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Claimed by the Warmonger

Chapter 6

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(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

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CHAPTER SIX:




His fever came and went like the ocean tides. The waves of sickness raging and turbulent one moment then calm and tranquil the next. To be honest, Steve didn't remember much from that time. He floated in the waters of oblivion, uncaring of the way the fever burned its way through his body. He was vaguely aware of voices, the soft stroke of a cool cloth against his fevered brow, warm lips pressed to his ear, his cheek, his forehead. When it grew cold, so cold that the chattering of his teeth and the seizing of his muscles forced him into a state of semi-wakefulness, there was a warm body pressed against his back. Strong, deliciously hot, hands running up and down his sides and arms. Steve burrowed into that warmth, tucking his slighter body into the hollows of the larger one pressed against him. He felt the rumble of a chest, more soothing words in a voice that was whiskey soaked gravel, calling his name.

 

“Steve, don’t give up on me. Steve…”

 

Steve luxuriated in the warmth while it lasted. His body demanded rest and so he did not fight when the sleep pulled him under. He was simply a piece of flotsam lost in the drifting tides. As the son of a healer, and having also been on the end of his fair share of fevers as a boy, he knew when to give in to the urge to sleep and when to fight. Time passed this way, an endless cycle of rest and the edge of wakefulness. Of hot and cold. Of shaking and warm hands and cool cloths and gentle voices. Sometimes there was more than one voice, more than one set of hands upon him. 

 

Steve made no secret of the fact that there was one caretaker he preferred above all others. The one with the voice that seemed to seep deep into his unconscious, the one that soothed with his deeply rumbled words. The one that reminded him of spring days, the forest at sunset, and his sleepy little cottage back in Lynnbrook. He burrowed into that voice, wrapped it around himself like an invisible shroud, and let it blanket him in the easy warmth he found within the tone. 

 

He wasn't sure how much time had passed when he next came to wakefulness. His head lay pillowed on a warm pectoral muscle, the skin hot and slightly sticky beneath his flushed cheek. His eyes simply refused to open, far too heavy and took far too much effort to do so. Steve didn't fight it. Instead, he listened. Listened to the warm crackle of a fire, the soft twitter of birdsong in the distance. There was movement, voices, but they came from farther away and muffled. Perhaps outside. And then there was the steady rumble of a now long familiar voice, rising and falling in pitch, his words a familiar melody of sound. Like a well worn footpath to a distant memory. 

 

Steve concentrated on that sound above all else. Felt the words wash over him and then slowly, so slowly, they began to seep into his brain, and Steve understood. 

 

He heard.

 

It was a poem. Not just any poem. It was his father’s poem. A poem from the book that his father used to read to him every night before bed. His father’s favorite poem about love and loss. The rustle of the pages, the words and pitch just right. Just the same. Just the way his father used to read it to him as a boy.

 

Longing, sharp and beautiful, lacerated the inside of his chest. He let out a soft huff of breath that may have been a sob. Felt the hot tears seeping out of his closed eyes, his lashes spiky with them, as the poem continued on. The voice didn't stop at Steve’s soft sighs. His watery intakes of breath. If anything the voice grew stronger, more determined.

 

The words lifted up, familiar and bright, the cadence the same. Warm fingers twined through his hair, tugging gently, soothing as they rubbed against his scalp. 

 

He was home. He was safe. 

 

He was cared for.

 

He let the feelings those words unearthed fill the cavity in his chest. 

 

It was the place where he missed them. Where he would always miss them. A place that would never heal over, never change, not so long as he walked this earth and they did not. He would always carry that place inside him. It was a wound that he did not often bring out into the light of day because it was easier to hide it away than to examine it. To feel the raw, painful, edges of it. The grief. He let those words wash through him bright and blinding and beautiful and pour into the cavity. Fill it with something that felt…felt good. Felt happier. Felt like sunshine and summer and sticky hands and belly laughs. It felt like his father’s smile, his mother’s laughter, flower crowns, and dinner around the table.

 

Steve let those words fill him again until the darkness of sleep reached up to claim him with closed eyes wet with tears and a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

 

____

 

His mind came back to him in slow stages after that. Enough to know that days had passed since he’d first been brought up from the prisoner cart to the Iron Warlord himself. He had been sick, he knew, from the infection that had raged through him. Very sick. He could still feel the effects of it on his body. His brow puckered, eyes still closed against the thought of wakefulness, as he took a slow mental stock of himself. 

 

He was warm, deliciously so, his chest bare beneath the quilt that he had found himself tucked in to. The bed beneath him was soft and thick, a down pillow of some sort cushioning his head. He curled his toes, fingertips twitching, muscles stretching after laying dormant for too long. Gone were the aches and pains that had plagued him from the battle and forced march. Even his backside, where he had been whipped with the belt, no longer pained him. 

 

How long had he been sick? Flashes of remembrance played across his mind’s eye. Softly spoken words, the Warmonger’s voice dark and thick with emotion, calling him back from the brink. When Steve would have let himself sink into the deep waters it had been Tony’s voice calling him back. Refusing to let him go. It had been his hands that Steve had turned his cheek into. Days of illness, of soothing a fevered brow. Of softly spoken words and his father’s poetry.

 

At one point during his illness he had been sure that his father had come back from the dead to read to him. That his mother had been there with the cloth on his brow and her gentle touch as she forced him to take small sips of willow bark tea. He knew now, obviously, that such a thing was impossible. It was not his mother’s hands upon him. Not his fathers words of encouragement whispered in his ears. He had been cared for diligently by none other than the Iron Warmonger himself.

 

How the tables had turned.

