Chapter Text
He barely felt the knife, a small opening under his arm, a literal chink in the armor. It had been just wide enough for the dagger-wielding sneak to stab him. James had turned, swinging his sword in an arch and loping the attackers head off. As his arm came down, he felt the dagger. It stole his breath, a small cry leaving his lip. Reaching underneath, he foolishly grabbed it and ripped it out of his body. Blood spat out, and his breath was ripped from his airway. Others were charging towards him, his arms heavy as he tried to keep them back.
Vision blurring, he was dying.
An axe blow from above cuts at his arm; he can’t scream, his arm now hanging on by the straps of his armor. James keeps his sword in the mostly usable arm, falling to his knees. It was too much. These were killing blows. The world spins as he blocks another blow, the soldier pushing against him. A roar came towards him, lights flashing, the Sorcerer was cutting a wide arch that downs the warriors around him.
Someone was calling his name, his horse fleeing from the scene. They’d been so close, had pushed forward right up to the shore. How could he fall now? He was their leader, the one they called King. The last of his mother's bloodline.
Looking down, he could see that his black and gold armor was now stained with not only the blood of his enemies but his own. The world was starting to fade, even as Strange made his way towards them. Sam and Steve are calling for him. Someone was grabbing him, shoving a hand against where his life leaked out. It was too late. He couldn’t breathe, and blood was pouring down his now useless left arm. Trying to speak was too much; his body was starting to give out, as he gasped for air.
“We got you,” Sam calls, holding him up. “We need to get him out of here. He’s bleeding bad.”
“I will provide a shield. We are starting to lose ground.” Strange is yelling, the world is starting to go in and out.
“We got you, buddy,” Steve says as he helps pick him up. “Fuck, his arm has been severed.”
A large book was laid in front of you, along with an equally large cup of tea. Pen in hand, hoovering over blank pages. Alpine curled up in an old magpie nest next to a roaring fire. You flip through the book, noting various passages. You weren’t fond of this language, some northern germanic mix, but you’d picked it up enough to translate the book. Something cracked far off in the distance. Branches you’d laid in ways so that you’d know if anyone was coming towards your home.
Most people didn’t venture this far out into the swamps. Your home was built above the reeds, in a massive willow tree. It had been carefully crafted so that you were well above the flood line, and it moved with the tree as it grew. Around it were maze-like wharfs that raised and lowered with the rains. Whoever it was, they knew their way here and knew to stay away from the traps you’d dotted throughout the place. Several of the wharves would submerge completely if stepped on. Not to mention the dozen of deadends, bramble-wrapped drop traps, and hidden spike-filled wells. You generally don't like people.
You huff, shoving a feather into the book, and laying your pen down. The smell of blood makes your hair stand up. Someone was injured, and gravely, if not already dead. Their life was dripping out of them into your swamp water; you could feel how the landscape cringed back from the blood. Even Alpine had raised her head, ears turning as she searched for the intruders. More than likely interested in the blood.
Alpine gets up, stretches and lets out a soft meow, turning to look at you for a moment. Her soft white fur fluffs in the sunshine before she turns to walk over to the door, standing up on her back feet to paw at the door.
“Don’t look at me. Not my fault, they are bleeding all over the place.” You huff and follow the cat down the way. “And no eating them until we know who it is.”
It was early spring, the snow had melted, the water making it so all the walkways were level with your house. Coming out the front door, you look out to see two men dragging a third down the wooden path. They are both heavily armored, carrying what looks to be someone of importance between them. One of the men looks up, and you recognize him.
“Steve Rogers, what in all the pond scum are you doing in my swamp?” You call out, both men looking up at you.
They keep moving, picking up pace. “We need your help. Our King is dying.”
You groan, rolling your eyes, Alpine jumping up to sit on one of the posts that line the walkways. She licks a paw like it's nothing; she isn’t the one walking towards a leaking King.
“He smells like he’s dead,” You grimace as you walk towards him. Waving your hands to remove any of the wards that were up. Last thing you wanted was splattered royalty. That made you pause. When did the Origin people get royalty?
