part 3
“…therefore, we can confirm that this was a direct attack by the crown. Rumlow had been on his way to report back to the king — once he doesn’t show, it will be assumed that he was killed. It’s likely that more assassins will be sent subsequently.”
“And has he revealed anything?” Steven asks.
“Nothing. He’s always been as stubborn as a mule, you know how he is…”
Their words fade back into nothingness. You’ve been staring at the ground for what feels like hours — thinking, not thinking. Staring at the bandages around your hands, imagining what your mother would say; a lady’s skin is as smooth and clear as the marble used to carve her likeness. She was always so perfectly composed, poised. Every movement was gracefully calculated, every word was poetic. She was the image of all you’d ever wanted to be — and now, with your jagged, scarred palms, you’d surely never be thought of as a proper lady again. You’re unsure whether you should rejoice or mourn.
Your world has been, once again, turned on its head. Maybe you should be used to it by now. It’s only that, you’d thought that perhaps after last night you’d be afforded some relaxation – but each turn only served to further alienate you from normality.
The bitter truth is, as much as you had been told about your father, it had never truly seemed real — he had always been kind and caring, concerned for your safety… and he had sent an assassin to kill you because you knew the inner-workings of the Capital. You feel like a fool. A green, naive fool, who — despite the warnings and the evidence presented to her — still held hope for her own, selfish truth.
“…she’s been like that since this morning,” another voice mutters. Natalia, maybe. “She hasn’t eaten, won’t speak much either.”
You feel a hand brush against your cheek — then trail to your shoulder, and finally take one hand in theirs. “Hey.”
You almost don’t register that it’s you that is being spoken to.
“_____, look at me.”
When you look up, eyes cloudy and shining with unshed tears that you hadn’t noticed, Steven is kneeling before you. Behind him, standing around the table, are his generals. How curious — you don’t remember leaving his personal tent.
“_____,” he murmurs, cupping your face. “Perhaps you should go and rest—”
“No!” You recoil, "I — I want to stay with you. I’m sorry, I’m — I’m simply distracted—”
“Calm down,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours, and you realise with a start that you’re breathing much too quickly— “Calm down, dove.”
Dove. A slip of the tongue, maybe, or a fleeting thought that had pushed itself onto his lips. But there’s a choked noise behind him, and suddenly James is brought to your attention.
“Steven, I told you—”
Steven huffs in annoyance, pulling back just slightly from you. “I know what you told me.”
“But you didn’t heed my advice, obviously,” James retorts, jaw set. He glances down at you. “You never do—”
“This isn’t the time for this!” Steven declares, but he stands swiftly and turns towards his childhood friend, stance defensive. “We have more important matters at hand.”
“Making decisions that could cost us our entire cause shouldn’t be made while you’re distracted,” James presses, stepping closer to Steven, and you can practically taste the tension that rolls off his shoulders.
“I’m hardly distracted—”
Quickly, you stand, drawing the men’s attention. “You must forgive me, Sir James. My… my whole world has been flipped and turned and — well, it’s only settled in. I – I won’t be a distraction, I promise. I can help. I can draw the city’s layout from memory in my sleep if you so wished it.”
James, seemingly at a loss for words, simply chews the inside of his cheek and sighs deeply. He looks between you and Steven — furrows his brows and meets his Captain’s eyes with a look that says I hope you know what you’re doing. He steps back.
A glance around the table yields similar results – a general agreement to accept more of your help, but a reluctance to completely and utterly place trust in you. A unanimous decision that should you step out of line, betray their trust, you were back to being a glorified prisoner – doing chores and sharing a tent but unable to leave or make your own choices. Even with your being the object of Steven’s… affections.
A warm hand finds its place on your waist.
“We’ll build a new world,” Steven says, voice firm. “A just world. Together."
×
"He hasn’t spoken to anyone. Are you sure you want to talk to him? He’s no better than feral."
The tent Rumlow is held in is less of a tent and more of a glorified cage. It’s small and grimy and houses the hounds, one singular pole keeping the entire structure afloat.
You don’t know what you’re trying to prove. Your strength, your courage, ability to put aside your own discomfort in the name of progress? Maybe you simply look more foolish than before; Steven’s generals had warned that Rumlow wasn’t expected to speak at all, never mind to you. But here you are, furs pushed up to your neck and standing so close to the fair-headed soldier that your shoulder brushes against his arm.
"I’m positive.” Perhaps if you square your shoulders and raise your chin you’ll believe yourself. In all honesty, the idea of confronting the man sent to kill you by your father makes your stomach turn. But it’s something that must be done — if not for the cause, then for your own mental wellbeing. For your own closure. “I – in the most unladylike manner, I… I want to…"
“You want to show him he’s failed.”
“…Yes.”
“I understand. You shouldn’t feel ashamed. I–” He stops, as if hesitant, but continues– “I’ve dreamed of doing the same."
To your father. Unspoken, but louder, still.
For a moment you’re struck with the same feeling – of wanting to stand above your father, victorious, having him realise that his worst fear had come true. That he had lost his power, his daughter, and everything else he held dear. For him to truly regret his actions in his last seconds. Then the feeling passes, and you’re only left with shock at your own inclinations.
"Say the word and it’ll be over,” says Steven then, firm. His eyes glint dangerously – and shortly, you’re unsure whether he’s reminding you that you can leave at any time or implying that he’s prepared to end Rumlow’s life.
You’re suddenly hesitant – though maybe more so because of the sudden, startling notion that you don’t care if Rumlow dies or not. Your skin crawls, mind torn between the fact that this man attempted to murder you, and your disapproval for violence where it could be avoided.