 

Would Tony consider his debt repaid now? Steve, without a doubt, certainly owed the man his life. Not that such a debt was a currency that had gotten him very far. Sure, it had likely stayed the Warmonger's hand that day on the battlefield. But it hadn’t stopped him from clapping an iron collar around his neck, cuffs around his wrists, nor from stringing him up to a whipping pole and beating his ass black and blue.  Nor had it stopped him from casting Steve out, throwing him away, and putting him in the hands of someone who made no secret of his hatred for Steve.

 

If Steve were wise, he would place equal value on what had happened over the course of the last few days. 

 

He wasn’t feeling very wise. As a matter of fact, he hated the tender part of him that seemed to preen over the Warlords attention - as if he was nothing more than the vapid young fop of a sex slave everyone assumed him to be.

 

 It had been Tony who had cared for him, who had supported his head in his moments of lucidity and helped him drink. Salty, savory, broths and fresh clean water. Teas, just like his mother used to make, to reduce his fever and lessen his pain. Bitter, healing, draughts. Tony had tended to him with a single minded intensity, he never recalled a moment where the Warlord had not been at his side upon waking.

 

Speaking of which. Steve took a deep breath, felt it rattle around in his chest, and heaved it out of his protesting lungs with a shuddering cough. 

 

He opened his eyes, blinking away the grit and fatigue, while he stared up at the thatched roof overhead. There was a fire, crackling in the hearth against the far wall, and Steve rolled his weary head to catch a glimpse of it.

 

He immediately sucked in a breath of shock - scarcely believing his eyes.

 

It was… it was his home. In Lynbrook. His heart stuttered in his chest as he struggled his way into a sitting position. From the walls to the packed dirt floors, everything appeared the same. There were scorch marks on some of the stones by the hearth at the base of the doorway. His mothers shelf with her herbs had been returned to its spot in the kitchen, though from what Steve could tell most of the jars there sat empty. There was a rocking chair by the fire, just like the one that he once sat in all those years ago. It was clearly newer, the wood polished and shiny, a bright blanket draped carefully over the back. His pots and pans hung by the hearth. Even the bed he laid in now was in the same place as it had once been in the cottage.

 

Steve’s heart wrenched in his chest even as confusion twisted his brow. He had been here… had stood in the smoldering ashes and rubble of what had once been his life. His home. This… this was impossible. Impossible for it to be here. Impossible for it to… be nearly identical to his home. The amount of time it must have taken to get the details just so…

 

“Ah, at last he wakes.” The amused rumble came from the doorway where the Warlord had one shoulder planted firmly against the jam, arms crossed over his broad chest. He was wearing a simple black tunic that clung tight to his shoulders and chest before disappearing into a pair of black leather breeches. His inky black hair was pushed back and away from his face, but a devilish lock fell to curl over his brow. Although his face was relaxed, his lips pulled into a devilish smirk, and his eyes warm with humor, there was no denying that the Warlord looked tired. Washed out. There were dark circles under those dancing eyes. The fine lines that bracketed his mouth and creased his brow seemed deeper. He had the look of a man who was just coming back from the edge of grief. Surely… surely that wasn't because of Steve? 

 

Steve swallowed, tongue darting out to slowly wet his lips, even as his head spun. Immediately the Warlord, his one time nemesis, pushed off the door frame and strode into the small cottage. Steve watched numbly, his head feeling thick and cottony, his thoughts scattered, as Tony reached his bedside. His gaze fell down to the small table there. Another twin of the one that had once graced his cottage in Lynnbrook. There, on that bedside table was a simple tin ewer, and by the dents and scorch marks that marked its surface, an original piece of Steve’s home. Steve watched, incredibly parched, as a bead of condensation trailed down the side. Tony wasted no time in pouring the water into a simple tin cup before settling himself on the edge of the bed and bringing the cup up to Steve’s shocked lips. He jerked his arms, feeling the fatigue in his muscles, before simply allowing Tony to tip the cup to his lips. Steve swallowed, desperately thirsty, his eyes confused and wild as they searched the Warlord’s carefully neutral face.

 

What was going on here? Was this … a fantasy? A fever dream? There was no way that any of this was possible. And yet here he sat, in the cottage that had burned down years ago, sitting on an all to familiar bed by the window he had gazed out countless times as a boy, the object of both his desire and frustration sitting before him and patiently tilting a cup full of the sweetest water Steve had tasted to his lips. A shock of pain lanced through his heart then. It tasted… it tasted exactly like the water from the well in Lynnbrook. When he had drained the cup, and it was set back gently on the bedside table, only then did Steve ask simply “Why?”

 

A flush rose into the Warlord’s cheeks and across his swarthy skin. He cleared his throat, eyes dipping down to Steve’s bare chest, before darting back up to meet his gaze as if he was suddenly having problems meeting Steve’s eyes. 

 

“I suppose you’re wondering why I did all this.” The Warlord let out a breath as his gaze danced across the room, tracing the wood beams on the ceiling and traveling across the walls and floor. “My memory is…” he paused, considering. “I have near perfect recall. There were many nights that I would close my eyes and find myself back here, in this space, with you. I remembered everything from those early days, the way your hands felt on my skin, the care you took when I was too weak and too stubborn to tend to myself. I remembered your voice during my darkest hours, the things you spoke of, the people, the poetry. I could… I could even smell this place, taste that gods-be-damned awful elixir you were constantly pouring down my throat. I remembered the way that the firelight used to reflect off the sweat on your skin, the way your cheeks flushed, rosy from the chill in the air when you would come back in from your evening chores. The way the smell of the outside and the cold would cling to you. I remembered the care you took and how…” The Warlord paused, looking away. “How safe I felt here with you. How comfortable. I remembered that… that I wanted to stay. All these things I needed to do, my revenge, avenging my mother and father, protecting my people…and I wanted to stay here in this place despite everything that I had been working towards for years. A part of me was tempted to simply throw it all away and try my hand at tending farm. During my darkest times, I would imagine how things could have been. The solace that merely thinking of you, here, on your little farm with your quarrelsome livestock, your herb garden, and that little book of poetry you so enjoyed reading from…”

 

Tony scoffed. Then swallowed, raising his gaze to meet Steve’s.

