Contest of Champions

41

Peter's gasp echoes in the confine of the quadrant, followed by Killmonger's triumphant laugh. Rage colors my vision and before I know it, I have conjured up Okoye's spear from the hangar and am hurling it at the Wakandan.

In barely a second the spear slides through Killmonger's bare chest, tearing in between the raised dots signifying his kills. He collapses to the ground as the cannon signifies his death and I don't even wait to yank my spear out but spin around to see Peter.

He's just standing there, his expression shocked, and his hands are pressed around the sword sticking out of his stomach. I race over to him, grabbing his shoulders right before he falls, and I am able to slow his collapse to the metal floor. Peter's eyes are filled with pain, blood staining his fingers.

"Peter, Peter, Peter," I find myself murmuring as I drop onto my knees beside him. His eyes shift to me and it takes him a second to focus on my face. There's a bruise circling his eye and his suit looks pretty beat up. His fight with Killmonger has been a rough one.

"L-loki?" he stammers. "I don't feel so good."

"Just sit still, Peter," I tell him. I want to tell him things are going to be okay but the lie won't come. I can't lie to him, not when everything is not going to be okay. He's dying.

"I'm sorry," he says, my hands still gripping his shoulders. "Tell...Aunt Mae I'm sorry. And Mr. Stark. I let him down, I let him down." Tears leak out of the corners of Peter's eyes. "He made me this suit to win and I let him down."

I shake my head but he keeps going. "And Liz – tell Liz I'm sorry I never got to take her to the dance. She deserves better. Tell them, Loki, please. Tell them."

"Peter," I whisper, unsure of what else to say. His eyes are wild when they meet mine, his numb fingers pressing something into my palm.

"Promise!"

"I swear," I tell him, and I mean it. "I'll tell them all."

Peter relaxes, slightly, and I tighten my grip on his shoulder. "I don't want to go," he whispers. "Loki, I don't want to go." His expression is one of pain and fear but there's a resigned note there as well. He gives me a slight nod, as if in readiness for something. "I'm sorry."

The cannon explodes, the sound waves pounding at my eardrums.

I'm still sitting on the floor, holding his shoulders, as Peter's body starts to disintegrate under my fingers, the feathery dust floating to the floor. Stunned, I stare at the pile as I fall back, feeling my breathing quicken.

Peter Parker is dead. Peter Parker is dead. Peter Parker is dead.

Distantly, I hear a crashing noise in the background as my fingers tighten into fists, clenching around the object Peter pressed into my hand. I don't move, don't speak, just feel. My magic does the rest.

The pile of dust before me is...definite. Peter Parker is gone, and he's not coming back. He's dead, and death is permanent, death is forever. No one can alter that, no one can change that.

I'll never see Spiderman again. He'll never see his aunt again, or get to thank Tony Stark for the suit again. He's gone.

Gone.

Why isn't that a more frightening word? It is used in such a casual way, when someone will be seen later. But Peter is gone and I won't see him later, I'll never see him again. Or Sif, or Hogun, for that matter. They're gone, and they're not coming back. Sif will never get to flirt with my brother again and Hogun will never get to see his beloved Vanaheim once more.

Their futures were all halted violently, torn to shreds as their lives were taken. Their futures were stolen.

They're dead. Dead. How could such a horrible thing as death exist and I not know what it feels like to lose someone to it until this moment? To watch someone's future die? To see their life halted, their body made as obsolete as the remaining dust? How could I not know it would hurt like this?