The soft hum of the hospital's fluorescent lights was the only sound that filled the room as Rowan watched over Henry. Hours had passed since Henry had first stirred, and now the older man was resting comfortably, his breathing steady, though still frail. Martha sat beside him, her fingers intertwined with his, her gaze never leaving his face.
Rowan stood by the window, his large frame casting a shadow that stretched across the room. He'd been keeping a silent vigil, ensuring that both Henry and Martha had everything they needed. But his mind was restless, filled with the fragments of the dream that continued to gnaw at him, refusing to let go.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Rowan turned to Martha. "I'm going to head back to the farm for a bit," he said softly, careful not to disturb Henry. "There are some chores that need doing, and I want to make sure everything's in order."
Martha looked up at him, her eyes filled with a mixture of gratitude and concern. "Alright, Rowan. Just… be careful, okay?"
Rowan smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I will. You stay here with Henry. I'll be back before you know it."
With a final nod, Rowan slipped out of the room, moving quietly down the hospital corridor and out into the cool evening air. The sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky tinged with the last remnants of twilight. He glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then took off into the sky, his ascent swift and silent.
[Stratos Homestead]
The flight back to the farm was brief, the landscape below him a patchwork of shadows and sunbaked fields. When he landed near the farmhouse, the world was quiet, the only sounds the soft rustling of the wind through the trees and the distant calls of birds.
Rowan moved through the familiar routines with practiced ease, checking the livestock, gathering eggs, and making sure the fences were secure. His mind was still occupied with the memory of the nightmare, the fragments of a battle fought in the cold void of space. But he pushed those thoughts aside, focusing instead on the tasks at hand.
As he reached the woodpile near the barn, Rowan grabbed the axe that was leaning against the wall. He began chopping the logs with precise, powerful swings, the axe splitting the wood with ease. The rhythmic sound of the axe biting into the wood was almost meditative, a way for him to ground himself in the present.
He had just split another log when a voice, smooth and slightly mocking, cut through the night air.
"Still got that memory loss?"
Rowan froze, the axe hovering in mid-swing. Slowly, he turned his head, his eyes narrowing as he saw a familiar figure standing a short distance away, hands casually tucked into the pockets of his long black coat.
"Still putting Vaseline on your head?" Rowan replied dryly, his tone flat but with an edge of disdain.
Nick Fury stepped closer, though he kept a respectful distance, a wary look in his one good eye. He didn't seem surprised by Rowan's brusque greeting; if anything, he seemed almost amused by it.
"Good to see you too, Stratos," Fury said, his voice as smooth as ever. "You keeping things under control here?"
Rowan turned back to his work, bringing the axe down hard on the log and splitting it cleanly in two. "What do you want, Fury?"
Fury shrugged, his expression unreadable in the dim light. "Just checking in. Heard about Henry. How's he holding up?"
Rowan didn't answer right away. He finished chopping the wood, setting the pieces aside in a neat pile before finally turning to face Fury fully. His eyes were cold, guarded. "Why are you here, Fury?"
Fury took a moment before answering, his tone carefully measured. "There's a problem. One that could use your… talents."
Rowan's eyes narrowed, and he shook his head before turning away, picking up another log to split. "Not interested."
Fury remained where he was, undeterred. "This isn't just any problem, Rowan. It involves the entire planet. We need someone with your kind of firepower."
Rowan paused, the axe still in his hands, but he didn't look at Fury. "The planet's got its own defenders now. I'm not one of them."
"Not asking you to be," Fury replied smoothly. "But this is different. This is about something big. Bigger than anything we've faced before. Remember the incident ten years ago?"
Rowan's grip tightened on the axe handle, the memory of that time flashing briefly in his mind—an event he'd tried to bury, but one that had never fully left him. Slowly, he set the axe down, turning to finally give Fury his full attention.
"What are you talking about?" Rowan asked, his voice low, dangerous.
Fury took a cautious step closer, his hands still in his pockets. "Tell me, Rowan… what do you know about Norse mythology?"
