Chapter Text
When Fates Collide
All Side Scenes
CHAPTER 18
Cynthia, after embracing her son with all her heart and pouring out every bit of longing she held for him, finally stepped back from Victor to observe the young man standing nearby, openly watching them while awkwardly trying to pretend he wasn't staring.
"Victor, who is this handsome young man? You never mentioned you had a son."
Peter’s face flushed red like an erupting volcano.
Overwhelmed with embarrassment, he stumbled over his own words, trying to politely correct his mentor's mother without being rude.
"Mrs. von Doom—"
"Call me Cynthia, please, dear. I’m not nearly old enough to be called 'Mrs.'—years in the astral plane don't count."
Peter cleared his throat, deeply embarrassed under the neutral, unreadable gaze of the Sovereign watching him.
"Cynthia, huh... I’m not... I’m not really... Victor and I... Err, I’m not his son, you know? He’s kind of... my ment—"
"Peter," Victor interrupted smoothly, his expression refined and his voice calm and measured as ever."Mind your manners. I did not teach you to stammer like that. Show proper respect and greet your grandmother."
Peter’s brain completely short-circuited. His head shot up to stare at his mentor, his eyes wide in disbelief and his jaw practically hitting the floor.
"WHAT?!"
...
CHAPTER 19
The grand dining hall of the imposing medieval castle was steeped in its customary formality. Lunch had been served punctually at noon, and the Sovereign of Latveria and his Ward dined in the company of the nation’s four elite generals.
The military men maintained an upright posture and their habitual reverence under the watchful gaze of Victor von Doom, discussing proposed shifts in the frontline operational detachments. The Monarch listened attentively to the semi-formal briefing while finishing his portion of roast pheasant at the head of the table.
Peter, seated as always to his mentor’s right and elegantly attired in a deep-blue tunic, glanced sideways at the Sovereign’s plate. The moment the final piece of meat was consumed, he grinned inwardly to himself and decided to put everything he had begun learning in his magic lessons into practice.
What could possibly go wrong?
Before the servant could even take a step forward to replenish the Monarch's plate, the Ward discreetly raised his hand.
A sudden flash of greenish mystical energy sparked across the oak table, enveloping the Sovereign’s silver knife. The utensil jerked into the air, hovering unsteadily.
Whoops... Peter furrowed his brow, adjusting the angle of his hand.
In a flash, the knife spun wildly and shot off to the side. General Karadick merely felt the wind of the blade tear through the air two centimeters from his ear before it embedded itself shallowly into the back of his oak chair. The general froze, his fork suspended halfway to his mouth, jaw still agape, a single bead of cold sweat rolling down his temple.
Absolute silence blanketed the hall; the other three generals stared at the head of the infantry division with wide, unblinking eyes. Even Victor paused what he was doing to survey the scene with bewilderment.
Slowly, still in shock, the military men shifted their gazes to Lord Doom, but the Sovereign remained elegantly in his seat, entirely devoid of any mystical energy.
Then, their eyes slowly slid to his right—to the young man whose brown eyes were lightly washed in an unnatural, glowing green.
And that was how the generals discovered the Ward was learning magic.
"Sorry, General!" Peter offered Karadick a sheepish, apologetic grin. "I'm still calibrating the vector."
He wiggled his fingers slightly as he spoke, causing the knife to execute a sudden pirouette in the air. The blade grazed the wrist of General Vaneck, who only managed—thanks to years of military instinct—to jerk his hand back with superhuman speed to avoid losing two fingers. The knife danced across the table, floating erratically, zigzagging between wine goblets and silver platters.
Karadick, Vaneck, Hauer, and Marek held their breath; none of them dared to move even an inch, blinking slowly as their eyes fixedly tracked the deadly knife as it danced among them, all too close and far too unsteady for comfort.
Victor, completely unperturbed, didn't even blink. He picked up his silk napkin, wiped the corner of his mouth with aristocratic elegance, and turned his face smoothly toward his Ward.
"You're over-flexing your wrist, Peter," his mentor instructed, his voice serene and measured, as if they were discussing the weather. "When guiding a bladed instrument, the energy must flow from the forearm, not the fingers. If you fail to maintain a linear trajectory along the central axis... you'll end up slitting one of the generals' throats before you even reach the pheasant."
As one, the faces of the four generals snapped back toward their Sovereign, faces as pale as ghosts and frozen in an expression of profound, utter horror.
