Part I: In Which Pietro Is Alive

Prologue

The obsidian rocks gleamed in the moonlight filtering through the gaping hole of the roof of the cavern. The blocks of rock seemed to both capture and reflect the luminescence of the night sky, unusually bright tonight. Water lapped at the edges of a bank strewn with lost trinkets. The gentle caress of the waves upon the pebbly sand remained the sole sound in the cavern. Even the heavy breathing of two trespassers emitted no noise as the air, cool and crisp and clear, robbed them of audibility.

A male and a female picked their way through the spires of rock and slopes of sand. Gemstones glimmered at their feet, unearthed by years of erosion of the soil, impregnated as it was by the silt of the pool, that they had been buried beneath. The man's eyes trailed among them, but he did not stoop to retrieve one. The maiden's focus never strayed from reaching the shallow pool. She ignored the treasure trove of jewels, clutching a wooden box to her chest as if she feared it would leap from her hands lest she loosen her grip. Leading the man to the water, she crouched in the wet sand. From his satchel he removed a frayed leather-bound tome whose inked parchment pages betrayed its age. Opening the book to a familiar spot, he wordlessly directed the woman to reveal the contents of the box.

Her hands were steady as she placed a worn photograph face-up on the ground at her side. Next she deposited a pair of running shoes, the soles worn through. Finally she laid a lock of white hair on top of the picture. The hair appeared silver in the pale light. At the man's instruction-still silent, still communicating by gestures-she plucked a russet strand from her own head. Selecting a shard of obsidian from the bed of fragmented rock that was partially the cavern floor, she sliced open her palm, wincing as rivulets of crimson blood streamed from the broken flesh and coalesced into a puddle over the items, staining the shoes red.

Anxiety liquefied the man's blue eyes, turning them into swimming oceans of concern. He craned his neck to peer out the hole at the moon, which was positioned directly above the pool. Distractedly he began rolling up the sleeves of his plaid button-down, watching the woman mouth words to herself. He knew from studying the ancient mythological lore described in the tome that the cavern prevented them from speaking and disrupting the serenity. The site was a focal point for mystical energy; it radiated a unique beacon from a scientific perspective and housed a brilliant aura for the religious and occult believers. Legends said it was a center for life: the renewal, the rebirth, and the ending. People who bathed in the water were replenished and healed. Restored. In the olden days, mothers would bear their children here, believing they would be blessed. Some indigenous civilizations from the area would bring their dying to the scene; once they passed, their souls would be cleansed and would ascend to the afterlife, riding on a beam of moonlight. There were other stories too, dealing with the surplus of gems; some claimed they were cursed, and others promised they were sources of power and wealth. However, they were here for one thing and one thing only: the water's restorative properties.

The girl tapped him on the knee. He nodded. Scarlet leaked into her eyes, an effulgent glow replacing her irises. Red energy flowed from her hands as she thrust them into the pool and her companion shoved the objects in. The tinted photograph floated on the surface briefly before the smiling faces of two parents and their children sank into the depths to a watery sleep.

Though no words escaped, her lips moved in a chant that shook the air. It thrummed with the power pulsating from her; the hum visibly vibrated the air, shaking the two humans' vision. The chant's crescendo steadily grew, as did the vibrating. Finally it was as if the very atmosphere shattered, a spell broken, and a scream pierced the air. The bubbling water churned, red light emanating from its deceiving depth. Obsidian trembled. Precious gems protruded from the ground, creating spikes of emerald and garnet and topaz. Sparkling diamonds popped from the earth. The scream suddenly morphed; it was utter agony to listen to the cry of grief but it was as if the very spirits of the hidden cave hung on every forbidden note. It was a banshee's wail, speaking of death and misery and anguish. It lingered afterward, striking the hearts of any who heard the distant fading echo of one who wished for death but didn't receive it, left stranded and lost in an isle of isolated pain and longing. To hear it was to know that torture and as the cavern quivered, a beam of light burst from the pool. The waves coughed up their condolences, spilling their empathy onto the bank at the woman's feet.

Abruptly, the torment hanging in the air with the remnants of the scream dissipated. A third body lay coiled and gasping on the rocks. The woman sprang forward, yanking the body into her lap to cradle it against her chest despite its superior weight and size. A peal of giddy laughter rang forth; tears spilled down her cheeks. Eyelids fluttered open, swirling with silver and scarlet before fading to their original hue.

"Pietro," whispered Wanda. She cupped his face, leaning her forehead against his. "Brother, I've brought you back." Smiling, she turned to the man knelt nearby, frozen in awe. "Dr. Selvig, let's go home."