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Once something gets into your head, it's almost impossible to get it out again. Sometimes it's harmless: a bit of music, an old photograph, the scent of perfume. Other times, though, it's something less benign.
Monster.
It's nothing more than a whisper, almost lost beneath the howl of the wind, but it's still there. No matter how far he goes, the brush of her voice against his consciousness remains.
Bruce Banner, murderer.
When he left Sokovia, Bruce didn't know where he was going. All that mattered was getting away from the destruction and chaos that had come about because of his inability to shy away from progress. Ultron had been a mistake, just like the gamma experiments had been a mistake. Joining the Avengers and surrounding himself with others who were different had seemed to help, but in the end he had succumbed once again to his own arrogance. He'd played God, and people got hurt.
Not hurt, killed. You killed them.
And now her words are trapped between his ears, mocking him, reminding him. He never really believed in magic; even after his encounters with Thor and Loki, such power seemed relegated to figures from fairy tales. Perhaps that was what made him such a perfect target.
When he finally made landfall he was somewhere in the Nepalese mountains, cold and naked and alone. A nearby village provided him with food and clothing and supplies in exchange for his services as a doctor. Most of his patients were only mildly afflicted, but one man - the village's shaman - came to him with severe eye damage. Bruce did what he could, but he knew the treatment needed required skills and technology he did not possess.
Nevertheless, they let him stay. He knew enough of their language to get by, but when he wasn't paying attention the voices around him turned into little more than background rhythm, indiscernible from the other sounds of the mountain. Now and then, amidst their chatter, her voice would reappear, chanting his own thoughts back at him, magnifying them until he couldn't ignore them any longer. When it became too much he dove into more physically demanding work: building shelters, herding goats, carrying water from a nearby stream back to the village's reservoir. The toil made the thoughts go away, at least for a little while.
If she had chosen some other topic to torment him with, he wonders, would it bother him as much? If the accusations hadn't already existed within his own mind, would he be able to cast them out? At times he thinks maybe he's just imagining it, that the intrusive nature of the thoughts stems not from some supernatural ability but from his own mental weakness.
While Bruce wonders and works and waits, the shaman's eyes grow worse. Bruce knows he can help if he leaves; he can take the man to a hospital, or bring back a proper doctor, or something. But he also knows that he does not want to leave. He's not ready to be in the world again. It's selfish, he knows it's selfish, yet he remains.
Often, he's invited into the homes of the locals as a sign of gratitude. Fixing fences and curing colds is a small price to pay for the companionship of these people, who are generous with not only their conversation but also their cooking. On this particular night his hosts are the combined families of a young couple who were married only days prior. The cheerful, warm atmosphere inside their home is enough to make Bruce all but forgot the bitterly cold winds just outside the door.
At one point in the evening, after they've eaten their fill and drunk more than they probably should, one of the bride's grandmothers begins to tell a story. Everyone goes quiet, and Bruce finds himself actively listening, trying to follow along despite missing a few words here and there.
"There was once a king who grew tired of the stress and difficulty of ruling his kingdom," the old woman begins. As she speaks, her voice becomes low and melodic. "While out hunting, he came across a clearing in the forest, where an old hermit lived alone in a little hut. Although the hermit had only rags for clothes and a small dwelling to live in, he was the happiest man the king had ever encountered. The king decided then and there to become the hermit's apprentice, so he might learn the secret to true happiness.
The hermit made the king work hard day after day, but he never taught him so much as a single lesson. After many weeks the king grew impatient and demanded that the hermit tell him how to be happy.
'You are not yet ready to learn,' the hermit replied.
The king was not satisfied with this answer, but he still did as he was told, hoping that the hermit would soon reveal the truth. More weeks passed, and the king grew impatient once again. When he went to fetch water, he became so frustrated that he simply put the pot on the ground and began to walk away.
To the king's surprise, the pot began to speak!
'Are you running away from your task?' the pot asked.
