The sky above Vormir was alive and dead all at once — streaks of sickly purple and black twisting through each other like oil on water. Lightning flared somewhere far off, lighting the jagged mountain that rose in front of them like the world's cruelest middle finger.
Clint stood at the base, hands on his hips, staring up at it like it'd just insulted his mother.
"Wow," he muttered dryly, voice low enough that only Natasha heard. "Under different circumstances? This would be totally awesome."
Natasha smirked faintly, adjusting the cuffs of her jacket. "Yeah? If we were here for what, a weekend hike? You want to take selfies on the way up?"
"Maybe I just appreciate a good view," he shot back, starting up the trail after her.
She tossed a look over her shoulder, hair catching the dim light like copper wire. "Well don't get used to it. Pretty sure the next view you see is either hell or me crying over your corpse."
"Aw," he said, smirking faintly. "You'd cry for me?"
Natasha didn't answer, just quirked a brow, turned forward, and kept walking.
The climb was steep, cold. Thin air tore at their lungs, and each step sent stones clattering down into the abyss below. After a few minutes of silence, Natasha's voice broke the rhythm.
"I bet the raccoon didn't have to climb a mountain," she said casually, as though she were discussing weather.
Clint actually laughed — a sharp, surprised sound that escaped before he could stop it. "Technically," he said, "he's not a raccoon, you know."
"Whatever," Natasha replied, rolling her eyes. "He eats garbage. Case closed."
It took them another ten minutes to reach the summit, and by then, even Natasha was feeling the cold in her bones. The air up here was different — heavier somehow. Wrong.
And then the figure appeared.
It floated toward them out of the shadows, draped in black, moving like smoke on water. Its voice was low and hollow and loud all at once:
"Welcome," it said.
Both Natasha and Clint reacted at the same time — bow raised, pistol cocked.
The figure didn't so much as flinch. It hovered a few feet away, a tattered cloak fluttering around its long, thin form. The pale face under the hood was skull-like, the lips a blackened sneer.
"Natasha, daughter of Ivan," it intoned, eyes glinting a ghostly blue. "Clint, son of Edith."
Natasha kept her weapon level but cocked her head, sharp and curious. "Cute trick," she said. "What else do you know about me? My favorite color? My kill count?"
Clint muttered from beside her, "Bet you he knows your kill count."
She smirked faintly at that, but her gaze stayed fixed on the figure. "Who the hell are you?"
The figure tilted its head slightly, lips curling into something colder than a smile.
"Consider me… a guide," it said softly. "To you, and to all who seek the Soul Stone."
"Oh good," Natasha shot back without missing a beat. "You tell us where it is, we're out of your creepy hair." She gave him a once-over. "Assuming you even have any left."
The figure actually chuckled. The sound was humorless, like air rattling through old bones.
"Ah, liebchen," it said, savoring the word. "If only it were that easy."
It turned — floating toward the edge of the cliff without so much as a sound — and gestured for them to follow.
Natasha holstered her gun but kept her fingers near it. Clint stayed close, bow half-raised.
The figure stopped at the very brink of the precipice and looked back at them. The wind howled around them now, biting and loud.
"What you seek," it said, voice slicing through the storm, "lies in front of you… as does what you fear."
Natasha moved forward, peering over the edge. The chasm stretched down and down into a darkness so complete it made her skin crawl.
"The stone's down there," she said flatly, already guessing the answer.
The figure inclined its head.
"For one of you," it confirmed. Then, slowly, it straightened, staring at them both in turn.
"For the other…" it continued, letting the silence stretch. "In order to take the stone, you must lose that which you love."
Natasha glanced sideways at Clint — just a flicker of her sharp green eyes — and then back at the figure, her jaw tight.
It smiled faintly, blackened lips curling.
"An everlasting exchange," it murmured. "A soul… for a soul."
The wind screamed louder then, as though the mountain itself approved of the cruelty. Clint swallowed hard, still staring at the abyss. Natasha stayed perfectly still, her fingers flexing once, already calculating.
