♒. INFJ-T. 30-ish. ❆ OFTEN 18+, look out! ❆ Masterlist ❆ Marvel & multifandom ❆ Default setting: fluff ❆ Soft spot for S.R. and few more
▻ My liberty to swing my fists ends just an inch from where your nose begins. ◅
🌼I write (complete masterlist). So far it has been for Steve Rogers, Matt Murdock, Bucky Barnes and… others (CEvans characters, dipping toes into Criminal Minds). Majority of the characters I write about are property of Marvel or DC or CBS.
🌼 My stories, however, are mine, so please, DO NOT repost or translate them without my explicit permission. DO NOT feed them to f-ing AI, ever.
🌼 Most of my fics are reader inserts, written in 2nd POV. They are all fem!reader. As I cannot live with Y/N, they have nicknames and/or terms of endearment and/or codenames If you mind that, queitly move on.
🌼 I don’t take requests - my muse if fickle as it is. Also. FUCK AI in art.
🌼 Tagging info is here and my writing blog is here.
🌼 Some of the stories I post/reblog are 18+. Due to amount of fluffy fics though, I don’t want this blog to only be available to 18+.So it’s up to you to take responsibility for the media you consume.
🌼 Inbox is always open!
🌼 You matter. I hope you are kind to yourself and are on your way to have a lovely day/night!
This will be a full fic but for now, I'm publishing just the moodboard I made for them. It is an AU where Steve never went down with the plane and remained in the 1940s as the war ended.
It is an old-fashioned romance with themes of finding acceptance and safety and calm in one another, with the added themes of Ember's fathers' love & relationship being a secret she doesn't initially feel comfortable sharing with Steve and Steve suffering from PTSD post-war.
And a happy ending, of course. <3
@star-and-shield-monthly Extra Life Challenge - March 2026: 2. Historical AU.
I CAN'T WAIT. It looks so good - both the moodboard and the storyline plan 😌🥰 add your gorgeous characterisation of Steve and I already know it's going to be awesome 😍
ok so, I approached my local library with a proposal to donate a mural as a way to A: build portfolio/gain practical experience and B: give back to a beloved public institution. The director was very enthusiastic about it and i've been working on it since the beginning of March. Come with me as I endeavor to paint what is in all honesty an excessive amount of birds
I wanted the birds to look like they were actually in the space so first thing after doing the draft was to do a lighting study
after that I covered the walls in letters in lieu of a projector/vr headset bc i have neither of those :) Then i take a picture of the section of wall and superimpose the lineart over top of it so I can pencil in the lines
et voila
and that was a whole week on it's own so next comes the paintin' >:)
Writer’s relay is a collaborative writing game spanning over 7 weeks. You can write for any Anthony Mackie, Chris Evans, or Sebastian Stan characters.
Based on your preferences, you will be working in a team of three to write a story. This year the stories have to follow a 2+1 format.
For example - Two times she almost confessed + the one time he did.
You choose a prompt as a team. We will give you a set of prompts to choose from as well.
Timeline
June 20: Sign-ups open
July 2: Sign-ups close
July 6: Prompts Posted
July 10: Matches go out
July 11- July 18: Teams connect and plot
July 18: Send in your writing line-up, and fic masterpost
July 19- Aug 1: First sprint
Aug 2 - Aug 16: Second sprint
Aug 17 - Aug 31: Third sprint
Before sign-ups open, we encourage you to reblog and share this announcement :)
How it works
Sign up and indicate your preferences
We match you up with two other writers.
You will have one week to pick your prompt, brainstorm and plot, and choose the order in which your team will write.
Please let us know your writing line-up before the start of the writing period.
Each member of the team has to contribute a chapter with a minimum of 1000 words and a maximum of 5000.
The writing will go in 2 week sprints. The first person in the line-up will have 2 weeks to write and post their chapter. And then the next person goes, and so on.
You may post before the end of your 2 week sprint if you are ready. Then the next person will have 2 weeks from the day it was posted to write and post their part of the story.
You may continue to chat and work with your teammates during the writing period.
Please see acceptable fanworks guidelines for what is allowed.
Posting
You may post your story on Tumblr or AO3 (recommended)
If you choose to post on Tumblr, one of your team members must create a Masterpost with all your team members tagged as well as stubs for the chapter link before the start of the writing sprint.
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Each chapter gets its own post and please tag us when it is posted along with the next person in your line-up to pass the “baton” to them..
Extensions and Pinch Hits
You may request for an extension as early as 4 days before the end of your sprint. You can get a maximum extension of 7 days. Please communicate this as early as you can.
Life happens and if you need to drop out, that’s totally fine. Please let us know as soon as you can so we can assign a pinch hit writer.
Please do not drop out without communicating with the mods. You will not be allowed to participate in the next writer’s relay or Star and Shield Collective events for a year. You can still participate in the monthly challenges.
If you are assigned as a pinch hit, you will have 2 weeks to write and post the part of fic you’re assigned.
Dividers by @uzmacchiato | About Star and Shield Collective
This is soooo amazing, thank you so much for making it for me. <3 It fits Penelope's vibe so well.
(I've not talked about her on tumblr yet but she's going to be an MCU OC in a new Steve/OC fic, an autistic archeologist from the Victorian times trapped in the ruins of Troy and being transformed by the powers that lingered there, being found a long time after and first becoming an assassin and finally an Avenger.)
how I sleep knowing as a fanfic writer who writes for herself and her own enjoyment first and foremost, I have the power and the freedom to write whatever I want however I want forever
Type: medieval-ish fairy-tale-fantasy-ish three-shot, angst with fluff and a bit of hurt and comfort
Pairing: king!Steve Rogers x reader Word count: 9400
Summary:
Stolen by a couple of mercenaries to become a gift to a king of a neighbouring kingdom, you’re helpless to but watch even the pitiful remnants of your life burn down – and with it, your hopes. For freedom. For a good life. For love.
There are all kinds of tales told about King Steve Rogers I.; and only time will tell which of them are true and which are mere rumours. You can only hope – but hope is a fickle, whimsical thing.
And so is fate.
Warnings: mentions of excruciating pain during Steve’s transformation, reference to period-typical violence, references to reader’s kidnapping, injuries and near-assault, allusions to (what we in the modern times would call) a panic attack, internalized misogyny and strict religious rules, clearly excellent parenting on the dad's side, lots of feels, my love for Steve showing a bit too much, … help me out here, did I miss anything?
A/N: Sorry for the delay in posting "in a few hours", I got stuck with writing the third part... and I know it took a while and I'm sorry, but LIFE 😭; divider by @thecutestgrotto, header is mine; Happy reading!💕
Two stairwells up.
A maze of corridors.
A quiet, distant part of the castle.
Safety; or a calculated imprisonment and an insurance that a guest would not wander anywhere near the people important to the crown nor near the kingdom’s most guarded secrets.
You did not know which one it was that you were led there – perhaps both.
If you truly were a guest to the king for a reason beyond your understanding, you were safely locked away from the men who had taken all but your dignity from you.
If you were a prisoner, you certainly would have never imagined to be treated with such kindness and be offered such luxury – and you had been raised better than to scoff at such generosity.
The space of the guest chamber was as large as the entirety of your home used to be, warmer in interior, colder in personal touch and memories. The windows appeared larger than life, allowing for the remnants of daylight to seep through the heavy curtains framing them, the beautifully decorated wardrobe as sturdy as the desk with two chairs at it, the vanity table crowned by a mirror whose frame alone was a piece of art.
The true jewel of the room, however, was the bed. An enormous bed built of dark wood, its carved detailed decoration calling for an admiration by a gentle touch; if you had dared to do such, however, you would have taken the damnest care to not put pressure on the fine piece of art heavier than a brush of butterfly wings. Your breath caught at the sight of the wooden leaves curling like vines around the bedframe with canopy of light, soft blue fabrics, partially concealing a place to lay one’s head you could hardly imagine sinking into for it appeared as soft as clouds in the skies.
Your gaze flickered all over the room, always, always drawn back to the bed. Your muscles felt suddenly weary like never before despite having handled years and years of hard work, your bones achy and joints stiff, silently begging to be put to a comfortable rest, no matter how otherworldly and unreal the cushions might look to your eye.
Your heart raced in your chest, every beat vigorous and painful, warning you of a lie and a trick – of this being but a taunt before you’d be dragged through another maze of corridors, downstairs this time, where you imagined the dungeons were awaiting you.
And yet.
Yet, a tender voice in your very soul hummed about comfort and safety and a promise – that this was yours, at least for the time being. A tender voice which suspiciously resembled that of your Steve, a ghost of an intangible touch brushing over your hand and squeezing in reassurance.
You are safe, my sweetling. And as gods command it, what is mine is yours – be it weighted in gold or in matters of heart.
You would swear you could hear it, a sweet voice of a man you had just met, whispering straight into your ear; and despite all rational thought cautioning you that believing this beautiful lie was madness, much like hearing the voice of someone who was not in the room with you was, there was a part of you somewhere deep within, that believed.
For all the tears you had shed in the past hours, for all the times your eyes burned but no tears had welled up anymore, the sincerity of that damn voice calling you a sweetling and his lady, chased fresh tears into your eyes.
“My lady? Are the chambers not to your satisfaction? Or are you in much pain?” another voice, distinctly female and most certainly real asked, causing you to snap from your reverie and straight to Natasha’s face.
You were shaking your head wildly, hands trembling, before you could hope to find your voice.
She did not need another answer. She smiled politely, nodding, busying herself with pointing out individual spaces, her words, however wasted in sharing the obvious, aiding in steadying your breath and hands, even as your mind spun, circling the one and only crucial question.
Why?
Why were you here, in luxurious guest chambers, with a woman to assist you, instead of being casted away? Or imprisoned? Why weren’t you already warming the king’s bed since that must have been the only reason to keep you since he had even said so – that he would do as he pleased? Why-
“-and I shall see to it that while you bath, some refreshments are prepared for you, for you must be weary after the… long journey,” the redhead added, her smile sympathetic, but not pitying; and where her words concealed the fact she could imagine how exactly your journey had gone, her knowing gaze did not.
Strangely enough, her eyes spoke not of pity either; instead, they seemed to speak of certain and quite absurdly misplaced pride.
“The water should be here in but a moment. Will you require assistance, my lady?”
You shook your head again as you dried the few tears that rolled down your burning cheeks, your lips quivering with a sob you refused to release. Natasha nodded.
“Very well, then. I shall be right outside, guarding your door alongside Sir Barnes. He is the most trusted friend and protector of the king – you may rest easy knowing he would not let any harm come to you.”
You blinked, taking a wavering breath, processing the new piece of information and hoping to hide the shudder at the image of a man standing at your door – to keep anyone from coming in and harming you indeed… or you from coming out and wandering. Or fleeing.
Not that you would wish to do either.
A bath, on the other hand, sounded heavenly; and the bed, gods help you, was calling out for you even as it was entirely inappropriate for a woman of your standing doing anything but fluffing the pillows for the nobility sleeping there.
“T-thank you kindly, good lady-“ you croaked, earning but a smile and no mocking at the terrible quality of your voice.
“Of course. You may call me Natasha, should you feel comfortable. I will leave you to it… I believe one should catch a moment of reprieve alone after having to deal with men.”
