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artficlly · 3 months ago

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i who have known death [snippet]

heya, it's my birthday so as a treat here is a snippet from the mini-series i've been on and off working on <3 if you're interested, let me know

monster hunter!bucky x healer!reader apocalyptic fantasy marvel au [4.7k words] - - -

To my Esteemed Sisters of the Veil,

I write to you from Redhollow to inform you of my safe arrival. The journey was arduous and the roads long, but fortune spared me from any encounter with the Blight. This place is as unforgiving as the maps foretold. Its people are hardened by struggle and steeped in suspicion, and they do not look kindly upon the Veil. Yet, I remain steadfast in my purpose. In time, I hope to earn their trust.

I humbly request additional supplies so that I may begin my work in earnest. Tomorrow, I shall seek an audience with the leader of this settlement, should I be able to determine who holds such authority, and I will offer my services as a Healer of the Veil. Though I walk among those who do not welcome me, I trust in my training, in the wisdom of our order, and in the purpose that binds us. It is an honour to serve in the name of the Veil.

I who have known death.

I who have known the end.

Your hand paused over the sliver of parchment, and your metal-tipped pen was poised as you considered your words. There was more you wished to say, more that clawed at the edges of your thoughts, but the words would not come.

Hastily, you scribbled down an addition—In six months' time, I shall send word to update you on my progress. If no such correspondence reaches you within this timeframe—your hand hesitated once more, veil shifting as you titled your head. The words wavered in your mind, yet you forced your hand to move, the ink biting into the parchment—If no such correspondence reaches you within this timeframe, presume me dead.

The metal tip of the pen rattled as you shakily dipped it into your glass ink pottle, and you signed your name along the worn edge of the parchment, sealing your fate with careful strokes of black ink.

Your eyes darted beneath the black lace of your veil, scanning the cursive lettering before you. With a shaky breath, you folded the paper, tucking it into a yellowed envelope. Your writing supplies had not fared well in the swamp; everything here was always somewhat damp... or rotted.

A sharp sigh escaped your nostrils as you tucked the sealed envelope into your satchel, swinging the small leather bag over your shoulder and fastening the strap across your ribs. The heat clung to you like a second skin—not the dry, searing kind that cracked the earth, but a thick, suffocating humidity that seeped into everything. Each breath felt like recycling your own exhale, warm and stagnant. You had grown up beneath thinner skies, where the air was sharp and metallic, no matter how deeply you inhaled, it never quite filled you. Here, the air was different. It hung heavy, dense as murky water, sinking into your very marrow. Even standing on solid ground, it felt as though you waded through thigh-deep mud, each movement slow, laboured. You wouldn't be surprised if, upon splitting your ribs open, they found your lungs blooming with mould, your bones sodden with the slow rot of the swamp—nature’s decay.

The wooden stairs of the boarding house curved under your weight as you descended into the main lobby. Each time you walked across the damp-infested panels, you could imagine them buckling beneath you, disintegrating into a mash of fibre and rot. The attendant, a rather spindly man with a pointed face, looked down his nose at you, deep-lidded eyes marred with a look somewhere between disinterest and disgust as you breezed past onto the front street.

The heat that hit you was almost immediate, the black lace veil clinging to your sweat-slick face. Your long-sleeved shirt, made of a soft, breathable fabric, stuck to your back; the material soaked through. Your pants fared no better, though the loose, draped fabric hanging from the front and back—a modest, practical addition to the Sisterhood’s attire—offered some protection from the muck that splattered up as you pressed onward into the main street.

Smoke rose from scattered chimneys, curling into the grey sky. Wooden structures stood huddled together, their warped frames blackened by damp and rot, leaning into one another as though they might collapse without the support. Redhollow was no grand city—it was a last desperation for perseverance, a fragile foothold carved into the mire. Its streets were little more than mud-choked pathways, slick and treacherous beneath the weight of passing boots and wagon wheels. The scent of wet timber, stagnant water, and the acrid bite of burning peat filled the air.