"And, more importantly," Victor continued, in an analytical and almost casual tone, crossing his arms with majestic imposition, "a clean cut demands conviction. If the blade hesitates in mid-air, the decapitation becomes sloppy. A beheading must be precise and elegant, not a clumsy spectacle. Try again. Aim between the vertebrae... of the roast."
Peter blinked, furrowing his brow in deep concentration and quickly adjusting his hand.
"Oh! Right, right! I think I got it now! The forearm movement, like... like this?"
The knife executed another violent spin in the air, whizzing a millimeter past Marek’s nose. The head of the intelligence division squeezed his eyes shut and began mentally praying in archaic Latverian.
Every general at the table completely locked up, shoulders hunched, their uniform medals glinting far too shyly in the light, chins glued to their chests and eyes wide with sheer terror, realizing that their Sovereign not only thought the lesson was wonderful, but was actively encouraging the Ward to 'try again' with the flying blade hovering right above their heads.
Victor raised his own hand, and from the center of the table, new currents of translucent greenish energy erupted, lifting the salt shaker. It glided across the table, drifting through the air with grace and refinement, while the trembling knife followed right behind it like an awkward, clumsy duckling following mother duck and still learning how to walk.
The knife buried itself into the pheasant, executing a surprisingly decent cut. The military officials let out a collective sigh of relief, only to nearly choke on the air in their lungs as the chunk of meat and the knife levitated into the air and began making a slow, agonizingly painful journey back toward the head of the table.
Victor observed them in solemn silence, his aristocratic face unchanged, and brown eyes that gleamed with a soft spark of interest, amusement playing at the edges of his irises.
In the span of a few seconds that literally felt like an eternity, the clumsy knife and the salt shaker plummeted into the waiting hands of the Sovereign of Latveria, just as the chunk of meat splashed awkwardly onto the Monarch's plate.
The relief that washed over the officers was so profound they nearly tumbled right out of their chairs and onto the floor.
Victor seasoned the roast and continued eating as if nothing had happened.
"Well done, Peter," his mentor praised, then added, "Now, bring me the carving fork."
Karadick, Vaneck, Hauer, and Marek petrified all over again as, in the center of the table, the large carving fork with its two enormous, extremely lethal-looking tines jerked into the air.
Not a single one of them managed to take another bite. For the remainder of lunch, the table transformed into a high-stakes zone of airborne cutlery—where four decorated war heroes silently negotiated their wills with God, utterly paralyzed by the horrifying realization that their supreme leader was treating an accidental magical assassination attempt as a successful homeschooling milestone.
...
CHAPTER 20
Attempt to Cross the Infernal Plane, Part 1 – The First 5 Minutes:
No sooner had both fully materialized upon the red, sandy dunes of hell, and their armors begun operating at full capacity to withstand the harsh, lethal climate and environment, Victor took the lead and began walking the stone path leading toward a great cliff, where a thin, perilous bridge of bones was laid out, connecting the ridge to the next chasm.
Peter obediently took his place beside his mentor.
They walked in silence for a full minute, until the Ward began.
"Hey, Victor...?"
The Sovereign of Latveria did not answer, but his slight tilt of the head in Peter's direction indicated that the man was listening closely through their suit's communicators.
"I was just thinking... in case something goes wrong with our plan, like, since I've already learned magic and I'm enhanced-strong and stuff, I could offer to trade places with your mom and escape lat—OW! OW! OW! OW!"
Peter cried out in pain as the man raised a hand, emerald energies instantly sparking inside the younger man’s suit, giving his ear a sharp, forceful yank that pulled him forward by the sheer strength of it.
Victor executed an elegant sharp turn, his fingertips glowing with greenish sorcery, and the Monarch marched straight back toward the portal, dragging his ungraciously stumbling Ward behind him.
"Peter. I stated that you might accompany me, not interfere and commit acts of utter stupidity." Victor reprimanded him, his voice impassively cold with nuances of growing irritation.
"B-But, Victor—"
The man's murderous glare pierced him so intensely that Peter swallowed hard, shrank back with his tail between his legs, and dared not utter another single word.
His mentor brought his face close to his, his raised hand still glowing with the magic that was ruthlessly torturing the Ward's ear.
"You either obey me, or you return home this very instant. Do you understand?" Victor stated slowly, his voice low and carrying the weight of a dangerous warning.
With wide, tear-filled eyes like a kicked puppy, Peter gave a weak nod.
...
CHAPTER 21
Attempt to Cross the Infernal Plane, Part 2 – Charmander, I choose you!:
When Peter had imagined what crossing hell would be like, he thought of horrifying things, demonic and grotesque creatures popping out of nowhere every second, and soul-shaking nightmares.