At first, the king was too shocked to speak. When he replied, his words were full of anger. 'I am going back to my kingdom,' he said to the pot. 'The hermit has not taught me anything in all the time I've been here, despite working me to the bone.'
To this the pot responded: 'I too have suffered much in my life, and still remained ignorant.'
This aroused the king's curiosity. 'How have you suffered?' he asked.
'It's a very long story,' said the pot, 'but if you have the time, I will tell you.'
The king, whose anger and impatience had faded, sat in front of the pot and began to listen.
'A very long time ago, I was living in a forest all alone. One day a man came along and dug me out of the earth with a shovel. After he took me back to his home he soaked me with water and pounded me until I became soft and limp. Can you imagine how such a beating might feel?
Afterwards, the man rolled me into a ball and placed me onto a spinning wheel, where I became very dizzy. After using his hands to shape my body into a pot, he placed me inside a burning-hot oven. That was even more painful than the beating!
When that was over, the man took me to a shop and left me among rows and rows of pots that looked just like me. At first I was glad to be among others of my kind, knowing that they must have gone through the same hardships as I had. But as the days went on my body was abused once again by the many customers who grabbed and hit me, seeing if my body would crack under the pressure. How cruel human beings can be!
After many, many days, a man came and took me away from the shop. He carried me a long way and gave me to the hermit that lives in the little hut in the forest. From that day forward, my life has been full of joy, as I am of great use to the hermit and he is glad to have me by his side. So, after much suffering, I can finally be at peace.'
Upon hearing this story, the king's heart became filled with happiness. He understood that the answer he was seeking could not be told to him, but that he had to find it for himself. After thanking the pot and the hermit for the gift of their wisdom, he rushed back to his kingdom, where he ruled happily for many years."
When the woman finishes her story, Bruce realizes that the cheerful air in the room has transformed into one that's much more solemn. A child, perceptibly nervous, whispers into the grandmother's ear, and the woman laughs softly before she begins another tale. Bruce chooses to skip this story, however, and makes a silent exit while the rest of the group listens on.
Outside, the wind bites at his cheeks and pushes him off the path back to the temporary home he's been given. It's hard to see, and before he realizes it he's gone far off-course, heading north up the mountain and away from the village. By the time he turns around he's lost all sense of direction; the wind has turned into a snowstorm, and everything beyond a few feet is hidden by a dense cloud of white.
A voice flutters in his ear, but he swats it away as one would a fly. Not now, he thinks; he cannot deal with her now.
The voice, seemingly angered by his attempts to ignore it, grows louder. In a few moments it's no longer the wind howling but her words, drowning everything else out with a steadily rising chant of hatred.
Murderer. Child-killer. You think you can save others? You're nothing but a monster.
The snow catches on his eyelashes, cold and harsh, and he cries out, his voice disappearing into the storm. He can feel his bones beginning to shift. His skin itches irritably. Green flashes before his eyes and he hears the telltale ripping of the seams in his clothing, and then -
I'm sorry.
- and then the world goes silent. All around Bruce the storm rages on, but he cannot feel nor hear it any longer. Out of the cloud of white comes a single figure, their eyes bluer than the coldest ice, unseeing: the shaman from the village. When his lips open a girl's voice comes out, accented and broken.
"We are both monsters."
Bruce can feel the fingers of her magic brushing against his mind, and he understands. The green recedes, replaced by a warm shade of red. The fear and hatred retreats from his heart. He closes his eyes and responds without speaking.
Not all monsters are evil.
He swears he can see her smile before the red vanishes.
When he returns to the Avengers base, the others greet him with relief. They ask him, somewhat jokingly, what took him so long to come back.
"I had to fix someone's eyes," he says cryptically. They laugh and walk away, knowing better than to pry. In his mind, though, he can feel a now-familiar presence.
Thank you, she whispers to him, from her room on the next floor up.
For the first time in a long time, he smiles.
Thank you for bringing me back.