The steady rhythm of hammer on anvil echoed somewhere deeper within the settlement. Traders lingered beneath the awnings of the market square, their voices hushed, their hands never straying far from the hilts of their knives. The few souls who dared to call this place home moved with wary purpose, shoulders hunched, eyes darting to the shadows as if expecting the swamp itself to reach out and drag them back into its depths.

Beyond the tangled maze of stilted homes and sagging storefronts, the fence of great wooden stakes stood wearily, its sharpened logs slick with moisture, failing to keep the wilderness at bay. The Blood Swamp had already claimed parts of the town, its creeping roots strangling the abandoned outskirts, pulling ruined shacks down into the muck. Rusted waters were illuminated by lantern light, mist curling and beckoning, patient in its insatiable hunger.

Shaking the feeling that unseen eyes watched you from the depths, you made your way to the tavern. With a quick ease, you weaved your way through the locals who sparsely occupied the street, crossing the cobbles that seemed to sink further into the land by the second. As you walked past a group of large, burly men and their horses, you felt their suspicious glares and scowls. They held dented and scratched metal helmets under their arms, clearly armed to the teeth. Monster hunters, bounty hunters… or simply Hunters, as they referred to themselves. They were well-known in the outer areas of the Blood Swamps and shared a purpose akin to yours and your fellow Sisters of the Veil—eliminating the Bloodworm Blight.

But a synonymous purpose did not make you alike. Or, for that matter, like each other.

You avoided eye contact, noticing the lingering scent of smoke that accompanied them. The remnants of the pyres scattered across the landscape were likely their doing. You had counted more than you could fit on two hands during your travels through The Blood Swamp. At least, you thought, it was better than the smell of decay. And the Blight that followed.

The tavern grew quiet as you entered, the stench of sweat and mildew hitting you in a wave. Men crowded around stained and scratched tables, hair slick against drenched foreheads. There was a room half-obscured by cigar smoke to your right, a lone bar at the back of the ramshackle building. You swallowed hard, suddenly grateful for the veil over your face, even if it choked your breath. You did not want these people to witness the hesitant expression that slipped through as you cautiously approached the barman at the back.

You went to lean your forearms on the bar but paused, noticing how wet and sticky the stained wood appeared in the dim candlelight. The eyes of every man in the tavern burned into your back as you cleared your throat, drawing the attention of the barman who stood a few paces away, polishing a glass.

“I was wondering, when does your—” Your question was rudely ignored as the red-faced barman huffed.

“We don’t serve womenfolk around these parts, Sister.” He interrupted, body swivelling as he turned to serve a lone man who dared to press closer to the bar.

You chewed your lip, fingers tapping across the leather of your satchel strap as you patiently waited for him to return.

“Sister, it ain’t proper—” The barman sighed as he eventually drew his eyes back onto your veiled form.

It was your turn to interrupt now. “The messenger, when is he due to arrive?”

“Arrive?” The barman chortled. “He left three days ago.”

The barman tried to turn again to serve another customer, but you stepped forward, braving the sticky bar to draw his attention back to you. “And when does he return?”

“Dunno. Sunday? Ain’t no set schedule around these parts, Sister. Hard to find one with Bloodworm attacks and all. You understand?”

Your lips pulled into a frown beneath your veil, and before you could think of a reply, the barman had dismissed you, his back fully turned to face you. Cheeks burning, you rotated yourself, facing the onslaught of watching eyes who chuckled at your humiliation. There was a murmur of what you could only assume was a warning. You’re not welcome here, Faceless Sister.

This was hardly the reception you would’ve received back east.

You knew it was time to make a hasty retreat; the pit in your stomach told you so. Veering through the tables, your escape wasn’t as covert as you had hoped. The men leered as you passed, quiet snickering following you.

As if the people of Redhollow hadn’t filled their bellies enough with your humiliation, two younger men blocked the entrance. One of them couldn’t have been older than twenty; he looked barely out of boyhood. His limbs were gangly, and his hair cropped short, and he had a hesitant grin across his hairless face. The other was older and larger, with blond hair swept across his forehead, arms crossed over his chest, and a lit cigarette hanging from his lips. A slight stubble ghosted his jaw, red mud long-forgotten splattered up his right shoulder and neck.

