Chapter 5
The months pass in a blur of sweat, bruises, and steel.
Clint trains every day, first with Chisholm’s archery drills, then with Duquesne’s blades. It’s exhausting, but he’s never had anything like this before — something that belongs to him, something that makes sense. He’s good at it. Getting better every day.
Duquesne pushes him harder, teaching him not just how to handle a sword but how to sell the fight. A flourish here, a dramatic pause there — swordplay isn’t just about winning, it’s about making the crowd believe you’re someone worth watching.
Clint soaks it up like a sponge.
He’s fast, too. He doesn’t have the raw strength the older performers do, but he makes up for it in agility, flipping and twisting through Duquesne’s sparring drills with an ease that catches even Chisholm’s attention.
“You’re enjoyin’ this too much,” Chisholm grumbles one evening, watching Clint launch himself into a handspring mid-fight, landing in a crouch before twisting his knife up toward Duquesne’s ribs.
Duquesne parries, laughing. “No such thing. The kid’s got a natural talent.”
Clint grins, flicking his knife to the side, waiting for the next round. He doesn’t need to look to know Barney isn’t watching.
Barney still works with the stagehands, lifting and hauling, repairing the tents when they tear. He keeps his head down, keeps to himself. Every now and then, Clint catches him watching from the edges, but he never stays long.
Clint tells himself he doesn’t care.
But it’s getting harder to believe.
A few weeks later, Duquesne calls Clint over after practice, watching as he twirls his knife between his fingers.
“You ever think about takin’ all that training and actually using it for something?” Duquesne asks, arching a brow.
Clint wipes sweat from his forehead. “Like what?”
Duquesne smirks. “Like the circus.”
Clint frowns. “I thought I was already in the circus.”
Duquesne rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean. I’m talkin’ about the show.” He gestures toward the grand performance tent, where the real action happens — the acrobats, the knife-throwers, the main acts that bring the crowds. “Your bladework’s damn good. Your archery’s even better. What do you think about puttin’ it on display?”
Clint blinks. He hadn’t really considered it before. He trains because he likes it, because it gives him something to focus on, something that’s his. But performing? That’s something different.
“I dunno,” Clint says, shifting on his feet. “You really think I could do it?”
Duquesne scoffs. “Kid, you got more talent than half the so-called showmen we got here. Just gotta figure out what kinda act suits you.”
Chisholm strolls up, arms crossed. “Don’t forget — performin’ ain’t the same as fightin’. You screw up in a fight, you get a bruise. You screw up in the ring, you get an empty tent next show.”
Duquesne waves him off. “He won’t screw up.”
Clint glances between them. The idea is already forming in his head. He’s spent months training for real fights, but if he can learn how to turn it into a performance — how to use every skill Duquesne and Buck have drilled into him — it could be something big.
He nods slowly. “Alright. I’ll do it.”
“Good,” Duquesne says, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “We start tomorrow.”
Clint grins. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he spots Barney walking past, carrying a crate over his shoulder. He doesn’t look at Clint.
Clint’s smile fades.
He swallows hard and turns back to Chisholm and Duquesne, pushing the feeling down.
He’ll take a day off to catch up with Barney, he will. But that day isn’t today.
The weeks leading up to Clint’s first performance are relentless.
Duquesne drills him harder than ever, refining every motion, every instinct, until precision feels like second nature. Chisholm oversees his archery, hammering home the importance of control — of being fast, but never rushing. Patience equals aim, he says.
The knives Clint throws must not only hit the mark, but land with showmanship. His arrows must split the air like they were born for it.
But it’s not just about skill.
“It’s about confidence,” Duquesne tells him during a break, his sharp eyes never leaving Clint’s stance. “You don’t just want them to see you. You want them to believe in you.”
Clint gets it. He’s always watched in awe as performers became larger than life under the circus lights. Now, it’s his turn.
And for the first time, it feels like he’s moving forward — not just surviving, but becoming something more.
Not everyone sees it that way.
Barney barely speaks to him now. When he does, it’s clipped, distant.
At first, Clint brushes it off. He tells himself that Barney’s just busy, that maybe he doesn’t care about all this circus stuff the way Clint does.
