💚1600s fic💚

[freedom]

To help it not be buried in the forums and to help me find stuff easier…😂 I’m gonna post my 1600s Marvel AU here on this forum for anyone who wants to read to read!

(and I may or may not have aesthetics to share as well👀)

TAGS:

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

 

Chapters 1-2

 

Chapter 1

If there was anyone that more resembled a force of evil rather than a member of humanity, it was Alexander Goodwin Pierce.

He absentmindedly brushed loose wavy brown locks out of his line of vision and swiped dirt from his sun-burned cheek, holding back a wince.

“The crops still haven’t been harvested. What’s keeping you behind?”

“My Lord—”

“I won’t accept excuses, Dugan. You are paid, and I could rid of you any moment I so please. Do you wish to lose your job?”

Mayhap it would have been far more intelligent of him to have gone with Steve, accept the line of freedom he’d been offered, but he was so, so close to discovering Pierce’s—a backhanded slap formed stars in the brunette’s vision. “You didn’t listen to a single word, did you, Buchanan?”

What a—“No, sir, I did not.”

Pierce scowled, and his dark eyes narrowed. “Do you find joy in ignoring me?”

“No, sir.”

“Ensure it does not happen again. Fill him in, Dugan. And Buchanan…ignore me again, and I will ensure Brock makes you feel the sting of the lash. Do you desire that?”

His heart pounded. His head reeled. “N-no, si…sir.”

“I thought not,” Pierce retorted. He turned on his heel, and with a turn of his coat, disappeared and fled the field.

“What a—”

“Don’t say something he’ll make you regret.”

Dugan shrugged, using a single, plump finger to brush his amber moustache. “I could find another job. I’d be more concerned for your fate.”

He shrugged. He’d been taught long ago to not ask questions.

He didn’t think for himself.

He had no choice in the matter.

If only his choices hadn’t affected the lives he loved so dearly and once held so closely.

“Bucky, hey,” Dugan’s hand waved back and forth before his face, “are we going to get to harvesting?”

Yes…yes, that was what they needed to do.

No more thinking.

Discover Pierce’s buyer.

Discover Pierce’s hired thug.

Get out.

Get free.

Get the news to the King….somehow, some way.

~***~

Wind whipped, yet birds remained silent.

Great oaks creaked and groaned, as if they too could sense the heaviness. As if they too felt the ache, the brokenness, the weight of being underneath tyrants.

Well, perhaps it was only righteous that the Woodland Rangers were putting an end to that…one carriage at a time.

Hood pulled low and mask pulled up, he waited in the brush, crouched, waiting, watching.

Hooves clopped.

Wheels squeaked.

An arrow whistled through the air and Clydesdales reared.

He leapt from his place of his hiding, lithe, quick. With the coach apprehended and the horses reined by those who bore also muted colors of green and brown, he crested down the hill and flung a carriage door open, grasping cape and pulling a struggling form out of the carriage that had to undoubtedly be a sanctuary.

Light skin, rough bearded stubble…dark eyes…a familiar face and a far more familiar smirk.

“Brock Rumlow, Lord Pierce’s aide.” He snarled.

The man chuckled and nodded. “In the flesh. Do not expect me to not know of you and who you are: Lord Pierce knows precisely where—”

He unsheathed his sword and held it against Brock’s neck, the tip barely meeting skin. “Give me a single reason I should not end—”

“Despite your thievery, you are not a murderer, Rogers Hood…I doubt you would dare to start now.”

“I could dare.”

“I sincerely doubt that. Think of your dear friend.”

Bu…Buck…no. No.

‘NO! ‘, he almost roared, but rather, Rumlow spoke once more. “The mask and hood cannot cover your eyes, nor the fear within them. How good to know that Steven Rogers has a so apparent weakness.”

Steve stepped forward, the sword held higher, turned, the blade pressed against Rumlow’s neck. “Touch him—!”

“It ‘tis only Pierce’s mercy he hasn’t been whipped more, nor branded, nor given a chain about his neck, though that would be wise.”

Of all the-! Rumlow, Pierce, they were like…like…like…a hand squeezed his right shoulder. “We gathered all the goods. Don’t end him, Steve, you’re better than that.”