“Sister.” The blond greeted, blue eyes quickly scanning your form. “It’s your lucky day. The boss wants to meet you.”

You paused, wavering in place. “The boss?”

Your question was left unanswered, and your feeble attempt to shimmy past the two men was aimless. A hand found your shoulder, guiding you—with some force—towards the darkened back room.

It was a small, cramped space, maybe once a pantry to store dry goods. Now, the space was laid bare, the stench of smoke and alcohol clouding your senses even through your veil. The room was empty, aside from a rickety table and a man who sat behind it.

He was a study in quiet menace. A leather patch obscured his left eye, showing signs of wear and cracking, with a jagged scar running beneath it from forehead to cheek. His other eye, keen and calculating, locked onto you with the focused intensity of a predator evaluating its prey. His face was weathered and hardened, framed by a coarse beard streaked with grey. However, there was no mistaking the vitality in how he held himself—every movement precise, every gesture deliberate. One gloved hand rested on the table, the leather scuffed and stained, while the other toyed absently with a blade.

“A Sister of the Veil so far from home…” The man mused, his deep voice untainted by emotion. “My name is Fury. Nick Fury.”

“You’re the mayor of this place?” You asked, your voice firmer than you felt.

Fury’s lips curved into a dry, humourless smile as a low chuckle escaped him. The two men behind you exchanged glances, their amusement silent, but their shoulders shook ever so slightly.

“Ain’t no mayors or presidents in these parts, Sister,” Fury replied, the knife still turning lazily between his fingers.

Your lips pressed into a thin line as you clasped your hands before you, adopting an air of indifference to match his. If the Sisterhood had taught you anything, it was the value of never showing your true emotions. A clear mind in place of panic or fear was champion. Fury’s eye narrowed slightly, his head tilting just enough to show his careful assessment of your every move.

“The men here, I employ them,” Fury continued, his tone matter-of-fact. “Huntin’ Bloodworms for the farmers in these parts.” His gaze lingered.

You tipped your head, the veil shifting just enough to observe the gangly young man who had ushered you in. His fidgeting hands betrayed his nerves despite the bravado in his earlier movements. You did not peg him as the monster-hunting type, maybe a trainee, the son of some farmer who insisted on continuing to farm his lands despite the ever-growing threat.

“I understand,” you said, your voice flat but measured. “That is hard work. I commend you and your workers.”

You didn’t blame the farmers, even if some back east thought them foolish. Between the patchwork of red-tinged bodies of stagnant water that shimmered like pools of molten rust, there were isolated islands of firm, fertile soil. These pockets of stability offered enough foundation for farmers to stake their livelihoods. The bloody earth was unnaturally fertile, yielding crops in abundance, likely the result of thousands of forgotten bodies turned to natural compost.

Fury’s lips twitched, but not into a smile. “Now, who did you piss off to be sent out this way?” he asked, leaning forward slightly. “Or were you cocky enough to take it on and found yourself blindsided?”

Your jaw tightened, and you folded your hands tightly together. “We don’t get to choose our assignment.”

“Oh?” He feigned interest.

“Fate chooses,” you explained, feeling a touch of defensiveness creep into your tone.

“Fate?” Fury’s scoff was low and dismissive. “Who is Fate?”

“No… it’s not…” You exhaled through your nose, searching for the words. “We pull a name—a location—from a bowl, and that is where we are sent. Fate decides where our help is needed most.”

Fury looked down his nose at you in disbelief. “So you believe fate thinks we don’t need help out here? Ain’t no Faceless Sisters past the midlands.”

“No. There are just…fewer settlements than in the east. Chance of the draw.” You replied, shrugging faintly. You could understand his point, but it didn’t sway your opinion. Fate’s Draw had remained a tradition for a reason—it prevented bias, allowing all remaining civilisations an equal opportunity to be drawn.

Fury snorted, shaking his head as he exchanged looks with the men behind you. “So you got real shit luck then, huh?”