But then, Barney stops watching him train. Stops meeting his eyes when they cross paths. Stops sitting with him at meals, choosing to eat with the older workers instead.
It’s not just distance. It’s a wall.
Clint doesn’t know how to break through it.
So he doesn’t try.
Instead, he throws himself into the one thing that makes sense right now: the act.
The night of Clint’s first performance, the circus is alive.
The main tent is packed, the crowd’s energy buzzing through the thick air. Lanterns sway from poles, casting flickering golden light over the sea of faces waiting for a show.
Backstage, Clint is rolling his shoulders, trying to shake off the weight pressing against his ribs.
It’s not fear, not exactly. It’s something else — something sharper.
“You nervous?” Chisholm asks, standing beside him, arms crossed.
Clint exhales. “Nah.”
“You’re shakin’ like a leaf,” Buck smirks.
Clint huffs a quiet laugh, even as his pulse keeps hammering.
From the corner of his eye, he spots Duquesne approaching, adjusting the cuffs of his coat. “Remember — flair, precision, confidence.” His gaze lingers, appraising Clint one last time. “This is your moment, kid. Don’t waste it.”
Clint nods, gripping his bow tighter.
Beyond the curtain, the ringmaster’s voice booms through the tent.
“And now, a display of deadly precision, an archer whose skill defies the limits of mere mortals — Lafayette’s own Hawkeye!”
The crowd erupts.
Showtime.
Clint steps into the ring, and the world sharpens.
The roar of the audience fades to a hum in the back of his mind. The lights overhead cast long shadows across the sawdust floor.
He moves on instinct.
A knife gleams in his fingers, flipping once before he sends it flying. The audience gasps as it buries itself into the target with a satisfying thud.
Then another. And another.
Each throw is faster than the last, until the blades blur in the air. Until the crowd is on edge, hanging on his every move.
Then comes the bow.
His fingers close around the familiar curve of the wood. He nocks an arrow, drawing the string back until it hums with tension.
The moment stretches — silent, breathless.
Then he lets go.
The arrow slices through the air, splitting a thrown apple in half. A perfect shot.
The crowd erupts.
Clint doesn’t stop. He moves with the rhythm of the act, flipping, rolling, landing in a crouch as he draws and fires again — this time at a swinging target.
Bullseye.
“And ladies and gentlemen, that is your Hawkeye! Lafayette’s youngest performer!” The ringmaster’s voice booms from the speakers, surrounding Clint. Hawkeye. He has a name here now.
The cheers grow louder. His heartbeat pounds in time with them.
For the first time in his life, Clint isn’t just a kid struggling to get by.
He’s something more.
Backstage, the applause still rings in his ears as he steps behind the curtain.
His chest is heaving, sweat dripping down his back, but he doesn’t care. He did it.
Duquesne claps him on the back, laughing. “Not bad, mon garçon. Not bad at all.”
Chisholm smirks, nodding in approval. “Didn’t embarrass yourself. I’d call that a win.”
Clint grins. The thrill of it all is still coursing through his veins.
Then he turns, scanning the dimly lit backstage for the one person who hasn’t said anything.
He finds Barney standing near the exit.
Arms crossed. Jaw clenched. Eyes dark.
The grin slips from Clint’s face.
“Barney—”
“Look at you,” Barney says, voice cutting. “Big-shot performer now, huh?”
Clint frowns. “Barney, I—”
“You really think this is gonna last?” Barney scoffs. “Think any of this means anything?” He gestures vaguely toward the curtain. “You’re just another act, Clint. A trick to get people to waste their money.” His voice drops lower. “And when they’re bored of you, what then?”
Clint stiffens. “That’s not true.”
Barney shakes his head. “You don’t get it, do you? You’re out there playing hero, and I’m the one actually working to survive.”
Something tightens in Clint’s chest. “We’re both working—”
“No, you’re playing.” Barney’s eyes flash, something bitter and sharp in his expression. “Not everyone gets to pretend, Clint.”
And then he turns and walks away.
Clint stands there, fists clenched, heart still hammering — not from the performance, but from something heavier.
He doesn’t chase after him. He can’t.
He just lets Barney go.