Chapter Text
Cut Him Out in Little Stars
(A Stucky AU)
“Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs;
Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes;
Being vexed, a sea nourished with loving tears.
What is it else? A madness most discreet,
A choking gall, and a preserving sweet.”
-Romeo and Juliet, Act I, scene i, William Shakespeare
What’s Past Is Prologue
Tybalt Field, West Venora
Six Months After the War
He saw only blood. Though the snow had melted in patches, here and there, revealing budding swaths of new grass beneath, he saw only the mud bogs that had been, the hoof-pounded paths, the three-body-deep trenches, the soil stained crimson with blood. He saw the horses collapsed from exhaustion, the hacked-off limbs ground into the dirt, the grimy banners blanketing the corpses. He saw ghosts in the mist that heralded the springtime weather, specters in masks painted to look like skulls, valiant warriors raising their shields as the enemy hordes battered them down. He mashed the blue and yellow crocuses that already bloomed in the sunnier spots under his heavy black boots as he stalked across the field, to the rowan tree where he’d fallen.
James Buchanan Barnes hadn’t expected to live till his twenty-fifth birthday. That he celebrated it now, at the scene of such horror and desperation, came as no surprise when compared to the fact that he still drew breath. It was the least he could do, to bear witness. Honor those lost by taking the time to remember, now that he could. Now that his mind, and his will, and most of his body had been restored to him by people too kind, too forgiving, who too easily forgot the red in his ledger, the blood on his hands.
Who should have left him for dead, here, in the berry mulch and gnarled roots at the base of the tree.
He caught one of the low-lying branches in his right hand, ran his thumb over the nascent blossoms sprouting from the brittle bark. Wondered what the tree would look like in later seasons. Garlanded with white flowers in the full blush of spring? Russet with berry bushels at midsummer? Golden with aging leaves in autumn? Spindly and barren at the first breath of winter?
Would all trace of the conflict that had raged here be banked and smote with time? In a year, would any recall the suffering and toil of those who lay buried under the verdant meadow? Or would this place forever be tainted by sorrow, a sparse, broody moor to walk when some great weight fell upon your soul? He felt a similar crush keenly now, pressing into his chest, stealing his breath.
Could he ever begin again, when he’d left so much behind here? Could he fashion a whole person from the shell of a body and the mottle of memories that inhabited him now? Did he even deserve a second chance?
He found no answers, no respite, no refuge as he trudged back across the field, toward his loyal steed. There was no peace to be had for him in this life—perhaps for the best.
***
Chapter One – Tempt Not a Desperate Man
Lynbrooke, Capital of Venora
Three years later
Bucky knew the labyrinthine corridors of the Great Library like no other. He peered down the spiral staircase at its center to assure himself he hadn’t been followed, then slipped into the rusty shelves of the physical science section. Slippery as a shadow, he darted down the eastern halls, bypassing Master Bruce’s labs and the solarium, to a semi-circular room in the north turret. There, he retrieved the ladder he’d hidden behind a tapestry, carried it behind the display case to the very end of the row of locked cupboards, then propped it against the last one. He lifted the ladder into the loft with him after climbing up, stowing it at the business side of the ceiling square before locking himself in. Bucky lit one of the waiting lanterns, which he used to illuminate a path through the dust motes and spiderwebs until he reached his favorite reading nook: the cushioned ledge at the base of the largest stained-glass window in the Great Library.
Back in the halcyon days of his youth, the upper floors of the library had housed the artisans’ guild, where painters, sculptors, and artists of every discipline gathered to socialize and procrastinate. Bucky had spent many an afternoon of his babyhood bouncing on his father’s knee while he gossiped with his peers, or shared preliminary sketches of one of the many murals he’d create throughout the city, or gave his apprentice notes on his latest project. Even though Bucky turned out not to have an artistic bone in his body, he felt safest here, in this place his father had cherished, one of the few sanctuaries that the Usurper hadn’t destroyed along with George Barnes’ murals.
After he dug his notebook out of the crack under the ledge, Bucky plopped himself into the pillows and tucked his knees up to his chest to use as a makeshift writing desk. He had projects of his own, these days—practical creations that Bucky designed before Master Bruce and their small team of smiths crafted them into being. Metal prosthetics to help those who’d lost limbs in the war, so intricate that they had to be hand-measured and produced, as well as tested out and adjusted on the individual wearer.
And even then—Bucky rubbed his left shoulder as he considered his latest sketch, a technique to layer in padding to make the fit more snug and prevent chafing, something he wished his own scratchy join had at the moment. He grunted in frustration, wishing he could undo the straps and slips the arm off, if only to better examine the current mold. But he needed someone’s help to get it back on again—one of the many humiliating and exasperating aspects of the prosthetic—and a drooping arm would draw too much attention, even skulking around as he did.
