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Chapter Text

Water laps at your bare feet and your every sense tingles, heightened, painfully aware of the world around you as it shifts with the tides. He's close; you can smell a hint of him above the sea salt - whiskey and sweat and blood.

Durga drifts behind you. Her feet don't break the surface of the beach, but the wind pulls at the jasmine in her hair and the tail of her saree as if she were really on the same physical plane as you. It doesn't really matter either way, though, because she's always with you. Always has been, always will be.

The banyan tree overhead creaks as if something heavy rests upon its branches, and the air overhead sparks with electricity and you suddenly feel very cool in the midday sun.

"How was your trip?"

"Not too bad."

He's American. Somehow, the voice matches the scent. Still, you don't turn to face him, but you continue to gaze across the ocean.

"I'm not in trouble, am I?"

It takes some effort not to roll your eyes because of course he's a wise guy, of course he's trying to be funny. Like he doesn't know.

You can just make out Durga moving in the corner of your eye, approaching the trunk of the banyan tree with her head tilted back. What she's looking at, you have no idea, but she remains silent. She just... looks. And something flutters in the breeze, something you can't see.

"You've been causing quite a bit of chaos, Mr. Spector," you say as you trace the outline of a flower into the sand.

"Call me Marc."

You stand and stretch your arms above your head, to either side, bend over and touch your toes, and you can actually hear him bristle at you ignoring him. Once the sand is dusted from your skirt and saree, you turn and give your own name.

He's handsome. Maybe too handsome. Olive skin, dark eyes, and even darker curls add up to a long, muscled, dangerous streak of a man.

"You have something that belongs to us, Marc. We'd like it back."

He smirks. "Yeah, not gonna happen, sweetheart."

Your eyes flicker to the banyan tree where Durga stands, but she is entirely unbothered. She seems focused on a particular branch that hangs out over the water. You take her disinterest to mean that this Marc Spector will be easy to defeat, that you won't need her help.

"You can fight me for it, though. If you think you'll win."

He's trying to bait you and you know it, but it's almost working. He has the audacity to steal from your goddess, to stake claim to the evidence of her justice in this twisted, muddy world, and then he thinks he can prod you like a cattle and get under your skin with that infuriating smirk? Anger flares to life inside your chest, even as you fight it, because you know better, you shouldn't be so easily goaded into fighting, you should be following Durga's example - violence out of necessity, not out of ego. But his smirk stokes your fire all the same and at some point there's just no point in holding back anymore. If Marc Spector wants a fight, then it's a fight he'll get.

You relinquish yourself to brahman and allow its power to flow through you until you are no longer just yourself. The saree around your body melts and fuses with your blouse, then bursts into a billowing kameez while your skirts splits down the middle and seams itself together around each calf. You feel a bright, warm spot begin to glow in the center of your back, stretching from your shoulder blades to nearly halfway down your spine, as your arms materialize above and around you. It feels right, it feels holy as the world folds itself around the shape of you.

The smirk on Marc's face is long gone and that fills you with pleasure. Good. At least he's sensible enough to know when to be afraid. You raise one hand above all the rest, the hand that holds Durga's sword, and lower yourself into a crouch, waiting. Your trident hands ache, clasping at nothing, and you feel your conviction burn hotter.

Marc is not the kind of man to think that a woman lacks strength. If anything, women are stronger (and smarter) than any man that's ever walked the Earth, and he knows that for a fact. But he hadn't really expected much from the sweet face and quiet voice of the woman he met on the beach. He knows, in the heartbeats between watching you transform and summoning his own avatar state, that he was wrong.

He throws a crescent dagger your way. It whistles and thunks against the shield in one of your- God, how many, eighteen hands? The dagger falls into the sand and you step over it without a second glance to advance on him. All three of your eyes are burning righteous as he stumbles back in a daze. He's faced avatars and villains alike, seen and done unspeakable things, and come out the other end still alive, but this is different. He's never met someone quite so fierce or terrifying as you.

A brassy discus comes hurtling towards his face and he barely manages to duck out of the way to avoid breaking his nose. He swoops to the side and throws another two daggers, this time aimed at your nearest pair of arms. One of them lands with a sickening squelch in the flesh of your forearm, but the other lights off the tip of your mace. The angry, pained sound that comes out of you is little less than a lionesses battle cry and it's enough to bring him to his knees.

