is awake, she hesitates for a moment before she gingerly pushes the covers aside and shifts her body to the edge of her bed, aware that her ankle is locked in a relentless struggle to heal. With a careful maneuver, she leans on her nightstand, avoiding any unnecessary pressure on her tender ankle. As she rises, a wince escapes her lips when an unintended scratch grazes one of the burns on her hand.

Furrowing her brows and narrowing her eyes in the dimness, Hela peers down at the afflicted hand. Unable to discern the details clearly, she summons a small orb of magic to cast its eerie green and black glow. The spectral light reveals her burn, and to her dismay, it appears to have worsened. Suppressing her initial surprise, she examines the other burns scattered across her body, each mirroring the deteriorating state of the burn on her hand. Some are more severe than others.

In the quiet solitude of her room, Hela contemplates the toll her weakened soul is taking on her body, even impeding its natural healing processes. With a deep breath, Hela summons the courage to approach Agatha for more of the healing balm. Each step, however, reminds her of the unfamiliar vulnerability she's experiencing. Hela is unaccustomed to seeking assistance; her self-reliance has been a shield against dependence. The mere act of asking for help feels foreign, challenging the narrative she has meticulously crafted for herself.

The memories of Odin's harsh discipline flood her mind. The resounding slap that sent her sprawling to the unforgiving floor, her nose bleeding, and her youthful eyes wide with fear—all because she dared to request aid in wrapping her injured leg. His dark, imposing gaze drilled into her, deeming her nothing. The subsequent lecture on self-reliance and independence only heightened her resolve to avoid seeking help.

Odin's contradictory actions linger in her memory. He hurt her, then extended a hand as if the pain he inflicted could be erased with a gesture. She was only 9 . She had felt betrayed, resentful and bewildered at the actions.

As Hela stands before Agatha's door, uncertainty grips her. (What if Agatha refuses to help? What if she's unable to provide the healing balm?) The weight of her anxieties threatens to overwhelm her, and for a moment, she considers retreating, burying her pain beneath layers of stoicism as she's done countless times before.

A wave of unfamiliar dread washes over her. She has never felt this level of stress and anxiety back on Asgard. The absence of war, the loss of her identity tied to her homeland—it leaves her feeling adrift, unsure of who she is without the familiar chaos of battle. If this worrying and anxiety is a glimpse of what lies beyond her past, she finds herself recoiling from it.