The only thing he could do was work to improve the model for someone else. He was, in this and so many other things, a lost cause.
He swallowed back the surge of bile and phlegm and ache that always threatened to choke him when he thought of his life now. Bucky fought to concentrate on being grateful that he could feel something at all, no longer the hollow-minded meat puppet bent to Hydra’s will. He might still wish he fed the worms beneath the rowan tree some days, but the truth was, he could help. He could aid others who suffered worse than he did, who didn’t have half the privileges or purse-strings. And so long as he did that, he might be able to look himself in the mirror again someday.
Bucky flipped to a fresh page, jotted down “easy-belt harness” at the top, then set about brainstorming a way that other amputees might be able to put on their arm prosthesis without assistance. And if he did a fair amount of gazing out the window at the multicolored view of Lynbrooke through the stained glass, well, maybe those that weighed the balance of souls could forgive him the indulgence this one time.
“Daydreaming again, hmm?” a bemused voice queried, too close for comfort.
Bucky startled out of his reverie, almost fell off his perch. He whipped his head around to find Becca, expression prim but eyes burning with mischief, only a few feet away. He straightened in his seat, attempting to squirrel the notebook away without her notice. Fat chance of that, of course, but he could try.
“H-How the heck did you get in here?” he demanded, amping up his annoyance to distract her from his hand-movements.
“You’re not the only one Father used to bring up here, you know.” The shroud of sadness that swept across her face made him regret asking. “I used to sneak up between my lessons to spy on the sketch artists. They always had the best gossip.”
“Still do.” At her raised brow, he added, “They gather in the alley behind the kitchens. They think they’re stealing buns, but Cook puts out extras for them.”
“A soft touch, our Cook.” A slip of a smile graced her lips. “I wonder who gave her the idea?”
Bucky snorted. “Cook has a kind heart.”
“She does, but she’s far too busy to notice anyone hanging out in the back alley. Someone who sneaks in that way, however—”
“Becca,” he groaned, not wanting to restart the argument that refused to die. The one that started with ‘You are a good person, Bucky,’ and ended with him so frustrated and flustered he wished he could evaporate into a dew. “It’s the least I can do.”
“But you do it.” Careful so as not to wrinkle her voluminous dress, she seated herself on the ledge beside his legs. Bucky kept them raised, needing all his defenses at the ready. He didn’t know why she’d come, but it couldn’t be good news if she’d sought him out in his best hiding place. “You don’t have to.”
“I do, though,” he insisted, struggling to keep the growl out of his voice. “You know I do.”
She must have had bigger fish to fry, because for the first time in all of her existence, Becca let it go.
“Another suitor arrived today,” she attempted nonchalance, but he caught the slight downturn of her lips, the distaste that she could never hide, even, probably, in the new suitor’s presence.
If anything could get Bucky’s hackles up—for entirely different reasons than their ongoing disagreement over his worth—it was that. “Ugh. Gross. Where’s this one from?”
“Xandar, he says.” He could tell Becca fought not to roll her eyes. “An emissary of the House of Titan.”
Bucky chuckled. “A disgraced guard, you mean.”
“He does give off that vibe.”
“Could be a good thing?” Bucky felt zero-percent enthusiastic about Becca pairing with anyone less than the love of her life, but he’d been outvoted too many times to offer up his real opinion. “One less ego to make room for.”
“You would think, but no.” She sighed as she curled her legs under her. Or at least Bucky thought she did—it really was a lot of dress. “I sent him to the residence. Maybe they’ll get so tired of living with each other, they’ll all leave in a huff, and then I won’t have to choose.”
Bucky scooched his feet under the satiny folds until he hit thigh, gave her a supportive nudge. “You are aware you don’t have to choose any of them?”
She scoffed. “Heirs don’t exactly sire themselves. I’m thirty, and there’s talk. Even a hermit like you must know there is.”
They couldn’t afford talk of any kind, was the thing. Not since the Usurper. Not since being on the losing side of a war. Not with a whole queendom’s reputation to restore. Even three years after Lehigh’s victory, Venora’s prospects rested on the edge of a knife.
“What can I do?” He crossed his legs, reached out for her hands—and regretted the gesture an instant later when she said…
“You’ve received an offer.” Her blue eyes, the mirrors of his own, bore into him, warm but determined. This was why she’d hunted him down, invaded his space. The worst of it was, he couldn’t blame her. He might have done the same, in her shoes. “Legitimate. Reputable. The terms are favorable.”
“What?” Shocked to his core, Bucky could only stammer out, “M-Me?"
“An alliance like this could change everything.” Ever the shrewd debater, Becca made her argument before he’d even objected. “For Lynbrooke. Venora. This is the chance we’ve been waiting for.”