He certainly hadn't expected to be dying of boredom with Victor walking right beside him, looking all pompous and regal as if invading infernal dimensions was just another Sunday stroll through Doomstadt—complete with a background soundtrack of wailing damned souls whining about their endless torment.
They had been walking for what felt like an eternity, and nothing—absolutely, positively, nada—had shown up to disrupt their advance so far.
Peter was, quite literally, dying of boredom.
What did he have to do to beat the crap out of something around here?!
Then, like a divine miracle, his prayers were suddenly answered, and a giant creature covered in horns, claws, and razor-sharp teeth lunged right into their path.
Now we're talking!
Peter cracked his knuckles, eyes blazing with enthusiasm as he prepared to leap at his opponent. The moment he struck an attack stance, he watched the beast suddenly get enveloped in a greenish light that lasted a mere fraction of a second, only for it to collapse dead on the ground with its tongue hanging out.
Peter blinked, momentarily confused.
What the hell?!
"Come along, Peter. I intend to be finished before noon; we have a War Council meeting at 1 PM, and we are not going to be late," Victor said unperturbedly, continuing down the main trail.
The Ward followed obediently, if a little more resigned.
Victor is no fun.
Then, no sooner had they crossed another infernal valley—this time several dozens of misshapen demons, covered in spikes and teeth, bursted out from a fissure in the volcanic soil while growling and drooling acid.
Peter's face lit up with excitement.
"Awesome!" he exclaimed, overjoyed. Now they would actually get to fight!
The Ward adjusted the articulated gauntlets of his shiny new armor. The integrated thrusters and plasma cannons flared to life with a deep, majestic hum. He stepped forward, his eyes glowing behind the faceplate.
"My turn! Let's test out the cannon we spent three weeks tweaking in the lab!"
Before Peter could take his first leap, an emerald-green hexagonal magic barrier materialized instantly in front of him, planting his feet to the ground like lead. Victor von Doom didn't even look back. He merely raised his left gauntlet lazily and, with a single snap of his fingers wreathed in arcane flames, a shockwave of pure mystic energy swept across the valley, reducing the entire horde of demons to harmless gray dust.
Peter blinked in disbelief. The valley was silent once more.
"Path's clear," his mentor said simply. "Let's keep moving. Your grandmother doesn't have all day."
The Ward's face behind the transparent faceplate turned entirely red; Peter was so enraged that he didn't even register the Sovereign calling Cynthia's his 'grandmother'.
"ARE YOU KIDDING ME, VICTOR?!" Peter screamed, mad with fury, his voice echoing off the rocky walls of all Hell—and inadvertently startling their host from his slumber right off his throne, causing him to fall flat on his rear. "Again?! You won't even let me fire a single shot!"
"Discipline requires patience, Peter," Victor replied, his voice resonating with his usual imperial calm as he strolled leisurely across the arid earth. "You are still under my wardship and responsibility. I will not allow you to risk the integrity of your armor—or your skin—against low-tier scum."
"Low-tier scum?!" Peter marched after him, slamming his titanium boots against the ground in anger. "Victor, we spent a whole month building this armor! We put in quantum thrusters, a nano-repairer, a vibranium-adamantium alloy, over a thousand ancient protective spells, some of them even forbidden, a tactical HUD that even calculates air humidity, and a badass black paint job! AND FOR WHAT?! So I can stand around looking like a bookshelf ornament in Hell?!"
Victor stopped and turned around slowly.
The Sovereign's impenetrable countenance stared down the younger man with that suffocating dark gravity that would make multiple Avengers shake in their boots.
"The armor was designed for your protection, Peter. Not your entertainment." Victor pointed an armored finger at the younger one's chest. "If I wanted a reckless warrior to run around destroying everything in sight, I would have brought the Latverian army. You are here solely to learn. And while you are under my roof you will follow my orders."
"We're not under your roof, we're in Hell!" Peter muttered, crossing his arms and sulking like a proper 15-year-old.
"Mathematically, the infernal plane at this moment is a temporary extension of the domain of Latveria because I am here," Victor retorted unbothered. "Now, let us continue onward. No further complaints."
Victor turned his back and resumed walking.
Peter stayed behind, huffing, following the Sovereign while glaring murderously at the man's retreating back. Then, a malicious and absolutely childish idea began to form in his head.
Oh yeah? I can't fight anything? Fine.
180-degree turn.
