Date: June 2, 2015 Location: Tongass National Forest, Southeast Alaska
The forest stretched endlessly, a cathedral of towering evergreens. Pines and firs rose like silent guardians, their trunks dark and ancient, their crowns weaving a canopy that caught the sunlight and scattered it into shifting patterns on the mossy ground. A distant stream sang softly, its rush a gentle counterpoint to the quiet rustling of the leaves.
High above the forest floor, a cabin was perched on the limbs of a massive central tree. Weathered wooden walls pressed close around a narrow balcony, where lanterns swayed gently in the breeze. A rope ladder dangled to the earth below, and a hammock stretched lazily between two nearby trees.
On the balcony, a lone figure sat.
Griffith.
His long silver hair shimmered faintly, catching the dappled light as the wind teased the strands. His armor was gone, replaced by a simple white tunic and dark trousers. In his hands, he cradled a steaming cup of coffee, the rising mist curling into the cool morning air.
For a long while, he said nothing. His gaze was fixed on the forest stretching endlessly before him, his icy-blue eyes reflecting both a deep calm and a great distance. Squirrels leapt between branches; a raven settled on the railing a few feet away, tilting its head curiously at him before flying off again.
The young man leaned back, his lips curving into the faintest smile. For all the noise of the world beyond—for Ultron, for Hydra, for Odin's words that still echoed in his mind—this place was untouched. A pocket of peace carved into the chaos.
The Ancient One had told him to find his destiny. Odin had pressed the truth of blood and choice upon him. The Avengers whispered his name with doubt and curiosity. But here, none of that mattered.
Here, he was just Griffith—someone drinking coffee on a balcony, watching the morning sun break through the canopy.
And yet, deep inside, he knew this quiet would not last.
Griffith sat on the balcony of his secluded treehouse, the untouched wilderness of the Tongass stretching endlessly before him. In his hands, the cup of coffee had long since cooled, but he barely noticed.
His silver hair swayed gently with the breeze, but his mind was anything but still.
I don't know what I'm supposed to feel anymore.
His heart was a battlefield of contradictions. After waking in that Hydra base—after dying and then being reborn—there had been no sadness, no longing for the boy he once was. His past life had dissolved like smoke. Yet this new life had been no gift either.
First, Hydra's cruel experiments. Then the horrifying truth of what he was—how he was made. Then, the Ancient One and her merciless training.
Every step felt like he was being shaped, pushed, as though existence itself demanded he become something defined.
Then he met Thor. And Tony.
They too carried storms behind their eyes, burdens of fathers and legacies and failures. Griffith had seen it, recognized it—because he felt the same. Complex feelings wound so tight in his chest that he sometimes wondered if he could even breathe freely.
That was why he built this place.
The treehouse was more than just wood and rope—it was his sanctuary. Every plank was carved with his own hands, every wall engraved with runes of protection. The air shimmered faintly around it, an invisible barrier woven from spells he had mastered over the past year. No one could find this place. No one could intrude.
And still… he remained unsatisfied.
He had become a master of the arcane—his runes were flawless, his wards impenetrable, his spells vast. Yet something inside him remained locked away. His true powers, the ones Odin and the Ancient One both hinted at, had not awakened.
He stared into the forest canopy, his eyes reflecting the dying light.
I can master the arcane. I can shape worlds with spells. But who am I without knowing what burns inside me?
The cup trembled faintly in his hand as his heart answered with a hollow silence.
Griffith leaned back against the railing of the balcony, silver hair catching the fading light between the trees. The coffee had gone cold, but his thoughts burned hotter than ever.
The future… it won't wait for me. Whatever comes, I'll have to be ready.
This universe—this strange version of Earth—wasn't the same as the stories whispered across dimensions. It wasn't Earth-616. It wasn't any alternate timeline he'd glimpsed before.
No Fantastic Four.
No X-Men.
He had searched, scoured, but they didn't exist here.
That emptiness unsettled him. It meant the safeguards of fate were missing. Already, he had nudged events—turning the Ultron disaster into something survivable. But other storms still brewed on the horizon. A civil war between heroes, for example—one that would shatter everything if left unchecked. That, he could not allow.
Through Kamar-Taj, Griffith had touched the flow of time itself. He could see its threads, bend them, even glimpse fragments of what might come. Yet he resisted the temptation to dive deeper.
I could see the future if I wanted. I could map every outcome, every disaster. But if I do… maybe I'll lose the choice to be anything other than a prisoner to fate.
So he chose the harder path. To live without knowing. To fight without certainty. Maybe it was the thrill of not knowing, or maybe it was fear of seeing something he couldn't endure. He couldn't decide.
But one thing was clear—he had to prepare. For the battles ahead. For the unknown.
And when his mind wandered to preparation, to allies, it always returned to her.
Wanda Maximoff. Chaos magic incarnate. A storm in human form. Her powers could either burn the world to ash or rebuild it stronger than before. She was his best chance. Not just because of her strength, but because she was like him—someone struggling to understand a destiny that wasn't asked for.
Griffith's silver eyes hardened as the wind rustled through the wards shielding his hidden home.
The air shimmered with faint sparks as Griffith opened a portal, its golden edges dissolving into the evening mist. On the other side lay a small Eastern European village—quiet, weathered, forgotten by time.