“B-But who…” Bucky wheezed, throat constricting. “Who would want…”
Becca filled in the blanks of his confusion, her face softening. She grasped his hands, squeezed them tight.
“Anyone with eyes.” She clicked her tongue. “I won’t go into it all again, but… I’ll admit to being surprised by the person presenting the offer, but not because you aren’t worthy of them, or they of you.”
Bucky tore his hands away, recoiled. “You’re not even going to tell me, are you?”
“You know I can’t.”
“I thought we were done upholding stupid traditions. I thought we were going to do better.”
“Don’t recall there being a lot of ‘we’ lately.” Becca drew herself up again, effortlessly poised. He wasn’t speaking to his sister anymore. He was conversing with the queen. “I won’t force you. Not after…” She shuddered, once. “But in the past you’ve vowed to do your duty by us. Believe me when I say that this would make all the difference. This is the future calling, and if we fail to heed…”
Bucky tuned out the rest of her lecture, not because he was ignorant of the stakes or the precariousness of her reign, but because his brain whited out. A shrill ringing stabbed into the soft of his ears. An anvil crushed his chest. He fought not to tremble, not to blink too rapidly, not to give any outward show of the chaos inside. But the idea of being chained to anyone or anything shot him into flight mode. He clutched the side of the ledge with his flesh hand so as not to bolt, fingers digging in so deep he felt the bite of several splinters.
“Why this?” he hissed, before he could stop himself. “Why did it have to be this?”
That woke Becca to his distress, the last thing he’d wanted. Bucky felt her eyes on him—not judging, never that, but sorrowful nonetheless. She wriggled closer as best she could, curled her hands around the tops of his knees, then leaned in to speak sotto voce.
“I’m sorry.” She waited awhile, but Bucky couldn’t bring himself to meet her gaze. “You’ve seemed so much better this past year. So much more yourself.”
“I’m not—” He violently shook his head. “I do—” He sucked in a whole lungful of breath, blew it out in a rush. “I am. Better. As better as I’ll ever be.” He couldn’t lie to her, even to spare himself. “But I can’t be a… a partner, to anyone. I won’t burden someone with…” He gestured wide, encompassing his entire cowering body, along with the curdled soul within.
Unsurprisingly, she frowned. But, ever the diplomat, she quickly recovered from her displeasure.
“All right.” Becca nodded, once, a solemn vow. “But I demand compensation.”
“Anything.”
She scoffed. “Now he says ‘anything.” But she found her smile—a sly one, portending mischief. “You will attend the welcome banquet for the new suitor tonight. You will sit by my side at the main table. And…” A rueful chuckle, a roll of her eyes. “You’ll help me choose between the five buffoons that have come to win my favor. Or help me think of a better option, someone I can woo from afar. And you’ll listen to every bit of my grousing, the entire time.”
That shocked him to the core. “What do you mean, choose? Becca—”
“We need an ally,” she stated, with the full weight of her station. Becca still radiated compassion—she always would, when it came to him—but she’d never shielded him from the truth, and she wasn’t going to start now that he’d refused an offer of marriage with favorable terms. “We’ve recovered well, rebuilt where we could, but the other queendoms are still wary. We need to show that we are no longer a threat—otherwise, in time, outside forces will gather against us. Vanir and Noor are in desperate need of our resources, but refuse to re-establish trade relations. Those loyal to the Hydra still lurk around us. We’re more vulnerable than we were before the Usurper sunk his claws in, and I’ll be damned—”
“So you’re just going to offer yourself up to the least-objectionable—”
“Or anyone of decent lineage two degrees from a queen who’ll have me, yes.” Becca kept a level tone, but flirted with exasperation. “We need blood in the game. It’s the only way to establish trust. An alliance through marriage or an heir.”
Fuck. Bucky slammed his head back against the window sill, relished the pain, though it did nothing to stop the furious churn of thoughts through his head. Becca reached out to him again, but he batted her hand away, crossing his arms over his chest, curling into himself. Everything inside him revolted against what a royal marriage entailed: the public scrutiny, the pageantry, the endless negotiations, the shackles of a permanent relationship with no option of divorce.
But he hated the thought of Becca being a brood mare for one of the boorish suitors even more. Every inch a queen, she should be free to share her bed with whomever she cared to be intimate with—and if she didn’t, as Bucky long suspected, then that shouldn’t make a whit of difference to her reign. But they lived in the shadow of the Usurper’s lies and machinations and tyranny, of his near-wrecking of the world.
Bucky had vowed, when the powers spared his life, to dedicate it to serving Venora. He shouldn’t get to choose the when and the how, not after the things that he’d done as the Hydra’s terrible fist. If she needed him now—Venora and Becca both—he would heed the call.