And above them, the figure hovered like a specter of inevitability — watching, waiting, patient as death itself.
—
The wind howled off the cliffs in sharp, icy gusts that stung Clint's face and tore at his coat. He stood a few paces from the edge, arms crossed, glaring out at the black figure hovering like some patient vulture.
Behind him, Natasha sat on a half-rotted log, elbows braced on her knees, her copper hair whipping around her face. She was too still. Too calm. Like she was already halfway to where she needed to be.
Clint didn't like it. Not one damn bit.
"How's it going over there?" he called over his shoulder, his tone sardonic just to cover the tremor under his ribs. "Jesus… maybe he's just makin' this whole thing up. Big scary Death Specter and his 'soul price'—what a load of crap."
Natasha didn't flinch. Didn't even look up. "No," she said simply. "I don't think so."
Clint let out a dry laugh and shook his head. "Oh yeah? Why? 'Cause he knows your daddy's name? That's impressive. Maybe we should ask him my high school locker combo while we're at it."
Finally, she lifted her gaze to him — those bright green eyes sharp and cutting even through the wind. "I didn't."
Clint's smirk froze halfway there.
"I didn't know my father's name," she said, softer now, but no less fierce. "Until he said it." Her jaw tightened. "And Thanos? He left here with the stone… but without his daughter. That's not a coincidence, Barton."
Clint glanced at her, then back out into the abyss. "Yeah," he muttered.
Natasha stood in one fluid, deliberate motion, her jacket catching the wind. "Whatever it takes," she said, just loud enough for him to hear.
Clint's mouth pulled into a crooked, bitter smile. "Whatever it takes," he echoed.
Her boots crunched on the gravel as she closed the space between them, stopping just in front of him. Her voice was steady now, and so much heavier than her frame should allow.
"If we don't get that stone," she said, locking eyes with him, "billions of people stay dead."
He let out a long, ragged breath, staring at the ground between them. Then, a small nod. "Then I guess we both know who it's gotta be."
Her lips twitched, just barely. "I guess we do."
Clint reached out — his hand rough, scarred, trembling just slightly — and she took it instantly, squeezing his fingers like a lifeline. They stood there for a moment, foreheads nearly touching, saying more in silence than either of them would dare put into words.
"Y'know," Clint said after a beat, his voice quiet and dry, "I'm starting to think… we mean different people here, Natasha."
She huffed a soft, almost fond laugh. "For the last five years," she said, her voice catching just enough to betray her, "I've been trying to get here. Right here. That's all it's been about. Bringing everybody back."
Clint shook his head, his smile turning sad, bitter. "Oh no. Don't you get all decent on me now, Romanoff."
She actually laughed — short, sharp, and more alive than she had any right to sound. "What? You think I want to do this? I'm trying to save your sorry ass, you idiot."
"Yeah, well, I don't want you to," he fired back, stepping closer, his voice rising. "Because I — Natasha, you know what I've done. You know what I've become."
She met his gaze, hard and unyielding. "I don't judge people on their worst mistakes," she said, like it was that simple.
"Maybe you should," he whispered.
"You didn't," she shot back instantly, her smile just a little smug through the pain.
Clint barked a laugh, shaking his head even as something wet glimmered in his eyes. "God, you're such a pain in my ass. You know that?"
She smirked faintly, leaning her forehead to his. "Yeah. I know."
They stayed like that a moment longer, breathing each other in.
Then Clint let out a long breath and smiled faintly. "Okay," he said quietly. "You win."
Before she could react, he swept her legs out from under her in one quick, brutal motion and sent her crashing to the ground.
"Tell my family I love them," he said roughly, already turning, already running.
Her eyes went wide. "Clint! Don't you—"
She rolled, sprang to her feet, and took off after him, her boots slipping on loose stone. She tackled him just before the cliff, and they both went down in a tangle of limbs, skidding dangerously close to the edge.
"You tell them yourself!" she barked, and before he could react, she jammed her taser into his side.
Clint gasped, went limp long enough for her to sprint past him. She heard him swearing behind her even as she closed in on the edge.