You met his remark with cold silence—the distant hum of conversation and laughter from the main room filtering through. There was no such thing as luck, only fate.

He scoffed, louder this time, unruffled by your lack of response and his gaze hardened. “Right, well… you’re here now. I guess I have a proposal for you, Sister.”

“A proposal?”

“Yes.” Fury leaned forward, the blade in his hand now still, its point tapping idly against the wood, each click deliberate. His single eye observed you, gauging your reaction. “I got a team of hunters, my best crew. They’re in need of a healer. Their last one was taken by the blight some months ago.”

You stared at him through the wispy fabric of your veil, your fingers tightening around the leather strap of your satchel.

“No.” The word left your lips before you had fully considered it.

“No?” Fury’s brow arched, his voice carrying an edge of disbelief.

“That’s not my line of work,” you clarified, your tone even. “I thank you for the offer, but—”

“You’re a healer.” Fury interrupted, and you exhaled loudly from your nose in unspoken disapproval.

“I’m a Sister of the Veil.”

A beat of silence followed. Even the men at your back seemed to stiffen. Their wariness was not aimed at you but rather at the storm simmering beneath Fury’s composed exterior. He let out a slow exhale, his fingers flexing against the hilt of his blade before setting it aside.

“Sister, I’m gonna be honest with you.” Fury spoke finally; his voice dropped, quiet but firm. “Ain’t none of these folk gonna trust you if you don’t prove yourself first. We don’t like outsiders in these parts, especially not eastern folk who think they know how everything works.”

You straightened. You knew this long before you set foot in Redhollow. The westerners were a hard people, bred by hardship and distrust. Their history was carved into the lines of their faces, into the callouses on their hands. They endured, not by kindness, but by suspicion. You had expected your arrival to be treated like an ill omen, and so far, you were not disappointed.

“I’m not sure—”

“Ain’t no insult to your abilities, Sister,” Fury interrupted, his tone sharp. “But you’re gonna be sent away with your tail between your legs. If these folk don’t like you, they will make your life hell.”

Your mouth parted to speak, but Fury held up a hand, halting you mid-breath. “I’ll pay you, Sister. Hell, you do a good enough job, maybe these folk will trust you enough to like you. You could set up shop here in town—no more need to be runnin’ off with the hunters.”

Fury’s good eye remained fixed on you, unflinching, as though he could will you into submission with a stare alone. The men behind you shifted uneasily like spooked horses, the soft scrape of boots on the worn floorboards. You swallowed hard, your throat tightening as his gaze bore into you. You were an outsider, a stranger in a hostile land, surrounded by men who could easily overpower you.

“I’m offering you a way in,” Fury continued, his voice never wavering. “I don’t got time to hold your hand and make you feel safe, Sister. So, I am offering you a chance to prove you’re more than just another outsider passing through. You think these folks will trust you if you stay holed up, tending to the sick who don’t want your help? No. You earn their trust by showing them you’re willing to stand where it’s ugly, where it’s dangerous.”

“And if I refuse?”

A short, humourless chuckle came from behind you. The blond man—tall, broad-shouldered, carrying himself like he’d seen more blood than peace—exchanged a glance with the one beside him. The younger said nothing, nervously looking to his feet.

Fury shot them both a look, and the chuckle died in the blond’s throat. “You walk out that door, and you try your luck. But don’t think for a second these people will welcome you with open arms. You’ll be alone, Sister. And out here, alone ain’t a good place to be.”

“And how can I know that I can trust you?”

Fury didn’t react at first, his face unreadable. Slowly, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his fingers steepling beneath his chin. He spoke, his words blunt, unvarnished. “You can’t.”

—

You quickly gathered that the Hunters to whom you had been unceremoniously promised weren’t entirely aware of the arrangement struck between you and Fury.

Peter—the younger, jumpier man tasked with escorting you to the stables—had filled the silence with hasty explanations as you braved the mud-slicked cobbles of the main street. The five men, he had told you, were called the Jackals. They were experienced Hunters, men who had lived and worked in the Blood Swamps under Fury’s command since boyhood. Barnes, their leader. Rogers and Wilson, his muscle. Barton and Maximoff, scouts—quick on their feet and skilled survivalists.