“An alliance, then,” he rasped, unable to get the words out despite his decision. “I accept the offer.”
Becca gasped. Her expression cycled through the whole spectrum of emotions, more vulnerable than he had ever seen her. It comforted him to know he had done the right thing, for once.
“You’re sure?”
“If I can shield you, I will.” He finally let her catch up his hands, squeeze with all her might. “I always will.”
She beamed at that. “Set your terms. I’ll do everything in my power to make this easy for you.”
Too overwhelmed to think, let alone strategically, Bucky punted. “Can I get back to you on that?”
“Of course.” Becca panted a bit, still disbelieving. Asking this of him had cost her, too. But her relief calmed his rabbit heart. “There’ll be two weeks of negotiation to finalize the deal, once he arrives.”
“He?” Bucky blew out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. He hadn’t even considered the fact that the offer might have come from a woman. “Thank the freaking powers for that.”
“Give me a little credit,” Becca grumbled, with a clear undercurrent of affection. “I’m not a total monster.”
“Nah, just a total brat,” Bucky teased. He could do that, now that the pins and needles in his extremities had stopped prickling. “Come on, Becs. I gave in. Tell me who it is.”
She mimed sealing and locking her lips, then sprang to her feet. After bussing him on the forehead, she smirked, unrepentant. “See you at the banquet.”
“Hey!” Bucky protested. “I’m off the hook for that.”
“Not if you want to protect me,” she volleyed back, “like you said. No telling what a Titan might do.”
“Snooze in my soup, is what I’m gonna do.” Bucky grunted, but accepted defeat. “Or challenge him to a duel just to pass the time.”
Becca halted her progress toward whatever secret passageway she snuck in through to glance over her shoulder, grinning with delight. “Ooh, do you promise?”
“Go away,” he barked without heat, taking refuge once again in the blank page of his notebook. “Maybe.”
Once she’d gone, Bucky slouched into his seat, exhausted, one tiny cut away from unravelling completely. He stared out over Lynbrooke once more, the slat-roofs and spires of the city he called home, the only person or place in the entire Eight Queendoms that would ever win his heart.
***
A sharp knock at the door started Steve out of his reverie. He welcomed the dawn as he always did, standing on the balcony outside his bed chamber, basking in the view. A crystalline river, fed by the glacier at the far end of the Augemont Valley, sliced through its verdant hills. All around the thatched-roof cottages and long bungalows of the village, the soaring, snow-capped Lehigh Mountains stood sentry, aloof and ancient. A wink of sun peeked through the mist that shrouded them on that crisp spring morning.
The herald of another seismic change in Steve’s life, though he didn’t know it yet.
“Come,” he commanded, after bidding adieu to the dawn and striding back into his room.
Peter, his mother’s favorite page, poked his head in, probably checking to make sure Steve was decent, even though the days when he had unexpected morning guests were far, far behind him. Steve was fully dressed for the day, only waiting till he heard a bit of bustle below to make his way down to breakfast. Peter slipped in, bowed, then bid a hasty retreat after delivering the note—not a request, then. After Steve scanned the brief message, he changed into a more formal tunic and wondered at what fresh nonsense saw him summoned to an early hours council meeting.
But not early enough for him to miss breakfast with his little loves, thank goodness. Marigold threw herself at him as soon as he descended the stairs. Steve hoisted her up into his arms and pecked her on the cheek; she squealed, her usual cheery self.
“Why are you dressed so pretty, Papa?” She traced the pattern of the tunic’s elaborate embroidery with the tip of her finger.
“Going to see your nan,” he announced to the entire table, all of whom raised their faces to greet him.
Rufus, his eldest and only son, a sturdy nine years old, nodded in acknowledgment as he shoveled more oatmeal into his mouth, while Sarah-Violet, his older daughter at seven, raised curious brows, silently asking if she would attend the council session. Sam, the captain of the prince’s guard and his best friend in the world, let out a knowing huff, while Darcy—it was complicated—rolled her eyes.
“Queen Sarah does love her pre-dawn summons,” she quipped, before patting the seat beside her.
Steve lowered Marigold, their four-year-old daughter—told you it was complicated—into her chair, then went around the table giving everyone a good morning hug, except for Sam who got a back-slap, before setting into his own generously doctored bowl of oatmeal, berries, nuts, cream—Steve liked the works, along with a selection of meats and cheeses and an enormous mug of coffee. His family knew how to take care of him. Steve did everything in his power to repay them in kind.
“That, she does,” he agreed as he tucked in. “Some things never change.”
“At least not yet,” Rufus glowered, letting his spoon plop down into his bowl.