Peter looked at the basalt rocks nearby, his enhanced hearing finely tuned. Hidden behind a sulfur boulder was a small infernal creature: the size of a cat, covered in red scales, with two crooked horns, tiny bat wings, and three yellow eyes blinking in fright.
Peter smiled deviously from ear to ear.
He walked over to it, crouched down slowly, activated a small emerald magic barrier around his victim with a snap of his fingers, and took two light steps.
Squeak.
The creature let out a high-pitched squeal and tried to bite Peter's metal glove, but the Ward carefully grabbed it by the scruff, lifting the critter as if it were an indignant kitten.
"Gotcha! Caught you, little monster!" Peter whispered, cradling the little thing in his lap and nearly crushing it with his enhanced strength; the beast wisely gave up fighting.
Peter hurried to catch up to the Sovereign of Latveria, carrying his prize with a triumphant, ear-to-ear grin. Victor didn't even bother looking back, but a heavy sigh transmitted through their HUD communicator.
"Peter."
"What? I didn't do anything! I'm walking quietly!"
"What is that you are carrying?"
Peter froze in his tracks.
"Noooothing... Just a... souvenir."
Victor stopped and turned around completely. He stared at his Ward's arms, protectively wrapped around the small demonic creature.
"You have captured a Cinder Beast of the Gloom," Victor's voice dropped an octave, laden in its edge with a mix of disbelief and deep annoyance. "An underworld parasite that feeds on ashes and spite."
"His name is Charmander!" Peter stepped forward, holding the beast up like a trophy. "And since you won't let me fight anything or use my armor for anything cool, I decided to adopt him. He's going to live in my room at the castle!"
The Sovereign's transparent faceplate looked down at the creature, then rose to stare at Peter.
"No."
"But he's small! He doesn't take up any space! And he fits in my backpack!"
"It is a fire demon, Peter. It will burn the 17th-century rugs of the east wing."
"I'll teach him to use the magical litter box! Victor, please!" Peter gave his mentor the puppy-dog eyes. "You killed every monster on the map! Just let me keep ONE Hell Pokémon!"
Victor placed his gauntlet over his own transparent faceplate, closing his eyes in a gesture of pure paternal exhaustion. He had survived world wars, cosmic entities, conquered a nation, traveled to hell... but he didn't know how to combat the stubbornness of the boy he had chosen to raise teach; that seemed to defy physics itself.
"If that infernal reptile touches a single silk curtain in the castle..." His voice sounded sharp and dangerously warning. "...I will turn it into an ash tray. Am I clear?"
Peter broke into a massive smile.
"YOU'RE THE BEST FATHE—I MEAN, SOVEREIGN IN THE WORLD!"
The tiny demon leaped from the Ward's arms, climbed the titanium plates of his chest, and perched on the shoulder of his armor. Peter held the creature by its little paws and proudly lifted it toward Victor.
"Look how cute he is, Victor! Come on, Charmander, say hello to your new owner!"
The little three-eyed creature stared straight into the face of the Sovereign of Latveria. Its three yellow eyes narrowed, the scales on its back bristled, and it let out a sharp, ferocious growl.
"Ggrrrrrr-YAPT-YAPT-YAPT!" The beast opened its needle-toothed mouth and tried to take a bite out of the man's gauntlet.
Victor didn't even blink. He merely stared at the beast with absolute, mortal contempt for two very long seconds while the creature continued to yelp and try to bite the impenetrable metal of his armor.
"Charming," he said dryly, his icy voice dripping with irony as he resumed walking over the ashes of Hell. "A formidable combat beast. I am certain Mephisto is trembling on his throne to see that we now possess a cranky mutant rat."
"He's not a rat, he's Charmander! And he's just testing your authority!" Peter defended, affectionately adjusting the little critter on his shoulder; it kept growling at the Monarch's back.
"The only thing he is testing is my patience," Victor retorted without looking back, raising his hand to conjure yet another protective spell around his Ward. "And quiet that aberration before I decide to test its thermal resistance in the next river of magma."
Peter, hurrying to keep pace with the Sovereign of Latveria through the underworld, merely smiled happily from ear to ear, humming a cheerful song under his breath while petting his newly found friend.
...
CHAPTER 22
Attempt to Cross the Infernal Plane, Part 3 – Crossing the River:
The trek along the banks of the blood river was a nightmare of sulfur, ash, and distant screams; it had been this way ever since they arrived in the infernal plane. Reluctant to reveal the full capabilities of their suits too early, they had avoided flying right away and instead scouted the region for a bridge to cross. They found one after a few minutes.
