#medieval steve rogers

[anika-ann]

Faithless - S.R.

Type: one-shot, dark medieval-ish/fantasy setting, this-could-be-a-prologue-instead-I-guess-but it-is-not

Pairining: Steve Rogers x reader      Word count: 13,9k

Summary: As one of the priestesses to a temple harbouring the rebels undermining the brute rule of self-proclaimed King Arwin, you are confronted first-hand with just how blood-thirsty his men can be. All you can do is to serve and hope to be rewarded a favour of your choosing.

All you can hope for is to be able to protect what you hold dear: your Steven, one of the rebels, who might not even know he matters to you enough for you to try and bargain for his life.

Warnings: 18+ for referenced dub-con/non-con/rape (not too graphic, off-screen, not Steve, Steve is a sweetheart), references to voyeurism; blood, violence and death; self-loathing and medival-ish views of virginity; spoils of war (technically), vulgar and briefly obscene language, strong religious elements (paganism, vaguely Christianism), feels and angst (with a happy ending)

A/N: divider by @firefly-graphics; more than ever in my fics, MIND the warnings

Hope is the winged child of a broken soul and a faithful heart. Let it fly up to the sun. – anonymous

You were shivering.

There was no breeze in the tent; there were all the walls closed as to keep the warmth in; there was the fabric of your tunic, protecting your legs from the cold grassy ground, as you kneeled; there were your sleeves, reaching mid-forearm. And yet, goosebumps had risen on your skin.

And you were shivering.

You were shivering under his gaze, unable to look up to meet his eye, well-aware you shouldn’t anyway should you like to keep your life.

You were looking at the ground then; and yet, you saw it.

Saw him.

He was observing you with a smile worthy of the demons of the underworld; a servant of the king of the lawless, faithless land.

A year ago, Anwir the so-called True, had led his army of mercenaries and taken the land, murdering all the loyalists he could find and declaring himself the King. His men, armed to their teeth with swords and gold, had ravaged the kingdom, stealing gems, land, homes and lives, just like they always had back when still called outlaws rather than fake nobility.

Men more savage than animals; less merciful too.

Your temple, having been harbouring a few rebels, had been taken two days ago.

Under the watchful eyes of the gods and goddesses you served, you had witnessed two days of agony, hunger and death. Bloodbath. Harsh laughter in the face of life leaving the eyes of many, driving the sword deeper, more blood oozing out and soaking the holy ground, returning back to earth where all life was born.

Good women of fairness and faith.

Good men of bravery and justice.

All gone to keep the survivors docile; all gone on cruel men’s whims.

You were not sure whether to consider yourself lucky to be among the survivors, forced to bear witness to the bottom of humanity crawling out and play. You knew the names of all the fallen; you almost wished you didn’t. You prayed for them to find peace anyway. If you prayed for a piece of their souls to return and haunt their murderers too, no one needed to know.

You were not sure whether to feel lucky to have survived and bear witness; but you did thank the gods for being able to see Steven alive at least.

A good man, your Steven; not strong of body but so kind and fierce of soul, a brilliant mind helping the rebels not by swinging a heavy sword, but by building strategy. Not that his predicament had ever stopped him from picking fights he could not win, even as sometimes he had, his spirit more powerful than his own or his opponent’s muscles.

You’d know of all his fights.

He had been around; you had treated his wounds. Cuts and bruises, swollen knuckles on hands barely bigger than yours, delicacy roughened by hard work; always prepared to help, day or night, even if he risked nearly coughing out his lungs when straining himself too much.

He was still alive; and perhaps you could only thank your prayers for that. Your diligent prayers, your service to the goddess, service of a pure woman even as the longer you spent in Steven’s company, the more impure your thoughts were turning, the longings of your heart aligned with those of your body.

But Steven was kind, sweet, brave and determined to fight for good of others; were those not values of a man worthy of love?

Were those not values of a man worthy of protection?

“What is it ya’ want, little priestess?” Cassius’s rough voice reached your ears, bringing you back to the present; the cold, lonely present in the company of four rugged men, three of them idle in the chairs lined with fur and a goblet of wine in hand as if watching a fool’s performance during a feast. “Ya’ held your end of a bargain… and I’m a man of my word.”

Another shiver ran along your spine.

Cassius was not a man you knew well; he was not one of the rebels, but of the outsiders. He was one of the enemies; anyone who spilled blood of innocent people, your people, no less, was. You did not know him – but you had already seen his soul. He was not a man worthy of love nor protection; in fact, he was not worthy of your trust even.

He was most certainly not a man of his word.

And you would have not believed him to be a smidge of sincere had it not been for your prayers. You wouldn’t have believed him had you not been touched by the divine.

Two days ago, in the modesty of your room, praying at the sacredly designated time commanded, terrible cries had reached you, rattling your temple and your soul.

Your prayers had turned frantic and urgent upon the ruckus – and that was when a whisper had soothed you; a holy image materialising in front of your humble human eyes. With a face of an angel of the new teachings and the raw beauty of goddesses of your religion, she spoke to you gently as your lips continued moving soundlessly, pleading for lives and short suffering of those who were to meet their death. She stilled you with a touch to your forehead, strict eyes with wilderness of the powerful ones and a benevolent smile.

You shall be approached with a bargain, little one. And you shall accept it. Accept all the bargain offered, all his conditions; and then ask one in return. Ask him to swear on his life, to swear on my name.

Be faithful, little one, to me only, and I shall fulfil your deepest desire, protect what you hold the dearest. Accept all bargain offered and your service shall be rewarded at last.

Her lips barely moved but her voice was the clearest, purest thing you had ever heard.

And so you had listened. Of course you had.

You had lent your helping hand and healing skill to Arwin’s men; to Cassius’s men. You had betrayed your faith in rebels by doing so – but not the faith in the gods you served, not in the goddess.

Be faithful, little one, to me only.

And so you had been.

And true to the goddess’s word, you had been promised a favour – a reward for your service. A favour of your choosing.

There had never truly been a choice to make. Your decision was as clear as the days before the mercenaries arrived and stained daylight with the crimson of good men’s blood.

Your voice was shaking as much as your body was; but the conviction behind your plea was as firm as the ground under your knees.

“Spare a life, good sir. Please.”

You dared to look up briefly upon the silence following your words, met with a raised eyebrow and a wolfish smirk in the corner of the man’s lips. You dropped your gaze in an instant, eyes slipping shut at the rustle of fabric as Cassius took a step closer with a chuckle.

“Oh, little priestess, ya’ should know by now that I’m no good, but all the more of a sir… but don’t ya’ fuss, pretty flower. I won’t kill ya’. I like ya’,” he hummed, the feigned warmth in his voice causing your skin to crawl.

You took a deep breath, your own words tasting foreign, praising and submitting to a man unworthy of respect, let alone of having a human being kneel by his feet.

“Thank you, good sir—sir. I… am not pleading for my life.”

“Oh? And whose life, flower?”

You gulped, his curiosity having a morbid edge like that of little boys tearing away a fly’s wings to see if it’d survive. Your voice wasn’t louder than a whisper.

“The rebel’s—at least one. Sir. Please.”

The sudden boisterous laughter made you wince, sharp like knives and coppery like the blood they had spilled for their own amusement. You did not dare to look up, but you could feel Cassius exchange amused glances with his henchmen, laughing as well, before he turned back to you, still kneeling humbly despite your heart quaking in fear, humiliation and anger.

“Oh my sweet little priestess… I offered ya’ a favour, not a fuckin’ treasure,” he spat, another burst of laughter shaking the tent. “I meant a good warm meal, a bit of wine to light up your stuck-up pretty ass. A soft, warm bed, maybe with a man to keep ya’ even warmer… a life? You’ve barely done nothing at all.”

You gritted your teeth, blood boiling in your veins as you resisted curling your hands into fists at his mocking and blatant lies.

You had done plenty. You had saved at least two lives of his wicked men and improved another three. You had saved them despite the fact it went against your loyalties and any common sense, treating them with careful healing touch and kindness they did not deserve.

The images flashing through your mind at his sneering were unholy and downright blasphemous; spitting into his face, nails digging into his skin, fingers pushing against his eyeballs to make him feel a fraction of you felt – and yet.

All you could do was to swallow your outrage.

Be faithful, little one, to me only, and I shall fulfil your deepest desire, protect what you hold the dearest, the goddess had said.

And so you kept your voice humble, eager even, the tremble in it perhaps easily mistakable for shyness or fear.

“I can do more, sir, I— I can keep healing your men-“

“Oh ya’ will, flower. Favours or not, ya’ will keep serving us if ya’ wanna live,” Cassius said, a barely hidden threat. “But… I gotta say – ya’ got my attention. I’m curious now. Who’d ya’ have in mind?”

Your heart, already having been racing, thundered in your ribcage.

… and I shall fulfil your deepest desire, protect what you hold the dearest.

You had one single person in mind, selfishly so; yet you waited for a beat, casting your glance aside, now truly shy.

You opened your mouth, no sound coming out, worried of their reaction; but you had to be brave.

Steven was brave. He was the bravest man you had ever met and being worthy of him, saving him, meant you had to borrow some of his strength in the face of evil.

Quite literally.

The rustle of fabric clued you and yet, you startled when rough fingers slipped under your chin and pushed, forcing you to meet Cassius’s piercing eyes, his face mere inches from yours, stale breath stinking of beer and wine and sweat washing over you. 

“Who, pretty flower? Whose life ya’ came to bargain for?”

He inhaled deeply at your silence, licking his lips as his gaze flickered down to your mouth as if he wanted could pull at your lower lip and suck the name straight from your tongue. The imagery made your stomach churn, his predatory eyes a promise he would do exactly that unless your spoke.

“Steven, sir. He-“

Cassius dropped your face with the loudest bark of laugher yet, almost hysterical, head thrown back.

“That bag of skin an’ rattlin’ bones? Bit a waste, ain’t it, flower? I let him live, the next winter takes him!” he chuckled darkly, nausea tickling your stomach at the very suggestion, tears prickling your eyes, casted down – in humiliation and genuine worry.

Steve had had issues during some of the harsh winters in particular. He’d come to your temple or you’d come find him to help. Bucky, his closest friend, was usually already there, trying to tend to him, always saving a warm smile for you despite the worry written in his features mirroring yours.

“Why him, mm? What’s a pretty thing like ya’ care ‘bout ‘dat bastard?”

You stared at the ground with intent, lips pressed tight. The answer was obvious, to everyone – it must have been. You had been stupid to come here, setting yourself up for their judgement; but you had had faith. The goddess herself had advised you, a touch of divine feeding your trust into this evil in the form of a man having the ability to do you a favour.

You had to persist. You had to; one did not serve the gods for rewards, but for their favour to be given to others. Like your Steven.

Dirty rough fingers pulled at your chin again, harsher than before, eyes of a demon staring into your soul and reading the answer it was looking for with a dark glee.

“Well fuck me. Ya’ sweet on him, pretty flower? Damn, they really teach ya’ to be merciful, huh?”

Something burned inside you, flames licking your insides; for Steven, for the mocking, for the disrespect for life and for your calling – and yet. The voice of the goddess gave you strength to withstand the rage that threatened to tear you from within.

You held Cassius’s gaze even as your own swam in angry tears. “Please, sir. Please, spare him-”

He scoffed and snapped your head to side, walking away, exchanging a wordless conversation with his right-hand man.

You dropped you gaze again when they looked at you, folding your hands in front of your lap, a gesture of submission; if it wasn’t submission for him but for the goddess, he did not need to know.

Your faith would carry you through; it had to.

You sent a soundless, wordless prayer, your eyes slipping shut.

Accept all the bargain offered, all his conditions; and then ask one in return. Ask him to swear on his life, to swear on my name.

Be faithful, little one, to me only, and I shall fulfil your deepest desire, protect what you hold the dearest. Accept all bargain offered and your service shall be rewarded at last.

Patience. Patience was a virtue.

This godawful man awoke sinful thoughts rather than virtues ones, but one must preserve. One must-

His dark chuckle had your eyes snapping open, your heart trembling.

“That’s a lot to ask, flower. What’d ya’ offer in return?”

Breath hitching, your hopes rising, you supressed a smile, sending a silent thank you to forces beyond human, mind whirling with ideas even as you had already offered plenty.

“I-“

“No, no, you’re in no position to bargain. I’m gonna choose for ya’…” he interrupted you, the glee in his voice revealing he had never had the intention to give you the luxury of choice. You held your breath. “I think I choose you.”

Your heart skipped a startled beat, the most filthy implication in his voice twisting your insides with disgust and icy terror all at once.

You prayed to be wrong. You were wrong. Surely, your thoughts had no doubt been infected by the poison these men spread all around them, twisting the path your mind went in attempt to understand the chaos they caused, the blood they spilled. Surely, he did not mean-

“S-sir?”

“I want you,” Cassius repeated, approaching you once more, the smile in his voice careless and whimsical just like the one he wore when he had driven his sword through your sister in servitude when she had refused to help his men. “You’re a pretty little thing, all pure and all… faithful. Bet ya’ never had a guy have his way with ya’, did ya’?”

Blood crystalised in your veins, your chest filling with lead, every beat of your heart painful. Words stuck to the roof of your mouth along with your tongue, lips turning numb as you tried to protest.

“S-sir-“

“Answer me, pretty flower,” he ordered, his touch terrifyingly gentle as he ran his hand over your scalp, before he gripped and tugged painfully, forcing you to meet his animalistic lust in eyes. “Did ya ever have a man claim ya? Split ya’ open on his fat cock?”

You couldn’t swallow the small cry of pain as he tugged again, could not supress the tremble in your jaw as you stared into the perverse, hungry void of his wide-blown pupils.

“Tell. Me.”

“N-no.”

He smiled, dark satisfaction on his face as he pressed the thumb of his free hand to your cheek, following the wet trail of the tear that had escaped.

Your skin crawled, every single nerve in your body screaming to try and pull away, to rush to the nearest body of water to cleanse yourself of the mere touch of the filthy animal that called itself a human being. But he held you firmly; and he had a pack of monsters just like him at hand.

Even if you had tried to fight, you’d have lost hopelessly.

“Good. Looks like I can already make ya’ cry real pretty, flower… and I will,” he promised, the little air you allowed yourself to inhale burning like acid in your lungs. “That’s my bargain then, little priestess. His life for your cunt. Take it or leave it.”

You churned at the coarse language alone, let alone at the idea of allowing him to touch you any further, let alone-

The NO was never so desperately loud in your skull, in your skin, in your blood.

And yet. Yet. 

Accept all bargain offered.

Be faithful, little one, to me only, and I shall fulfil your deepest desire, protect what you hold the dearest.

Was that truly the price to be paid? Was that truly what a goddess, a celestial being, would ask of you? To give your purity to this… sad bloodthirsty caricature of man? Could she?

But what of Steven? What of faith? What of your innocence, sacredly kept for the gods, which you might have, might have in your sinful thoughts, been considering giving to sweet Steven, a good, beautiful man, a fighter, a protector at heart. Your Steven, who watched with soft eyes and tender smile as you carefully treated his wounds, who’d brush over your knuckles in thank you, his split lip hovering over the back of your hand-

“But ya’ should know, pretty flower,” Cassius hummed, his fingers releasing your hair, brushing over your throat, moving the hem of your tunic lower to press against your collarbone, down to your sternum, his touch like a disgusting brand you weren’t sure you could ever erase, “now that you’ve told me… if ya’ say no… he’ll be dead by mornin’.”

“No!”

You were moving before you knew how, leaping to your feet, rage bubbling over, fresh tears springing.

NO!

They would never hurt Steven, you wouldn’t let them in hundred ye-

Sharp pain exploded in your arm and shoulder, your knees hitting the ground again, your free hand barely steadying you as your fingers dug into the ground, another cry torn from your lips; your other arm was twisted behind your back and pulled up to cause the most pain possible, tugged at to have fresh tears stream down your cheeks.

The scene was rewarded by chuckles from the audience as Cassius snarled into your ear, like a wild animal snarling at its prey to scare it into submission. 

His mouth was on your ear, a flicker of tongue tasting the salt and sweat on your cheek, causing you to shudder in his violent grip, your prayers urgent and empty for you knew not what you were praying for anymore.

“Careful, little priestess. I can be a good sir, or a real bad one. Be a good little flower and maybe I’ll spare that pathetic child of man… be a bitch and I’ll treat ya’ like one. Will fuck ya’ like a bitch in heat right on his dead body.”

You shook your head, biting your tongue so hard you tasted blood, frantic heartbeat in your chest, in your temples, in the centre of your pain. Your chest heaved with sobs at his mocking ‘no? Well then-‘ and you shook your head harder, a plea for him to stop, to wait spilling from your lips as your mind cursed.

Cursed at the goddess who had chased you into the claws of a merciless animal.

Be faithful, little one, to me only, her whisper echoed in your head, kind and almost mocking now, and I shall fulfil your deepest desire, protect what you hold the dearest. Accept all bargain offered, all his conditions; and ask one in return.

Ask him to swear on his life, to swear on my name.

I shall protect what you hold the dearest.

You turned your teary gaze to the heavens, your sight obscured by the roof of the tent, the pain from your arm shooting up your neck.

Usurper. Animal. Monster.

What other bargain should you have expected? They seized and wrecked and spilled blood in gallons. Had they been any less wicked, they might have offered you to fall on their sword in exchange of not forcing the same on Steven.

Gods, Steven.

Should you accept, Steven might live.

Should you refuse, he was dead for certain; his body probably displayed for the crows to feed on, an example of what happened to those who denied the will of Cassius’s men.

Where were gods and goddesses while you little humans faced that?

Ask him to swear on his life, to swear on my name.

I shall protect what you hold the dearest.

Lips trembling, shivering all over, you squeezed your eyes shut; and begged, barely audible.

What else was left for you?

“Will you swear?”

You cried out as he tugged at your arm again, puling you closer to him.

“What’s that, little priestess?”

“Will you swear, on your life, on the goddess Velessa, that you will not hurt him if--- if I give myself to you?” you rasped, swallowing the nausea at what you were even suggesting.

He eased the grip on you a bit, allowing you to take a deep breath even as waves of agony pulsed through your arm.

Gaze swimming in tears, you caught a glimpse of Cassius’s right-hand man looking at his leader with a smirk.

“I dunno, pretty flower. Ya’ in no position to bargain… though ya’ will be in real nice positions later.”

The four men, still simply watching as if it was performance for the gods themselves, sipping their godsdamn wine, laughed crudely.

Your body could no longer shiver.

You swallowed loudly; your pride, your dignity, your cries of outrage.

“Please. Please, I will be good.” Rage burned through your very soul as much as your humiliation. But you knew your position. You knew there was no escape; a single, sad attempt on a bargain, the most important one; for if you were to be damned, you might as well make sure you got what you had come for. “I can be truly good, sir.”

“Hm… and ya’ want me to swear, d’ya’?”

“Yes, good sir. Please.”

He dropped your arm with a sniffle on your part, the waves of pain and relief crashing down on your very being, your free arm cradling your injured one to your body with tender touch.

Cassius clicked his tongue.

“Alright, I will. I will. I am a man of faith and of my word, after all.”

You could scoff and wish for the man who shall lie to choke on his own tongue; you did not believe him to be either of those.

But you let your cursed faith guide you. You had been touched by the divine, a gentle press of fingers to your forehead shining like a light within you. May it protect you in the darkest dark times – you had to believe in that.

What else was left there to do?

“But I have a condition too.”

The wickedness in his voice; the wicked excitement in his gaze, shining like gold that tempted men to sin.

Accept all bargain offered, all his conditions; and ask one in return.

What else what there?

“What is your condition, sir?” you whispered, resigned.

He smiled; and you shivered again.

You had never seen a smile so purely evil in your life; and in the past two days, you had already seen all too much.

He leaned all the way to your face, wet lips touching the sensitive skin under your ear, a flicker of tongue to taste your skin again.

“He’ll watch.”

Air left your lungs at once, absolute terror seizing your already weightless body barely keeping steady.

“W-what-“

“He’ll watch your pretty teary eyes glaze over when I ruin ya’, when I spread that tight-”

“No-“

Cassius pulled back, shrugging without care in the world; but his eyes glimmered with dark satisfaction.

“No, then. The offer’s off the table. Sharpen my sword, boys-“

“NO!” you cried out, shaking all over, all strength having left you as you thought you might jump to your feet – but gave up before even trying.

You knew what would follow; you had seen it already. The result was the agony still pulsing through your arm all the way to your fingertips.

The despair, disgust and pain had drained you; your body, your heart, your soul. Your faith.

Accept all bargain offered, all his conditions.

Goddesses were all-knowing, all-seeing. Had she seen this? Could she have truly asked this much of you?Was this a trial of your faith? One that would save Steven but took away your everything, your chance to serve to your faith and him all the same?

“Make up your mind, pretty flower. We’re wasting time here. I’ll count. Five, four, three, two-“

“Yes.”

You breathed the word before you could think twice; what else was there to say?

One word. Three letters. Hollow. Just like you bodily vessel. Worthless; but all you could offer.

“Oh?”

“Yes. If you’ll swear on your life, on the goddess of Velessa, that you will not hurt Steven, then yes. I accept.”

He cocked his head to side, breathing in deeply, licking his lips as his gaze trailed over your body; you did not shiver.

Not anymore.

His dark smile did not faze you anymore.

You were not sure anything could.

“Smart little thing,” he praised, eyes locked on your rising and falling chest. “Go wash yourself, pretty flower. Wear something nice and white… I want him to see. Meet ya’ in half an hour, right here.”

You nodded, a puppet on a string of a higher power. A pawn.

You rose to your shaky feet, the pain in your arm dull, and walked away, knowing that the next time you’d enter, the true horror was to start.

There was ache.

There was numbness.

They came like waves crashing into each other at shore as you lied curled on the ground, bloody and boneless. Ruined. Soul trembling in the maze of your mind, blank like a canvas of horror stained entirely in red.

There were windows in your temple, a masterpiece fabled to be a work of a glassmaker so talented he must have been gifted by the gods, having been whispered the formula beyond human understanding, his hands led by too mighty of a power to comprehend a mere mortal. The stained windows casted such intense red light over certain parts of your temple that the sculptures erected in honour of the deities and the floor seemed to be dripping with it. The day you had seen the temple’s floor dripping with blood instead, you had foolishly thought there was no red darker than that.

You had been wrong.

Crimson was all you could see, the darkest shade of red.

A shade perhaps otherwise only known to gods, should you ever think such blasphemy.

But had you not earned at least a fraction of the right to curse the deity you could no longer serve? Had you not earned a moment of being arrogant enough to think you had been offered a twisted divine sight?

You had decided to give and to serve; you had been ripped apart instead.

Stolen innocence. Stolen dignity. Stolen purpose.

A stolen life.

The world was stained in the darkest red not even your tears could dilute and with the irony of fate, you were grateful for that – for the bloodlike darkness and tears made your vision blurry, shaky and nearly blind.

It was better than to see a single part of your wrecked body. It was better than to see Steven, unable to meet your eye.

You wished Cassius had not spoken a word. You wished he had not revealed your bargain with such wicked glee in his voice, wished you couldn’t hear Steven’s breathless no.

But Cassius had told him. And he had taken as much pleasure in it as he had taken in—

You wished Cassius would have choked on his own tongue before he could have spoken; because then Steven might simply loath you, think you evil or disgusting and judge Cassius all the same.

Instead, the last he had been able to look you in the eye, teary and full of murderous rage as two men built like mountains held him on his knees while the third one pressed a blade right to his throat, all you had seen was regret and loathing aimed at himself.

He wished you hadn’t done this to spare his life.

But you had.

You had and he bore witness along with Cassius’s henchmen and his right-hand man merely sitting there and watching like it was the most amusing performance of his miserable fucking life; four monsters and one man witnessing your humiliation, blood and mud now seeping into the white fabric of your tunic.

Stolen innocence. Stolen dignity. Stolen purpose.

A stolen life.

And for what?

You were trembling as Cassius walked to your no-longer-secret love, not having bothered to tuck himself back into his pants; the manic indulgent smile on his lips was painfully clear in your vision as he licked his fingers still coated in your slick and blood, causing Steven look away. He too, seemed to be shaking; or perhaps that was merely your world quaking in its very basis was shattering along with you.

You let your eyes slip shut, tears cold on your feverish face.

“Sweet like fuckin’ honey, your little priestess. Bet ya’ wish ya’ were me… did ya’?” Cassius stated rather than asked, a shuffle of fabric and a hiss followed by his voice dropping lower. “Answer, you little bastard. Did. Ya?”

