Chapter 7
A little over a year at the circus, and Clint no longer gives much care to remember the faces of his “parents” in his dreams anymore; they’re simply faceless, voices starting out the way his never-forgetting memory remembers, then quickly warping into an unrecognizable sound of regret, despair, and brokenness.
Clint is fourteen, a little taller, a little sharper. His body isn't scrawny anymore, honed from endless hours of training and performing, and his mind is sharper than it’s ever been. He’s fluent in French now — fluent enough that Duquesne doesn’t even slow down when he speaks, letting the words roll like he’s talking to one of his own. He’s even better in ASL, faster at reading lips than Saul himself, though he never rubs it in.
And on stage, he’s a star.
Every night, his name gets announced alongside the great acts of the Lafayette Carnival of Traveling Wonders. The crowd roars when he steps onto the platform, bows slung over his shoulders, knives gleaming at his belt. He’s not just an archer, not just a swordsman — he’s a showman. He makes people gasp, laugh, cheer. He moves like he’s weightless, every flip, every twist of his blade executed with the kind of grace that takes years to master.
Except he’s only been at it for a little over a year.
And yet, it’s in his blood. He knows it. He loves it.
But love doesn’t mean everything’s perfect.
It took him weeks to get used to his new bow.
After Barney snapped his first one in half, Clint had spent nights running his fingers over the broken wood, trying to push down the ache in his chest. It wasn’t just a bow — it was the first thing that had ever truly been his, the first weapon he learned to wield, the first skill he had taken pride in. Losing it felt like losing a piece of himself.
Chisholm had given him a replacement not long after. A better bow. Stronger, heavier, made to last. Clint had wanted to hate it at first, to hold onto the resentment of what had been taken from him, but the moment he nocked an arrow and let it fly, he knew.
This was an archer’s bow. A real one.
And now, it’s like an extension of his arm. It’s part of him the way his blades are, the way the stage is.
But things between him and Barney are worse than ever.
Barney still works the circus, still does the odd jobs, still hauls the crates and rigs the lights, but he’s a ghost more than anything. Clint barely sees him, and when he does, it’s fleeting — just long enough to catch the same cold look in his eyes before he disappears again.
Clint tries. He really does. He makes an effort to talk, to get Barney to watch a show, to show him something new he’s learned, but Barney’s walls are taller than ever, and Clint’s starting to realize there’s no breaking through them.
Maybe Barney’s already made up his mind. Maybe, to him, they’re already two different people living two different lives.
It’s a bitter pill to swallow, but Clint is nothing if not stubborn.
It’s after a show one night that he finds himself sitting alone outside one of the back tents, wiping down his bow. His muscles still buzz from the performance, the rush of the applause still ringing in his ears, but his mind is elsewhere, stuck on the same thing it always is.
He doesn’t even realize Buck Chisholm is there until the man speaks.
“You’re gettin’ real damn good, kid.”
Clint glances up. Chisholm is standing near the entrance, arms crossed, a cigarette burning between his fingers. His eyes — sharp, calculating — settle on Clint like he’s looking at a puzzle he’s close to solving.
Clint smirks, rubbing a thumb over his bowstring. “Took you this long to figure that out?”
Chisholm chuckles, taking a drag before flicking the cigarette to the ground. “Nah, I figured that out months ago. Just figured I’d say it out loud.”
Clint huffs, shaking his head.
For a moment, they just sit there in comfortable silence. Then, Chisholm speaks again.
“You ever think about what’s next?”
Clint frowns. “What do you mean?”
Chisholm exhales, shifting his weight. “I mean, this place is fine for now. You’re making a name for yourself, you got talent — real talent — but this ain’t the end of the road for you.”
Clint blinks. He hadn’t really thought about it like that before. The circus has been everything to him — his home, his family, his world. He doesn’t know anything outside of it, and the idea of leaving? It’s foreign. Almost laughable.
But Chisholm doesn’t laugh. He just watches him, serious as ever.
“Look, kid, I ain’t tellin’ you to pack up and leave,” He shrugs, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “But if you ever decide to… if you ever feel like you need to… you got a place with me.”
Clint stills.
“Thanks, Chisholm,” He barely manages to choke out.