She winked, honest to gods – unless you dreamed it, much like you must have dreamed up all of this – and backed away from the room, shutting the doors behind her with practised quiet ease, before you could as much as muster up a response.
As soon as the door closed, you felt your chest deflate, one weight falling, another settling in with crushing intensity.
You realized that for the first time since having been ambushed by Dimitri and Henry, you breathed in freely; only for a sob to erupt from your throat, one you were quick to muffle with your palms. Your knees gave out, sending you toppling over to the floor arse first, the skirt of your new dress rustling, the noise barely registering over the sound of your frantic breathing and your thundering heart.
Natasha was not wrong; a moment of reprieve was much needed, even as the most intense of the feelings swirling in your chest was relief, raging in your head so loudly it swallowed even the confusion creeping all over your skin.
For long moments, you simply breathed, chest heaving, ugly sobs silenced by your hands, tears streaming down your face through tightly squeezed eyelids.
Gods. Gods, thank you, you prayed to heavens, to hell, to every flower, tree and living thing, to the goddess of fire and life and death and all those you could think of.
You might still not know what awaited you, but with hands free of the binds that had left marks on your wrists, and with deep certainty whose origin you were not quite sure of, you knew you were free of the men having taken you. And whatever fate the king would proclaim for you, you knew deep in your bones as well as in your soul that it would be fate much better than the one which you’d meet should Dimitri or Henry get their hands on you again.
By the time a tub and godly warm water with soft scent of lavender were brought – to you, for you, just for you, your mind supplied unhelpfully – you allowed the relief you had little basis for consume you, a reprieve indeed from worrying about the future.
In the soothing embrace of the bath, even the marks left on your skin appeared less angry; more irritation than scrapes, more bruising than blood.
Soaking your skin in the warmth and another moment blissfully alone, your thoughts wandered to your late mother; wishing you could ask for advice or simply share the overwhelming emotions, good or bad. But most of all, you recalled her gentle touch and allowed the echo her sweet voice fill your very being, a memory relived thousands times over and over.
Lady Fortuna is watching over you, my little love. The red thread of hers will lead you to your fate.
And so you prayed to Lady Fortuna as well for your mother, and to the Lord of the new religion for your father, hoping for guidance towards your fate indeed.
And you hoped to all forces beyond human that the fate that awaited you was better than death.
-.-.-
By the time Natasha brought you food, the water had gone cold and you had grown restless by your idleness, unused to staying still for so long.
She was kind enough to ensure you had everything you could possibly need and more, genuinely unfazed by the sight of you in nothing but a soft warm sort of robe that had been brought to you along with the bath.
What King Rogers had described as ‘a little to eat’ and Natasha as ‘refreshments’ was enough to feed you for a day, albeit there were what you assumed was simple foods by nobility’s standards. The selection of fruits, breads and cheeses and jams had your head swimming and your mouth watering – but your attention was drawn by something else.
With the food, three different dress were brought for you, all clearly sewn of quality fabric, much like the dress you had arrived in; but neither the dexterity the attires were made with nor the finest fabrics was what caught your eye and had your heart race.
It was the variety.
And the choice to make which felt like a trial to pass, even as all dresses were in shades of blue.
Each was nothing short of beautiful, the finest the kingdom could offer, you were sure; but where one seemed something a royal would wear, with the finest details and jewels sewn onto the bodice and skirts, the other would perhaps be suitable for a noble lady who would wear it with only enough pride to not overshadow a queen or a princess. And the last one, while still gorgeous and worthy of a wife of a rich merchant, was rather plain.
Your eyes were flickering between the three, head spinning, even as the last one spoke to you the most – the one that would make you feel like you were perhaps out of a place still, walking the same halls a king walked, but not out of place in the sense of yourself.
On the other hand, should you meet the king, he might be offended by such choice, for perhaps this dress was unfit for the occasion; he might read scorn in your refusal of the luxury offered. At the same time, choosing the most expensive gown could be considered greedy; and where the middle ground of choosing the second dress could be seen as reasonable, it could also be regarded as taking the simplest path to walk and thus being worthy of being scoffed at.
“Your Majesty hopes you to join him in two hours,” Natasha startled you from your musings. “Sir Barnes, who will be guarding your chambers still, will bring you to the King’s quarters, should you agree.”
Your pulse flew sky-high; and the moment you met her clear honest eye, the words were tumbling out of you despite all reason and politeness.
“Do I have choice?”
Your hand slapped over your mouth a second too late to take the words back, horror pouring all over your skin.
But Natasha’s gaze sparkled with now familiar mirth, amused by your bluntness; she did not laugh, however, and if possible, her features softened and hardened at once.
“Of course you do. And not participating does not equal meeting your end, by knife or otherwise. You have a choice here – and you’d do well to make it your own, not whichever you believe is required. Whether it is of sharing dinner with S—His Majesty… or of an attire,” she added, one corner of her lips rising in a knowing but not unkind smirk.
You gulped, a cold shudder rushing down your spine at the reminder of what had taken place mere hours ago still, the phantom feeling of a blade being pressed to your side every single time your captors believed you might try and flee returning. Despite Natasha’s word clearly being meant as encouraging, you felt yourself deflate, your stomach, however empty and nearly growling as the smells of the foods slowly settled in the room replacing the aroma of lavender, churned.
You had been treated with utmost kindness. Natasha seemed nothing but honest with you. But no matter her beliefs, no matter the soft voice in your heart and soul you did not quite understand, the memory of Henry’s words rang in your ears like alarm bells, a reminder of just how fragile this illusion of safety and comfort truly was.
‘Might not be she’s worth to give him an heir, but she sure as hell can have his bastard.’
You would do well to remember the nature of all men you had encountered in your life and heard of.
You would do well to display the utmost respect for the generous offerings, showing gratitude and humility like a good woman should and your father had taught you.
You would do well to remember that oftentimes, life offered choices to act as a trial indeed and one could easily fail and ruin all.
You nodded in acknowledgment of Natasha’s words, thanking her for all her kindness and helpfulness, insisting you did not need help with dressing up; it felt like blasphemy and mockery, for you were the furthest thing from a noble lady, while she seemed to be exactly that. Even telling her she may go, in as polite way as you possible, wording it as a request rather than an order, was a picture perfect of absurdity.
With heart having leaped into your throat, you resisted the urge to walk out right behind her and do your damnest to dismiss Sir Barnes as well, since he most certainly had other and much more pressing obligations than to guard a simple woman being prepared to warm his king’s bed; but the insolence it would take to even attempt to counterorder what the King himself had probably asked for, was an offence worse than the fact the knight was there in the first place.
Gratitude. Gratitude and humility. Choosing the right path to walk and the right hand to play was the key to survival and to earning Lord’s favour, you reminded yourself. Must be that such rules apply to earn the King’s favour as well.
Worried that you might as much as crease, gods forbid stain the most luxurious dress you planned to wear to please His Majesty’s eye, and with your original one having been taken away, you opted to wear the simplest of the gowns for now.
With stomach tight and heavy with anticipation, thoughts of how to best prove your gratitude and humility in the face of the King’s kindness swirling in your head, you seated yourself at the table near the fireplace, reaching for the food. If it went untouched, surely it would only serve as an offence; and while your hunger battled with anxiety, you were not one to scoff at the blessings the table offered. With the bread alone tasting like heavens on your tongue, fresh with the softest crumb and crunchy crust, the knot in your stomach gave way to the hunger easily, appetite growing with each bite, the sweetness of the jam, the delicacy of the cheeses and the rich taste of ripe fruit nothing short of a pleasure, causing you to practically melt into your seat.
Should this be your last meal, your mind supplied, should you indeed meet fate as awful as death, you would be leaving this world grateful for experiencing this bliss.
And yet. Once your hunger was sated, senses fed beyond, the dark concerns returned tenfold, shivers crawling over your skin and raising goosebumps even as the room was far from chilly.
Memories of the past hours filled your head, the smell of lavender, wine and spices and sweat and smoke, images of men’s faces contorted in a gleeful warning and a challenge, snarls twisted into sharp smiles, flashes of cords of muscles on the arms handling you, a blade to your hip, a grip on your chin forcing you to watch the flames and the smoke and crackling and the taste of ruin, voices—a cacophony of chuckles and spits and threats and knowing smirks-
-not worth to give him an heir ----can still have his bastar’-
---them spread pretty legs of ya’rs will open doors for us--
--ain’t like he’s born with dam’ golden spoon in his mouth---- he’s one of us-
-ya’ sure we can’t keep her? She’d be so much fun to ruin---
The words felt like screams and wails in your ears, trembling hands thrown up to cover your ears, to shield you, eyes squeezed shut. But the darkness was worse; a scary blank slate of the future determined by your past, and there was no hiding – no hiding from the noise born in your very head, carved into your memory-
---ensure my favour-- you brought me a gift?-
-your utmost right to do as you please—
– And I shall--
--I’d be pleased if you’d join me-
-guarding your door alongside Sir Barnes---
---guarding your chambers still---
-guarding you or caging you in with violence if needed, the nails digging into your scalp whispered menacingly as you shook your head, realizing you had curled into yourself, but there was no hiding-
---will bring you to King’s quarters—
--in two hours-
You pushed away from the table and rose to your feet, the scrape of a chair a welcomed distraction for but a moment, gaze drowning in tears, the next words but a powerful echo, over and over and over-
-equal meeting your end, by knife or otherwise—
—your end--- by knife-
Knife, knife, knife-
Your hand was gripping it before you knew you had reached for it, your frantic breathing settled but a fraction with the familiar and yet unfamiliar weight, shiver subduing just a little.
A knife. The one thing that had kept you safe for almost two years and was torn away from your hand much like the rest of your life.
You took a wavering breath as its silvery glint, a mocking to the rust your entrusted weapon had carried, had your shoulders fall with your exhale.
A knife under your pillow.
In a middle of a castle, a guest, a prisoner, a thing to warm the king’s bed, his lady, whichever name they would call you – this could be your certainty.
It made no sense. In the very back of your mind, you were aware your steps towards the bed felt absurd and ridiculous in the worst sense possible, but you were but a spectator – your gait wobbly, you walked to the soft cushioning and placed the blade, cleaner but less sharp than the knife you had used to have, under one of the fluffed up pillows, something deep within you blooming with relief.
A knife would be little help against any threat that might come through your door, be it a mercenary, a knight, a guard or the king himself and the idea of being able to as much as nick the skin either of those, let alone to overpower them, was terrifyingly laughable; but the cold comfort that spread over your skin was better than feeling fear alone.
Your clammy hand caressed the impossibly clean and soft fabrics of the pillow, fingers sinking in for just a moment.
You had never had such beautiful thing; you had never as much as touched a cloth as precious.
The call of the bed, gorgeous in frame and too soft in cushions, returned.
Two hours.
By your estimate, however likely inaccurate, you still had plenty of time; it would be wise to lie down and to close your eyes for but a moment, to be rested as much as your jittery mind would allow, so you could face the king with at least remnants of dignity and enough life in you to please him indeed. You were not likely to be able to fall asleep, and if so, you’d be no doubt haunted by night terrors even before the night would fall – yet the idea was now etched into your mind and would not allow you not to act upon it.
Taking off your shoes, with as much reverence as your exhausted body and mind was capable of, you climbed into the bed, slowly laying your heavy head, cheeks still wet with tears, onto the delicate softness of the pillows.