“No.”

“Really?” the monster in human skin cackled, voice dripping with the very crimson you saw all around you. “‘Cause lemme tell ya’, you’d talk real fuckin’ different if ya’ felt that snug little-“

“I’d never do any— no. I didn’t. I’d never hurt her,” Steve snapped, words shaky – but not with weakness, you realised, your lower lip trembling at the fierce honesty in his voice. It was anger; it was anger so fiery Cassius might burn in the eternal fires for all the wrongs he had done in life and would consider it mercy in comparison to the scalding heat and devastating sincerity of Steve’s rage.

You found a little light flickering through the bottomless void of crimson of your world; there was no mistaking whom Steven hated at the moment, hated from the very bottom of his otherwise gentle soul. Not you.

Gods, not you. Never you.

“Fuck, you’re even more pathetic than I thought… ‘never hurt her’,” Cassius echoed mockingly, scoffing. “Bullshit. And too bad… ‘cause I have. I will again. And again… and again. Should get cozy where ya’ are, ‘s gonna be a long day ‘n night.”

With a sharp intake of breath, your dull heart jumping with a jolt of terror, you snapped your eyes open. You met Cassius’s glance from where he stood directly against still kneeling Steven, his exposed manhood inches from Steven’s face, distorted with a mix of emotion so vile your shame easily swallowed the rising tide of horror at Cassius’s promise.

“I mean, she’ll be less sweet, less tight too… but a flower so pretty... She needs seed to fuckin’ glow-“

Steven tried to spring to his feet the very same moment you recoiled on instinct, your boneless limbs protesting and failing.

Much like you, Steven moved but two inches up before he was slammed back to his knees with twice the vigour, arms locked behind his back, a snarl so animalistic you’d never imagine it leaving his lips twisting his mouth.

Cassius clicked his tongue; a sound as ominous as a cracking formation of rocks about to bury alive the unsuspecting innocent soul walking by.

Your sucked in a startled breath as Cassius cocked his head aside, one corner of his mouth, still stained with your blood, rising up in violent delight as he leaned forward, face inches from Steven’s.

“Fierce baby lion, aren’t ya, boy? Too bad… wild animals gotta be put down.”

Your silent apathy broke the moment his right-hand man rose almost lazily to his feet, reaching for the sword laid on the table, pulling it from its sheath and taking three long strides that shook the ground under your knees to pass it over to his master.

Your heart leaped to your throat, the choked single syllable uncomprehensible as you tried and failed to scramble to your wobbly feet, ending up on all fours, tangled in your own tunic, shocked by how painful it felt to move when all that mattered was now at stake despite everything you had just endured.

No.

No, no, no, not on your watch, not under the eyes of all the cursed gods and goddesses who had PROMISED, who had-

“You promised!” you rasped as you pushed to your feet again, succeeding to crawl at best – so, so far, the distance miles long as Cassius straightened and tested the weight of the sword in his hand as if it was the first time he ever carried it.

And had you not seen with your own eyes that he had ripped away a human life before, you might have believed that was the case; the greatest cowards always had others do their dirty work, sitting in the luxurious seat in the front row to oversee the destruction they had commanded.

“Oh pretty flower, the promises I’ve made and broken,” he hummed with a gleeful smile as he glanced at you before curling his wrist, the sword making a terrifying circle as he took a step back.

A blinding rage flushed your veins with enough strength to keep you upright at last, to have your voice be heard all the way to the gods themselves perhaps, a scream to all the mighty deities who must intervene, for you, you alone, you were too slow, too weak, too-

“You swore on your life! You swore on-”

“And death can come fuckin’ take me if she wants,” Cassius spat, “I’d like to see her try.”

“NO-!”

In a world where those who’d died merely turned to eternal sleep, your scream would have been piercing enough to wake them, a battle cry begging them to come to your aid.

It this world, under the eye of cruel gods and wicked goddesses, it was only enough to burn raw through your throat and nearly tear your eardrums.

And yet it didn’t hurt.

That didn’t hurt.

Because your scream was not a battle cry; it was a wail forceful enough to bring you back to your knees as the sword was driven straight through Steven’s ribcage, instantly staining his shirt with blood, the sticky gurgly sound something you’d never forget no matter whether you’d continue to walk the Earth for an hour or a decade.

The broken wet gasp leaving Steven’s lips as Cassius pulled out the blade out with vigour and his henchmen released Steven at last was cut off when he did not have a moment to support himself on his hands and the blade pierced him a second time.

The sob tore your chest apart but it did not matter; your heart was already in shreds, beating all over your body, every beat an agony unknown.

Steve’s eyes were on you as he fell limp to his side, all tension leaving him; and the look in his beautiful blue eyes with the sweetest drop of green had your violently trembling hand cover your mouth.

There was no accusation. No blame. No loathing nor disgust.

Only forgiveness.

An undeniable prove of the kindness he carried in his heart, even as it stopped beating, a prove forever etched into his features as his gaze misted over; a soft statue in its eternal beauty, the most sacred deity of all, a depiction of a virtue the filthy demons standing above it were not even worthy to look at.

But neither were you.

This was all your fault.

You had been foolish. So incredibly naïve in your blind faith; faith in a goddess who might have as well had been the messenger of the demons themselves, leading you astray, tempting you with personal gain and punishing you for giving in, ripping away what you held the dearest.

What good was your faith now?

You squeezed your eyes shut but it didn’t erase the image burned into your mind for eternity, the sheer terror to haunt you for the rest of your days.

The sobs torn from your ribcage hurt. Your muscles were spasming and you couldn’t stop it, you couldn’t breathe, because it burned and burned and burned and you should be praying.

Praying for Steve’s sweet soul.

But all you could do was to curse, with every fibre of your useless worthless being, to curse the deities and demons and humans alike, nails digging into your scalp so hard you thought you might be drawing blood.

Blood, blood, blood, everywhere, at Steve’s lips-

“The fuck?”

Your eyes snapped open on instinct, a little spark of life in your bones at the naked surprise in Cassius’s voice.

Your ragged breath stuck in your ribcage, a choked sob hitching in your throat. Your lips parted, head spinning as the ground beneath your knees seemed to evaporate, reeling mind coming to a halt.

Oh gods.

She was here; in all her celestial beauty, wildness and pulsing power which only a fool and faithless bastard could mistake for a an Earthly woman.

She stood there almost motionless above your Steven – above your Steven’s body – looking straight into Cassius’s face, an unnatural jerks to her movements as she cocked her head to side at his surprised smile.

“And where did ya’ come from, pretty thing? Who are ya’?”

Her smile sent a violent shiver through every fibre of your being, the righteous rage erased all at once, replaced by fear of power much greater than you; fear of the Gods you had cursed over and over, the worst blasphemy of all, thoughts of a worthless little human, nothing more than an ant under their boot.

How the monster standing toe to toe with her could not see what she was was beyond you.

Even with your gaze drowning in tears, even with the humility commanding you to lower your gaze, you could not tear your gaze away from the scene – a perhaps perverse need to watch whatever was to unfold. The unmatched hunger in his eye, the wicked glee at more flesh appearing to be claimed by him, another pure thing to rip apart; the ice-cold deceiving calm, a touch of a benevolent smile on her lips.

“Why, little man,” she spoke softly, Cassius’s protest silenced by another jerky but tender touch to his cheek as she straightened again, the colour of her irises beyond what you could describe, hypnotizing him and all his men alike as they did not dare to move. “I came to collect my bargain.”

Barely a second for a breath of hope for you – and then a sickening wet crunch.

Horror struck you like a lightning, hand flying to your mouth as the shriek rippled from your lungs.

Cassius was no longer smiling; in fact, he was no longer moving beyond a pathetic twitch of his limbs, eyes wide open and unseeing, his mouth tragicomically hanging open.

The entirety of the goddess’s forearm was stuck in his chest as she had punched her way through as if it was feeble cloth and not flesh and bone, her small feminine hand sticking out of his back soaked in blood and clenched in a fist as it gripped on a suddenly still heart.

“Oh gods-“

One effortless move of hers and Cassius had been turned into a heartless soulless caricature of man he had always been on the inside.

You whispered a breathless prayer as you lowered your head in submission at last, your peripheral vision stubbornly focused on the gory scene. The men who had witnessed your humiliation stood frozen in mute horror as they, too, bore witness to blood dripping down their leader’s torso, soaking the unholy ground.

All the while the goddess continued to simply stand there with terrifying calmness, her almost sweet smile slowly twisting into a snarl as she leaned closer to Cassius.

“You, you inane little rat, swore on your life. On my name. And you broke your promise,” she hissed, eyes sparkling with violent delight outmatching that of Cassius’s by eons, “and the moment you did, your own dark priestess’s protection cracked like your funny little ribs and veins just now. You’re mine.”

She jerked her hand back with another sickening crunch, the lifeless body falling to the ground already soaked with Steven’s blood; the heart – gods have mercy – swiftly followed suit.

Your stomach churned, bile rising to your throat, an unvoluntary wince to your neck as you were sure you could not unhear the wet smacking sound in all your lifetime; no doubt very short lifetime you’d be given before the all-knowing all-seeing goddess moved to punish you for all your shortcomings. For having lost faith, for blasphemy, for all the curses you had sworn on her name and those of her fellow deities.

But she had promised to protect him! a small grief-struck voice in the back of your head protested desperately, a prayer leaving your lips at last, for Steven at least to find peace in afterlife. If you did not grant the same courtesy to the demon who had taken your beloved’s life, well – it was but a little sin to add to a long list, wasn’t it? What more did you have to fear?

What was fear anymore? What did it matter?

Ruined for your temple, ruined for your love; the man for whom you’d given it all up lying lifeless on the nature’s floor. Death like Cassius’s might be a mercy for you.

Mercy.

Gods have mercy on Steven’s soul.

Gods have mercy on a priestess who had once believed too much and let herself be led astray.

Gods have mercy, please, oh please, have mercy-

The space of the tent turned so impossibly still it distracted your prayers.

The monsters among men forged by war stood frozen at the imagery as bloody as those their own hands had once committed; stood unmoving but straight and tall like soldiers. Until, as if in response to your thoughts, they dropped to the ground with a deafening snap of the bones holding them upright, their bodies suddenly as twisted as their minds and souls.

Fresh wave of horror and humility swept over you, your eyes squeezing shut. You pushed your head lower in a bow as you heard a shuffle of fabric out of this world approaching you, your hands trembling as they hung connected in your lap, shielding your stained tunic.

You did not dare to speak.

You were not sure you’d be able to find your voice even if you knew what to say.

“Look at me, little one.”

The unearthly bright fabric of her skirts with deep crimson ornaments stilled in front of you as she stood and slid her hand under your chin before you could as much as wonder if the command was yet another trial, an impossible one, as one must listen to the orders of gods and goddesses – but must also display humility and submission. She tipped your head back, her unnatural gaze boring into yours, her smile vile and kind at once, the touch of her other hand tender.

A shiver rocked your whole body, tears streaming down your face as she cradled your cheek with her blood-soaked hand. Drawing four lines down your skin all the way to your throat, barely avoiding your trembling lips, she cocked her head to side; the visceral fear at the memory of how she had done almost the very same to Cassius before driving her hand through his chest was a funny feeling as it reeked of relief and mercy indeed.

“I am merciful, little one. But I am a goddess. I can give and I can take. Your dedication might be to healing, but we were once warriors walking the Earth. And your war has only just started…” she softened her voice into a whisper, with benevolence the powerful ones, in your experience, tended to lack.

She leaned closer, almost crouching to your level, your gaze trapped in hers until her eyes slipped shut and her forehead touch yours lightly, an air of the divine you breathed in growing suffocating in your chest, your own eyes fluttering shut, heavy with tears and all the pain witnessed and withstood in the past days. And yet, you felt hollow.

Hollow and so, so godsdamn exhausted.

“But you are tired now, aren’t you? You did so well, little one. You must rest now.”

All life seemed to be sucked out of you as she breathed in, her lips so close they were almost touching yours; she whispered a command.

And your body, a former priestess, a mere human body, obeyed.

Your trembles subdued, your muscles losing all tension. Your limp body slid to the ground, gingerly so, curled on your side, chest rising and falling with peaceful breaths in an instant.

The goddess rose to her full height and smiled gently at your serene expression, before her gaze moved to Steven’s motionless body.

The corners of her lips curled up; had you been conscious, you would have not been able to tell whether in a smile or in a smirk.

To serve the gods and goddesses was what one should assume was a calling. It was – your calling. The higher purpose of life – for you were a woman of faith.

Being a priestess, however, your role among nobility or commonfolk alike reached beyond praying, sacrificing and healing – you were also meant to serve as a guide.

In the times of darkness, it was your mission to heal both body and mind, to help navigate the lost souls out of the maze of their thoughts and to ease their suffering. In the time of new teachings emerging, it was your mission to learn and understand, to help navigate the lost souls through their confusion, to build bridges and reconcile the old and the new, to bring peace to the minds of those who struggled with guilt and fear.

As a priestess of goddess Velessa, you were naturally all but loyal to your religion, but as a healer and a guide, you took interest in the new teachings. In those of love and forgiveness, of virtues and sins, of rewards and punishments for eternity and of atonement. In those not effortlessly reconciled with the ideas of the past.

It was not an easy path to walk; but by gods, such was the divine calling of your life.

Or at least it had been.

The musings on your faith reemerged slowly; and yet not slower than you returned from the strangest sleep of your life.

Your hazy mind was flickering with confusing images; your aching body a cruel reminder that those images – some of them at least, those of horror, pain and losses so profound your heart still felt as if it laid shattered in many pieces in your heavy ribcage – were true.

A reminder that one was not touched by a deity without consequence; one was not turned from mere human into a god simply by being blessed enough to encounter a god walking the Earth.

Much like old teachings, the new ones, too, spoke of rare occasions of encountering the divine; in the new teachings, those often took form of angels – messengers, servants and warriors of God, creatures of human form with the power near that of the old gods.

As you were pulled back into the waking world, opening your eyes with lashes heavy with tears, you came face to face with a manlike form which must have been one of those messengers. An angel. A golden halo of hair softening his sharp robust features, a strong jaw as if carved from marble, an elegant slope of his nose casting shadows easily overshone by the sky-blue of his irises with a minuscule but all the warmer speckle of greenery. Large in frame, his shoulders would have likely barely fit the doorway of your modest chamber, his waist strikingly narrow in comparison, strong thighs all but inches from your still lax hand as he sat by your bedside.

With such sight, you thought – as arrogant as it was of you to think that you, in your sins and blasphemy and curses spilled, would be graced for the second time – that he must have not been a mere messenger. All about him whispered of being a warrior. A guardian angel perhaps, watching over you with a gentle wrinkle of worry between his brows, the soft furs against your back and the covers over you doing little to disguise the true warmth radiating off him; warmth, kindness and vague familiarity one felt if they began to recognize the landscape surrounding their home upon returning from long travels.

The strangest thing was that this man – this man-like vision – seemed to be watching over you with profound sentiment.Watching you.

Air stuck in your throat at that realization, your heart stumbling in your chest.

You scrambled to sit up swiftly as you blinked away your tears, shame filling your very soul at the idea of what an image you must have made for; unjustly sharp memories of how you had been turned into such pitiful sight sliced through your body like a knife.

And yet. Yet.

The pain seemed so meaningless compared to that in your shattered heart.

The angel’s frown deepened as you gathered the covers with haste, realizing that not only you had been brought to wherever you were, but also had been changed into a clean tunic – and likely bathed. Neither of which you could recall.

“Are in much pain? Should I call for a healer?” he asked gently, an air of a kindness of strangers one was barely-ever met with anymore hovering around him. “You’re safe now. I promise.”

“Where am I?”

Your voice was raspy from misuse or perhaps from the dryness settling in your mouth. You licked your lips absently, noting the man’s frown deepening with concern, his tender gaze making you shiver, your heart hammering achingly against your ribcage – but no longer from fright.

As your frantic gaze roamed around the room, you understood why your companion would be concerned if you didn’t recognize the space; where his voice and his eyes whispered of something safe and only vaguely familiar, the environment you knew like the back of your hand. It was one of the chambers in the housing of your temple, used for isolating those whom you and your sisters tended to and whom you believed to be taken by infection and fever.

Your shoulders slumped a fraction, even if for a brief moment.

Perhaps your sisters had brought you here; perhaps the angel-like man was not a divine vision as much as he was a dream produced by your fever. You had learned a long time ago, however, that even those illusions tended to be messengers, ones of mind and soul, little blessings to guide the wounded and ill – and one would be wise to hear them out.

This dreamed figure, whoever he was, was bringing kindness – and while he had said that you were safe, it was not his words that convinced you of such. It was his soothing presence, his aura of a protector, deeply ingrained into his flesh and bones and those sincere eyes that made your heart ache and flutter all at once.

“I—thank you,” you whispered, your greatest aches but an echo for a moment, giving way to reluctant curiosity. “Who are you?”

Your question charmed a sad smile on his handsome face, the same emotion reaching his eyes. His voice softened further.

“I do not blame you for asking,” he muttered, gaze casted down as he reached to brush a non-existent strand of hair off his forehead, the all-too-familiar gesture like a sharp twist of a knife in your stomach. “I can barely recognize myself. Even Buck nearly tripped over his own feet when he suddenly needed to look up when talking to me and walking.”

Your chest stilled with a wild stumble of your heart, pain and hope exploding in your lungs. Your lips parted, fresh tears springing from your eyes, your mind sent reeling.

Impossible.

This was impossible.

He was but a fever dream, he must have been, but even as that – this was not your Steven. He couldn’t be. This was--- but the gesture, ‘Bucky’, his softness and his voice, even if with an unfamiliar depth, yes, but-- your Steven—your beloved had a large spirit and a kind, enormous heart, but he was little in frame, and he was--

-dead.

Your Steven was dead.

You had seen it happen with your own eyes, seen it happen with your own regrets and the profound realization that in your misguided attempt to save him, you were the very cause for the sword piercing though his--- gods, there had been so much blood, and he must have died in so much pain and yet he had not seemed to blame you, not blame you even now, in a foreign an yet familiar form-

Was this what Steven’s spirit looked like, residing in his sickly body all along?

Was that what he would have been should the gods grace him with better health and not only brilliant mind and the most beautiful of souls, which were gone, almost by your own hand?

“Gods, please don’t cry-“ the man whispered as if he felt your suffocating pain and all-consuming guilt himself, his hand quick to reach for yours, engulfing it easily, its warmth instantly seeping into your skin, a sob bubbling up your throat as your head spun with all the things you had loved about your Steven mirrored in this man. He even looked like Steven indeed, even if he did not. He was some form of Steven, you had no doubt, as surreal as it was.

And his touch felt so, so real, too tangible to only be a conjuring of your, even if perhaps feverish, mind. His presence was undeniable.

Had he come to haunt you?

Or was this your afterlife?

“S-steven? What--- did I… am I dead?”

He winced, shaking his head quickly, his other hand too moving to hold yours, now enclosed between both of his rough but gentle palms.

“No, no, acushla, you live--- your faith carries you through… and it saved my life too,” he whispered, meeting you gaze once more, the warm blue irises you should have recognized at once boring into your eyes with emotions so deep and so tangled you only seemed to recognize one, the one least probable to appear in anyone’s eye when looking at you, especially now.

Especially after what you had bargained, what you had lost, what Steven—

A violent shiver ran down your spine, your mind stuttering as your voice did.

Saved his life?

“But- but how--- you-“

Steven – the mirage of Steven, the spirit, your Steven? – breathed in, lips parting, no words coming out as he seemed to struggle to find the right ones. His expression was, once again, so absurdly familiar on the less-than-familiar face that an instinct to reach out and assist him somehow had your free hand twitch.

You winced when the door was thrown open, a new figure stalking in; this time, a perfectly familiar face, exactly as you remembered it, a wordless confirmation of you being entirely awake and lucid, the realization slowly sinking in.

The man holding your hand – Gods, his eyes, his gestures, his voice still as warm as when you had tended to the wounds he had gained by rushing to protect innocents, your hand held as tenderly as when he had once dared to brush his lips over your knuckles in a thank you – turned to his closest friend, allowing you to admire his profile in mute awe.

Beautiful. By gods, your Steven had always been beautiful and now, even with annoyance and light scold twisting his expression, it seemed as if his appearance was reflecting his fierce soul.

Your hand twitched in his when he spoke, trying to hold onto his touch when he began – and swiftly ceased – to retreat his touch. His entirely tangible touch.

He was real. By gods, he was by some miraclereal, alive, despite the agonizingly sharp memory of his empty eyes boring into your soul kindly--- he was right there by your side, alive and well, if not healthier than before, having grown a good foot and half taller and many pounds heavier with muscle.

Even as the stunned how echoed in your mind, you sent a thankful confused prayer from the bottom of your heart, several tears escaping the well of your eyes.

“Buck, come on. She’s just woken up, into complete madness no less-“

“And you’re a dumbass who cannot explain shit to her, ‘cause you get all tongue-tied around her and it seems to matter little if you’re a small punk or a freakin’ giant,” Bucky uttered, sighing as he closed the door and focused his gaze on you, his features softening a fraction. “You prayed. You made a sacrifice Steve refused to elaborate on. The goddess came to collect and to reward. She gutted Cassius, completely massacred the hirelings-“

“BUCKY!”

Steve snapped his head to the other man so fast it brought a memory of four necks being snaped as if by a mere twitch of a hand, deadly-still distorted bodies falling to the ground, a gore image of a heart, gods have mercy, torn out of a body,of blood dripping off of her hand, her snarl and smirk and benevolent smile as she touched you and painted your cheeks with the blood of the very man who had ripped apart your dignity and purpose, and Steven--- Your Steven, motionless, eyes as kind as always but so, so empty-

Bucky continued as if unbothered by the horror-like images he brought to your mind.

“-she healed Steve, made him all brawny and huge and blessed him with strength to lead the rebels to return order to the lands. People already began stacking behind him as they should, so he’s now our strategist and the Captain of the troops. The end. Except, you know, they are awaiting his orders and instead, our dear newly-elected captain is here, ‘cause he’s a completely and utterly smit-”

“Gods, Bucky, please-“ Steven whispered hastily, earning feigned confusion on Bucky’s part, the man turning his hands palms up innocently as if he wasn’t the reason for your head spinning, your heart thundering in your tight ribcage as you tried your damnest to grasp at the meaning of the words that seemed beyond your comprehension.

“What? --Alright, fine, I’m out, I’m out…” Bucky muttered, turning back to the door as if offended, with one last meaningful glance at Steven and then you. “Move your ass though, Rogers, they’re waiting for ya’. … Your Grace.”

The door clicked shut behind him before you could muster up a response, Steven remaining stiff for several frantic beats of your heart, only then nodding as if he felt as stunned as you were.

He had not released your hand for the entirety of the absurd scene.

You were glad for it, beyond grateful; for as you turned back to him in mute awe, suffocating relief having found home in your ribcage as the truth of Bucky’s words began to settle, Steven’s touch grounded you in the madness your reality had become.

He cleared his throat, the sound nearly defeating in the silent room.

“I, uhm, I apologize about Buck. He… was blunt, but not wrong,” Steven sighed, the full extent of his words not reaching your mind, for it was too busy accepting the fundamental fact still.

The Goddess. She had kept her promise: she had protected what you held the dearest. Moreover, she strengthened Steven’s body to protect him further. She… had killed the highest ranking Arwin’s men in the area – because saving your Steven and turning him into a tangible epitome of a warrior had also served another purpose, one she had perhaps had in mind all along.

Your war has only just started, she had said.

She had blessed him with strength of a body – the only one he had lacked until that moment – so he could lead your people into a better future.

She had turned him into the epitome of hope.

“She truly did save you…” you breathed, your gaze instinctively flickering to his ribcage where two of wounds oozing blood had been, hand twitching with the need to see their absence with your own eyes.

Did the pain echo in his body still? Did scars remain where his flesh had been cruelly torn, or had they been healed?

It mattered little, you supposed.

But as Steven slowly nodded in confirmation, a patient smile shyly lifting the corners of his lips, the aches in your body reminded you that whether he carried his scars or not, you knew that you did.

Your relief was pushed away by another suffocating feeling, chasing fresh tears into your eyes. Shame.

It was a delightful truth that the goddess – even a rather twisted way – had kept her promise. She had. It had only cost you everything.