The man’s armor was caked in blood, guts, and other fluids; his left arm wasn’t attached anymore, nothing but a poorly cauterized stub was left. That was not going to be an easy fix. That didn’t cover the fact that you could hear his ragged breath. He was barely getting any air.
“He’s breathing,” The other man said, he looked just as irritated as you felt. “We managed to stop the bleeding, but he can’t get a breath.”
You meet them as they come closer. Nose scrunching at the smell, you hated the smell of battle. Not nearly enough soap. Reaching forward, you look under his armpit to see another shittily done stitch job.
“His lung is punctured, you blasted rockmen.” You grumble, directing them towards the house. “We need to get all that armor off, lay him on the main table. It’s clear. I am gonna gather a few things.”
You grab a basket and walk out towards the reeds. Without any hesitation, you walk onto one of the platforms that sinks about a meter down. It was low enough you could access the bottom of the reeds, gathering up the tubers buried beneath the clay bottom. Each is cleaned as best you can. Next, you pull out a hand sickle that stayed by your side, and gather up several large, old reeds. Everything dumped into the basket, you grab the post and drag yourself back onto the deck.
The dress you wear, dragging on the wood walkpath, boots wicking away the wetness, they’d both be dry by the time you got to work on the so-called King. You can hear the clanging of armor as you climb up the few steps into your home. Alpine weaving around the posts and rubbing against the steps inside.
It feels so much smaller now. Your house was meant for the practicality of your work. Herbs hung from the rafters, a large wood fire pit was in the middle, tables were laid out everywhere, along with dozens of mostly standing bookshelves. You didn’t get a lot of company, so you had never kept a habit of keeping the place tidy. Now with everyone inside, and a large man lying out on a table, you wish you’d kept it a little less haphazard.
You drop the basket beside the table, stuffing the reeds into a boiling pot of water, before taking in the fallen man. He was large enough to fill the entirety of the table. Body sculpted by years of hard work and war, scars covered most of his body, along with dozens of large bruises. Whoever he was had taken a beating. His hair was long, deep brown, almost black color, skin a sickly pale color. His armor and undergarments had been stacked near the fireplace, leaving him in nothing, except for a carefully placed cloth over his bits. You ignore that as best you can; it had been too long since you had male company.
“Well, you sure brought me a mess, Rogers.” You sigh, immediately starting to feel along the man's chest. Reaching up, you grab a long piece of pottery, one end was shaped into a long, wide cup that went up to a smaller cup. Pressing it against his chest, you can hear that one lung wasn't expanding properly, but the other was. “Bloody idiots, you're lucky as hell he is alive.”
“Strange dropped us close by,” Steve swallows, taking the listening piece as you grab the reeds.
Next, you grab a piece of metal thinner than paper and sharper than a sword. You bring it to hover over his chest. The other man goes to stop you as you feel up his ribs. “What are you doing?”
You almost blast him back just for stepping in your way. “Trying to save the idiot from you.”
“Just get out of her way, Sam.” Steve grabs him and drags him back. “She knows what to do.”
You move forward, counting the ribs, you feel for the right spo,t and take the thin metal knife to open up the side. The man groans a little, but barely moves. Wiggling the knife around you makes it big enough for the reed. Apologizing to the man, you keep your finger there as you sort through the reeds and find one that is the right size. Taking it out of the hot pot, you wave it around so it doesn't burn. You spread the skin and hold the side open as you slot the reed through the ribs and into the lung. He lets out a whine as the reed is pushed in.
Then, within seconds, the man is coughing and sputtering. Blood splashes against his lips as he gasps for more air.
“Well, his lungs are working,” You sigh, dropping the knife into a bowl of water. Grabbing soap, you wash your hands and start to feel the man up.
“Is he going to be okay?” Sam, the troublemaker, asks. His brows pulled together, brown eyes looking frantically over the man.
Shrugging, you keep moving around the body. “He’s dying. Infections already set in, the shock from the arm being lopped off is stressing his body. Him breathing should help relieve some of the stress, but he is far from being out of the woods.”
Steve wrings his hands together, watching you as you clear a small table. Grabbing herbs, powders, bowls, fresh water, alcohol, and other bits and bobs. “He’s the one who has stood with us on every front. We won't have pushed the Southerners this far without him.”