When they finally moved to cross it, the path was suddenly blocked.
Emerging from the sulfurous mist, a colossal and grotesque figure—a demon with twisted horns and obsidian skin—planted a giant axe into the rock, barring the bone bridge that spanned the river.
"To cross the waters of martyrdom, the tribute must be paid!" The demon's voice rumbled like grinding stones. "Souls! I demand the price in suffering souls, or you shall be devoured!"
The Sovereign of Latveria narrowed his eyes, the greenish iris blazing with a sudden, lethal gleam; but before Victor could even raise his gauntlet, Peter took three steps forward, spreading his arms in a gesture of peace.
"Easy, easy! Leave this to me, I've got it!" Peter spoke enthusiastically through the internal intercom, feeling quite pleased with himself for being useful. "I came prepared! I read about this in history class: it's classic ferryman bureaucracy. You have to haggle for the toll to cross. It's pure mythological diplomacy."
The Sovereign’s helm slowly turned toward his Ward; the expression on the man's aristocratic countenance was unreadable, but the edges of his gaze held subtle nuances of sheer disbelief.
Peter thrust his hand into the suit’s utility compartment and pulled out a handful of random items. He approached the giant demon with the posture of an international negotiator and a wide grin.
"Right, buddy, let's do this! I don't have souls on me because, you know, ethics. But I have something better: a Stan’s Pizza loyalty card from Queens with eight stamps already on it. If you get two more, you score a giant pepperoni calzone with a stuffed crust!"
The demon brought its monstrous face closer, its fiery eyes blinking as it stared at the slip of paper in Peter’s hand.
"A... carbohydrate card?" the creature growled, confused.
"And that's not all!" Peter continued eagerly, shoving the items into the demon’s clawed hands. "I'll throw in a quarter, Utah commemorative edition, a slightly chewed cinnamon gum—still has flavor, though!—and the key to a bicycle I don’t even know belongs to, but it has an Avengers keychain. That’s a collector's relic in the mortal world, my noble friend!"
The demon blinked all four of its eyes. It looked at the card. It looked at the gum. It looked at the armored kid.
"This... this is an insult!" the demon roared, the ground trembling beneath its feet. "I AM A GUARDIAN OF HELL! I DEMAND YOUR SOUL!"
"All right, all right, no need to get dramatic!" Peter stepped back, muttering as he hurriedly rummaged through his pockets. "I'll toss in a wired pair of earbuds that are all tangled up, but the right side still works if you bend the cable at just the right angle! Take it or leave it!"
At that exact moment, Victor von Doom closed his eyes behind his HUD and slowly, in a gesture of pure existential despair, raised his metal hand and pressed the palm of his gauntlet against his own transparent faceplate, covering his face in a monumental facepalm. The helmet’s tempered glass plate emitted a sharp metallic click under the impact of the glove.
"Unbelievable..." the Sovereign murmured, his muffled voice reverberating through the communicator, laden with the deepest paternal exhaustion in the history of the Multiverse. "I rebuilt the Ethereal Transmensor... I defied the laws of physics and forbidden sorcery... only to watch a boy try to bribe hell with a broken pair of headphones."
"I WILL DEVOUR YOUR BONES!" the demon roared, lifting the giant axe high above its head.
Victor didn't even bother taking up a combat stance; with a measured sigh, he simply removed his hand from his face and snapped his fingers with his metal gauntlet.
An instantaneous wave of emerald flames erupted from the ground directly beneath the demon. In a millisecond, leaving no time for a single scream, the colossal creature was reduced to a handful of fine ashes that floated gently into the sulfurous air—incinerating the pizza card, the earbuds, and the rest of Peter's 'treasure' right along with it.
"NO! MY CARD!" Peter yelled dramatically, dropping to his knees in profound desolation, staring at the smoke with eyes full of indignant tears. "Victor! That was EIGHT stamps! It took me six weeks of lunch money at the diner to get those! It was a historical relic, I was two stamps away from the supreme glory of a free calzone!"
Victor strode majestously toward the young man. Without breaking his stride, he reached out, grabbed Peter firmly by the collar of his armor, and hoisted him off the ground, dragging him forward as if pulling a wheeled suitcase.
"The House of Doom does not barter with petty scavengers, Peter," the Sovereign declared, his deep, aristocratic, and razor-sharp voice reverberating through the communicator as they crossed the bone bridge. "And the diplomacy of my name does not bend to the bureaucracies of hell."