In the end, you nod. “I know.”
How peculiar it is, you note with a dark sense of humour, that just a few weeks ago I would have cowered in the presence of Steven. Now it is he who guards and protects me while I face my assailant.
It is to the tent’s singular pole that Rumlow is tied, and you almost don’t recognize him. His face is bruised and bloody, left eye swollen shut and front teeth missing from his sneering mouth. His hair hangs limp and greasy onto his grimy forehead, his clothes torn and ripped, and you can see his shoulder is red and raw and scabbing over from where you stabbed him.
He must be freezing, you think, eyeing where his skin is pressed against the cold floor. These winters take pity on no man. Let him freeze. If not death, he at least deserves this discomfort.
“Princess,” he croaks as you enter, split lips widening into a smile. “How nice to be in your presence. Pardon the way I look, the Captain did a number on me."
You school your features to hide your shock because Rumlow truly looks like a living corpse. Never had you seen such a blatant show of brute strength and violence from Steven. You can’t deny that Rumlow deserved it, but had Steven really felt so strongly about your assault that he had reduced Rumlow to the poor battered excuse for a man on the floor before you?
A quick unsure glance at his face reveals it all; the disgust that contorts his features is even more potent than that which he had held for you when you had first been captured. He looks as if he’s restraining himself from surging forward and putting an end to it — quite frightfully, though you notice how he steps just the slightest bit in front of you, shoulders set and jaw hard, and you’re suddenly struck with the affirmation that he would never bring harm to you. He has become the Captain once again, but he has pledged his services to you.
“I’m sure if you had something important to say it would have been said already,” you say, watching as Rumlow’s lip pulls back in a sneer. “Though I can’t help but be confused.”
“The Captain and his men have already tried to wrangle the truth from me, princess.” His teeth are reddened and bloody when grins wolfishly, and you can’t help but wince faintly. He must be in a lot of pain — but your palms twinge in reminder of your own, and you steel yourself once more. “What makes you think I’ll answer to the likes of you?”
Steven’s fists clench.
“You don’t have to answer, though you can certainly listen — I have enough anger to fuel conversation for the both of us.”
Rumlow is the epitome of a brute. He acts first and thinks later, has a temper that’s as explosive as the annual fireworks that glimmer in the sky for the Harvest Festival. He likes being in control, and although he’s beaten and bruised and tied up with the hounds his last ounce of control is the information that he’s holding close. But every man has a chink in his armour and you’d be damned if you can’t find his. “I suppose that the sigil on your arm means that you were trained in the Azurealean army. Though I can’t help but wonder how you entered it.”
“Like any man with half a shred of courage does.” He’s already defensive, snarling and growling like a wounded dog.
“Yes,” you hum. “Though the timeline is skewed, isn’t it? Sir Barton has expressed his shock at your betrayal — he says you’ve been with the rebellion since you were a young man. An orphan, he says, no mother or father to speak of. How young were you when you came here? At least 16, I’d wager. That’s the lowest age required by the Royal Forces.”
Rumlow’s eyes darken.
“My governess would tell me scary stories when I misbehaved as a young girl,” you murmur softly. “Stories of high-born children stolen from their parents. Sons made to be boy-soldiers. Is that what happened, Rumlow? Were you captured in the night, stolen from your family—?”
Rumlow bellows, suddenly rushing forward and straining against his restraints with such ferocity that you stumble backwards — but Steven is there, grasping the column of Rumlow’s throat roughly and shoving his head back onto the pole so forcefully that Rumlow chokes and blinks, eyes rolling momentarily to the back of his head.
“Try it again,” Steven seethes through gritted teeth. “Give me another reason to have your head paraded around this camp on a bloody spike.”
It takes you a few seconds to realise that you’re panting, hands instinctively clutching your neck. The instability of your limbs reminds you of the fear that you’ve been plagued with during your time here — reminds you of your helplessness, your weakness, and your anger ignites with the same ferocity that had taken ahold of Rumlow.
“I would feel sorry for you,” you say, voice so bitter that for a moment you scare yourself, “Truly, I would, but the ignorance that you exhibit is so mind-boggling that all I feel when I look at you is pure and utter hatred. Your family would have had you married off like a stallion for breeding. My father would have given you command in his army, would have you give the order for the slaughtering of thousands of innocents—”
“Thousands of rebel scum!” He’s foaming at the mouth now, neck still held under Steven’s clutch. “Breeding like cockroaches, leeching off the land. I was taken when I was barely 17. I’d already joined the army, made my place in Azureal, and it was ripped from my hands! I had to live among these bloody pigs for years, working up the ranks, assimilating, reporting back when I could—”
"And you did a good job,” you snap. “Pretending that you hate my family, pretending that you’re an honourable man while you took coin from my father to kill me!"
“Something had to be done.” Another wide, unsettling smile. “Your father couldn’t have you switching sides. Not with all that knowledge in your pretty little head.”
Rage, cool and hot and glutinous and whip-fast, drips down your shoulders and onto your torso. The nerve — the ignorance, the deliberate wrong that he’s committed, the unfaltering loyalty to your father — and all based on the fact that his childhood was unsavoury.
You never got the chance to know Azureal as a regular person would. You had occasional visits; parades, festivals, public outings to the markets. But you had never known it truly — you saw its beauty, the lanterns hung up above your head and the smell of resonant perfumes. You’d always thought of it as a wondrous city, truly, but even so you weren’t quite so disillusioned. There had to be at least one person suffering in Azureal — suffering more than Rumlow ever had. And yet no soul has resorted to… to this.