Alpine walks in and jumps up onto the table. Sitting in between the man’s legs, her eyes narrowing as she looks at him. You keep a close eye on the cat, her tail swishing back and forth.
“Who is he?” You ask as you start to mix some of the powders with alcohol.
“James Bauchan Barnes,” Steve says quietly, as if saying his name out loud might bring death to him. “The last Barnes on this soil.”
The white cat steps carefully up onto James’ thigh, then goes up to his lower stomach. She purrs loud enough to be heard as she circles his chest a few times and lies down. You watch her carefully. Alpine rarely lay with anyone but you.
“Well, Alpine thinks he is worth saving.” You worry at your lip, going over to James head and holding out a spoon of the mixture. “This is going to taste awful, but help with the pain.”
James nods ever so slightly; it’s the first time you’ve seen his eyes. They are so blue, like freshly frozen seawater, even now, with his life-forcing fading, they are captivating. You shake that off and carefully feed him the spoonful of medicine.
“What is that?” Sam asks, no threat in his voice. He had found an empty stool to sit on, his body sagging against the wood.
“A mix of things, valerian to calm, poppy for the pain, comfrey for the bleeding. It will make it easier for me to start working on him. I am expecting payment. Not saving some King for shits and giggles.” You look at Steve and Sam pointedly.
Grabbing the earpiece, you check his heart and lungs again. Happy with that, you move his arm up so that you can look at the stab wound there. Cringing at the angry redness that is spreading out from it. The smell alone was enough to make you inwardly gag.
“What do you want, Witch?” Steve crosses his arms, suddenly trying to make himself look bigger. “He's kept you safe too. The reason everyone stays away from your swamps.”
You snort, removing the stitches from his side. “People stay away from my swamps cause I got catfish big enough to eat them. Not to mention wards, that would break them into perfect bite-sized swan food.”
“You are an actual Witch?” Sam asks, seemingly surprised as you start to clean the wound, cutting away dead flesh. The wound oozes a terrible colour, mixing with fresh blood.
“No, I just pull wards out of my ass.” You glare at him, pumping more fresh water into a large pot and balancing it over the fire pit. Grabbing several bundles of wood and putting a few pieces onto the fire, stoking it so that it gets bigger.
Turning back, you look at Steve, “I want ten thousand gold, and protection of my swamp extended.”
Sam actually lets out a snort, Steve gaping at you. “You're out of your mind?”
Picking up a fresh knife, you swirl it inyour hand, focusing on it making it float above your hand. With a quick twist of your fingers, the knife is now pressing against Steve’s jugular vein. He goes perfectly still, Sam's eyes going wide as another knife is up and at him before he can speak. Crossing your arms, you glare at both men.
“Your King, James, whoever. Is being called by Morrigan; he is sitting between both realms now.” You speak swiftly, as the water starts to boil. “If you want him to live, you will pay me what I am owed, and make sure everyone leaves me the hell alone.” You soak a towel in the water, squeezing it out before going to press at the infected wound. “Or I kill you all, and my fish will be nice and fat by summer.”
Both men exchanged glances as you started to push as much of the pus out from the underarm wound. The smell is awful, so you grab a cloth mask that's stuffed with lavender and mint to mask the terrible odor.
“Okay, but it may take time,” Steve speaks, his voice strained from trying not to move.
The knives fly back into their pot. You sigh as you finish cleaning the wound. You grab more alcohol, the root of the cattail you'd plucked. Along with mullein leaves, yarrow, and more cloth.
“Give me what you can now, and I expect the rest once he is healed.” You let venom and power twist around the words. Sam squirming just at the sound of them. “This will take at least until the moon is half.”
Sam rubs at his neck; you could feel him struggling to keep upright. “That’s a long time; he is needed on the battlefield. Our warriors rely on him.”
“He’s missing an arm!” You glare at him, not sure how to get the point across. “Or is Strange going to pull a new one out of another portal? You brought me a dead man and then demanded I reanimate him within moments?”
Steve holds a hand up, stopping Sam from whatever spittle he had to say. You'd dealt with Steve before, several times, and he knew the ins and outs of how magic worked. “We have five hundred gold between us. I can also leave my crest from the chest piece. It’s solid gold.”