He shrugged off Barton’s hand, grasped Rumlow by his cape, crossed the road, and slammed the man’s back into a tree, eliciting a groan from Rumlow’s lips. “Speak a word of this to Lord Pierce, and your life will end, Brock Rumlow. He knows who I am as well as I know who he is, though he daren’t dare challenge me. I am sparing your life, Rumlow, and ‘tis a mercy,” he gripped the front of Rumlow’s shirt and shoved him aside, “a small mercy, but ‘tis a mercy nonetheless.”

Rumlow’s glare blazed, but deep fear did lie beneath such rage. He scrambled to his feet and fumbled his way down the road, cursing and mumbling to himself.

Steve sheathed his sword and stepped back onto the road, gently approaching a single Clydesdale, gently stroking her muzzle and pressing his forehead against it. “’Tis another that is now free of Lord Pierce’s chains and burden. Barton.”

The brown-haired, older man approached, stroking back loose locks from his sweaty forehead, hood back, mask down. “Yes?”

“What of the coach we apprehended? Is he a slave?”

“Yes, Steve, the coach is a slave. Though he is a maiden.”

A maiden? A maiden employed as a coach?

“Let me see.” He released his grip on the mare and followed Barton to the young coach seated on the forest floor, gaze down, head covered by a large straw hat. Steve crouched before him—her—and whispered, “You are free now.”

Blue eyes raised to meet his gaze, blazing. “None are free.”

“Then ‘tis good we are doing our best to rid this land of tyrants.”

She frowned, and her blonde eyebrows scrunched together. “I know of you, Rogers Hood. Nothing but a thief and a murderer, deranged, lost to whatever whims he so desires. Nay, I shall not trust you, not even for a moment.”

He pushed back his hood, careful to ensure his shorter hair covered as much of his forehead as his loose locks would allow, and lowered his mask, offering the young woman the faintest hint of a smile. “I do not know where else you could go, m’lady. Returning to Lord Pierce is a long journey, nor one I would advise.”

She pulled back her hands and folded her left overtop her right, but not before Steve caught the glimpse of the letter A.

A brand, to mark her as Pierce’s, on her hand as Pierce seemed to prefer his slaves to be marked. How familiar.

Too familiar.

“I do not ask that you trust me, just that you allow me to take you somewhere safe, if only for a shortened time,” he extended a single, gloved hand, “and I only stop those that are evil, not those that are good, my fair maiden.”

Slowly, cautiously, she took his hand and rose, but pulled her hand away the moment she could stand. “Then lead the way, Rogers Hood. We dare not tarry, unless you like to be so unceremoniously slow.”

Steve couldn’t help but crack a smile. What an attitude such a maiden had. She reminded him much of—no, he wouldn’t go back there. He could not return to a place so dark.

 

Chapter 2

Nothing was ever certain, least of all hope. Life had been both cruel and wise enough to teach Anthony Edward Stark that much.

He swiped sweat from his brow and laid a double-edged sword across a simple anvil, hammer in hand. He lifted his arm, released a deep breath, and—horse hooves echoed, and a fist pounded against wood.

Not another request. He would accept anything—“Stark, do you wish to permit a visitor?”

Lord Pierce. Ah, of course. Certainly, Tony couldn’t refuse to open his doors to a man so important—so crucial.

And yet it was men like Pierce that waged, even demanded war…war that claimed—‘no, Stark, don’t go back there’, he muttered, even cursing himself for an attempt to a return to a place he wished he could forget for eternity.

“Lord Pierce, ‘tis a bit earlier than your usual errands.” He commented, sliding the wooden doors open with the faintest hint of a smile.

Bellowing a sincere chuckle, Pierce nodded his head. “Indeed, Stark. I have other matters to attend to later this forenoon. ‘Tis too early to ask if you have finished his Majesty’s request, though, perhaps?”

“I believe he set a deadline for the end of this week, my Lord, not—”

“His Majesty may have to shorten his deadline. And I must say again…could you not at least make this workshop more presentable?”

Presentable?

What wasn’t presentable about a workshop that was barely lit, a workshop that was simple and filled merely with tools of smithing, agriculture, and war, a workshop that played no part except to be used for—“It could be done someday, Lord Pierce.”

“I do not see why it cannot be done now.”

Tony bristled. “It is not my fault that money is slim.”

Pierce’s gaze darkened, and his eyes narrowed. His brows furrowed, and he snarled, “Then, pray do tell, who is at fault, Stark?”