Shit, shit, shit. One of his ears is ringing. His knees are wobbly.

"Where is it?" you roar as you advance on him.

Marc raises his arm to block the blow of your mace, but half a dozen arms come swinging forward and he doesn't have enough time or leverage or body to fight them all back. Your javelin pierces through his ribcage, sliding neatly between ribs, a lung, and his spine, while your sword cuts into his stomach and four other hands all grab at his robes and cloak. At least two of your hands are tipped with the claws of a giant cat and they dig into his armor, bending and breaking it until they finally tear into his skin.

"I can rip you apart here and now, Spector, but I don't want to. Not if I don't have to." You lean in close and your lips are crimson. His stomach drops. "Where is the trishula?"

"You're not gonna get it-."

"And you don't understand the gravity of your situation."

Marc huffs and he can feel blood in his mouth. It's probably staining through the front of his mask by now. He steals a glance at the banyan tree on his right, but Khonshu is unbothered, still resting in its branches. If ever that stupid pigeon skull of his looked like it was smiling, it did now.

Your eyes are threatening to swallow him whole. "Give it to me, mercenary, and I'll let you live."

That does it. Marc summons his mask back into the void so he can see you properly. He's still on his knees and he's bleeding and impaled and furious, but this fight isn't over yet. It happens in a flash, but he throws himself back with as much force as he can muster and he flings you overhead. The javelin splinters inside him and he almost blacks out from the pain, but he presses on. He has to. He spins around, pulls your sword out of his stomach, retrieves another crescent dagger, and pins you to the ground by your collarbones.

"Let me make it real simple for you, sweetheart," and his voice is honey sweet with a hint of fire. "You and your god can still walk away from this, but I am not giving that trident back. I serve Khonshu, and I serve justice." You're mewling beneath him like an injured cat, writhing and burning in a mess of blood and gold. He pretends it doesn't make his heart drop into his gut. "And we're done here."

"Justice?" Your laugh is ice cold. "Justice? You serve a rotting vulture who makes a mockery of justice!" You try to grab for him and pull him down to your level, make it an even fight, but he just unleashes another barrage of daggers into your hands and arms until you're properly pinned. "You think you know what justice is? You think Durga isn't the mother of all things just and wise and great? You think Khonshu could ever have grasped the concept of justice without Durga's legacy before him?"

This time Marc is knocked flat onto his back. Your roar echoes in his ears and his world is spinning, even as you stagger to your feet with blood and daggers riddling your body.

Chapter Text

"I thought he was a mercenary."

The air shifts beside you as Durga passes by, her eyes fixed on a massive column decorated with hieroglyphs and intricate artwork. She hums a little to herself, but she doesn't attempt to answer you. She's been more mysterious of late, more quiet, and there's always that same strange smile on her face. The one that tells you she knows something you don't. You used to love that smile, only now it makes you uneasy. And the only reason for things to have changed has to be because of him, because of Marc Spector.

Pursuing Marc has brought you here, to one of the many museums in London, where the spoils of British colonialism are on full display. It is beautiful, though. You step forward and press your hand flat against the column, and you can feel the energy of the eons pulsating deep inside the stone. So much history, so much memory, so much meaning all locked away in a beat up old hunk of rock. You smile; it reminds you of the countless temples Durga's taken you to, the ancient ones that are crumbling and damp with monsoon rain, hidden deep in the overgrowth of vines and creepers.

But the mental image of a temple by the sea, half shrouded by banyan trees reminds you of the mercenary. Your hand recoils into your chest like you've been burned and you scowl as you cast your glance over your shoulder in Marc's general direction. He's in the gift shop, dressed in some ridiculously patterned button-up that has probably never been ironed. If he wasn't the man who'd stolen the trishula, you might almost say he looks cute. But he is, so you won't.

Gathering your every ounce of patience and composure, you start across the gallery. He's chatting with a customer, beaming away with the same cheeky smile he'd given you when he impaled your arm on his dagger. Does he smile like that at everyone and hope they won't notice when he's being an absolute fu-?

"Hello! Welcome to our humble gift shop. Can I help you with anythin'?"