"He was practically caving! You burned my bargaining margin!" Peter protested, dangling from the metallic collar, stumbling awkwardly as he tried to keep up with his mentor's long strides.
Victor didn't even glance at his Ward; his eyes, illuminated by his greenish sorcery, remained fixed on the infernal mist ahead, delivering a warning in a chilling, measured tone that sent a shiver straight down the spine of Peter's armor.
"One more word about that pizza card, and I will send you back to Latveria via a portal directly to your chambers. And once we rescue my mother and return home... we are going to have a very long conversation about your behavior and your priorities, Peter."
Peter swallowed hard, glancing sidelong at Victor's faceplate.
"Okay..." Absolute silence. The Ward didn't dare utter another peep.
...
CHAPTER 23
Attempt to Cross the Infernal Plane, Part 4 – The Aftermath:
General Karadick, head of Latveria’s infantry division, strode with firm, measured steps across the velvet carpets that ran the length of Castle Doom’s corridors. The nation’s most veteran officer was making his way toward the War Room to request an audience with his Sovereign and deliver an important report.
However, upon reaching his destination, the man halted mid-stride near the half-open doors as he crossed paths with said nation’s young prince.
Peter was leaning against a marble pillar, arms crossed, wearing the most sullen, deeply furrowed scowl the old general had ever laid eyes on since the boy first set foot in the country. He was huffing quietly while glaring at his own boots.
"Prince Peter?" Karadick inquired, observing his Highness with genuine concern. "Has something happened? Can I be of assistance?"
"Nothing has happened. Your assistance is not required, though I appreciate the offer, Karadick," Peter replied, his voice hard, making no effort to relax his monumental scowl.
The officer arched a single eyebrow.
"I understand, but..." The man blinked, confused, and interjected with polite civility. "You appear distressed... what is the reason for such a severe expression of frustration, Young Lord Doom?"
That was the final straw for the volcano bubbling fiercely within the young man, and Peter snapped.
"My father stole my Charmander, Karadick!" the prince vented, uncrossing his arms and pointing dramatically toward the War Room doors. "He stole my hellish Pokémon!"
Karadick blinked slowly. Charmander. He vaguely recalled hearing the prince mention the magical creature he had adopted from the depths of the underworld, despite his Sovereign’s vehement threats to incinerate the beast the moment it put a single claw out of line within the castle walls.
"Lord Doom... has seized the infernal abomination?" the general asked, surprised.
"He spent the entire journey back claiming we were going to dispose of the 'abominable pest,' insisting Latveria was no shelter for grotesque creatures!" Peter ranted, grabbing the general’s arm and dragging the old officer closer to the half-open door of the War Room. "And now, look in there! Look at this!"
Karadick dared to peek through the gap in the doorway.
Victor von Doom sat majestically upon his stone throne; his posture was the very embodiment of sovereignty and absolute power. In his left hand, encased in a titanium gauntlet, he held a high-tech holographic tablet, intently analyzing charts of the nation's borders and troop movements.
In his right hand, however...
The Sovereign’s metal-clad hand rested upon his lap, and his firm, imposing fingers were gently, rhythmically scratching right behind the ears of a little Charmander.
The tiny fire dragon was completely melted with bliss; lying flat on its back upon Doom’s green velvet cloak, belly exposed to the air, eyes shut tight while the flame on its tail burned a cozy, soothing shade of blue from sheer relaxation. The little demon was emitting a low, rhythmic rumble; literally purring like an immensely content cat beneath the Monarch’s gauntleted touch. As Victor deliberately adjusted his fingers to scratch Charmander’s chin, the tiny dragon let out a soft, affectionate whine of pure satisfaction.
"Did you see that?!" Peter hissed, pointing indignantly into the room. "He traded the bed I lovingly made him out of my own jacket for his cloak!" Peter grumbled, crossing his arms and glaring daggers at his father through narrowed eyes of pure, uncontainable jealousy. "Charmander was supposed to be my pet, Karadick! Mine alone!"
The general stared at his Sovereign and his Prince, and wisely chose to keep his mouth shut.
...
CHAPTER 24
What if Cynthia were alive and had returned to Castle Doom:
That late afternoon, as was his custom, his father had retired to the meditation chamber, leaving Peter with roughly two hours of leisure before dinner was served in the Dining Hall.
Ordinarily, he would have buried himself in the library to study or made his way to the Military Command Center to converse with the generals and officers on duty. Instead, for some inexplicable reason, his feet carried him to the upper levels where the Hanging Gardens were located.