Chisholm doesn’t say it like some grand offer, doesn’t frame it as charity. He says it plain and simple, like it’s just a fact. If Clint needs a way out, he has one.
And for the first time, Clint wonders if he should be thinking about it.
As it turns out, according to his errorless memory, Chisholm had been right.
The rain falls in sheets, a cold, steady downpour that soaks through Clint’s clothes, makes his muscles ache from the chill. He’s just finished his shift and is heading back to the sleeping tent, his bow slung over his shoulder, drenched but still warm from the performance. His mind is foggy with exhaustion and the thoughts of the show, but the tension with Barney lingers like a knot in his chest, tight and relentless.
As he walks past the backside of the storage tents, a familiar voice cuts through the murmur of the storm.
“It’s not like this place will ever last, kid.”
It’s Duquesne. His tone is lower than Clint’s used to hearing, more strained, but unmistakable. He’s talking to someone, and it only takes a second to recognize the second voice — Barney’s.
Clint freezes.
He takes a step closer, trying to keep his movements light, his presence undetected. The rain is falling harder now, making it easier to hide in the shadows. He edges closer to the source of the voices, ducking behind one of the large tents used for storage.
Barney’s voice cuts through the night, harsh and tight with something Clint doesn’t recognize. “I don’t care what you think, Duquesne. This is the way it has to be.”
Clint’s pulse quickens. What could Barney possibly be involved in? His mind races, trying to piece together the tension that’s been building between them for the past year — Barney pulling away more and more, his eyes distant, like he’s got something buried deep, something Clint doesn’t understand.
“I know,” Duquesne says, almost too quietly, but Clint hears it. “But you need to be careful. This could get ugly. The circus won’t be able to cover up much longer.”
Clint’s breath catches in his throat. “Smuggling out money?” He barely even realizes he’s whispering it to himself.
“Just a little. Enough to make it worth our time. We’re not in this for the long haul, are we?” Barney’s voice sounds too calm, too empty.
Clint feels his chest tighten. Smuggling money? What the hell was going on? He’s been so focused on his own struggles with the circus and trying to bridge the gap between him and his brother that he hadn’t even thought about this.
He needs to know more.
He edges closer, just a few more steps, until he’s just behind the tent. His heart pounds in his chest, his right hand twitching for the knife at his belt, instinctively, the tension too sharp to ignore.
Then, as if on cue, something shifts. Barney’s voice lowers again, and Clint knows he’s being serious.
“I don’t care who gets hurt, Duquesne. As long as I get out of this place with something — anything.”
Clint feels a ripple of nausea in his gut. His brother is planning something — something dangerous — and Clint is too close to it, too tangled in it to pull away.
The rain pounds on the canvas of the storage tent like a thousand tiny fists. Clint hunches his shoulders against the cold, just a shadow in the downpour as he listens to the muffled voices ahead. Barney’s low growl mixes with Duquesne’s calm yet firm tone. Every word that reaches Clint’s ears feels like a stitch pulling taut in his chest.
Clint doesn’t think, doesn’t hesitate. His steps are quiet but quick, closing the distance. His pulse quickens, his heart thumping louder with every step. The tension between him and Barney has been building for months, and now, it feels like it’s finally coming to a head. Whatever this is, whatever they’re talking about — it doesn’t sound right.
He slides around the corner of the storage tent, peeking through the heavy fabric. His breath is shallow as he spots them, standing side by side in the rain, Duquesne a few feet ahead of Barney. His brother’s back is turned, but Clint can see the tenseness in his posture, the tightness in his shoulders. He’s holding something — a small leather bag, too heavy for just coins, too light for something bigger.
“You sure about this?” Duquesne’s voice is cold now, the kind of low tone that sends a shiver down Clint’s spine. “You know we’re treading dangerous ground.”
“We’re already in it,” Barney mutters, his voice tight with a mix of frustration and determination. “Just get the money, Duquesne. Let’s get out of here.”
Clint’s mind whirls as he listens, trying to put the pieces together. Money? Getting out of here? What the hell are they talking about? There’s a knot in his gut that’s been there for months now — something off, something not right — but he can’t place it, can’t figure it out.
What’s going on between them? Between Barney and Duquesne?