But he was faster.
An arrow whistled past her head and struck the rock in front of her, exploding in a cloud of dust and smoke that sent her sprawling.
By the time she dragged herself up, ears ringing, Clint was already running.
She cursed under her breath and launched herself after him.
At the edge, he leapt.
So did she.
Her grappling hook shot out with a snap and caught his harness midair. The line went taut, jerking him hard against the cliff wall.
"Damn you!" he shouted, his fingers white-knuckled on the rope.
Natasha hung above him, hair whipping wildly around her face, eyes blazing. "Let me go!"
"No!" he bellowed, raw and desperate. "Please — no!"
"It's okay," she said softly, her voice calm now, too calm.
"Please," he begged, his voice breaking. "Please don't…"
She smiled faintly then — that same infuriating, knowing smile he'd seen on her face a thousand times before.
And she kicked off the wall.
The rope jerked, then went slack as she fell.
"No!"
His scream ripped through the howling wind as he watched her plummet into the darkness below.
The sound of her body hitting the stone below echoed up through the canyon like a gunshot.
And then… silence.
—
The silence stretched.
Then—light.
It started soft — a faint glow under her eyelids — and swelled, warm, steady, relentless, until it burned behind her eyes and forced her awake. Natasha groaned under her breath, copper hair spilling across her face as she rolled to one side and pushed herself upright.
Hard floor beneath her palms. Smooth. Cold.
Her head lifted, green eyes narrowing instinctively. Every muscle was already coiled tight, ready for… whatever this was.
And then she really looked.
The ceiling arched impossibly high overhead, a lattice of white and gold beams glinting in a soft, even light. Sunlight streamed through massive glass windows, though there was no sun outside — just more white. And below her stretched rows and rows of gleaming tiles, lined with benches so clean they could've been carved from ivory.
Natasha stared, breath leaving her in a thin laugh that didn't quite reach her eyes.
Of course. King's Cross Station.
And yet… not.
It was too clean. Too bright. Too perfect.
It was empty.
Her boots clicked faintly as she stood, adjusting her jacket out of sheer habit. No weight at her hip. No knives at her thigh. She patted herself down — nothing. Not even a damn hairpin.
Well. That was unsettling.
Not that she let it show.
"Okay," she muttered aloud, scanning the space as she started forward. Her boots struck sharp little echoes from the perfect tiles as she moved, slow and deliberate. "Hell of a welcome mat, guys. I don't even get a harp section?"
No answer.
She swept the length of the platform anyway, scanning each bench, each corner, her gaze sharp as a blade despite the calm curl of her lips. No trains. No voices. No movement. Just that sterile hum of light pressing in from everywhere.
"Hello?" she called, her voice low but commanding, slicing through the silence like a throwing knife.
Nothing.
Her shoulders squared.
She turned, pacing back toward the bench where she'd first woken up, the emptiness around her thick enough to choke on.
And stopped dead.
The bench wasn't empty anymore.
A woman sat there now.
She was the kind of woman you noticed without meaning to — immaculately dressed in a slate-grey skirt suit with a crisp white blouse, one ankle crossed over the other, low heels gleaming. A leather folio rested open in her lap, and she leafed through its papers with long, elegant fingers. Her silver hair was swept into a sleek bun. Round spectacles caught the light.
She didn't even look up.
The gold pen in her hand tapped once, twice, against the folder as though keeping time in her own private symphony.
Natasha blinked once, expression going flat and unimpressed. Then she started forward again, boots striking the floor with a little more force this time.
"Well," she called, tone sharp and dry as cracked ice, "nice of you to finally show up."
The woman's lips curved faintly, but her eyes stayed on her page. Her voice was low and refined, with the kind of cold British precision that made Natasha feel like she was being weighed and measured and probably found wanting.
"You took your time," the woman replied smoothly.
Natasha slowed as she reached the bench, head tilting slightly, hands slipping into her jacket pockets as her green eyes flicked over this… bureaucratic queen of death.