This has to be a joke. He's doing a bit. Or he's undercover, probably trying to steal some priceless Egyptian artifact and this is his cover. You blink, then again, your brain on backup processing power because this is too ridiculous to even entertain. He even has the accent down.

"I saw you lookin' at that pillar," he continues, hands fidgeting as he straightens the papers and knick knacks closest to him. "'s beautiful, innit? It's from one of the temples at Luxor, they found it knocked over-."

"Are you serious right now?"

Marc fumbles wordlessly for a moment. He looks at you, brows furrowed, then shifts his weight a bit as he glances around. Like he's missed the joke. "I'm... sorry?"

The bitter astonishment boiling in your stomach is starting to give you heartburn, so you give yourself a moment. Close your eyes, take a breath, find your serenity before continuing. Then you approach the checkout desk and rest your forearms against it.

"If you're here because you're planning on stealing something else, you'll have to go through me. You realize that, right?"

Marc's frown deepens. Truthfully, his confused expression paired with the wild curl hanging in his eyes is pretty cute, but you pretend not to notice it. He smiles, then laughs, hands raised in surrender. "You got me. Guilty as charged. Absolute rascal, I am! Can't leave me alone in a room full of priceless antiquities, can you? No."

Again with the accent. Surely he realizes he doesn't have to keep up appearances? But it has it's charm and he's really good at it, so you suppose it doesn't matter. Somewhere behind you, you think by the hippo stuffies, you can just hear Durga chuckling to herself.

Shoulders still shaking, Marc extends his arm over the counter and flashes you the most brilliant smile you've ever seen. You eye his hand, confused, and then he says, "I'm Steven. Grant. With a 'v'. The, er, the Steven's with a 'v', not the Grant. That'd be silly."

It takes all your willpower not to let your mouth hang open. "Steven?" you repeat incredulously.

He makes a face. "Yeah, that's my name. Steven. But what's, er, what's yours?" When you don't reply, he shakes his hand a little to encourage you to take it. "You're supposed to shake it. 'Cause we're introducin' ourselves, yeah? Or is this some sort of weird initiation ritual I've not heard of?"

You take his hand and shake it. And then you burst into laughter. It's loud and obnoxious and it hurts your stomach, but you can't help it. You're really supposed to believe that the mercenary who stole the trishula, the whiskied up snark machine that had the audacity to be charming, handsome, and annoying all at once, that man and this one are the same? In what world?

"Stevie! What have I told you about pestering the customers?"

You take advantage of the distraction to compose yourself and shake off what remains of your laughter. While Marc is busy with the grumpy looking blonde who seems to be tearing him a new one, you slip out of the gift shop and head for the exit. You need time to think, time to regroup, and you need to find out exactly why Marc Spector is undercover because he cannot get away with another stunt like the one he pulled on you.

You have no way of seeing the way Marc's eyes follow you or how his expression changes ever so slightly when you leave. But Durga sees. She makes sure the scent of jasmine lingers behind you both.

London has it charms - the parks, the river, the little shops and historical buildings. So far your favorite spot is this little walkway lined with shops and decorated in the center with a fountain. There's something comforting about the water that draws your attention until the sun starts to set. It's been a long day, not to mention interesting, and you're ready to collapse onto the lumpy hotel bed that's waiting for you.

Someone in the crowd bumps you in the shoulder forcefully enough to make you stagger back a step. You grunt, turn to get a glimpse of the person who did it, but don't immediately see the culprit. It strikes you as odd, but you figure it was just someone in a hurry and shrug it off. Only you can't. Because something's gripping your other arm, and hard. Something sharp digs into your ribs as you start to turn your head the other way and then there's a mouth at your ear.

"Act natural." And suddenly the smell of sweat and gift shopist cologne floods your nose. Marc.

Your jaw pops when you adjust it. "Pretty bold of you to accost me in public, don't you think, Mr. Spector?" You can feel the dual points of his crescent dagger through your kurti. "Or should I call you Steven?"

His laugh is low and rough, dangerous. When you finally manage to face him, you can see the vein ticking in his forehead and the sparks in his eyes. He's pissed and it's lighting you on fire. You hope he takes you somewhere more secluded so you can pummel him for daring to put his hands on you like this.

"Yeah, that's real cute," he says as he start to guide you to the edge of the crowd. "You wanna tell me why you're following me?"