 

“I came back, you know.”

 

The shock and confusion swirling in Steve’s thoughts turned bitter.

 

“Oh, of that I am well aware, my lord.” His voice was raspy from disuse, but the venom in his tone had the Warlord’s eyebrow winging upward. 

 

“It was hard to miss. The only reason I am still alive after your people burned my Hamlet to the ground was because I was out in the forest that day. I came home to see my home and my neighbors' homes burning. The people captured or fled. The animals slaughtered and the fields razed.” His voice cracked. “I well remember the Verisian monsters laughing in triumph as they rode by on their war horses.” 

 

He remembered the desolation too. The loss of hope. The feeling of helplessness that had choked him as he knelt in the still smoldering remains of what had once been his home, the carcasses of his beloved farm animals left laying in the field. What the warriors had not taken they had slaughtered instead.

 

Bernard…that had been one more death, one more grave that Steve had to dig on the family farm. It was stupid to feel the loss of an animal so keenly, he knew. He had grown up on a farm, afterall. Had raised animals for slaughter. It was the circle of life. 

 

And yet…Bernard had been different. He had been a companion.

 

And they had killed him.

 

He was so lost in his thoughts, in his pain, that it took him a moment to hear Tony calling to him.

 

“Steve!”

 

He blinked, blearily, heart sore. Pushing the pain down and away. A warm hand wrapped around his where it lay folded in his lap in the blanket. A calloused thumb brushed against the back of his hand, even as Steve tensed and tried to pull away. This Warlord had taken everything from him. How dare he sit here and try to comfort him now. Build this travesty of a cottage as if… as if it would make up for everything that-

 

“It wasn't the Vers who attacked Lynnbrook, Steve. Look at me! It wasn't us, I would have never allowed it.” Steve blinked up into solemn eyes. Earnest eyes. Tony believed what he said.

 

“I know what I saw.” Steve didn't have the energy to spit the words out. They came out wooden, tinged in sadness and bleak acceptance. There was no changing what had happened to his home. There was no bringing back his farm, or his neighbors, or his animal friends. 

 

The Warlord shook his head. “No, Steve. You saw what they wanted anyone witnessing that charade to see. You saw what you thought was my people attacking your home and murdering innocents in cold blood. Lynnbrook wasn't the only small town they did that to. It was just one of many.”

 

Steve scoffed. Shaking his head. How could the Warlord expect him to believe…Steve had seen them! With his own eyes!

 

“Think, Steve. You’re a smart man. You’ve traveled with us now, might have even picked up some of our ways. That day you saw the Vers riding away from here… were their horses saddled?”

 

Steve thought back, fighting against the sadness and rage that was blanketing his still recovering body.  Trying to think. Trying to remember. But how could he forget? Yes. The horses had been saddled that day. And the Vers…did not saddle their horses.

 

He felt his shoulders slump. Confusion knit his brow. He could feel his body begin to sway back and forth from fatigue. 

 

Then there was a hard hand pressing against his shoulder, another supporting his neck as he was forced back down onto the bed.

 

“That’s…that’s enough for now. I didn't mean to upset you. You’re still recovering and-”

 

Steve’s hand shot out, grabbing the Warlord by the wrist as he went to pull away.

 

“Don’t. Do not coddle me. Tell me.” 

 

Tony sighed, easing back down on the bed almost reluctantly after seeing the stubborn tilt of Steve’s chin and the fire in his tired eyes.

 

“Ross has been sending out a small, highly trained and morally corrupt, task force known as Hydra to do his dirty work for him.” Steve was taken aback at the casual use of the King’s name, and the way that the Warlord said it with contempt. He shouldn't have been surprised though. They were enemies after all. But there was something there in the way that Tony said the words, as if King Ross did not deserve the respect that came with the position of King. 

 

“Ross is nothing but a pretender. A liar and a snake. When he heard I was coming for him, he began attacking his own civilians with Hydra dressed as Vers warriors. He wanted to instill hatred and fear before we even touched down on the shore.” Tony scoffed, turning his face away so that Steve wouldn't see the raw emotion, the barely banked rage, that twisted across his face at the thought. It was clear that Tony was trying to rein in the anger that the thought of Ross evoked, and just as clear that such a thing seemed an impossible task to the Warlord.

 

“Men. Women. Children. It didn't matter. Ross killed his own people to turn them more thoroughly against us. Left their corpses piled in the streets.”

 

Steve shook his head slowly. “But…why would he do something like that? Why would-”

 

“Civilians will fight harder when it’s against an enemy that they hate. One that has wronged them. I’m sure that farmers were showing up by the hundreds to be conscripted into his armies after that.”

 

A sour taste filled his mouth, danced across the back of his tongue. Horror. Because Tony was right . Steve had been one of those people, after all. He had been so filled with righteous indignation and fury at the time. Wanting to see the Vers suffer, wanting to deliver some of that suffering himself on the people who had so thoroughly wronged him. He had wanted revenge.

 

Had it really all been a lie?

 

“But his manipulations, his dirty little tricks, were not enough to stop us - to stop justice . To stop me .” 

 

So long as he lived, Steve would never forget the way that the Warlord looked in that moment. The determination that filled his eyes as he gazed off into the distance, his hand curled into a fist at his side. This was a man who was resolute in his hatred for his foe. This was a man who was determined, against all odds, to tear down a King.