You did not muster enough strength to free the covers once you had laid on top of them and drape them over you; your hand, however, found its way under the pillows with practised ease, the hold on the cold metal like a comfort aching in your bones.
And despite your mind running in terrifying circles, you were lost to the dreamland as soon as you closed your eyes…
…and much to the shock you’d experience once you’d wake, you were not haunted by evil spirits nor images worthy of the worst horror tales about monsters among men.
Instead, you dreamed of a soft touch.
You dreamed of a gentle respectful voice calling you my lady with emphasis on the ‘lady’ rather than the ‘my’, a pair of sincere blue eyes full of warmth and kindness and sparkles of humour without malice.
You dreamed of strong protective arms holding you rather than caging you, tender fingers of an artist tracing the features of your face like they were brushes against canvas of a work of art.
No punishment will come to you, sweetling, the man whispered, his hair like a halo of an angel of the new teachings.
Please, believe me. Allow me. Believe in me.
-worthy of a crown---bound by chain– exquisite--- clothing plain-
You are safe, my sweetling.
Yes, yes you are. No man will lay a hand on you ever again.
- lonely soul defied fate—one of long-lost precious arts—
--two pure and content hearts-
You are safe.
In your sleep, you lost the grip on the knife, and once you did, your soul relaxed into into the soft warmth of your dreams, sleeping sounder than before.
You woke up with a startle and a gasp, finding yourself sitting in a strange bed, hands fisting delicate sheets that gleamed gently in the light and shadows casted by a fire.
You found yourself blinking, heart hammering in your ribcage as your mind slowly awoke, along with memories – horrible memories wrapped carefully in an inexplicable feeling of comfort and safety that had your frantic breathing settle despite your racing heart.
The chambers were dark safe by the fire someone had kindled in the hearth but was long gone; much like the food you had not managed to eat, the cutlery and dishes replaced by what you assumed were two plates hidden by cloches – and an envelope.
You were on your feet so fast your head spun, curiosity and creeping realization leading your wobbly steps, sleep having been wiped from your mind but not your weary muscles and bones just yet.
You had slept through the dinner.
There was no denying so; not when the day had long said its goodbye.
Not when the envelope was sealed with what could only be a royal seal.
A letter from a king, should you be so presumptuous to think you were of enough importance for him to spare the time to write to you, be it for whichever reason.
To express dissatisfaction or even rage.
To reveal what the consequences of your absence would be.
To invite you to your own execution, perhaps, for having denied him.
And yet; a warm feeling of certainty you had no basis for made you dismiss the dark thoughts before they could take root.
There was no use in wonders and musings, no use in trying to figure out a man you had only met in passing; for all the truth one could find in their own heart, for heart could at times see more than eyes could, there was no doubt some truths were found in both actions and words.
You reached for the envelope, hoping your experience of handling the trades on the market after your father had given up, correspondence and short contracts included, were enough to have you understand whichever message the letter carried.
Your fingers were shaky; and breaking the seal felt like sealing your fate.
Reading the words written in beautifully curved letters, then, felt like a caress over the back of your hand, two strong hands cradling it and squeezing gently in reassurance.
My dearest of guests,
I regret I have not been able to welcome you at your chambers as I would have wished and you would have deserved. I shall only hope you found the suite satisfactory and I hope that Natasha has made sure you were most comfortable.
However disappointed I might have been, missing you at the dinner table, I was most pleased to have been informed you had found your rest after the dreadful experience you had been subjected to. I took the liberty to save your plates for you and have them brought for whenever you might welcome them.
Should you need anything else, please, know that a word is enough for it to be fetched if it only is in my power to give.
Should you wish to talk to me yet, as I wish to you, one of my most trusted men shall always stand guard to your chambers, so you may sleep soundly knowing you are protected. The same guard may serve to lead you to my chambers.
I am most looking forward to conversing with you at your convenience.
Steven Rogers I., The Just, The King of the Lands of Starkerbürg
You reread the words several times, breath bated, marvelling at both the individual letters which were closer to having been painted rather than simply written and the message itself.
Had you not once had to take over the trade of your family, you might have not been able to read the king’s words at all; but as fate or Lady Fortuna had it, while you might not read or write on the same level as nobility did, you understood well enough.
And yet, such did not equal comprehending how this had come to be; nor did it help you understand the sudden urge to speak to His Majesty in the very next moment, not led by fear of having already disappointed him, but a desire to truly know the man whose hand had led the ink so skilfully it might have as well been a piece of art.
Your heart ached with the need; fear silenced for the time being, soothed by the inexplicable dreams in which kindness, patience and affection seemed to be wearing the King’s face.
You had been reprimanded nor rushed despite the delay, and you were in no position nor right to demand or command. And yet, you could not imagine withstanding another moment spent here, another hour without speaking to His Majesty.
You could not bring your hand to lift the cloches off the food delivered and lose precious minutes by eating.
You could not bring yourself to as much as glance at the dress you had been sure you were to wear to acknowledge and appreciate His Majesty’s hospitality and generosity, the sweet echo of a gentle voice, ‘of clothing plain’ guiding you to hurry past, just as you were.
Your nerves were battling an instinct beyond your comprehension humming in your chest. On the one hand, your anxiety argued, asking for anything more than you had been given, even if it was but meeting the king as he had requested, seemed an arrogant overstep; on the other hand, an overwhelming feeling of being on the right path and needing to walk it despite causing inconvenience to the man guarding your door and potentially the king as well, was impossible to best when it flushed your veins like a tidal wave.
Opening the door for a slit, cautious still to disturb as little as possible despite the growing need blooming in your chest, you peeked though, finding a dark-haired man you had a vague recollection of having seen in the royal hall standing tall and alert, guarding dutifully.
He turned to you fully in an instant at the sound of the door, leaving you no choice but to open fully when he welcomed you with a subtle bow.
“My lady. How may I be of assistance?”
You gulped, reciprocating the curtsy, attempting a grateful smile, unsure whether you succeeded.
“Thank you kindly, good sir, for standing guard and watching over me,” you whispered, lingering in your bow as to express your genuine gratitude before rising. The poor solider – and he must have been a soldier in more than a rank, given his built – would have likely been in getting his much-needed rest had it not been for you. “I was… wondering whether it was still appropriate and whether it would trouble you to-- bring me to His Majesty? Please?”
The man let a hint of a warm smile curl his lips at your request.
He was a handsome man; the raven hair contrasted sharply with his eyes the colour of a winter sky, his features sharp but softened by a stubble and gentleness of his expression – of which you had no doubt was deliberate, since you had seen his profile, hard and deadly focused on potential intruders but a moment ago.
“Of course, my lady. He… expressed the wish to speak to you at your convenience,” the man said, something in his gaze almost, almost whispering of mischief, reminding you of Natasha. “Follow me, please… and should you wish to address me other than a good sir, they know me as Sir Barnes or Bucky in these halls.”
You observed him mutely for several beats, stunned by both his willingness and the offer to address him by a familial nickname.
Surely, he had not meant that? He was a knight and a noble, one of the king’s most trusted men and clearly of the most capable soldiers the kingdom had--
And he would take you to see the king.
You willed your smile to grow despite your anticipations rising, stomach twisting in a knot as pleasant as nervous.
“Thank you… Sir Barnes. That is most kind of you.”
He nodded in acknowledgement, not commenting on your choice, and merely beckoned you to follow him.
With heart having leaped to your throat, you did.
You attempted to retain the route, one stairwell, a twist and a turn, another set of stairs – but you soon found yourself distracted by your thoughts as well as the art pieces lining the walls and the solitary guards you met patrolling the castle, greeting you mutely with subtle bows. Instinctively, you reciprocated every single one of them.
Other than that, the walk through the corridors was silent.
Had you not been able to hear your steps echoing through the walls, the thundering of your heart in your ribcage and your thoughts circling in your head, it would have been a silence of the pleasant sort, almost comfortable.
For much like the king, as you now recalled with curious clarity, Sir Barneshad a kind aura around him, whispering of him being a protector.
And much like the king, he carried himself a warrior: his manners and the kindness he was emanating was a matter of choice. He was such not for the lack of capacity for violence – you had no doubt that had he chosen to do so, he’d be able to choke the life out of your throat with one hand – but for the decision made of his own will. It was the small almost supportive smile he gave you, a flicker of mirth in his eye when he saw you in the plainest dress, that settled any worries of him hurting you.
That and his respect for silence.
The only moment he spoke up again was when he warned you of a very uneven spot in the floors; and then when you had stopped dead in your tracks, air knocked out of you as your gaze, having been admiring the interiors and art, fell on a portrait of a man and a woman.
For a several startled beats of your heart, you were rendered speechless, body completely still, unable to breathe in, let alone comprehend what you were seeing, mind firing in all directions, aimless.
What you were seeing was… impossible. It could—that wasn’t--- but-
Your mind frantically searched for an explanation, coming out empty, as the only plausible one could not have been true – and yet, it somehow had to be. It had to.
The woman in the painting. You knew her.
You knew her better than your own heart, or so you had believed.
“My lady?” Sir Barnes questioned lowly, clearly attempting not to startle you.
He did not need to worry; you doubted anything could startle you at the moment. Had the skies fallen on your head, you would have barely noticed.
“Who… who is that?”
“Doctor Erskine,” Sir Barnes replied without hesitation, snapping you back to reality where, naturally, he’d believe you were inquiring of the man. “And his wife. The kingdom owes them a great debt, Steve most of all. Which is why he’s asked the late King Stark to have them painted.”
Wife? Impossible, your mind whispered again, a nagging thought even as Sir Barnes’s words raised a hundred new questions.
A doctor? A debt? Steve – the king – in particular? Could it be true then that the man who would be King Rogers used to be very sick, owning his life to this man… and woman?
With great effort, you tore your gaze away from the painting, glancing at Sir Barnes with a silent question.
It was rude perhaps – it certainly was if you considered you had been on your way to the king, and while he did not know you were coming thus couldn’t await you at a specific time if at all, you were stalling – but Sir Barnes only smiled and sighed almost fondly.
“Doctor Erskine was a visionary – perhaps that was why him and King Stark got along so well. They both had a knack for turning mad dreams into reality… and Steve, having been sick a lot, smaller too – as you will see further down the corridor – was… he was crazy and desperate enough to help further, beyond advising us on strategy, that he offered himself to let the Doctor try to make one of these visions true… and he did.”
You blinked, trying to comprehend the way Sir Barnes was so openly speaking of the king’s former struggles, and the late king’s habits with plain admission of them having been foolish. Or not, you assumed, forcing yourself to breathe in and out as he continued.
“To this day, I am not sure how Erskine did it – and he never got to repeat the experiment as both him and his wife were killed in an attack on the castle soon after. But I am grateful for it. Maybe it was pure medicine, maybe it was alchemy, a miracle, gods, magic, the damn fairies – I don’t know. All I know is that when Steve came to himself again, he’s grown several inches taller, turned healthier than a horse and had enough muscle to be able to lift what his arms would have broken under before.”
You stood frozen, stunned and mesmerized not only by the incredible story, but by the one single word that could explain the uncanny, impossible resemblance of the woman in the painting to your mother.
Alchemy.
Doctor Erskine, may he rest in peace in heavens or wherever afterlife had taken him along with his wife, had been an alchemist.