"Only if you tell me why you're undercover. I told you back in the museum, I'm not letting you get away stealing something else-."

Marc pulls back on your elbow, drawing you into his torso hard enough to knock the dupatta off your shoulder. It's saved by the pin on the other shoulder, but now it's close to dragging at your feet. You wonder for a moment if you can manipulate it to wrap around Marc's arm or leg, trip him up for long enough to get away, but by the time you start to attempt summoning one of your avatar arms, Marc has maneuvered you both under the awning of a closed shop. Your back is pinned to the window while he looms over you, angry and tight-lipped.

"Listen. You got your trident back. Why don't you leave me the hell alone? And stop following me."

"Or what?" You can feel that spot in between your shoulder blades start to burn as your avatar state starts to stir. "I'm itching for a fight, Spector."

His hands and arms are a flurry with yours, but hardly a heartbeat later he has his dagger pressed against your throat and a forearm over your collarbones. You can feel his body pulsating with adrenaline as it leans into yours, notching into the swell of your belly and the slant of your legs. It sparks something deep in your torso, something empty and aching that has a name you're too afraid to acknowledge.

"I'm not undercover," he hisses and his breath hits you in the face. "I'm not stealing anything. I'm just trying to live my life."

You narrow your eyes. "I don't believe you."

"Believe it, don't believe it. I don't care. But if you ever do what you did today and go poking around in my business again, I'll make sure you live to regret it. Got it?"

A gentle wind passes over the crowd and whips under the awning, rustling Marc's hair and playing with the end of your dupatta. Your eyes flicker after it and that's when you spot Durga across the walkway at the fountain, one leg crossed over the other with her bare toes dipped in the water. She's watching you, happy, radiant even, but you realize she's not quite looking at you. She's looking at Marc. And she's smiling like she was in the banyan tree when you beat Marc into a bloody pulp.

Your eyes shoot back to Marc's and you shove him so hard that he goes flying straight into the crowd. He knocks over at least two dozen pedestrians, maybe more, but by the time he lands at the fountain's edge his patterned shirt and khaki trousers have been replaced with a cloak and ceremonial robes. His head jerks up, eyes illuminated by moonlight, and dual daggers in either hand. He springs forward a moment later and you know you're cornered, stuck between a crowd of innocent civilians and an empty shop. Which means you need a distraction.

Your avatar state fully blossoms and casts a rich, warm glow across the walkway. Time slows as your atman meshes with brahman, with Durga, and you feel the true depth of your power flood your body. You have only seconds left until Marc sends you crashing through the shop window and another innocent is left to pick up the pieces of your fight. That cannot happen, that's not the way that Durga has taught you. So you conjure up the best distraction you can think of to buy yourself some time.

The lion that appears in the echo of your mantra nearly tramples Marc underfoot. You catch a glimpse of him twisting midair to avoid her claws before you dart into the crowd faster than you think you've ever run before. You run into the main street, narrowly avoiding cars and busses, then take a sharp turn down a nearby alley. He's figured out by now that the lion is just a mirage, that much you can sense, but it's hard to tell how close he is while you're still running.

You keep replaying the picture of Durga in the banyan tree. You've seen her every emotion, from joy to sorrow to rage, but this is different. This is something raw and vulnerable, something she's never even shown you before and that stings. You're not just another devotee among the faceless millions, you're her avatar. She chose you to be the vessel of her justice, to go out into the world and fight for her, fight with her, to experience the powers of a god. She chose you to be special and you've taken that to heart. You've let her see every battered and broken piece of you, and she has blessed you in turn with the love that only she can give, but it's like she's a lovestruck mortal whenever Marc is around. Marc Spector. A mercenary. A thief! Another god's avatar.

There's the sickening thunk of metal in flesh and you sink like a rock. Fire burns up your leg and into your spine, your face stings from the scrape of the asphalt on your cheek, and your heart... your heart hurts. You push yourself up onto your hands and knees, but a kick to your face knocks you back down. Your weapon hands are limp at your sides because the fight is quickly seeping out of you as realization begins to sink in.