It was such a blasphemy – you scolded yourself, sending another prayer for the mercy shown by the goddess to whom you, now tainted, could no longer serve – forcing yourself to swallow your tears, your free hand curling into fist as your lips twisted in an attempt at a genuine smile.

Steven was alive. You must find joy in that for it was the greatest blessing of all, for that was what your bargain had been for, after all.

What a true delight and blessing that was, oh merciful goddess, how you did appreciate seeing him breathe freely, how you wished to lay hand over his chest to feel the vigorously beating heart, so wonderfully, stubbornly alive-

Gods, why at the same time did it have to hurt so deep within you that you could not seem to reach the source and press to find relief-

“That’s good,” you choked, your gaze evading Steven’s, instead raking over his broad shoulders, his bulging arms, the image, while beautiful, barely comprehensible. Gods, he was so large now, larger than life itself… and you. You. Less than nothing left.Your voice was barely louder than a breath. “But she, uhm… she did not heal me, did she?”

Steven did not have to speak to answer.

You had once pulled shards of ceramics from him abdomen when he had gotten to a brawl – the memory sharp as it was one of rare moments he had allowed you to see that despite his fighting spirit and stubbornness, he did understood and felt pain, much like any other human being. And yet –his expression that night had not been nearly as pained as it was now, his jaw set tight, his eyes slipping shut after a moment as if he could not bear the sight of you when he replied.

The fact alone burned down your spine and left ashes behind, ones you tasted on your tongue.

He could not bear the sight of you. That was just how filthy he saw you now.

“I do not think so, no. I… what you did-“

“It was worth it.”

You spoke the words before thinking of it twice, only to realise the truth in them before you could even think to take them back and reflect on all the kinds of pain your actions had caused you.

It burned and stung, and could rip you apart and by gods, it did – but how could it be anything but worth it?

Seeing Steve now – alive and well and strong, his body reflecting the brilliance of his soul… Oo doubt even those who had been overlooking his importance and potential were willing to follow him now, appreciate him as they should have for years. It had to be worth it.

And waking up, you had thought an angel, a godlike figure, blessed you with their presence; a messenger, a warrior. A symbol of hope. They too must have thought that upon setting their eyes on him: a symbol of hope to those who had long lost their will to fight. And on the other hand, Cassius’s men, gone: the symbol of tyranny and pain toppled over and knock down from its pedestal, shattered to million pieces to give way to celestial light.

Hope.

For the hope alone your sacrifice would have been worth it.

What was your little heart and broken soul in comparison? Your lost purpose in a world where lost souls roamed to find the temple you had once been allowed to serve in?

What was your pain in comparison to the masses?

Insignificant. A grain of salt in a wound of a bleeding land.

After all, you were meant to live a rather secluded life, a life of quiet servitude; ruined for both, men and your temple, your isolation would merely grow. Should the gods be merciful, you may be allowed to continue serving in the outskirts of the land, in the woods; if not to anyone else, then to the very goddess who had chosen not to heal you.

Your calling was never meant to be selfish; your calling only ever was to aid others and to serve deities and their purpose.

You had served a purpose. Even as fresh tears gathered in your eyes as in defiance, you must believe in your heart and soul that there could not have been a greater purpose to serve than this.

The most tender caress to your cheek, gathering the tears which had spilled over, brought you back to the room from the faraway woods and images of loneliness. Steven whispered your name, his eyes glassy as his fingers shifted to cradle your face with gentleness you had barely ever dared to dream of, your very soul trembling and drawn towards his welcoming warmth.

“Oh acushla machree, I—I never knew… I hoped, like a fool, that one day you might--- and now…”

Your breath hitched.

The realization struck sharp in your not yet mended heart, sudden pain exploding as if it was being torn in half.

All tongue-tied, Bucky’s words echoed in your ears; hoped like a fool, Steven’s raspy voice added. Completely, utterly smitten, a haunting voice joined, whispering what Bucky must have wanted to say before your beloved cut him off.

Machree, your achy heart echoed, the word the sharpest sting of all.

Acushla – a vein, as you had found in the wise texts – was what Steven had been calling you for quite some time, your belief being he had found a special respectful name for his healer in the language of his ancestors. Machree, however… machree meant that one of the texts you had consulted and dismissed for it had only tempted you and awoken inappropriate hopes had been right to speak of a sentimental meaning tied to the word acushla, used as a soft yet passionate endearment.

For machree meant my heart.

Acushla machree. The vein of my heart; the reason for my living. My beloved.

Why. Gods, why-

Your lower lip quivered so your whole body wouldn’t, tears burning a path down your cheeks, seeping into Steven’s hand still laid on your cheek.

Your Steven had hoped. He had hoped, thinking himself a fool, a fool for--- you. A part of his gentle heart had belonged to you.

You had suspected as much. You had hoped so too, with all your heart, wishing to hear him say these words for months and months if not years – only to be cursed to hear them now, praying to be able to forget them when they no longer mattered. Not with Cassius’s having ruined you and thus destroyed your chance at love.

The price of your sacrifice even higher than you had believed burned bitter on your tongue, leaving frost-bites behind, your will suddenly struggling to convince your crushed ribcage that it all had been worth it.

You could not bear the pity and regret in Steven’s beautiful blues, casting your gaze down.

“And now it does not matter,” you finished his thought, nodding slowly, the absence of his touch as his hand fell limply to his side like the harshest winds of winter. “I understand.” I wish I didn’t. “I would not expect nor hope for anything else from anyone.” Not even from a soul as pure as yours. “Let alone from the man who will at last be seen as the hero he is. You have much brighter future ahead of you, will have no shortage of-“

“What are you talk--? No!” Steven blurted out, the sudden urgency in his voice making you snap your eyes up, only to read utter confusion and exasperation in his face, both of his hands moving to hold your hand once more.

“I--- What I mean to say is--- I am so sorry for what you endured… and I understand if you cannot forgive me for not being strong enough to prevent it, more so when it was because of me, I-”

“No, that’s---  for you, Steven. Not because of,” you assured him hastily in return, the fractured smile on your face passionate, even if brief. “You are worth it, Steve. I wish… I wish I not only hoped but knew sooner how you felt, for I feel--- I wish I was not tainted the way I am.”

His voice was soft as he whispered your name like it was a prayer in its own right, a prayer and a source of pain all the same, the very same sentiment blooming in your chest.

“You are not—no. You are as precious as ever.”

Oh your sweet, sweet Steven. Fierce and loyal and kind, the fairest of them all, his soothing words charming another heartbroken smile on your trembling lips as he squeezed your hand.

“You do not have to—I know the ways of the world, Steven. I’m worthless n-“

You never got the chance to finish the sentence as his hands, incomprehensibly fast, moved to cradle your face in both of his large palms, the fierce affection in his gaze stealing your breath.

“No. You are no less worthy than a day ago, no less precious or less… loved,” he added, his voice falling into a whisper, his calloused thumb tender as he swept away the tears from the corner of your eye, a shiver rushing through your body along with traitorous hope you stumped with vigour for it hurt to have hope and have them crushed. “My heart is yours, has been for a long time and always will be. And… should you forgive me one day and allow me, I will prove it to you too. With all I am and all I could ever become.”

Gods let him have the world, you sent a silent prayer as you struggled to breathe, every word falling from his lips as tender as his hold on your face and as firm as his grip on your foolish heart. Gods grant me strength to not give into temptation to accept his endless kindness, for my own gain would be his loss.

“I—I do not wish to trap you-“

I wish for nothing more than to be yours-

Steve shook his head again, releasing your face only to reach into the pocket of his pants – a pair a size too small for him, one Bucky might have borrowed him for none of his old clothing could possibly fit him – carefully pulling out a folded parchment, gingerly opening it and laying it on your lap.

Your heart stumbled in your chest as your gaze instinctively fell on the slightly smudged ink, a single word lighting up your mind: breathtaking. For that was exactly what it did to you, seeing yourself – yourself with in a blasphemously goddess-like beauty – drawn in perfectly purposeful, affectionate lines.

It was your portrait. Portrait of which you had no doubt had been drawn by Steven himself, for he had once shyly admitted to having taken liking in art – his ink-stained fingers gently grasping your hand in thank you when you treated him on numerous occasions had only confirmed it.

He had drawn you.

He had drawn you as if you were something the most blessed dreams were made of and he had the drawing on him, even now.

“Stev-“

“You should have thought of that before you stole my heart, acushla machree,” he said, one corner of his lips rising in a tenderly shy smile. “But I show you this to make you understand – not to pressure you, for I will never. Ever. I… I would simply like you to understand who you truly are to me.”

Your thunderous heartbeat filled your temples, your fingertips moving to touch the drawing and stopping mere half an inch away for the fear of smudging it – for the fear of the beauty disappearing upon your touch, blinking away tears as not to stain it with the salty droplets.

Gods almighty.

Every single line on the parchment had been made with nothing but love. Steven had loved you, he truly had. He still did. And his words… unlike other men you had encountered, Steven was a man of his word – he did not say things he did not mean. He would accept you as tainted as you were.

He would love you and have you feel his love.

Despite everything.

For despite everything, the drawing in your hand revealed how he saw you; almost celestially beautiful and good.

A resolve inside you cracked with a deafening noise, relief and delight flooding your veins with overwhelming might, stealing your ability to speak a single word.

Mute for what must have been an eternity, you lifted your gaze at last, eagerly.

Steven’s expression had fallen, even as he had clearly tried to hold it steady: a face of a Captain who would lead his troops to restore order to the land, no matter what. The change confused you – but perhaps it should not have. You were silent for too long and Bucky had been here to tell him his presence was expected.

For all his sweet sentiment and promises, he had other duties.

As you fruitlessly searched for words to say in goodbye, in thank you, in love, he nodded curtly, rising to his feet.

“I understand,” he said, his voice strangely hollow of emotion, even as it remained so achingly kind. “Please, take your rest. Someone should be with you shortly to help you, I will make sure of it.”

Now downright bewildered at the sudden change in demeanour, you wordlessly folded the paper to return it.

His smile turned shaky, his left hand gently pressing the drawing to your palm.

“Keep it, please, unless it insults you. I… I can make myself another.”

Insult you? This gorgeous piece of art flattering you like no other, perhaps only insulting the gods in how the image depicted you in a beauty only designed for them…?

“Why would it—” You shook your head. “Why do you carry it with you?”

Your heart skipped a beat as Steven lowered his head, a faint blush – blissfully familiar, one you had more than once seen paint his features before he was touched by the divine – colouring his cheeks.

“I always felt it kept me safe and sane in midst of all this chaos. A little… a little light of hope,” he said, his smile earning a warm sad edge as he shrugged and sighed. “Rest, acush- rest, priestess.”

Nodding once more, he turned away slowly, his shoulders rising with a generous inhale.

The moment he took the first step towards the door, it felt as if a lightning of realization and determination struck you at once, your own sharp intake of breath too loud and too quick – but then you were on your feet, tangled in the covers and stumbling in your haste, caring little you hit your shin for this was not going to happen under all-seeing eyes of the gods, less so on your watch.

Not today, not ever, would Steven think you were rejecting him.

He spun back to you at the ruckus, eyes wide at your sudden fervour which you could only hope echoed the surge of affection flooding your every vein, every nerve, every last inch of your clumsily moving body. Your lack of balance mattered little to you as you all but crashed into his large frame, trembling arms thrown around his neck, face pressed to the crook of his neck in search of comfort and reassurance as much as gifting it in return.

For a single beat of your heart, he stood stunned; and then his arms moved to embrace you, holding you securely to his chest, achingly gentle and blissfully warm.

Your name was but a whisper on his lips, so tender your eyes welled with fresh tears, your fingers fisting in the fabric of his chemise, a silent sob torn from your throat as you allowed yourself to believe and feel; your pain, your heartbreak, the utter hopelessness he had wiped off so sweetly; his breath in your hair, his fierce heartbeat against your cheek, affection radiating off his very soul and calling upon yours.

There was a lump in your throat, too large for you to speak.

You did not need to.

Your Steven simply held you, lips brushing your hair, arms wrapping tighter around you as if he hoped that if he’d held you close enough, he could shield you from all the harm in the whole wide world.

And by gods, he would if he could, he’d stand unmoveable in face of any force that could hurt you, no matter how mighty; you were beginning to understand as much. He whispered as much too, the rumble of his voice in his ribcage comforting against your front.

“I’ve got you, love. You are safe now, I promise, I swear on my damn life I will protect you with all I have from now on, acushla machree, be a man worthy of-“

Oh what a lovable fool your Steven was-

You shook your head and pushed slightly for him to release you, as herculean as the act was to convince yourself to leave his comforting loving embrace. You were offered a glimpse of the apology and the gravity of his oath written in his features – replaced by awe and warm affection the moment you planted your hands on his face, glassy eyes boring into his, too filled with glimmer of unshed tears of past regrets.

“You have always been worthy, Steven,” you declared, uncompromising even in your whisper, eyes flickering all over his face softening upon your praise. “Of everything.”

And most of all, of love.

Gulping, you could not push the last words past your lips; instead, in a selfish and selfless motivation at once, you pushed higher to your tiptoes and slowly, oh so slowly as you feared rejection still, you pressed your cheek against his, the heat radiating off his skin a touch almost if not just as divine as one of the goddess.

Your heart fluttered as he leaned into the touch, a flicker of bravery leading you to carefully brush your lips over his slightly flushed skin next, earning a reverent whisper of your name.

For that was the emotion you had seen on his face all along: reverence. And love.

He nuzzled against your face softly, breathing you in, nose lightly bumping against yours, his breath your breath, bliss and torment, the distance between your lips too short and too immense to bear. One of his hands moved to cradle the back of your head, the tenderest fingers threading through your hair, your name a prayer sweeter than anything you ever tasted.

With surge of courage and impatience, you stole the sound of your name from his lips with yours, kissing him at last.

It was everything and nothing like you had ever imagined, your body lit alive, touched by the most divine forces of all and consumed by celestial bliss.

A sharp intake of breath, borrowing all air straight from your own lungs, Steven’s lips responded in kind, clumsy, tender and eager, hands reluctantly taking firmer hold of you as to never let you go. Tears rolled down your face, of joy barely diluted by the pain of scars left by your ordeal – because for all that had been taken from you, ripped from you by the hands of violent men, it was not this.

Your kiss, it would always be yours and Steven’s alone, should he truly want.

And he must have. He must have, because a sound was born in the back of his throat, his arms wrapping tighter around you to keep steady and close and keep you forever, affection of might you had never dared to dream of whispered and declared by his lips caressing yours over and over with little care for air, imperfect and beautiful and overwhelming, eyes having long fallen shut to see and feel love as it was meant to be felt – with your heart racing with Steven’s, side by side.

In the back of your mind you thought you heard Bucky swear from the doorway, Steven’s lips all the sweeter as they curled in a smile against yours. You did not care for Bucky seeing; you basked in Steven’s light and love instead.

And many, many long weeks after, when Steve tied his life – that of the people-chosen king – with yours through marriage, and he softly laid you on your marriage bed, you cried like you cried the day you kissed; lit up by his tender touch and love, soul stitched together by gentle patience and reverence and so, so achingly joyful and full of faith.

And upon that, in her all-knowing, all-seeing wild beauty, the goddess you kept serving to despite it all, smiled.

S.R. masterlist  // Complete masterlist 

Thank you for reading. I’ve come to bargain for you to let me know your thoughts 🥲💕

This story was… different. I admit I was nervous about posting it because of that.

I think the themes of blind faith, crisis of faith, faithlessness, sin and punishment and forces way beyond our understanding – and perhaps of us only being here as their pawns – were on my mind ever since I wrote the first instalment (Walking Back into My Own Myth) inspired by the collection of epic poems Kytice by Karel Jaromír Erben. This one is simply… a lot less filled with smut and a lot more drenched in blood. I also realised with horror that I am yet to give – even after this story – some love to pre-serum Steve. And so here we are 💕

I do hope you liked this story. I am indeed going to be grateful if you feel like letting me know if you did 🥰

May May be kind to you🌸

Note: The quote by anonymous at the beginning was actually made up for this story. The Goddess’s name is inspired by Slav pagan mythology.

[jesevans]

Why do I want mean, medieval Steve so badly?

I'm in the mood for Steve to manhandled me 😞 please give me some nice input. Do I want medivial Steve, mob Steve, cop Steve, lumberjack Steve? What Steve? Help me 😭

I'm giving you medieval Steve

Merciless

Summary: You're caught in the spoils of war.

Warnings: noncon/rape, violence/hitting, blood, death. You know what it is, mind the warnings.

Notes: this turned out much longer than intended. As usual, I would appreciate feedback, reblogs and likes. Love yall 💓.

You clamp your hand over Agnes' mouth as you lay hidden from the furor. The screams of horror and agony, pleas for death and life, and the slash of steel and flesh. She quivers, her salty tears flowing between your fingers. Your own trickle down your cheeks and patter into her orange hair.

The loft is poor protection, you know it, and to stay would be as dire as to yield yourself to the soldiers and their bloodlust. It is undoubted that they will strike flame to the barn as they have the rest of the settlement.

Tales of brutality and blood precede them but the common farmers and serfs never imagined it would strike the insignificant hamlet. The huts and the fields are too sparse to offer bounty to pillagers but it seems their desires are not uniquely material.

You shudder as Agnes gulps, the hooves growing closer and closer. You can't stay. You hear the men calling for torches.

You squeeze your hand around Agnes' lips and lean in to whisper, "be very quiet."

She nods and you cautiously peel your palms away and slowly push yourself up from beneath the straw. You mop your cheeks as fear blooms anew in your stomach, causing you to quake as you crawl towards the edge of the platform, peering down the ladder.

The orange light of flames flickers faintly around the barred doors, the night drifting in between the cracks in bitter gales. You wave Agnes closer and point her down first. She descends as you watch the door, the crack of fire eating at wood noisily without. Closer and closer.

You follow her down, the girl you've known since you were barely able to walk. She's pallid with terror, her eyes dilated in the shadows of the barn. You grab her wrist and pull her around the bales.

"Here," you point to the loose slat hidden along the rear of the structure.

"We can't go out," she hisses, "they will see us."

"It's our only chance," you whisper, "otherwise, we'll burn as easy as the hay."

"Please," she clings to you, "I'm scared, I can't."

"I am too but we must," you insist, voice quavering as you recall the desperate whimpers of your mother, "to stay is a certain death, Ag, so we go."

She sniffles as a new wave of tears overflows and she wipes them away with her wool sleeves. You carefully inch the slat aside, angling it on the loose nail so you can peek out.

The forest isn't too far, not if you run. Your heart swells as you ponder the expanse.

"Don't look back, right? I'll watch from behind and you run."

"What– aren't you coming–"

"I will be only steps behind, I will only keep an eye for any soldiers," you assure her, "you go out first and I will follow." You reach for her hand and squeeze, "don't look back."

She shudders and you can't help but do the same. You angle the board enough for her to step through and she kneels in the tall grass. You come out in quick succession and ease the plank back into place.

"Buncha old man and their forks," a soldier growls from somewhere on the other side.

"Likely sent the young ones to the church for refuge," another scoffs, "women too."

"Not all, Wilson found a pretty little thing up a tree," a third snickers.

"Oh, she got good hips?" The second japes.

"Didn't notice, cunt is a cunt," the other slithers.

You wince in disgust as Agnes looks at you in horror. You shake your head as if to say, don't listen. You press a finger to your lips then point across the field. Your gazes meet in wordless consent.

You make a fist, a signal, then open your hand. In a moment, she's sprinting through the grass with her skirts raised to her knees, the rustle and snapping of twigs marking her flight. The men's voices carry on in their nasty repartee then pause as the noise draws their ears.

You hold your breath as she bounds without a glance over her shoulder. You hear metal clinks, the friction of leather and mail as a man comes around the corner. He doesn't see you as he sights Agnes flees and he gives a smirk before leaping into pursuit. Your chest knots as you quickly follow suit.

You chase after him as you hear Agnes give a pitiful cry at the realisation of her pursuer. You can barely keep stride with the man and jump forward to grasp at him desperately before he's completely beyond your grasp.

Your fingers cling to the pommel of his sword and the back of his thick leather belt. He staggers and shouts in surprise as you throw your weight into him. He topples as you land atop him.

He's face down in the grass as you scramble to climb off him. You get one foot down, then the other, fighting for balance as you heave and look ahead as Agnes nears the treeline.

You take a step, then another, your third is caught by the man's thick gauntlet and you hit your elbows as you fall forward. You kick blindly and call to Agnes to keep running. Several other man clatter by in mail as she delves into the forest. You can only pray she loses them.

"You're a tricky one," the man grabs your other ankle and crawls up your body.

His hand snakes to the back of your neck and pinches, crushing your face into the bent grass. He's large, made heavier by his armor, as he curls his arm around your throat and forces your head up. You writh and claw at the ground as you try to squirm out from beneath him.

"Ah, you're going to be good fun, aren't you?" He snickers as he keeps his thick arm around you, hauling you up with him as he stands, bending your back painfully with the awkward rise, "let me get a good look, hm?"

He spins you, grabbing your chin as the scales of his gauntlet dig into your skin. A streak of blood crusts his hairline and continues down to his jaw, defined and trimmed on dark blond hair. He smirks as his other hand gropes through the layers of your apron and dress, "full-bodied in the least."

You try to shove his touch away and he squeezes your chin until you whimper, bracing his wrist in a silent plea for mercy. He chuckles as your eyes prick and the pain furrows in your brow.

"Please, sir," you murmur, "I am only the daughter of a reaper–"

"No doubt he's somewhere among the traitorous corpses," he snarls and yanks you closer, his hand slipping around to knead your bottom, "but he does breed good stock."

You flinch at the depths of his blue eyes, striking but sinister. His blond hair is pushed back, shiny with sweat and blood, as a single shank hangs down his forehead. He smells of battle, a gut churning stench.

His chestplate is marked with a large five-pointed star with thorny vines wrapped around its arms. It is armor due to more than the common soldier. He must be a knight.

"Oi, Rogers, caught yourself a fawn, eh?" Another man chuckles as he appears just behind your accoster.

The loud lick of flames rises behind them, rising up the boards of the barn. The orange hues tinge your eyes as your forebodding burns in the evening dim.

"She would go well with the cask we found in the farmer's cellar," the dark-haired man reaches to touch you but is stopped as the knight, Rogers they called him, releases your skirts to fend him off with a swat.

"Not for you," he growls.

"Eh, you lords, always so selfish," the other retracts his hand and scowls, "I suppose you won't need the wine anyhow."

You try to pull away, drawing his attention back to you as he jars your neck painfully. You grunt as the other man stumbles of, muttering discontently. Rogers turns his wrath on your, his hand quickly spreading across your skull, threatening to crush it.

"Let me tell you, bunny," he sneers, "you'll pray you'd burned up in that wreck," he turns you, forcing you to look at the smoke billowing from the sparking wood, "or at least hopped a little quicker."

"Why--" your hand slips down his bracer, "why are you doing this?"

"We take no mercy on treasonous rats," he snarls as he leans in, his nose pressing to your temple, "especially not their whorish daughters."

"We... we are no traitors, sir, we are commonfolk--"

"Raise not your axes and scythes for the king, but wallow in your fields," he shakes you, keeping hold of your scruff, yanking you along with his sudden march, "indifference is as good as an assault upon the crown."

You reach back as he twists the fabric of your dress tight, choking you as he drags you around the rabid heat of the burning barn. You stumble on your toes, held up by his unyielding grip

"My horse, where is my horse?" He barks out.

You hear a shrill cry and turn to see. He pulls you back meanly and throws you onto the hard ground, your knees scraping even through the wool and linen.

"Mind yourself, wench," he growls as you look up from the dirt.

"Please, don't--"

You glance over as you press your scratched palms against your skirts. Agnes struggles between two captors as they tug at her dress, the laces already loosened as her bodice droops down. You go to stand as you call out to her.

Once more, you're hauled back as Rogers catches your arm and spins you around.

"Lost cause, now," he girds, "less you want to join her."

You quiver and sniffle as you watch Agnes weep, barely able to fend off the men grabbing at her. Her helplessness compounds your own, suffocating you as tears gleams along your eyelids and spill over.

"Tears won't help you," he sneers callously as he accepts the leather reins from another man, a great white warhorse snorting at the looming fire, "up." You hesitate and he shoves you, nearly under the feed of the steed, "suppose you've no need of manners tilling the soil but you'll learn, bunny. Go on."

