Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters, nor am I making any profit from them.

Слава (or sláva, in the Slavic languages that don't use Cyrillic (except Polish, which uses a different spelling but that sounds almost the same)) means "glory" or "fame."

I debated posting this here; on one hand, it's so short that it hardly deserves to be called a story, but on the other hand, it's meaningful to me in very particular ways. Anyway, I hope you enjoy, and that you forgive me if I've made any mistakes, because I've only seen AoU once.

From the corner of her eye she sees a too-familiar blur, a streak of blue in the air that sizzles to silver at the edges. It is him, and she turns, sick with hope, so dizzied by the possibility that she clutches the edge of a chair to stand steady. The image on the screen is poor quality, the camera shaking and the figures it's captured wreathed in smoke and dust; she hears the words "closed-circuit footage" and knows that it is showing the past, that the present has not changed. The blur is gone: from the screen, from her life. Rather than scream she bites her lip, teeth piercing a place already rent; her knuckles whiten and she sways, but she does not fall.

Then the voice on the television, slick with fake sympathy and misplaced pride, calls them heroes. At that she vomits, what little she'd eaten burning back up her throat and spilling over the gleaming floor.

Someone thrusts a bottle of water at her. When she does not move to take it the hand hesitates, wavering, then sets the bottle down nearby. Unseen footsteps move away, and she is alone.

A sob is caught within her somewhere. It throbs against her lungs and her stomach and her spine; she chokes on it, tastes it hot and metallic as it presses against the back of her tongue. She sinks slowly, too busy gulping down the feral terror to bother remaining upright.

There is movement, purposeful and efficient, all around her. There is the pulsing roar of machinery, the crackling of static, the issuing of orders. There is a girl, alone, on her knees, coming apart from the inside out because her brother is dead and they've named him a hero. Or the other way around: he is a hero, and for it he has died.

That is what heroes did—they died. Every child knows that; every Sokovian sees the truth of it every day they walk the streets. Past pockmarks in concrete-slab walls, past stains that they all pretend were not left by pooled blood, past rusted strings of barbed wire and broken windows. The words are inescapable, carved deep in stone or fashioned from metal once bright but now weeping. Glory to the heroes who gave their lives. For the sake of a country, a cause, or compatriots, the outcome is the same: glory is sacrifice, heroism death. How could he have forgotten that? How could he have expected anything different?

Now, in the way of all heroes, his name will fade, smothered by the title he has earned. The world will forget that he had a sister who loved him more than she hated Tony Stark; it will only remember that he is a hero, and dead. People will honor him in death who would have ignored him in life.

She's doubled over now, arms wrapped around her middle, forehead nearly touching the floor, more desperate and empty than she has ever felt before. Without him by her side she is incomplete. She wonders if it is possible to live with such a hole in your life, your heart, your soul; she wonders if it would be better to stop trying.

Someone crouches an arm's distance away. "I know it doesn't mean much," a voice says, "but I'm sorry." There is something soothingly ordinary about him, about the little grunts of pain he allows to escape as he shifts position. "But believe me, the last thing anyone here is gonna tell you is to get over it. And I'll never forget what Pietro did for that kid and me." In his eyes she sees fatigue, pain, and honesty, and does not notice the tears beginning to track down her face.

The words are not yet set in stone. Pietro Maximoff is a hero, and his name will be remembered. They will make sure of it.