Fic: Waiting for an encore
I wrote this one for a prompt based on Anya's lack of understanding of death and inability to reconcile to it.
So: WARNING, CHARACTER DEATH. It's a canonical death although fandom begs to differ.
I also editted it a bit from the version posted in comments and found a new title because the old one didn't really fit in with the story, and although this one's a bit precious it does describe it better.
Cowards die many times before their deaths,
The valiant never taste of death but once. - Shakespeare
Coulson is buried on a still, crisp Sunday. The funeral is much like Coulson was: quiet, efficient, dignified. It's attended by row upon row of agents dressed sombre black suits who stand, heads bowed, hands clasped, like a wall o keep out the unwelcome eyes of strangers. Coulson was an intensely private man in life, and they will not let the media or onlookers intrude upon his final rites.
The sweet, low notes of a cello tremble and rise to fill the cool afternoon air. It's a song that no-one has heard before, nor will again. The triumphant crescendos recall Coulson's defiance and courage and a lively little theme echoes his quick, dry wit. And then the cello slows and the notes turn long and sad. They speak of desolation and despair, of a brother fallen and hopes turned to regret. The haunting melody drops softly over the mourners, giving voice to their grief and loss.
Pepper is standing by Tony, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. Tony looks haggard, his eyes bleak and troubled. Natasha stands stiffly at attention and looks straight ahead and the lines of her face are tight and drawn. Bruce's expression is sombre and grave, his thoughts caught up in something far beyond the crowd gathered there. Steve wrestles with the sharp and twisting remorse that he denied, through thoughtlessness and arrogance, the one small favour that Coulson had asked of him, the one time Coulson's reserve had slipped and he had been as eager and thrilled as a child.
Clint wears dark shades that hide his eyes. He won't look at anyone or speak a word but his torment is plain for all to see. He carries the guilt of Coulson's death; the fact that it was not by his hand does not lessen his anguish. Clint, who in some ways knew Coulson best, cannot grieve for him because of the sick and aching guilt in his heart.
But Thor: Thor is dressed in resplendent red and gold. He holds his head up high and remembers Coulson his own way - a brave man and a good one, skilled with both words and weapon.
Long after Coulson's body is returned to the earth and the other mourners have trickled away and the cello song is just the ghost of a memory in their grief, Pepper and Tony and Natasha and Bruce and Steve and Clint remain, and Thor waits with them. They do not speak but they cannot move, even as twilight descends and cold dew settles on their bowed heads and turned away faces.
When the evening star rises in the purple sky, Thor throws out his arms and collects them in a rough embrace.
'Friends! Shieldbrothers and sisters! It is good for us to remember Phil Coulson, who fought valiantly by our side, but the time for grieving has passed. Come, let us leave this dark place and return to better spirits.'
Natasha shoots him a disbelieving stare; Steve clenches and unclenches his fists. Clint's expression doesn't change and he gives no sign of having heard Thor speak, except for the new tension that runs through his body.
That is all the response that his words elicit. Thor feels their grief and hurt and he yearns to relieve it, even if he does not quite understand the depth of their emotion.
'Even as you vent your sorrow here,' he urges, 'Phil Coulson feasts in Valhalla, hall of my father the King! He will be heralded by valkyries and his company shall be the finest warriors and the bravest men. Weep not for him! Death is no end for one such as he.'
Pepper makes a small, choked sound. Tony squeezes her hand, and clears his throat and clears it again before he can speak.
'The halls of Valhalla are for Asgardians.' Tony's words are lost and defeated. No-one else speaks.
Thor blinks. He has not considered it like this; the valiant dead shall go to Valhalla and rejoice, and a courageous death is nothing to mourn for one day, all will be reunited in those grand halls. But until recently, all his dead have been Asgardian - he had not thought that something so trivial, so arbitrary as the forefathers of a man could keep him from Valhalla when he was brave and true.
'It should not be so,' Thor insists. 'Have you Men no hall of the dead of your own? Are your fallen not exalted and honoured? I say again to you, my friends, lay aside your grief and guilt for they are not needed for a man as true as Phil Coulson was.'
At this, Clint gives a wrenching, wordless cry and lashes out at Thor, a solid fist connecting with Thor's jaw. Thor stumbles from the unexpected attack but doesn't bring up his hands to defend himself, doesn't counter with a blow of his own. Steve makes a half move, as though to restrain Clint, but Clint doesn't draw back for another blow. He stands brokenly in front of Thor, panting, eyes wild and hands clenched into white-knuckled fists.
'You have no right,' Clint spits out, voice strangled and strange and sounding nothing like Hawkeye at all. 'You speak about Coulson like that again and I'll tear your throat out, god or not.'