 

“He is putting farmboys and sheep herders up against battle hardened warriors. He is a coward ,” Tony sneered, disgust evident in his tone. " That is over taxing his people, letting them starve, while he sits in his castle and grows fat off their coin and suffering. He has done nothing but monger fear and war for years unchecked, far too comfortable on a throne that does not belong to him. And there he hides, cowering,  throwing the lives of innocents in our path, burning his own towns and villages in our name and he thinks that will stop us?” The laugh that left him then was harsh and humorless. “It will not. Nothing will stop me until I knock him off the throne and avenge the deaths of my Mother and Father.” 

 

Steve swallowed, watching the righteous fury, the indignance play across the Warlord’s face. His mind, still sluggish from the illness that had racked his body, slowly piecing together the clues that had been staring him in the face all this time. From the cut of his hair and beard which was done in the style Norkyew nobles tended to favor, his easy and accentless knowledge of Steve’s own language, the familiarity with the land… hell the crest that had been stamped into the leather of his wrists that had seemed so familiar. How had Steve been so blind?

 

“Your Mother and Father… the Starks? The late Queen and Prince Consort?”

 

Those familiar whiskey eyes swung his way, mouth kicking up at the corners into a smile that could only ever be described as fond.

 

“Yes. I have come back to claim my throne, and to kill the man who murdered my parents.”

 

Shock stole his breath. Everyone had heard of the tragedy that had befallen the late and much beloved Queen and Prince Consort of NorkYew. Steve was little more than a babe himself when news of their passing had reached the Hamlet of Lynbrook. He remembered his mother’s deep sadness whenever she spoke of the Queen. Everyone had loved Queen Maria and her Prince Consort Howard Stark of Hatten. They had been fair and just rulers who sought peace instead of war. When King Ross took the throne, he had been blood thirsty and eager to prove himself a strong King. The polar opposite of the “weak, soft, Starks” who had ruled before him. Ever since he took the throne Norkyew had not known a moment of peace. 

 

There were constant skirmishes at the border. King Ross had attacked nearly all of their neighbors in what seemed to be one pointless, unending, war after the next. Taxes had been raised to feed and grow his new army. The might of Norkyew. King Ross was a harsh King, who ruled with an iron fist. But Steve had always thought… him fair? Looking back at it now, in the room that was a twin to his cottage out in Lynbrook, Steve realized that it wasn't true. King Ross was not a fair ruler. He was not just. He was brutal and heavy handed. How had he never noticed that before?

 

Tony seemed to understand. 

 

“It’s hard to see what is right in front of you sometimes, especially when you are focusing on just surviving. I’ve been there. I know.”

 

It took him another moment, as muzzy headed and slow as his brain churned through these new facts that the Warlord had just unloaded upon him. But realization, when it came, came hot and swift. Immediately Steve snapped upright into a somewhat wobbly seated position, his blue eyes wide in his pale face.

 

“Y-Your Highness?” Because if Tony was the son of the late Queen, then that meant the throne of Norkyew belonged to none other than him. He was the Crown Prince. The heir to the throne. The rightful King of Norkyew… and Steve had punched him in the face and tried to stab him…multiple times. But who was counting?

 

What a terrific start to his new reign. 

 

“Ha!” Tony let out a harsh bark of a laugh, his hand falling to Steve’s shoulder as he pressed down. Steve was not strong enough yet to not follow that hand back down to the bed. He was forced to lay down and blink up with wide shocked eyes at the Prince of Norkyew. The rightful heir to the throne.

 

“Don’t do that now. No. Not you. I’ll not have you bow and scrape to me, Steven Rogers. Not when I owe you my life - and so much more. If it weren’t for you I would be dead. You found me in the woods. Carried me all the way here - which is impressive in and of itself, all things considered.” Tony chuckled at the way Steve’s eyes narrowed at the slight dig. Even if it was true. He was, however, too shocked to voice his protest.

 

“You nursed me back to health, and we both know I am not an easy patient. Especially not then… in the beginning” Tony amended, lips twisting in wry amusement. “I may have been a little rough around the edges at first. I wasn't sure who I could trust any more. I had just been betrayed by an old family friend and I had no earthly idea who you were or what your intentions were.” Again, Tony seemed to chuckle at the memory of their first meeting. “I should have known then you were a force to be reckoned with. There I was with a knife at your throat, a stranger and a dangerous one at that, and you simply scolded me as if I were a wayward child and ushered me back to my sick bed.”

 

Even Steve had to crack a smile at that. “You were going to undo all of my hard work.”

 

Tony shook his head, brushing a wayward lock of hair out of Steve’s face, the ease with which he did so made it seem like it was a motion that was more muscle memory than anything else. The warmth that filled his chest at the thought was almost shameful. 

 

“I think I was equal parts charmed and flabbergasted by you. It didn't take long for me to figure out that you had nothing to do with my betrayal. I count my lucky stars that you were the one to find me and not Obie…the man who betrayed me. He was an old family friend and I had, rather foolishly, trusted him. He traveled to Versenga to meet with me. He looked so relieved and happy to see me. Said he was glad that something of my Father had survived in this world.” He shook his head then, the expression flashing across his face one of bitter remorse. 

 

“I believed him when he said he wanted what was best for the Kingdom. That he wanted to return a Stark to the throne. That he was disgusted by what Ross had done and wanted to avenge my Mother and cease the endless wars. And why wouldn't I? He was my Godfather, afterall. He and my Father had been very good friends, business partners, and allies. When my Father had managed to attract the attention of the Queen herself he had brought Obie up with him. Everything that Obidiah Stane had was because of my family. I thought if anyone…if anyone would want to see justice done it would have been him. I should have known better.” His voice turned angry. “His business was built on war. Supplying and manufacturing weapons of war. With Ross as King his purse was full, his coffers overflowing. Why would he want to change that? But I hadn't thought that he would betray me in that way. So when he urged me to return home to meet with like-minded lords of the court who desired to see a Stark on the throne again…I believed him. I left Versanga, where I had been raised alongside Zer Odin Warmonger’s son, Thor. When I showed up for the clandestine meeting he had called it was to be met with betrayal. He and a group of Hydra soldiers killed my men, but not before we wiped out more than half their number.” The look in his eyes was half feral with remembered pain. 

