CVI. Emris

The wind here doesn't just blow — it sings. A low, mournful hum carried through the jagged cliffs, vibrating in my bones as we climb. My boots scrape against stone that feels older than time itself, sharp edges snagging the soles. The air is thin, dry enough to burn my lungs, and every breath tastes faintly of dust and metal. Above us, Vormir's sky is a contradiction — bruised purples and grays twisting like a storm, yet motionless, as if the clouds themselves are dead.

Natasha moves ahead of me, sure-footed and silent. Clint trails behind, though every few steps I catch him glancing at her, like he's ready to step in front of her at a moment's notice. My fingers curl tighter around the hilts of my daggers, cold metal biting into my palms. There's no wildlife. No movement. Just us and the mountain, and that strange humming wind.

The summit is a plateau of black rock, wide and empty — until the silence breaks.

"Welcome."

The voice is neither near nor far, neither loud nor soft. It's everywhere at once, coiling in my mind like smoke. I spin, blades drawn in an instant. Natasha's pistol is already raised. Clint's katana gleams in the strange light. The hum in the wind dies, leaving only the sound of our breathing.

From the darkness between two stone spires, a shadow peels itself free. Slowly. Deliberately. The figure drifts forward without touching the ground, a long, tattered cloak trailing behind it. The hood hides its face, but the edges glow faintly with a deep, unnatural red, casting a faint light over skeletal hands folded at its front.

"Natasha, daughter of Ivan." The voice is colder now, heavy with something I can't name. Natasha doesn't flinch.

"Clint, son of Edith." Clint shifts his weight, shoulders squaring, blade still raised.

Then the hood turns toward me.

"Emris, daughter of Aleksandr."

The sound of my father's name freezes me in place. My grip tightens involuntarily, the leather-wrapped hilts creaking in protest. I feel Natasha's eyes flick toward me — a quick, warning glance — before she refocuses on the figure. Clint steps subtly forward, angled so he's half-shielding her from whatever this is.

The figure drifts backward, turning toward the far edge of the plateau. Without another word, it begins to move, its cloak snapping in the wind though the rest of it remains impossibly still.

We follow, our footsteps sounding wrong against the stone — too loud, too sharp, echoing back at us like the mountain itself is listening. Every instinct in me screams to stay alert, but something about this place, about him, makes it feel like we're already walking into a trap we can't avoid.

Somewhere deep down, I already know where this is leading.

And worse — I already know how it ends.

The wind is a knife against my skin, slicing through the thin air as we follow the cloaked figure. Each step crunches over brittle gravel, the sound swallowed too quickly, like the planet itself doesn't want to hear us. I keep my daggers in hand, their cold metal biting into my palms, grounding me. Natasha's voice cuts sharp through the silence.

"Who are you?"

The figure's pace doesn't falter. His hood tilts just slightly, enough for his voice to drift back toward us — deep, hollow, like it's coming from every direction at once.

"Consider me a guide... to you, and to all who seek the Soul Stone."

Natasha's mouth quirks, her sarcasm as sharp as her aim. "Oh good, you tell us where it is and we'll be on our way."

Her bravado is thin armor. I see it in the set of her shoulders, the slight twitch in her jaw. She doesn't know what it takes to claim the stone — but I do. And I'm not letting her, or Clint, be the one to pay that price.

The guide doesn't slow, doesn't react to her tone. "It is not that easy."

Of course it isn't. My chest tightens.

The air grows colder as we walk, the sky above shifting — clouds rippling like something alive beneath a dying sun. Gravel turns to sharper rock under our boots, jagged and uneven, forcing us closer together. Clint subtly moves to Nat's side, his hand brushing the hilt of his katana.

Finally, the figure stops. We're standing at the cliff's edge, the drop so deep it's swallowed by shadow. The wind howls up from the abyss, carrying with it a sound I swear is almost a whisper.

"What you seek lies before you," the guide says, voice low, reverberating through my bones. "As does what you fear."

Natasha steps forward, peering down into the black void. I fight the instinct to move — to jump now, to end this before either of them can guess what I know. But if I do, they'll follow. That's the kind of loyalty that kills.

The figure's hood turns, and though I can't see his face, I feel his gaze cut straight through me. "In order to take the stone, you must lose that which you love..." He pauses, letting the words sink like lead into the silence. "A soul for a soul."

My grip on the daggers tightens until my knuckles ache.

The price of the Soul Stone is already burned into my mind. And if it's the last thing I do, I'll make sure neither of them pays it.

The wind doesn't stop. It never stops here. It rakes over the plateau in jagged gusts, clawing at my hair, my clothes, my skin like it's trying to peel me down to bone.