And unless your mind was playing tricks on you, unless the gods were laughing in your face… he was the alchemist your grandmother had run off with soon after your grandfather had passed and you had been born.
Lady Fortune is watching over you, my little love, red threads of fate shall lead you onwards, your mother’s melodic voice hummed in the back of your mind, a lump having grown in your throat.
What were the chances of such? What were the odds of having ended up a gift to the king who rose from people, who had become a knight in the first place by the helping hand of the man your own grandmother had run off with?
You curled your trembling hands into fists by your side, unable to hide the shudder.
Sir Barnes did not comment on it, likely thinking you were merely letting the story sink in; but the fact you were processing was much greater.
He wouldn’t know. Much to your pain, you carried little resemblance to your mother, at least in appearance, having been likened to your father much more often. Apparently, such was not the case for your mother and grandmother; initially, you genuinely believed that by gods’ whims, a portrait of your own mother had been hung on the castle’s wall.
You gulped, mind whirling, trying to scramble for any resemblance of manners.
“Incredible… His Majesty was very fortunate to have had aid of such a gifted man.”
Sir Barnes hummed, an agreement and a protest at once.
“Well… all the more grey hairs for those of us who knew how crazy chances Steve is willing to take with his safety when it comes to fighting for those who cannot fight for themselves,” Sir Barnes muttered, causing your lips to twitch in an unvoluntary smile of both amusement and surprise at his bluntness.
You liked Sir Barnes. A knight as he was, perfectly polite with you, more than you’d deserve, and no doubt loyal to the kingdom, he was also clearly a man with a very friendly relationship to his king. It seemed their friendship had been through many years of trials – and perhaps not only those on a battlefield.
He cleared his throat. “What I meant to say is that… Erskine truly allowed for Steve’s body to catch up with how great his spirit and heart was. I know… I know you’ve been dragged here and you don’t know much of him yet, but… he’s a good man.”
You nodded without a word, gaze lingering on the painting.
Yes. The king so far had been hundred times kinder to you than you could have hoped – puzzlingly so, truly – and keeping a painting of those who had aided him in becoming the sovereign he was spoke of his character too. There was no arguing that and you’d inquire more of it later, hoping to get more insight since Sir Barnes seemed to be quite the source of information, as biased as he no doubt was in favour of his king and his friend. But before you’d do so, there were still burning questions you couldn’t but at least try to ask.
“And what of his wife then?” you asked quietly. “You said the kingdom owed to both of them? …a figure of speech?”
You could hear the rustle of cloth even before you turned your head as Sir Barnes shook his head vigorously, meeting your eye with gravity.
“She was his greatest assistant, helping with all, healing not only the people of the court but also soldiers and townspeople… I owe them too, since they both are the reason why I haven’t lost my arm to--- it does not matter. But what I said before referred to the transformation Steve underwent. It took two days.”
You gulped, unsure why his eyes darkened with pain, even as you recalled that he spoke of the king having to come to himself later on.
Sir Barnes chuckled humourlessly, even as fondness flashed over his features.
“We all knew it was a grave risk, the first time ever experiment always is. But once the substance spread through Steve’s body, he would-- he would bite down on his mouth hard enough to make it bleed, nails digging into his hands just as hard. The pain had to be--- it had to be beyond--- hours and hours to no end, until he finally broke and screamed in agony long and hard enough for us to consider killing him just to end his suffering,” Sir Barnes husked, the heaviness of the memory landing on your own chest, ribcage squeezed tight at the mere idea of such pain. Pain inflicted on who seemed to be but a good man,no less. On Steve. “And then she--- I don’t know how she did it. I didn’t care and still don’t. But she did it. Some kind of a potion, some miraculous elixir she managed to settle him enough to drink with her touch only – and he did settle. He was still in pain, it was obvious, but much less, much calmer. I don’t… he’s always been one resilient bastard---”
You winced at the harsh language even as it was hardly the worst word you’d ever heard. You had simply not expected it from a man who might have been most honest, but also most polite. It truly spoke of the magnitude of emotion the memory awoke in him; you could feel its force too, in your very bones, breath trapped in your throat.
“He’s always had a fighter’s spirit. But… I don’t think that this was a battle he would have won without her.”
I fear he would have died from pain alone, or at least have gone completely mad, Sir Barnes grey eyes whispered what his voice couldn’t anymore, clear as day. An icy fist clenched around your heart and dug it nails in deep at the implication, making it harder to breathe; and released it with a relief and warmth surging through your veins.
Steve had survived.
He had survived and lived long enough to encounter you, long enough to stir the strangest of feelings in you – and long enough to save you from a terrible fate by the hand of the two mercenaries. You knew he did – save you. You knew, inexplicably, that whichever fate awaited you, you were safe with him.
And perhaps… perhaps your grandmother had played the most important role in that.
Yes. It did make sense why anyone would be grateful for that.
You were too.
And you might understand none of the king’s motives to treat you the way he did, nor you knew when his kindness would cease – but if this was how Starkerbürg gained its just ruler, if the children here were allowed to be as happy as those whom you had seen earlier today, you were grateful too.
And proud of what you were now certain had been your grandmother’s doing.
The women of our family have been blessed, your mother used to say; there’s light blooming in our hearts, fire crackling in our souls. We may scorch the Earth or keep it warm and bright for generations to come. Whether she knew of what her mother had done, even if she had never told you, you wouldn’t know. But with this story… you could believe that she had been right in her whispers and lullabies.
And perhaps, whatever awaited you, you could muster up enough strength and try to kindle that fire to face it with your head held high and with the same courage you had fought off your father with bare hands when it came to it.
“Thank you… for telling me, Sir Barnes. I appreciate it.”
“Happy to serve, my lady. Shall we?”
Your gaze lingered on your grandmother’s face for a few long moments, hoping to draw some of that light and fire your mother used to speak of for yourself.
Then, you smiled at Sir Barnes and nodded.
“Of course. Thank you for your patience.”
“At your service, my lady.”
He fell into step with you again, seemingly following your lead, and even when lost to your thoughts, you could feel the strength and certainty radiating off him. All tuned to you and the rhythm in your step, he guided you so subtly you’d believe you were the one to know where to walk; and yet he followed you like a panther, an animal your mother had been telling you fables about – an elegant black beast stalking the woods in a quiet search of prey. You understood then – that if Sir Barnes was a soldier, a knight, he too, was a spy. In the empty hallway, your steps were louder than his own. Perhaps that was why he did no longer keep silent.
His voice, almost soft, was crystal clear and holding utter respect in his brief commentary of the paintings you were passing by.
A former ruler and his wife. A soldier who had laid his life for the kingdom. Several knights, sitting with King Rogers around a round table. Two doctors standing proudly by an invention that helped cured those whose disease had been believed to mean a certain death.
All exceptional people by your standards – and appreciated by the king himself as well as Sir Barnes.
His demeanour gained true warmth, however, as you were passing a portrait strikingly different from the others, made by His Majesty the King himself. A homage to his late mother, supposedly and undeniably; her features – her kindness – was something you recognized in the sharp memory of the man you met at the Royal Hall; the strokes of the brush tender, guided by true fondness of a man who loved his mother. It made sense, all of sudden, how His Majesty’s letter was an art piece of its own if this was the beauty he was capable of creating.
Sir Barnes’s voice then turned into a sigh, no less proud, when a moment later your steps faltered unwittingly and stopped altogether as your gaze fell on the painting of a handsome young man – a man resembling the king, only with softer features, smaller in frame, and with just as much determination as cognizance etched into his expression.
You recognized him instantly – and if your eyes hadn’t, your heart, stumbling in your chest over its own beats, would have.
Steven – at that time, perhaps indeed only Steven, not even a Sir yet – before he underwent the insane experiment that might have fundamentally changed his body, but could not have changed who he was and whom he was fighting for.
Where you might have trouble believing the large mass of a man you had met a few hours earlier had a soul artistic enough to capture his mother in a painting as lovely as you’d seen, the man portrayed here had a certain soft curiosity about him that spoke of the ability to see beauty in the world of chaos and ugliness – and grasp it in his hands like clay and build a better world out of it.
You could not know – you knew so little of him – and yet you knew this.
And all of sudden, it felt as if you knew his very soul.
Reconciling the two men filled you with understanding you could not quite explain; but it moved your own soul so unexpectedly your hand twitched to clutch your chest when you could feel something in the depth of your ribcage shift and blossom in intangible warmth.
Somehow, the man in the portrait was just as beautiful as the one you were about to face again; and as surprising as seeing the smaller form of him was, that shift in your ribcage seemed to have already happened years and years ago, this very image as if having glimmered in the blue irises you had met hours ago.
They were both the king: a man with a spirit of a fighter, locked in a small frail frame, a fighter with a heart of an artist; and an artist with a soft soul, a good man locked in a body that could bring half the continent to its knees. With mind and teeth enough sharp to do so, with arms strong enough to wrestle injustice out of its reigns in the name of protecting the innocent; with hands capable of gentleness suited for cradling an injured baby bird.
You had spoken with him but few words, had seen him but for minutes, saw the portrait of the man he once had been just now; and yet, something in your veins whispered you had known him for decades. You must have, for you knew all your assessments of his character were true.
“My lady?”
You blinked one time too many, returning from your haze, moments passing by as you realized Sir Barnes was addressing you; still in such polite and yet completely ridiculous manner given your social standing that you nearly laughed.
You shook your head, eyes barely tearing away from the painting.
“Apologies, I… was lost in thought. His Majesty was smaller in frame indeed… but I can see the spirit you were talking about right there.”
“It is a very good portrait,” Sir Barnes agreed, the warmest note yet in his words, his gaze so intense you could almost feel a hole being burned into the back of your head. “He keeps it around to remember where he comes from… what he comes from. A reminder that he rose from people and to always rule as such.”
Your heart fluttered with affection which had no place to be there, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of your lips.
“A wise man with wise motives then.”
Slowly setting off again, you were no longer surprised Sir Barnes simply followed suit. He hummed in agreement, muttering under his breath, too low for you to understand.
Sensing an opportunity, you cleared your throat, hoping your voice wouldn’t shake with your nerves.
“What of his other motives? He’s rewarded the men who brought me, generously, I assume. He’s said he wished to see me, he’s had me brought to luxurious chambers where I clearly do not belong, he’s treated me more than most kindly, as have you… is that all, too, to simply remember where he came from?”
For I doubt it is, a voice finished in your head, uncertain and shaky – and yet convinced there was no foul play in the king’s motives even as you had rouble reconciling the good man you seemed to know in your very core to someone who would approve of and reward the behaviour of the two men who’d hurt you.
You had no idea of what his motives were then. And as much as you attempted to not feel afraid, it would be foolish to ignore just how surreal and fragile the whole situation was.
Sir Barnes’s sigh sounded almost like a chuckle – enough to draw your gaze to his face, his expression as conflicted and amused as his voice.
“Gods help me if I knew what’s going on in the punk’s head most of the time.”
You straightened, not deaf to what he was saying, trying your luck further.
“But you do know why he treats me so now then… why?”
“It is not my place to say, my lady,” he replied with a smile, as respectful and polite as one could when denying someone – a lady, no less.
The notion was utterly absurd still – and you resisted the urge to huff in frustration in a very unladylike manner indeed, as you had felt you had had some of the answers you were yearning for at your fingertips, only for them to slip out of your reach.