 

“I have a lot of regrets in this life - but not sticking around to make sure I slid my sword between that bald bastard’s ribs might be the greatest one of all. That he is still out there, breathing the same air, while my parents-” Tony bit off the words with an audible snap of his teeth. 

 

Hesitantly Steve cleared his throat. 

 

“Bald, you said?”

 

Tony’s eyes snapped down with an intensity that was shocking. Steve shouldered on under that piercing gaze, hyper aware of the way Tony’s gaze bored into him. 

 

“That day I found you there was a man there. Tall, broad of shoulder, bald. Wearing the same style of armor as you.”

 

Tony’s eyes narrowed on Steve’s face. Inexplicably he felt heat creep up the side of his neck, felt the tell-tale burning in his cheeks. Dear god, was he blushing? This was ridiculous. 

 

“Why didn't you tell me of this sooner? You’ve never mentioned another man there before.”

 

“We’ve never talked about it!” Steve snapped back, reflexively. “If you recall, your highness , you didn't stick around long enough for us to chat about it. Or to say goodbye for that matter. And at the time I was feeling rather guilty about the whole-”

 

He cleared his throat at Tony’s rather pointed stare.

 

“Right. So I had gone to find Bernard, my ram-”

 

“I well remember who Bernard is, Steve. It’s unlikely I could forget him, you spoke of him often.”

 

“Yes well, you have my pesky Ram to thank for your life.”

 

Tony’s eyebrow winged upward in surprise even as Steve’s lips curled with amusement. He had never told the Warlord this story. Had never shared with him just how it came to be that Steve had come across him that day in the forest by the water. And why would he have? At the time it seemed like his injured patient did not speak the same language. Instead Steve had nattered on about other things, avoiding potentially sensitive topics. He hadn't been over the fact that he had taken his first life. It was something that had taken him a while to come to terms with.

 

 “I wasn't in that part of the forest that day. I had gone out to replenish my stores of Marshmallow. I was running low and needed some for myself and the other villagers. I was upstream about half a mile or so when I heard him bellowing. Bernard was never the type of Ram to bluster and bellow. He had a gentle spirit, albeit a mischievous one. For him to carry on like that I knew there had to be something really wrong. That’s how I came to find you. Well, find the both of you. The bald man had just dragged you out of the water and threw you on the ground. He was talking to you in Verisian. He had a dagger in his hand. He… He meant to kill you. When you were unconscious.”

 

Tony’s hand sought his, the heat of him sinking into Steve’s bones as the grip tightened reassuringly. 

 

“I didn't think. I just reacted. I knew something was off and I didn't like the look of him. I had my sling and -” Steve shook his head, gaze darting away for a moment before turning back to meet Tony’s. “In all honesty I didn't mean to kill him.” Tony sucked in a sharp breath as if Steve had just jabbed him in the ribs with a blade pointy end first. “If he hadn't turned towards me he’d likely have just gotten coshed on the head and knocked out. But my stone hit him square in the temple. With the force of it - he was dead before he hit the ground.”

 

“Are you telling me,” There was no mistaking the growl in Tony’s voice “that you killed Obidiah Stane? He’s dead?”

 

Steve nodded once, solemn. He was sure that Tony wanted to slay the man who betrayed him, and likely his parents, himself. Steve had inadvertently stolen that from him. He was probably furious at Steve for-

 

A huff of breath left him as the Warlord gathered Steve in his arms and all but crushed him to his chest. 

 

“You beautiful, stubborn, surprising idiot. Do you have any idea how lucky - Obidiah Stane may have been old but he was a master weaponsmith and not yet out of his prime. If you had missed -” Steve felt the shudder that reverberated through the other man. 

 

“I don’t miss.” Even Steve heard the smug satisfaction in his tone. He was too sick to care if that made him look conceited.

 

Tony snorted, his face now buried in Steve’s neck, hot breath misting against his skin.

 

“Yes, and let’s thank the gods for that.” The words were muffled against his skin, but Steve heard them nonetheless.

 

Steve didn't know how long he sat there, cradled in the warmth and strength of Tony’s arms, Tony’s face pressed against his neck. The scratch of his beard was a welcome abrasion to his skin, the kiss of his breath soft and warm. Steve tucked his chin, pressing his cheek to the surprisingly soft tendrils of Tony’s thick dark locks. He smelt of simple soap, a hint of sweat, and woodsmoke. Steve found comfort in that embrace, not fighting when his eyelids once again began to droop, his muscles trembling with fatigue. Tony laid him back down gently on the bed, and Steve reached for him, his tired eyes plaintive. He dared not voice it, not to the crown prince, or the acting Warlord of the Vers army.

 

But Tony heard the question in his eyes as surely as if he had spoken the words aloud. A soft, warm, smile that reached up and lit his eyes curled across the Warlord’s lips as he eased back down onto the narrow bed. 

 

“Rest, beloved. There is much to do, and much that I have to atone for with you, but it can all wait until you are well again.” A soft kiss was pressed onto the crown of his head, and Steve relaxed back into the strong, warm, arms of his Warlord and Prince, a content smile of his own chasing across his lips as he drifted off into sleep..

 

__________________________________

 

Steve woke up on a garbled yell, his heart lodged in his throat and his hands fisted so hard in the quilted blanket that his knuckles had turned white. He snapped his teeth shut, biting off the scream so that it became more of a muffled shout and a clack of teeth. 

 

He had dreamed of Brock again.

 

His stomach turned sour, twisting hard in his belly, the images of his recent nightmare replaying in his mind's eye with a startling and vivid clarity. Steve tried to swallow around the lump in his throat, hating the way his body shook and the tears that pricked at his eyes, despite his best efforts to contain them. To be strong. It… it was just a dream, right?