“Rue,” Darcy sighed. She gave his shoulder a supportive squeeze.
“All the more reason we should cherish them while we still have them,” Steve reminded him, wrestling with his own pang of sadness. Then, to cheer them all up, “Even if they annoy us sometimes.”
That got him a round of giggles, to his relief.
Sarah-Violet, his beautiful, self-possessed, and sensible girl, knew a great many things, in addition to when to change the subject. “Am I going today, Papa?”
“Not today.” Steve dug the note out of his pocket and scanned it a second time, to be certain. “But I’ll tell you all about it at lunch.”
“If you end up being free for lunch,” Sam underlined. A chorus of whines erupted.
“I will be free for lunch,” Steve insisted, shooting him a ‘you just had to go there’ look, “because we are picnicking in the garden with Nana today, and no council business is more important than that.”
The children, even Rufus, whooped with glee. Steve took the easy win, as any parent would.
An hour later, Steve lost himself in the giant tapestry of the Eight Queendoms that hung behind the throne while he waited on his mother. Her lateness worried him. Everything to do with her worried him lately, ever since her doctors had confirmed that she only had a few years left to live. She’d been afflicted by a blood sickness her whole life—the reason Steve was an only child—but had beaten the odds so far, outliving every estimate through sheer determination and strength of character. But now, with her queendom prosperous and the war won, Queen Sarah of House Grant had run out of reasons to power through the worst of her illness. Her bad days had begun to outnumber her good days for the first time ever, and so preparations had begun for her ultimate transition.
Steve ached for his mother, his north star, his guiding light. But she’d given him her all, and so he would be strong for her, especially now that she needed him most. Besides, the specter of death had haunted their house for Steve’s whole life. He’d learned to stow his grief and carry on. First his father, when Steve was only a toddler. Then, his own history of respiratory illnesses and chronic anemia, which left him small and sickly until a sudden growth spurt in his late teens. Then, his great friend and Captain of the Queen’s Guard, Margaret Carter, lost in the war. His mother succumbing slowly to her disease was almost a relief, in comparison—at least Steve would be able to say a proper goodbye. If he could find the words, when the time came.
Like the supreme monarch she was, Queen Sarah had meticulously prepared for her succession. A matrilineal society, the eight queens of the Western Continent rarely married. Instead, they bore heirs with their official consorts—sometimes a strategic alliance, sometimes a romantic one. If, like Queen Sarah, they only had male children, a granddaughter would inherit the throne. His mother’s death meant Steve, like many only sons before him, would act as regent until Sarah-Violet came of age.
Forever under the shadow of his mother’s illness, Steve and Peggy, friends since childhood but never romantically involved, conspired as soon as they came of age to assure the line of succession remained intact. Their first attempt yielded Rufus—beloved, but not a queen—and their second Sarah-Violet—equally beloved, the heir. During her second pregnancy, Peggy fell hopelessly in love with her midwife, Darcy. They married a few months before the start of the war.
Three years later, Peggy was dead, the children birth-motherless, Lehigh victorious, Steve and Darcy despondent. They did the only sensible thing when faced with such a senseless loss of life—they honored Peggy’s sacrifice and devotion to the queendom by bringing another child into the world, their sweet little Marigold, the spare.
More than any other prince in any of the Eight Queendoms, Steve knew loss. His mother’s death would bend him into a new and unexpected shape—crooked, contorted, crushing—but it would not break him. He wouldn’t let it. He had his duty, to ensure the continuation of all his mother’s good work, to protect her queendom, to shepherd his children into adulthood. To see Sarah-Violet take her rightful place on the throne, in her grandmother’s image. Earlier than Steve would have liked, but then the powers had always tested his worth. It came with the privileges of his station. He would not let them down.
He thought of this and so much else as he admired the tapestry, wondering how the border lines would be snipped and then re-stitched by the time of Sarah-Violet’s reign. For now, Queen Ramonda of House Wakanda ruled over the lush central plains of Zana, Queen Xialing of House Wenwu over the southern sea cliffs of Ta Lo, Queen Frigga of House Asgard over the northern tundra of Vanir, Queen Kamala of House Khan over the western deserts and canyons of Noor, and Queen Monica of House Rambeau over the southeastern marshland of Hala. Queen Gamora of House Titan presided over the volcanic islands of Xandar that dotted the southwestern coast.
Venora, of the dense northeastern forests and dulcet fishing villages, had been the domain of Queen Winifred of House Buchanan until an usurper from the Hydra, an offshore penal colony, insinuated himself into the royal household. After bedding then slaying the queen, the Usurper—a serpent by the name of Alexander Pierce—installed himself as regent. He set about depleting the queendom of resources and enslaving its people, including Princess Rebecca and Prince James. He aimed to turn the queendom into a war machine that would conquer the entire continent.