Rumlow is a man. A man with a scary sense of entitlement. And unlike the scary stories from your childhood and the extravagant, ruthless tales that had surrounded the Captain, you are shockingly aware of the fact. Not a faceless monster, not a soulless assassin with eyes of pure onyx like you had seen the night before.
Just a man.
You straighten your back and raise your chin, clasping your hands together. You meet Steven’s eyes. “That will be all, Captain. He is of no further use to me.”
You hear a loud thud and a groan from Rumlow when you turn on your heel and stride out. Steven pulls back the folds of the tent and steps out seconds later, looking for all the world as if he wants to re-enter and add another bruise to Rumlow’s visage.
"It’s simple, then,” you say, sighing. “His mind was turned. Clinging onto the life he once had.”
Steven watches you carefully, arms folded. “Are you okay?"
"Me?” You ask distractedly. “Yes, yes, of course. Just… it’s tragic, isn’t it? Stolen away as a child. Who could do such a thing?"
"The rebellion has had… unsavoury leaders. Leaders that saw only black and white. Sinning is not sinning if it’s for the cause; an Azurealean child is still Azurealean.”
He lets you stew over his words, and then: “Perhaps that’s why they failed – they allowed their own grievances to affect their choices. They didn’t want peace – just a flipping of tables. To see their oppressors underfoot.”
You know this, of course. Before Steven there had been a whole committee of rebel leaders known only as the Shield. They had disbanded under mysterious circumstances – a victory for your father, until Steven had risen from the ashes and continued with fury tenfold years ago.
“And you?” You can’t help but wonder. You know Steven is a just man, morally upstanding and true – but will he hold that same drive for the people of the Capital? The men in the army who just wanted to feed their families and put a roof over their heads? You’ve heard stories of kings who were kind and benevolent – but their minds were lost to the passage of time, twisted by old memories of war and discrimination. In their madness, they had turned into that which they hated most.
And seeing Steven so freely strike Rumlow – a man who deserved it, no doubt, but the sentiment still stands – rolls the tiniest ball of doubt in your stomach.
“Will you remain as you are now, Steven?” You must know. “The Capital is filled with men like Rumlow–”
“And none of them have laid a hand on you,” he interrupts, fierce. “None of them have conspired to kill you.”
You… suppose. Is this the length that Steven’s affections for you reach? Would he go as far as to slay a man in your name? Your speechlessness pushes him to speak, and he answers your silent questions in kind:
“I’ve lost too much to stand idly as those I care about are hurt. Dislike it or not, my love, but if it comes to it my sword will find the neck of any man who wishes to do you harm.”
The idea isn’t as outlandish as it seems. Every knight in Azureal is sworn to give their life for yours if need be. But Steven isn’t an Azurealean knight; he’s a man, a powerful man, pledging his sword for the fondness he holds of you. Your stomach twists and turns in that pleasant way it always seems to when in his presence – distantly, you take note of your cheeks heating up in the frosty air, stinging underneath layers upon layers.
The chill is numbing your nose, your fingers, your lips. Still, you find it within yourself to speak, suddenly short of breath like a giggling maiden. “… Thank you, Steven.”
“You still don’t understand, do you?” He asks quietly. “How I can feel what I feel for you.”
A few feet away, a group of soldiers shout and jest amongst themselves as they pass — such rowdiness feels wrong when Steven’s so close. Like your own little bubble of silence floats around your heads, filling your lungs with air so sweet that you feel like you’re back in the castle, back in those gardens filled with roses and buddleias and hanging begonias.
When all is said and done, a voice in your head says, you’ll be able to traipse those gardens with him. There’ll be no rebellion, no war. Just peace.
“We — we’ve only known each other for a few months,” you say, licking your dry lips. But I care for you more than I thought possible. “And I… I assumed it would be harder for you to shed your prejudice of me.”
“If you had remained with your father you would have been married to a man you’ve known for less,” Steven replies, brow furrowing at the thought. “And you speak of prejudice being shed — though do you feel for me as I feel for you?”
“You’re a smart man, Steven. You know that I do.”
“Then you know, princess,” he murmurs, stepping closer, if possible. “You know that your emotions outweigh that which you’ve been told.”
He’s close enough to kiss. Just a little push of your feet and you’d be tall enough to connect your lips, tall enough to wind your arms around his shoulders and bathe in the sheer affection of his presence. The last of the fear that had lingered deep in your bones falls to the ground with the snow, and melts all the same.
(Is this love? Is this what poets and artists and sculptors have slaved over for millennia? The cause of wars and tragedies, the drive behind men and women throughout time? Looking at this man – this soldier, with his uncharacteristically gentle brow and soft eyes – you think it could be.)
You exhale softly — watch as your breath frosts and clouds in the icy air, drifts over his lips. The closest you will get to a kiss in such an open, public space. “They don’t trust me, still.”
“They will, in time,” he promises, gaze so sure that you believe him, even as someone approaches from behind you and his eyes are commanded elsewhere. “They will.”
X
The camp packs up within the day. Evening is the safest time to travel, Steven says, with the open terrain making it easy for the army to be spotted during the day. Tents are rolled tight into packs, scarce food supplies piled into wooden wagons. Your own belongings – minute as they are – are placed into the saddlebags of the horse you ride.
A group of scouts are sent ahead to survey the area before the army truly arrives, and coded letters are sent to allies all over the country detailing your next whereabouts. And there are a lot of allies, but none so grand as one Alexander Pierce.