He doesn't wait for you to grab onto the horse, instead he takes you by the hips and lifts you, so swiftly you feel as if you'll fall over the other side. You latch onto the saddle and bring your leg around, clinging unsteadily on the sturdy beast, never sitting more than the old mule in Theo's stables.

He's swiftly up behind you, body flush to yours as he crushes you against the curve of the saddle. You can hear Agnes still as she whimpers and whines, wailing as the tear of fabric cuts through the air. You glance around frantically, trying to find her.

"Stubborn thing," he raps along the crown of your head with his knuckles, "be grateful you only have one master, she'll see a dozen by dawn."

"Please--"

"Please?" he challenges as he snaps the reigns, the sweat dripping down your chest as the heat of the burning barn permeates the night. "Please, what? Shall I take you down and pull your skirts up for those heathens? By all means, make your choice, bunny. Me or them?"

You shiver, despite the boiling gusts of the flames. You hear Agnes and other women, shrieking, crying, groaning. There are shadows limned in shades of orange and yellow, violent jerking, flailing limbs. You're dizzy with the repugnant visions all around me.

"What shall it be, bunny?"

You shake your head. You can't speak. Your mouth is dry, your throat lumped in dread. Your slump your shoulders and hang your head, sobbing in shame. You cannot protect Agnes, you're too weak, too cowardly.

Rogers snaps the reins, the horse breaking into a cantor. You sway with its motion, the world blurring behind the wall of your futile tears.

⚔️

The tall walls of the tent billow with the night winds. You stand in a haze, the soreness of the horse's gait lingers in your thighs and back. You weren't abreast long but the frantic energy of your fear recedes and leaves you wilted.

It is indeed a rich man's tent, not like the short poles of the common soldiers you passed along the outskirts of camp. There is a four-postered bed with a feather mattress and canopy, a war not waged without luxury. The oaken furniture and brocade cushions or finer than any piece found in your village, even before it was raized to cinder.

You press your hands together as his movement distracts you from grief. Several pieces of armor lay on the round trestle table, lain over a map drawn on hide. His sword leans against the side, still attached to the slack belt hanging from it.

He lifts his mail over his head, further messing his blood-streaked hair. He glances at you but says nothing. Only the glean of impatience in his eyes speaks his irritation.

You stare, witless, then look over your shoulder at the canvas flaps.

You wince as his shadow nears and you turn back to him as he snakes his arms around you, yanking loose the not of your apron. He whips it away from you and traces his fingers up your bodice, bracing the round neckline and renting the wool down the middle to reveal your linen shift.

His gruffness jerks you as he strips, ripping your dress to the hem and making short order of your shift. You hug yourself, trying to hold the fabric around you and he shoves your arms down, tugging the sleeves past your hands.

"Bed," he jabs his thumb behind him.

You swallow and shiver, rubbing your upper arm as you cover your chest and hover your other hand before your vee. You step back fearfully as you eye the mattress. He growls and grabs your elbow, dragging you away from the ruin of your clothes.

"Must I say everything twice?" He snaps and tosses you ahead of him.

You hit the bed and fall onto your stomach. You roll over, bringing your legs up to your chest and hugging them. He sighs as he pulls his tunic off and crumples it before throwing it away.

He stretches his fingers then furls them as his eyes graze over you hotly.

"You act like a virgin," he scoffs, "I've never known your ilk to be chaste."

You push yourself away from him as he nears the edge of the bed. He picks at the laces along the top of his breeches as he approaches. You dig in your heels as you awkwardly evade him.

"Not that the modesty of a peasant is worth anything," he sneers as he shoves down his breeches, revealing the thick muscle of his thighs.

You blink at the golden hair across his legs, that thickens around his turgid length, and thins against along his stomach, trailing up to and across his chest. You've seen men before as they bathe in the river, but never more than flaccid.

"Come," he reaches for you and you roll away.

You get your hands and knees beneath you, crawling towards the other edge with a squeak. His grip closes around your ankle and pulls your leg out from under you. He flips you over as he climbs onto the mattress and snarls, a low guttural noise.

"I should've known," he pulls your legs apart and moves to kneel between them. You slap at him and catches your wrists, pulling you up as your back curls tenuously, "you stop or I'll make you stop."

He threatens to crush your bones with his strength, only easing up as you still and whimper. He scoffs and pushes your hand down, sliding his fingers along yours and guiding them around his cock. You gasp as he holds you there, letting your other hand fall to the bed.

"You should be so honoured that you can get me hard, wench," he bristles as he moves your hand up and down his length, "perhaps it is that the road has made me too eager."

He pushes your shoulder down so your hand slips from him and he pins you flat to the bed. He sidles closer to you on his knees, shifting his hand to your chest and resting his weight there.

You turn your face away from him as the air rushes from your lungs. He rubs his tip along your pelvis, trailing along the creases of your thighs, as if teasing you, taunting you with what he's about to do.

You bite down as tears rise again, the thick cloud once more clogging your nose. He presses against your entrance and grabs your chin.

He forces your head up and you close your eyes. He taps along your folds and tuts as a pang radiates through your jaw. You look at him through glossy eyes, tears trickling down your temples.

"That's it, bunny," he growls, "it is improper to disregard a lord... or his will."

He pushes on you, slowly, the resistance of your body keeping him out. Still, a twinge of pain flickers in your pelvis and he pokes harder at you, stretching you around him as he grunts. He exhales and shifts his posture, dipping his hips lower.

You whine as he inches into you. The pain is immeasurable, a deep ache in the bones, the strain of flesh around his intrusion like a blade tearing through you. You grasp his forearm, reaching to touch his thigh with your fingertips.

"Ow," you whine, "please, it hurts, sir. Stop--"

You're struck suddenly, the world spinning as your head snaps to the side with the sheer fury of his slap. You hold your head as you babble cluelessly.

"You do not issue me orders, bunny," he sinks in further and your back arches as you cry out, curling your fingers in agony, wanting to claw at your own face. "That's it," he rocks back then in again, still barely inside you, "you cannot keep me out, bunny, I have never left any unconquered."

You murmur and slap your hands down on the woven blanket, fisting the fold of it as he tilts into you, each time deeper than the last. Your toes clench as he moves your thighs over his, pulling you closer as he topples the last of your resistance.

You gurgle at the stunning pain, the dizzying rattle in your head as your cheek sears from his assault. He bends over you, his rough hand covering your breast as he gropes you, rolling his thumb over your tender bud. He rocks steadily, long strokes in and out, stretching you over and over.

You grit your teeth as the tears wet spill out freely and gather in your throat. His body moves against yours, the hair along his torso tickling you as the heat and friction entwines you. His blue eyes drink in your tortured sobs, watching you as he thrusts deliberately, your squeaks and squeals goading him on.

He slides an arm beneath you as your hand spreads over the corded muscle of his chest. He impales you to his limit and you shriek. It's as if you will split in half.

He turn you over as he rolls with you, bringing you up over him as he lays on his back. You sink deeper onto him and brace his stomach as the pressure tingles down your thighs.

He chuckles at your struggle to take him from below, your body shaking violently as you mewl. He slaps your ass and squeezes the hot flesh, his other hand on your hips as he guides your motion.

You hang your head, breathless as he works you atop him, wiggling his hips and adding to the torment within. Your nails dig into the lines of his stomach as you tremble over him, tensing each time he tilts you against him. He groans and purrs as he moves you faster and faster.

"Oh, bunny," he slaps your rear again, then pinches you until you squeal, "you are such a weak thing."

You shakily cover your face in humiliation, unable to stem the flood of tears as they well over. His hand slips up your back and he pulls you down against him. He grips the back of your neck as he holds your body flush to his, stilling you as he bucks from below.

You wail as he hammers into you. All restraint is lost to his lust as his growls underline your pathetic babbling. You cling to him with nothing else to ease your pain.

He guides your hips, slamming you down onto him as he thrusts up into you. You huff and puff as your eyes roll back and the shadows swirl in your head. You can't take much more.

"Shall I gift you with a bastard, bunny?" he growls as he slows, "hm? Something to recall me by."

"Sir..." is all you can get out as his motion turns erratic.

He groans and grunts as his fists your hair and a warmth erupts inside of you. His voice falters with his pace and he quakes as he spills his seed across your walls. He shudders as he falls limp, keeping you pinned against him as he pants.

You're stuck there, not only by his will but your weakness. Defeated, defiled, you lay over him, desecrated.

"If the lord wills it, you will have it," he rasps and wiggles his hips, "but it is said that it often takes much sowing to plant a seed."

[darkmasterlistyouneveraskedfor]

Knights, Kings, and Knaves (Medieval AU)

A collection of medieval themed drabbled featuring King Bucky, Duke Steve, King Thor, anon...

Bucky Barnes: Steadfast | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9

Steve Rogers: Wayward | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7

Thor: Indulgence | 2 | 3 | 4

Loki: Affinity

[daragona]

Beguiled | Chapter I:

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | strong language; dark!content; infidelity; angst; smut; manipulation (from the reader and others); obsessive behaviour from our leading men; complicated dad-daughter relationships; power imbalance; time-accurate misogyny and sexist behaviour; political intrigue; etc.

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | As the daughter of a great man, you're used to putting great effort into your father's cause. But when you're tasked with getting the Queen and the King's best friend into an affair, you might see more consequences than you bargained for. (Zemo! Reader, Medieval/Tudor! AU)

– Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.

Your words pass through the wooden trellis between you, nearly lost beneath the languid murmur of Latin prayers coming from the priest on the other side. The confessional is small, stuffy, and you fidget with the hem of your gown as you lower onto the kneeler. – It’s been… six hours since my last confession.

Silence. 

The Latin stops short —cleaved clean by the sound of his head turning, followed by that rumbling laugh you know all too well. – That was awfully quick, child.

You settle on the cushion under your knees, smiling. – I am a very efficient sinner, if I may say so myself, Your Eminence.

His laughter grows louder. – Shall we add presumptuousness to the growing list of sins you seek absolution for, dear girl?

You chuckle, rolling the rosary beads between your restless fingers. – Do forgive, Father, but as my list of committed sins goes—

– Father?! 

You fall silent immediately.

A rookie mistake. One he has corrected you for one too many times. You bite your tongue, bowing your head despite the fact he neither looks at you, nor could see you if he did. – I meant it in the ecclesiastical sense—

– You meant it in the way I know you did. – He scolds. – If you make a habit of—of that word, you’ll say it where you shouldn’t. Even walls have ears in this castle, I cannot afford any scandal. I won’t warn you again.

The moment of grace between you shatters like glass.

– As you wish… uncle.

– Don’t be insolent, now. 

The beads bite into your palm. You correct yourself before your bitterness slips out again. – As you wish, Your Eminence.

– Speak your sins. Unburden your soul to me, that God may forgive you.

There is no burden in your soul. 

You've sinned and you’ve shamed yourself, and yet your conscience is as light as a feather. 

You have him to thank for that—He’s trained you to commit sin without guilt so long as it contributes to his cause. After years of obedience, your soul is as bloodied as his hands, and yet, you feel nothing of it.

– I’ve corrupted myself. – You begin, ashamed not for the crimes you are about to confess, but for the slip up you’ve just commited. – I have given coin as bribe to the Queen's handmaidens, to keep me informed of what passes within the royal chambers. I’ve traded…favors with his Majesty's closest royal guard for the same cause. Not to mention his footmen. – There’s a sound of approval —soft, almost aloof. Your father does not flinch at the thought of you whoring yourself for his intelligence. Maybe he doesn’t mind that you do. To him, it might just be another means to an end, as he so often puts it. Or maybe he simply doesn’t care. – I regret to say, Your Eminence, the news are grim.

Light filters through the screen of his door. You catch a glimpse of his face then, shadowed under the weight of his robes, under the pattern of the screen, under the years of work he's put in to never reveal too much at once. The ruby in his ring catches what little gleam of light the confessional grants. 

For a moment, as you eye him through the trellis, you think there is something in his eyes —interest, perhaps. Pride. Amusement. 

But you can never tell. Not with him.

The only emotions he conveys with any clarity are frustration, anger and disappointment— And before you even speak again, you know he'll feel all three of those as you reveal what you've discovered at last.

– Go on. – He insists, already impatient.

You don’t take much longer: – Their Majesties have once more come to blows over the question of Princess Mary’s betrothal.

He shifts, sitting up too suddenly, the impatience turning to denial at the flick of an eye. – No. No. That is impossible. The deal with Asgard has been—

You don’t wait for permission to speak.

– I’ve gathered from multiple sources that the Queen has yet again caught His Majesty abed with an Asgardian woman. Perhaps the recurrence in his choice of mistress has offended her, perhaps she already disliked Asgardians before. It does not matter. What matters is that the agreement with Prince Thor is thus dissolved in all but name.

His head sinks into his hands, the weight of months of diplomacy crashing down like stone. He had your brother accompany him to the diplomatic visit he used to secure the arrangement with Queen Frigga, and left you behind to report the whispers of courtiers back to him in his absence.

It took him six weeks to convince the woman that the marriage was a good idea. You have no idea what he forfeited so she would accept, but you can already feel his anger, seeping off of him in waves. – God be good… Steven! Could he not be more careful?!

– What King is ever careful?

– Not Steven, that much is certain!

– The guard tells me His Majesty has gathered anger of his own, and now, to spite his wife, he intends to revive the old pact to marry the Princess to the Duke of Carthage.

– Stark?! – His voice climbs. – No. No — he must be losing his mind! That's the only explanation. Carthage is a wasteland! England cannot depend on the mining of iron and the building of machines to keep itself afloat. Steven must know that!

– I have my doubts, your Eminence. – He doesn’t pay any mind to your disrespect, still shaking his head profusely. – The Queen’s handmaiden tells me that Her Majesty dictated a letter to her cousin, King T’Challa, suggesting that a union be made between Princess Mary and Prince Azari of Wakanda.

He bangs his fist against the side of the screen. You shift back, but don't startle, already used to his antics. – To punish me, surely. As is her habit! – He bemoans. – I tell you, girl. She lives for no other reason than to spite me. And after all I’ve done… After all that my predecessor sacrificed to marry her to Steven! I did warn him. The poor man must be rolling in his grave…

– Advising is a thankless job, – You hum. He nods along, oblivious to the double edge of your tone. – It gets worse, I'm afraid.

Your father falls silent again, his eyes betraying outrage even though you can barely see him.

– Well, do go on. 

– One of our friends in Wakanda reports the Queen’s wakandan cousin is due to arrive before the Feast of Saint Michael. In secret. He brings a cleric… and a jewel-studded dowry.

He turns toward the light, as if it might burn the fury out of him. – A clandestine engagement? What does she think this is? A love song?!

– A ceremony, I believe, and she might yet be able to have this come to pass, should His Majesty’s indiscretions find their way to the ears of the conclave.

Your father leans back. You hear the shift of fabric, the creak of the old wood, and can all but picture the way his fingers steeple beneath his chin. – Then it must not.

– Your Eminence?

– The conclave cannot know. Not yet. We are not prepared. After Steven's stunt with the Pope's mistress… We are already on thin ice! – He groans, rubs his temples, looks at you, tired, spent, like a man begging for mercy. – But you would not have left your duties unattended to confess to me a single sin, would you?

You forget that he knows you well. 

Sometimes you wonder how much of what he knows of you is what he sees in the mirror, and how much of it is actually yours.

You wonder if there is anything yours to speak of.

– No. 

– So you have more to tell me.

– I do, your Eminence. But the news are similarly grim.

Your father exhales like a dying man —slow, theatrical, measured. – Then let us have it. The full confession. I’ll not grant you absolution in parts.

– The Asgardian was not alone.

– What?

– She came with others. The guard thinks they were sent as a gift, by Prince Loki. I suspected the elder prince, but neither one of them wants this union, so—

– King Steven entertained all of them?

You shrug. Sometimes it's better to let the information speak for itself than make it worse by over explaining it. – The Queen found four women in His Majesty’s chambers. Two of them sisters. One… a cousin.

There is a long, stunned silence— Not the stunned silence you'd expect from a clergyman hearing of such debauchery. The silence of a man who's trying desperately to think of something that could excuse it.

Your father sits back and groans like a man who’s just been told the world is ending, but not soon enough. – Four?!

You nod.

– The guard told me he thanked them for their “diplomatic service.” – You recall his laughter, and bite your lip so you don't make the same mistake. 

Your father puts a hand over his eyes. – God deliver me from these honey-tongued harlots.

– And kings.

That earns you a sharp glance, but he does not scold, this time. Only sighs.

– He could not keep his belt fastened for a fortnight if the world depended on it. And the Queen, insufferable crone though she is —Lord help us— she’s not wrong to be furious.

You let the silence hang between you two for a moment. 

– Her fury will not die down easily. 

– Of course not. Nothing in my life can ever be easy. – His Eminence rubs his temples. – If the conclave catches wind of this, we’ll have a papal inquest in the middle of Michaelmas. If the Pope doesn’t laugh himself to death first!

– You think his Holiness would find amusement in the prospect of a tri-state war?

His eyes grow grave. His brow twitches. – I think that lecher would find delight in the sight of children dying so long as their blood did not stain his precious garments.

You swallow the words that'd been forming on your lips, though your throat is suddenly dry. – I took the liberty of… removing something. My second sin in these six hours, God forgive.

– What have you done now, girl?

The edge in his voice is sudden and sharp. For a second, you flinch. – Her Majesty’s letter to Wakanda. – You shift the parchment through one of the gaps of the trellis, the wax seal creaking quietly as you roll the paper to push it towards him. – I intercepted it before it could leave the castle. The courier was redirected to deliver a forged copy —vague, flowery, harmless. As is her habit.

Silence.

– You forged the Queen’s hand? – He asks, in a tone that's almost accusatory.

– Her scribe’s hand. – You clarify, as if it made the crime any less fatal. – The only thing of her I took was the seal on the original letter. Which I glued on the decoy with similarly colored wax, from your desk. I hope you don't mind.

A pause. 

For a moment you think some lapse of morality has befallen him, and that he might scold you for your crime.

But it doesn’t take long before you hear his laughter echo against the walls of your little confessional. – Clever girl.

You close your eyes. 

It shouldn’t bring a smile to your face. 

But you can't help it.

– Was I right to do so?

– That’s not the question. – He leans forward, voice low, smile playful. – The question is: can you do it again, should the Queen write another?

You don’t hesitate. 

Your father might fancy himself a wolf in sheep's clothing, but you know for a fact wolves and sheep enjoy flattery just the same. – If I have your Eminence's blessing I can do anything.

He laughs again, low, pleased, approving.

His eyes meet yours through the trellis, gleaming. Whether the gleam is born from pride or merely from catching his own reflection on the likeness of your face, you can never know, but your heart skips a beat regardless. – Then yes. You were right. God will forgive you, my child. As I have.

He looks away, happily fidgeting with the ruby on his Cardinal's ring before looking at you again. 

– The letter, your Eminence.

– Your stolen letter. – He chuckles, bright, amused. Your chest grows heavy. – What of it?

– The Queen asked King T'Challa for absolution. In writing.

He looks at you, the amusement draining from his face as water from a syphon. – Where?

– Third to last paragraph. ‘I come to you, beloved cousin with the hopes that you will ease my heart as well as my worries for my daughter…’

– ‘...and spare me a moment, in private, where I might relay my heart and soul to your mercy.’ – A booming laughter blooms from his chest, mocking as the rest of him. You know better than to feel relief. This is not happy laughter. – What… What is her majesty getting at now?

– She does not say. Only that she has sinned, and wishes to be forgiven in the eyes of God before Saint Michael’s Day. 

– He is not a priest. Why would he absolve her of her sins? – You don’t answer. You don’t have to. He turns to you, and stops cold as you raise your brows. – No. It cannot be. Tell me—

– She perfumed the letter with Lilac.

His eyes widen – Lilac? Why would that be—

– It's the same perfume her mother wore before her execution. 

There's a beat of silence between you. Cold, tense, absolute. The silence of someone walking the plank to their death, or considering to throw the man behind them into the water before begging mercy. – …How do you know that?

– Our court is not the only one in which the walls have ears, your Eminence. King T'Challa's servants whisper. They say that he cannot borne the smell of lilac near him. That his eyes well-up if he so much as senses it from afar. – You laugh, more a scoff than a chuckle. – Apparently, upon one of Crown’s visits to Wakanda, King T'Challa locked himself in his rooms and sobbed as he sensed the perfume from an embrace with the Queen.

That lands. 

It thuds between you like a thrown gauntlet. He closes his eyes, his smile fading completely. – And yet now, she would spritz this perfume over the letter. – He hums. – What for?

– Sentiment? Perhaps she was hoping he'd catch the glimpse of that perfume on the parchment and feel sympathethic to whatever she proposed.

– You think she means to martyr herself.

– Maybe. Lord knows she’s always thought of herself as one. These last few… indiscretions from the King have only furthered her self-aggrandizing humilities.

Your father breathes out through his nose. – She wishes to provoke a scandal. To humiliate him into docility. – He scoffs. Cruel, calculated. – Perhaps she is a woman, after all.

You ignore the comment. 

– She should divorce him into exile. – You say it thoughtlessly. Quickly. Too quickly. Before your brain gets the chance to think it through. You regret the words as soon as they leave your mouth.

Your father laughs.

Loudly.

Delightedly.

As if the suggestion was so absurd it merited a moment for laughter alone. – Divorce him? – He intones. – You are not in Sokovia anymore, my dear. Women here cannot demand divorces. They can't command houses. They can't even leave their homes without the presence of a man, lest their royal guards condemn the for witchcraft. – He laughs again, with just as much delight, as if it's humorous instead of daunting. – They act as if we are the uncivilized ones, as if we are the heretics, because of out past. Of our religion. And yet they sack and pillage people's homes over superstitions. Stake them through spears like fowls. Treat their women like cattle and their men like rowdy children, waiting to throw a tantrum…What a land of fools!

You scoff, mouth suddenly bitter. – And yet it's this land you had us abandon home for.

His gaze cuts through the trellis again, eyes gleaming like the last coal in a fire refusing to die. – Watch your tongue, girl. 

You incline your head. 

You didn't lie. Your sentiment is no less true for his disaproval of it. But every bird has to know when to fold its wings, and you only fly when he gives you leave, or when he’s too far to notice. – I apologize, your Eminence. 

He doesn’t hear your apology.

If you hadn't said it he would keep scolding you until he tired himself out, but now that you did, he doesn't acknowledge it.

You sigh, passing your rosary through your hands again, the flowery smell rises to meet your nose as the beads brush against the laced end of your veil, dead and yet still delicate, a lovely ghost.

– Divorce. – Your father scoffs, perplexed at the mere idea. – And what, pray tell, would this fool or a woman do after achieving this fictional divorce? Take her bastard child and retire to a convent? Return to her desolate homeland where nothing or anyone exists without the English patronage? Or flee to some far corner of the continent to write hymns in lilac ink while her former husband beds the last half of the world he hasn’t yet gotten to before marrying some other simpering, forgotten daughter of a random place that might actually give him an heir?!

You don’t answer.

He's speaking to himself more so than to you.

He drums his fingers once against the side of the confessional. A slow, steady rhythm —like something crawling through the walls.

– This is no longer foolishness. – His voice is quiet. That frightens you more than when it was loud. – This is a campaign.

You don’t respond. Your silence is assent.

– If she poisons him in the eyes of the world... if she plants the idea that the sin is his, and not hers… – He trails off. But you know what he’s thinking. She won’t just humiliate the King. She will force him into submission. – Those fools in conclave love her, still. The ones with their cocks in hand and their noses in poetry. They call her pure because she still wears that stupid veil. They call her wise because she weeps instead of speaks. – He sneers. – They would gladly see the King brought to heel. Any ounce of justification from her might warrant a full-on attack on his Majety.

You glance down at your rosary. Let it slip through your fingers again.

The scent of lilac clings to your fingertips as you clasp your hands before yourself. You wonder if it will ever come out.

– If this reaches Rome, – He continues. – and they begin to believe her as a victim... then she will not need to demand a divorce. – He turns. Looks at you as if you are not his daughter, but something nearer to a reflection. – She will be given one.

– I don't think that's what she wants, Your Eminence.

– That's absu— He pauses, looks at you, waits. – You don't?

You shake your head. It still surprises you, how even the cleverest of men can be so foolish. – King Steven has been bedding half of England long before they were married. His infidelity is no secret. If she wanted a divorce, she would have claimed him impotent and gotten it before she fell pregnant with the Princess Mary. But she didn't.

