Read some teasers of the fics coming out this December and January!
Bucky was frozen in place as time itself stopped, unable as he was to tear his eyes away from unknown warrior. Everywhere around him the shrieks of war ensued but he was silent like the clouds before a thunderstorm, rooted like a tree where others were slipping in the mud. The blood – not his own, for no one got close enough to hurt him – made the strong muscles of his mid-section gleam when the sun hit it, and his massive arms bulged each time the man swung his sword in ruinous circles. Man. Could he really be? A giant amongst them all, with no markings to show where he belonged. Neither blade nor ink had marred his skin, and he lacked the arm-ring that would prove him a Northerner. He couldn’t be theirs – he was fighting against them with a force so strong it didn’t seem human. All the breath left Bucky. He might not wear an arm ring, but he wasn’t wearing that damned silver cross either in a chain around his neck. All he wore was a golden crown.
“Are you done choking?” The voice says when Steve stops aspirating dried vascular plant bits. The hand once again grips his hair, pulls him up and another hand pushes him backward to sit against a tree and Steve finally gets a look at his attacker. His breath stops. Before him is a savage in leather and pelts, with wild black hair and strange markings down his left arm and shoulder, but Steve can’t pay attention to any of it because his face is painted. White and red and vibrant blue streak across forehead and cheekbones and the eyes are smeared pitch black. It makes the striking light gray irises stand out all the more. His teeth show in a predatory smile between blue and white lips. Steve has heard of Celtic witches. Fearsome stories, all of them. “First things first,” the witch sits down in front of him. “I would never hurt your horse, Roman.” Steve gasps. “Of course, you’re a Roman.” The man scoffs. “I could have picked your stance and build out of a thousand. You have soldier written all over you. You and that ridiculous haircut.” The hand is back in his hair, tousling this time, and Steve curses the fact that he did not have leave to let his hair and beard grow before the journey down. It is probably how the stranger in the tavern pegged him. All his offerings to Mercury were for nothing. “The question is not who you are.” The painted face before Steve becomes pensive. “And I can guess what you’re doing here, dressed like a commoner, skulking around my sacred altars.” Steve’s eyes widen in shock. These woods are consecrated. Tony sent him straight into the lion’s den, and like a sheep, Steve went. The predatory smile comes back, spreads across paint. “Boudica rising,” he whispers. “Is that not why you’re here.” Steve blinks. Bites his tongue. Tries to leave his face impassive, but the witch takes one look at him and once again laughs out loud. It is supremely unsettling. “Aaaaaahhhh,” he sighs, content. “I thought so.” Then he cocks his head left. “Your horse is coming back. Loyal beast that it is. When I sprung you and it bolted, I thought we’d never see the nag again.” Falconis steps into the clearing, snuffling and a little out of sorts, but none the worse for wear. He has not damaged himself in his flight through these woods and Steve is glad. He walks over to Steve and nuzzles his cheek, fluffing happily, and then turns— and does the same to the witch. Traitor.
As many things do, it begins with two corpses; one staining the quilt of snow it lays on a rueful shade of crimson, and the other encased in an icy tomb within the rotting carcass of a downed plane. In a way that defies both sense and science, both corpses are not truly dead at all — at least not yet. One corpse clenches his remaining fingers painfully tight, the knuckles paling to match the snow, grappling with the ledge of life desperately while his companion - his other half - readily lets go, ready to wearily sink under the waves of the quiet and the cold. One in denial and the other relieved. Even though they’re as good as, they’re not dead. Some would say it’s a miracle, a marvel, and that’s just the M’s; nevermind the rest. But, when it is stripped down to the bone, flesh and ligaments peeled away until the ivory skeleton of truth is laid bare, it is undoubtable that these icy graves and their icy corpses are inexplicably, irrevocably, and indescribably intertwined. Perhaps it’s fate, maybe one could go as far as to say it’s destiny. Maybe, maybe, maybe. But the one thing that is undeniable is that from the very second both corpses teetered on the thinning thread between living and dying, their orbits crossed. Over the next handful of decades, they are pulled into each other like stars, spiralling closer and closer until inevitably falling into each other in a stellar collision of a single epic, and irreversible mistake.
“Prince Bohemond VI has submitted to the Mongols.” Marshal Phillips announced solemnly. István looked up from the map. “Are we sending forces to liberate them?” He inquired. It was a larger campaign than they usually engaged in, but the Mongols were also a greater threat than they usually faced. Marshal Phillips shook his head and István felt a bolt of shock through his chest. Surely they couldn’t stand by and let Antioch fall to such a cruel adversary? “The prince claims he is submitting willingly. His father-in-law, King Hethum I, submitted over a decade ago, and has been encouraging other monarchs to do the same for years. He believes allying with the Mongols is our best chance to defend the kingdoms of Christendom from the Mamluks.” “If we submit to the Mongols, there will be no Christendom to defend!” István argued. But the other knights didn’t seem concerned. He thought of the scorched ruins he’d grown up around. The way his mother always choked up when talking about his father’s final stand against “the Tatars”. Desperate for understanding, his eyes sought out Jakab amongst the assembled archers. Jakab was already looking at him with a sweet, concerned frown. István felt a renewed sense of sanity as his friend gave a little nod in solidarity.
“You know you’re quite the informant,” Bucky said softly. “Let’s make a deal you keep talkin to me, and I’ll pay you enough, so you don’t have to walk the streets.” “I don’t need your fucking charity,” Steve growled. “It’s not charity.” Bucky grabbed Steve’s wrist. “You’re in the victim pool. You’re almost an exact match for what he’s lookin for. And you got a son—” “Don’t talk about my son!” Steve snarled. “Let me help you!” Bucky yelled. “I don’t need your help!” Steve yanked his arm out of Bucky’s grasp. “I don’t need anything from you—” “Goddammit, Stevie.” Bucky grabbed Steve and pressed him against the wall of an alley. But Nat’s words echoed in his mind, You’re all violent in your own way. Bucky didn’t want to be violent, especially not with Steve. He pulled back a little, giving the fae enough room to slip away if he wanted to. “I won’t force you,” Bucky told him with a sigh of defeat. “But I really do want to help. No charity, no pity, just help. And I need your help too. You know these victims, I don’t.”