Natasha sinks to the ground without a word, elbows resting on her knees, head in her hands. She's not broken. Not yet. But I can see it — the cogs grinding in her mind, the way her shoulders tighten like she's holding herself back from bolting forward right now. She's already doing the math. Already weighing the cost.

I've seen that look in myself before.

Clint drags a hand down his face, pacing like a caged animal. Boots crunch over the thin layer of gravel and grit, each step echoing unnaturally in the still air. "He might be making all this shit up." His voice is sharp, brittle — like if he says it enough, it'll be true.

I shake my head. "He's not." My voice is low, final. No room for him to wedge hope into it. I've been here before in too many ways. The guide's words were truth, as much as I hate them. The kind of truth you can feel down to your marrow.

Natasha doesn't look up. Her voice is muffled against her palms. "Whatever it takes."

Clint stops pacing. There's a beat of silence, then he echoes her — quieter, but no less resolute. "Whatever it takes."

The words hang there like a noose, tightening around us.

Natasha lifts her head, eyes flint-hard now. "It's gotta be me."

"Not a chance." Clint fires back instantly, moving closer, his jaw locking in place.

"You've got a family to go back to."

"You think I want them to live in a world without you?"

The back-and-forth starts to gain heat, voices cutting over each other, interruptions slicing into half-formed sentences.

"It's not about what you want—"

"—don't pull that martyr crap—"

"—you've got something worth—"

"—so do you—"

I stand a little apart, hands tight around the hilts of my daggers. The cold metal grounds me, keeps me from stepping in. Not yet. I let my eyes flick between them, my mind cataloging every movement. Natasha's leaning forward now, intent and steady. Clint's shoulders are squared, feet shifting restlessly — his stance says he's ready to block her if she makes a move.

If they both went for it, I know who'd win. Clint's faster, more desperate, but Natasha's calculated. She'd feint, draw him off balance, and be over the edge before he could grab her.

Which is why I can't let it come to that.

The guide stands behind them, silent and still, like a vulture waiting for the dying to stop fighting. His hood hides his face, but I swear I can feel him watching me. My every heartbeat sounds too loud in my own ears, pounding against my ribs.

I'm already building the plan in my head. The only one that ends with both of them alive. They don't need to know it yet — because the second they do, they'll try to stop me.

Natasha's voice sharpens. "Clint, this is my choice. I've done things—"

"—so have I!" His voice cracks on it. His pacing starts again, tighter now, like the air's closing in. He won't look her in the eye, because if he does, he'll see she's already halfway to the edge in her mind.

The wind surges again, carrying that strange hum — almost like the planet itself is listening, waiting.

I tighten my grip on my daggers, jaw set. Whatever it takes? Fine. But it's not going to be either of them. Not while I'm breathing.

And I am still breathing. For now.

Clint moves before I see it — but I feel it first. That pulse of reckless intent rippling through him like a live wire. His muscles coil. His head tilts ever so slightly toward the cliff's edge.

Then he shoves Natasha.

She goes down hard, a sharp grunt tearing from her throat as her knee scrapes across the jagged stone. Clint's boots hammer against the gravel, sprinting for the drop like he's trying to outrun the choice.

My body reacts before my mind catches up. I lunge after him, the wind from his movement stinging my face. My hand clamps around the back of his head, fingers digging into the sweat-damp roots of his hair.

"Sleep," I whisper, voice low and deliberate against his ear.

The effect is instant — a heavy stillness drops over him like a switch flipped. His body sags, knees buckling, momentum gone. He collapses forward into my arms for a fraction of a second before I let him drop. His cheek smacks the cold rock. Dust puffs up around him.

Natasha is already back on her feet, glaring at me with enough fire to burn through my skin. "Don't make me fight you too."

I straighten slowly, planting myself between her and the cliff. My boots grind into the grit, my stance unyielding.

A faint smile curls at the corner of my mouth. "Oh, I've already planned out who's going home today. And it's not me."

Her eyes narrow, scanning me like she's trying to read every unspoken calculation spinning in my head. Clint lies unmoving between us, his chest rising and falling steadily. I can still feel the echo of his consciousness fading from my touch — that moment where his mind surrendered completely to the command.

Nat's hand twitches toward her holster. I tilt my head, daring her. The guide still looms in the background, silent, watching us like a vulture circling over a carcass it knows will fall soon enough.

The wind picks up, carrying the faint roar of the waterfall below. The sound is almost mocking.

I don't take my eyes off her. "If you think you can take me before I put you down the same way, you're welcome to try."

Her jaw locks. The tension between us is so sharp it's practically humming in the air.

But for now, neither of us moves.

Natasha moves first.

A flicker of muscle in her thigh, the faint shift of weight onto the ball of her foot—

Then the world tilts. My legs are gone from under me. The cliff's jagged sky swings into view as my spine slams the ground.