– She didn't…

– She might have thought a child would change him. Or at least subdue him. – You drop the rosary on your lap and pull at your veil. Free from the sheer black fine-linen, you see just that much clearer. – Clearly it didn't. He wants an heir from her, blames her for not bearing any more children, and yet he doesn’t visit her bed. Only his mistresses’. 

He scoffs, but there's no trace of disbelief in his eyes, only ridicule, as if he believes it whole-heartedly even while thinking it's the stupidest thing he's ever heard. – You think she means to punish him back into her arms?

– Misguidedly, but yes.

– Not misguidedly, child. Delusionally. – He barks out a laugh, cutting and humorless. – She might as well leash him and drag him through the halls like a dog. It would be more effective at making him love her again than whatever this pathetic little theater is. – He laughs again, pure venom dripping from his lips. – It's no wonder he doesn’t visit her bed. No man wants to bed a woman he pities.

– But they do want to bed the women they hate. – A beat of silence hangs between you for a moment. The wind outside howls shyly, cut thin through the small gaps between the stained-glass windows of this chapel you sit in. But he considers your words, even if carefully, as if he hasn't yet thought of what you proposed. – She might yet succeed if she can achieve that.

– To the doom of everything I fought for. – He bemoans, almost theatrically. But he raises his head, eyes glinting with something dark, something you know all too well. – We cannot allow this. We will not allow this.

You raise your brows. 

Your mind flashes.

All the destruction he’s set off upon the word after saying these exact words. 

Your mother’s doom. 

Your Uncle’s death. 

The disappearance of the last High Chancellor. 

The Queen of Sokovia, and all he put her through.

A shiver runs through you.

– You cannot mean that, your Eminence.

He laughs again. Colder. Crueler. Careless and smiling like a hound waiting to bite. – Of course I mean it! With her foolishness she will destroy us!

– You said it right: foolishness! The Queen is a fool in love. She means no offense to yours or the King's work, she only wants her husband to pay attention to her! 

Your father scoffs, moving around on his seat, huffing like a steamboat. – Enough that she would send a letter bethrothing the King's only legitimate child to the previous suitor’ greatest enemy?!

– I've collected the letter! It can do no harm now! You can return to her and with it in hand and advise her, intimidate her, put an end to this at once. No scheming needed. No destruction needed.

He growls, shakes his head, eyes sharp as a dagger. – That will not be sufficient.

You're growing desolate. – What would you have us do?! Accuse her of treason?! Drag her through the streets?!

He smiles —that awful, papal smile, all white teeth and rotting calm. – Of course not. – A pause. – I will speak to someone. Or better yet, you will.

You freeze.

– Your Eminence.

– The Duke of Suffolk—

You don't even wait for him to finish, so great is your outrage. – James Barnes?! You have gone mad!

He pays no mind to your insolence this time. – He has returned from Asgard, has he not?

– Barely a fortnight ago!

He smiles coyly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. They're too busy staring at his ring as the gears of a plan spin behind his irises. – Just long enough to see the kingdom with fresh eyes. Just long enough to feel unwelcome in it.

– He’s the King’s closest friend!

– Was. – He corrects. – And don’t insult my intelligence —you know better than to pretend there was ever any love there. Not from James's side, at least. He's always envied the King. Almost loathed him.

– No more than he loathes you! – You shout, exasperated.

– He doesn’t have to like me. He only has to want something. Something that belongs to Steven.

– This is ridiculous!

– Hardly so, my dear. You've said it yourself: men will always want to bed the women they hate. And what man doesn't want to bed the Queen?

– Any with at least half a brain!

– Which he has not. – He laughs, low, casual, as if he were not speaking treason. – Good for us.

– Even if he did not have a brain —which, I’m sure, by the way, that he most certainly does— do you truly think James Barnes capable of seducing a woman he isn't able to pay for?!

– He doesn’t have to seduce her, sweet child. You will. In a way. You'll plant the seed in his mind. He'll notice her. Then admire her. Then desire her. And she —poor, humiliated creature that she is— will bask in it. A dangerous, quiet admiration. The kind that ruins empires, or, more likely, Empresses.

You shake your head.

– You cannot be— you want me to… what? Tell them to dance?!

– Not even that. Merely to open the windows and let them notice one another. Whisper here, glance there. Do what you do best! Fan the air. Let the fire catch on its own.

It's absurd.

Outrageous. You can’t even put words to the situation, so unbelievable that it is. – They’ve known each other for years. 13 years, just as long as the King's been married, and I don't think I've ever seen them do so much as talk to one another!

– Then let you be the bridge! – He hums, voice light, eyes bright, as if he’s encouraging his child to ride a horse for the first time, and not to commit high treason. – Gossip lightly. Mention how the Queen watches him when she thinks no one sees. Or say he’s asked after her. The Queen will preen. The Duke will wonder. That is all. Let nature take its course.

You draw a breath, unsteady.

– And when it does?

– Then we let the King see it too. – He leans in, voice like poison wrapped in prayer. – We give His Majesty proof. Desire. Betrayal. His Queen and his closest friend, conspiring behind closed doors. We give him justification. For annulment. For outrage. For remarriage.

Your blood runs cold. – That would ruin her.

– That would save the kingdom. She is a dead end. One daughter. No heir. No fortune. She has become a liability.

You clench your jaw.

– And what of the Duke?

– Oh, he’ll be broken. But he’ll know why. Everyone will. A man who betrays a King loses his name before his head.

A pause. You want to say no. You want to scream. 

– And if it doesn’t work?

Your father laughs.

– Don't pretend. – He chuckles. – Was it not your favorite hobby? Goading two people that didn’t know each other into suddenly falling in lust?

Your breath catches.

Your eyes go wide.

You were only a girl. A bored, discarded girl in the overly tight-laced court of Sokovia. You only wanted something to do. A distraction. A mission as matchmaker.

You never meant for it to go as far as it did.

Worse, you never knew he was watching.

– You think I don’t know you have experience in the business of ruining Queens?

You try to swallow. It scrapes down dry.

– That was—

– That was—?

– That was… – Your mouth opens and closes, but the words don’t come.

Eventually, your father speaks for you:

– Cruel? Childish? – He hums the words like a lullaby, turning the heavy ring on his finger. The ruby catches the sunlight and sends a flickering crimson stain across your cheek. Like blood. Like accusation. – Yes. But now you have a reason to do it. And it will be better, of course. Since you obviously have the experience.

You don’t answer.

Because the truth is you were good at it. Too good. And if there’s one thing Cardinal Helmut Zemo never forgets are the things his children are good at, especially the things he can exploit.

– That's when I knew, you know? – He looks away, at the gaps of light that bleed onto him through the screen of his door. At the ring on his finger. – That's when I knew you were the blood of my blood.

– Don't— Your Eminence, please.

He smiles —Soft, warm, fatherly— and brings up his hand, pressing his hand to the trellis, and his fingers through the gaps. – Come to me, child.

– Your Eminence…

– Daughter. – He whispers, saccharine, and he knows he’s ended you then, for your eyes water, your mouth hangs agape, and your hands tremble around your rosary. – Come. – Your fingers still shake as you raise them to meet his. – This is what you're good at. Your calling.

– Ruining people?! – You cry. The single first tear you've shed in years falling down your face as he shakes his head and holds your hand.

– Exerting God's justice upon their misdeeds. – He whispers, his breath brushes against your skin like a feather. – I was only a boy when I learned of God's true calling for me. I was a child, clutching dates to my hand and whispering prayers to false icons painted in gold, when at first I saw these. – He grabs the velvet trim of his garments, letting your hand linger there, against the wood, waiting for his. His touch. His words. His point. – This red. A Cardinal’s robes. I was a butcher’s boy, as was he, so he told me. And yet he was a prince of the Church. – He presses his palm flat to the lattice, and you realize —with dread— that he’s no longer speaking only of himself. – He said the world would always mistake softness for sin. And so we must become sharp. Useful. God does not ask for innocence. Only obedience.

You close your eyes.

He waits.

Then, quieter:

– Do you think it was easy? Watching them jeer when I passed with my sack of bones and offal? The stink clinging to my sleeves even when I scrubbed until they bled? Do you think I wanted to become what I am at the cost of my honor, my integrity? I had a soul once, too. – His voice shudders, just enough to make your heart flutter, consumed by a with terrible pity —He knows. He knows— Because he made you this way, too. – I built this, for us. For your brother. For our legacy. For you, my girl. – His voice soft. His eyes are soft. And then it hardens, steadies. Disappointment wrapped in velvet. – I kept you fed, educated, hidden. When they would’ve spat on your cradle. When they would’ve put you in a basket, left you in the church steps and wash their hands of you. When they might have put you to the blade. – You don’t know who he means by ‘they’. Your father's memory of Sokovia is an endless library of hypothetical enemies. You mother, your aunts, your sisters, the nuns in the church you were born in. What matters is he hates them. What matters is that you’re his. – You think I didn’t want to keep you from this, from this palace of debauchery? This life of sin? I did! But I need someone who understands. Someone clever. Someone like me.

– I don’t— You stutter. – I don't understand.

– You do! – He turns to you fully now, his other hand knocking against the lattice, calling for yours just as his eyes are. You meet him without hesitation. – You've always understood. I look into your eyes now, child, and I see myself. The fire, the fury, the drive— He laughs, breathless, staring at you as if you were a newborn again. – the pitiless ambition. You are made in my image.

Your hands stay in his.

The ruby of his ring still bleeds red across your skin, deep and cruel like stigmata.

You should pull away.

You should.

But instead, you whisper. – And what of our souls?

His smile flickers. Not fading, just changing shape. As if you’ve asked a child’s question.

Something simple. Naïve.

Sweet.

– We are already damned, my daughter. You and I both. – He says it like a lullaby, like it should be a comfort. 

You search his face. The elegant lines carved by the sleepless nights, the pitiless ambition he speaks of. – Is revenge not a sin? – It comes out small. Like a last protest. A child clutching at the hem of righteousness one final time before the tide of sin swallows them whole. – Have we not gathered enough of them? Sins? Lies? – You remain quiet for a moment, listening in to the outside world, searching the gap of the screen door for any movement. – Crimes? – You don’t mean to sound so weak. But the words crack under their own weight. – We've corrupted ourselves in almost any way there is, and we've not yet had any reckoning. Will God not turn His face from us?

He holds your hand a little tighter through the lattice.

The answer is gentle. Unflinching. – Our God, my child, is not the blushing Christ of painted chapels and fat English bishops. – He leans forward. His voice is warm, a hearth flame glowing inside a tomb. – Our God is the one who walked in the wilderness, who struck down cities with sulfur and raised kings from ash. – His eyes narrow with something ancient, something fierce. – Our God is the God of the Old Testament. The one who loved Jacob, but hated Esau. Who chose, and punished, and marked His chosen with fire.

He lifts your hand, once more, and places it against the wooden screen —reverent. Steady. – And I will execute great vengeance upon them with furious rebukes, – He recites, voice like low thunder, – and they shall know that I am the Lord, when I shall lay my vengeance upon them.

A breath.

You don’t move.

Because you don’t remember the verse— You’ve never heard it. He’s made it up. And now he looks at you through the screen, the ruby light catching his cheekbone like a brand. – This is not a sin, daughter. This is justice.

Your lips part. But there is no protest left.

Only the echo of your own heartbeat.

And the shape of your father’s hands, still cupping yours, like a vow.

Your heart flickers between your loyalty for him and your fear for your immortal souls. 

You've ruined a Queen before. Your father then went on to crush her, whatever there was left of her, for his benefit—your benefit. Yours and his both.

You look to your clothes.

To the elaborate brown brocade in black velvet accents. The Linen undershirt, with sleeves and collar you took days to fully embroider. The pearls of your earrings, your necklace, your rings— Paid for by the ruin of a woman who was never outwardly cruel to you, only petty. And whom, with your immature anger, you led to her doom.

You think of Queen Margaret, now.

She is no friend of yours, and yet she's always been gracious enough never to sneer upon you to your face. 

You cannot say the same for most ladies at court.

Could you see her to the same fate you saw Queen Yekaterina? The one that haunts you to this day?

– I love you, your Eminence. You know you are dearest to my heart than even the air I breathe. But please, please don't ask me to do this.

Not “I won’t”

Not “I can't”

But “Don't ask me to do it”

Because you know if he does, you will.

And he knows it also.

– Sweet child…

– You're asking me to destroy her.

He smiles. – No. Never that. – A pause, soaked in sentiment, so heartfelt and genuine you almost believe in his mercy. – What I'm asking of you is that you set her free. From the prison of her virtue. From her cold, fruitless marriage. From her crown.

You stare at his hands, still pressed to the wood, still clutching yours. The ruby gleams like an open wound.

Your voice wavers. – And if they find out? What will they say about me? That I'm a witch. That I'm a sorceress.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t hesitate. With eyes just as kind, he says the cruelest thing he can think of, in a tone as soft and warm as the most expensive velvet. – What do they say now?

It's be an easier question to inquire upon the things they don't about you.

You knew enough english when you left Sokovia, but you learned all manner of insults that never, in your wildest rage, you could imagine, by simply walking the corridors of Hampton Court with your ears peeled.

The insults got cueler when you listened through the walls of private chambers. And even more so when you caught wind of them from behind the ladies’ fans.

– They sneer when I pass, just like they sneered when you climbed the Sokovian court. The same pursed lips, the same sharpened Latin. False convert, they say. Savage. Heretic. Sokovian ape. – Your voice shakes, your eyes water, but you push it through. – The Lords call you Crimson Pig. Serpent. The ladies call us worse. They say I smell of my mother’s kitchen herbs, of frankincense and garlic, like a witch raised in a root cellar. One asked if I’d read my lessons in blood. They laugh when I pray. Bless themselves when I pass. – You exhale sharply. – How is this different?

There’s a silence.

His fingers press tighter through the wood, wrap around yours. Warm, dry, paternal. – We’ll make them kneel. – His voice is soft, coaxing. – We did it before. You remember. When the princes of Sokovia laughed at a butcher’s son with a ribboned cassock. When they said that the scrawny little girl with bruised hands would never master French or canon law. When they turned their noses at the sight of us —until we climbed. Until they had no choice but to whisper their insults while they bowed.

You’re breathing hard now. Your knuckles pale. He is close. The world is only wood and shadow between you.

– We’ll put these perfumed, powdered English swine to shame the same way we did our countrymen. We’ll do it again—to the stiff-backed, fish-eyed courtiers who mock us with gloved hands and kiss our rings in secret.

His thumb brushes your knuckles.

– To the King, who calls me brother in Christ when he sins but mocks my accent when he drinks. – A smile, dagger-sharp. – To the Queen, who says we are witchborn beasts in silks, who spits "Sokovian ape" behind her fan. – His voice dips into a growl. – And to the Duke. Who should be our ally. Who came from nothing, just like us. Son of a groom. Who should know better. But repeats their venom with a grin, as though it were merit and not proximity to the crown that made him noble.

He lifts your hand —still through the lattice— and kisses the side of your fingers like a priest anointing a relic.

It's reverent. Loving. Burning with the rage of someone who spent too long a time being sneered at to let things go. – Let them call us monsters. – He meets your gaze through the trellis. – Let them howl and scoff and rage like wild mutts. We will make them kneel regardless.

For a moment, you remember it—the first time he pulled you from the kitchens, bloodied and weeping after a noble girl had spat in your hair. He did not comfort you. He did not say it would be well.

He taught you to smile.

To kneel.

To pray.

And then to rise.

So your hand stays in his.

And your silence, this time, is not refusal.

You must be going mad.

Because when he whispers it at last, when he delivers the last blow like a pièce-de-résistance to your corruption, you don't fear him. You don’t shrink. You don’t recoil. You lean in, and you agree. Genuinely. Ardently. With your entire heart. – They say we are the unholy family. – He laughs. – So let those pompous english brats know why Sokovia still trembles at the name Zemo.

The words feel colder than the stone floor beneath you. Still, you bow your head and murmur your thanks, your heart as heavy as your conscience is set. – Bless me, Your Eminence.

He smiles, almost relieved. Almost accomplished.

– May the Lord keep you sharp and silent, child. And may your hands remain steady, if ever they must forge a crown. – He signs a cross before the trellis, looking at you with all the love Abraham must have had in his eyes as he offered Isaac up for sacrifice. – Ego te absolvo ab omnibus censoris, et pecatis, in nomine Patris, et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, Amen. 

– Amen.

He rises, robes sweeping the tiled floors of the chapel as he exits the confessionary, walking as if he'd been the one who was delivered absolution. And you remain kneeling, spine straight, fingers wrapped tight around the rosary —not in prayer, but in calculation.

It falls as you lift your veil to put it back on.

And when you pick it up, there it is. The red spot of light from your father's ring.

You look up.

It’s sitting on the side of the lattice, waiting for you to put it on.

[leehanji]

Illustrations from my Stucky fic The Limits of Duty

Read it here on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48358507/chapters/121967410

[stellar-solar-flare]

For Centuries | Chapter 23/x: Blood Magic

Explicit | 18+ only| Medieval Romantasy AU | Emperor!Steve Rogers x Stark!Princess!Reader

As the only daughter of King Howard Stark of Richford, you have always known that you are expected to eventually enter into a political marriage. When King Howard attempts to save his kingdom by marrying you off to the conqueror of half the world, you accept the responsibility bestowed on you. But as you arrive at the court of Emperor Steven the Righteous to be wedded and crowned the Empress of the Centurial Empire, your husband-to-be is not what you expected.

Reader is the daughter of Howard Stark and his second wife, who is not named or described. This is a 'From Political Marriage to Love Marriage' story, featuring lots of romantasy elements, court politics, and protective, righteous Emperor Steve Rogers. The 'Touch her and I'll kill you.' vibes are strong with this one. The slowest of burns.

Read Chapter 23: Blood Magic (AO3)

or

Read this story from the beginning. (AO3)

AUTHOR AO3| AUTHOR TUMBLR MASTERLIST

[stuckyslut8]

Love's never lost

Part 2

Summary : you were once his true love, the woman he promised the world to. Now he was king steven Rogers and you were a witch, a vile woman hated by the whole kingdom. What happens when he meets you after all these years,he needs your help.

Pairing: king steve rogers x witch reader

Warning: angst. Inaccurate medieval description. Reference to Smut. Dark Steve rogers. Witch reader .

You stood before the king of Brookenhaim. A man of righteousness and bravery to many, but you knew him differently.

You did not bow to him much to everyone's surprise. You stood there just they way his guards brought you.

"the kingdom needs your help witch." Steven announced .

You stood in silence . You knew what they all thought of you, you were nothing more than an evil creature to them. Someone who shouldn't be among them. Yet they wouldn't hesitate running to your apothecary when their children were sick, or men were wounded.

"something has struck my first in command , knight barnes." Steven continues. "We suspect sorcery, he hasn't been the same , turning into a mindless killer ."

"that could just be him." You said ,looking at the blonde king , you knew it would get under his skin.

"that is not him, I know james, he is different now , he doesn't recognise me."

"maybe we should speak in solitude your majesty " you said the last words maliciouly.

"you think we'll trust you to leave you alone with our king?" one of his guards said.

"it's not new to king steven, being alone with me"

That was it, it broke something in steve, his pupils turned dark, he commanded everyone out of the hall with a flick of his finger.

He took a few sharp strides forward, "do you think this is funny witch? Do you want to get yourself killed? "

" is that the worse you can do rogers?"

"i could do much worse, the mercy I've been showing you all these years is the reason the town folk haven't burnt you alive." He said as a matter of fact.

" right, no one would dare to burn one of the king's concubines."

Steven gritter his teeth .

"do all your concubines get the same treatment rogers? A show of "mercy"?"

"stop it, you're not a concubine you know it , stop saying that ." He said pressing you again the wall.

" what's in calling a rose what it is? " You said pushing him back using your magic.

"not a word, i do not wish to discuss of the part that was beyond our control. Now go fix barnes." He said firmly.

"fix him? Use my magic and possibly get killed by a mindless soldier for free?".

"i will pay you in gold."

"50,000 gold coins" you said thinking he won't possible agree to give such a huge sum.

"fine " steven was intresting sometimes.

Bucky was never kind to you , as far as you'd remember. Always trying to keep steven away from you , saying you were a witch and witches can't be with a future king. Steven defied those words of course.

But was he really unkind to you, or was he just protecting you from a broken heart and the harsh truths of the world?

You went to the cell in which the soldier was locked up.

You entered it carefully. "James..." you didn't have time to think before an arm wrapped around your neck, lifting you off the ground.

It was him, "bucky" barnes, as you used to call him. And he was choking the life out of you. You out the first sleeping spell you remebered on him, letting the knight fall to the ground.

You examined him carefully.

"so you're telling me it's not magic of your kind?" The blonde king asked. He noticed the marks in your throat of course but kept himself from saying something.

" no it is the crimson kind, not witchcraft."

Steve thought about it for a moment.

" and there is nothing you can do about it, i suppose?"

" there is a way ."

Steven frowned, his brow furrowed in confusion. "The northern mountains? What could possibly be there that could help us?" He asked, his tone skeptical as he tried to understand your proposed plan.

"there is a plant there that could fire people struck by crimson magic."

"It won't be an easy journey, especially during winter," He continued, shaking his head and sighing. "It's dangerous and cold up there. You sure it's the only way?" His mind was a mix of doubt and hope, torn between the risks and the chance of saving Bucky.

"it is the only chance we have." You say.

Steven closed his eyes tightly, taking a deep breath to compose himself. "Alright," He said, his voice steady. "You'll need provisions, soldiers.I'll have my men prepare what you need. When do you want to leave?"

"i don't need your "men"" you say defiantly.

Steven was taken aback by your response, his eyes widening at your rejection. "Excuse me?" He said, his tone suddenly sharp. "What do you mean, you don't need them?" He tried to contain the growing annoyance in his voice, his patience wearing thin.

"do not wish to be stuck in the mountains with men who thinks they are above me, you don't see the way the look at me? "

Steven pursed his lips, his annoyance turning into a hint of guilt and jealousy . He knew the way his men looked at you, some with disgust some with lust, both of which made his blood boil.

"I suppose that's true," He admitted reluctantly. "But they're skilled. They can help you fend off any dangers on the journey."

"I'm a witch rogers,i can fend for myself"

Steven's jaw clenched at your defiance. "Clearly, you cannot," He retorted, his words sharp and cold. "Your magic is weakened by the crimson I can tell and you're just a woman. You're not going on a journey like this by yourself. End of discussion."

"Since when do you care about my well being ?" Were you really going there? Steven was aooaled by your words.

Steven's features softened for a brief moment, the hint of vulnerability slipping through his stern facade. "I care about my kingdom," He replied firmly, his eyes locking onto yours. "And as much as I dislike it, you're an asset to my kingdom. Your well-being directly impact Brookenhaime's stability. I can't afford for you to be putting yourself in danger foolishly."

"I'd rather kill myself than go up the mountain with your men "

Steven's face hardened once again, his protective instinct kicking in despite his irritation. "That doesn't matter," He retorted, his knuckles turning white as he clenched his fists. "This isn't a competition of who is better. You're not invincible, and you are not risking your life needlessly ."

"i leave at dawn."

Steven stood there for a moment, his back to the door, a mix of emotions warring within him. Frustration, anger, and something else he couldn't quite identify. He watched you walk out the door.

[moon-language-0]

ICYMI: all "Medieval AU" Stony manips by @fohatic! You can browse the master tag for the individual manips + related posts <3

(note that—yet again—the sexiest manip isn't showing up under the master tag for some reason, which is the same bs tumblr pulled when i tried to collect all my stony vampire manips in one place...)

[thecutestlittlebunbunfairy]

@thezombieprostitute @navybrat817 @noellez-best-life23 @xoxoviva @ronearoundblindly @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @bigtreefest @biteofcherry @angrythingstarlight @a-lumos-in-the-nox @stargazingfangirl18 @waywardwifey

[sjsmith56]

The Flame Burns From Within, Part 1 - Negotiations

Summary: The arrival of three strangers at the castle of Ser Anthony of House Stark, signals the start of negotiations for the hand of his niece, Lady Arden Worth.

Length: 5.2 K

Characters: Lady Arden (OFC, described), Lord James Barnes, Ser Anthony Stark, Lady Stark, His Highness, the Duke of Long Isle, Steven Rogers, Ser Samuel Wilson.

Warnings: Age gap (OFC is 21 while Lord Barnes is 32. She would be considered old for her first marriage during this time period). Description of the status of women in the 15th century as property, description of the death of Lady Arden’s parents, arranged marriage.