(“To the stronghold of Alexander Pierce, over the peaks of the Crimson Mountains,” Steven had read aloud. You remember peering curiously over as he penned down his words, letters scrawling and thin,“who is set to meet with Captain Steven Rogers and his army on the Eastern Plains.”
“Is this not a risk?” You had asked, brow furrowing. “To reveal your location so blatantly?"
"Alexander Pierce is one of our greatest allies, if not the greatest,” Anthony had interjected. “He’d never betray the cause."
From there they had branched off into grand war stories, tales of last-minute rescues and valiant battles. The largest benefactor of the rebellion – and yet, his name sounded strangely familiar, as if you had heard it once in a dream.
But your Captain and his generals were certain of him. Who were you to argue?)
It’s truly a marvel, you think now, looking behind and over Steven’s shoulder, and seeing the long, sprawling line of soldiers walking in time. Like tiny little ants, dutiful and resolute. It instills hope in you, knowing that the rebellion’s forces are as loyal and numerous as they are.
Steven had insisted that you ride with him. It is much more pleasant than the last time — bundled up in thick sheep fur, arms unbound and back pressed to Steven’s chest. And you can see where you’re going, which is even better, though the landscape is mostly snow-covered hills and distant forests. Still, it is better than the black of a blindfold.
"I’ve given much thought to your protection,” Steven suddenly says, bowing his head to your ear. You’re startled for a moment – he hadn’t talked much in the hours that had passed, save for the orders he had shouted to his men and the idle babble that Sir Samuel had made for a few moments. “Have you ever shot a bayonet?"
A bayonet? You? Your mother would’ve found an early grave if you had even touched one. You’re slightly giddy at the thought: you’d always thought they were beautiful, graceful. You’d seen magnificent ones hanging in your father’s office, wood carved with vines and flowers, metal shining and polished even when left untouched. Never had you imagined that you would shoot one, though.
"No,” you reply. “My mother always said: ladies don’t dirty their hands with matters of violence.”
Steven hums. “Even a lady must learn how to defend herself.”
“And you would teach me?” There’s no hiding the excitement in your voice. Even Steven chuckles, chest rumbling behind you, and you find yourself sinking deeper into his embrace.
“I would."
"Not suitable weather for shooting, is it?” You ask, nose wrinkling as a snowflake lays claim to the tip of it. “I fear my fingers would become brittle and crumble from the cold.”
Another breathy laugh. “No, not the best for a learning lady, my love.”
(My love. Your chest flutters.)
“It’s warmer east,” he continues. “Spring reaches there first. We’ll be able to shed these furs at last."
The thought is comforting. Spring and summer were always your favourite times of year; with bright, blossoming flowers spreading their fragrance through the air, with the exotic fruits that would finally be in season. Salads and buttery bread rolls and cold, smoked meats, fruit tea swirling with honey and flower buds. The harvest festival, with its high floating lanterns and festive delicacies, the dancing and singing in the streets you could hear from your window–
"But the journey will be long,” finishes Steven – and you gasp as his lips find your pulse, leaving just a clandestine kiss there before pulling back. “Sleep if you can, dove.”
And sleep you do, waking only when breaks are afforded to eat and rest. Once in the morning, once in the afternoon, and you travel through the entirety of the night. Your legs and back ache, your hips are restless and sore — but you’re making good time, Steven says, and should be in the east within the next two days at most. Still, even during breaks you work, banding together with Natalia and a few of the other women to make something of a stew — mostly root vegetables, herbs and beef bones — but the soldiers eat it with gusto, even going as far as to give their thanks to you. To you!
Even that little interaction energises you. The next two days pass in the same fashion but you power through them with a strength you didn’t know you possessed. Although your injuries are a bother and you aren’t at all acclimated to riding, especially for such long periods, you continue on. Not one complaint leaves your lips during this time, and you do your best to raise the other’s spirits when they were doing the opposite.
“Have you noticed?” Natalia asks one morning, hunched over one of many stew cauldrons.
“Noticed what?” You have no inkling of what she could be referencing — it comes out of nowhere, after all, and you find yourself glancing around the sheltered glade where the front lines have settled to rest. Steven and his generals are making quick work of their tents, not as secure or well-fortified as they could be, but they have to be cleared up after a few hours. It’s the last stretch of travel, and already the air feels warmer.
“The way he looks at you.” She grins as she looks up, squinting through the sharp morning sun.
You balk. “D-don’t be foolish, Natalia–”
“He calls you dove,” she continues, voice teasing. “And he looks at you as if he’s a blind man seeing the sun for the first time. Surely you’re not so ingenuous?”
“We—” Another cautious glance around at the bustling camp, and you resort to squatting down beside her— “We — that night when Rumlow attacked me… he… I… well, he kissed me.” You end on a hushed whisper, still peeking occasionally and conspiratorially over your shoulder. Saying it aloud makes your chest thump, cheeks heating, and not completely from the cold. “I’ve never felt the lips of a man.”
Natalia sighs wistfully, fondness in her voice. “How romantic. A love found amidst war.”
“It’s not quite so developed!” You squeak. “He only… well, he comforts me. He makes me feel safe… he’s got such hope for the future, his ideals are pure and virtuous. There are many men in this land, Natalia, but he is the one I trust most to rule.”
She hums. “Not quite so developed. I see.”
“Natalia—!”
“Oh, hush,” Natalia jests, grappling for the wooden spoon leaning precariously against the cauldron. “I know love when I see it, you know. You’ve grown beside me, little doll, and never before have you held such passion for a man.”