It was not your place to huff, however. You were too aware still just how blessed you had been so far. And how easily it could all crumble in your hands should you press too hard.
You gulped.
“I see. I shall not press then… but--- could you… good sir, could you perhaps call me by my name?” For I feel utterly stupid when you do not call me so.
Your request was met with a radiant smile, Sir Barnes’s bow subtle as he never ceased to walk. Had you attempted the same, you would have probably twisted your ankle.
“Of course. I shall do so if that is what you wish. And should it make you comfortable, you truly may address me as Bucky.”
You stopped but for a moment to return the courtesy and bow as well, albeit much deeper – for he was the one deserving respect for the standing he had earned. There was a slight scolding in his eye blending into mischief as you did so – but he did not speak a word of it out loud, simply falling back into step with you when you started moving again.
“…I do. Thank you, Sir Barnes—Bucky,” you corrected yourself, earning what could only be described as a grin, your cheeks burning at the familiarity. “I am… starting to believe my wishes for some reason are… held in high regard.”
“They are.”
“But why?”
Bucky’s delighted grin bled into a hearty laughter you did not quite understand beyond feeling he was not laughing at you, even as you realized you had held your promise not to press and pry for but a literal minute.
He did not seem offended by that, however.
“You’re a stubborn one, aren’t you? Good. The gods heard me out at last.”
He offered no further explanation.
Even if he had one, perhaps he would have no time to share it – for you were just about to reach a pair of guards in front of what had to be the doors to the king’s private chambers.
The sudden anxiety returning to your stomach – along with warm anticipation – made you waver as the guards, gods help you, bowed low at your and Sir Barnes’s presence.
“My lady,” one of them spoke, skin dark and eyes bright, voice formal but not unkind. “His Majesty is expecting you. You shall enter freely, at your convenience.”
You nodded in acknowledgement, yet again too aware of the absurdity of the scene and offer, your smile tighter than your chest.
“…thank you, good sir.”
It was the same tight smile you gave Sir Barnes – Bucky – as he encouraged you to walk in with ease, as if you weren’t about to meet your fate. You sent a quick prayer to all the gods above, to Lady Fortuna, to the damn fairies as Sir Barnes had said, to all higher power you had ever heard of, and quietly asked the guard to let you in – hoping the fiery spirit of your grandmother and your mother’s gentleness stood by your side, as you struggled to hold your head as high as you had promised yourself you would.
Part 3 (final)
S.R. masterlist
Here we go! I hope you enjoyed 🥰 If you did and have the time and energy, comments and reblogs are love 💕 I know we had more world-building and emotions than Steve, but Steve personally didn't fit int this already long chapter - he's a large, impressive guy. Next time it's all him and his lady 😌
I hope April has been kind to you and will blend into even a kinder May. Sending love 💕
Type: medieval-ish fairy-tale-fantasy-ish three-shot, angst with fluff and a bit of hurt and comfort
Pairing: king!Steve Rogers x reader Word count: 9400
Summary:
Stolen by a couple of mercenaries to become a gift to a king of a neighbouring kingdom, you’re helpless to but watch even the pitiful remnants of your life burn down – and with it, your hopes. For freedom. For a good life. For love.
There are all kinds of tales told about King Steve Rogers I.; and only time will tell which of them are true and which are mere rumours. You can only hope – but hope is a fickle, whimsical thing.
And so is fate.
Warnings: mentions of excruciating pain during Steve’s transformation, reference to period-typical violence, references to reader’s kidnapping, injuries and near-assault, allusions to (what we in the modern times would call) a panic attack, internalized misogyny and strict religious rules, clearly excellent parenting on the dad's side, lots of feels, my love for Steve showing a bit too much, … help me out here, did I miss anything?
A/N: Sorry for the delay in posting "in a few hours", I got stuck with writing the third part... and I know it took a while and I'm sorry, but LIFE 😭; divider by @thecutestgrotto, header is mine; Happy reading!💕
Two stairwells up.
A maze of corridors.
A quiet, distant part of the castle.
Safety; or a calculated imprisonment and an insurance that a guest would not wander anywhere near the people important to the crown nor near the kingdom’s most guarded secrets.
You did not know which one it was that you were led there – perhaps both.
If you truly were a guest to the king for a reason beyond your understanding, you were safely locked away from the men who had taken all but your dignity from you.
If you were a prisoner, you certainly would have never imagined to be treated with such kindness and be offered such luxury – and you had been raised better than to scoff at such generosity.
The space of the guest chamber was as large as the entirety of your home used to be, warmer in interior, colder in personal touch and memories. The windows appeared larger than life, allowing for the remnants of daylight to seep through the heavy curtains framing them, the beautifully decorated wardrobe as sturdy as the desk with two chairs at it, the vanity table crowned by a mirror whose frame alone was a piece of art.
The true jewel of the room, however, was the bed. An enormous bed built of dark wood, its carved detailed decoration calling for an admiration by a gentle touch; if you had dared to do such, however, you would have taken the damnest care to not put pressure on the fine piece of art heavier than a brush of butterfly wings. Your breath caught at the sight of the wooden leaves curling like vines around the bedframe with canopy of light, soft blue fabrics, partially concealing a place to lay one’s head you could hardly imagine sinking into for it appeared as soft as clouds in the skies.
Your gaze flickered all over the room, always, always drawn back to the bed. Your muscles felt suddenly weary like never before despite having handled years and years of hard work, your bones achy and joints stiff, silently begging to be put to a comfortable rest, no matter how otherworldly and unreal the cushions might look to your eye.
Your heart raced in your chest, every beat vigorous and painful, warning you of a lie and a trick – of this being but a taunt before you’d be dragged through another maze of corridors, downstairs this time, where you imagined the dungeons were awaiting you.
And yet.
Yet, a tender voice in your very soul hummed about comfort and safety and a promise – that this was yours, at least for the time being. A tender voice which suspiciously resembled that of your Steve, a ghost of an intangible touch brushing over your hand and squeezing in reassurance.
You are safe, my sweetling. And as gods command it, what is mine is yours – be it weighted in gold or in matters of heart.
You would swear you could hear it, a sweet voice of a man you had just met, whispering straight into your ear; and despite all rational thought cautioning you that believing this beautiful lie was madness, much like hearing the voice of someone who was not in the room with you was, there was a part of you somewhere deep within, that believed.
For all the tears you had shed in the past hours, for all the times your eyes burned but no tears had welled up anymore, the sincerity of that damn voice calling you a sweetling and his lady, chased fresh tears into your eyes.
“My lady? Are the chambers not to your satisfaction? Or are you in much pain?” another voice, distinctly female and most certainly real asked, causing you to snap from your reverie and straight to Natasha’s face.
You were shaking your head wildly, hands trembling, before you could hope to find your voice.
She did not need another answer. She smiled politely, nodding, busying herself with pointing out individual spaces, her words, however wasted in sharing the obvious, aiding in steadying your breath and hands, even as your mind spun, circling the one and only crucial question.
Why?
Why were you here, in luxurious guest chambers, with a woman to assist you, instead of being casted away? Or imprisoned? Why weren’t you already warming the king’s bed since that must have been the only reason to keep you since he had even said so – that he would do as he pleased? Why-
“-and I shall see to it that while you bath, some refreshments are prepared for you, for you must be weary after the… long journey,” the redhead added, her smile sympathetic, but not pitying; and where her words concealed the fact she could imagine how exactly your journey had gone, her knowing gaze did not.
Strangely enough, her eyes spoke not of pity either; instead, they seemed to speak of certain and quite absurdly misplaced pride.
“The water should be here in but a moment. Will you require assistance, my lady?”
You shook your head again as you dried the few tears that rolled down your burning cheeks, your lips quivering with a sob you refused to release. Natasha nodded.
“Very well, then. I shall be right outside, guarding your door alongside Sir Barnes. He is the most trusted friend and protector of the king – you may rest easy knowing he would not let any harm come to you.”
You blinked, taking a wavering breath, processing the new piece of information and hoping to hide the shudder at the image of a man standing at your door – to keep anyone from coming in and harming you indeed… or you from coming out and wandering. Or fleeing.
Not that you would wish to do either.
A bath, on the other hand, sounded heavenly; and the bed, gods help you, was calling out for you even as it was entirely inappropriate for a woman of your standing doing anything but fluffing the pillows for the nobility sleeping there.
“T-thank you kindly, good lady-“ you croaked, earning but a smile and no mocking at the terrible quality of your voice.
“Of course. You may call me Natasha, should you feel comfortable. I will leave you to it… I believe one should catch a moment of reprieve alone after having to deal with men.”
She winked, honest to gods – unless you dreamed it, much like you must have dreamed up all of this – and backed away from the room, shutting the doors behind her with practised quiet ease, before you could as much as muster up a response.
As soon as the door closed, you felt your chest deflate, one weight falling, another settling in with crushing intensity.
You realized that for the first time since having been ambushed by Dimitri and Henry, you breathed in freely; only for a sob to erupt from your throat, one you were quick to muffle with your palms. Your knees gave out, sending you toppling over to the floor arse first, the skirt of your new dress rustling, the noise barely registering over the sound of your frantic breathing and your thundering heart.
Natasha was not wrong; a moment of reprieve was much needed, even as the most intense of the feelings swirling in your chest was relief, raging in your head so loudly it swallowed even the confusion creeping all over your skin.
For long moments, you simply breathed, chest heaving, ugly sobs silenced by your hands, tears streaming down your face through tightly squeezed eyelids.
Gods. Gods, thank you, you prayed to heavens, to hell, to every flower, tree and living thing, to the goddess of fire and life and death and all those you could think of.
You might still not know what awaited you, but with hands free of the binds that had left marks on your wrists, and with deep certainty whose origin you were not quite sure of, you knew you were free of the men having taken you. And whatever fate the king would proclaim for you, you knew deep in your bones as well as in your soul that it would be fate much better than the one which you’d meet should Dimitri or Henry get their hands on you again.
By the time a tub and godly warm water with soft scent of lavender were brought – to you, for you, just for you, your mind supplied unhelpfully – you allowed the relief you had little basis for consume you, a reprieve indeed from worrying about the future.
In the soothing embrace of the bath, even the marks left on your skin appeared less angry; more irritation than scrapes, more bruising than blood.
Soaking your skin in the warmth and another moment blissfully alone, your thoughts wandered to your late mother; wishing you could ask for advice or simply share the overwhelming emotions, good or bad. But most of all, you recalled her gentle touch and allowed the echo her sweet voice fill your very being, a memory relived thousands times over and over.
Lady Fortuna is watching over you, my little love. The red thread of hers will lead you to your fate.
And so you prayed to Lady Fortuna as well for your mother, and to the Lord of the new religion for your father, hoping for guidance towards your fate indeed.
And you hoped to all forces beyond human that the fate that awaited you was better than death.
-.-.-
By the time Natasha brought you food, the water had gone cold and you had grown restless by your idleness, unused to staying still for so long.
She was kind enough to ensure you had everything you could possibly need and more, genuinely unfazed by the sight of you in nothing but a soft warm sort of robe that had been brought to you along with the bath.
What King Rogers had described as ‘a little to eat’ and Natasha as ‘refreshments’ was enough to feed you for a day, albeit there were what you assumed was simple foods by nobility’s standards. The selection of fruits, breads and cheeses and jams had your head swimming and your mouth watering – but your attention was drawn by something else.