 

Only this dream was a mixture of memories and his imagination’s worst sort of conjuring. If he closed his eyes he would still be able to see the man’s face, those hard eyes sharp with malicious intent. He could still feel Brock’s hands on him, the harsh grip, the hot heat of his breath against his nape.

 

Shame burned through him then, hot and jarring and startlingly bright. Shame that he was having nightmares about Brock. About… about what could have happened out there in the forest that day. How easy it would have been for Brock to simply throw him to the ground and…

 

Steve shook his aching head as if that would clear the memories of the nightmare from his mind. 

 

Something in his movements must have woken the Warmonger, for Steve heard the unmistakable sound of feet padding toward him. He blinked, turning his head slowly to watch the Warmongers steady approach. The cottage was not very big, not by any stretch of the imagination, but Steve couldn’t help but notice the almost feline fluidity that Tony exuded as he stalked over to his bed.

 

“Another nightmare?” The question was soft, even as the Warmonger rested a hip on the mattress, the packed straw and feathers dipping beneath his weight.

 

Steve jerked his gaze away, shamed that this was becoming a regular occurrence between them, his jaw firming stubbornly. How many nights had he woken up on a scream or shout? Some nights he woke up crying, with Tony’s concerned face hovering over him. His hand on his shoulder. And those were just the times he remembered. Tony had confessed that Steve had had these dreams in the height of his illness. The haunted, closed look on Tony’s face told him that the Warlord has heard and understood more than Steve would have liked. That he knew what type of nightmare Steve was having every night. It curdled his stomach, this weakness.

 

He heard Tony’s soft exhale. 

 

“I hear it helps to talk about them, Warprize. I’m here if you’d like to share.”

 

Something dark and ugly scratched its way up his throat and past his lips. It was a laugh that held no humor, only bitter anger.

 

As if he could share this mental weakness with the warlord and crown prince? How could he possibly understand it? He was a man who’s entire body was a weapon. He was a leader of a great warrior nation, a natural born fighter to whom other men instinctively deferred. When had he ever been made to feel small, helpless, a victim of his station? 

 

No, Tony could never understand the type of fear that still coated the back of Steve’s tongue at the memory of it. The mocking laughter that still rang in his ears, his own screams and cries for mercy an unanswered echo in his mind.

 

The breath he took was a shuddering one. His lungs refusing to inhale fully.

 

“I would like to know…What so troubles you, Steve. Is it a memory? Ah, yes I see that it is.” The look on Steve’s face must have given him away. Tony would surely think him pathetic now. Or worse, pitiful. 

 

“Ah my prideful little warrior. Do you think you’re the only one who is haunted by night terrors? Our minds have a way of taking a memory and twisting it until that memory grows wings and horns and claws and becomes something else entirely.”

 

Steve looked over at the soft glow of understanding that filled Tony’s eyes. Perhaps… perhaps the Warlord did know something of night terrors after all. But how was Steve supposed to confess to him…

 

Steve shook his head, his sweat soaked hair clinging to his brow.

 

“I’ll fetch us some of that tea you like.”

 

Steve’s arm shot out, his fingers twining around Tony’s wide wrist.  He stared down at his outstretched arm, just as shocked as Tony was. 

 

Steve licked his lips, nerves and emotions a terrible riotous jangle inside his chest.

 

“No. Stay.”

 

Silently Tony settled back down on the bed. Steve wasn't sure when it had happened, but at some point during his illness and these beginning stages of his convalescence Steve had come to find Tony’s presence… calming. Familiar. When the Warlord was around Steve felt… he felt protected. That no one, not even Brock, could harm him. That feeling gave him courage for what came next.

 

He took a deep breath, emboldened by Tony’s quiet, steady presence. The Warlord didn’t rush him, didn’t shift or sigh impatiently no matter how long it took for Steve to find the courage to share. Instead he sat there, holding Steve’s hand. His calloused thumb sweeping over Steve’s knuckles in long, slow, strokes.

 

They settled into a comfortable silence together. The night sounds of crickets outside the window, the mournful hoot of a barn owl, and the night wind whispering through the autumn trees filled the quiet void between them. Until Steve’s heart rate slowed enough to think calmly. Logically. 

 

It took him an embarrassingly long time to start. When he finally did the story came pouring out of him like flood waters from an over filled dam. 

 

He started with how he first met Brock, the things that had been said in the healing tent, the slap that had sent him to the ground. And then the way the man’s eyes followed him the night of his whipping. The dark promise in them as Tony carried him away. He spoke of the journey at the back of the wagon. How Brock had forced him to march and not given him a moment's rest. How many times he had been dragged over uneven ground until his legs and shins were a mess of bruises. 

 

The hardest part was telling him what had happened in the woods. The things that Brock had said before he’d laid hands on him. How he had been left alone afterwards and had to stumble his way back to the wagon.

 

Throughout it all Tony remained remarkably quiet. When he finished, shaking and pale and unaccountably sweaty by the end of it, Tony had merely nodded and gently pulled Steve to his chest.

 

It was a hug. He felt something ease from him, some tension, at the feeling of Tony’s bare skin pressed to his cheek. He could hear the thump and whoosh of the other man’s heart beneath his ear.

 

“Thank you for sharing with me, Warprize. I know… it was my fault you were even put in that situation. If I wasn’t such a conceited asshole…” Tony trailed off, his fingers clenching slightly, pressing more firmly into Steve’s skin.

 

“I’m sorry for what you went through. At the time I believed you to be safe with the wounded men from your nation. I thought seeing them would relieve some of your worry. That they could tell you themselves they hadn’t been mistreated, that their healthier comrades had already been released. We do not keep prisoners. We try to educate and let the men make their own decision on which King they will follow. Many get absorbed into our ranks, but are first sent to the Second Warlord’s camp for training. That’s Rhodey, you met him - although I’m not sure you remember it. He was none too pleased with how I’ve royally bungled this.”