Rowan's eyes narrowed further, suspicion flaring in his chest. The question was unexpected, strange, but Fury wouldn't have brought it up if it didn't mean something important. There was a tension in the air now, an unspoken understanding that whatever Fury was about to say, it was going to change everything.
And for the first time in a long while, Rowan felt a familiar unease stir within him, the kind that came before a storm.
"Go on," Rowan said, his voice quiet but filled with the weight of something inevitable. "Tell me what you know."
As Rowan and Fury began to walk toward the edge of the farm, the wind picked up, rustling the trees around them. The silence between them was thick, but it was clear Fury had more to say. He stopped just short of where his vehicle was hidden from view, turning to face Rowan.
"We've had our share of problems, Rowan," Fury began, his tone measured. "But what I'm talking about now… this is something different. Something bigger."
Rowan remained silent, his arms crossed over his chest as he waited for Fury to continue. The wind tugged at his clothes, but he didn't move, rooted in place by the weight of the conversation.
"A few days ago," Fury said, his voice lowering as if to emphasize the gravity of his words, "something—or someone—came through a portal in space. Right in the middle of one of our secure facilities. We barely had time to react before things went to hell."
Fury paused, his one good eye narrowing slightly. "Loki. That's the name he gave us. Claims to be a god, and from what we've seen, he's not just talking big. He's got power—real power. He took out an entire squad of our best agents, stole a piece of tech we've been keeping under wraps, and left us scrambling in his wake."
Rowan's expression remained stoic, but he couldn't ignore the way his muscles tensed at the mention of a god. It felt like the pieces of a puzzle were slowly coming together, and he wasn't sure he liked the picture they were forming.
"Loki's not working alone," Fury continued. "He's planning something, something that could put the whole planet at risk. We don't have all the details yet, but it's clear he's gearing up for war. And if we're going to stand a chance, we need to start gathering every asset we can."
Rowan let out a slow breath, his eyes narrowing as he processed the information. "So that's what this is," he said, his voice low. "You want me to be one of your assets."
Fury didn't flinch. "You've got the power to make a difference, Rowan. You might not want to hear it, but you and I both know it's true. I'm not asking you to suit up and go on a crusade. But when the time comes, we need to know you'll be there to help stop whatever's coming."
There was a long pause, the wind whipping around them as they stood in the middle of the field. Fury reached into his coat and pulled out a small, sleek cellphone, holding it out to Rowan.
"When you change your mind," Fury said, his voice steady, "give me a call."
Rowan didn't move for a moment, his eyes locked on the phone. But finally, he reached out and took it, his fingers closing around the small device. He didn't say anything, just nodded slightly as Fury turned and started to walk back toward his hidden vehicle.
Rowan watched him go, the director's silhouette growing smaller as he walked away. When Fury finally disappeared from sight, Rowan stuffed the phone into his pocket, a mixture of frustration and resignation tightening in his chest. He turned back to the woodpile, picking up the axe with deliberate care.
With each swing, the weight of Fury's words pressed down on him. The repetitive motion of chopping wood should have been soothing, a return to normalcy, but instead, it brought back memories he had tried so hard to bury.
[Flashback: 10 Years Ago]
The farmhouse was filled with the comforting smells of dinner—roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and the fresh bread Martha had baked that afternoon. Rowan sat at the table, his plate full, his mind at ease. It had been a good day, a long day of work that left him with the kind of tiredness that felt earned.
Henry and Martha were talking about the weather, discussing whether they should start harvesting the apples earlier this year. Their voices were warm and familiar, the sound of a life Rowan had come to cherish.
As they ate, a faint sound in the distance caught Rowan's attention. It was subtle at first, a low hum that grew louder as the seconds passed. He glanced toward the window, frowning as he noticed headlights cutting through the darkness, getting closer to the house.
"Who could that be at this hour?" Martha asked, her voice tinged with concern as she followed Rowan's gaze.
Rowan didn't answer. He pushed back from the table, his instincts prickling with unease as he moved toward the door. Something didn't feel right.
