Chapter Text
Calligraphy By Zyrieen
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Darcy knew better than to be “too different.” As a kid, her soulmark had given her loads of trouble. It was just a band around her wrist of some messed-up letters. It was in no language she knew, and the teachers she asked in grade school sure didn’t know. It sorta looked English. If English was mostly capital T's and lower-case m's, and if the letters were squished and fat. Darcy was pretty sure the number 6 was in her soulmark. And what was with the weird little diamond shapes?
So Darcy wore a series of bangles on her wrist to cover it up, and got a fake ID the instant she knew such things existed. Then she hitchhiked to Totally Legit Tattoos near the university, flashed the ID and her budding cleavage, forked over her babysitting money, and had her other wrist tattooed with “It’s you.” And that completely bogus "mark" she displayed like it was going out of style.
She never met anyone else that had a ridiculous, broken soulmark until she met Jane Foster. Dr. Jane’s soulmark was in “Something vaguely similar to Old Norse Runes, they tell me. Except that they’ve never seen this dialect. Ever. Anywhere.” That night, over beer and pizza, Darcy-the-intern and Jane-the-brain became friends, and probably the only two people on the planet with screwed up soulmarks.
And then Thor crash-landed here. After that, Darcy was back to being the only person she knew with a broken soulmark.
But, ever the optimist, she had hope. Somewhere out there was “dude who uses entirely too many b’s in his greetings.” Maybe he just had a mouth full of marbles when they met. Or a stutter. Or something.
--
As could probably be expected, there was an accident in Jane’s lab. And no, it wasn’t a Code Green, and there had been no need to refer to SHIELD Form 7A WF 83429 pretty much ever. No, both of those situations would have been preferable to what actually, in fact, happened, or so the “survivors” thought.
“Darcy, adjust the third oscilloscope 0.025 degrees, and then put it on full blast,” said Jane. “We’re ready for another try!”
Darcy made the requested adjustments, and stood up. “OOOF!”—she slipped, her body crossing the triangulated beam that the machines had created. And then she saw the most beautiful of rainbows. She tried to concentrate on the beautiful-but-terrifying experience, but before she had time to really process it, she hit something solid with a joint-jarring thud.
--
Legolas always thought there was something wrong with him. He had been alive for centuries—MILLENNIA—and his soulmark had never appeared. It was an embarrassment to him, as if some of his attractiveness was lost as a result of not having a soulmark. While his mother had always told him that when his wife was born he would bear her words, to not lose hope, that his mark would appear as everyone’s does, in due time, in its time, that he was handsome and loveable and of course he had a soulmate, and other such platitudes…he had long since given up hope.
Until some three hundred years ago, Legolas thought that he was just a late bloomer. His childhood friend Rivaldir bore no soulmark until around that time, when Rivaldir's now-wife was born. He was with Rivaldir when his soulmark arose on his skin. Legolas remembers Rivaldir’s gasp, how quickly he removed his tunic—in the middle of a hunt, no less, and the words that appeared on Rivaldir’s skin, just below his left shoulderblade. The most banal of phrases, “Well met, Rivaldir of Mirkwood,” yet more than Legolas had. Three hundred years after that day, and still he waited for the birth of his soulmate. His Princess.
He had considered sailing to Valinor—the Undying Lands—just to see if his soulmark would appear once he left the shores of Arda. But he felt no call to live there, and his father relied on him so much, especially with his mother gone, now.
And then one day, the strangest thing happened. He felt a burn along his chest, and when he adjusted his tunic to see what was going on--perhaps an insect had manuevered into his clothing--he was the most thrilled elf alive, to finally see the black lettering.
It was beautiful, laying just there under his collarbone.
Except, he couldn’t read it. It wasn’t in Tengwar. Or Quenya. Or any other script or language he knew of, or had been exposed to, and being alive for millennia and the son of a king, even in a secluded part of Arda… well it gives one a bit more perspective on things like language and culture.
Legolas was cut more deeply than any wound he had ever taken. When his mother left for Valinor, he had not hurt as sharply as he did in this instant. From the height of happiness to the depths of despair in mere seconds. For the first time since that fateful day when he bid his mother farewell, he felt tears come to his eyes.
Alone for so long. And now, broken. It just wasn't fair.
--
Twenty-five years later, he had made various justifications for the unreadableness of his soulmark. Perhaps she was a twin, and speaking in her twin language when they met. Perhaps she was part of a small, unknown tribe and thus no one ever heard of it.
Most times, he despaired of ever finding her.
Sometimes he tried to picture her. At twenty-five, she must be an adolescent. Was she all elbows and knees as he had been at that age, so long ago? Was her hair red or blonde or black? Did she enjoy music?
“Of course she enjoys music, all elves enjoy music!” he thought.
--
Darcy fell to the ground, laying right there in the middle of the bifrost scar created by her passage through space. She took deep gulps of breath, I am so dizzy, and soon was surrounded by a whole bunch of Hawkeye-wannabees. They looked like they were from some silly Scandinavian band, all long, blonde hair and pale skin. Not sure what was up with the Peter Pan-style clothes, though. Or maybe it was more Game of Thrones than Peter Pan, really.
“Whoa,” she said, promptly fainting for the first time in her life.
The elves gingerly stepped into the bifrost scar, and after it was apparent that she would not be causing any trouble in her unconscious state, Rivaldir came forward and began checking for wounds and attempting to triage any damage.
And then he saw it. That piece of script, so like his friend’s soulmark.
He pulled the young, and regrettably Mannish, woman into his arms. “Fetch me a horse, she must be taken to the city. And one of you, advise your Prince to meet me in the healing chambers as soon as he can,” said Rivaldir, swiftly mounting and riding to the capital.
Rivaldir brought her to an empty chamber, lay her down, and exited the room.
A few minutes later, Legolas approached. “Rivaldir, you asked for me after you found a woman in the woods? I don’t understand.”
Rivaldir caught his friend’s confused cerulean gaze and said, “Show me your soulmark.” Legolas complied, anxiously pulling his tunic away from his neck, his heart in his throat. “She bears a mark similar to your own. Specifically, to this part of yours,” he said, pointing to the word “you” located directly underneath his collarbone.
Legolas turned from his friend and without another word, pushed open the door to the chamber.
--
Darcy was just beginning to come ‘round after her exciting trip through the bifrost and being held at arrow-point. She blinked and sat up. A man was walking toward her, his steps more silent than even Natasha’s. He sat down on the cot next to her, and said something beautiful. And completely not English.
Darcy’s mind reeled. She began frustratedly pulling off bracelet after bracelet, and finally when her tired, confused mind could look at her soulmark, she shoved it at him and said, “Can you read this?”
In response, the man—well, the gorgeous and pointy-eared dude, really—he turned her wrist over and brushed his lips right where her soulmark ended. It was sexy as hell. Whoa, dude’s got game.
Then, he said something else that was beautiful and completely incomprehensible. He tugged at the collar of his shirt, and Darcy saw it. Right there. In black and white, the script curving right there. Can you read this?
“It’s you,” she gasped.