'Clint,' Thor begins earnestly - he doesn't understand-
'Shut up,' Clint growls savagely. 'Coulson is dead and. I. as. good. as. killed. him. Do you hear me?' Clint is shouting now, and it doesn't sound so much like anger as despair. 'He's dead and gone and there is no Valhalla for him! All that was good about him is gone! He will never handle another agent and he will never again defend what is right and he will never wake, never see another dawn or feel warmth or speak or kiss--' He runs out of words, because words will not recapture Coulson as he lived and words are the easy way to release pain. It is what cannot be wrapped cleanly with words and offered, sacrificial, as a balm to the spirit, which holds the true anguish of loss.
Thor stares at them all, uncertainty and growing dread in his eyes. 'Is this true?' he demands of them. 'Is this the destiny of Men? Are your lives such brief flashes of light, extinguished before they've begun and marked with nothing but emptiness when death comes?'
'God, our Lord, awaits us and our fallen in Heaven above,' Steve says with quiet sureness.
'That's a fairytale for children,' Clint grates out, 'told to ease our fear of the dark. There is no God. There is no heaven for men. There is only life and the unending dark of death.'
Thor looks from Steve to Clint, watches Steve avert his eyes from the rawness of Clint's grief.
'He is gone?' Thor says hesitantly. 'All that Phil Coulson was is gone? No hall of the slain shall echo with his voice and no soul will ever touch his again? Where there was once goodness, and brotherhood, and strength is now... nothing?' He looks around at the grieving faces, at the eyes bright with tears and tears unshed. 'How are you brave, knowing that is your end? How much more brightly does your love need to burn, when you know nothing follows after?'
And Thor bows his head and weeps. He weeps for Coulson and for the nameless fallen and for that bleak, empty future without Jane or Tony or Natasha or Clint, without any of the companions he has grown to love, and he weeps for the sorrow that afflicts them because all the lives that they touch are so fleeting and rare.
Thor pulls Clint close, wraps his gauntletted arms around him and holds the archer in a rough embrace. Clint tenses and resists but Thor holds him still, sharing his anguish and his heartbreak and mourning for not only the loss of a friend, but for his unwilling part in his death. And then Clint sags agains Thor, all the fight drained out of him. He sheds bitter, helpless tears for the first time since Coulson died and it helps, a little, with the healing that needs to happen.
And then everyone presses in close to them - Pepper and Tony and Natasha and Steve and Bruce - they press in close and share their grief but they also, together, share their strength.
So: WARNING, CHARACTER DEATH. It's a canonical death although fandom begs to differ.
I also editted it a bit from the version posted in comments and found a new title because the old one didn't really fit in with the story, and although this one's a bit precious it does describe it better.
Cowards die many times before their deaths,
The valiant never taste of death but once. - Shakespeare
Coulson is buried on a still, crisp Sunday. The funeral is much like Coulson was: quiet, efficient, dignified. It's attended by row upon row of agents dressed sombre black suits who stand, heads bowed, hands clasped, like a wall o keep out the unwelcome eyes of strangers. Coulson was an intensely private man in life, and they will not let the media or onlookers intrude upon his final rites.
The sweet, low notes of a cello tremble and rise to fill the cool afternoon air. It's a song that no-one has heard before, nor will again. The triumphant crescendos recall Coulson's defiance and courage and a lively little theme echoes his quick, dry wit. And then the cello slows and the notes turn long and sad. They speak of desolation and despair, of a brother fallen and hopes turned to regret. The haunting melody drops softly over the mourners, giving voice to their grief and loss.
Pepper is standing by Tony, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. Tony looks haggard, his eyes bleak and troubled. Natasha stands stiffly at attention and looks straight ahead and the lines of her face are tight and drawn. Bruce's expression is sombre and grave, his thoughts caught up in something far beyond the crowd gathered there. Steve wrestles with the sharp and twisting remorse that he denied, through thoughtlessness and arrogance, the one small favour that Coulson had asked of him, the one time Coulson's reserve had slipped and he had been as eager and thrilled as a child.
Clint wears dark shades that hide his eyes. He won't look at anyone or speak a word but his torment is plain for all to see. He carries the guilt of Coulson's death; the fact that it was not by his hand does not lessen his anguish. Clint, who in some ways knew Coulson best, cannot grieve for him because of the sick and aching guilt in his heart.
But Thor: Thor is dressed in resplendent red and gold. He holds his head up high and remembers Coulson his own way - a brave man and a good one, skilled with both words and weapon.
Long after Coulson's body is returned to the earth and the other mourners have trickled away and the cello song is just the ghost of a memory in their grief, Pepper and Tony and Natasha and Bruce and Steve and Clint remain, and Thor waits with them. They do not speak but they cannot move, even as twilight descends and cold dew settles on their bowed heads and turned away faces.