Author notes: Set in the 15th century AU where America is a sovereign kingdom. Spain has only recently returned to Catholic control after some time of being a part of the Moors empire (they were Islamic). It would take some time for the remaining Muslims to leave or convert to Catholicism. Borders found at vecteezy.com.

Part 1 - Negotiations

Lady Arden

The gates to the courtyard opened and the delegation from the Citadel were welcomed into the keep of my uncle's castle. I watched their arrival from the window of my chambers, as my presence wouldn't be needed until later, after the three men who rode in were formally welcomed by my uncle and legal guardian, Ser Anthony of House Stark. Ever since my parents died of the wasting disease when I was still a child, he had overseen my preparation for life as the lady of a great lord. Unlike some of the fathers and guardians of other young women of my ilk, he had been rather progressive towards my education. Where others had been taught to walk and speak with grace, while learning the arts of needlework, music and art, my uncle had made sure I could do all of those, plus ride a horse, handle a sword, learn foreign languages, read and write more than just my name, and above all else, to carry myself as one who was as capable as any man. It was certainly not the usual life of a young woman.

My uncle had his reasons for my unusual upbringing; some of which he shared with me. Where other young women of my stature were being married off to whomever was politically in favour, in addition to receiving a generous dowry, my uncle was more interested in a particular man to become my husband. Lord James Barnes of the Citadel was his goal; a consummate warrior, well educated, able to speak several languages due to his travels, and the most powerful lord of our region. He had already been sought as husband for any number of simpering brides that didn't interest him. Rumours circulated by the unsuccessful families seeking to install their daughters as his lady said that he was a lover of men, or was damaged in body and spirit by his travels in dangerous lands, but my uncle had heard through unofficial sources that he preferred an accomplished woman to become his consort, as he saw value in intelligence above all else. By promoting my unconventional education, my uncle was certain that word of me would eventually reach the ears of those at the Citadel whose task it was to find a suitable mate for the great lord. That day had finally come.

That's not to say there weren't bumps in the road to this occasion. There are always men who want what they see as different or even exotic. Before I turned 14 my uncle was being offered great wealth for the promise of an engagement with any number of eligible sons. Several great houses in our land, Walker, Rumlow, Pierce, even Dreykov in the Russian region far to the east across the sea, had amped up the pressure for my uncle to accept one of their own as my future husband, but he wouldn't even entertain the offers that came over the years. It was some time before he shared that his goal was to align his house with the Citadel, and nothing less would interest him.

As I approached my 21st birthday, an age considered old for marriage, rumours began of my own shortcomings as a prospective bride. It was said I was vain, unattractive, too heavy, too thin, too unhealthy, defective in mind and spirit, even that I was barren due to the wasting disease that had killed my parents but had spared me. Knowing I was none of those, I always held my head high. At public occasions I was visible, open, and friendly with those around me. I acted as I had been taught; that I had a place in society, and it would be one of influence no matter if I were the wife of a great lord or not.

Thus, the arrival of the three men from the Citadel on that cool autumn afternoon was proof that my uncle had properly read the situation. It was clear that I was of interest to the most powerful lord, seen as an important counsellor for the next king himself. As the three men dismounted, they stood in their travelling cloaks, heads still covered, removing their gloves and, in the way of men of action, taking note of their surroundings. I could see that they assessed the guard complement in the keep, while searching the walls of the castle itself to see if their arrival had been noted. That is when one of them pulled his hood back, revealing a bearded man of dark-hair and eyes of blue like the ocean. He made eye contact with me from his place in the courtyard. A hint of a smile crossed his face then I stepped away from the window when he turned to his companions. His looks matched the description of Lord Barnes, but it was unusual for the head of a great house to personally attend the negotiations for a marriage. Until I was summoned for dinner, I wouldn't find out who he actually was.

My aunt, a strong and confident woman in her own right, sought entry to my chambers shortly after the arrival of the three men. She entered with a complement of maidservants, intent on preparing and dressing me in a way that emphasized my best features. With my tall build and red hair, that I was born with, the colour of which had only deepened over the years of my existence, there wasn't much else to be done to make me more visible. I had drawn attention from many sources my whole life. Even my name, Arden, was different as it meant "little and fiery." Although I was no longer little, I was often referred to as the Flame of the Forest, for I usually took my daily ride there with my hair unencumbered by coverings.

After much fussing over the various dresses, they chose a blue one, trimmed with lace and a brocade border. Its full sleeves ended at a wide brocade cuff. My hair, left long, was brushed until it gleamed, then a portion was twisted and fastened at the back of my head. My colouring was usually high, so no additional applications of powder, charcoal or berries were needed to accentuate my features. By all the accounts of my uncle's inquiries, Lord Barnes was known to prefer a natural appearance. Regardless, as my aunt regarded my appearance she smiled in approval.

"If they don't acknowledge your physical appearance, they are blind," she said, with authority. "You are a vision, Arden."

"Did you see their arrival?" I asked. "There were three and one fit Lord Barnes' description."

"Yes, but I was not presented to them when they entered so I cannot confirm that gentleman was him," she answered. "I will be presented to them in the great hall then you will be sent for."

"May I wait in the library?"

It was my favourite place in the castle. When my uncle first discovered me in there after taking me into his care, he could have sent me away but apparently, I offered him a book and asked that he read it to me. Seeing the title, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, my uncle took it as a sign of my innate intelligence and determined then that I would be educated in the same manner as any young man of high standing. In that sanctuary, I spent many hours reading of far-off lands, great heroes, and tragic loves.

With my aunt's approval, I relocated to the library and pulled out the copy of The Canterbury Tales, one of less than a hundred in existence according to the Bishop, as they were hand lettered and illuminated by monks who spent weeks or even months creating them. The time and effort it took to create a book meant the possession of more than a handful was a sign of great wealth. Our library had hundreds. This book was a favourite of mine and I sat down at a table in the late afternoon sun. I had only been there a brief time when I heard the door open. Assuming it was my aunt, I closed the book and stood up to return it to its proper place. Instead, it was the dark-haired man who entered, dressed in richly brocaded clothing. At his discovery of my presence, he bowed his head briefly.

"I beg your pardon, my Lady." He spoke in a voice that was deep and rich. "Ser Anthony did not say anyone would be in here."

I curtsied to acknowledge him. "He was unaware of my presence here," I answered. "I sought some comfort from Chaucer."

He approached and extended his hand to receive the book, looking fondly at the title.

"Which one is your favourite?" he asked.

"The Wife of Bath's Tale, of course," I smiled then spoke freely. "I have been raised to believe that I am equal to any man but not all men believe the same. It is my hope to be blessed with a husband who freely gives me my sovereignty."

He smiled warmly. "It is one that I enjoy reading as well, although I am not meek, or submissive. I take it that you are the Lady Arden. I am James Barnes, Lord of the Citadel. I am at your service, my Lady. It was you in the window overlooking the courtyard, was it not?"

"It was, sir," I replied. "I was curious about you accompanying your courtiers for the negotiations. That is why you are here, is it not?"

He seemed amused. "You are correct that my travelling companions will undertake the negotiations on my behalf. I accompanied them to meet the Flame of the Forest herself. Word of your beauty has travelled far and contrary to the rumours which swirl around us both, I am pleased to find that the positive reports are quite true." He opened the book and glanced inside. "Your education appears to be superior to other women of your status if you find comfort in a library. Your skills on a horse and with a sword are also based on truth, according to my sources."

I could have been elevated by his declarations, but I wasn't, not completely. Even though it was proof of my uncle's contention that I would be of interest to this handsome and powerful man, there was still a part of me that remained wary. At that moment, the door opened, and a servant announced to Lord Barnes that Ser Anthony wished to present his wife and niece. He then announced that I was to present myself in the Great Hall. Looking at the shelf, Barnes immediately spotted the place where the book belonged and returned it to its spot. Then he bowed graciously to me and left. With a breath to calm myself I exited the space and stood at the top of the stairs for a moment before descending.

Lord Barnes was already at the bottom of the large staircase, with his travelling companions, a man with dark blond hair and a darker beard, and a man of Moorish descent, both dressed as he was, in fine clothing as befit their stations. Although I didn't know who the blond man was, the other was well known as one befriended by Barnes on his journeys in the Spanish peninsula. Taking the Christian name of Samuel Wilson, he had become famous throughout our kingdom for his chivalry. All three men watched me closely as I descended alone down the great stone staircase, no doubt to assess the grace of my movements. As the wife of a powerful lord, I would constantly be looked upon as a symbol of his house. My comportment would be seen as either a benefit to his stature or a hindrance to it. When I reached the bottom, my uncle smiled and extended his hand to me.

"May I present my niece, Lady Arden Worth," he said simply. "Lady Arden, may I introduce you to Lord James Barnes, of the Citadel, his Highness, Steven Rogers, the Duke of Long Isle, and their trusted friend, Ser Samuel Wilson."

The blond man was Steven Rogers, the Duke, grandson of the king and third in line for the throne. No wonder Barnes seemed amused when I described him as a courtier. That alone required a deeper curtsy than what I gave Lord Barnes in the library.

"My Lady," said Barnes, taking my hand to raise me from my lowered position. "The Duke is here as my closest friend and has agreed to act as a negotiator for the marriage arrangement. May I escort you to the dining hall?"

To refuse would have been considered rude so I placed my hand on his forearm and allowed him to lead me to the dining hall. The Duke escorted my aunt, which was puzzling, since he should have led us all, considering he was of the higher echelon of nobility. My uncle and Ser Samuel brought up the rear of the party. Footmen pulled our chairs out, then assisted in pushing them closer to the table as we settled. I noticed the arrangement of cutlery in our places, a knife and fork, specifically. Although I had been exposed to using them it was still surprising as most of the nobility thought that forks were an affectation of the Italians; a sign of hubris that they were too proud to dirty their fingers as they ate. In our nation most of the nobility dispensed with any utensils, other than using a knife to spear a portion of fowl, or roast, then bite into it with their teeth and allow the juices to run over their faces and onto their clothing. It was obvious by how our guests used their utensils to cut the meat into smaller bites, that they were well used to eating in the new fashion.

"You were successful in finding my library, Lord Barnes?" asked my uncle.

"I was Ser Anthony," he replied. "A fine library at that. You must spend many pleasant hours there."

"When I have the time. Lady Arden is there often. She has likely read everything in there at least once, even the texts in French or Latin."

"Is that true?" he asked me in French. "You are fluent in those two languages?"

I answered him in French. "Yes, in Spanish and Italian, also. My uncle invested a lot of money in language tutors."

He said nothing about our meeting in the library, but he looked at my uncle with a degree of surprise and approval. Apparently, four additional languages were more than he was expecting. The look exchanged between Lord Barnes, the Duke, and Ser Samuel was subtle but telling. I had the feeling that even with the reports they had commissioned about my attributes I was still something of a mystery.

After dinner, my uncle disappeared into the library with the Duke and Ser Samuel with the intent of beginning the negotiations. My aunt went up to help settle my cousins for bed. That left me and Lord Barnes alone.

"Is there a garden where we can walk before it gets dark?"

"There is."

I led him out to the formal gardens, walking along the gravelled path between the displays of hydrangeas and mums which were still blooming. The trees, which were casting off their green colour, were displaying some yellow, red, and orange hues. As the sun approached the horizon, the golden light it projected lent a soft glow to everything. We stopped at a pond briefly, then the wind came up and I shivered. Although it had warmed slightly since Lord Barnes arrival, I wore only a shawl over my dress, not enough to stay warm as it darkened.

"We should return to the castle," he said. "I wouldn't want you to catch a chill on my account."

"As you wish, my Lord," I answered, mindful of his superior status. "There is a small conservatory in the castle, with a fireplace where we can keep warm and still enjoy the plants around us."

He agreed to go there and by the time we arrived a fire had been lit, and a tray with a decanter of wine and two metal goblets were on a table. As I sat, he poured out some for each of us, then joined me on a padded bench built into the wall near the fireplace.

"To your good health," he said, before sipping his drink

"And to yours," I replied, sipping my own. "You know this is unusual. Allowing us to be alone."

"I requested it. Too many of my peers have arranged their marriages through intermediaries without meeting until the wedding day. Both parties experienced disappointment more often than not. I vowed never to make that mistake." He gazed steadily at me. "If there is anything you wish to ask me, I am open to your inquiries."

"Where have you travelled?" It was something I was genuinely interested in, having never left the country myself.

"I have been as far east as Greece, to the northern shore of Africa, Italy, Spain, France and Brittania. There have been journeys north of our kingdom, but it is still mostly wilderness and those who have lived there for eons are not the friendliest, with reason considering how our ancestors first treated them. The Northmen still have settlements there and have a truce with the original inhabitants. We do have trading relationships with the Northmen, as you know. Most of my travels was accompanying the Duke as his Majesty desired to know those who have the closest relationships with our country. We met Ser Samuel in the portion of Spain that had recently thrown off Moorish control. He agreed to stay with us as we found each other's company engaging. Since his Arabic name of Saqr Sama Allayl or Falcon of the Night Sky, was often mispronounced by those who were unfamiliar saying it, he asked for a Christian name to go by while he travelled our lands. The name Samuel in Arabic means prophet and seer. Wilson was suggested as a common last name. It has made his travels here easier. When he returns ... if he returns, he will revert to his given name."

There was a lot of information in his answer, but he obviously found value in knowing about the people in other realms. Placing his goblet down, he picked up the poker and adjusted the wood in the fireplace, as if he were used to taking care of such things himself. He sat next to me again.

"Have you travelled?"

"Alas, no, although I have read many accounts of different journeys, such as those of Marco Polo, The Travels of John Mandeville, and others. I have great admiration for the women who journeyed with Eleanor of Aquitaine to the Holy Lands. I wish someone had thought to document their journey."

"As my wife I would request that you accompany me on my travels," he mentioned. "It would be your choice but the alternative would be spending a significant amount of time apart, which is not conducive to marital harmony."

"What about children? Travelling with an infant would be an issue, wouldn't it?"

"Depends on the destination."

We were quiet again, with only the crackle of the fire to listen to. When the moon's glow appeared through the window, Lord Barnes stood up and turned to me.

"I believe I will retire now. May I request the honour of riding with you tomorrow?"

I stood up. "Of course. I usually ride in the morning an hour after breakfast. If that is acceptable to you."

"It is."

He bowed to me and left, leaving me puzzled to his sudden and arbitrary departure. My aunt arrived shortly after, and we returned to my chambers where she questioned me on what Lord Barnes and I spoke about.

Lord Barnes

As I walked to my chambers, I reflected on the time spent with Lady Arden. Her beauty was unmatched by any other woman I had ever seen. How Ser Anthony had managed to keep her isolated enough to avoid a kidnapping and forced marriage I will never know but it was imperative that we formalize our marriage as soon as possible. Since I first glimpsed her in the window, then spoke with her in the library, I had been unable to think rationally of anything or anyone else. Steven and Samuel were already in my chambers on my arrival, having ceased the negotiations at moonrise, which prompted my departure from the conservatory. They both turned to me as I entered and bolted the door, then checked the hidden passageway for listening servants. Steven handed me a goblet of wine.

"Well?" I looked at both expectantly. Steven answered.

"She is the only survivor of the House of Forrest. Ser Anthony confirmed it. She was brought to him by the housekeeper of the House Forrest, after they were attacked by the forces of House Pierce. Of course, they were not wearing the insignia, but she recognized several faces as Pierce's men. Lady Forrest pressed her daughter into the care of that woman, and they escaped via a secret passage that let them out a mile away. Even in the passageway she could hear as Pierce's men slaughtered the entire family. You know he would have taken her to keep for one of his sons, or his nephews and cement his acquisition of their lands."

"It was he who said he made a social call the following day and found the family dead of the wasting disease. Then he burned their castle to purify it and took their lands for himself, although he calls it a stewardship until the missing heir is found." I was angry at such villainy. "She doesn't know the truth, does she?"

"No, upon the housekeeper's arrival, Stark swore her to secrecy and claimed the child was his orphaned niece. She believes she is the daughter of his sister, Lady Worth and Ser Louis of House Worth from a sudden bout of the wasting disease. His position as godfather to Lady Arden guided him in her upbringing. It was her father's wish she be given every opportunity to be as educated as well as possible. He is aware of the betrothal document which is why he indicated his preference for your favour. That was late in being made known as he was under the impression for some time that you were aligned with House Pierce."

I looked at Samuel for his opinion. "That is understandable. You feel his vow of fealty to House Barnes is now honestly offered?"

"I do. Ser Anthony is a rare individual. He is a man of truth and honour, and both he and Lady Stark love the young woman as much as one of their own. His dowry request is for her benefit, not his, so that she is independently wealthy in the event of your death. Otherwise, he only requests an alliance with the Citadel. It may be that he fears reprisals if Pierce realizes the true identity of Lady Arden so would require the strength of your garrison to protect him and his family."

"Accept his terms. We'll read the banns as soon as possible, then I will apply for a marriage license so that the normal time period can be waived. As soon as it is approved, I will send for her to come to the Citadel for the marriage ceremony. With luck, we can be married after a fortnight. If there are any objections, then I can produce the original betrothal contract between our parents."

Steven placed a hand on my arm. "It will come to pass, Buck. I have faith."

"I hope you're right," I replied, draining my goblet. "Now that I have seen her, I cannot think of ever marrying another woman. By the way, we're going riding tomorrow, so we'll have to stay another night since you'll be engaged in negotiations during the day."

"Alone?" Steven and Samuel smirked at each other. "Is that wise?"

"We were alone this evening when we walked in the garden and when we sat in the conservatory, drinking wine. I'm a changed man. No more brothels or courtesans for me. A woman of her quality deserves a husband who will remain steadfast and faithful. It is my intention to be that type of husband for her."

"If you say so," remarked Steven, draining his wine. "Come Samuel, let's leave Lord Barnes to have sweet dreams of the Lady Arden."

I gave him a rude gesture then locked the door behind them. As I disrobed, I felt encouraged by their report. When our spy in Pierce's castle brought us proof of his part in the death of Lady Arden's parents, I knew the day was coming for the man's part in many similar incidents. He amassed his wealth and power by undermining the rule of law we were all supposed to live under. Even if it wasn't his men who performed all his suspected crimes, his alliances with the Walker and Rumlow houses meant he had them as his accomplices and co-conspirators. With his end game believed to be an attempt on the throne, we needed to be careful not to tip our hand too soon.

The following morning, we took breakfast with the Stark family, and I met the younger children, three daughters. The oldest was dark, like her father, while the other two resembled their mother with their fairer features. They were very well behaved, and I observed Lady Arden's interaction with them, curious about her suitability as a mother. They seemed fond of each other, and it was obvious that they were also being raised in the same manner as Lady Arden had been, for they spoke extensively of stories they wrote for each other's pleasure. They spoke French and Italian easily, making each other laugh. Their commentary was enjoyable, even bringing grins to Steven and Samuel's faces. The oldest child, Morgan, dared to ask Samuel about his childhood in Spain, then listened with rapt attention as he told her about his first time hunting with a falcon under his control.

When the meal was finished, Ser Anthony and my two friends repaired to the library to continue the marriage negotiations. Lady Arden excused herself to prepare for her daily horseback ride, agreeing to meet me in the courtyard of the keep. With the order given to prepare both of our horses I returned to my chambers to change into something more suitable for riding. I went out to check my horse, and found the care given to Soldier since our arrival the day before was exemplary. His coat gleamed in the warm sunlight. As always, he greeted me with affection, brushing his head against mine, then searching for the apple I usually gave him. The stable master offered me one and I broke it in two, feeding the pieces to him separately.

"He is a fine stallion," said Lady Arden's voice, behind me. "It is rare to find a fully black horse without a white patch somewhere on his body. Have you bred him yet?"

"Aye, he has sired a dozen foals in the past two years," I answered, before turning to look at her. For a moment, no words came out of my mouth as I took in what she was wearing. "This is your usual riding attire?"

She grinned and looked down at the short knee length skirt, and knee-high leather boots she wore. On her upper body she wore a tunic under a jacket that was styled in the same manner as a man's. It was scandalous but it also allowed her to have greater control over her horse. Her hair was loose and flowing down her back, brilliant in its colour that reminded me of a sunset or a smouldering flame.

"Do you disapprove?" she asked, almost daring me to forbid her from leaving the keep.

"No, it suits you," I answered, truthfully. I gestured to her horse, a beautiful grey mare. "Do you require assistance to get on?"

"A hand up, please," she answered.

Lacing my hands together, I boosted her up after she put her boot into them. She easily mounted the rest of the way, and I realized the many folds of her skirt hid the fact they were cut like trousers. It gave her as much control over her horse as a man would have. I mounted my horse and signalled to her to lead the way. With a nod to the stable master, we left the keep and began with an easy canter towards a wooded area. She slowed up once we were well out of eyesight. Looking back at me, she waited for me to ride beside her.

"You go out on your own?" I asked. "Are you not afraid of being accosted?"

"I can defend myself," she answered, then reached into her boot and pulled out a long knife, flipping it over in her hand before reinserting it. "Minerva is fast and can outrun almost any horse in the area."

I wondered if she would be so unconcerned with her personal safety if she knew who she really was, but it wouldn't be my place to tell her until we were married, so I kept my observation to myself. As we rode, I took time to scan our surroundings. It was evident why she chose this area. There were many trees already covered in the finery of autumn. The reds, golds, and oranges were everywhere. Whenever a breeze came up, we were showered with the leaves pulled from the branches. It was peaceful and, in her company, I found myself relaxing just enough to forget the affairs of state.

At one point, she glanced at me then nudged her horse into a gallop. I watched with admiration as her hair flew behind her, proving the moniker Flame of the Forest. She was beautiful and magnificent, and if I had my way, she would be my wife in just over a fortnight. Perhaps, just perhaps, she would be safe from those who wanted her for their own purposes.

Note about The Wife of Bath’s Tale. It recounts the story of a knight who is accused of rape. He is given a year to find out what it is women most desire, in order to spare his life. An old crone says she will tell him if he agrees to her request. He agrees and she tells him that women desire sovereignty over their own lives more than anything. When he offers the answer to the courts he is spared and he returns to the old crone to fulfill her request. She demands that he marries her. Since he is a knight and is bound by his oath he agrees. In bed on their wedding night she asks if he would like an old ugly wife who is faithful or a beautiful one who is faithless. He leaves the decision to her, declaring himself bound to it. For his honesty and concession to her she becomes beautiful and faithful, and they live happily as husband and wife.

Saqr Sama Allayl or Falcon of the Night Sky - From Google Translate

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[anika-ann]

A Conjuring - S.R.

Type: one-shot, medieval/fantasy, angst with a sweet ending

Pairining: King!Steve Rogers x reader      Word count: 9100

Summary: Steve Rogers is a kind, just ruler in the true service of his kingdom; the King of the People, they call him. But heavy is the sense of duty and heavy is the crown.

And yet, none is heavier than his heart without you by his side; none is louder than the screaming silence of your absence, turning him into barely half the man he is meant to be.

Warnings: angsty angst, mentions of blood, injuries and death (childbed), grieving for a spouse, less than healthy coping mechanisms, mention of growing up without a parent, vague medieval setting... and did I mentioned angst-- but a happy ending

A/N:  inspired by Karliene's song A Conjuring - highly recommended and came recommended to me by lovely @stellar-solar-flare who is absolutely blamed for my muse latching onto this song; lyrics are through the text in verses, any poetry is my own; divider by @firefly-graphics

The first sunrays of a new dawn are warm on his cheeks, the breeze of the brisk, foggy morning, wrapping him kindly in its arms as he enters the space hidden among the castle walls.

The dew is soaking his boots with every slow step he takes, the cold biting softly into his toes, but he cares little for it; it is his sense of smell and sight which are tuned in the most, the small private gardens welcoming him with aching familiarity. Like a garden of Eden; a peaceful solace breathing of love.

It rained last night. The heady scent of wet soil and roses fills his head and closes up his throat, but he continues walking, much like every single morning without fail.

Steve loves the garden; and he knows that so do you. It isn’t rich in many types of exotic precious flowers; in fact, many would call it simple. A few trees, one of which Steve had planted himself; a few soft-coloured flowerbeds; the pink roses climbing up the artistic constructions you had asked the smith to make. A few blooming bushes.

It’s the roses you brought to life yourself and cared for them with your own hands; with soft hands of the queen, letting dirt under your nails, skin scraped by thorns and bleeding to give birth to beauty, just like the hands of a commoner would.