"You're cute," Natasha said after a beat, smirk curling like a knife. "All this time I thought if I went to hell it'd be full of fire and screaming. Instead I get… what? Some HR rep with better hair than me?"
At that, the woman finally looked up.
Her gaze was flinty and calm and colder than the station itself.
"Oh, darling," she said, and her faint smile was the kind you'd give a child who'd just insulted you without realizing. "You haven't even seen hell yet."
The gold pen clicked shut in her fingers.
Natasha met her eyes evenly, the smirk never fading.
"Good," she said, leaning forward slightly, her voice dropping to a challenge. "Because I'd hate for this to get boring."
The woman only held her gaze, head tilting just enough to give the impression she'd already decided exactly how this conversation — and Natasha — was going to end.
Natasha held her ground, hands still loose in her pockets, like she was daring her to try.
And above them, the white light hummed on, endless and indifferent.
—
The silence that followed wasn't just deliberate — it was predatory.
The Mother didn't immediately speak. She simply looked at her, gaze cool and unreadable over the rim of her spectacles, as though Natasha were some unruly schoolgirl she was deciding whether to expel or… reforge.
Then — at last — she set the folio aside with a crisp snap, every movement unbearably precise. The pen went down on top of it, aligned perfectly. She laced her fingers in her lap, straightened her shoulders, and regarded Natasha like a queen presiding over a trial no one remembered agreeing to attend.
Her voice, when it came, was soft but slicing — silk wrapped around frost.
"You may call me the Mother."
Natasha barked out a laugh — sharp and short, curling like smoke.
"Oh, may I? How generous of you."
She pushed off the column she'd been leaning against, letting her boots click loud and deliberate as she crossed a few feet closer, arms folded over her chest. She cocked her head, green eyes bright and edged.
"Mother," she repeated, drawing the word out, every syllable dripping sardonic sweetness. "Mother to who, exactly? Can't imagine anyone calls you that voluntarily. Or lives to tell about it."
The Mother's smile — faint, amused, condescending — didn't even reach her eyes.
She didn't answer. Not at first. She simply watched her, silent, letting the weight of the quiet press in on Natasha like a vice.
And then, calm as inevitability itself, she replied:
"Mother Magic."
The words landed heavy, like stone on glass.
For the first time, Natasha's smirk faltered — not much, just a sliver of a crack, but enough for the Mother to notice. And enough for her to look almost… pleased at having struck home.
Natasha, of course, recovered immediately.
"…Cute," she murmured, her voice low, just a shade tighter.
She let her arms fall to her sides, pacing a slow circle around the bench. Every click of her heels was deliberate, a challenge.
"You know," she continued, tone airy and laced with venom, "I've seen some weird things in my time. Norse gods. Shape-shifting aliens. A big green guy who punches tanks for fun. But this?"
She gestured around them at the eerie white perfection of the station.
"This is new. Even for me."
The Mother's smile sharpened — though her tone remained level, almost serene.
"And you wear that irreverence like armor," she said. "Good. You'll need it where you're going."
That stopped Natasha in her tracks.
Her head tilted. Green eyes narrowed.
"Where I'm going?" she asked, voice flat and dangerous now.
The Mother straightened. She hadn't moved — hadn't needed to — but somehow her presence swelled until Natasha could feel it pressing in at the edges of her skin.
"You cannot go back," she said, each word crisp and clean. "Not to that world."
Natasha's lips curled into a grin, brittle and sharp.
"Why not? You don't strike me as a rules kinda gal. And last I checked, people in my line of work don't exactly stay dead. Big purple bastard snaps his fingers, half the universe evaporates, and boom — five years later, Tony and Bruce pull a few strings and everyone's back on payroll. So what makes me special?"
The Mother's voice, when it came, was colder than the empty station around them.
"You were sacrificed to obtain the Soul Stone," she said. "A soul for a soul. Its toll is absolute. Irrevocable. Not even the Stones themselves can undo it."
The words were a knife — and Natasha felt them cut.
For just a breath, her smile wavered.
Then she blew out a slow sigh and gave a low, bitter laugh.