With the food, three different dress were brought for you, all clearly sewn of quality fabric, much like the dress you had arrived in; but neither the dexterity the attires were made with nor the finest fabrics was what caught your eye and had your heart race.
It was the variety.
And the choice to make which felt like a trial to pass, even as all dresses were in shades of blue.
Each was nothing short of beautiful, the finest the kingdom could offer, you were sure; but where one seemed something a royal would wear, with the finest details and jewels sewn onto the bodice and skirts, the other would perhaps be suitable for a noble lady who would wear it with only enough pride to not overshadow a queen or a princess. And the last one, while still gorgeous and worthy of a wife of a rich merchant, was rather plain.
Your eyes were flickering between the three, head spinning, even as the last one spoke to you the most – the one that would make you feel like you were perhaps out of a place still, walking the same halls a king walked, but not out of place in the sense of yourself.
On the other hand, should you meet the king, he might be offended by such choice, for perhaps this dress was unfit for the occasion; he might read scorn in your refusal of the luxury offered. At the same time, choosing the most expensive gown could be considered greedy; and where the middle ground of choosing the second dress could be seen as reasonable, it could also be regarded as taking the simplest path to walk and thus being worthy of being scoffed at.
“Your Majesty hopes you to join him in two hours,” Natasha startled you from your musings. “Sir Barnes, who will be guarding your chambers still, will bring you to the King’s quarters, should you agree.”
Your pulse flew sky-high; and the moment you met her clear honest eye, the words were tumbling out of you despite all reason and politeness.
“Do I have choice?”
Your hand slapped over your mouth a second too late to take the words back, horror pouring all over your skin.
But Natasha’s gaze sparkled with now familiar mirth, amused by your bluntness; she did not laugh, however, and if possible, her features softened and hardened at once.
“Of course you do. And not participating does not equal meeting your end, by knife or otherwise. You have a choice here – and you’d do well to make it your own, not whichever you believe is required. Whether it is of sharing dinner with S—His Majesty… or of an attire,” she added, one corner of her lips rising in a knowing but not unkind smirk.
You gulped, a cold shudder rushing down your spine at the reminder of what had taken place mere hours ago still, the phantom feeling of a blade being pressed to your side every single time your captors believed you might try and flee returning. Despite Natasha’s word clearly being meant as encouraging, you felt yourself deflate, your stomach, however empty and nearly growling as the smells of the foods slowly settled in the room replacing the aroma of lavender, churned.
You had been treated with utmost kindness. Natasha seemed nothing but honest with you. But no matter her beliefs, no matter the soft voice in your heart and soul you did not quite understand, the memory of Henry’s words rang in your ears like alarm bells, a reminder of just how fragile this illusion of safety and comfort truly was.
‘Might not be she’s worth to give him an heir, but she sure as hell can have his bastard.’
You would do well to remember the nature of all men you had encountered in your life and heard of.
You would do well to display the utmost respect for the generous offerings, showing gratitude and humility like a good woman should and your father had taught you.
You would do well to remember that oftentimes, life offered choices to act as a trial indeed and one could easily fail and ruin all.
You nodded in acknowledgment of Natasha’s words, thanking her for all her kindness and helpfulness, insisting you did not need help with dressing up; it felt like blasphemy and mockery, for you were the furthest thing from a noble lady, while she seemed to be exactly that. Even telling her she may go, in as polite way as you possible, wording it as a request rather than an order, was a picture perfect of absurdity.
With heart having leaped into your throat, you resisted the urge to walk out right behind her and do your damnest to dismiss Sir Barnes as well, since he most certainly had other and much more pressing obligations than to guard a simple woman being prepared to warm his king’s bed; but the insolence it would take to even attempt to counterorder what the King himself had probably asked for, was an offence worse than the fact the knight was there in the first place.
Gratitude. Gratitude and humility. Choosing the right path to walk and the right hand to play was the key to survival and to earning Lord’s favour, you reminded yourself. Must be that such rules apply to earn the King’s favour as well.
Worried that you might as much as crease, gods forbid stain the most luxurious dress you planned to wear to please His Majesty’s eye, and with your original one having been taken away, you opted to wear the simplest of the gowns for now.
With stomach tight and heavy with anticipation, thoughts of how to best prove your gratitude and humility in the face of the King’s kindness swirling in your head, you seated yourself at the table near the fireplace, reaching for the food. If it went untouched, surely it would only serve as an offence; and while your hunger battled with anxiety, you were not one to scoff at the blessings the table offered. With the bread alone tasting like heavens on your tongue, fresh with the softest crumb and crunchy crust, the knot in your stomach gave way to the hunger easily, appetite growing with each bite, the sweetness of the jam, the delicacy of the cheeses and the rich taste of ripe fruit nothing short of a pleasure, causing you to practically melt into your seat.
Should this be your last meal, your mind supplied, should you indeed meet fate as awful as death, you would be leaving this world grateful for experiencing this bliss.
And yet. Once your hunger was sated, senses fed beyond, the dark concerns returned tenfold, shivers crawling over your skin and raising goosebumps even as the room was far from chilly.
Memories of the past hours filled your head, the smell of lavender, wine and spices and sweat and smoke, images of men’s faces contorted in a gleeful warning and a challenge, snarls twisted into sharp smiles, flashes of cords of muscles on the arms handling you, a blade to your hip, a grip on your chin forcing you to watch the flames and the smoke and crackling and the taste of ruin, voices—a cacophony of chuckles and spits and threats and knowing smirks-
-not worth to give him an heir ----can still have his bastar’-
---them spread pretty legs of ya’rs will open doors for us--
--ain’t like he’s born with dam’ golden spoon in his mouth---- he’s one of us-
-ya’ sure we can’t keep her? She’d be so much fun to ruin---
The words felt like screams and wails in your ears, trembling hands thrown up to cover your ears, to shield you, eyes squeezed shut. But the darkness was worse; a scary blank slate of the future determined by your past, and there was no hiding – no hiding from the noise born in your very head, carved into your memory-
---ensure my favour-- you brought me a gift?-
-your utmost right to do as you please—
– And I shall--
--I’d be pleased if you’d join me-
-guarding your door alongside Sir Barnes---
---guarding your chambers still---
-guarding you or caging you in with violence if needed, the nails digging into your scalp whispered menacingly as you shook your head, realizing you had curled into yourself, but there was no hiding-
---will bring you to King’s quarters—
--in two hours-
You pushed away from the table and rose to your feet, the scrape of a chair a welcomed distraction for but a moment, gaze drowning in tears, the next words but a powerful echo, over and over and over-
-equal meeting your end, by knife or otherwise—
—your end--- by knife-
Knife, knife, knife-
Your hand was gripping it before you knew you had reached for it, your frantic breathing settled but a fraction with the familiar and yet unfamiliar weight, shiver subduing just a little.
A knife. The one thing that had kept you safe for almost two years and was torn away from your hand much like the rest of your life.
You took a wavering breath as its silvery glint, a mocking to the rust your entrusted weapon had carried, had your shoulders fall with your exhale.
A knife under your pillow.
In a middle of a castle, a guest, a prisoner, a thing to warm the king’s bed, his lady, whichever name they would call you – this could be your certainty.
It made no sense. In the very back of your mind, you were aware your steps towards the bed felt absurd and ridiculous in the worst sense possible, but you were but a spectator – your gait wobbly, you walked to the soft cushioning and placed the blade, cleaner but less sharp than the knife you had used to have, under one of the fluffed up pillows, something deep within you blooming with relief.
A knife would be little help against any threat that might come through your door, be it a mercenary, a knight, a guard or the king himself and the idea of being able to as much as nick the skin either of those, let alone to overpower them, was terrifyingly laughable; but the cold comfort that spread over your skin was better than feeling fear alone.
Your clammy hand caressed the impossibly clean and soft fabrics of the pillow, fingers sinking in for just a moment.
You had never had such beautiful thing; you had never as much as touched a cloth as precious.
The call of the bed, gorgeous in frame and too soft in cushions, returned.
Two hours.
By your estimate, however likely inaccurate, you still had plenty of time; it would be wise to lie down and to close your eyes for but a moment, to be rested as much as your jittery mind would allow, so you could face the king with at least remnants of dignity and enough life in you to please him indeed. You were not likely to be able to fall asleep, and if so, you’d be no doubt haunted by night terrors even before the night would fall – yet the idea was now etched into your mind and would not allow you not to act upon it.
Taking off your shoes, with as much reverence as your exhausted body and mind was capable of, you climbed into the bed, slowly laying your heavy head, cheeks still wet with tears, onto the delicate softness of the pillows.
You did not muster enough strength to free the covers once you had laid on top of them and drape them over you; your hand, however, found its way under the pillows with practised ease, the hold on the cold metal like a comfort aching in your bones.
And despite your mind running in terrifying circles, you were lost to the dreamland as soon as you closed your eyes…
…and much to the shock you’d experience once you’d wake, you were not haunted by evil spirits nor images worthy of the worst horror tales about monsters among men.
Instead, you dreamed of a soft touch.
You dreamed of a gentle respectful voice calling you my lady with emphasis on the ‘lady’ rather than the ‘my’, a pair of sincere blue eyes full of warmth and kindness and sparkles of humour without malice.
You dreamed of strong protective arms holding you rather than caging you, tender fingers of an artist tracing the features of your face like they were brushes against canvas of a work of art.
No punishment will come to you, sweetling, the man whispered, his hair like a halo of an angel of the new teachings.
Please, believe me. Allow me. Believe in me.
-worthy of a crown---bound by chain– exquisite--- clothing plain-
You are safe, my sweetling.
Yes, yes you are. No man will lay a hand on you ever again.
- lonely soul defied fate—one of long-lost precious arts—
--two pure and content hearts-
You are safe.
In your sleep, you lost the grip on the knife, and once you did, your soul relaxed into into the soft warmth of your dreams, sleeping sounder than before.
You woke up with a startle and a gasp, finding yourself sitting in a strange bed, hands fisting delicate sheets that gleamed gently in the light and shadows casted by a fire.
You found yourself blinking, heart hammering in your ribcage as your mind slowly awoke, along with memories – horrible memories wrapped carefully in an inexplicable feeling of comfort and safety that had your frantic breathing settle despite your racing heart.
The chambers were dark safe by the fire someone had kindled in the hearth but was long gone; much like the food you had not managed to eat, the cutlery and dishes replaced by what you assumed were two plates hidden by cloches – and an envelope.
You were on your feet so fast your head spun, curiosity and creeping realization leading your wobbly steps, sleep having been wiped from your mind but not your weary muscles and bones just yet.
You had slept through the dinner.
There was no denying so; not when the day had long said its goodbye.
Not when the envelope was sealed with what could only be a royal seal.
A letter from a king, should you be so presumptuous to think you were of enough importance for him to spare the time to write to you, be it for whichever reason.
To express dissatisfaction or even rage.
To reveal what the consequences of your absence would be.
To invite you to your own execution, perhaps, for having denied him.
And yet; a warm feeling of certainty you had no basis for made you dismiss the dark thoughts before they could take root.
There was no use in wonders and musings, no use in trying to figure out a man you had only met in passing; for all the truth one could find in their own heart, for heart could at times see more than eyes could, there was no doubt some truths were found in both actions and words.