“That’s because the men I had the displeasure of meeting were ludicrous and self-absorbed.”
All suitors disguised as friends; princes from across the Indigo Sea, lords of wealthy and highly-admired houses hailing from the east, dukes from the north and viscounts from the south. They’d come in the spring and summer in their western houses, propped by the sea the palace overlooked. They’d take you on carriage-rides and talk about their grand houses; they’d walk the gardens and boast of their courage and bravery. You don’t think any of them had ever genuinely been in combat; fingers free of calluses and skin as smooth as yours.
Not like Steven, your mind supplies.
No, nothing like Steven. With his short hair and toughened skin, hard brow and equally stony eyes. His jaw, as sharp as glass, and his mind, even sharper. His frigid disposition and aloofness — the softness of his touch, the ease of devotion alight in his eyes when he looks at you…
“I won’t fight with you,” Natalia says, rising to her feet. You follow suit. “But I will ask you a question, little doll; when you look into your future, who do you see beside you?”
When you return to riding hours later, you think about it. Pressed against Steven’s chest, hands grasping loosely at the reins he so easily commands. Who do you see beside you?
The future is uncertain. If the rebels succeed — and you have every hope in your heart that they do — things will change. You’d live in the city, maybe, in the palace as an advisor if it would be allowed. You’d see Natalia often, and the other women you had come to know in your time here (Carol and Maria, and Monica and Wanda) would finally have the ability to join the Royal Guard. The generals, with their joking and banter, would fill the hallways with laughter. And the man that commands them, sitting on his golden throne, would bring peace and prosperity abound.
The sun burns blood-red as it begins its descent to the horizon; a bad omen, you’d once read, but the day was sweet and the next day would be sweeter. You close your eyes and settle your head against Steven’s shoulder, and drift off to the steady rocking of the horse underneath you.
And when you wake — morning, now —, the grass is green. Not swathed in snow and not dusted with frost — green, emerald green, like the earrings your mother wore for her wedding anniversary, like the velvet gown you’d been gifted by a duchess in the north for your 17th nameday. Your forehead is beading with perspiration (you hadn’t had the luxury to sweat with warmth in a long time), and the trees are beginning to bud with new life. In the distance, birdsong, and when you sit up straight and wipe at your eyes, Steven greets you softly.
“Good morning, dove. Enjoy your sleep?” His voice is teasing, but sleep and distraction render you unbothered in returning his jests.
“Very much so,” you say, attention drawn by the soft blush pink of a passing bush. Ahead, Sir James leans sideways from his horse to pluck a single bud from the bramble. “Spring has finally arrived.”
“And everyone is glad,” he replies, a sigh of relief carving itself out of his chest. “No more furs, more wheat and barley and food.”
“No more frozen toes and fingers, hm?” And you act on your momentary bravery, reaching forward to brush your fingers over his.
“Winter’s chill hasn’t quite left us yet,” he says, before leaning forward. “Perhaps the hand of a lady should warm me?”
“W-well, I — I—” His breath is warm and shiver-inducing, proximity and chocolate-smooth words leaving you tongue-tied and fuzzy-minded.
His laugh is booming and bright, seizing the attention of his flanking generals — and they’re equally as quick to chuckle and grin, the enticement of the end of the journey easing their aches and pains. You can’t help but think, as the air fills with jokes and conversation, that the rebels had brought spring with them.
x
The army settles in the shadow of a great, white-stone cliff. Great plains of yellow grass stretch for what seems like forever behind you, and in the distance, the tops of deciduous trees nearly touch the sun. It’s to this forest that Steven takes you when the tents are assembled and all duties are fulfilled; with only a bayonet and a skin of water, he takes your hand in his and together you trek through the knee-length grass.
You find yourself glancing up at him every once in a while; having shed his furs and leather waistcoat, he’s left only in a white shirt, unbuttoned so the fine wisps of his that coat his chest are revealed. He shines as golden as his hair, as golden as the grass, in the sun; cheeks already ruddy from the warmth and brow more at ease than ever. His hand is large and firm, reassuring in every touch, and you have to stop yourself from actively thinking about your hand in his. The prospect of pulling him down and setting your lips to his is growing more attractive by the minute.
“What?” His query knocks you out of the clouds.
“What?” You reply in kind.
“You were staring, dove,” he says, amused. “Such concentration should be reserved only for shooting.”
“You know, that explains much about you, dear captain.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean, dear princess?"
And you laugh together, revelling in each other’s company as the forest grows nearer – and for a miniscule moment you imagine that you’re a simple couple; farmers, perhaps, living off the land and your love. Simple and peaceful, days filled with hard work and lazy nights. A farmer and his wife.
Then you reach your destination – a beautiful, picturesque creek – and Steven removes his bayonet from the sling across his back, and the fantasy shatters.
"I assume you know how to work a knife,” he questions with a raised brow, lifting the sharp end of his bayonet.
“Of course. Prod with the pointy end.”
He huffs a laugh and shakes his head. “Eloquently spoken, princess.”
“But completely correct, no?”
“As always. Now, firing a bayonet is a completely different skill – your arms must be steady, your eyes sharp and true, your grip strong.”
“Quite a lot,” you say, suddenly nervous as he slips a bullet into its chamber. “Are you sure I’ll be able?"
"I have no doubt!"
For the next while he teaches you determinedly – demonstrating the proper stance, showing you how to reload, warning you of the noise that would follow. Half of you listens eagerly, excited to finally learn something you deemed worthwhile – the other half is completely and utterly taken by your mentor.