"Of course it is," she muttered, shaking her head faintly, copper hair falling over one eye. "Nothing's ever easy with those damn rocks, is it?"
The Mother remained silent — but something like faint approval glimmered behind the glint of her spectacles.
Natasha's smirk reassembled itself, a little more jagged but no less defiant.
"Well," she drawled, tucking her hands into her jacket pockets, "lucky me. Tony and Bruce have been yammering about the multiverse theory for years. Kinda funny they never realized how right they were."
That, at last, earned her something more than condescension — the Mother's faint smile deepened, almost fond.
"Not everyone," she said, "has the imagination to see how vast it truly is."
Natasha grinned wider, all teeth.
"Oh, honey," she shot back, voice sweet and lethal, "I don't need imagination. I've got grit, spite, and an unreasonable tolerance for pain."
She stepped closer — just enough to make her boots click against the bench leg, just enough to make it clear she wasn't afraid.
"So?" she said, voice dropping into a taunting whisper. "Where'd you dump me?"
The Mother rose.
It was quiet — no rustle of fabric, no sound at all — but somehow the air shifted. Her heels struck the tile, slow and deliberate, echoing through the vast emptiness. She didn't tower over Natasha. She didn't need to.
"You," she said, each word deliberate and final, "were sent to my world. My domain. Natalia Alianovna Romanova."
The name froze her.
The faint smile slid clean off Natasha's face, and for a second — just a second — all her armor cracked.
Her sharp green gaze darted to the Mother's, voice barely more than a whisper.
"…Not many people know that name."
The Mother tilted her head, eyes glinting, the corner of her mouth curling faintly.
"I," she said, "am not… people."
That was enough.
Natasha inhaled deep, steady, and straightened her jacket with a sharp tug.
Her smirk rekindled — hotter, fiercer than before.
"Fine," she said, voice low and alive with challenge. "Guess I'll play along. Your world, huh? Let's see if it can keep up."
The Mother only watched her, silent and knowing, as the white light above them flared brighter — humming now like the strings of some cosmic instrument, as if the universe itself was waiting to see what Natalia Romanova would do next.
And for the first time since she fell… Natasha Romanoff smiled.
For real.
—
The Mother didn't sit back so much as reign.
Her movements were unhurried, deliberate — the way glaciers move. One long, pale finger brushed the folio aside. She steepled her hands just beneath her chin, elbows resting on the arms of the chair, her gaze never leaving Natasha's. It was the look of a monarch about to pronounce sentence.
"This place," she began, her voice quiet but carrying, like a bell tolling through fog, "is called the Wizarding World. As the name implies… witches and wizards. A whole society of them. But not out in the open. Oh no. They hide."
Natasha's eyebrows shot up, and she leaned lazily against a pillar, crossing one ankle over the other.
"Hiding?" she drawled, her lips curving into something sharp. "From who? The Easter Bunny? Bigfoot? Santa Claus? Please tell me it's Santa."
A faint twitch of the Mother's mouth. Not quite a smile. But not not one, either.
"They call the non-magical 'Muggles,'" she said flatly. "In England, at least. In America, they prefer the term No-Maj. Elsewhere, there are others. But you… will need to know Muggle."
Natasha snorted and rolled her eyes, emerald gaze gleaming with mischief.
"Muggle. Sounds like something you cough up after a bad night in Moscow."
The Mother didn't rise to the bait. Her tone, however, carried just a dusting more frost.
"They are not boring. They are… unaware. By design. The magical community imposed something called the Statute of Secrecy centuries ago. A magical covenant. To keep the two worlds apart. To keep the peace. Or what passes for it."
Natasha straightened, sauntering forward, her boots clapping sharply against the marble floor. She came to a stop just shy of the Mother's chair, arms folded.
"Classic," she murmured. "Keep your freak show under wraps so the pitchfork brigade doesn't come knocking. Textbook spy play. Cute."
The Mother's eyes darkened, glinting like obsidian.
"That fragile peace," she said, "is unraveling. And quickly. There is a war coming. One born of fear… hatred… and old blood."