“We are going to give her all that we have? For all we know, she’ll kill him once we leave.” Sam bawks at the idea, throwing his hands in the air.
You huff as you stuff the cloth and herb mix into the gaping wound. Snapping the root open and rubbing it into the skin. James moans, trying to move away from the pressure. You hum a small song, lacing it with calming power, willing him to relax and not feel what you’re doing. His energy was struggling to stay in this realm, part of him already lying in the river.
“You just relax now, King. If all goes well, these herbs will help quell the infection. Though I may be doing some work I am not happy to do.” You mostly talk to yourself. It had been many seasons since you pulled someone out of the river.
“Do we have your word, Witch?” Steve asks, Sam still looking peeved by the ordeal. The way he said the word Witch makes you want to stuff his eyes with nettle.
“You should remember that I can take away what I've given, at any point, Rogers.” You hiss at him before taking one of your knives to cut the tip of your finger. Then hold out the knife for Steve. “Blood bond. It will bind this deal to us. If I can’t save him, you won’t owe me anything.”
You don’t bother telling him that there is a whole incantation that goes with the blood pact. Instead, you just press both of your fingers together, rubbing the blood together. The worst that would happen to Steve is an infection. Now he feels better, and you can actually work in peace.
The rushing sound of water roars to life around him. James stands in the middle of a large, endless river. Above him, the sky is a dark grey, swirls of angry clouds obscure any sense of where the sun was. He doesn’t recognize this place. The more he tries to see, the more it seems to change around him. Looking at his boots, he wonders how his feet aren’t cold. He is almost thigh deep in the water now; it should have been freezing wet.
Looking to his left, he saw that his arm was still attached. James’ right hand came up to touch it. How was that possible? He’d felt the blow, felt the limb be torn from him, yet there it was. There was no pain, he could breathe, and yet he remembered being on the field. Feeling the stab under his arm, gasping for any kind of air, eyes blurring from the pain. What was the last thing he had remembered? Strange shouting. Steve and Sam calling for him. Had they made it to him? Was it a dream?
Water began to pull and tug at his boots. His hand was resting on his sternum as something pulled at it. A string directing him further downstream. A flash of pain shook him.
Coughing, blood sputtered up and onto his hand. The river faded, and he was in some sort of structure. Things hanging from the ceiling. A sticky, bitter liquid is put on his tongue, someone standing over him, telling him to swallow it.
Everything went black for a moment.
Blinking, he was standing on the once unseeable bank of the river. It was mossy, small ferns and wildflowers dotted along the ground. Reminding him of where he used to go with his Mom and Aunties to do the washing. The tug at his chest happened again. He was supposed to go into the river, to walk down it. It didn’t seem safe, but his guts were insistent. It was impossible to ignore.
“James,” A voice he hadn’t heard since he was a young man, hit him. Ringing loudly like a bell tolling during midday.
Turning, he sees her, his Mom. She looked exactly like he remembered her, hair braided in neat bundles that were swirled on top of her head. All of it held up by a bone hairpin that was decorated with green gems. A gift from his father. The man had always brought her tokens of his love from where he travelled. Her face wasn’t as lined by the years now, no grey, her blue eyes sparkling as she took him in.
“You've grown,” She says, placing a small basket beside the river. “Has it really been that long?”
A flash of his Mom laying on the stone doorstep, blood coming from a massive wound to her head, broke across his mind. He cringes as he remembers holding her, calling her name, crying for his sisters. While watching, the Southerners walked through the village, burning and killing anyone who crossed their path.
He swallows and reaches for her. “Where am I, Mom?”
A sad smile has the crows' feet showing at the corners of her eyes. “Oh my beautiful boy, I think you know. I told you the stories of where we go when we return to ash.”
James looked towards the river; it was so wide he couldn’t see the other bank, and it ran for as far as he could see in any direction. Was this the realm of death? A river that pulled all the fallen souls to their next home.
“I am dying,” He whispers, his lips feeling chapped suddenly. An ache in his side reminded him of the battlefield. His left arm lost feeling for a moment before it came back.