He stepped outside, the cool night air washing over him as he squinted into the darkness. The lights were closer now—SUVs, several of them, roaring down the dirt road that led to the farmhouse. Rowan's unease deepened into something sharper, something that made his heart start to race.
The vehicles skidded to a stop in front of the house, and before Rowan could take another step, the doors burst open. Armed men—dozens of them—poured out, their weapons drawn, all of them trained directly on him.
"Put your hands on your head!" one of the men shouted, his voice commanding and full of authority.
Rowan's eyes narrowed, but he didn't move. His mind was already working, assessing the situation, the threat. There was no recognition, no memory of these men or why they were here, but the danger was real, and every instinct he had was telling him to act.
Before he could decide what to do, the door behind him creaked open. Henry stepped out, his face lined with worry as he took in the scene. "What's going on here?" he demanded, his voice rough but steady.
The moment Henry appeared, Rowan saw the armed men shift, their weapons angling toward him. Something in Rowan snapped. An almost forgotten malevolent instinct, primal and fierce, surged through him, overriding any sense of caution. His powers, usually kept under such tight control, began to bubble to the surface, the air around him crackling with energy.
"Stand down!" the lead man shouted, his voice growing more desperate as he saw the change in Rowan.
But Rowan was beyond hearing. His focus was entirely on Henry—on the fact that these men were a threat to him, to Martha, to Henry. The memory of something akin to a "directive" sprung to the forefront of his mind. Three single words that any could decipher when in his position.
Neutralize the threat.
He took a step forward, his body radiating power, and the armed men reacted immediately. Gunfire erupted, the sound deafening in the still night air. Bullets tore through the space between them, but Rowan didn't flinch. His body absorbed the impact, the energy fueling the storm that was building inside him.
And then he let it loose.
The vehicles didn't stand a chance. Rowan's power exploded outward, a force of nature that ripped through metal and glass, sending the SUVs careening through the air like toys. The men who had been standing closest were thrown back, their bodies ragdolling through the air before they hit the ground with bone-crushing force.
Rowan moved through the chaos with terrifying precision. His fists connected with bodies, sending them flying, while bolts of energy blasted those who tried to retreat. His mind was a whirlwind of rage and power, and the only thought that remained clear was that these men needed to be neutralized—eliminated.
It wasn't until the last man had fallen, the last vehicle reduced to smoldering wreckage, that Rowan's senses began to clear. He stood in the middle of the carnage, his chest heaving, the remnants of his power crackling around him like static electricity. The instinct to destroy, to protect through force, slowly ebbed away, leaving him standing in the aftermath of what he had done.
Henry's voice cut through the fog in Rowan's mind, calling him back to the present. "Rowan! Rowan, stop!"
Rowan blinked, his vision clearing as he turned to see Henry standing on the porch, Martha behind him, both of them staring at him with a mixture of shock and fear. He had been calling to him this entire time, urging him to relent, to stop.
Rowan's heart sank as he realized what had happened—what he had allowed himself to become, even if just for a moment. He had protected them, yes, but at what cost? The look in Henry and Martha's eyes told him everything he needed to know.
[Present Day]
Rowan snapped back to the present, the memory of that night still fresh in his mind, even ten years later. The axe felt heavy in his hand, but he didn't put it down. Instead, he let out a slow breath, the air cooling his skin as he stared at the woodpile in front of him.
Fury's words echoed in his mind, the talk of gods and threats that could endanger the entire planet. And then there was the memory of that night, the reminder of what he was capable of, what he could become if he wasn't careful.
He glanced down at the phone Fury had given him, still tucked in his pocket, before he resumed chopping wood. Each swing of the axe was methodical, controlled, as if he could keep the storm inside him at bay with sheer will alone.
But the truth was, Rowan knew the storm was always there, just beneath the surface, waiting for the moment when it would be unleashed again. The only question now was whether he would let it—whether he would allow himself to be drawn back into the world he had left behind, to face a threat that might demand the very power he feared.