Don't try to explain your mind, I know what's happening here.
Yearly Mighty Max 'fic dalliance? Check.
Summary: Virgil has scars. Takes place during the "Pandora's Box" two-parter. Warnings for non-graphic descriptions of torture, some mentions of blood. Title is from Jordin Sparks' "Battlefield," because, yeah, IDK. Rated PG.
I'm Not Here Without a Shield
*
Virgil has scars. Many of them are emotional: He remembers faces of loved ones in their final moments, stripped of their souls or even murdered outright. He can still see the tensing of Maximus' muscles in silent acceptance of their fate before he uses them to charge Skullmaster for all he's worth, imprisoning them both in the center of the earth. Even the present Mighty One has proven himself capable of breaking Virgil's heart; "I don't want you to die," he recalls gasping piteously, and then feeling his breath catch in his throat when Mighty Max jumped anyways. Even the boy's miffed silence, brought on by Virgil trying to rationalize the gruesome deaths of four heroes so that they can escape Skull Mountain alive, or because Virgil refuses to simply let him give back the Cap, war with his resolve to fulfill the Prophecy at any cost. Many times, Max seems to have conveniently forgotten that he was upset in the first place when they see one another again, but it never stops Virgil from puttering around morosely for days. It doesn't matter if they're friends or not, he tells himself over and over again, but deep down, he knows that's not precisely true.
But Virgil has other scars, as well. Sometimes, he simply acquires the odd scratch or bruise from a mission, typical consequences of saving the world. More often than not, he can hide those well enough, usually ignoring them altogether in favor of checking the Mighty One over for his own injuries. "You're worse than my mom," Max grumped on one occasion, albeit smiling good-naturedly as Virgil bandaged a cut on his leg. They'd continued on their journey home after that, Max even successfully wrangling a sympathetic piggyback ride out of Norman.
Virgil thinks fleetingly of such moments now; he tries to picture the Mighty One's mischievous face, still young in spite of all it has seen. Norman will take care of Max, will continue their work in his absence, he knows. After all, the boy isn't the only one under sacred oath. In the end, he's not precisely necessary to the Prophecy, and not exactly immortal, either.
As if on cue, harsh chuckling breaks the present silence. The blade of a long, jagged sword slides against his wing, pinioned tightly to his side by way of chains snaked around his wrists. Then, with a practiced downward motion, it slices the flesh. In spite of himself, he winces, and Skullmaster smiles.
"The boy will disappoint you in the end. You must realize that." Another cut leaves a thin trail of blood trickling down his cheek; Skullmaster's sword then presses against Virgil's neck. "It pains me to do this," he whispers mockingly, and Virgil tries but fails not to shake in anticipation of the killing blow. This, too, seems to please Skullmaster. "My dear teacher. My old friend," he simpers, and Virgil feels bile rise to the back of his throat even as the sword moves away from his neck.
"Such a waste of Lemuria's secrets," Skullmaster presses. His blade slices into Virgil's leg next, eliciting a visible shudder. Physical endurance was never one of his people's strong suits. It was why they had had Mages, magical protections in place to keep them safe. If only they had been able to stop someone using their might against them.
Skullmaster's eyes are wide with obvious pleasure. He inhales sharply, and Virgil suspects that his blood presents a particular prize to his archenemy’s heightened senses. "Whatever would your people say if they knew you were squandering your great wisdom, propping up the exploits of an insipid child?" Another slash of Skullmaster's blade nicks a shoulder, but Virgil, emboldened by a sudden surge of anger, does not feel it quite as much as he has the others.
"Unfortunately, I am unable to gauge their opinion one way or the other, given that you murdered them." His bitterness is palpable and surprisingly raw; Skullmaster relishes it.
"Their deaths don't have to be in vain." His voice is low, excited now. "You can preserve the essence of your people. Or," he adds after a heavy pause, dragging his sword down to Virgil's belly, as if to gut him, "You can die as they did, like lambs to the slaughter." Then the dank chamber is silent anew, save for the sounds of rasping and slow, hollowed breathing (his), awaiting Virgil's fate. A drop of blood falls onto the collar of his robes with a pregnant splatter.
