💚1600s fic💚

@esther-c I’m glad you like it! 😊💜

I’ll post a couple more chapters, and then I’ll share the few boards I’ve made😜

 

@mineralizedwritings @smiley @keilah-h @rae @ellette-giselle @whalekeeper @loopylin @raxforge @highscribeofaetherium @theducktator @anyone-else-that’s-here-that-is-a-Marvel-nerd-like-me

 

Chapters 3-4

 

Chapter 3

He did not appreciate the glances Clint offered his way.

‘Twas only due to Laura Barton’s kind motherly spirit that their “fair maiden” had finally released the name given to her at birth: Yelena.

He knew not all what they had discussed, but gathered around the fire, with Laura nor Yelena present, Clint shot him the most searching, pointed glances.

‘Twas not settling.

No, he did not suspect Clint of anything bad nor malicious, but Clint did, in fact, have quite the reputation for being one to ask far too many questions—more questions than Steve ever appreciated or asked for.

Questions were something Steve had no desire for.

“It ‘tis curious how Laura was the one she spoke to at first.”

“Not surprising, Scott,” Clint said around a mouthful of soup, “for it ‘tis true my wife is the kindest woman I have ever laid eyes upon. It ‘tis not my tale to share, nay, Yelena did not even speak much of it when I was present, but Laura is speaking to her…it ‘tis likely that Yelena has such hidden, deep pain.”

Another settled, pointed look turned his way.

Steve tore off a piece of bread and shoved it into his mouth, chewing slowly.

Nay, he would not answer a question even if Clint so dared to ask.

It t’wasn’t fair that Clint insisted Steve open his deepest—no, he could never share what was best left covered and buried amidst the darkness.

“Ah, well, then I hope she may find peace here.” Scott murmured, also seated around the fire, slowly nodding.

Children who had long finished eating played a few meager feet away, laughing, smiling, giggling, twirling. Many still lacked proper weight, but over time, they seemed much less ill.

They were healthy—healthy as could be given such difficult conditions.

The health of all who lived in the forest, and others who lived in such poverty, it ‘twas his mission…his reason for fighting.

Lord Pierce, King Thor, Rumlow, others…they richly deserved what difficulties they so received: ‘twas only justice.

Was it not fair to provide for the defenseless by inconveniencing those that oppressed?

“Steven Grant, ‘tis it not true that there ‘twas more than enough to go around for all? And yet, I see it ‘tis also true that you permitted yourself very little food of all that has been prepared.”

Dragged from his reverie, heat spread across Steve’s face. He offered the faintest hint of a smile and glanced up at the brown-haired, gentle-spoken older woman regarded as the most motherly of all that lived in their forest sanctuary. “I ‘twas not very hungry.”

“Lies, Steven. It ‘tis unwise to lie to Winifred, for she knows you better than you may perhaps know yourself.”

“’Tis unfair for her to insist I need something I ‘twas in no need of, Sir Barnes.”

George and Winifred shared a glance, a glance that spoke more than words could possibly explain. Despite their care, Steve knew deep concern laid beneath their compassion. Not only concern for Steve, but for their three daughters and for the son they hadn’t seen in years—indeed, Winifred and George grieved Bucky as any loving, hurting parent would.

If they knew how he had failed, how he had not rescued, how he himself had fell victim—“He shall be punished with-“—no, no, NO.

He wasn’t the same man he was then. He was fighting back now—he was…he was—“Here, take a bowl of soup.” Laura’s gentle, telltale voice.

Steve turned his head. His gaze met Yelena’s, but she merely took the bowl offered to her by Laura and quickly glanced away. How long had Pierce had her imprisoned? Had she been there when Steve had failed to do what he’d vowed to do?

Did she know of his connection? Did she know who he was? Did she know what Pierce had done—‘Stop thinking about that.’ He admonished himself.

Steve stood, set his bowl alongside other bowls that had been emptied, offered a gentle nod Winifred’s way, thanking her for making the soup, and stepped away.

He shoved the last bite of bread into his mouth.

It wasn’t—no, he could not, would not, reminisce over all that had occurred.

Footsteps echoed behind him, and Steve groaned. Not Clint…not again.

When could he be left alone to fight his own fight? When could he be left alone to wrestle his own demons?

“Steve, don’t run away.”

A brisk turn of his heel, and Steve met Clint’s gaze. A single breath chuffed out, and he rasped, “Just leave me alone.”

Clint took a few steps forward—indeed, Clint could not listen to orders—and clasped Steve’s muscled shoulder. His eyes peered into Steve’s, questioning, searching. “…You can’t bury the pain forever, Steve.”