 

 Tony reached up to rub at his jaw ruefully. 

 

“He’s got a good right hook. I thought all of this would be explained to you when you arrived at the wagon. I thought once you knew…” Tony’s lips twitched into a self deprecating sort of smile “…that you’d come running back to me. Delighted by my generosity. Wanting more of my touch. My mouth.”

 

Steve’s heart skipped a beat at the memory of the Warlords dark head moving between his thighs. At the feel of his hot mouth wrapped around him. If not for the nightmare still lingering at the edges of his consciousness, Steve would have had to fight back his arousal. Who knows? If things had worked out differently, if someone else had been in charge of transporting the wounded men, then Steve might have tried to talk to Tony again. At the very least to thank him. 

 

“I had no idea about Brock, or what you would face there. You must know that, farmboy. I would never harm you.”

 

When Steve’s brow winged upward in challenge, Tony snorted.

 

“A belting hardly counts. You are among the Vers now, and such a punishment is considered soft for the attempted assassination of the Warmonger. Not once, but twice in a span of a few hours I’ll remind you. A belting is the sort of punishment that is delivered to a naughty child amongst their people. Their bloodlust was still high from the battle, and I could not let such open defiance stand. They are not truly my people, after all. They are Thor’s. He has stepped down for me to lead them to a victory against my enemies. When we defeat Ross they likely will not stay, but return home across the sea and Thor will take back his mantle as First. Now that we are… better acquainted, there will be no such need for that sort of behavior in the future. Not unless you ask for it nicely, that is.”

 

The dark and wicked humor dancing in his eyes sent Steve to spluttering.

 

“Who would ask for such a thing?”

 

Tony’s smile grew wicked and warm. “Ah, Warprize. There is much I would delight in showing you when it comes to the pleasures of the flesh. A bite of pain can make the pleasure all the more sweeter. But only if you want me to.” His eyes took on a different gleam. “I think you would quite enjoy it. There’s nothing quite like fucking a freshly spanked ass. But I digress.”

 

Steve felt heat in his cheeks and hated the ease in which Tony always seemed to set him to blushing.

 

Gently Tony pulled back, easing Steve back down on the bed and fluffed his pillow.

 

“I thank you for your bravery, it is not an easy thing to share the things that haunt us. That you would trust me with this, after everything, means a great deal. I will try to be worthy of that trust.”

 

Tony cleared his throat, his gaze far off. Steve witnessed the subtle hardening of the other man’s jaw, the darkness that flashed in those eyes somehow both hot and utterly chilling at the same time. And then that  too was whisked away, out of sight, so quickly that Steve was left to wonder what it was he had actually seen. When Tony’s gaze met his again, his eyes were calm. Placid even.

 

Steve wasn’t fooled.

 

“In the spirit of trust and truth, I will admit that I already knew most of what happened between you and Brock.” At Steve’s confused look Tony nodded. “You talk in your sleep. Even more so when you were sick with fever. it was not much of a leap to figure out what had likely  transpired between the two of you.” He paused as Steve chewed over those words. That Tony had known, and chosen to allow Steve to keep his own council. He didn’t know, exactly, how that made him feel. “And again, in that same spirit of truthfulness I do have a confession to make.” Tony’s voice had pitched low, like churned stone. “What information you did not share in your fever state was obtained from Brock himself.”

 

Steve sucked in a breath, the muscles in his shoulders and back tensing at the warrior’s name. 

 

“Through his interrogation we found out that in addition to the crimes he committed upon you, he was also selling secrets to Hydra. A spy. I’m not sure if  it sets your mind at ease at all, but you have nothing to fear from Brock. I made sure of that…personally.”

 

Steve swallowed, something inside of him swelling with an unnamed emotion. Strangling his vocal cords. Because there was a wealth of dark promise in the Warlord’s words. 

 

“Tell me.” 

 

“His hand was the first to go. I assume it was the right one he touched you with?” Tony nodded and a self satisfied and utterly bloodthirsty grin bloomed across lips.

 

“He wasn’t very forthcoming at first. It wasn’t until after he lost the hand that he admitted to what he had done to you. He was very sorry by the end of it. Which, of course, took days. The Vers are a bloodthirsty sort of people. They can make torture into some sort of art form. After they had heard what he had done to you, I had volunteers lining up. The Vers had grown quite fond of you. By the fifth day he was spilling his guts, eager to sing to any who would listen about all the things he had been doing in Ross’ name. And all the things he had threatened you with. That’s about the time I took his testicles. You had just had another vivid nightmare, and I hadn’t slept in a few days. I found a pair of tongs and an open flame and well… the rest is history.”

 

Steve didn’t know what to say. The relief that had his shoulders slumping and tears filling his eyes was mingled with a touch of horror. The rumors about the Vers were true then. And here he was being tended to, cared for, by their leader. Tony was a man capable of great kindness, Steve knew this first hand after all. But now he also knew that the man who read him poetry in the evenings, who brewed him his tea and made sure the water was warm enough for his sponge baths, was also capable of great cruelty. And not only was he capable… it seemed as if he enjoyed it.

 

“No one will ever dare lay a hand on you again, farmboy. That is a promise.”

 

He should be horrified. Repulsed. Instead he felt… safe. Warm. He closed his eyes against the conflicting emotions, the guilt and the vicious satisfaction that that bastard had met a gristly end. Because had it been up to Steve? He would have never done anything of the sort. Brock would still be breathing. He might be jailed, but he’d still be here. Still be alive.

 

And he wasn’t. Tony had said so.