How many days he wanted to put an end—he had enough inner demons…nay, Tony could not afford another to wrestle with another.

“I have no time, my Lord—”

“Then hire help, Stark.”

No…no.

For when had anyone resided in the shop? Not for years. Not since…since—Pierce nodded once, and his lips pressed into a thin line. “Have His Majesty’s order finished by tomorrow forenoon, and I shall send a man to fetch it. Find one to aid you, Stark, or I shall have to force aid upon you.”

With that said, Pierce turned on his heel, dropped Tony one last, dark glance, and strode out of the shop, closing the wooden doors with an echo.

Most certainly, Lord Pierce had the manners which befitted a pig.

~***~

The young former enslaved maiden seemed just about ready to bolt for the hills. But not only would an escape fail, it could lead her back into the jaws of slavery—or else be a lead for Pierce to find what Clint prayed no one would ever find.

Nay, the maiden had to stay whether she liked it or not, at least for a little while.

“What are you going to do with what you stole from Rumlow? Are you to sell it to others for a larger profit, thieves?”

“Not everyone is as they seem, m’lady,” Steve murmured, leading one of the Clydesdales, “no, neither do I think you are all you seem to be, considering you have not even given even a hint to your name.”

The blonde frowned, her gaze forming into an icy glare. “’Tis not something a petty thief deserves to know.”

“Do we have to bring Miss Complain with us?”

“Scott.” Clint admonished, walking beside the young woman, glancing at the man walking behind them, carrying luggage.

Scott shrugged, muttered something beneath his breath, and lapsed into silence.

Clint faced the young woman, furrowing his eyebrows together. “It ‘tis true, maiden…not everyone is as they seem. If we’re only petty thieves, then so be it, but what if you have been sold nothing but lies?”

“You are thieves—”

“And you don’t believe men like Lord Pierce to be liars?”

She pursed her lips and turned her gaze forward once more.

Clint shrugged and smiled.

Indeed, she’d find out soon enough what went on within the woods. Though thievery was wrong, indeed, it was impossible to argue against such a fact, Clint knew that Steve’s heart was in the right place.

Nay, not entirely.

Compassion and love were pure driving forces—but guilt propelled Rogers Hood far more than one would likely ever know.

“We have almost arrived, m’lady. It ‘tis time for you to decide if we are anything more than petty thieves.”

“I know my verdict, Rogers Hood. I need not you to convince me otherwise.”

Clint watched as they walked, as the young maiden’s eyes widened. Nay, she had not expected an entire townful of people to reside within the secluded woods.

A young boy no older nor younger than thirteen with messy brown hair rushed up, sword at his side, eyes glancing from individual to individual. “I see there is one new amongst you.”

“We shall yet see if she is friend or foe.” Scott murmured.

Clint smiled and waved a hand in dismissal. “Steve made the decision to allow her within. ‘Tis alright, Cooper. How is Mama, Lila, and Nathaniel?”

Cooper smiled, brushing back his brown locks with his hand. “Good, father. My time to help watch is almost up—I am certain it ‘tis the hope of food that shall make us all happy.”

Clint smiled, stepped forward, embraced his son, and stepped away to stand beside the young woman again. “…Still think of us as petty thieves?”

She frowned and raised her eyebrows. “What ‘tis the purpose of stealing such valuables?”

Steve turned on his heel, having handed the reins of the two Clydesdales to a boy a bit younger than Cooper, and faced the maiden. “The funds shall be used for medicine, food, and other goods. The ill first, then children, then families, then all else who remain shall be provided for. It ‘tis the only way we survive.”

“And ‘tis time I bring you to Laura, my fair maiden, for she can do her best to treat your injuries.”

The young woman shot Clint a glare and frowned. “What injuries?”

Steve shrugged. “If you think Clint blind enough to not notice the blood on your arms that has soaked through your clothing, m’lady, then you have not seen Clint Barton work.”

“Quite kind of you to have noticed and never uttered a word, Rogers Hood.”

Steve smiled, bowed at the waist, and flashed the faintest of smirks. “’Tis my pleasure, m’lady.”

#BeardedSteveRogersIsSuperior

[Esther]

@freed_and_redeemed

Oooh, I like it!! I need to see the boardssss!!!

Write what should not be forgotten. — Isabel Allende

[freedom]

@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.”