Enter Lehigh, named for the mountain range that bordered Venora, cutting her off from the rest of the continent. Queens Winnifred and Sarah had been close confidantes, and their queendoms in harmony until Royal Consort George Barnes’ death had left the door open for the Usurper. With Princess Rebecca and Prince James too young to assume the throne and/or mount a defense of Venora, it fell to Lehigh to assure the Hydra’s tentacles spread no further.
Steve would take the lesson of Venora’s ruin to heart when he ascended to regent—and if not, the tapestry would be there to remind him. Though three bloody years of tragedy and toil had warned him well enough. There was a reason, after all, that men could not hold royal office on the Western Continent, an ancient history that made the more recent struggle between Lehigh and the Hydra look like a petty squabble. Steve vowed to himself, eagerly and often, that he would not be the one to repeat it.
Before Steve could wander even further into the dark jungle of his musings, the door to the Queen’s Council chamber creaked open. A flame-red head poked out—Natasha Romanoff, his mother’s right hand and, if the rumors bore out, the master of whispers that kept the queen’s coffers well-stocked with the latest in gossip and dispatches from the wider continent. With her usual enigmatic smirk, Natasha beckoned him inside.
He found his mother bundled up in her favorite armchair, still lingering over her breakfast tea. A bad day, then, not that anyone would know it by the warm smile that welcomed Steve into her royal presence. He hurried over to kiss her cheek, then knelt to kiss her hand. She cupped his face, stealing a private moment of acknowledgement between them. She never said it anymore, but Steve could hear it all the same: “Hello, my sweet baby. No matter how tall you grow, you’ll always be mine.” He often thought it himself when he held his little ones.
Despite the pain that left her too weak to sit behind her desk, Queen Sarah had an extra twinkle in her sage gray eyes this morning, one that left Steve curious. But he knew better than to do anything but his duty, slipping into the nearby seat she gestured toward, then nodding as someone brought him coffee. Only then did he notice the others already in the chamber: Valkyria—one name—the Captain of the Queen’s Guard; Maria Hill, the Master of Arms; Gabe Jones, the Master of the Guilds; Phillip Coulson, the Master of the Treasury; and Montgomery Falsworth, her nurse.
“Out,” Queen Sarah decreed, to everyone’s surprise. “All of you.”
The council hastened to obey, all except for Natasha. “Your Majesty—”
“You’ll have your say,” Queen Sarah assured her. “But for now, this is a matter between a mother and her son.”
No, Steve begged the powers, all his earlier bravado gone up in a puff of smoke. Not yet, please. Not yet. Then he remembered the twinkle, and attempted to calm himself without appearing to calm himself. Curse all of you for signing me up for ten more years of this, he added, never one to miss a chance to tempt fate.
“Stop that,” his mother admonished, as they waited for the room to clear. He would miss her uncanny ability to read his mind. “Not everything is a death sentence.”
Steve made sure the coast really was clear before he retorted, “Don’t joke about stuff like that, Ma.”
“I’ll joke about anything I please so long as I draw breath.” She eyed him over the edge of her cup as she took a sip of tea. “Now. Brace yourself.”
“Oh, great.”
“I mean it, my darling.” She waited until he inhaled and exhaled three tempered breaths, then straightened in his seat. “Good. Queen Rebecca has replied to your offer.”
Steve was suddenly grateful that she’d forced him to fill his lungs with air, because the entire world shifted on its axis. Six identical-ish offer letters, sent every six months for the past three years, had gone unanswered by House Buchanan, except for a polite note that acknowledged receipt. Lucky number seven had either been the thorn-prick that drew blood, or Queen Rebecca finally recognized it for the lifeline it was. Or some other turn of events that Steve wasn’t privy to, but he could speculate with the best of them.
He tried not to, where Prince James was concerned. He’d heard all the rumors, of course, and the firsthand testimony of soldiers in the field. Not to mention every soul on the continent had imagined for themselves what it must have been like to be a pawn in the Usurper’s game from the tender age of thirteen. Only four years older than Rufus…
“Steve.”
“Yes, Ma?”
“Don’t you want to know what it says?” The twinkle shone even brighter.
A tiny, brittle stalk sprouted from the seed of hope planted in Steve’s chest after writing his first letter. He drew in another cleansing breath, prayed that it might be permitted to bloom.
“I do. Maybe.” He raised an inquiring brow. “Do I?”
“Enough.” Queen Sarah abhorred dithering above most things. “It’s been accepted. You’ve been invited to Lynbrooke for a fortnight to discuss terms. If the talks end favorably and a treaty is signed, the wedding week’s preparations will commence, culminating in nuptials on the seventh night, per tradition.”