Natasha's head cocked, her smile growing sharper by the second.
"Oh," she said sweetly. "Let me guess. Some nutjobs who think they're better because Mommy and Daddy happened to glow in the dark?"
The Mother didn't so much as blink.
"They call themselves the Purebloods," she said. And for the first time, her composure slipped — just slightly. The disdain in her voice was unmistakable. "Arrogant. Deluded. They cling to the lie that only those born to magical families — Purebloods — deserve magic. That those born to non-magical parents — Muggleborns — are tainted. Half-bloods, with one magical and one non-magical parent, fare little better in their eyes."
Natasha's laugh was low and bitter, like gravel rattling in a glass.
"Wow," she said, shaking her head. "Magical racism. How original. Somebody should tell these guys they're a few centuries late to the party."
The Mother's chin rose a fraction, her voice dipping lower, tighter.
"Magic," she said, the word carrying all the weight of a curse, "has no allegiance. It does not care who wields it. It does not care what blood runs through their veins. The notion of Pureblood supremacy…" Her lip curled, delicate but cutting. "…is an affront. And I do not tolerate affronts."
Natasha stared at her for a long beat, then let a slow, dangerous smile curl across her lips.
"You sound almost… personally offended," she murmured, teasing but curious.
"I am," the Mother replied, her voice as sharp as winter.
Natasha's grin widened, flashing teeth.
"Well," she purred, "I'm not much of a joiner, but something tells me I'm not gonna like these guys. So." She rocked back on her heels. "Muggleborns and Half-Bloods are rising. Purebloods are wetting themselves. Got it. Guess that means it's time for me to pick a side."
The Mother's eyes glinted with quiet satisfaction.
"You will be reborn," she said, "as a Muggleborn witch. Born at the hour the storm breaks. Old enough to fight. And… to choose how you fight."
Natasha stepped even closer — so close she could see her own reflection in the cold silver of the Mother's spectacles. Her voice dropped to a whisper, low and lethal.
"Just hope your world is ready for me."
The Mother rose.
She didn't need to raise her voice, didn't need to make a single unnecessary movement. She just stood — and somehow the very air bent around her.
"It will be," she said softly. Then — the faintest, coldest of smiles — "Because you will make it so."
A wind picked up from nowhere, sharp and sudden. The lights above them flared blindingly white. Natasha's copper hair whipped around her face, her boots skidding just half an inch before she braced herself.
She grinned through the storm, eyes blazing.
"Let's dance," she muttered.
The world shattered into white.
—
The light swallowed her whole.
Not just blinding — devouring. It tore through her like wildfire, heat and memory and self stripped bare, rebuilt, stripped again. Every sharp corner she'd ever honed herself into was melted down into something new. Molten. Raw. And through it — a thread of sound. A whisper, cool as steel and just as cutting.
The Mother's voice.
"One more thing, Natalia Romanova. A gift."
Natasha might've laughed if she'd had lungs anymore. Typical. The woman couldn't just let her fall into oblivion without getting the last word.
"This is a new life. A whole one. Even the piece the Red Room stole from you… will be returned. The ability to create life. The choice… to be a mother, should you wish it."
For the first time in longer than she could remember, Natasha Romanoff — or whoever she was now — didn't have a snappy comeback ready.
Instead… she smiled.
It wasn't the razor-edged, brittle grin she wore like armor. It was real. Fierce. Untamed.
And then she let the light take her.
—
Cokeworth, England — January 30th, 1960
The air in the hospital room smelled like antiseptic and flowers — lilies, mostly, which someone had left in a too-tight, too-clumsy bouquet on the counter. Outside, snow fell in soft white curtains, settling thick on the windowsill.
Inside, Melanie Evans was not having a good time.
"Bloody hell, Alex Evans," she gasped through gritted teeth, "if you ever come near me with that look in your eye again—"
Alex Evans — a tall, broad man with the kind of slouched military confidence you couldn't scrub off with bleach — grinned through his beard and squeezed her hand back just as tight.
"—you'll kill me. I know, darling. You've mentioned it. Twice."