#BeardedSteveRogersIsSuperior

[freedom]

Board #1: Rogers Hood

#BeardedSteveRogersIsSuperior

[freedom]

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👀)

#BeardedSteveRogersIsSuperior

[freedom]

Chapter 5! (and Pinterest Link👀)

 

Chapter 5

“Rogers Hood did not fall for the trap, your Majesty, I fear.”

Setting down his golden goblet with a thud, King Thor Odinson peered deeply at Pierce, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Rogers Hood’s crimes are punishable only by death, Lord Pierce. His reign of terror must be ended.”

“Indeed, your Majesty. Rogers Hood shall be put to an end, and swiftly so.” Pierce replied.

Bucky slowly poured wine into a silver cup for the King’s brother Loki, casting a quick glance at the adorned table nobility sat around, discussing the latest trap they had laid for Steve.

Thank everything Steve was intelligent and far from foolish—most of the time.

“Why is there so desperate a need for a trap? Are we not strong enough and willing enough to take Rogers Hood down without a trap?”

Bucky cast a quick glance at the dark-skinned man suddenly at his side, an officer in the King’s cavalry who often accompanied Thor to meetings such as the one Bucky found himself attending to. He seemed not a cruel man, seemed to disdain the enslavement and even just suffering of others, and a man who worked mostly only to provide for his widowed sister and her two young sons, but ‘twas still uncertain where his loyalties truly laid.

“Rogers Hood is cunning, Sam.”

Sam, Samuel Wilson as he was named by most, leaned back against the wall, crossed his arms, and sighed. “The more traps we lay, the more time we waste. Rogers Hood must be stopped.”

And ‘twas such sentiments that made Bucky quite unsure where Sam Wilson’s loyalties laid.

Bucky stepped away to provide Prince Loki with his refilled cup and swiftly returned as Lord Thaddeus Ross requested for his own cup to be refilled. Bucky opened another cask of wine and raised an eyebrow in Sam’s general direction. “Rogers Hood has evaded trap after trap and attack after attack. ‘Twas never easy to catch him and will never be so.”

“His treason cannot last forever.”

“Treason? Is not the constant attack upon—?”

“Buchanan.” Pierce’s quiet, commanding voice: Bucky knew better than to disobey his call.

Bucky quickly set the refilled cup before Ross and strode to Pierce’s side, bowing low at the waist. “Yes, my Lord?”

Pierce reached beneath the table, glanced around at the group of nobility, and slowly laid a letter in Bucky’s hands. “Rumlow is not available: take this to Admiral Zemo at the port. It is quite urgent, Buchanan, and a necessity that this is delivered tonight. Do not dare to fail me. I need not remind you that I do not tire of ordering Rumlow to deliver strokes of the lash.”

“Nay, my Lord, I shall not fail you.”

“Good,” Pierce discreetly waved a hand, “now leave me. Return promptly.”

He quietly slipped past Sam and out a back door of the castle, letter in hand.

What dealings did Lord Pierce have with Admiral Helmut Zemo? Did not Zemo only listen to the King? And what needs could be so urgent? Nay, it could not…could it be?

Bucky snuck into a secluded, dark corner.

He cast several glances around the area before him, around the corners, and slowly pulled apart the seal, knowing full well how to reseal such a seal to where Pierce would quite never know that his letter had been trifled with.

He slowly pulled the letter from the envelope.

Pierce requested help…help in stopping the “infamous Rogers Hood”, help in “regaining what is mine”…indeed, Pierce spoke as if who he was writing was a familiar friend.

Was it his thug?

It could not be. Or could it?

Nay, he never left a name, but—Bucky swallowed the bile that had arisen in his throat.

‘I know my last letter must have found you well, and that you are on your way. I owe you much, Captain Marie Cutthroat, for both the slaves you have caught for me and the ones you’ve caught for those I have sold them to, and for what I know you will soon do: Rogers Hood is quite valuable, and I have a handsome reward for a Captain as fair as yourself the moment you bring me back what is rightfully mine.’

Steve belonged to no one, least of all Lord Pierce.

Steve was strong, courageous, kind, generous, and cunning. He loved the oppressed and despised the oppressors, and though his sense of morality had been lost, even if only slightly, he still remained a man who wished to help those who could not help themselves.