“You know nothing about me.” Steve retorted. He pulled his leather shoulder coverlet out of Clint’s grip and shook his head. “I’m not burying anything.”

“Your reluctance to be open with anyone is evidence that you’re hiding something, Steve.”

“Others need your aid far more than me—”

“Nay. Indeed, others are in need of help, but ‘tis also true that has no factor over whether or not you are in dire need of aid.”

No.

Don’t let anyone know.

Don’t let anyone close.

Don’t get your heart broken again.

“It ‘tis getting late, Barton,” Steve stepped away, keenly aware that his words had gripped the attention of others around the encampment, “I must retire for the night. ‘Twas a good day, but more must be done if we are to survive.”

“Steve…”

Steve turned on his heel and kept up a quick pace, arriving at his tent in mere moments. Whereas others had homes, he was quite fine with, even fond, of a tent.

Suited his needs well enough.

His breath chuffed, and Steve clenched and unclenched his fists.

“Breathe, breathe.” He whispered.

He would think not of his failure. He would think not of his best friend nor another that had been the love of his life. He would not think of the sting of the lash nor the fire of the brand.

Nay.

He would sleep and he would sleep well.

He would fight for the defenseless and provide for those who could not provide.

Steve swiftly changed into something more comfortable and settled down on the rough straw, eyes glued to the top of the tent. He removed his leather boots and settled deeper into the straw. He ran his fingers across his threadbare blanket, across loose threads his mother had tried so desperately to fix but never could. Such familiarity, such comfort.

An echo of a time when life was good, devoid of the loss of innocence, devoid of the crushing weight. An echo of a life that had been hard but filled with warmth, filled with a warm embrace that held him close and swiped away his tears, an embrace that kept him fed, clothed, and comforted. An embrace that kept him reminded, reminded of a love that knew no boundaries.

Steve yawned, still fingering the loose threads of the blanket that reminded him of such relentless warmth. His eyes slowly fluttered closed, and sleep did not flee from him.

~***~

“His Majesty will most appreciate his order being complete sooner, Stark.”

Hefting a bundle of glistening swords, Bucky cast the quickest of glances Rumlow’s direction. Despite how many times he’d seen the blacksmith the King seemed to respect so much, it didn’t take away the coldness that remained in the man’s dark brown eyes, nor the chill that spread up and down Bucky’s spine when he stepped within the shop.

He wondered if even the intelligent Tony Stark was blissfully unaware of Pierce’s evil.

He was close, so close to finding the identity of Pierce’s buyers, even closer to discovering the identity of Pierce’s hired thug—a pirate, if sources were indeed correct.

Though he knew not how Pierce could have connections to pirates.

Unless…“Buchanan, it takes not that long to place weaponry in the wagon.” Rumlow barked.

Bucky settled the swords in the wagon, briskly turned on his heel, and slightly bowed at the waist. “Apologies, Sir Rumlow.”

Rumlow scowled. “You better be.”

The quick glance from Stark—sympathy?

Nay, he had not time to ponder it. Best to gather the weaponry quickly, else risk the sting of the lash. The stiffness yet remained from the last demonstration of the lash upon his back.

Bucky winced and lifted another bundle.

Indeed, he could not risk thinking, nor tarrying—the pondering over Pierce’s illegal matters was dangerous enough even if he did not tarry in his duties.

Nay, Pierce had not yet discovered that Bucky could read—and did read—his occasional message. He thought Bucky too uneducated to learn.

Well, he would never be right about that.

Despite the poverty they suffered, Winifred Barnes had never been a woman to consider education a waste—nay, his Ma had ensured they knew how to read and write and think for themselves.

His stomach clenched.

He missed his Pa and his Ma. And Caroline, Kathleen, and Becca. And Steve.

There were times he wished he’d accepted the offer, but nay, he had to discover Pierce’s buyers and most of all his thug before too much time passed and he could no longer discover them.

Bucky chewed on his bottom lip.

Pierce hid something—something massive, something he discussed not in his letters. Indeed, Bucky knew Pierce hated to be stolen from…lied to.

But nay, he couldn’t be after Rogers Hood and his Woodland Rangers. Or could he?

Steve was strong, intelligent, skilled, and passionate: qualities a man like Pierce loved if they worked for him rather than against him. But indeed, Steve would likely sooner die than work for Pierce.

Though enslavement was a burden some had to bear.

Nay, Pierce would not lay hands upon Steve Rogers again—he could not.

The begs…the screams…the pleas.

No, he would not even consider it would happen again.

The discovery of Pierce’s buyers and the thug he had hired was of the most importance.