The streets were narrow, paved with uneven cobblestones. The houses, old and worn, leaned with age. Most of the people here were elderly; their slow movements carried the weight of generations. It was a place where the world's chaos seldom reached.
Griffith stepped through, his silver hair catching the dim light, his white cloak whispering against the cold breeze. The portal sealed behind him, leaving only silence and the faint rustle of leaves.
He walked into a small garden, half-wild with overgrown grass and cracked stone paths. In the center sat a lonely bench, and upon it—Wanda Maximoff.
She was still. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap, her head bowed, dark hair falling like a curtain to shield her face. A simple jacket covered her red blouse, as if she were trying to blend into the quiet village life. But the illusion cracked easily.
Her shoulders trembled with unspoken weight. Dark circles under her eyes betrayed sleepless nights. And though she sat motionless, the air around her pulsed faintly, irregularly, with threads of red energy—like her magic refused to sleep even when she tried.
Griffith's steps were soundless on the cracked stones as he approached. For a long moment, he only watched her, studying the sorrow and the storm bottled inside her.
She hadn't noticed him yet. She sat there, her fingers clenched, her palms pressed together as though she were holding herself together piece by piece.
And still, she did not raise her head.
Griffith drew closer, the air shifting with his presence. For the first time since he left the safety of his treehouse, his heart stirred—not with fear, but with something far heavier.
Griffith stopped a step away from the bench. Wanda hadn't noticed him yet—her gaze was still buried in her lap, her fingers twisting as though she was holding back a storm. He could feel it: the turmoil in her aura, the battle she fought against herself.
Softly, almost hesitant, he spoke. "Wanda."
The single word seemed to cut through the silence. She froze. For a heartbeat she didn't breathe, then slowly lifted her head.
Her eyes met his—deep, haunted, and full of conflict. Red glimmers swirled faintly in her irises, betraying the power she couldn't fully cage. In that gaze, Griffith saw it all: the same thing he knew too well. The weight of being shaped into a weapon, the gnawing fear of losing control, the desperate wish to simply be seen as human.
She didn't flinch, didn't lash out. Instead, she spoke his name with quiet surprise, her voice steady despite the storm behind it. "…Griffith."
He exhaled, something easing in his chest. Without another word, he lowered himself onto the bench beside her.
For a long while, neither spoke. The world around them was hushed—the rustle of trees, the distant murmur of old villagers, the faint hum of her restless magic. They sat together in silence, side by side, two souls who carried scars too deep for casual words.
And in that silence, something unspoken passed between them: not trust, not yet—but recognition.
The silence stretched, tense and brittle. Griffith was the one to break it.
"They don't understand," he said softly, his voice devoid of judgment. "The others. The Avengers. They see a weapon. A power without a leash. And they're afraid."
Wanda's gaze didn't waver. "No one does." Her voice was a low, tired echo of his own thought. "And why should they? They fight with shields and iron suits. I have a storm in my chest."
"So do I," Griffith replied, his calm presence a stark contrast to her turmoil. He lifted a hand, and for a moment, a faint, silver light pulsed in his palm. "I'm a storm, too. They made me in a lab, with pieces of a man and a god. I know what it feels like to have something inside you that you didn't ask for, something that could shatter everything."
Wanda's breath hitched, her eyes fixed on the light. The red energy around her flickered, then subsided, drawn in by his quiet show of power.
"I went to a place where they teach you to control it," Griffith continued, his voice as steady as an anchor. "To become the master of the chaos, not its servant. To guide the storm instead of letting it rage. That is what I learned."
She looked back up at his face, her expression a mixture of disbelief and a hesitant, dangerous hope. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you're not the only one who needs to choose a path," he said, the light in his hand fading as he lowered it. His gaze was unflinching, meeting her pain with shared understanding. "They made me. And they made you. But what we become is up to us. We can walk that path alone… or together."
He held her gaze, offering no more words, only a silent question that hung in the air between them: a choice between the familiar comfort of isolation and the terrifying chance of a new beginning.
Griffith's gaze softened. He didn't press, didn't explain, but let the silence settle again. Then, gently, he spoke.
"Wanda… I know what it feels like. To have them look at you and see power, not a person. To be seen as a weapon. I know that fight inside you—because I carry it too."
Her fingers tightened in her lap. She didn't look at him, but the faint tremor in her shoulders betrayed a crack in her defenses.
He leaned forward slightly, his voice still calm and steady. "You don't have to fight that battle alone. Come with me. At least for a while. Maybe we can figure it out together."
Wanda turned her head then, finally meeting his eyes. For a long moment, she searched his face, expecting judgment, expecting pity. But all she found was a quiet understanding, the same scars reflected in a different shape.
The red sparks around her faded slowly, as if her magic exhaled along with her.
They didn't speak after that. They just sat together in silence, two souls who understood each other in ways no one else could. The village around them moved on, oblivious, while time seemed to pause on that bench.
At last, Wanda broke the stillness. Her voice was soft, almost reluctant, but certain.
"...I'll go with you."
Griffith only nodded. No triumph, no smile—just a quiet acceptance, as if he had known this moment would come.