She reaches forward and takes his hand carefully; his own now easily engulfs her. It had been dozens of seasons since he’d seen her. Seen her alive. She was always in his dreams, talking to him about the other realms. That she’d be there to guide him through the gates. Guide him home to where his family and people waited for him.
“You have been gravely wounded,” Mom says, squeezing his hand. “You’ve done so much for our people, for our lands. Have made the old Gods proud.”
“We haven’t won yet, Mom.” He turns to her, watching as her gaze drifts back out to the river. “There is more to do.”
She gestures out to the river, “I am not here to tell you what to do, or what not to do. I am only allowed to guide.”
Out in the river, a tall figure starts to come out of the river, completely silent. They are covered in a thick, viscous green liquid. Their arms seem too long, with four legs that have too many joints, and a smell of swamp water washes off of them. The head cracks back and forth, spinning almost completely around. The liquid starts to fall off of them, leaving them dressed in a plain flax-thread dress. Her eyes meet his, looking over him. The longer he watches, the more human she becomes.
“Who is that?” James asks, looking down to where his Mom had been. She was gone.
Looking up, he was faced to face with the woman from the river. Her eyes burrowing into him, face set in something he couldn’t read. Her body no longer stretched and distorted, now resembling a young, striking woman.
“You’ve become a pain in my side.” Her voice comes out like hundreds of flying bugs. Scratching and screaming towards him.
He puts his hands up and tries to walk back. “Who are you?”
The woman rolls her eyes, green swirling all around her, like flashes of lantern bugs, everywhere she steps, black earth sprang up. No matter how many steps he took, he felt like he wasn’t moving away from her.
“I am here to bring you back to the side of the living.” She hisses, the voice more solid, but the buzz of other voices still ringing around the edges.
James looks down the river; he was at the first gate of his journey towards the next realm. If he passed all the gates, he’d be reunited with all his loved ones. All the ones he’d seen killed by the never-ending onslaught of the Southerners. They’d torched his land, taken what was not theirs, killed their matriarchs, their story keepers. With no care about their stories or their rituals, just that the soil was fertile and the people didn’t fight back.
He’d fought back, had raised armies from children, taken their pain and made it a tool. Shaped their anger and used it to drive their would-be conquerors to the edges of the lands. They were so close to being rid of them. Being free.
“What if I don’t want to go back?” James turns to her, the green light flickers around her like falling pollen. Her head tilted like she contemplated squishing him with her mind.
“I can’t make you. That is your choice.” She replies, looking back out at the water, the dark soil around her had started to sprout small green buds. Whatever she was, she was most certainly not human.
“You’re just a guide,” James replies, looking her over again. “Are you a Faye?”
She lets out a snort, looking down the bank of the river. “No, not Faye.”
“But you’re not human.” He states, watching as the green buds turn into small trees. Willows. He'd heard about beings, witches, gods, deities, and more he'd forgotten the names, too. James had been fighting alongside a Sorcerer and a Witch. Whoever this person was, they were powerful and looking to help him.
“Not human, not Faye, not a God,” Sighing, she flicks her hand up and holds out a lily pad bloom. “Just an immortal, that is hoping to get paid.”
“Paid? Immortal?” James’ brows furrow as he watches her, the lily pad vanishing as quick as it appeared. She put a hand on her hip and looked around the place.
“Look, I do not got all day.” She huffs, flickering between the green liquid form and this one. James cringing back at the sight. “You have an option. You come with me, and we see if you live, or you can go down the river.” The immortal looks down the way. “To whatever realm awaits you.”
“I was told,” James swallows, Wanda’s words echoing around him. “I was told that I would be the one to drive the Southerners out of our lands. That they’d never come here again. Is any of that true?”
Her hands get tossed up, and her eyebrows raised. “Do I look like a fortune teller? I work with the living to keep them from dying, not predict weather.”
James blinks a few times, looking at the river, then at her. A being he had never seen or even knew about, yet was offering to help him live. For a moment, as he stood there, he could almost hear the laughter of his Mom, see the way his sister used to play with flower crowns. The longing for simpler times. Then Wanda’s words. You are the one, the one who will push them back.
“I have some unfinished business,” He states, gestures for her to lead the way.