The news stole the breath from Steve’s lungs—forever his affliction, the consequences of severe asthma in his youth. His mother had been right to insist that he calm himself earlier, as she did again now.
“Breathe, my dearest darling.” A smile beamed off her lips, brighter than a thousand suns. “You’ve finally done it. Prince James will be yours.”
Steve only just stopped himself from racing to the windows, throwing them open, and shouting out over the mountaintops.
“And you…” He shoved his mug onto the nearest side table, propped his arms on his knees, and clasped his hands to keep them from shaking. “You still approve the match?”
That dimmed her glow a little. “This is your future, my darling. I have a say in the terms of the treaty, of course I do, but it is not for me to decide to whom you give your heart. You’ve gone well beyond your duty to Lehigh. You’ve sired her heirs, your strategy won us the war, and you will raise the new queen—a burden unfairly placed on you, I might add.”
“No, Ma.” Steve vehemently shook his head. “No. An honor.”
“Don’t quarrel with your mother on this glorious day.” Queen Sarah found her smile again, more radiant than before. “Just promise that you’ll bring him to Augemont as soon as you can, so we can have a second celebration here. I will meet the man who’s had you so enraptured all these years.”
Steve’s heart sank. Part of him understood that she wouldn’t be able to make the journey, even the relatively short journey to Lynbrooke. A larger part of him dreaded leaving her for so long—a month away seemed like a lifetime when the rest of her life could be counted in months. But as he’d never thought in a million years he’d be accepted, he hadn’t really confronted the necessary realities. Until now.
“A formal courtship,” Steve strategized aloud, his keen mind leaping ahead to a reasonable solution before considering all the facts, like it always did. “We’ll sign the treaty, then enter into a period of courtship. One year, maybe two. They are in no position to argue, given—”
“Under no circumstances.” Her most imperious tone still had the power to rattle his bones. She reached out to him—he hurried over to her, clasping both her hands in an iron grip. But for all her steel, she regarded him tenderly. “My dearest darling. I know your fears. I share them. But the powers will have their way with us no matter what we do. You’ve been given a chance at happiness. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for you. I’ll know no peace unless you grasp it, Steven.”
“Then I will,” he vowed. To his queen, to Prince James, and to himself, most of all. Though it soothed something inside him to be given her permission. “So long as the terms are favorable.”
“You’ll make them so,” she insisted. “Though I have few concerns on that score. Queen Rebecca has taken the best from her mother and her father. Lean on her—she will see you through. Prince James, on the other hand… If the rumors are true, you will have your work cut out for you. Don’t falter, even if the two of you struggle awhile. Make me proud.”
“Always, Ma.”
“I’ve never doubted it.” She inhaled a cleansing breath of her own, bent to kiss his forehead. “We’ll celebrate and scheme a bit more at the picnic. For now, your first hurdle—the council. That rabble are going to come in here and dredge up every possible reason this is a horrible idea, with Natasha leading the charge, so stay strong. You’ll have to learn to tame them anyway. Consider it good practice.”
“That’s a word for it,” he chuckled, rueful. “They can say what they like. I know this is the best choice for Lehigh, and I have your approval.”
“And my love. Never forget.” She opened up her arms to him. Steve balanced his weight on the arm of her chair as he leaned in to hug her, as tight as he dared. “We’ve had our struggles, haven’t we? But since the day you were born, I’ve felt nothing but blessed, my darling boy.”
Steve cleared his throat, blinked back his tears. She didn’t deserve his grief, not today of all days. Not with such glimmers of hope on the horizon.
“Love you too, Ma,” Steve whispered, relishing every last second of her embrace. Queen Sarah didn’t dole out affections easily or often—it was indeed a special day.
And if all went according to plan, Steve would soon have a whole new arm to shelter him, through good times and troubles.
“Ready to unleash the hounds?” his mother asked, once he’d refreshed both their drinks and settled back into his proper chair.
“Bring ‘em on.” Steve meant it. He may not have prepared himself for the emotional consequences of negotiating a marriage without his mother present, but reasons Venora and Lehigh should form an alliance? Reasons he and Prince James should be matched? He had those memorized, chapter and verse, since the day he’d discovered they’d both survived the war.
“You may return,” Queen Sarah summoned, then took a long draught of her tea.
The council members stumbled in, affecting the air of a group of people who had definitely not been plastered to the door with their ears to an empty glass. While the rest of them spread out in their usual louche formation, Natasha stood, poised, centered, and adorably pint-sized, a red menace without anything to infect.
“Your Majesty,” she addressed the queen, deliberately ignoring Steve. “This offer cannot stand.”
“And what offer is that?”
“The one you’re about to tell us about.” She slid her sly green eyes over to Steve, then back again. “The worst-kept secret in all of Augemont.”