The grey sky was losing its pale light, the celestial expanse gradually shifting into deep shades of indigo as dusk descended. Strolling unthinkingly along the familiar path that he and the Sovereign of Latveria used to walk every morning, Peter stumbled upon her.
Cynthia stood amidst the flora, watering them, gently caressing the petals of the blossoms, and carefully pruning withered leaves much as she had done long ago when she worked with herbs and spices, transforming them into medicines. She was elegantly dressed in sweeping, colorful skirts of vibrant and vivid silver and green, her long jet-black hair cascading in a rich, heavy fall over her shoulders down to her waist. Her countenance radiated a tranquil peace and a quiet contentment; she was simply breathtaking, radiant; in every detail, the queen she had always been to her people.
Peter stood frozen, watching the woman from afar, and jumped when she let out a soft laugh, her amused voice shocking him out of his stupor.
"If you intend to linger, Peter, I could use your assistance; your company would be most welcome."
Her warm brown eyes met his, and the Prince of Latveria flushed.
"Of course!" he offered promptly.
So much had happened in just two days that he still felt dazed; like floating outside of his body, trying to grasp it all. In the blink of an eye, he and Victor had managed to save Cynthia; Victor had dropped a bombshell revelation upon him, made him a Prince, and when he had no one left in the world, Peter suddenly gained a father, a grandmother, and the devotion of an entire nation.
It was still overwhelming him, needing time to settle, and Peter realized that this was truly the first time he and his father's mother had been alone since it all.
There was a certain natural shyness now that the rush of escaping hell had faded; the very same hesitation he had felt looking at Victor and calling him 'Father' for the first time. That silly uncertainty of how to act or what to say before the woman who was now 'literally' his grandmother.
The scenery enveloped them in a soft calm, lulled by the fragrant scent of the blossoms; just as her gaze enveloped him with open affection as she watched him draw near.
"I... I did not mean to intrude, Grandmother," Peter stammered softly, addressing her just as she had insisted ever since Victor had spoken with him and revealed the truth.
"You never could, dearest." Cynthia smiled gently, disposing of the withered leaves she had gathered into a nearby receptacle and inviting him to walk with her through the garden.
Peter nodded, his eyes widening slightly as she linked her arm through his, and they began to stroll slowly, at a leisurely pace, among the green pathways formed by native Latverian trees. In the distance, the forested valley and the mountain range could be seen, while small stars began to emerge in the sky. The garden was softly illuminated by the pale white light of the Arc Reactor, enhancing the breathtaking beauty of the surrounding scenery.
"Where is your father?" she inquired softly.
"Meditating. He always does that at the end of the day," Peter answered simply, and sensing the silent question hanging between them, he added, "He taught me, but I don't join him for every session; it's easier for me to channel magic than to let it guide me into a deep trance."
Cynthia glanced at him, evident humor flickering within her brown irises.
"Victor did not master it easily when he first began to learn; concentration comes with time and dedication."
When you aren't busy drooling over the family crest...
The woman's rich, full laughter echoed like music through the garden, and Peter realized he had actually spoken that thought aloud.
His face flushed ten shades redder.
"N-not that it isn't cool! It's just... hard to keep the mind still," the Prince murmured, openly embarrassed. His grandmother's hand patted his arm affectionately.
"Give it time; patience is the answer, the reassurance and the certainty that your training will lead you to achieve the goal you strive for. This is the secret of the great sorcerer-masters who guarded the arcane secrets of our people down through the centuries."
Cynthia extended one hand before them as they walked, and Peter watched as greenish magic sprouted in her open palm in the form of ethereal wisps that danced harmoniously across her fingers, then rose upward and began to circle them in small, spiral motions.
"Look at these mystical currents... they are like the currents of a river, flowing along the length of the channel, following their course toward the sea. By channeling magic physically, manifesting it before your eyes, you converse with it; a silent exchange of words and will. But when you meditate, you do not converse; you dive."
The translucent greenish threads surrounded the Prince, as though they were joyful to play near him, affectionately touching his arms, messing up his hair, tenderly caressing his face.
"When you meditate again, do not fight against them. Close your eyes; imagine an ocean made of calm waters that holds within itself all the essence that gives shape to your very being. You know this place; it is your calmest and safest sanctuary. You dive into it, letting it shelter you and carry you away. Your thoughts will naturally yield as your mind finds the peace of silence, and the currents will lead you to the door that reveals the existential tapestry of the soul."
Cynthia stopped walking, and Peter did the same; she looked at him and smiled warmly.