The Queen of the People, they call you.

The King of the People is what they call Steve; and you both carry that title with pride.

Steve’s mother, the late queen, was the first one of that moniker, having learned how to treat wounded so she could follow her husband to the war camp and lend a helping hand to those in pain, to nurse them back to health.

In the time of peace, with the same care, you and Steve learned to grow and nurture flowers, the way you nurture your kingdom.

The time of wars seem eons away now, even as Steve himself wielded his sword alongside his men in its very battles; life has turned much quieter since then. Steve is glad for it. While fighting for the kingdom brought him sense of pride and brotherhood, he has been longing for sense of life instead. For love.

And he’s been blessed enough to have found it.

As he approaches the roses weaving up the metal construction, he breathes in deeply, his senses drowning in the overwhelming scent; a wistful smile forms on his lips, the memory of the smile you graced him with upon your first meeting wrapping around his heart.

He wrote a letter to your brother.

After King Howard’s death, the word was that the kingdom of Starkenburg had changed, progressive both in technology and social structing. The tales of King Anthony’s sister – a princess of wit quick enough to advise the king himself – intrigued Steve; and upon seeing your portrait, something in his very soul seemed to shift. Whoever the artist was, they had captured you admirably vividly; Steve almost felt as if you were looking straight into his soul and smiled.

He wrote to your brother of his intentions, but he wrote to you as well, to ask your opinion before he’d arrive to your home and attempt to court you. He had had a sense that excessive amount of gold sent with the letter would not impress you; he sent a single pair of earrings he had had commissioned instead, a well-loved book of poetry, and a vial of precious rose oil from his latest travels to the allied kingdom of the East.

And he had been right to do so.

In your response, while thanking for the jewellery, you seemed genuinely appreciative of the gifts of more personal nature, sending a book of fables in return.

You had exchanged two more letters before he made the journey, waiting only upon your request not to intrude on your brother’s wedding festivities; but as soon as Steve could arrive, he brought another three vials of rose oil among other riches to honour the royal family with.

Walking down the steps of the courtyard to greet him, your polite smile widened upon seeing his gift, a vivid spark – reminding him of your portrait so much – appearing in your eye as he brushed his lips over your knuckles, the scent of the very oil he had gifted you filling his head.

“A mind’s a maze, my wiseness sees me through… important truths lie beyond what eyes can see,” you whispered and Steve’s heart thundered in his ribcage upon recognizing those words – perhaps out of place, but all the more familiar. A little test, it seemed, you set upon him; and the spark in your eye might have been the mischief your brother was known for, but was all the more mesmerizing on you.

Warmth spread through Steve’s veins as he stood back to his full height, even as there was faint weakness in his knees already.

“‘tis through my heart I may appreciate true beauty,” he continued the poem softly, your smile turning most sincere in an instant, “’tis through your heart you reveal yourself to me… but I must say, Your Highness, you are an exquisite a sight for my eyes all the same.”

You accepted the compliment graciously, as well as the gifts – but more importantly, you accepted his courtship, warmly so.

Whatever longing Steve had felt in his chest for many years now, wearing your face since the moment he had set his eyes on your portrait, it was this very first encounter that ignited something beautiful and fierce in his heart.

And then, with every glance, word or touch exchanged, no matter how innocent, he found the fire kindled gently until it consumed him whole, the late afternoon sunrays following your steps in the royal garden having nothing on the genuine warmth of your smile, little shy, little cheeky, or the shine of your beauty.

Enchanted; that was what you made him with your presence and absence all the more. The scent of your skin with the notes of the roses haunted his dreams, day and night, and made him long and crave for more.

The day you agreed to the marriage, Steve realised he was at true peace for the first time in his life.

And the memory of that joyful day, too, was linked to the sweet scent of white roses, decorating the wedding feast.

I drew your shape in crystal shapes every single night I weaved a dream of fire for you under stormy skies In every life I've loved you so The only home I've ever known The magic part of me

The scent fills his nostrils now too. It wraps all around him with every breath as he instinctively moves closer, not worried he might step on and crush a single blossom. After all, he knows the garden like the back of his hand and could navigate it blind; he prefers it that way, in fact. With eyes closed, he can see you, your tender fingers caressing the petals, the fruit of your love and care. It is no wonder the garden used to bloom so wild upon your touch; Steve knows its effect, the way it awakes life in one’s veins, the way it fills his lungs with light and makes the very essence of him hum with the sense of rightness.

With well-practiced ease, he follows the way your fingers would run over the blossoms blindly; dew dampens his fingers, cold, but the rose itself feels almost warm, as if it holds your very soul. And soft. So beautifully soft it makes Steve’s ribcage ache with the next generous breath he takes.

He remembers the softness and the warmth of your body too well.

The line of your jaw he caressed before finally cradling your face, before leaning to kiss your lips on your wedding day, to commit your features to memory beyond what eyes could see; he thought of his fingertips like the extension of his heart that allowed him to appreciate your beauty properly. The exquisite happiness humming in his chest that day settled in your expression as well, in that vivid sparkle in your eyes, fluttering shut when his lips finally met yours after long weeks of dreaming of it.

The moment he did kiss you was written into his mind as revelation; for all the poetry he had ever read, for all the longing, for all the mad swirls of feelings and sensation haunting his days and nights ever since he had the fortune to meet you, it all made sense then; even the past bloodshed and pain. It all made sense for it had all led right into the blessed moment.

“My husband… my king,” you whispered to his lips breathlessly, your smile tasting like sunshine against his own and he could not but respond in kind before kissing you once more:

“My wife… my beautiful queen.”

And your lips were just as soft the night he took you to his bed for the first time; and if kissing you was revelation, to be able to touch your body and hold you close was what he imagined ascension felt like. The welcoming heat of your skin was a taste of heaven as he carefully stripped your chemise, breath wavering under his burning gaze, the silver of shyness soothed by his mouth exploring every exposed inch of you.

“Steve-“

You had been so careful to address him properly when in company he thought he could die right there, hearing the breathless sound of his name, a shuddering plea. He remembers the way your own touch turned him into a man possessed, your careful but burning fingertips appreciatively mapping out his body. He took you with a tremble in his very core and with an overwhelming sense of being right where the two of you were supposed to be. He loved on you for half the night, the air full of heady scent of your lovemaking and rose oil oozing off your thoroughly warmed-up skin.

“I love you more than the stars could ever know,” he whispered into your hair that night, as you laid on his chest, thoroughly exhausted, but with a serene smile on your face. As if you heard him, you pressed to him closer, and with your proximity, you brought love and peace into his soul.

Time changed none of it. The softness of your body against his, every night, so beautifully alive and warm under his greedy tender hands, the sensation never failing to fill his head and roar in his veins with need to claim, to mark, to love; always. Body as soft and warm as your belly was when you placed his hand over it one day, tears pearling in your eyes, telling him you were with a child before you even spoke a single word.

That day, Steve kneeled in front of you, pressing his forehead against your belly, and thanked the gods for all the blessings he received; and he thanked you all the same, silent words spilling from his lips before he looked up at you, your fingers having carded through his hair in appreciation of his joy and gratitude. With sudden burst of emotion, he jumped to his feet and picked up and spun and spun and spun with you, your joined laughter filling your chambers and probably raising quite a few questioning eyebrows Steve could not care less for at any moment, let alone at a moment like that.

The entirety of his world had been blessed; and he thanked the gods and you alike for it diligently every single day.

The day after he’d found out, he planted a tree, as common people said a father-to-be should; and he did so without care for whether his child – your child – would be a son or a daughter. He’d love and raise the child with tender care and dedication either way, the same way he would care for the symbol of his love for a new life planted.

You, in turn, planted roses into the very same garden, taking care of them ever since, come sunshine or rain, a new life growing under your hands as well as under your heart.

Steve never had the heart to scold you when you kneeled in the dirt, with barely any strength remaining to stand up with how you belly had grown; instead, he observed you with a smile, kissing your temple and helping you stand on the rare days when he didn’t feel like simply scooping you up in his arms and carrying you to your chambers to rest properly, like the Queen and a future mother should.

It never failed to make for a gentle laugh when moments later, cleaned up and in bed, he’d find you falling asleep as soon as your head laid down on the pillow. 

He’d kiss your forehead, brushing your untidy hair from your face with a smile, and went to kiss your belly, before covering you properly and thanking for all his blessing once more.

Will I always find you Neath every moon Singing from the cold gloom My spells for you Are you just a conjuring Or my dream come true For my heart was calling calling, calling for you

Are you just a conjuring Or can I keep you?

Steve loves the garden and so do you; you love it still. He knows. He knows it with agonizing certainty because even now, this is where he feels you. This is where your warmth lingers, years after your passing. This is where he hears you whisper his name, in the rustle of leaves, feels your gentle touch in the breeze caressing his face, carding through his hair like your hands used to, especially on days when the weight of the crown became too heavy. This is where he feels your lips on his ear, whispering of your love, the softness of your kiss on his forehead, on his own lips when they brush the petals.

Here, he can hear you the clearest, tender; his chest tightens every time, a sharp memory of your screams behind the closed doors and the calming words of his friends that the cries he only knew from battlefields and sick tents, torn from your lungs, were but a part of the process of giving birth.

When the new voice cut the air and your screams turned into sobs and the softest murmur, no one could hold him back anymore, rules of propriety be damned; throwing the doors open, his eyes filled with tears upon the sight of the little miracle crying in your arms – your baby, your son. A little prince letting the world know there he was at last, loudly so; until you held him close enough for his cries to ease into sniffles and content hums.

That day too, Steve kneeled before you; by your bed, a few tears of undiluted joy rolled down his face as he welcomed James Samuel Anthony into his world and promised to love him for the rest of his days. To you, he thanked like he thanked to the gods, kissed your hands, your sternum, your lips. He could not imagine what pain you had endured, not even with the screams having echoed through the castle; but your smile and your tears, so warm on your soft skin, told him enough of how worthy of the struggle the result was.

“I love both of you, so much. You must never forget,” you whispered in a hoarse voice, tears rolling down your cheeks as you didn’t seem to know where to look – at your son, at Steve and back and forth, smiling through your tears.

Steve should have known then. He should have known the gods themselves had touched your soul and perhaps told you in their riddles what was to come to force you say those words. Perhaps they had told you what was to follow the most joyful night of Steve’s life; what the moments just before the dawn would bring.

But Steve was blind and deaf to it; all his senses and his heart alike caught in the precious moment, a cherished memory in making. The sensation of being touched by the divine in the most beautiful blessings of all; seeing you cradle the child to your chest, damp hair stuck to your forehead, skin glistening with sweat, eyes glazed over with tears and exhaustion… an intimate voice whispering to your child like you had been to your bump since the day it had become visible: you are so, so loved, our sweet child, our little starlight. Humming a lullaby until you could not keep your own eyes open, passing the child to Steve for a longer while.

The child never returned to the arms of his mother, never felt her warmth or loving touch ever again.

And neither did Steve.

All he was given was a new memory, made out of the worst nightmares he had never dared to speak of out loud even as they had been haunting him from time to time: your motionless, cold body, cleaned of the blood but terrifying all the same.

Steve had seen men bleed out on the battlefield before, enough terror for a lifetime; but to have that happen to you, at the threshold of the happiest day of your life, broke his very spirit. For the second time in the course of mere hours in which his world had been turned upside down as easily as if someone had turned an hourglass, he fell to his knees by your bed; your deathbed. Forehead pressed to your icy hand, his heart comprehended something the rest of his body could not yet. Unlike when he had welcomed the new life, he did not shed a single tear upon saying goodbye to yours. His sobs were dry, even as his chest was heaving so violently his whole frame shook, a part of him still praying so your hand would move, fingers card through his hair to comfort him, his grip on you growing harder by the moment despite the numbing weakness in his muscles.

You didn’t move. You had left the earthly realm long moments ago, ripped suddenly and violently from the centre of Steve’s whole world, creating an unrepairable tear in his soul.

He loved; he still does. Both the life given and the life taken that night. But the scar of having half of his heart torn out never healed. It never would; he did not think he’d want it too. He kept his wound wide and open so the love could pour out, for your memory, for his son. Your son. The only living thing left of you.

Your son and your roses.

He had your ashes dispersed into the soil under the roses, to nurture them like you had been in life; and he has your thoughts, shared only in whispers of your bed chamber, and he has all your love nurture your child.

He takes care of, raises and loves his son for you and himself alike; he keeps the roses alive with the most tender and careful care for you only. To keep your love and spirit alive and present.

You loved the garden and you still do; Steve knows.

Here, in the garden, he can feel you the best. Hear you in the wind, feel you in the warmth of the sun and blossoms alike, wrapped in your scent and the ghost of your touch, soft and clawing deep into the gaping wound in his ribcage all at once.

Here, his memories of the most joyful moments with you feel vivid. The dew sings your whispers of affection and the rain carries your tears spilled for the grief of leaving your son and your husband all too soon.

I know your face in fractured time, and I know our kiss A thousand lives, our love remains, pulling me back in Through all the dark, I've searched for light And found you waiting every night But are you even real?

The garden is where he feels you most tangible; but your spirit hovers around him at all times.

Sometimes the memories creep at him gently; a colour you liked catching his eye out of instinct, your words echoing in his head, your favourite book still lying on the table in your shared room. Sometimes they slam into him with violence that knocks air out of his lungs, having been filled with the sweet scent of roses; a royal celebration with a dance overflowing with emptiness without you in his arms, without you following his steps with elegance, utter faith in his lead, your wide sparkling eyes full of affection and fond memory of your first dance shared. His bed, a wailing void, swallowing him every night. And of course, the soft and so beautifully violent reminder of your absence, ever-present in the face of your son, in his questions about mama.

Steve talks about you. James cannot quite understand yet, he’s too young, his heart too pure and his mind too full of magic this world offers; but his little hand on Steve’s damp cheek when he fails to keep his tears at bay, his son’s worry about his father being sad, breaks his heart and mends it all the same. Steve answers James’s questions; he speaks of you out of turn too. Your son knows your face from your portraits, ones painted by artists, ones drawn by Steve himself, and knows all about your and Steve’s love for him. They prayed for you together. He knows your garden and the significance of the roses and he looks at them with the strangest affectionate expression in his soft, carefree features.

James has your smile, your eyes, and your wit.

In the grey of Steve’s days, he is his light. James and the garden, where he can feel you and the echo of your love.

Steve’s hand slips from the blossoms, the missing weight setting the flowers in motion, sending a small shower of droplets down his hand, on his face, nature’s blessing bleeding into his burning tears, his eyes fluttering open, the pink and rich green and grey of the stone swimming in his tear-filled vision. His lips are unsteady, trembling under the crushing weight of your absence; and yet, your voice is so clear in his mind as if you stood right next to him.

Don’t cry, my love, whispers the breeze, a warm breath as if tickling his ear. I miss you too.

“There is no day I do not miss you,” he whispers back soundlessly, blinking away his tears as a ghost of your touch caresses down his spine, “my wife, my precious, my heart.”

I know, love. I know. I wish I could take your pain away.

He grants himself another deep breath, all that used to be you – including the kindness and worry you probably did have for him even in afterlife – washing over him.

The sudden ruckus by the gates startles him, his heart skipping a beat; the bubble of his own world he still gets to share with you bursts as the rustle of cloth and quick little steps instantly followed by a sniffle push through the veils of solace the garden offers.

The only person who can be forgiven to do so bursts into the garden, red blotches on his damp cheeks, eyes finding Steve with relief and bottomless trust Steve will never fail to appreciate even as it squeezes his heart in a vice.

He’s crouching on instinct before the scene is even complete, James’s governess’ rushed steps and her scolding surprisingly far away.

Little James lands in Steve’s arms and clutches him with an awful vigour for a three-year-old, his choked cry of fa-eh muffled by the fabric of Steve’s attire.

“James-" he whispers gently, arms coming around him like thousands times before, one hand laid over the back of his head as he rises to his feet, encouraged by the grip of the little fingers on him tightening.

“James--! Your Majesty, I am-“

Steve shakes his head at the poor woman, an understanding smile on his lips before he turns his attention back to the toddler in his arms, careful to keep his voice soft despite the flash of fear in his chest – his son truly was getting stronger and faster by the day, able to run away quick and get into all sorts of trouble.

James Buchannan Bucky Barnes, his namesake, would always say Steve’s son was the payback from the gods. Steve does not disagree and swallows his pride and worry at that very fact every time little James is up to something Steve is sure he himself could have never come up with at his age. Bucky would probably argue about that and Steve might believe him, because Bucky knows him as well if not better than Steve knows himself; that was why Bucky is the only person who has not nagged him about a new queen, has not pushed him about a motherly figure needed in James’s life.

For now, and perhaps for ever, it is enough for Steve to know about his own mother and you.

His mother had the patience of the gods and their strictness all the same; Steve believes you would have been the same and he tries his best to live up to such standard of parenthood.

“Jamie, little starlight, what is wrong?" he inquires, the child wiggling in his arms to hold on tighter, face still hidden in Steve’s chest.

“Miss momma. Bad sweep.”

The unrepairable crack in Steve’s heart gapes open, his lips pressed tight as he runs his hand down James’s back, barely holding back a sigh. He knows the feeling all too well, even if in his world, your absence, however painful, translates differently.

“Did you not sleep well? Had bad dreams?”

James nods in confirmation, repeating his words. “Miss momma.”

“I see,” Steve hums, breathing in deeply, pondering. It is not the first time this has happened; Steve knows he’s partly to blame and guilt pangs in his gut, the familiar dilemma of honouring your memory and loving you, keeping you in your son’s memory, and reminding the child of your glaring absence in the process setting heavy in his ribcage. “I sleep badly too, when I miss her.”

Which is every night.

James pushes away from Steves chest a fraction, looking up at his face with tear-filled eyes and a pout that feels like a whiplash to Steve’s soul; he’s your mirror image painted with sincerity and innocence, his whole generous heart on display.

“Ya? Ugwy dweams?”

“Yes,” Steve says gently, even as his voice cracks with emotion. “That is why I come here every morning.”

James’s expression turns serious – and way too intelligent for a boy his age, Steve thinks, even as his heart flutters at his son’s words.

“Tawk to momma. Is why I wun heew.”

“Oh. Do you… want to say something to your mum too?” Again, James nods; and again, Steve’s ribcage constricts, the burn of tears in his eyes as familiar as the gentle warmth kindled in his veins. “I see. But first – you must not run away from Lady Brigitte like that, alright? She would be upset and get worried. Me too.”

Little James nods quickly, his pupils growing bigger.

“Sowy…. Sowy Wady Bwigitt.”

“Your Highness,” she smiles benevolently at the child, nodding at Steve, already stepping back, understanding her services are not needed at the moment, “Your Majesty.”

“Thank you, Brigitte.”

With one last brief smile, she is gone; not too far for she might be needed soon, but far enough to grant privacy to the grieving family.

It is not the first time Steve explains what he is doing here to his son; that is how James knows in the first place to come here. It is, however, the first time the child has run here and Steve is not blind to the importance of the moment, his heartbeat rushing past his ears, his touch a little shaky with nerves as his son observes him with curious, sad eyes.

“Tawk now?”

“Yes, little starlight, talk now,” Steve assures his son with a smile with a heartbroken edge, crouching again by the bunch of flowers. “You don’t have to, but what I do, is that I stroke the roses first. Carefully. And then I tell her what I need to say.”

He licks his lips, a lump in his throat growing, voice cracking as he continues.

“And I tell her how much I love her and miss her.”

James nods, a single step from his father’s embrace, petting one of the blossoms with his fingertips with clumsiness but undeniable care, sending a few droplets falling.

“Miss you, momma. Wove you.”

Something digs its claws into Steve’s heart and lungs and yanks violently, tears springing from his eyes at the sincerity of James’s words, all the more touching as they are slurred through his wobbly lips. Steve smiles encouragingly when little James seeks his approval. He’s crying too; fat tears are rolling down his cheeks, but as he continues to caress the flower, the corners of his lips turned up tensely.

“She say she wove too.”

Steve clears his throat, swallowing the pitiful sound born there – profoundly proud and happy as only James could make him.

“Yes, she does that. She loved--- she loves you very much, little starlight. More than anything in this whole wide world.”

“Wike you wove me. Wike she wove you.”

“Yes, exactly that, son,” Steve says, breathing in shakily, slightly startled when James’s fingers slip to the stem.

Steve is too slow, his hand unable to catch James’s before blood pearls on the child’s index finger, a surprised yelp of pain torn from the his lips.

Steve opens his mouth, words of comfort ready as much as the comfort of his embrace; but to his awe, James frowns and moves back to the blossom, murmuring he loves you still.

Steve is not sure whether his chest is too heavy from bursting with pride, affection or grief.

Finally, his son smiles, abandoning the flower and showing off his little injury.

“Not cwy. Stwong wike dad,” he declares, arms rising in an universal gesture. “Up?”

Without a word of protest, Steve lifts him to his arms, suddenly acutely aware of the morning truly being rather brisk when he feels James’s cold hands on his neck and curses himself for not having thought of that.

“Of course you are. Let’s say bye to mum and go get some tea and breakfast, yes? If you want, I can tell you all about the most beautiful queen there ever was.”

James obediently whispers g’dbye, nuzzling into Steve’s neck, allowing him to shield James’s small body from the cold as he heads out of the garden, one last glance and a silent goodbye to his sanctuary and your spirit that seems to reside there.

Neither of them notices that the one flower little James has touched begins to wilt.

When morning comes Will you fade away Like all my dreams I never, ever want to wake This love we've made Is like a spell upon my soul I'm bound to you for now and evermore

Between playing with and trying his best to teach his son, between holding court and training with his brothers in arms and friends, Steve’s mind is occupied; too full to ponder and to feel.

The weight of the morning experience comes crushing him at night.

It had rained in the evening, but then the wind blew apart the clouds, moonlight streaming into Steve’s bedroom – his and yours – light and shadows playing wicked games on the walls. You are on Steve’s mind, memories haunting him with intensity he cannot remember since before James was taking his first steps and Steve wished you were there to witness it and celebrate it.

He hears your voice, a ghost of your touch stirring him awake every time he feels sleep might finally take him into its merciful arms; drifting between consciousness and dreamland, he sees things. He could swear the moonlight keeps taking your form by the window, taunting him to follow; but whenever he does, feet all but dragging from the lack of a shuteye, the mirage disperses, only to materialize in the armchair where you used to read to Jamie before he was even born, then in the bed where Steve held you for far too few nights, loved on you for too short of a time, the aroma of rose oil hovering in the air, an untouchable torment and bliss to his senses.

He ends up dozing off in the chair by the fireplace, shivering, and waking up too soon to the first crimson and fiery orange of a new dawn.

Dressing up, he refuses to take a look in the mirror to see the shell of the King of the People he must resemble. He knows it without looking; the red-rimmed glassy eyes, the dark circles under them, the pale skin, the numb lips he is not sure will be able to speak a single word today, let alone lead and inspire.

Should anyone come at him with a sword in the next few hours, he’d be dead before he could swing his own just once; and yet, he attaches the sword to his waist as a part of his attire, the weight comfortingly familiar. Today might be a battle where no sharp blade could help him win, but he had spent years with his trusted weapon. It was how he approached your court too; a man of riches and conquered lands, a soldier and a king, but also a simple man longing for love.

The castle is still and silent safe for the guards on duty, abandoning their proper stance only to pay him respect by shallow bows; the garden, as per usual, awaits him in its peaceful solitude.

The dew was still falling abundantly, Steve’s hair damp and sticking to his forehead by the time he walks through the gates, the first sunrays shining through the leaves of James’s tree, blinding Steve for just a moment, enough for him to have to shield his eyes before they adjust, drawn towards his destination.

He freezes mid-step so sharply it hurts; air is knocked from his lungs and it hurts more.

It was back at Harrigörn where an army skilled more any other they had encountered before massacred many of Steve’s own; where too many good men laid down their life for their kingdom, for their king. It was back at Harrigörn where Steve’s own blood soaked the lands, a lucky strike delivered after a significant part of his armour had been knocked off, exposing his left side, an opening his enemy eagerly took and pushed his sword right through under Steve’s ribcage the very moment Steve hesitated. That day, Bucky, striking the man and dragging Steve to safety, might have as well ripped Steve from the fingers of the gods themselves who were about to guide him into afterlife.

As a reminder, Steve has been carrying a nasty scar that sometimes aches still; and a piercingly sharp memory of blood on his tongue and brutal, numbing pain whose echo interrupted more than one of his nights.

