Played by the Enemy || Captain America || Book 2

Chapter 9: When Worlds Collide

          Magic.

          I've never been a rather large fan of it, despite holding the abilities – to some extent – to practice in its intricate, fine arts. Neither am I a devoted follower of science, but magic I dislike even more so.

          There aren't many things that truly terrify me. Things that are capable of drawing the very air from my lungs like a thirsty sponge absorbing all the water it can touch. Magic is one of those things, and no matter what, I will never be comfortable around it. Unlike science, magic cannot be controlled or understood. It's as unpredictable as a woman's mood swings whilst she's on her period, and that's saying something.

          Magic refuses to be controlled, to be tamed. It's an art that will always have its mysteries, and always have its dark side. Science can be explained, but magic can't.

          This may be why I've never really delved into my Asgardian ancestry, or any kind of mythology or religions for that matter. I say I'm a Catholic, but I don't really practice or know the depth behind it all. It scares me, the thought that beings out there are strong enough to bend the most powerful things like time and space at their very whim. Magic and gods are on a whole new level, a level that I dare admit I'm afraid of. My biological father and uncle are exceptions of course, because they're like a kitten and a puppy, but others gods and goddesses? And the magic they wield? I'll pass, thanks.

          This is why I despise the infinity stones. Their magic is unstable and erratic, like water. One moment it's path is coursing and flowing in your favour, then the next it's weaving delicately through your fingers whilst the current churns against you. They endow their wielder a power that should only be held by gods, and even then there are few gods who wield it virtuously.

          So to sum it up, I hate magic, and I hate the infinity stones. It used to have a low key burning ire for them, but now? Now my wrath is personal.

          And you're about to find out why.

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          The first sense that becomes aware is smell.

          My nose inhales the rancid stench of fish, mingled in with overbearing smell of salt and unidentifiable food – well, I hope it's food anyway.

          What comes next is touch. The icy, crisp feeling of water surging up past my toes to my torso becomes all too apparent. Seconds later however, the brisk, raw liquid pulls away back down to the tips of my toes and hovers there, only to repeat the process in a few more moments. The edgy, piercing feeling of stones and pebbles digs into my cheeks and stomach like needles lightly pin-pricking my bare skin, while the faint feeling of the soft sand underneath nudges my small nose.

          Next is sound. I can hear the bustling of boisterous crowds jumbled with the cutting sound of seagulls screeching and the rushing rumble of small, timid waves attacking the shoreline. Fragments of conversations dart in and out of my ears, tuned out from time to time when the waves come up to meet my chest.

          Taste has to be the most identifiable. Whilst grains of sand rest on dry tongue, the distinct taste of salt and the iron kick from the blood drying in my mouth becomes too palpable, my body wrenching instinctively to spit it out of my mouth.

          And last but not least, sight.

          My eyes are like anvils, so heavy they're almost immovable. The crusty mixture of gunk and once again salt (shocker) acts as glue, sewing my eyelids together. I have to stiffly move my cold, damp hand from my side and roughly wipe my face to remove it in order to see.