There's a moment when Virgil hopes against all hope that the Mighty One himself will darken the entrance, Norman's hulking frame loyally in tow. "Virg!" Max will yell in that juvenile, yet charming manner, and the tables will turn. Later, Virgil will out himself as wounded only incidentally - the boy will grab his arm or slap him on the shoulder in a show of harmless camaraderie and he'll let out a small cry, perhaps - and the Capbearer will fuss over him, wasting nearly all of the emergency medical supplies that Norman keeps on his tool belt and forgetting almost completely that, only hours before, Virgil had been asked to align himself with their greatest foe and had said, well.
The moment passes. There is yet nothing, nobody but the two of them, hopelessly entwined, the cold, dragon's blood-forged metal of Skullmaster's sword an irritant against his feathered skin now, the chains around his wrists heavy and biting. This moment, too, has but a brief shelf life, he knows, unless:
"I will join you," he says.
Skullmaster's mocking gaze grows alarmingly sincere. "Well, good," he finally murmurs; then, before Virgil has time to squirm, Skullmaster moves close, enough that his breath comes haltingly against the small wound on Virgil's cheek. "But if you deceive me in any way," Skullmaster rasps, "I will end your life. Do I make myself clear?" A clawed hand comes up then, tilting Virgil's chin; the nail brushes purposefully across the open wound. He flinches, and then refocuses on Skullmaster's cruel, satisfied expression.
"Yes," he says, and for once, he isn't trembling at all. "Of course you do." A perverse calm settles over him then. His bonds are loosened and feeling returns to his limbs. Skullmaster towers regally over him, though his expression belies his respect. Everything is wrong, and yet, as neurons fire faster and the stray sketchings of ideas begin to shape themselves into a bold, cohesive plan, he thinks he can make things right. This, he decides, is but a minor detour on the path to fulfilling all of their destinies, perhaps even in one fell swoop.
As he oversees Skullmaster's stolen army as it prepares for battle, Virgil will question, not for the first time, what he has gotten himself into. When he fails yet again to come up with a satisfactory answer, he will occupy himself with figuring out how best to hide his battle wounds from the boy-hero who is, no doubt, amassing quite the collection of his own.
*
Summary: Virgil has scars. Takes place during the "Pandora's Box" two-parter. Warnings for non-graphic descriptions of torture, some mentions of blood. Title is from Jordin Sparks' "Battlefield," because, yeah, IDK. Rated PG.
I'm Not Here Without a Shield
*
Virgil has scars. Many of them are emotional: He remembers faces of loved ones in their final moments, stripped of their souls or even murdered outright. He can still see the tensing of Maximus' muscles in silent acceptance of their fate before he uses them to charge Skullmaster for all he's worth, imprisoning them both in the center of the earth. Even the present Mighty One has proven himself capable of breaking Virgil's heart; "I don't want you to die," he recalls gasping piteously, and then feeling his breath catch in his throat when Mighty Max jumped anyways. Even the boy's miffed silence, brought on by Virgil trying to rationalize the gruesome deaths of four heroes so that they can escape Skull Mountain alive, or because Virgil refuses to simply let him give back the Cap, war with his resolve to fulfill the Prophecy at any cost. Many times, Max seems to have conveniently forgotten that he was upset in the first place when they see one another again, but it never stops Virgil from puttering around morosely for days. It doesn't matter if they're friends or not, he tells himself over and over again, but deep down, he knows that's not precisely true.
But Virgil has other scars, as well. Sometimes, he simply acquires the odd scratch or bruise from a mission, typical consequences of saving the world. More often than not, he can hide those well enough, usually ignoring them altogether in favor of checking the Mighty One over for his own injuries. "You're worse than my mom," Max grumped on one occasion, albeit smiling good-naturedly as Virgil bandaged a cut on his leg. They'd continued on their journey home after that, Max even successfully wrangling a sympathetic piggyback ride out of Norman.
Virgil thinks fleetingly of such moments now; he tries to picture the Mighty One's mischievous face, still young in spite of all it has seen. Norman will take care of Max, will continue their work in his absence, he knows. After all, the boy isn't the only one under sacred oath. In the end, he's not precisely necessary to the Prophecy, and not exactly immortal, either.