He truly remembers the moment with shocking clarity; the way all the sensation came crashing down on him, stunning him motionless and speechless, mouth open, no sound coming out.

His body remembers.

He stands stunned just the same right now, a guttural no falling from his lips, pulse rushing past his ears; metallic taste of blood and tears and panic on his tongue.

Your smile flashes in front of his eyes and he can’t breathe; his stomach swings so violently he retches, his first coherent thought being a desperate prayer to all gods above to wake him up from the nightmare unfolded in front of his tired eyes.

He stands there stunned for a moment lasting an eternity.

And then he’s finally moving, frantic breaths fogging the cold air, dew soaking his boots and biting into his toes and he does not care; he does not even notice, a string of raspy no no no falling from his lips, desperation colouring his grey world black around the edges.

The roses.

Your roses.

Your precious roses, your flowery children, your memory: dead.

Every single one.

Dry and wilted and rotten, seemingly all three at once, the dew caught on them but a mocking, like a salve numbing pain on a dead body; beyond any salvation.

All of it gone, not a single blossom left. Just an image of utter devastation.

It strikes him harder and sharper than any sword, weighting his body down to the ground faster than armour made of lead.

He falls to his knees, hands landing in the soil, fingers digging in as if it could speak and tell him how to fix that – to tell him what and how and why has this happened in the first place, when he had studied and learned about how to enrich the soil and protect the flowers from disease, just how, over a single night, over the course of a few hours, could life be ripped away so suddenly and violently, a life that was blooming so fully and beautifully only a day ago-

A life ripped out just like yours.

A life that’s been a memory and a monument to yours.

The pain that rips through his chest has him digging his fingers deeper, his head falling between his shoulders with a cry that might not even be human, more akin to one of a dying animal.

He can’t let out more; he can’t let anything in. His chest feels too tight, air too heavy to breathe in, burning in his lungs as much as shame and self-loathing burns in his veins.

He failed. He failed to keep your memory alive, he failed you, a terrible letdown and it was just flowers, one would say, but they were not. The flowers are not the only thing gone.

Your spirit, usually so present, seems to have evaporated, having bled out from the sanctuary as if it had been tied to the roses; as if it has been keeping the roses alive or vice versa.

He has lost you, for the second time; that is the feeling tearing his heart apart.

The garden usually filled with memories of you screams with emptiness; the breeze bushing his damp hair is cold and dull and harsh despite barely being there. The warmth of your affection; gone.

He swallows the scream clawing its way up his tight throat, a violent shudder cutting through his spine, his eyes squeezing shut.

He hears the light steps but he cannot make himself to react, to open his eyes, to move; he does not recognize them even as there is a grief-struck part of his mind he tends to keep locked that tells him that he does.

It’s not little James; it’s not Bucky nor Bucky’s wife. It’s not James’s governess either; and no one else has been permitted to enter here unless Steve would have had to leave the castle for days and a gardener had to be appointed.

If a stranger came to slash his throat, the numbness in Steve’s fingers whispered of him not caring at the moment; if anything, Steve might call it an unjustified mercy to him.

The steps stop behind him, the hand softly laid on his shoulder making for a burning sensation in his nose, tears prickling in his red-rimmed eyes.

“It’s not your fault,” the ghost of your voice reaches him, the scent of rose oil enveloping him, a lovechild of a sob and chuckle of relief exploding from his lips.

Gods, you were still here. Still, despite it all, he could feel you, more tangible than ever, hear you even, the clearest in the past three years.

“I am so---- so--rry I couldn’t-“ he chokes out, but the phantom touch seems to grow firmer, reassurance he does not deserve.

“It was never your fault, Steve,” the breeze whispers kindly, and yet, his breath hitches as thousands of icy shards stab his broken heart.

It might as well be his conscience speaking, and it does not relent.

“I know of the guilt you carry and you need to let it go. It was never your fault.”

It was never your fault that the child born out of our love, the life you had given seed to, took me away.

At those words, the very guilt consumes him more than ever, burning like midnight oil and ice. Of course he had thought that; it was one of the nightmares haunting his nights. If he had only… he loves little James with all his heart, and it’s such blasphemous thought he asks penance for and loves his child all the more in the days that follow, but if Steve had only never—would you have lived? Or would have the gods ripped his happiness from his hands still and gave him no solace at all?

“You’ve given me a son. I love you and always will.”

The echo of your voice shakes with emotion and another sob is torn from Steve’s lips, shaking his whole frame, his hand instinctively moving to his shoulder where the warm memory of your touch lingers.

Will I always find you Neath every moon Singing from the cold gloom My spells for you Are you just a conjuring Or my dream come true For my heart was calling calling, calling for you

His heart stops in his chest when the tips of his fingers, still covered in dirt from where he has dug them into the soil, meet skin instead of the fabric of his own coat.

He turns so fast he lands on his backside, his head spinning with the unexpectedly fast movement; and his heart stands still for one moment longer, his throat suddenly dry unlike his cheeks.

Gods, he can see you.

Beautiful and ethereal, the sun shining from behind you and yet overshadowed by your presence.

Steve’s lost his mind for certain; another of his sleepless nights finally having pushed him into the realm of insanity.

But by gods he’d trade it all if he could look at the smile, no matter how sad, adorning your lips for jus a minute longer.

You are in all white; a nightdress Steve knows like the back of his hand, an attire he held you in during your nights together or stripped it with tenderness or vigour. The very nightdress you wore the night you left this world. 

You crouch by him, the scent of rose oil filling his nostrils so intense a pitiful whine is born in his chest, even as his eyes adjust and he notices your hair ruffled rather messily, streaks of dirt on your skin, on your dress; you are barefoot.

You are the most gorgeous, divine mirage.

“It’s not your fault the roses died. You took care of them with as much precision as love, every single day. I know. I watched you.”

Steve only gulps, all coherent thought leaving him, his hands shaking; he must not touch you. He has never seen a mirage of you so vivid – he cannot afford to lose it, to have you dissipate into thin air if he tries to hold on too tight.

“It is my fault… the price to pay.”

Steve does not understand. Not your words, not the blessed image his mind has conjured, not even the wild swirl of suffocating joy and heartbreak upon seeing you; he only understands the terror of realisation that his own memory, until now, did not seem to do you justice. He has been forgetting your face despite the amount of time he has been spending looking at your portraits and reminiscing; he has almost forgot what your voice sounds like, a soothing caress to his soul.

But conjuring of you is kind and patient; it smiles warmly, tears gathering in its eyes Steve longs to kiss away.

“I was visiting town when she approached me, a blind fortune teller, a harmless youngling, beautiful beyond what my own eyes has ever seen… she told me she was bringing an important message from the gods,” you say, “but she told me she could only unveil it to me and no other living soul. Asked me to follow her.”

Steve’s breath hitches in fear; a fear that makes no sense. A story that has likely never happened and his broken mind had just dreamed up, and yet; the image of his wife, his precious heart, following a woman she had never encountered before without the trusted guards, shakes him. The Queen of the People they call you; visiting the commoners was no strange nor exceptional occurrence, but Steve would have never let you walk alone. Beloved as you are and were by most, there is always evil lurking and looking to hurt the crown; but you know as much. You always knew.

 And Steve knows that because beauty has not been the only quality of yours he loved and loves; it is your wit too. For all your kindness, you are no fool and do not trust without evidence.

A spark – a heart-wrenchingly vivid spark of affection – flashes in your eye as you continue, as if you can hear his thoughts.

“I would have never followed her had it not been for her next words and her gentle touch. As innocent as she appeared despite the air of something divine, there was no telling who could be hiding in her hut, to whom she wished to lured me to under false pretences.”

“What did she say?” Steve hears himself rasp, in the very back of his mind well-aware he is entertaining a conversation with the result of his own fatigued mind.

The tears pearling in your eyes fall over, making Steve’s hand twitch with the need to gently wipe them away.

“The paths laid down by gods are full of twists and turns… to know them all I would surely have turned mad,” you recite softly and Steve has to force himself to keep his eyes open as your voice washes over him, like the times you whispered this very first poem of the booklet he had sent you along with his first letter in the sweet darkness of your shared bedroom, like he whispered them to you back. He can’t. If he closes his eyes, you might disappear again. “Fate in the stars written by lighting dust of souls… if I’d known how, I would have rather read.”

Steve, having been mouthing the words along unwittingly, feels his lips moving almost soundlessly as he finishes:

“But I am but a man, I’m blood and heart and faith; Walking the one path that I believe to be true. I follow the path to which my heart’s been calling… for I have faith t’will lead me back to you.”

“Yes,” you nod, warmth blooming around Steve’s heart despite it all. This is a kind memory, he decides. Whatever has brought you here, whatever has killed the roses, your image has been sent here to sooth him. It might hurt all the more later; but for now, he finds himself almost, almost at peace. “So I did follow her. She told me that in quarter of a moon, I will find myself with a child. And I did. She told me to plant the roses… and so I did.”

You take a wavering breath and Steve finds himself doing the same; you face twists in grief before you continue.

“She told me to nurture them and cherish them like the child itself, and so I did – because once my son was born, I would not have but short moments to hold him.”

With a wince, the outrage rushing through Steve has him straightening his spine, his hand instinctively moving to his sword. To protect his wife, to eliminate the person who dared to make such threat to his beloved.

But there is nothing to fight; it is all but the past that might have never even happened except for your painful passing. And yet, Steve’s mind is whirling, memories falling into place, of your thoughtful expression upon returning for the town one day, the abundance of tears upon your announcement you were with a child, your solid feeling it would be a boy, your words, spoken quietly but with conviction and finality Steve has wondered so many times about: “I love both of you, so much. You must never forget.”

“My love-“

“And I did,” you cut off his raspy voice. “And she told me that should my ashes nurture the roses, I would come back, once they’d meet the blood and tears of my love… and the blood of my blood.”

Steve watches, stunned, as you move to kneel next to him, the ghost of the warmth of your skin radiating and calling out for him, a temptation to catch the mirage and condemn it to disperse in this air smelling of freshly cut roses.

The image of little James, scratching his finger on the thorn yesterday, staining one of the pink blossoms with his blood is the last thing Steve thinks of – before your hand, much colder now, goosebumps having risen on your arms, settles tenderly on his cheek, damp with tears he cannot recall having cried.

It strikes him like a lightning, rushing through his soul, stunning him motionless.

You were touching him.

He felt your cold skin against his, your warm affection, your smile a thousand suns and your voice just as unsteady as his heart and as real as the dirt under his fingernails or the wet ground under him as you whisper, voice cracking with emotion:

“And I did.”

A single beat of his heart; and his hand is rising with a violent tremble, hesitating for just a moment before he dares to cover the back of your hand on his cheek.

You are still there.

Undeniably and completely true.

“Oh gods-“

He chokes on a sob so potent his whole ribcage vibrates, painfully so, but he does not care.

He is already moving.

He springs from the ground, dropping your hand only to throw his arms around your form and pull you against him, inhaling into his already tight chest when your solid warm body meets his, one arm around your waist, the other around your shoulder, gripping your nape, tangling in your hair and gripping with violent force just so if anyone tried to pull you away he’d never let them, because you-

You’re still here.

You press your face against his neck, the tip of your nose making him shudder not because it’s cold, but because it feels as cold as it used to on a brisk morning like this one when you’d press yourself to him and smile into the skin of his throat when he’d faux-chastise you for not dressing warm enough and thus forcing him to give you his own coat.

--which is something he will absolutely do in just a second or two of hundred once it settles that your tears soaking into his skin are real and his own tears are seeping into your hair as he buries his face there and inhales, the scent of wet soil and rose-oil so intense and overwhelmingly familiar with years of grief and blissful memories he feels his muscles give out, sending both your you toppling over into the tall wet grass, the complete opposite of keeping you warm as he should but you don’t seem to care and he cannot think, let alone move.

Your name is falling form his lips, over and over, a prayer, a plea, a thank you, ragged breaths held just to keep still, to remember this moment for the rest of his days.

You are here.

You are here, somehow alive, right in his arms.

And you are saying his name, over and over, sweet endearment and apologies for not telling him, for being scared, for perhaps being foolish, for all the grief your absence has condemned him to and Steve just laughs.

He laughs so hard he is crying and he is not sure which came first, but he rolls over with you to protect you from the cold ground at last, your weight the most soothing thing he could ever conjure, perhaps safe for your blinding smile broken on its edges or your I love you, or your hands cradling his face for a long silent moment before your lips descend to his, sending tremble through his body, his heart, his very soul.

“My husband… my king.”

“My wife… my beautiful queen, my precious, my heart,” he whispers in return, choking on the last word, because his heart truly has just returned, beating its way out of his chest, brought by the woman the stars themselves had conspired to lead him to, only to steal her and then give her back. The stars, the gods, the fairies, it does not matter as long as you’d get to stay.

And again, your wit, your impeccable ability to read him like the very book of poetry he had given you years ago, have you caress his face with your fingertips, one of his hands leaving your nape to keep your other hand warm, and whisper to him:

“And she told me I’d get to kiss my husband again… and to hold my son, after only watching him grow in the loving hands of the kindest man there ever was and I shall have the chance to do it all for a very, very long time.”

Steve brushes the unruly hair from your face and kisses you softly – all but a meagre reminder of the overwhelming love humming in his very being. He sits up, wrapping you around him, legs around his waist, arms around his shoulders, and stands up, rising full of life and strength as if he has not lied awake all night; he lifts you both, carrying you from the garden, to ensure you could do exactly as you said.

“You will, my love. You will.”

Of that – he vows to himself and to the gods above with gravity of the word of the king, a warrior, a father and a husband – I will make sure.

He will. For the rest of his days, he will.

Are you just a conjuring …or can I keep you?

S.R. masterlist  // Complete masterlist 

There we go... I suppose that due to the magical elements here, this can be read as the fic for this year's Walpurgis Night. May yours mbe a good one, may you May be sweet 🌸

Thank you for reading 💕 thoughts, rants, yells and reblogs are always welcomed 🥰

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Wayward 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, arranged marriage, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Duke!Steve Rogers (Medieval AU)

A Knights, Kings, and Knaves Story

Summary: you accompany the court to a foreign kingdom for a tournament of four kings and find yourself entwined with a staunch duke.

Note: Finally digging into Steve's.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

"Posture," your father jabs your side meanly.

You push your shoulders wide and raise your head. You're gown is soaked with sweat. The heat is sweltering, permeating the layers around you. A week thus far and you cannot take the Wakandan weather.

Your father huffs and sends you another derisive glare. He never has much more for you than that. You can hardly blame him. You've offered nothing but disappointment.

Your older sister, Agnes, his favourite, could not travel for her condition. Wed and awaiting her first child. Halina, your younger sister, wed as well, remains at home as well. Her husband did not earn an invite upon the travel party. Why your father brought you, you cannot fathom. Your mother would not say either. He hardly has a mind for you as he spends much of his time in the king's ear.

You peek over at the man. One of four kings expected. The resident ruler of Wakanda, T'Challa, sits upon a seat made of bone. You could not guess a creature so large as to have a skeleton so gargantuan. Then there is King Thor of Asgard, wearing a sleeveless tunic of red as his thick arms glisten with sweat, his golden hair drawn up in a top knot. He looks to fair about as well as you in the climate.

Then, King Tony, your own monarch, in black and gold, unamused as he faces down a fourth man. One who is not a king. Duke Steve Rogers stands upon his introduction, unfazed by the disappointment of his audience.

"What do you mean he isn't here?" King T'Challa asks with a tilt of his head.

"He will be."

"But his banners are here. His men?" King Thor wonders as he wipes his forehead of sweat.

"He travelled separate due to... some unforeseen circumstances." The duke responds evenly. His thick hair droops forward and he flicks his back. His beard is just as dense along his jaw.

"Might we know of these circumstances?" King Tony challenges.

"He will arrive shortly," the noble answers, unaffected.

"You might stand as his agent but you are not king," Tony retorts. "Mind your tongue."

"I've said nothing to deserve remonstrance. I act upon my king's will, not yours. If that doesn't please you, then it is not my issue at hand," Rogers folds his hands neatly before his tunic. "We've come as promised. We are ready for the tournament and we bring our offering for the prizes. And we will supply some staples for the feasting. I believe we have more than met our obligations."

Tony scoffs and T'Challa stands. He comes down from his seat on the platform and opens his arm to the duke. "You are welcome here in my kingdom," the king declares. "As all kings have sworn, we meet on common ground. In peace. We will await King Bucky and we know it will be worth the delay."

He embraces the duke. They part and Rogers looks around. Thor stands and bounds across to him.

"I might be the only gladdened by your arrival. Let us go and see the plains. You will not believe the wild cats," the large man herds the duke away.

Your father clears his throat. The noise draws the eye of your king. Tony gestures with his fingers. Your father growls under his breath.

"A waste," he mutters. "That damnable king does as he might and keeps us all waiting." He faces you. "Come, there is no purpose for us until he arrives." He looks you over with a curl of his lip. "Perhaps in the meantime, you might have your gowns tailored for the heat. No gentleman can admire a lady dripping like a sieve."

You wipe your sweaty face with your sleeves, "father, most sorry. It is very hot--"

"We all suffer but we do not all whine," he snaps his hand like a beak. "Go back to your chambers. I have business still."

You hide your agitation. It isn't you who asked to come along to this place. If it were up to you, you would be back home, wiling away the hours in the garden. You will settle for being away from him.

🛡

Gertrude pulls you by your arm. You try to slow her as your elbow feels ready to come out joint. Your soles slip on the floor.

"Where are we going?" You tug but she doesn't relent.

"I met some awfully nice ladies. So beautiful," she says. "It's terribly dull around here."

"So it might be but my father--"

"He is rather too busy, isn't he?" She challenges.

"Hm, I suppose."

She tugs you out into the sunlight and you wilt. You shield your eyes as you she drags you around the castle to the courtyard. There's a cluster of women sitting upon a silken blanket. They weave each other's hair in pairs.

"Zolana," she cheeps as she lets you go. "I've brought another."

There are other women from your kingdom. You know many by name thought they don't often speak with you. Gertrude does but only because she is younger.

"Oh little fox," one beckons to you. "Look how you melt like butter."

You don't know what else to do so you approach and drop down to your knees. You tug at your skirt as it catches under you and sweat glosses over your lashes.

"Come, let me."

Her skin is supple and rich. You admire the dark hue as she reaches for you. The tear at the seam of your sleeves makes you gasp. With a small curved blade, she cuts through the thread and strips away the fabric from around your arms. You cross them defensively as you stare at the ruin of your dress.

"Much better," she takes the fabric and tears it, "now, here, put your back to me."

You bat your eyes and obey. It does feel lighter without the extra burden. You sit and look off at the emerald and gold horizon.

"I am Sefu," she says. "And your name?"

You answer as she sweeps the cloth over your hair and wraps it around snugly, hiding your hair so that it stays away from your face.

"Very good." She moves around you to check the front. "Beautiful."

"Oh, thank you," you touch the fabric.

"Mm, yes, the lost cubs need some help through the brush," she smiles.

You smile back. Your father will be upset to find you gone, more so at the state of your dress, but for now, you will bask in the relief. You know whatever spurred him to bring you along, will soon unfold.

[darkmasterlistyouneveraskedfor]

upon his grace masterlist

Summary: You are called to court after the end of the civil war, but find yourself facing many challenges, expected and not. (fantasy medieval au)

Status: In progress

Part 1

Part 2

[aurore-boreal1s]

Personal review regarding what if…? season 2 episode 8 (spoilers)

No ok, I must admit, the episode was good in some aspects.

Wanda was majestic. Loki and Scott were hilarious and I loved every single moment with them.

Thor was amazing, dark and serious out of loss but still enjoyable, and the crumbs of his relationship with Hela were very nice.

I’ve actually liked Tony for the very first time in my life, probably because I tend to like him a lot more in AUs and fanfictions than I do in the normal timeline.

And then… there were those two.

I will never comprehend why marvel wants Steve to be so dependent on Peggy. And I will never comprehend why, to make him interact with her, they have to destroy or sideline every other relationship he has built, or make his character flat.

Bucky being friends with Scott was amazing, but the fact that him and Steve interacted like two times was extremely disappointing. You’d expect “best friends in every universe”, if you dislike the romantic pairing so much, to acknowledge themselves for more than a few scenes, in only one of which they’re in frame together (Bucky was literally 😐 while his best friend disappeared, come on now).

And the storyline about Peggy coming from another world to save the universe was just… Mbah. It could’ve been executed in another way without including her and it still would have made sense. It really feels like a Y/N insert.

Seeing literally any other character was so good, so fun, and they had to ruin it this way, making Peggy once again the self insert and girlboss she didn’t need to be.

Plus, forgive my constant complaining, but it’s extremely infuriating how all of Steve’s friends were eliminated to put the focus solely on Peggy. Where’s Sam? Where’s Nat? Where’s Clint? It’s not an underrated friendship we’re talking about, a big chunk of the fandom loves the cap quartet or team cap, and after civil war it would have been nice to see them interact, especially after its popularity and popular demand. Outlaw team cap would have been glorious, a good chance to bring back many characters who aren’t here anymore in the right way, and involve characters that are rarely involved in What if in the storyline, for a change.

The treatment of Sam in this series particularly angers me, and even more so in this episode. I understand not involving him in other storylines, but Sam was a big part of CATWS and he wasn’t even in the episode centered on that film. What, because Steve met him while running he can’t be introduced in any other way? And oh, there’s no excuse for this episode. If there was one episode they could have placed Sam in, it was this one. Sam was there in infinity war, where the mess happened, and he should have been with the other avengers in this one.

If marvel wanted to involve someone from another universe so bad, it should have been a Captain America Sam from another universe. Can you imagine the poetry of seeing Steve and Nat again after endgame? Can you imagine having closure with them both, and having fun in the process? It would have been so great.

Another great storyline without involving characters from other universes would have been one where Steve, who touched the time stone, accidentally brought everyone in the past, and he was the only one to remember it. And to go back and prevent everyone’s distraction, he had to recruit the avengers, who don’t know him and don’t trust him but that in the end become his friends and companions. It would have been so interesting to see the original avengers involved in something different from being some side characters or extras in the one woman show that seems to be What if, constantly centered around the same bland, one dimensional reimagined side character. Peggy’s blandness is so obvious in these episodes (aside for some random remarks that made me smile) that literally everyone who’s involved directly with her must be bland like her, otherwise risking to overshadow her.

I don’t think I was supposed to cringe and look away as much as I did during Steggy’s forced scenes, but I did. If they had to force Steggy and Peggy down our throats, at least they could have done something different from the same bland and boring storyline as always. I wouldn’t be as mad as I am now if Peggy and Steve’s relationship wasn’t as bland. I would have preferred an enemies to lovers type of twist or change, where Steve doesn’t trust Peggy and struggles with her because he sees in her a different version of the Peggy that died in that universe. But noooo, god forbid, let’s go with the same old song.

An episode five or ten minutes longer with a better, avengers-centric or Steve-centric storyline would have been much better than what we got.

And given that this was my most anticipated episode, I was very disappointed by it. I hope for the next seasons, if there’s other ones, Marvel will listen to the general complaint regarding Peggy and will give her a break. I don’t think any of the original avengers or relevant MCU characters made as much appearances as Peggy, and being a main focus in four episodes out of nine is ridiculous.

[leehanji]

The Limits of Duty

Stucky, Explicit, 71K, completed 4 Jul 2023

[stellar-solar-flare]

For Centuries | Chapter 22/x: The Trinity of Wrath

Explicit | 18+ only| Medieval Romantasy AU | Emperor!Steve Rogers x Stark!Princess!Reader

As the only daughter of King Howard Stark of Richford, you have always known that you are expected to eventually enter into a political marriage. When King Howard attempts to save his kingdom by marrying you off to the conqueror of half the world, you accept the responsibility bestowed on you. But as you arrive at the court of Emperor Steven the Righteous to be wedded and crowned the Empress of the Centurial Empire, your husband-to-be is not what you expected.

Reader is the daughter of Howard Stark and his second wife, who is not named or described. This is a 'From Political Marriage to Love Marriage' story, featuring lots of romantasy elements, court politics, and protective, righteous Emperor Steve Rogers. The 'Touch her and I'll kill you.' vibes are strong with this one. The slowest of burns.

Read Chapter 22: The Trinity of Wrath (AO3)

or

Read this story from the beginning. (AO3)

AUTHOR AO3| AUTHOR TUMBLR MASTERLIST