Before the pain can register, Nat is already running.

Not toward safety—toward the edge.

No.

I hook an arm out, catching her ankle mid-stride. Her momentum jerks her sideways, and I yank hard. She crashes down beside me, breath leaving her in a grunt.

We're both moving before we've even stopped.

She's on top for a second, palm striking toward my face, but I twist, her knuckles grazing my cheekbone instead of breaking it. My elbow drives into her ribs—she hisses—but her leg snakes around mine, trying to pin me.

Every strike is matched with one of her own. I block a kick, land a knee in her side. She shoves me back, rolls to her feet.

Somewhere behind us, Clint is still sprawled out cold on the stone, his chest rising and falling. The guide stands several feet away, a silent shadow, arms folded like he's already watching a funeral.

Nat lunges again, sweeping my arm aside to jab at my ribs. I pivot, grab her wrist, twist—she uses the turn to slam her other fist into my shoulder. Pain spikes, but I don't let go.

I lean in close, breath sharp in her ear.

"Tell Bucky I love him."

Her gaze flickers, just for a second, something raw breaking through her fury.

"Tell him yourself."

She shoves me back, and I know I have only seconds before one of us commits to the final move.

I draw in the air around me, ready to fold space, to vanish—

Pssst.

A hiss. A cloud.

My eyes sting instantly, fire searing across them like molten glass. The burn eats through my focus, my power sputtering out before I can latch onto the cliff's edge in my mind. The sharp chemical tang—acrid, metallic—curls in my throat. My vision fractures into white stars, then tunnels black at the edges.

"Son of a—" My voice breaks into a cough. I claw at my face, but the burn only spreads with every blink.

Somewhere in the blurred smear ahead, Nat's boots pound the stone, each step carrying her closer to the drop.

No. Not her. Not today.

I push forward, half-blind, following the sound of her breath—fast, uneven, almost ragged. My fingers graze leather, then seize solid muscle. I tackle her full-force, momentum slamming both of us down. Her body hits the ground with a hard thud and a muffled grunt.

We roll once, twice—until my knees dig into the dirt, pinning her in place.

Her eyes are wide now, and mine—still streaming—lock on hers. There's no time to speak. No time to explain the truth in my head.

In one swift, unshakable motion, I shove off her and pivot toward the cliff.

The wind bites first, rushing up from the void. The edge comes fast. Then my feet are gone from solid ground—

I step off.

The wind roars in my ears as I fall.

For one heartbeat, it's not terror — it's peace.

Weightless. Free.

The jagged cliff face blurs past in streaks of gray. My hair whips around my face, the cold air burning my lungs. And then — in that strange quiet your brain makes when it knows it's over — I can hear him.

Bucky's voice, low and warm in my ear.

A faint hint of leather and cinnamon, like the jacket he wore the first time I trusted him enough to stand close.

I almost smile. If this is it... fine. At least I'm meeting him halfway.

The universe doesn't agree.

A brutal snap around my waist punches the air out of me. My whole body jerks, spine screaming, ribs grinding against the rope that's suddenly there.

"AH—" I choke out, the sound ripped away by the wind.

The line pulls tight, anchoring hard above. Something slams into me from behind — someone.

We hit the cliff face together, bone against stone, and the impact rips another cry from my throat. My boots scrape for a hold, useless against the sheer rock.

"Nat—" I gasp. She's there, arms around me, the two of us tangled in the rope. Her face is flushed, hair plastered to her forehead, jaw clenched in fury.

She jumped.

"You idiot," I spit between breaths, not sure if I mean her or me.

Her mouth is set in that stubborn half-line. "You're not dying today."

The wind howls, the rope groans against the weight of two bodies. My waist feels like it's being sawed in half. Clint's unconscious form is a dark smear far above us, limp against the ground.

"Nat—listen to me—" I pant.

"No," she snaps. "We both know one of us goes back. You've got him. You've got—"

"Don't," I warn, but my voice cracks. "This isn't about Bucky—"

"Everything's about Bucky for you," she bites out. Her breath is hot against my cheek, but I see her eyes flicker — not anger now, something softer, heavier. "You deserve to go home."

"No." My fingers dig into the rope so hard I feel the burn through my gloves. "You're my sister. I'm not letting you—"

Her grip on my forearm tightens until my fingers throb. "Let me go."

"Not happening."

The wind claws at us. My hands are slick with sweat. The rope cuts deeper with every sway. My muscles scream.

For a second, I'm not here. I'm back in a safehouse, both of us drinking bad coffee at three in the morning, laughing at something neither of us can even remember now. I'm in the wreckage of a Hydra facility, Nat's hand yanking me up when I could barely stand. I'm watching her stand between me and a sniper's scope without hesitation.

