Monticello, NY
The wind was still that morning. Quiet and heavy. Monticello woke up to that same low hum that had been hanging over the town for weeks now, like something old breathing beneath the soil. The sun tried its best to shine through the haze, but it barely made a dent as that thin curtain of heat rising off the distant volcano cloaked the sky in a dull shimmer.
The townsfolk had long since adapted—somewhat. At first, people panicked, fled, tried to make sense of it. A meteor crash, the creation of a volcano, tremors, and the damn thing glowing at night? The town was on edge for days. Weeks even. But humans were stubborn things. They settled back into their rhythm. They always did. Diner opened as usual. Kids went to school. Farmers tended to their fields. Folks muttered under their breath about the "hot mountain" and learned to live with the occasional rattle of glass.
But even if no one said it out loud anymore… they all *knew*. That volcano wasn't right.
Sometimes, it hummed—not loud, just a deep, bone-felt sound that settled in your chest and made your teeth feel strange. Sometimes the dogs barked at it and didn't stop until someone dragged them back inside. Sometimes people swore they saw shadows near the crater—massive shapes moving through the smoke—only to vanish when the mist shifted.
And lately, it had started again.
Just before dawn, the ground gave that little familiar tremble. Enough to make plates clink and old folks grumble. But this time… it wasn't fading. It was rhythmic. Like something *beating* under the surface.
Up there, hidden beneath layers of molten rock and obsidian walls, *he* stirred.
The heart of the volcano had become something else entirely—no longer a natural chamber, but a black cathedral born of heat and pain. Stone pillars rose from magma rivers, twisted into smooth form by hands not of this Earth. A forge stood at the center, anvil embedded into the ground, tools scattered around it like offerings to a god of fire.
And there he stood. His form massive—inhuman. Flesh dark as ash and muscles like sculpted stone. Even as molten sweat ran down his arms, he worked without pause. His breathing was slow. Measured. Focused.
Statues surrounded him.
Not of deities or kings. No. These were warriors. Brothers. Giants clad in armor of lost ages. Each one carved by memory alone—down to the finest detail. Faces etched with grief, fury, wisdom. One wore a pelt of a great beast. Another stood with a book in one hand, blade in the other. Some looked down in solemn silence, others stared toward the invisible horizon with clenched fists.
He remembered each one.
His fingers moved with care as he crafted another—a lean figure, delicate in design, robed and tranquil. Her arms reached outward, as if in prayer. She was not of the Legions… but still, he remembered her. A spark, buried beneath ten thousand years of war.
Behind him, racks of half-forged relics lined the walls—weapons of iron and fire, jewelry twisted from volcanic ore, armor scaled like the hides of ancient beasts. Clothing too, if it could be called that. Woven of materials not known to this world, hardened through the heat of the worldheart itself. Some he wore now—a thick scaled cloak over his shoulder, layered with ash-colored cloth. His boots—formed from obsidian plates—rang with each step like dull thunder.
And still he carved.
Not for battle. Not for glory.
But to remember.
Back in Monticello, folks tried to ignore the shifting wind. But today was different. The heat was thicker. The tremors more frequent. Some claimed they saw lights flicker from within the crater last night—soft at first, then flashing bright enough to mimic lightning. A local teen tried hiking halfway up the ridge for a dare. Came back pale and stuttering, swearing he heard whispering stone.
Word spread fast. Always did.
The sheriff put up another warning sign. Local radio hosts spun their usual nonsense about ancient gods and government experiments. But underneath the jokes, everyone knew—something was *happening*. Again.
And somewhere across the state, inside the cold metal walls of a high-altitude surveillance jet, Nick Fury read the updated seismic scans in silence.
"Sir," one of the agents said, approaching from behind, tablet in hand. "Monticello again. Low-level tremors, but it's persistent this time. Same epicenter as the meteor event."
Fury didn't look up. "Didn't we already send a team out there?"
"Yes, sir. Four times. Each time… nothing definitive. Instruments jammed. Comms cut out. Last crew said they hit a patch of heat so intense it melted part of the outer drone casing. Sensors shorted the moment they passed the outer rock field."
"And ground team?"
"Wouldn't go past the ridge. Locals warned them off. Said the land 'screams' when you get too close."
Fury finally looked up, one brow raised.
"That so?"
The agent nodded, clearly uncomfortable. "Also... one of the drones picked up something last week before the signal cut. A brief silhouette. Tall. Massive. Humanoid. But the heat bloom made the image useless."
Fury rubbed his temple, then looked out the window at the clouds. First Stark escapes from the middle of a cave in goddamn Afghanistan with a suit of armor, and now he had a sleeping volcano that didn't act like a volcano.
"Prep another team. This time, send someone with a brain. And backup."
"Yes, sir."
The agent left quickly, clearly not wanting to linger too long.
Fury sighed, muttering under his breath.
"First it was aliens. Now Earth's throwing its own surprises."
He turned back to the screen.
The volcano pulsed again.
Just once.
But it was enough to make the seismograph needle skip.
And somewhere beneath all that rock and flame, Vulkan's hand paused over his forge, eyes narrowing.
But he simply sighed, sensing the activity near his volcano. He shook his head and continued sculpting her figure.
Someone he used to know, but who was now buried in time. He neither knew her name nor who she was to him.
But he knew that she was someone close to his heart—*his flame*.
After a few finishing touches, she was finally complete. He gazed at her with uncontrolled longing as he tried to hold her outstretched hand.
But he hesitated, heart filled with sorrow, as this same gesture made him remember something painful.
"Ahh, this same hand of mine… held you close to me."
He muttered as a faint memory from long ago returned—her withered form laid in bed as he held her old and fragile hand.
"My flame… would you be willing to follow your dear heart's wish?"
The old woman said softly to Vulkan, whose frame exuded calm, but inside, his heart was in grave pain—more painful than the wounds he had suffered in battle.
It was unbearable for him as he softly gazed at her.
"My heart… w—say it, and I shall fulfill it."
He said in a calm tone, though she clearly heard his voice choking. She simply smiled and held his hand tighter.
"Be kind... love your sons… love humanity… and… more importantly…"
She slowly closed her eyes as she whispered her final words, which Vulkan heard clearly.
"Be happy. I don't want to see you sad after I'm gone."
And so, after she said her final wish, her hand slowly lost strength as she died peacefully with Vulkan by her side.
Vulkan gently held her hand, unable to bear the sight much longer, and a single tear slid down his cheek as he whispered to her:
"Yes, my heart… your wish… is mine to withhold."
He leaned in and kissed her forehead softly.
And all was history.
Now, deep beneath the Earth, in the belly of the mountain, Vulkan gazed at her statue and smiled.
"My heart…"
He whispered as he carried her statue gently toward where his sons' statues stood—her sons.
And as he placed her there, between the giants forged from love and grief, he stood back… silent.
A soft warmth filled the chamber—not of fire, but something gentler.
He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing in that memory, letting it settle in his soul.
And as the forge crackled and the volcano trembled once more, he whispered with a voice soft and sure—
"Even here, beneath all this weight… you still make me feel light."