Bucky slung the last bundle of weaponry into the wagon and watched as Rumlow handed Stark a meager payment.

Stark glanced at the money, at the wagon, at his shop, and then Rumlow. He raised a single eyebrow and frowned. “This is not the payment His Majesty agreed upon.”

Rumlow smirked and nodded, turning to the wagon and motioning Bucky into the coach’s seat. “It ‘tis the payment Lord Pierce decided was quite enough—and quite fitting, given your inability to listen to his counsel.”

“I cannot afford help.”

Bucky settled into his seat, gripping the horses’ reins.

Pierce had given Stark a payment less than the King had first agreed upon—Lord Pierce was nothing except a criminal that grew far more evil with each passing moment.

“Then help shall be forced upon you, Stark, or else you shall lose this establishment entirely.”

Stark opened his mouth, closed it, stared at Rumlow, and opened his mouth again. He quickly closed it, turned on his heel, and marched back within his shop, the door closing behind him with an echoing thud.

Rumlow chuckled and settled on the seat beside Bucky, admiring a single silver blade and grinning like a madman. “Stark will soon find that it is ill-thought of him to try and undermine Lord Pierce’s power—nay, he will soon learn that Pierce is a Lord not to be trifled with. There are grave consequences for crossing him—blasted, Buchanan, get this wagon moving! We don’t have all day.”

“Yessir.” Bucky bit out.

Nay, it was very unwise to cross Lord Alexander Goodwin Pierce.

‘Twas only a matter of time before all learned that.

He nudged the horses along and released a deep sigh underneath his breath. He would discover Pierce’s buyers and his hired thug—for every life depended upon it.

Bucky glanced up, set his jaw, and stared straight ahead, vowing he would never stop—nay, not even if his life depended upon it.

 

Chapter 4

Lord Alexander Pierce was a beast: a beast that knew no boundaries.

Tony clenched and unclenched his fists.

No. Nay. He could not…he could not give in to his fury.

He gulped a deep breath, closed his eyes, and slowly released his breath. Nay, he would not allow Pierce to bring him down so easily, so swiftly.

He would just have to speak to the King. No, the King would accuse him of being a liar. What payment Pierce had provided would have to suffice.

But he would not hire help—he could not.

Tony’s eyes snapped open. What was that?

A crash, a moan.

Nay, he was not alone. But how had one snuck into the shop? He kept it locked.

Tony gripped a blade he had yet to sharpen. Though not to the highest of quality, it would have to suffice. He stepped slowly, carefully, keenly aware that whoever hid within the shadows could hear him as well as he could hear them.

Whoever dared to sneak into his shop—Tony’s breath caught in his throat.

A still young man—nay, a boy.

Messy brown hair, closed eyes, threadbare clothes, his shirt ripped to shreds. Round cheeks spoke of his youth, and clothing that barely clung to his frame testified to his malnourished body. He laid on broken wood, a reminder of the crash Tony had heard in his ears. Blood and bruises covered his face, even his legs and arms.

Nay, wherever he came from, it ‘twas not kind. He seemed barely alive, much less living.

And his dark brown, messy hair…the bruises…the blood…it…it—‘She glanced up at him, eyes halfway closed shut, tears coursing down her cheeks, bruises and blood decorating her chubby face. “…Daddy, don’t leave me.”’

No.

No…please…no.

He would not think of it, he would not dwell on what he would forever grieve. If only she and her mother had seen what he’d become, the monster who’d been born, they would not love him the same.

For what did a coward deserve except suffering?

What did a man who couldn’t even save his own family deserve except death?

He hadn’t done enough—he hadn’t saved the ones he loved. Out of such loss, out of such pain, had arisen what he once never imagined but hated with all of his being—Anthony Stark had become the monster children feared.

Tony took several deep breaths.

Breathe. Breathe.

But rather than the boy lying before him, the image of the present was replaced rather by an image long gone but never forgotten, an image of what had been so brutally sacrificed, an image of all that had been precious, all that had been lost.

‘Her fingers gripped his own, her breath shallow, her eyes darkening, moment by moment. “We’ll be safe, Tony…we’ll be…waiting.”’

No…no. Please, no.

He had not done what he needed to do, not then. Whether or not he could have saved them was of no consequence—at the very least he could have given it a better try.

But nay.

He’d failed them. He’d watched them die. He’d screamed and begged and cried and slowly numbed himself to the pain.

If only he could forget.

If only he could no longer see the images.

If only…if only…

If only he could be more than the monster he was cursed to forever be.

Tony shook his head and cast his gaze upon the boy lying on the floor.