You reached for the envelope, hoping your experience of handling the trades on the market after your father had given up, correspondence and short contracts included, were enough to have you understand whichever message the letter carried.
Your fingers were shaky; and breaking the seal felt like sealing your fate.
Reading the words written in beautifully curved letters, then, felt like a caress over the back of your hand, two strong hands cradling it and squeezing gently in reassurance.
My dearest of guests,
I regret I have not been able to welcome you at your chambers as I would have wished and you would have deserved. I shall only hope you found the suite satisfactory and I hope that Natasha has made sure you were most comfortable.
However disappointed I might have been, missing you at the dinner table, I was most pleased to have been informed you had found your rest after the dreadful experience you had been subjected to. I took the liberty to save your plates for you and have them brought for whenever you might welcome them.
Should you need anything else, please, know that a word is enough for it to be fetched if it only is in my power to give.
Should you wish to talk to me yet, as I wish to you, one of my most trusted men shall always stand guard to your chambers, so you may sleep soundly knowing you are protected. The same guard may serve to lead you to my chambers.
I am most looking forward to conversing with you at your convenience.
Steven Rogers I., The Just, The King of the Lands of Starkerbürg
You reread the words several times, breath bated, marvelling at both the individual letters which were closer to having been painted rather than simply written and the message itself.
Had you not once had to take over the trade of your family, you might have not been able to read the king’s words at all; but as fate or Lady Fortuna had it, while you might not read or write on the same level as nobility did, you understood well enough.
And yet, such did not equal comprehending how this had come to be; nor did it help you understand the sudden urge to speak to His Majesty in the very next moment, not led by fear of having already disappointed him, but a desire to truly know the man whose hand had led the ink so skilfully it might have as well been a piece of art.
Your heart ached with the need; fear silenced for the time being, soothed by the inexplicable dreams in which kindness, patience and affection seemed to be wearing the King’s face.
You had been reprimanded nor rushed despite the delay, and you were in no position nor right to demand or command. And yet, you could not imagine withstanding another moment spent here, another hour without speaking to His Majesty.
You could not bring your hand to lift the cloches off the food delivered and lose precious minutes by eating.
You could not bring yourself to as much as glance at the dress you had been sure you were to wear to acknowledge and appreciate His Majesty’s hospitality and generosity, the sweet echo of a gentle voice, ‘of clothing plain’ guiding you to hurry past, just as you were.
Your nerves were battling an instinct beyond your comprehension humming in your chest. On the one hand, your anxiety argued, asking for anything more than you had been given, even if it was but meeting the king as he had requested, seemed an arrogant overstep; on the other hand, an overwhelming feeling of being on the right path and needing to walk it despite causing inconvenience to the man guarding your door and potentially the king as well, was impossible to best when it flushed your veins like a tidal wave.
Opening the door for a slit, cautious still to disturb as little as possible despite the growing need blooming in your chest, you peeked though, finding a dark-haired man you had a vague recollection of having seen in the royal hall standing tall and alert, guarding dutifully.
He turned to you fully in an instant at the sound of the door, leaving you no choice but to open fully when he welcomed you with a subtle bow.
“My lady. How may I be of assistance?”
You gulped, reciprocating the curtsy, attempting a grateful smile, unsure whether you succeeded.
“Thank you kindly, good sir, for standing guard and watching over me,” you whispered, lingering in your bow as to express your genuine gratitude before rising. The poor solider – and he must have been a soldier in more than a rank, given his built – would have likely been in getting his much-needed rest had it not been for you. “I was… wondering whether it was still appropriate and whether it would trouble you to-- bring me to His Majesty? Please?”
The man let a hint of a warm smile curl his lips at your request.
He was a handsome man; the raven hair contrasted sharply with his eyes the colour of a winter sky, his features sharp but softened by a stubble and gentleness of his expression – of which you had no doubt was deliberate, since you had seen his profile, hard and deadly focused on potential intruders but a moment ago.
“Of course, my lady. He… expressed the wish to speak to you at your convenience,” the man said, something in his gaze almost, almost whispering of mischief, reminding you of Natasha. “Follow me, please… and should you wish to address me other than a good sir, they know me as Sir Barnes or Bucky in these halls.”
You observed him mutely for several beats, stunned by both his willingness and the offer to address him by a familial nickname.
Surely, he had not meant that? He was a knight and a noble, one of the king’s most trusted men and clearly of the most capable soldiers the kingdom had--
And he would take you to see the king.
You willed your smile to grow despite your anticipations rising, stomach twisting in a knot as pleasant as nervous.
“Thank you… Sir Barnes. That is most kind of you.”
He nodded in acknowledgement, not commenting on your choice, and merely beckoned you to follow him.
With heart having leaped to your throat, you did.
You attempted to retain the route, one stairwell, a twist and a turn, another set of stairs – but you soon found yourself distracted by your thoughts as well as the art pieces lining the walls and the solitary guards you met patrolling the castle, greeting you mutely with subtle bows. Instinctively, you reciprocated every single one of them.
Other than that, the walk through the corridors was silent.
Had you not been able to hear your steps echoing through the walls, the thundering of your heart in your ribcage and your thoughts circling in your head, it would have been a silence of the pleasant sort, almost comfortable.
For much like the king, as you now recalled with curious clarity, Sir Barneshad a kind aura around him, whispering of him being a protector.
And much like the king, he carried himself a warrior: his manners and the kindness he was emanating was a matter of choice. He was such not for the lack of capacity for violence – you had no doubt that had he chosen to do so, he’d be able to choke the life out of your throat with one hand – but for the decision made of his own will. It was the small almost supportive smile he gave you, a flicker of mirth in his eye when he saw you in the plainest dress, that settled any worries of him hurting you.
That and his respect for silence.
The only moment he spoke up again was when he warned you of a very uneven spot in the floors; and then when you had stopped dead in your tracks, air knocked out of you as your gaze, having been admiring the interiors and art, fell on a portrait of a man and a woman.
For a several startled beats of your heart, you were rendered speechless, body completely still, unable to breathe in, let alone comprehend what you were seeing, mind firing in all directions, aimless.
What you were seeing was… impossible. It could—that wasn’t--- but-
Your mind frantically searched for an explanation, coming out empty, as the only plausible one could not have been true – and yet, it somehow had to be. It had to.
The woman in the painting. You knew her.
You knew her better than your own heart, or so you had believed.
“My lady?” Sir Barnes questioned lowly, clearly attempting not to startle you.
He did not need to worry; you doubted anything could startle you at the moment. Had the skies fallen on your head, you would have barely noticed.
“Who… who is that?”
“Doctor Erskine,” Sir Barnes replied without hesitation, snapping you back to reality where, naturally, he’d believe you were inquiring of the man. “And his wife. The kingdom owes them a great debt, Steve most of all. Which is why he’s asked the late King Stark to have them painted.”
Wife? Impossible, your mind whispered again, a nagging thought even as Sir Barnes’s words raised a hundred new questions.
A doctor? A debt? Steve – the king – in particular? Could it be true then that the man who would be King Rogers used to be very sick, owning his life to this man… and woman?
With great effort, you tore your gaze away from the painting, glancing at Sir Barnes with a silent question.
It was rude perhaps – it certainly was if you considered you had been on your way to the king, and while he did not know you were coming thus couldn’t await you at a specific time if at all, you were stalling – but Sir Barnes only smiled and sighed almost fondly.
“Doctor Erskine was a visionary – perhaps that was why him and King Stark got along so well. They both had a knack for turning mad dreams into reality… and Steve, having been sick a lot, smaller too – as you will see further down the corridor – was… he was crazy and desperate enough to help further, beyond advising us on strategy, that he offered himself to let the Doctor try to make one of these visions true… and he did.”
You blinked, trying to comprehend the way Sir Barnes was so openly speaking of the king’s former struggles, and the late king’s habits with plain admission of them having been foolish. Or not, you assumed, forcing yourself to breathe in and out as he continued.
“To this day, I am not sure how Erskine did it – and he never got to repeat the experiment as both him and his wife were killed in an attack on the castle soon after. But I am grateful for it. Maybe it was pure medicine, maybe it was alchemy, a miracle, gods, magic, the damn fairies – I don’t know. All I know is that when Steve came to himself again, he’s grown several inches taller, turned healthier than a horse and had enough muscle to be able to lift what his arms would have broken under before.”
You stood frozen, stunned and mesmerized not only by the incredible story, but by the one single word that could explain the uncanny, impossible resemblance of the woman in the painting to your mother.
Alchemy.
Doctor Erskine, may he rest in peace in heavens or wherever afterlife had taken him along with his wife, had been an alchemist.
And unless your mind was playing tricks on you, unless the gods were laughing in your face… he was the alchemist your grandmother had run off with soon after your grandfather had passed and you had been born.
Lady Fortune is watching over you, my little love, red threads of fate shall lead you onwards, your mother’s melodic voice hummed in the back of your mind, a lump having grown in your throat.
What were the chances of such? What were the odds of having ended up a gift to the king who rose from people, who had become a knight in the first place by the helping hand of the man your own grandmother had run off with?
You curled your trembling hands into fists by your side, unable to hide the shudder.
Sir Barnes did not comment on it, likely thinking you were merely letting the story sink in; but the fact you were processing was much greater.
He wouldn’t know. Much to your pain, you carried little resemblance to your mother, at least in appearance, having been likened to your father much more often. Apparently, such was not the case for your mother and grandmother; initially, you genuinely believed that by gods’ whims, a portrait of your own mother had been hung on the castle’s wall.
You gulped, mind whirling, trying to scramble for any resemblance of manners.
“Incredible… His Majesty was very fortunate to have had aid of such a gifted man.”
Sir Barnes hummed, an agreement and a protest at once.
“Well… all the more grey hairs for those of us who knew how crazy chances Steve is willing to take with his safety when it comes to fighting for those who cannot fight for themselves,” Sir Barnes muttered, causing your lips to twitch in an unvoluntary smile of both amusement and surprise at his bluntness.
You liked Sir Barnes. A knight as he was, perfectly polite with you, more than you’d deserve, and no doubt loyal to the kingdom, he was also clearly a man with a very friendly relationship to his king. It seemed their friendship had been through many years of trials – and perhaps not only those on a battlefield.
He cleared his throat. “What I meant to say is that… Erskine truly allowed for Steve’s body to catch up with how great his spirit and heart was. I know… I know you’ve been dragged here and you don’t know much of him yet, but… he’s a good man.”
You nodded without a word, gaze lingering on the painting.
Yes. The king so far had been hundred times kinder to you than you could have hoped – puzzlingly so, truly – and keeping a painting of those who had aided him in becoming the sovereign he was spoke of his character too. There was no arguing that and you’d inquire more of it later, hoping to get more insight since Sir Barnes seemed to be quite the source of information, as biased as he no doubt was in favour of his king and his friend. But before you’d do so, there were still burning questions you couldn’t but at least try to ask.
“And what of his wife then?” you asked quietly. “You said the kingdom owed to both of them? …a figure of speech?”
You could hear the rustle of cloth even before you turned your head as Sir Barnes shook his head vigorously, meeting your eye with gravity.
“She was his greatest assistant, helping with all, healing not only the people of the court but also soldiers and townspeople… I owe them too, since they both are the reason why I haven’t lost my arm to--- it does not matter. But what I said before referred to the transformation Steve underwent. It took two days.”