The air inside the stables was thick, a blend of damp hay, sweat, and leather that curled in your lungs. It was cooler here but no less stifling under the weight of five sets of eyes peering at you from behind steel masks. They loomed among the horses, their bodies draped in dark, weathered leathers reinforced with plated armour.

"This some kind of sick joke, Parker?"

The voice was low, rough with displeasure. Its owner stood with his arms folded over his chest, his broad frame blocking out a good portion of the lantern light. He was built for the brutality of the hunt—his leathers, worn to a dull brown, softened by years of sweat, blood, and swamp rot. Scratched and dented plates strapped over his shoulders and forearms caught the dim light, their dull steel gleaming where grime hadn’t yet taken root. His gloves were thick, the knuckles reinforced with metal studs. His helmet, forged entirely of steel, bore the mark of a red star, indented deep into the metal and painted red. The colour had chipped away with time, leaving behind a rusted, faded outline. Through the narrow eye slits, a sliver of his gaze met yours—cold, assessing, the pale glint of a predator sizing up something foreign, something unwelcome.

"This isn’t what I meant, and Fury knows it."

The others remained silent. One of them leaned against a stable post, fingers idly tapping against the grip of his weapon—his helmet bore the symbol of a shield engraved into the surface. Another stood with one foot braced against the lower beam of a stall, absently brushing orange mud from his gloves, an empty quiver slung over one shoulder. A leaner figure, positioned slightly apart, shifted restlessly. Even behind the mask, you could sense it—the way he practically vibrated, a coil wound too tight.

You expected distrust. The Western folk had long since abandoned any love for the Veil, that had become quickly apparent. But this was different. This wasn’t a simple superstition but a raw wound that had not yet healed, and perhaps it never would.

Peter shifted beside you, clearly desperate to be anywhere but here. “She’s the healer,” he repeated, though the moment the words left his mouth, he seemed to regret them. “Fury said—”

"Well, you can march her right on back to Fury, can’t you?" Barnes’ voice was final and disdainful. "Tell him to get a proper healer while you’re at it."

You turned slightly, your head tilting as you regarded Peter through your veil. His jaw clenched, lips thinning as he glared at the Jackals. Then, with a frustrated sigh, he muttered, “You know what? Fuck this.”

He twisted on his heel, boots squelching in the mud as he stormed away. “If you wanna complain, go take it up with Fury yourself. See how far that gets you. But until you do, she’s here, and you’re stuck with her. And if you don’t listen, you’re not getting paid.”

Silence settled thick as he disappeared down the path.

"That Parker kid is getting bold," one of the Jackals muttered—the shorter man with the quiver.

"A little too bold," another agreed.

And then, their attention fell upon you.

You eased your shoulders back in quiet confidence, straightening under their scrutiny. Your prior reluctance had been gut instinct for a reason. There was no sense in pushing a foolish proposal if both parties disagreed. And yet, here you stood, bound to this arrangement whether they—or you—liked it or not. Unsure of addressing the obvious, you opted for silence not to aggravate them further.

It seemed you would have to return to your room in the boarding house. Wait until supplies arrived and offer your services from the safety of the town’s perimeter. Hope that some hopeless bastard was desperate enough to seek your services.

"She’s fuckin’ creepy, ain’t she? A Faceless Sister…" The voice carried a thick, lazy drawl. One of the muscle-bound men—Wilson, perhaps—sauntered closer, his boots scuffing against the packed dirt. His helmet stood out the most. Two crude wings had been welded onto either side, the dented feathers arcing back in place of ears. His gloved hand lifted, fingers curling as if he meant to lift the hem of your veil.

"You know," he mused, his tone dipped in amusement, "I heard they don’t talk ‘cause they got their mouths sewn shut. Stops the bloodworms from climbin’ in—"

You struck before he could finish.