So when Steven asks minutes later if you’re ready to shoot, one can understand why you’re reluctant to try.
"Perhaps I can simply watch again?” You squeak as he nears. Oh, gods, you don’t want to lose a finger. Or a hand! Although they are already as injured as they could possibly be. “I’m still quite unsure…"
"Would it help if I guided you?” He says, slipping behind you swiftly. The heat of him against your back makes you swallow your refusal. “It’s not all that difficult, dove. I’ve explained all you need to know.”
And you had only barely been listening.
“I… I suppose.”
The heavy, cold weight of the bayonet is placed into your bandaged hands. You fumble with it for a second, shifting into a weaker, unsure version of the stance Steven had displayed earlier. But warm hands find your shoulders not too soon after, pulling your shoulders straight. One hand presses itself to the middle of your back, forcing you to stand tall, and you pretend that your sudden shortness of breath is completely to blame on the warm weather.
“Stand tall and proud, dove,” he murmurs lowly. “You’re a rebel, after all."
Your heart stops in your throat. You’re a rebel. You’re one of them. There’s a tightness in your throat, a deep, profound relief at having found your place. Your place at his side, your place in a position where you could help your people.
There’s another steady exhale from behind you; slowly, Steven’s arms come to rest against yours, hands clasping your own, and he must know the effect his touch has on you. That all of him has on you.
"Aim.”
A tree across the tiny, trickling stream, thick and rough. In the middle, a knot larger than your head.
“Inhale deeply.”
You do as he says; the smell of sweet water and fragrant grass fills your senses – and, deeper still, the musk of leather and tobacco.
His finger begins to press down on the trigger. You force your eyes to stay open.
“Squeeze.”
The bang echoes and echoes and echoes – a flock of screaming birds rise through the trees and into the sky. Smoke erupts from the spot you’d shot – not the tree you’d been aiming for, but it’s sister next to it. And much too low, too. But Steven is laughing proudly behind you and there’s this exhilaration in your veins and your hands are shaking but you’ve never felt more powerful in your entire life.
“Well, I suppose as far as first times go…” You grin, chest heaving.
“We’ll make a soldier of you yet!"
"My aim is positively horrendous!"
He hums, rumbling and low next to your ear, and you’re certain that if you shot another bullet right at that moment you would have faltered and made more of a fool of yourself. “Takes practice, dove. I myself am more talented in the ways of a sword…”
Yes, you don’t doubt it. You remember Steven the day you were taken; sitting atop his stallion of midnight black, bayonet propped in hand. He’d been terrifying — but the brute strength that lay in him, that rippled in his arms and chest and legs, would do catastrophic damage with a sword. Against bullets, though, he’d have to equip himself with a shield.
"Another?” His arms tighten around you, and you swallow. You want to feel his arms around you again, in that way that they had been when he’d first kissed you. Grasping your waist as if you’d disappear. “______?"
"Pardon?"
"Would you like to shoot another?"
You turn your head to look at him, swallowing, but your adrenaline has severed the connection from your brain to your mouth, it seems.
"I’d like you to kiss me again."
A thick brow quirks up. His lips spread deviously. "Oh?"
"Don’t make me repeat myself, please,” you say desperately, “My courage has almost worn off.”
“What cruel man would keep a princess from what she desires most?” But he still hasn’t bridged the gap. You turn fully in his grasp, resting your hands on his shoulders – and, ever so impatient, you push yourself up to his lips.
Like water after traipsing the desert. Lips the tiniest bit chapped, but always gentle in their pursuit of your affection. Hair silky between your fingers, chest firm and strong and supporting most (if not all) of your weight. Every bit of him instills safety in you.
“You’ll lose your balance like that, dove,” says Steven, panting. “A man is weak in the arms of the woman he desires.”
“You wouldn’t catch me?” You play.
“Oh, I would.”
You follow him when he finds a place on the ground, tugging you eagerly back up to his lips like he’d truly suffered in the short time you’d been apart. The grass is fragrant around you, scratching skin where your dress had been hiked up higher. With one leg on either side of Steven’s lap and your lips seized by his, you’re reminded of the last time you found yourself in such a position – the night of Rumlow’s attack, in Steven’s personal quarters. Things change so sweetly, don’t they?
This kiss is rougher now – just as passionate, just as fulfilling, but there’s a heat in your stomach brought on by him, by the slide of his tongue in your mouth, the grip of one hand on your hip and the other against your back. You find yourself gasping into his mouth, breathless and giddy on love, and he isn’t much better off.
When oxygen becomes a necessity you pull away. Albeit, reluctantly. The bayonet lies off to the side, completely and utterly forgotten as a soft kiss is pressed to your nose. You’re content to lay your head on his shoulder, shutting your eyes and inhaling deeply. This is more peace than you’ve been afforded in the last few months.
When the hand on your back stutters in its motion and Steven’s breathing becomes shallow for a moment, you know something trifles him. You lift your head and look up at him expectantly – though he’s already gazing down at you, face tender.
“I have found something in you that I had thought was lost to me,” he murmurs.
"I know,” you say, voice equally as soft.
“The next few months will be hectic. Once we join Pierce and the other allies, we begin planning for a coup. It’ll be dangerous – and… And should I lose you…"
"You won’t."
His answering exhale is shuddering and deep — and your heart aches for him, this damaged man who has had to take up responsibility where you had not been able to. You never stop being the Captain, do you? It’s not a job that offers time away.