"I am certain that when you try again, you will succeed with far greater ease."
Peter gazed at her and lost himself in her eyes. There was so much love in her gaze; embracing him every moment she looked at him, maternal and deeply affectionate. It reminded him of the woman who had been a mother to him for so many years, and the devastating absence of May unexpectedly struck his heart so very hard at that moment.
God... it had been so long... the longing for her was as unbearable as it had been after Tony was gone.
"Oh, dearest..." Cynthia murmured, understanding, kind, and infinitely tender.
Peter did not notice when the involuntary tears began to slide silently down his face, but his grandmother touched his cheek with a mother's gentle grace, enfolded him in her embrace, and held him against her chest for a long time.
"How long have you been alone, Peter?" Cynthia inquired softly, one of her arms wrapping around his broad, strong shoulders while her other hand gently stroked his dark hair, cradling his face into the curve of her neck.
"For far too long..." Peter murmured, sinking into her maternal embrace with the same involuntary yearning he had shown his father.
He hugged her tightly, careful that his enhanced strength wouldn't hurt her, yet driven by a hunger for affection and comfort from someone who had endured a long period of harsh deprivation after being forgotten by the history of reality. And ironically, he realized their roles had reversed.
When they first met, he had comforted her in the exact same way; now, she was doing the same for him.
Cynthia kissed his cheek tenderly then, her smile ever gentle.
"No longer, my love; no longer."
And Peter believed her with all his heart.
...
CHAPTER 25
The sun had barely risen above the mountains, breaking over the horizon to announce the arrival of a new day, and Victor was already awake. He sat in bed amidst fur blankets, surrounded by scrolls and books of various kinds.
The routine of the Buddhist monastery began early, as usual, and the European waited patiently as he deliberately read an old parchment, his eyes straying every now and then to glance at his wristwatch.
At the exact same time as always, with meticulous, British-like punctuality, a knock echoed at his door. A second later, his son reluctantly entered the room, carrying the monks' medical kit and fresh bandages to dress his wound later.
"Good morning, sir," the boy greeted politely, looking everywhere except at him.
Victor observed him with his usual sharp, penetrating gaze.
"Peter," he acknowledged. "You forgot the books on Arcane Geometry I asked of you."
The American blinked, glanced at the items he had just placed on the table, and closed his eyes as if reprimanding himself.
"Do you want me to get them now?" Peter inquired after letting out a subtle sigh, clearly reluctant to go.
Victor, maintaining his aristocratic countenance set in strict indifference, made a point of sending him anyway.
"Do so immediately; I require them to proceed with my research."
Peter nodded and left the room, returning minutes later with the requested objects.
Victor waited for him in the exact same spot, without moving an inch. Without turning his eyes from the parchment he was reading, he spoke to the young man as soon as he placed the books on the table.
"Peter, fetch more paper and an inkwell from Tenzin’s storage. And if you see him, tell him to speak with me this afternoon."
The young American paused, sighed, nodded, and left the room once again. He returned minutes later, carrying a fresh stack of paper and blank scrolls. He placed them beside the pile of books, and Victor caught the brief glance of his brown eyes; resigned, almost dreading to voice the question he ended up asking anyway.
"...Is there anything else you require, sir?"
I want you to stay... Victor thought, but merely spoke with his usual cold sobriety.
"You did not bring the inkwell."
Peter blinked, looked at the items on the table, and let out a muffled groan as he closed his eyes, mentally kicking himself. Grumbling softly, he left the room again and returned minutes later carrying the cursed inkwell.
The European watched the boy, his own brown eyes gleaming with faint amusement; one that went completely unnoticed by the younger man, who was busy glaring darkly at the offending object as he placed it on the table beside the stack of paper.
The American was all but ready to bolt out of the room when Victor called him once more.
"Peter."
"What is it?!" the American inquired, this time unable to hold back the slight edge of irritation in his voice.
Undeterred by it, the European proceeded with his regal authority.
"You forgot my tea."
Peter visibly refrained from pulling his hair out in frustration. Closing his eyes, he mentally counted to ten and shot him a dark, sidelong glare before stomping out once more, shutting the door a little harder than necessary. Victor heard him grumbling out loud in a foul mood as his footsteps faded down the hallway.
The man returned to his reading of the parchment, a subtle, amused smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
...
CHAPTER 26
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CHAPTER 27
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CHAPTER 28
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CHAPTER 29
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CHAPTER 30
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CHAPTER 31
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CHAPTER 32
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CHAPTER 33
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CHAPTER 34