A sharp slap to the back of his hand sent it recoiling as if burned. The movement was swift and precise. He jerked back with a yelp, cradling his wrist like a scolded child, and the Jackals erupted into laughter, a dry, humourless bark. “I don’t talk,” you said coolly, your voice measured, unwavering, “because I don’t have anything to say.”

"I don’t believe that." Barnes’ voice cut through the noise. His helmet shifted slightly as he regarded you, perceptive eyes unreadable through the slits. His arms remained folded, thick with muscle beneath his leathers. “How’d you end up here, talkin’ to us if you don’t have anythin’ to say?”

A challenge.

One tempting enough to sway your desire to return to the boarding house in milliseconds.

“Fury asked me, not the other way around.” You replied sharply, and the small, winged Jackal whistled lowly in response to your tone.

“You gotta bit of an attitude, don’t you?” Barnes pressed closer until you could practically smell the scent of horse on his leathers, his sheer size casting a long shadow over you. “That why you got sent all the way out here? Sounds like an execution to me, it’s a death sentence out in the swamp.”

Even as your pulse ticked up, the sound of your blood pumping in your ears, you held your ground. You tilted your chin up with an air of indifference, arms crossing over your own chest to mirror him. You’d met many men like Barnes before—hard men, cruel men. Men who thought presence alone could bend others to their will.

But no matter how strong or ruthless, they all died screaming in the end. You had seen it first-hand one too many times.

Barnes gave a sharp exhale, something between a scoff and a snarl. “You think you’re different, huh? Think you’ll last out here?”

“I didn’t come here to impress you.” You replied, pressing closer until your chests almost touched, and for the first time in six years, you wished—God, you wished—that they could see beneath your veil to glimpse the defiant smirk that curled upon your lips. “I have a job to do, and you’re standing in my way.”

A rumble of amusement passed between the Jackals. The leaner, energetic one, with a white lighting strike painted across his mask, let out a low chuckle. “Cold, this one.”

“Cold don’t mean shit out here,” another muttered, the edges of the shield engraved onto the side of his helmet catching in the lantern light.

Barnes considered your words while his pack bickered and finally spoke up, voice low. “You afraid of dying, Sister?” He asked.

"No." Your answer was simple and unwavering. "Do you not know the word of my creed?"

Silence met you, so you spoke once more.

“I who have known death.” Your hand raised to your left shoulder as you cut a motion diagonally downwards, the repeated on your right as you drew out an X across your chest. “I who have known the end.”

The masked Jackals looked between each other, a silent consideration between the group. The archer, his helmet adorned with a painted arrow curving like a mohawk, gave you a slow nod—an acknowledgement, perhaps, or a sign of reluctant respect.

“I imagine you’re the type to have seen the end, hm? You have that look in your eye, the look of a man who understands that death is a forgiving mistress.” Your head slanted as you stared into Barnes’ eyes through the black lace, and you could’ve sworn he held his breath. “No, I am not afraid of death. I embrace it. I would much rather be dead than become a blightborn monstrosity.”

Barnes let out a slow, guttural exhale, almost a growl, his head tilting slightly as if in consideration. Your words had struck true, just enough to cause the Hunter to pause and think.

"Can you ride?"

It wasn’t just a question. No, it was an offer—an invitation. Something in your response had turned his opinion and earned his unspoken approval.

"Yes."

"Can you fight?"

You inclined your head, letting the question hang before answering. “Yes.”

His silence stretched, his stare pressing down on you even through his mask. “If you fall behind, we won’t wait for you.”

“I understand.”

His shoulders eased slightly as if considering something unstated, and he hesitated a fraction of a second too long before shifting his weight and turning away towards his horse. The others took this as a cue, dispersing to their horses and readying to mount up.

“Got everything you need in that tiny bag of yours, Sister?” One called back to you, the one with lighting painted across his helmet, a mocking glint to his tone.

You didn’t respond. But inwardly, you smiled.

They wouldn’t understand.

#bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader #marvel #marvel au #apocalypse au #fantasy au #snippet #first draft #gauging interest #i who have known death

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