You want to share his burden, you realise. You want to take this cloying weight from his shoulders and help him carry it. You want him to confide in you, to trust you, to…
Cerulean eyes find their place upon your visage. "I’ll need someone to rule beside me when we take Azureal.”
When. Not if.
“You’re keeping my father’s system of rule?” You say curiously, hands faltering on his shoulders. “I had thought that, well…"
"A new council will be added.” He shrugs. “I’ll have more power, but not enough power that my choice is the be-all end-all. Placing that much power in one man’s hands…"
You hum. "I’ve only known it to successfully work once. Wakanda, have you heard of it?"
Steve shakes his head. "Don’t know much past the Indigo Sea.”
“It’s a wonderful kingdom,” you gush, thinking back to the sunny skies and tall, fruit-bearing trees illustrated in books; the colourful clothing of the people and the strange contraptions they used with such ease. There, they didn’t have the same stigmas with women in positions of power – why, it was the King’s own sister who invented such gadgets! “The King is a just, kind man. He controls every choice made but his people are happy and thriving. Granted, his own cousin attempted a coup…”
“Power does strange things to people.” He stops, head tilted – and you watch with slight apprehension as he begins to take you in, calculated and delicate all at the same time. What on the gods’ green earth is he doing? “I want you to be the one beside me, _____. Be my queen.”
I beg your pardon? It seems you’d completely forgotten about his first insinuation.
“Steven, I…” It’s the title you’ve always wanted. Since you were a child you’ve been working towards it, tottering about in your mother’s oversized heels and trying on her crowns when your governess wasn’t looking. You had dreamt of the happy, perfect kingdom you would oversee with your future husband – but that had been before reality was oh so bittersweetly revealed to you.
Your mother didn’t have any power, anyways – not really. You learned that when you were 16 and your governess began to teach you about your kingdom in depth. A patriarchal monarchy are the words she used.
In short: your mother’s job was to stand beside your father and smile and nod when it was needed, looking prim and proper and regal. She supported your father, helped ease his responsibility with her love, but she had no true influence. And although you had various academic studies, you were ultimately being groomed for the same thing.
And this happy, perfect kingdom you hoped to rule doesn’t exist. Famine, drought, homelessness. Your family had taken everything from the people that deserved it, and just that simple thought is enough to have guilt turning your stomach – but when you look at this hope-filled man in front of you, this golden-haired soldier, you want to do your duty as Princess to this great land. To serve and protect, because gods know you hadn’t been able to do it for years before.
“I don’t know what you know,” admits Steven. “Politics and etiquette and international relations – I’ll be lost. I need your support.”
“The queen has no power,” you say. “My mother is merely a figurehead.”
“Things will be different, dove.” He hesitates then. “I didn’t mean what I said that night, I promise you. Where you are clueless in combat you more than make up for it in wit, kindness, justice. That’s what this kingdom needs.”
You laugh breathlessly, your chest tight with nerves and this strange, pulsing sensation that you suppose must be that fluttering little emotion they call love. “Being your queen means marriage, you know."
His eyes crease at the sides when he smiles. "Marriage doesn’t scare me, dove. Least of all to you.”
“And there will be those that object to the idea of us.”
“Let them.”
You walk home with the light of love on your brow, clandestine glances traded when you thought the other wasn’t looking. Your happiness must be evident to anyone who crosses you – Sir Samuel, in fact, looks as if he has to physically restrain himself from teasing as he walks past. And when Steven returns to his duties and you return to Natalia, she only takes one look at your face before attempting to hide a smirk.
“And how was your lesson, little doll?"
You clear your throat. "Very informative.”
“Oh, I’m sure it was–"
You erupt into a fit of giggles like a pair of children, and everything feels like it’s finally fitting into place.
Evening comes as a blanket of lavender and magenta above your heads, shrouding everything in a dull pink-orange glow. To your delight, Steven waits outside your tent to invite you to dine with him and his generals, and you eagerly accept.
You dine on the same stew of root vegetables and beef, but between secret smiles over the top of your bowls and the bumping of knees underneath the table, you can’t help but think it tastes better than ever. The cacophony of laughter and singing around you fills your heart with warmth, and not for the first time, you thank the gods that your carriage had been ambushed all those months ago.
“Will you stay?” Steven asks when all the plates are cleaned away and the dancing’s begun.
“To dance?”
“You know, I haven’t seen you dance once in your time here.”
“This dancing isn’t the kind I was schooled in,” you say, eyeing the quick, hasty movements and extravagant spins, the music quick and playful on the fiddle being played across the bonfire. "I’d make a fool of myself.”
“Ah, nonsense–” Any argument that might’ve followed is completely dissolved into the air when he tugs you close. “This dancing doesn’t have any rules, dove. You let the music guide you.”
“But– ah!” Without another word, you’re pulled into the fray, somehow weaving in and out of the other dancing couples with no problem – you pass a squealing Natalia and Clinton, spinning so fast that they’re almost a blur. Your steps are erratic and unpredictable, and for a moment you’re terrified that you’ll step too close to the fire, or knock so hard into another pair that you’ll injure yourself, but–
But Steven is holding you close, eyes shining and shoulders jumping with laughter under your hands. Threading through the dancing pairs and spinning you so quickly that you’re dizzy with it.
“A fool, you said?” He shouts over the music. “What a liar you make, princess."
"I’ve learned from the best, haven’t I?"
When the fiddle finally stops in its tracks you almost collapse into his chest, giggling madly, delirious off bonfire smoke and dancing. And you’re still laughing when you break away from the bonfire and begin towards his tent.