When the evening star rises in the purple sky, Thor throws out his arms and collects them in a rough embrace.
'Friends! Shieldbrothers and sisters! It is good for us to remember Phil Coulson, who fought valiantly by our side, but the time for grieving has passed. Come, let us leave this dark place and return to better spirits.'
Natasha shoots him a disbelieving stare; Steve clenches and unclenches his fists. Clint's expression doesn't change and he gives no sign of having heard Thor speak, except for the new tension that runs through his body.
That is all the response that his words elicit. Thor feels their grief and hurt and he yearns to relieve it, even if he does not quite understand the depth of their emotion.
'Even as you vent your sorrow here,' he urges, 'Phil Coulson feasts in Valhalla, hall of my father the King! He will be heralded by valkyries and his company shall be the finest warriors and the bravest men. Weep not for him! Death is no end for one such as he.'
Pepper makes a small, choked sound. Tony squeezes her hand, and clears his throat and clears it again before he can speak.
'The halls of Valhalla are for Asgardians.' Tony's words are lost and defeated. No-one else speaks.
Thor blinks. He has not considered it like this; the valiant dead shall go to Valhalla and rejoice, and a courageous death is nothing to mourn for one day, all will be reunited in those grand halls. But until recently, all his dead have been Asgardian - he had not thought that something so trivial, so arbitrary as the forefathers of a man could keep him from Valhalla when he was brave and true.
'It should not be so,' Thor insists. 'Have you Men no hall of the dead of your own? Are your fallen not exalted and honoured? I say again to you, my friends, lay aside your grief and guilt for they are not needed for a man as true as Phil Coulson was.'
At this, Clint gives a wrenching, wordless cry and lashes out at Thor, a solid fist connecting with Thor's jaw. Thor stumbles from the unexpected attack but doesn't bring up his hands to defend himself, doesn't counter with a blow of his own. Steve makes a half move, as though to restrain Clint, but Clint doesn't draw back for another blow. He stands brokenly in front of Thor, panting, eyes wild and hands clenched into white-knuckled fists.
'You have no right,' Clint spits out, voice strangled and strange and sounding nothing like Hawkeye at all. 'You speak about Coulson like that again and I'll tear your throat out, god or not.'
'Clint,' Thor begins earnestly - he doesn't understand-
'Shut up,' Clint growls savagely. 'Coulson is dead and. I. as. good. as. killed. him. Do you hear me?' Clint is shouting now, and it doesn't sound so much like anger as despair. 'He's dead and gone and there is no Valhalla for him! All that was good about him is gone! He will never handle another agent and he will never again defend what is right and he will never wake, never see another dawn or feel warmth or speak or kiss--' He runs out of words, because words will not recapture Coulson as he lived and words are the easy way to release pain. It is what cannot be wrapped cleanly with words and offered, sacrificial, as a balm to the spirit, which holds the true anguish of loss.
Thor stares at them all, uncertainty and growing dread in his eyes. 'Is this true?' he demands of them. 'Is this the destiny of Men? Are your lives such brief flashes of light, extinguished before they've begun and marked with nothing but emptiness when death comes?'
'God, our Lord, awaits us and our fallen in Heaven above,' Steve says with quiet sureness.
'That's a fairytale for children,' Clint grates out, 'told to ease our fear of the dark. There is no God. There is no heaven for men. There is only life and the unending dark of death.'
Thor looks from Steve to Clint, watches Steve avert his eyes from the rawness of Clint's grief.
'He is gone?' Thor says hesitantly. 'All that Phil Coulson was is gone? No hall of the slain shall echo with his voice and no soul will ever touch his again? Where there was once goodness, and brotherhood, and strength is now... nothing?' He looks around at the grieving faces, at the eyes bright with tears and tears unshed. 'How are you brave, knowing that is your end? How much more brightly does your love need to burn, when you know nothing follows after?'
And Thor bows his head and weeps. He weeps for Coulson and for the nameless fallen and for that bleak, empty future without Jane or Tony or Natasha or Clint, without any of the companions he has grown to love, and he weeps for the sorrow that afflicts them because all the lives that they touch are so fleeting and rare.
Thor pulls Clint close, wraps his gauntletted arms around him and holds the archer in a rough embrace. Clint tenses and resists but Thor holds him still, sharing his anguish and his heartbreak and mourning for not only the loss of a friend, but for his unwilling part in his death. And then Clint sags agains Thor, all the fight drained out of him. He sheds bitter, helpless tears for the first time since Coulson died and it helps, a little, with the healing that needs to happen.
And then everyone presses in close to them - Pepper and Tony and Natasha and Steve and Bruce - they press in close and share their grief but they also, together, share their strength.