Marc flips you over, your transformed kameez balled into one hand, and raises his other fist to strike another blow across your temple, but he stops. The mask of bandages around his face disintegrates and the moonlight fades from his eyes until he's just a man again. You look up into those endless brown eyes and realize that even after all the training and meditation, after every failure and win, you're still no better than you were when you started this journey. You're jealous. You're afraid. You're terrified that maybe you've never been good enough for her, maybe you're not as special as she made you feel, that you're replaceable. And as you gaze up at Marc Spector, you struggle to find the strength you had moments ago.

You feel the pain of Marc's dagger in your leg twofold now and you can feel it all the way in your heart. A lifetime's worth of insecurities and fears suddenly bubble up to the surface, at what is literally the most inopportune moment, and you feel the corners of your eyes start to sting. There's only one thing you can manage to do now, even at the mercy of the Moon Knight.

"Amma?" You hate how your voice catches and wobbles. You hate that he's here to witness this moment of pure vulnerability. You hate that you're not the better version of yourself you've been fighting to become. "Help me. Please."

Jasmine and an almost hint of sandalwood on the wind accompanies the gentle padding of bare feet on asphalt. You see the vague outline of the flowers in her hair and the shape of her shoulders against the evening sky as she comes up behind Marc. She rests a hand on the curve between his shoulder and his bicep and, once he gets over the shock of it, he slowly, gently unfurls your kurti so you are flat on the ground. He backs away and Durga comes to kneel at your side. Her hand is warm as it brushes your cheek and her smile reminds you of your mother's.

"Are you so lost, daughter?"

Tears slide down your cheeks to the hollow in your throat. "Yes."

"Why do you doubt yourself?"

"Why did you chose me?" Will you chose him, too? You can't bear to ask it, but it weighs heavy on your tongue all the same. Will you leave me?

Your hand is gathered up in hers and she presses a kiss to your knuckles. You almost swear that you can feel the spark of her in your very bones.

"Why did you chose me, dear one?"

That day in the temple will live in your heart and mind until you breathe your last. You could have chosen any devi or deva in that temple, but you had chosen her. There was something that had drawn you to her, something between a mother's love and a warrior's battlecry that filled the emptiness in your heart in a way that only she could.

You smile bleary eyed at her and whisper, "You gave me hope."

Durga nods. "I will not leave you, daughter. Don't be afraid." She leans down and kisses the spot above your pottu. "Your fears no longer serve you. Let them pass away."

As your eyes drift shut, you think over the years you've spent at Durga's side. Every single thing she has shown and taught you has been to guide you into the woman you are meant to be. And she's right - your anxieties and jealousy, your fear only holds you back. It's no easy task to silence the voice in the back of your head that tells you you're not enough, but you needed this moment with her to remind you that you're worth fighting for.

"Be reborn."

Durga isn't leaving. She stayed. She's here with you. There's still hope. And something catches your eye as you hover between this plane and hers - a flash of orange and black, a creature you've never seen through this window before. But you recognize it. Of course you do.

When you open your eyes, Durga is gone and so is the Moon Knight. Marc remains, stunned into silence and slack jawed. He offers you a hand and you take it.

"I'm sorry," you say. "I misunderstood. I thought... I thought you were trying to take her from me."

He tries a smile that's only half convincing. "I can't say I'd want to. But yours seems better than mine."

You wonder if that's his way of saying he forgives you. You lean into his shoulder so you can pull the dagger out of your leg. "I've heard the stories," you laugh. "What's it like working with a vulture?" You don't return the dagger.

"You don't want to know," he scoffs.

It occurs to you that maybe you do want to know, if only to enjoy his company for a little while longer. "Can I buy you a coffee? To apologize for everything," you add when it looks like he might say no.

He seems to wrestle with the idea for a moment, probably trying to decide if you're going to attack him again or not. But then he nods and you smile enough to make your cheeks hurt.

"Maybe you're not so bad, Spector. For a mercenary, at least."

Chapter Text

Steven dreams a lot. He's used to it by now, almost expects to wake up in the morning with a strange bruise that can only be explained by a bout of sleepwalking, and he always expects that his dreams won't make any sense. But lately, lately there's something different about them. Lately, he wakes up with a name on his tongue and visions of a woman with a third eye and too many arms to count. He thinks maybe there was even a lion once, but he's not too sure. It's all a little hazy when he tries to focus on it.

He carries on with his life. He goes to work, eats, comes home, watches telly, and puts as many precautions into place as he can to keep himself safe. And he pretends that he's just a normal man living a normal life.