The Weight of Loss

Natasha did not raise her head. Her hand shook as it wrapped around Leon's arm, fingers clutching, knuckles white with the tension of feelings on the verge of breaking her. The purple night pushed against the room through the open window, chilled air bearing the delicate rustle of leaves. Moonlight, spectral and gentle, spilled down over the floor in broken patterns, covering the room in an otherworldly, stopped silence.

She risked a peek over his shoulder, fear and curiosity battling within her. Her breath snagged, suspended on the cusp of panic. There, stretched across the floor, was her sister. Black hair spread out like spilled ink, a dark circle encircling a pale, still face. The acrid sting of blood assaulted Natasha's senses, combining with the pungent incense and the faint crackle of residual magic to make the air seem almost claustrophobic.

Before her mind was able to properly ingest the horror, Leon stirred. One quick movement brought him up against her, pulling her into his arms. His grip was hard, enclosing, unshakeable—a shield between her and the nightmare she wouldn't acknowledge. Her cheek sank into the solid heat of his chest, heartbeat thudding in time with her own racing pulse.

".Natasha…" His words receded to a low, even tone, but one threaded through with tenderness that did not belong near such danger. It swept against her ear like a vow, anchoring her in a world she wanted to leave behind. The authority in his voice was not only control; it was concern, unyielding and uncompromising.

She sensed the tension in her own muscles begin to seep away, just enough for her to bend into him, giving in to the infrequent, brittle comfort of his presence. All of her muscles screamed to shatter, to break, to cry, but his arms kept her braced, an unstated promise that she didn't have to get through this on her own. The room was still thick with shadows, the smell of incense and blood heavy in her nostrils, but for the first time since witnessing the scene, she sensed a flash of safety, brief though it was.

Natasha's body stiffened, her breath lodged in her throat. She had no doubt whatever Leon had seen. The blood was not just anybody's—it belonged to her sister. To the one being she loved more than herself.

"No! Let me go, Leon!" Her voice cracked into a frantic scream as she struggled against his hold. "I want to see her! I have to see her!

Leon's arms constricted around her, hard and unyielding. Not force—protection. He saw the danger hidden inside her sorrow. Power locked inside her was not normal; it was the kind that could reduce cities to rubble. If she lost control now, if she allowed the tempest of her sorrow to consume her, not only her sister's body—but half the city—would be buried under rubble.

I'm not holding you back because I don't care," Leon said softly, his voice firm but with an edge of command. "I'm doing this because if you lose yourself now, you'll destroy everything. Everything we've fought for, everything she loved—you'll wipe it all away.

Natasha's body trembled convulsively. Her voice broke between gasps and weeping. "How can I be stable, Leon? Tell me how! My sister… she's dead! She's dead, and I—" Her words broke into a strangled scream.

"Natasha." His voice sliced through her hysteria—firm, anchoring, unignorable. "Look at me."

Her wild, wet eyes met his.

"Breathe," he whispered, more slowly this time, his thumb wiping away a tear from her face. "You're not going to do this alone. I'm right here. I won't let you fall apart. Not now. Not ever. Trust me."

Her courage finally broke down. Her forehead thudded against his chest as she wept openly. The raw, broken sound of her crying filled the room, echoing off walls that seemed to shrink with each measured breath. Leon didn't stir. He clutched her closer, allowing her tears to wash out over him, each of her spasms of pain seeming to echo through his own body.

Her voice trembled, barely audible, swallowed by the warmth of his chest where she pressed herself. "You…" she whispered, each syllable fragile, trembling on the edge of her lips. "You're not afraid of my anger?"

"I am," he admitted on a whisper, so close she could feel the soft warmth of his breath against her. "But I must be stronger than this one moment. For you. For your sister. For all who still need us."

Her eyes flashed upward, shining with unshed tears, focusing on him. There was a serenity in Leon that never faltered, a facade of calm so flawless it could deceive anyone—but Natasha sensed the tension underlying it, subtle but real. The unobtrusive weight of someone who bore far more than she could even dream bopped against her chest, grounding her fear, her sadness.

Panic tore at her chest, raw and strangling. She instinctively attempted to push him away, fingers shaking, a tempest of rage and despair entangled in each movement. "Let me go! I want to see her, Leon. I need to see her!" She screamed, desperation leaking into every syllable.

Leon did not flinch. Not even an inch. His arms moved, readjusting, strong but sheltering, wrapped around her without breaking her vulnerable frame. "No, Natasha. You're not ready. You must breathe first. You must survive to take revenge for her, not break here." His tone was steady, but beneath it pulsed the unspoken reality—he bore the weight of both their hearts, the pressure of a world about to crumble on top of them.

Her fury snapped, hard and violent, and in a wild outburst of feeling, she called upon the elemental power that played upon the limits of her existence—the blood element, wild and unpredictable, a deadly inheritance that coursed through her blood. Red power burst from her hand, a wild torrent swirling towards him, raw and uncontrolled, each blow crying out her hurt, her sorrow, her anger.

Leon's amber eyes cinched, concentrated, but didn't blink. He didn't lash out. He didn't even attempt to overwhelm her with physical force. He let the power wash past him, skimming his body like flames on skin. He mastered it with the skill of practice, just enough to keep neither of them from getting hurt. A deep cut gaped up along his forearm, red seeping into the material of his sleeve, yet he stood firm, immobile, unshaken, the slightest twitch of muscle revealing the force she had just released.

And in that instant, the air between them contained more than the bite of magic—it contained the harsh, unspoken reality of survival, of love, of loss, and of the crushing weight of being strong when the world made the most of it.

"Natasha!" Leon's voice shook with urgency and softness, every syllable heavy with her anguish. He could sense it—each beat of her magic pulsed alive, crying out in agony and discord. "I sense it. I get it. But you can't kill yourself here. You won't. Not now. Not this way."