You gulped, unsure why his eyes darkened with pain, even as you recalled that he spoke of the king having to come to himself later on.
Sir Barnes chuckled humourlessly, even as fondness flashed over his features.
“We all knew it was a grave risk, the first time ever experiment always is. But once the substance spread through Steve’s body, he would-- he would bite down on his mouth hard enough to make it bleed, nails digging into his hands just as hard. The pain had to be--- it had to be beyond--- hours and hours to no end, until he finally broke and screamed in agony long and hard enough for us to consider killing him just to end his suffering,” Sir Barnes husked, the heaviness of the memory landing on your own chest, ribcage squeezed tight at the mere idea of such pain. Pain inflicted on who seemed to be but a good man,no less. On Steve. “And then she--- I don’t know how she did it. I didn’t care and still don’t. But she did it. Some kind of a potion, some miraculous elixir she managed to settle him enough to drink with her touch only – and he did settle. He was still in pain, it was obvious, but much less, much calmer. I don’t… he’s always been one resilient bastard---”
You winced at the harsh language even as it was hardly the worst word you’d ever heard. You had simply not expected it from a man who might have been most honest, but also most polite. It truly spoke of the magnitude of emotion the memory awoke in him; you could feel its force too, in your very bones, breath trapped in your throat.
“He’s always had a fighter’s spirit. But… I don’t think that this was a battle he would have won without her.”
I fear he would have died from pain alone, or at least have gone completely mad, Sir Barnes grey eyes whispered what his voice couldn’t anymore, clear as day. An icy fist clenched around your heart and dug it nails in deep at the implication, making it harder to breathe; and released it with a relief and warmth surging through your veins.
Steve had survived.
He had survived and lived long enough to encounter you, long enough to stir the strangest of feelings in you – and long enough to save you from a terrible fate by the hand of the two mercenaries. You knew he did – save you. You knew, inexplicably, that whichever fate awaited you, you were safe with him.
And perhaps… perhaps your grandmother had played the most important role in that.
Yes. It did make sense why anyone would be grateful for that.
You were too.
And you might understand none of the king’s motives to treat you the way he did, nor you knew when his kindness would cease – but if this was how Starkerbürg gained its just ruler, if the children here were allowed to be as happy as those whom you had seen earlier today, you were grateful too.
And proud of what you were now certain had been your grandmother’s doing.
The women of our family have been blessed, your mother used to say; there’s light blooming in our hearts, fire crackling in our souls. We may scorch the Earth or keep it warm and bright for generations to come. Whether she knew of what her mother had done, even if she had never told you, you wouldn’t know. But with this story… you could believe that she had been right in her whispers and lullabies.
And perhaps, whatever awaited you, you could muster up enough strength and try to kindle that fire to face it with your head held high and with the same courage you had fought off your father with bare hands when it came to it.
“Thank you… for telling me, Sir Barnes. I appreciate it.”
“Happy to serve, my lady. Shall we?”
Your gaze lingered on your grandmother’s face for a few long moments, hoping to draw some of that light and fire your mother used to speak of for yourself.
Then, you smiled at Sir Barnes and nodded.
“Of course. Thank you for your patience.”
“At your service, my lady.”
He fell into step with you again, seemingly following your lead, and even when lost to your thoughts, you could feel the strength and certainty radiating off him. All tuned to you and the rhythm in your step, he guided you so subtly you’d believe you were the one to know where to walk; and yet he followed you like a panther, an animal your mother had been telling you fables about – an elegant black beast stalking the woods in a quiet search of prey. You understood then – that if Sir Barnes was a soldier, a knight, he too, was a spy. In the empty hallway, your steps were louder than his own. Perhaps that was why he did no longer keep silent.
His voice, almost soft, was crystal clear and holding utter respect in his brief commentary of the paintings you were passing by.
A former ruler and his wife. A soldier who had laid his life for the kingdom. Several knights, sitting with King Rogers around a round table. Two doctors standing proudly by an invention that helped cured those whose disease had been believed to mean a certain death.
All exceptional people by your standards – and appreciated by the king himself as well as Sir Barnes.
His demeanour gained true warmth, however, as you were passing a portrait strikingly different from the others, made by His Majesty the King himself. A homage to his late mother, supposedly and undeniably; her features – her kindness – was something you recognized in the sharp memory of the man you met at the Royal Hall; the strokes of the brush tender, guided by true fondness of a man who loved his mother. It made sense, all of sudden, how His Majesty’s letter was an art piece of its own if this was the beauty he was capable of creating.
Sir Barnes’s voice then turned into a sigh, no less proud, when a moment later your steps faltered unwittingly and stopped altogether as your gaze fell on the painting of a handsome young man – a man resembling the king, only with softer features, smaller in frame, and with just as much determination as cognizance etched into his expression.
You recognized him instantly – and if your eyes hadn’t, your heart, stumbling in your chest over its own beats, would have.
Steven – at that time, perhaps indeed only Steven, not even a Sir yet – before he underwent the insane experiment that might have fundamentally changed his body, but could not have changed who he was and whom he was fighting for.
Where you might have trouble believing the large mass of a man you had met a few hours earlier had a soul artistic enough to capture his mother in a painting as lovely as you’d seen, the man portrayed here had a certain soft curiosity about him that spoke of the ability to see beauty in the world of chaos and ugliness – and grasp it in his hands like clay and build a better world out of it.
You could not know – you knew so little of him – and yet you knew this.
And all of sudden, it felt as if you knew his very soul.
Reconciling the two men filled you with understanding you could not quite explain; but it moved your own soul so unexpectedly your hand twitched to clutch your chest when you could feel something in the depth of your ribcage shift and blossom in intangible warmth.
Somehow, the man in the portrait was just as beautiful as the one you were about to face again; and as surprising as seeing the smaller form of him was, that shift in your ribcage seemed to have already happened years and years ago, this very image as if having glimmered in the blue irises you had met hours ago.
They were both the king: a man with a spirit of a fighter, locked in a small frail frame, a fighter with a heart of an artist; and an artist with a soft soul, a good man locked in a body that could bring half the continent to its knees. With mind and teeth enough sharp to do so, with arms strong enough to wrestle injustice out of its reigns in the name of protecting the innocent; with hands capable of gentleness suited for cradling an injured baby bird.
You had spoken with him but few words, had seen him but for minutes, saw the portrait of the man he once had been just now; and yet, something in your veins whispered you had known him for decades. You must have, for you knew all your assessments of his character were true.
“My lady?”
You blinked one time too many, returning from your haze, moments passing by as you realized Sir Barnes was addressing you; still in such polite and yet completely ridiculous manner given your social standing that you nearly laughed.
You shook your head, eyes barely tearing away from the painting.
“Apologies, I… was lost in thought. His Majesty was smaller in frame indeed… but I can see the spirit you were talking about right there.”
“It is a very good portrait,” Sir Barnes agreed, the warmest note yet in his words, his gaze so intense you could almost feel a hole being burned into the back of your head. “He keeps it around to remember where he comes from… what he comes from. A reminder that he rose from people and to always rule as such.”
Your heart fluttered with affection which had no place to be there, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of your lips.
“A wise man with wise motives then.”
Slowly setting off again, you were no longer surprised Sir Barnes simply followed suit. He hummed in agreement, muttering under his breath, too low for you to understand.
Sensing an opportunity, you cleared your throat, hoping your voice wouldn’t shake with your nerves.
“What of his other motives? He’s rewarded the men who brought me, generously, I assume. He’s said he wished to see me, he’s had me brought to luxurious chambers where I clearly do not belong, he’s treated me more than most kindly, as have you… is that all, too, to simply remember where he came from?”
For I doubt it is, a voice finished in your head, uncertain and shaky – and yet convinced there was no foul play in the king’s motives even as you had rouble reconciling the good man you seemed to know in your very core to someone who would approve of and reward the behaviour of the two men who’d hurt you.
You had no idea of what his motives were then. And as much as you attempted to not feel afraid, it would be foolish to ignore just how surreal and fragile the whole situation was.
Sir Barnes’s sigh sounded almost like a chuckle – enough to draw your gaze to his face, his expression as conflicted and amused as his voice.
“Gods help me if I knew what’s going on in the punk’s head most of the time.”
You straightened, not deaf to what he was saying, trying your luck further.
“But you do know why he treats me so now then… why?”
“It is not my place to say, my lady,” he replied with a smile, as respectful and polite as one could when denying someone – a lady, no less.
The notion was utterly absurd still – and you resisted the urge to huff in frustration in a very unladylike manner indeed, as you had felt you had had some of the answers you were yearning for at your fingertips, only for them to slip out of your reach.
It was not your place to huff, however. You were too aware still just how blessed you had been so far. And how easily it could all crumble in your hands should you press too hard.
You gulped.
“I see. I shall not press then… but--- could you… good sir, could you perhaps call me by my name?” For I feel utterly stupid when you do not call me so.
Your request was met with a radiant smile, Sir Barnes’s bow subtle as he never ceased to walk. Had you attempted the same, you would have probably twisted your ankle.
“Of course. I shall do so if that is what you wish. And should it make you comfortable, you truly may address me as Bucky.”
You stopped but for a moment to return the courtesy and bow as well, albeit much deeper – for he was the one deserving respect for the standing he had earned. There was a slight scolding in his eye blending into mischief as you did so – but he did not speak a word of it out loud, simply falling back into step with you when you started moving again.
“…I do. Thank you, Sir Barnes—Bucky,” you corrected yourself, earning what could only be described as a grin, your cheeks burning at the familiarity. “I am… starting to believe my wishes for some reason are… held in high regard.”
“They are.”
“But why?”
Bucky’s delighted grin bled into a hearty laughter you did not quite understand beyond feeling he was not laughing at you, even as you realized you had held your promise not to press and pry for but a literal minute.
He did not seem offended by that, however.
“You’re a stubborn one, aren’t you? Good. The gods heard me out at last.”
He offered no further explanation.
Even if he had one, perhaps he would have no time to share it – for you were just about to reach a pair of guards in front of what had to be the doors to the king’s private chambers.
The sudden anxiety returning to your stomach – along with warm anticipation – made you waver as the guards, gods help you, bowed low at your and Sir Barnes’s presence.
“My lady,” one of them spoke, skin dark and eyes bright, voice formal but not unkind. “His Majesty is expecting you. You shall enter freely, at your convenience.”
You nodded in acknowledgement, yet again too aware of the absurdity of the scene and offer, your smile tighter than your chest.
“…thank you, good sir.”
It was the same tight smile you gave Sir Barnes – Bucky – as he encouraged you to walk in with ease, as if you weren’t about to meet your fate. You sent a quick prayer to all the gods above, to Lady Fortuna, to the damn fairies as Sir Barnes had said, to all higher power you had ever heard of, and quietly asked the guard to let you in – hoping the fiery spirit of your grandmother and your mother’s gentleness stood by your side, as you struggled to hold your head as high as you had promised yourself you would.
Part 3 (final)
S.R. masterlist
Here we go! I hope you enjoyed 🥰 If you did and have the time and energy, comments and reblogs are love 💕 I know we had more world-building and emotions than Steve, but Steve personally didn't fit int this already long chapter - he's a large, impressive guy. Next time it's all him and his lady 😌
I hope April has been kind to you and will blend into even a kinder May. Sending love 💕
