After scouring the Multiverse for a way to fill the hole inside of her, she decides enough is enough.
She calls for him.
Her boys call for her, but she calls for him. She can't do this alone anymore. Tucked away in a secluded part of what's left of Sokovia, Wanda's orchard thrives and her sheep bleat, but the world around her feels so stagnant. There's no movement. There's nothing to cause the hairs on her arms to rise. It's like time doesn't move here, even when she lets the day shift into the night and the night shift into the day.
She sits on the porch of her house—a two-storey, like they always thought they'd move into when the war was over (although, that was her and her dreams of living the life her sitcoms promised)—and waits for something in the air to shift.
This time, she won't get it wrong. She'll be conscious of what she does here. The world she's created is perfect—the temperature's warm but not too warm, and the nights are cool but not too cool. No one disturbs her here. It's quiet without the onslaught of bombs. There's no one here to slip her nightmares into.
She plays absently with her blackened fingers while watching her sheep trot in the distance. The twigs of her apples barely move in the wind. She hopes that after all this time, he'll heed her. He has to; Pietro has always come when she's called, even when her voice hasn't slipped past her lips.
Necromancy is the darkest of magic, but Wanda's been in the dark for the last ten years. She thinks it's about time the light shone on them again. She thinks it's about time that she took back what was hers. If Stark can snap the world back five years later to keep his legacy intact, why can't she resurrect her world?
When there's a shift in the air and the invisible barrier around her orchard is infiltrated by something sharp, she holds her breath and waits for him.
And when he appears, she can't see him through her blurry vision. The tip of her nose is already pink, even though she refuses to shed tears. She doesn't rise; Wanda's forgotten how to use her limbs.
"You missed breakfast," she says, her Slavic accent back into place. It feels right, like she's finally home.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
i'm here-ish. (give ya gal a wishlist, as i realize i cannot decide upon a starting point.)
wishlist item #1 out of 999903890284023: we're fixing pre-mom
She calls for him.
Her boys call for her, but she calls for him. She can't do this alone anymore. Tucked away in a secluded part of what's left of Sokovia, Wanda's orchard thrives and her sheep bleat, but the world around her feels so stagnant. There's no movement. There's nothing to cause the hairs on her arms to rise. It's like time doesn't move here, even when she lets the day shift into the night and the night shift into the day.
She sits on the porch of her house—a two-storey, like they always thought they'd move into when the war was over (although, that was her and her dreams of living the life her sitcoms promised)—and waits for something in the air to shift.
This time, she won't get it wrong. She'll be conscious of what she does here. The world she's created is perfect—the temperature's warm but not too warm, and the nights are cool but not too cool. No one disturbs her here. It's quiet without the onslaught of bombs. There's no one here to slip her nightmares into.
She plays absently with her blackened fingers while watching her sheep trot in the distance. The twigs of her apples barely move in the wind. She hopes that after all this time, he'll heed her. He has to; Pietro has always come when she's called, even when her voice hasn't slipped past her lips.
Necromancy is the darkest of magic, but Wanda's been in the dark for the last ten years. She thinks it's about time the light shone on them again. She thinks it's about time that she took back what was hers. If Stark can snap the world back five years later to keep his legacy intact, why can't she resurrect her world?
When there's a shift in the air and the invisible barrier around her orchard is infiltrated by something sharp, she holds her breath and waits for him.
And when he appears, she can't see him through her blurry vision. The tip of her nose is already pink, even though she refuses to shed tears. She doesn't rise; Wanda's forgotten how to use her limbs.
"You missed breakfast," she says, her Slavic accent back into place. It feels right, like she's finally home.