"Make it thrice!" Melanie barked, her copper hair plastered to her damp forehead. "And stop smiling at me like that. If you grin one more time—"
"—you'll kill me. Four times. Duly noted." His voice was warm and teasing, but his eyes… his eyes never left hers. He brushed back her hair with his free hand, jaw tight, trying to keep her steady even though he'd gone a little pale himself. "You're doing incredible, Mel. Really. Nearly there now."
"Oh, I know I'm nearly there," she hissed. "You're the one just standing there being smug while I— oh—" She cut off with a cry as the next contraction hit.
"That's it, Mum," the midwife said briskly, looking slightly harried now. "Big push for me—here she comes—"
Mel let out a sharp groan and bore down with everything she had. A moment later, the room filled with the piercing, indignant wail of a newborn.
Alex's breath left him in a rush.
"She's here!" the midwife announced, holding up a tiny, furious bundle.
Alex stared. His knees actually wobbled. He'd faced down men with rifles and bombs and worse, but nothing — nothing — prepared him for the sight of his little girl.
Melanie caught his dazed look and laughed breathlessly through her tears.
"Well don't just stand there looking like a prize idiot," she panted. "Take her."
Alex did. Carefully, almost reverently, he took his daughter from the midwife and stared down at her flushed little face.
"She's… she's perfect," he murmured. Then he looked back at Melanie, his voice softer. "What do we call her?"
"Lily," Melanie whispered. "Lily Marie. After your mum."
Alex's throat worked. He smiled — a real, full, messy smile — and kissed his wife's forehead.
"Hello, Lily," he murmured down to the little girl in his arms. "You're going to make me gray by the time I'm thirty, aren't you?"
But before he could fully settle into the moment, Melanie's fingers dug into his wrist hard enough to leave a bruise.
"Don't get too cozy," she grit out. "There's… bloody hell… another one—"
Alex blinked, startled.
"Another—?!"
"Yes another!" Melanie snapped. "What do you think they meant when they said twins, you great lump?!"
The midwife was already bustling back into position.
"That's right, Dad," she called. "One more to go. Let's have you back here with Mum—she needs you."
Alex stumbled back into place, gripping Melanie's hand again. "Right. Yes. Of course. Twins. Knew that. Completely fine. Not panicking at all."
"Shut up and let me crush your hand," Melanie hissed through clenched teeth.
"Yes, ma'am."
The second one took a little longer. She made them work for it — stubborn even now. But when she finally arrived, her cry was lower than her sister's. Rougher. Like she was already spoiling for a fight.
Melanie's eyes welled up as they placed the second baby into her arms.
"She… she feels…" Melanie faltered, then smiled faintly. "…Different. Strong. Like she already knows what kind of world she's in."
Alex leaned over her shoulder, peering at the tiny face already wrinkled up in quiet irritation at the cold.
"What do we call this one?" he asked softly.
Melanie looked down at her daughter for a long, thoughtful beat. Then she smiled — wide and proud and just a little defiant.
"Ramonda Natalia," she said. "After the flower. Ramonda nathaliae. Rare. Resilient. It blooms even after everything else dies."
Alex stared down at the squirming little girl and then kissed Melanie's temple again.
"Ramonda Natalia Evans," he echoed, his voice low but steady. "That's a hell of a name, kiddo. You better live up to it."
As the snow fell soft and heavy outside, the two sisters lay curled in their mother's arms — Lily Marie, already quiet, content to watch the world with wide eyes… and Ramonda Natalia, her tiny fists curled, her green eyes sharp and unafraid, as if daring the world to try her.
—
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Click the link below to join the conversation:
https://discord.com/invite/HHHwRsB6wd
Can't wait to see you there!
If you appreciate my work and want to support me, consider buying me a cup of coffee. Your support helps me keep writing and bringing more stories to you. You can do so via PayPal here:
https://www.paypal.me/VikrantUtekar007
Or through my Buy Me a Coffee page:
https://www.buymeacoffee.com/vikired001s
Thank you for your support!