As if on cue, harsh chuckling breaks the present silence. The blade of a long, jagged sword slides against his wing, pinioned tightly to his side by way of chains snaked around his wrists. Then, with a practiced downward motion, it slices the flesh. In spite of himself, he winces, and Skullmaster smiles.
"The boy will disappoint you in the end. You must realize that." Another cut leaves a thin trail of blood trickling down his cheek; Skullmaster's sword then presses against Virgil's neck. "It pains me to do this," he whispers mockingly, and Virgil tries but fails not to shake in anticipation of the killing blow. This, too, seems to please Skullmaster. "My dear teacher. My old friend," he simpers, and Virgil feels bile rise to the back of his throat even as the sword moves away from his neck.
"Such a waste of Lemuria's secrets," Skullmaster presses. His blade slices into Virgil's leg next, eliciting a visible shudder. Physical endurance was never one of his people's strong suits. It was why they had had Mages, magical protections in place to keep them safe. If only they had been able to stop someone using their might against them.
Skullmaster's eyes are wide with obvious pleasure. He inhales sharply, and Virgil suspects that his blood presents a particular prize to his archenemy’s heightened senses. "Whatever would your people say if they knew you were squandering your great wisdom, propping up the exploits of an insipid child?" Another slash of Skullmaster's blade nicks a shoulder, but Virgil, emboldened by a sudden surge of anger, does not feel it quite as much as he has the others.
"Unfortunately, I am unable to gauge their opinion one way or the other, given that you murdered them." His bitterness is palpable and surprisingly raw; Skullmaster relishes it.
"Their deaths don't have to be in vain." His voice is low, excited now. "You can preserve the essence of your people. Or," he adds after a heavy pause, dragging his sword down to Virgil's belly, as if to gut him, "You can die as they did, like lambs to the slaughter." Then the dank chamber is silent anew, save for the sounds of rasping and slow, hollowed breathing (his), awaiting Virgil's fate. A drop of blood falls onto the collar of his robes with a pregnant splatter.
There's a moment when Virgil hopes against all hope that the Mighty One himself will darken the entrance, Norman's hulking frame loyally in tow. "Virg!" Max will yell in that juvenile, yet charming manner, and the tables will turn. Later, Virgil will out himself as wounded only incidentally - the boy will grab his arm or slap him on the shoulder in a show of harmless camaraderie and he'll let out a small cry, perhaps - and the Capbearer will fuss over him, wasting nearly all of the emergency medical supplies that Norman keeps on his tool belt and forgetting almost completely that, only hours before, Virgil had been asked to align himself with their greatest foe and had said, well.
The moment passes. There is yet nothing, nobody but the two of them, hopelessly entwined, the cold, dragon's blood-forged metal of Skullmaster's sword an irritant against his feathered skin now, the chains around his wrists heavy and biting. This moment, too, has but a brief shelf life, he knows, unless:
"I will join you," he says.
Skullmaster's mocking gaze grows alarmingly sincere. "Well, good," he finally murmurs; then, before Virgil has time to squirm, Skullmaster moves close, enough that his breath comes haltingly against the small wound on Virgil's cheek. "But if you deceive me in any way," Skullmaster rasps, "I will end your life. Do I make myself clear?" A clawed hand comes up then, tilting Virgil's chin; the nail brushes purposefully across the open wound. He flinches, and then refocuses on Skullmaster's cruel, satisfied expression.
"Yes," he says, and for once, he isn't trembling at all. "Of course you do." A perverse calm settles over him then. His bonds are loosened and feeling returns to his limbs. Skullmaster towers regally over him, though his expression belies his respect. Everything is wrong, and yet, as neurons fire faster and the stray sketchings of ideas begin to shape themselves into a bold, cohesive plan, he thinks he can make things right. This, he decides, is but a minor detour on the path to fulfilling all of their destinies, perhaps even in one fell swoop.
As he oversees Skullmaster's stolen army as it prepares for battle, Virgil will question, not for the first time, what he has gotten himself into. When he fails yet again to come up with a satisfactory answer, he will occupy himself with figuring out how best to hide his battle wounds from the boy-hero who is, no doubt, amassing quite the collection of his own.
*