Clint takes a step closer, his shoes squelching in the mud. He’s close enough now that he can hear the sound of rain dripping from the edge of the tent, the sharpness of Duquesne’s words cutting through the quiet.
“You’re not thinking straight,” Duquesne says, his voice hardening. “This circus — it’s not a place to run from. We need to keep our heads down.”
Barney’s voice rises with a harsh edge, almost like he’s trying to drown out the storm, his words clipped, tight with frustration. “And I’ve been keeping my head down for far too long. I’m done.”
Clint steps forward, fully out of the shadows now, his heart thudding in his chest. His voice is low, hesitant at first, as he calls out from the rain.
“Barney?”
Both men snap toward him, the surprise flashing across their faces too quickly. For a heartbeat, there’s nothing but the rain, the night pressing in around them. Then Duquesne shifts his stance, his eyes narrowing, and Barney turns slowly, like he’s been caught in the act.
“What’s going on, Barney?” Clint asks, trying to keep his voice even, but the weight of the words — the suspicion, the fear, the betrayal — he can’t mask it completely. “What is this? What’re you doing with him?” He jerks his head at Duquesne, who stands silently, watching him, his expression unreadable. “What’s all this about money? You’re planning something, and you’re not telling me.”
Barney’s jaw tightens, and Clint sees it then — the mask cracks, just for a second. Behind the anger, there’s something else. Something Clint doesn’t know how to read. Barney looks at Duquesne first, like he’s unsure how to answer, and then his eyes flick back to Clint.
“Just stay out of it, Franny,” He snaps, but it’s not the usual teasing. There’s a finality in his voice, like he’s given up trying to keep Clint close. “You don’t need to know.”
“No,” Clint presses, stepping closer, unwilling to back down. “I do need to know. You’re my brother, Barney. I’ve stuck by you through all this. I need to know what you’re doing.”
The tension crackles between them, the rain the only other sound. Barney clenches his fists at his sides, his eyes hard, lips pressed into a thin line. The anger rolls off him in waves, and Clint feels the weight of the silence stretching between them.
“I told you before, Clint,” Barney growls, barely above a whisper. “It’s just you and me. We were supposed to be a team, remember? But you’ve changed. You’ve—” He stops abruptly, his breath coming fast. “You’ve found your place here. With them.” His eyes flick over to Duquesne again, his face twisted with something Clint can’t quite name.
Clint’s chest tightens, a sinking feeling in his gut. “What the hell does that mean? You think I don’t care about you? You think I’m abandoning you?”
Barney’s face twists with bitterness. “You’re not them. And I’m not staying here to be part of their circus. I’m not staying here to be your sidekick. I can’t keep pretending everything’s fine while you just get lost in this.”
Clint takes a deep breath, his hands shaking slightly as he tries to calm the bubbling frustration inside. “You’re not a sidekick. You’re my brother. You’re everything to me. I’ve been trying to include you, but you keep pushing me away. What’s that supposed to mean, huh? Why can’t you just find your place here? Why won’t you just—”
Before Clint can finish, Barney jerks forward, faster than Clint can react, his knife flashing in the dim light. The blade strikes just beneath Clint’s left ribcage, the pressure like a sudden electric shock to his system. Clint gasps, his breath caught in his throat as the world tilts. His hand flies to his side, feeling the wet warmth of blood soaking his shirt, a quick, sharp pain radiating through him.
Clint stumbles back, his knees nearly buckling. He’s barely able to keep himself upright as he feels the blood seep through his fingers, the air feeling colder than ever, the rain no longer a distant hum but a heavy weight that presses against his skin.
Barney doesn’t even look at him, doesn’t hesitate. He just turns, his face hard, his eyes cold, and walks away — walking with Duquesne, who seems to have shifted somehow. The mask that had been there earlier is gone now, and there’s something darker in Duquesne’s eyes, something Clint doesn’t recognize.
The last thing Clint hears before the world blurs is Duquesne’s voice, calm and indifferent: “Let’s go, kid.”
And then they’re gone, and Clint is left dying, fading out there in the rain, the sharp sting of betrayal burning in his chest, the pain in his side an unbearable reminder of how far apart he and his brother have drifted.