He had a knack for ensuring that everyone felt loved and cared for, a knack for ensuring that no one went through life alone.

And Pierce wanted to strip away everything he had.

Pierce wished to strip Steve of his freedom, of his dignity, and keep him wrapped in chains. He didn’t want to lose his wealth nor have his illegal business dealings put to an end and craved what every evil man craved: power.

Pierce wanted Steve because Steve stood in his way.

Pierce wanted Steve because Steve was strong.

Pierce wanted Steve because Steve could put an end to his crimes.

Pierce wanted Steve because he wanted to bring Steve to his knees.

Pierce wanted Steve because he wanted Steve to break.

And Bucky couldn’t allow that to happen.

But what was he supposed to do?

Pierce would know if the letter never made it to Captain Cutthroat, whoever she was. Pierce would know if his delivery was never delivered. He would find out—he always did.

But he had to do something.

Bucky slipped the letter into his coat and brushed his sweaty palms across his trousers.

He couldn’t just stand by—not anymore, and never again.

But he needed help, and quickly.

~***~

Some deemed the forest eerie—as if it held some kind of darkness within.

Darkness did yet still exist, as did evil, and forces of evil.

But nay, the forest itself was no evil place.

She ran gloved fingers across rough wood, aching to touch, aching to caress. For what did she have left to caress? What did she have left to cherish?

Forget the friend she knew still lived—he would not love her.

Nay, he could not.

None could. Not after what she had done.

Not after the spilled blood that would forevermore stain her fingers.

Leaves crunched.

Branches snapped.

The footsteps were too quiet to be a bear, too loud to be a squirrel.

They were human, undeniably.

She pulled out her bow and grabbed an arrow. She pulled the arrow back, tightening the rope, and slipped partially behind a tree.

They were not even the footsteps of one of the Woodland Rangers who often frequented the area. Nay, the footsteps weren’t very familiar. Vaguely, but not entirely.

Footsteps neared ever closer, and she stepped aside once more.

There. A shadowed figure approached.

She stepped out into the light and pointed the arrow at the figure. “Who goes there? Speak, and speak quickly or else face a swift end.”

“…Natasha?”

“James?”

James—or Bucky as he preferred to be called—stepped slightly into the scant sunlight, hands up, brown locks disheveled, his blue eyes boring into hers. Nay, she could not end his life. Not after what he’d done for her and Yelena.

Nor did she wish for more innocent blood to taint her further.

If she even could be tainted more than she already was.

Natasha placed her arrow back in its quiver and settled her bow on her back. She pushed back her black hood and brushed back her blonde hair with her hands. She raised her eyebrows. “Why are you here, James? I won’t harm you. Has Pierce-?”

“I am not free, but I have a message for the Woodland Rangers, and I have heard rumors that you possibly remained in these woods.”

“You risked the possibility of feeling the sting of the lash on a rumor?”

“I may yet still get caught.”

“I have no connection to the Woodland Rangers, James.” Natasha replied simply, stepping aside further into the sunlight that slipped through gaps in the canopy above.

“Perhaps not, but you know where they live. I have to tell you this message, but I have to deliver the letter or else risk everyone’s safety,” James frowned, “and I can’t risk Steve—Rogers Hood—trying to get me to stay…there are still things I must learn from Pierce.”

“You’re spying on Lord Pierce, James?”

“I already was when you and Yelena arrived…now I’m finally close to learning everything.”

The evil within a man like Lord Alexander Pierce seemed to be an evil that tried to put an end to all that was right around it: an evil that tried so hard to overcome and destroy all that was good in the world.

She had no connection to the Woodland Rangers—nay, she didn’t even know almost any of them well except for one, but if whatever message James needed to share was so urgent, who was she to refuse?

Natasha slowly nodded. “I will deliver the message.”

 

✨and the Pinterest board for this AU✨

(just delete the space after the h)

h ttps://www.pinterest.com/author_katelyn_douglas/1600s-fic/

#BeardedSteveRogersIsSuperior

[Keilah H.]

@freed_and_redeemed very cool! I really like the timeswapped idea. I remember there were a series of comic books plus a What If? episode that dealt with the concept, and here you’re expanding it into it’s own thing! Awesome!

Where'd I get ya this time? The liver? The kidney? I'm runnin' outta places to put holes in ya.

[Author]

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