"You've been like a sister to me," I say, my voice shaking. "Thank you."

Her expression fractures.

And then I feel it — the cold bite of steel against my wrist.

Pain explodes as her blade slides under my glove, pressing deep enough to sever my grip.

"Nat—NO—!" I scream, trying to hold on with my other hand, but she's already moving, already making her choice.

Her eyes lock on mine for one last heartbeat. No fear. Just... peace.

"Tell Steve I love him" she says softly.

And then her weight is gone.

The rope swings wild, the sudden lightness making me slam into the cliff wall hard enough to see stars. My fingers scrape against stone, desperate for a grip that's not there. Below me, Natasha Romanoff is falling — red hair streaming like a flare, arms open to the void.

The wind takes her.

And I'm left hanging, breathless, alone, the echo of her words burning in my chest.

The cliff explodes in light.

Not fire. Not sun.

Something older. Purer. Like the air is suddenly made of molten gold, filling every crack of the world, burning through my lungs until I forget how to breathe. My hand closes around the stone before I even realize I'm moving — it's warm. Too warm. Like it knows what it cost to exist.

The weight in my chest changes. Heavy in a way that has nothing to do with gravity.

The rope jerks, hauling me upward. My vision swims — but Clint's face is there now, pale and frantic, jaw tight with the kind of grief that makes you look older. He's awake. Awake and pulling like his life depends on it.

"Come on! Come on!" His voice cracks.

I blink through the blur, grit grinding in my eyes from the fall, my throat raw from screaming without realizing it. My powers stutter, then flare — one burst of thought and I'm out of the rope, blinking through the last few feet in a flicker of light.

The stone digs into my palm as my knees slam the rock. I'm not sure if the sound in my ears is the ocean far below or my own pulse.

Clint drops to his knees in front of me. His hands grab my shoulders, rough and shaking. "No—" His head shakes hard. "No, no, no—" It's like the word is the only thing he can remember how to say.

My mouth moves before I can think. "It was supposed to be me."

It feels strange, the way the sentence comes out. Like it's not even mine.

The stone gleams between my fingers. I can't look at Clint. Can't look at the cliff. I fixate on something stupid — the way my glove has split at the seam along my thumb. How there's dirt jammed under my nail. Anything but the truth pressing in from all sides.

Clint's still talking, but his voice is underwater now. I hear the scrape of his boots against the stone. The wind pulling at my hair. The smell of ozone, sharp and metallic.

"It was supposed to be me." I say it again, quieter this time.

The stone pulses once against my skin.

Clint's hand finds mine, fingers locking tight. His other hand presses both our watches.

The world rips.

It's not just light — it's the sensation of my body being peeled away from itself, layer by layer, stretched across something infinite and then snapped back. My stomach lurches. My head spins. The cold from Vormir still claws at my bones like it doesn't want to let go.

We slam back into existence on the Time Platform.

The smell of metal and ozone replaces salt and stone. Warm air rushes against my frozen skin, but it's not enough to thaw the ache. Clint drops to one knee beside me, chest heaving, his hand still gripping my arm like he's afraid I'll vanish too if he lets go.

Silence swallows the room.

Bruce is the first to speak, his voice breaking in the middle. "Clint... where's Nat?"

Clint doesn't answer. He doesn't have to.

Steve's eyes shift from him to me — slow, deliberate. He already knows. I see it in the way his jaw tightens, in the flicker of something that might be guilt, might be grief.

"It was supposed to be me." The words slip out before I can stop them.

No one moves. No one breathes.

I say it again. Softer. "It was supposed to be me."

Tony crosses the platform, his movements sharp but not hurried, like he's trying not to spook me. He crouches, one hand settling on my shoulder. I feel the faint hum of his suit's repulsors, the warmth seeping through the plates.

"Kid..." His voice is low, careful.

I shake my head. "It was supposed to be me."

His arm pulls me in before I realize what's happening. The metal is hard and unyielding against my cheek, but his other arm — the one without armor — wraps around me tight. I can feel his heartbeat against my temple, too fast and uneven.

"I've got you," he murmurs.

But I'm not listening. The phrase loops in my head, spilling out in a whisper I can't control. "It was supposed to be me. It was supposed to be me."

No one interrupts. Eyes slide away from me like the weight of looking is too much. I catch the sound of Clint's breath hitching, the quiet shuffle of Steve stepping back.

Tony doesn't let go. His grip stays steady, grounding, his fingers pressing into the back of my neck like he can hold the pieces of me together by force. His breathing matches mine, slowing, like he's trying to anchor me in this moment, in this place — anywhere but on that cliff.

I don't stop whispering. I don't think I can.