"I’ve never danced like that before! Gods, back in the palace every dance had so many steps and movements and rules and you had to keep a straight face and–” You sigh, beaming up at him. “Promise me we’ll dance like that every day when we take Azureal.”
“I’ll have a dance made in your name, dove,” he promises, grinning fondly as you skip ahead to his tent. “And we’ll dance it on our wedding day.”
Oh, the thought has blood rushing to your cheeks.
“With you, all dressed in white, and a crown upon your head."
"And you, with the King’s cloak on your shoulders.” Almost unconsciously, you sigh. Your hands find their place on his biceps. “You’ll be a wonderful king, Steven.”
“And you’ll be an even better queen.” His eyes drift to your lips. “Will you bed with me tonight?"
You raise a brow. "Is that a command, captain?"
"I don’t think I have to command you."
That night you sleep close to him; with your head on his chest and your hands intertwined. His heartbeat thuds in your ear, repetitive and calming, and as you drift off you realise that you’re happier than you’ve ever been.
X
The calmness of dawn is brought to a screeching halt by an echoing, bone-shaking horn. And then:
”Ambush!“
Steven’s up like a shot, his bayonet plucked from his bedside as he storms outside. Already there’s the sound of running and shouting outside – with sleep-ridden, desperate limbs you climb from bed and tie your shoes on, listening anxiously for anymore information–
But you don’t need to strain an ear because Steven comes marching in second later with James at his side, eyes wild. James speaks frantically and quickly, hands moving with every word–
"Get rid of Rumlow,” Steven orders lowly. “We can’t have him alive. Not when he knows about the princess.”
“And then?"
Steven doesn’t answer. Though that’s answer enough for James, who, after staring wide-eyed at his captain for a few seconds, steels his face and nods. "It’ll be done.”
And then you’re alone.
“Steven, what’s happening?"
"Ambush,” he answers gruffly, flitting around the room, pulling things from spaces you hadn’t even known existed. Scrolls and piles of papers and old letters – all are left at the mercy of fire when he strikes a match and lights them. “Azurealean soldiers. Don’t know how they got our position – here, c'mere–"
You don’t know what to say. Too many thoughts are filling your mind – what are we going to do, where are we going to go, why is he undoing my bandages, what will happen to us after–
The skin on your hands is raw and red with dried blood, swollen and sore. But you can’t even focus on that pain – you’re confused, and scared, and Steven looks like he’s prepared to fight to the death but you won’t let him, not now, not ever–
"We have to move quickly–” There’s a tearing sound. He’s ripped a strip from the bottom of his shirt, and before you even register what his train of thought could possibly be, he’s wrapping your wrists together at the small of your back.
“What are you doing?!”
“They’ll capture us.” His words are so fast that they seem to melt together. “They’ll capture us and they’ll capture you and if you’re not tied up they’ll easily suspect you of treason–"
"Too many people know where my loyalties lay, I’ll be found out either way–!”
“No-one in this camp would dare reveal you. Now come on.”
Outside is utter chaos. The silence that had so peacefully lulled you to sleep is nowhere to be found. In its place, all that is left is orders shouted and commands screamed, fear and anxiety turning the air acrid and sour. It’s painfully clear that you were caught off-guard; soldiers run about, half-armoured, delirious and sleep trodden. Some have already mounted their horses, some are still organising their weapons, but Steven pays them no mind.
“Where are we going?” You demand, quickly growing panicked. “We need to leave, Steven, flee–"
"We can’t."
He’s leading you to the hounds’ tent. Where Rumlow had been housed before he was… disposed off just minutes before. The thought is not comforting at all.
"W-what do you mean we can’t? Surely – surely there’s a path left uncovered, o-or a river to swim down, or–”
He’s tying your hands to the pole, smearing mud from the ground on your dress and skin.
“Will you stop?!” You cry, then. “Stop and–"
"Listen to me!” He roars, seizing your shoulders. “There’s no time for it. They’ll be on us within the minute. When – when they take you to your father, you tell them we treated you something terrible. Like a dog, like less than human. You have the injuries on your hands and the dirt on your dress to prove it. Mention nothing of–"
"Steven!” A voice yells. “They’re coming from all angles! We’re being surrounded–!"
You whimper. Steven’s hands clutch the sides of your face.
"Hush now,” he says hurriedly, but his soothing doesn’t work quite as well when he himself is on the verge of panic. “Mention nothing of our plans, mention nothing of us, my love. They’ll kill you for it surely.”
“I love you,” you gasp out. You feel as if your chest is caving in – exactly how you’d felt that night when you had been seized by Steven and his men, the same terror clawing up your throat. This time it was unbearably cold, taking each of your limbs in its terrible grasp, because you know that they will be executed. Publicly, gruesomely. And you will be alone in that dreadful kingdom, under a dreadful king. “I love you–"
"I love you too,” he interrupts, lips twitching up into a sad smile. That smile makes your throat choke around your sob, makes your stomach tighten and roll unpleasantly. “More than I ever thought possible, _____, you must know. If – if this is the last you see of me–"
"It won’t be.” But even that sounds like a lie on your lips. He knows that – and so, no answer is returned to you. He simply surges forward, presses a hurried, sloppy kiss to your lips – distantly, you hear a sniffle. You’re unsure whether it comes from you or him. The thought makes your tears flow harder.
Then, he runs off into the fray of fighting, the bayonet you’d been holding only hours earlier gripped in his hands. Leaving you standing alone and tied to the pole, wrists bound behind you and tears tickling your cheeks, bile threatening to rise in your throat.
The sun is blood red as it rises.