He would help him—he had to. He couldn’t just leave him there.

Tony slowly pushed aside scattered pieces of wood and crouched down beside the boy.

He gently inspected the boy’s arms and legs.

Nothing was broken, nothing seemed out of place.

Tony slowly extended his arms and slowly wrapped his arms beneath the boy’s frame—which weighed even less than a small child—and lifted him into his embrace.

Nay, he would not fail.

      Not again.

~***~

Blast that wonderful Laura Barton—Yelena had entirely meant to keep her secrets to herself, thank you very much.

And yet…Laura’s gentle nudging and love had awoken something within her she hadn’t felt—nay, she would not think of what had been lost…what had been stolen from her enslaved hands.

But she was not enslaved anymore.

Or was she?

Nay, they were not on Pierce’s side, that much was clear, but what if they worked with another?

It mattered not how kind Laura Barton was: it was a mistake of Yelena’s to allow some of her story to spill for the world to witness.

Nay, she would not make such a mistake again.

“You’re up early, m’lady.”

Yelena balled up her fists, turned her head, and raised a single eyebrow. “’Tis seems I’m not the only one awake at such an hour.”

Rogers smiled, shrugged, and plopped down on the grass beside her, raising a single knee up to his chest, already dressed in his signature green and brown cloth and leather clothing.

‘Twas unfortunate he had chosen a life of thievery—he otherwise seemed an intelligent man.

Rogers brushed a loose blonde lock to the right side of his forehead where he seemed to force his hair to gather, glancing up at the still mostly dark sky above. “Still think of us as petty thieves?”

“I know not what to think, other than you are quite insane to remain so close to the town—you must know the consequences if you were to ever be caught.”

Rogers pulled a knife out from within one of his leather boots, inspecting the silver. “I sincerely doubt they will find us, m’lady—”

“You could never be certain, Rogers Hood. You will be executed or hung at best; branded, enslaved, or feel the sting of the lash upon your back at worst. You need not fear a quick death…nay, you need fear the continued pain if you are to be caught and live to tell your tale. You know not the pain of a brand nor a whip, but it is most unpleasant.”

She could not think of it. She would not.

She was strong. She always had been, and she always would be. She would survive and use her freedom for good—indeed, she’d prove Lord Pierce and everyone else that had ever doubted Yelena Belova wrong.

“Rogers Hood?”

Rogers suddenly faced her, his blue eyes with the faintest hint of green bright, even slightly widened. As if he did indeed fear what could occur—or as if…he did indeed know the fire of the brand and the sting of the lash.

He shrugged and furrowed his eyebrows. “What?”

“You need not to feign ignorance with me, Rogers Hood. Nay, keeping secrets from me proves why you need not be given my trust.”

“M’lady, I would hide nothing—”

“Do not take me for a fool, Rogers Hood,” Yelena stood, “it ‘tis clear enough that you are not all you claim to be.”

Rogers stood, slipping his knife back within his leather boot. He raised his eyebrows and motioned to the still-sleeping town with an arm. “And it ‘tis clear that you know not what we have all been forced to sacrifice. Nay, Yelena, you know not what the people here have suffered.”

“You see yourself as a hero?”

“Nay,” something dark passed through Rogers’ gaze, “I have failed far too long to be a hero.”

Footsteps echoed across the dirt, and Yelena turned her head only to meet the gaze of a certain Scott Lang—an insufferable man, truly. He frowned and nodded at Rogers, his brown eyebrows furrowing together. “Scouts have informed us that there is a carriage from His Majesty on the eastern road: Barton believes we shall be smarter to keep our distance, ‘twas not long ago we stole from His Majesty’s favorite Lord, after all—”

“Clint fears it is a trap?”

“Barton may indeed be right, Rogers Hood,” Yelena hiked an eyebrow Rogers’ direction, “’t’would not be the first time His Majesty has set a trap for another.”

Rogers offered Yelena the quickest of glances and faced Lang once more with a single nod. “Inform the scouts this is a carriage we aren’t to trifle with.”

Lang rushed off, and Yelena glanced around the hidden forest village. Nay, she did not trust the people fully, least of all Rogers Hood and those who stole alongside him, but so many seemed quite so kind: the older and the children most notably. Even she would mourn the harm done if His Majesty or Lord Pierce laid hands on the humble town.

Yelena slowly faced Rogers, locked eyes with him, and noted simply: “Your time is wearing thin, Rogers Hood.”

Board #2: Bucky Barnes (and I’m gonna do 2 at a time, but I need to make another one still😅 I’ll share Tony’s once I have another one to share his alongside👀)