“If you’ve been fully briefed, then we can conclude for the day.” Queen Sarah pretended to yawn. “Unless you intend to undermine my authority and the private wishes of the prince, my son. A son who has devoted himself to our interests for his entire life. Who has sired not one, but two respectable heirs, thereby fulfilling any and all duty to his queendom and this court. Surely, you do not wish to suggest that I deny my devoted son and the future regent of the land the partner of his choosing.”
If Natasha felt any frustration, she knew better than to let it show. Speaking of shows, Steve was enjoying this one more than anything he’d watched in months.
“Your Majesty, his choice is not apolitical.”
“No choice is apolitical when you’re a prince of the realm,” Steve countered.
“Exactly,” Natasha insisted. “But putting that aside, the fact that you’re courting one of our enemies—"
Queen Sarah pounced on that at once. “Venora has never been our enemy, Natasha. Don’t be obtuse.”
“Prince James—”
“Be careful,” his mother warned. And it was Steve’s mother, not the queen, who spoke out now. “Be very, very careful what you say next about a man who has suffered in ways none of us can even imagine.”
Natasha clamped her mouth shut, regrouping. Her eyes still burned with resolve.
After another deep, remedial breath, Steve straightened his back, but did not stand. He wouldn’t tower over her, even if he could. No argument could truly be won through intimidation, something the Hydra might have kept in mind as they forced the good citizens of Venora to bow to them.
“A recluse. A hermit. A broken man, one who doesn’t even know his own mind after years of torture and deprivation. Or worse, a madman still loyal to the Hydra who has to remain locked in a cell for his own good.” Steve felt proud of how he pronounced those facts without the slightest quiver. “Those are the rumors, hmm?”
“Those, and a great many more.” Valkyria, the guard captain, added her voice to the mix. “A darker kind of depravity. A ledger of horrors so steeped in red that the stain will never wash away.”
“Are there any witnesses to these horrors?” Steve asked. “This so-called depravity?”
She scoffed. “Of course not. They’re dead.”
“Convenient.” Steve locked eyes with each of them in turn, taking in their worry, their concerns.
Truth was, he lived for a lively debate, for the thrill of a complex argument. He could do this all the damn day.
“I would hope that the good members of this council would know better than to believe the stories shellshocked soldiers tell, fresh off the battlefield, without evidence.” Steve glanced at his mother, who poorly concealed her smirk. “I would hope that the senior council members who advise the queen would be savvy enough to gather evidence for themselves before rumormongering about the prince of a realm we’re trying to re-establish ties with. That they would understand the value of an alliance with Venora to both of our queendoms and prioritize that over idle gossip.”
“My prince—” Natasha interjected.
Steve stared her down, point-blank. “I sent spies to Lynbrooke each year, to monitor his state of being. Your spies, Master of Whispers, so I assume you trust them. Because, yes, this is someone I’m inviting into my family, in close to my mother and my children, into my bed, so you’re damn right I’m going to make sure he’s safe to be around. Not to mention we’ll have two whole weeks to observe him before the treaty is signed.”
His words resounded like a thunderclap. Every one of them gaped, caught out. Queen Sarah coughed into her hand, but Steve knew she was hiding her giggles. Steve glared at them, exasperated. They were coming close to ruining his day.
“Next objection,” he barked.
“I think we’ve heard enough, my darling,” Queen Sarah declared. A pointed remark in itself—she never called him that in public. “And my grandchildren await. Natasha, you’ll have the opportunity to vet Prince James yourself—you’re going with them.”
“Your Majesty—” she blurted, though Steve was not surprised.
His mother would always, always find a way to protect him. And, to be honest, he would be grateful of the perspective that Steve recognized he lacked when it came to Prince James.
“I’ll be fine,” Queen Sarah insisted. “And you two need to learn to get along.”
Steve winked at his mother. “Yes, Ma.”
Natasha looked like she imagined all the ways she might dismember him. Instead, she bowed with a dancer’s grace and swept out of the room. The rest of the council had already mumbled their excuses and fled; the nurse gone to fetch the queen’s rolling chair. Steve went to his mother when she beckoned, kneeling by her side so she could pet his hair.
“Don’t look so smug,” she chided, but with fondness. “You have a long road ahead. No matter what the state of his mind, Prince James’ heart won’t be won in a day.”
Feeling indulgent, Steve laid his head in her lap. “I know.”
“He might not take kindly to being wooed,” she reminded him, “or want to be wooed at all.”
“I’m ready, Ma,” he assured her. “I might not be much of a soldier, but I give good fight.”
Queen Sarah laughed, softly, to herself. “Then I don’t know how he’ll be able to resist you, my darling.”
End of Chapter 1