 

Steve went to sleep that night, and when he dreamed, it was peaceful. His demon had been vanquished.



———

 

Steve, it turned out, was not a model patient. 

 

He was, in fact, the worst kind of patient according to a rather flustered and frustrated Tony. Steve was the type of patient who knew just enough about healing and the human body to get himself into trouble. Was he aware that someone in his condition, with his particular history of illness and susceptibility to infection and complications, should really lay in bed and spend his time resting and recuperating to the best of his ability? Of course he was. Steve knew the best thing he could do was to lay abed and allow Tony and his small host of healers to care for him. Logically, he understood that.

 

But it had been twelve days since his fever had broken, and Steve had spent most of the last few days sleeping and resting, slurping down hearty broths and stews whenever Tony got the chance to shovel more food into him. He had drunk the healer's tinctures and tonics, offering a couple of suggestions under his breath on how the medicines didn't need to taste bitter in order to be effective, much to the genteel amusement of Yinsen. He had been a model patient (mostly) but enough was enough. He refused to lay abed any longer. Rest was good for recuperation, but so was fresh air and exercise and he didnt care what Tony had to say about it, he wasn't going to stay in bed in this god forsaken cottage one moment longer! 

 

He had snarled and snapped at Tony when the Warlord had held him down with humiliating ease, tsking softly at him, his tone infinitely patient and gentle. It was infuriating. Worse was when he had later helped Steve upright to try and walk about the cottage. Steve groaned, teeth gritted, at the ache in his tired muscles as his legs wobbled and shook like those of  a newborn foal. It was humiliating, to be so weak, so clearly dependent on the Warlord’s kindness. His strength. He needed help to get up and relieve himself, a task that never failed to paint his cheeks a startling shade of red that sent Tony into fits of laughter. The Warlord would brush his thumbs across Steve’s cheekbones as if tracing the blush that burned hot against Steve’s skin. His lips would soon follow the path his thumbs had taken until Steve, humiliated and rumpled, was left with not a single, solitary thought in his head aside from the way that Tony’s lips felt pressed against his.

 

That was another thing. The Warlord, his once enemy and now prince, was doting on Steve as if…as if Steve meant something to him. As if he were important. Sure he had saved the Warlord’s life all those years ago, but anyone in his position would have, really. And hadn't, at this point, Tony paid him back in kind? It had been Tony who had stayed up with him all those nights that Steve was stuck in the throes of a fever, one foot in the grave, and it had been Tony who had stubbornly pulled him back to the land of the living. And here he was, a leader of two nations, tending to Steve as if he didn't have dozens of pressing matters that required his attention. 

 

Steve wasn't sure what it meant. What any of this attention Tony was doting upon him meant. All he knew was that it had been several days that he had been alert and oriented, and he wanted out of this godforsaken cottage. Tony had left him shortly after their noon repast which consisted of a salty meat stew and some deliciously crunchy bread. Steve had fallen asleep with a belly of warm food, and the memory of a soft kiss pressed to the corner of his mouth and forehead. When he woke up only a short time later, he found himself alone in the cottage for the first time in four days.

 

Steve wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

 

As much as he…appreciated the Warlord’s time and attention it was beginning to become smothering. His lips quirked up involuntarily. Was this how Tony had felt all those years ago while he lay in bed recuperating? Perhaps that was why amusement often danced in the Warlord’s eyes, softened those harsh lines on his face, and often had his lips tilting up into a secret sort of smile. Tony knew exactly how this felt, and now that Steve was going through it with far less grace and patience, he seemed to be endlessly amused by it. Well, at least Steve hadn't tried to stab Tony. Talk about biting the hand that feeds you. Though if he was kept too much longer abed and heard just one more “you need your rest, Warprize.” all bets were off. He might just end up stabbing the man, would-be-King or not.

 

Steve flung the thin fur he had been using as a blanket free of his body and rose slowly into an upright position, feeling every pull and twang in his stiff muscles. The first few steps were the hardest, and Steve was not proud of the amount of times he had stumbled and fallen to the floor. The more he stumbled, the sturdier his legs became. He desperately needed the exercise, aching for a chance to feel the sun on his skin and the wind in his hair. He was also intensely grateful that no one was here to witness his fumbling.

 

Sweating, breathing heavy, he made it to the rough hewn door of the cottage, pausing several times to admire the amount of work that had gone into recreating his boyhood home. The white shelf, hand painted, held a slew of jars. Most empty. Some cracked. His tongue darted out to wet his lips. Would he find some of his mother’s handwriting over there? Had something of hers survived the fire that had burned the original cottage to ash?

 

He shook his head, refusing to become distracted by the details. He was also pretty sure his heart would not be able to handle it one way or the other. Better not to know. He needed fresh air. Sunlight. To get the lay of the land. When he finally managed to wrench the door free it was to see the smiling visage of none other than Thor standing on the other side. The heartfelt groan that exploded out of his chest only made those maddening dimples flash deeper in the tall Warlord’s cheeks. 

 

“Thor.”  Steve greeted, his voice flat and unfriendly. His illness had made him a bit on the persnickety side, as Tony was fond of telling him whenever he’d grumble.

 

“Warprize!” Thor’s voice boomed loud enough that Steve placed a hand over his heart. Startled at the abrupt sound.

 

He then found himself enveloped in too strong arms and lifted bodily off the ground and spun around. As if it had been ages since they had last seen each other. As if they were great friends meeting after years apart. Involuntarily his lips lifted into a smile and a begrudging laugh escaped him as Thor placed him back on the ground.

 

When Steve was a boy, the Barnes’ hunting dog Lady had once had a litter of six puppies. They had watched those puppies grow from fat little wriggly potatoes, to floppy eared terrors. The puppies had been adorable, of course, but Lady had looked exhausted by the time they were finally whelped and old enough to be sold to new masters. The almost frenetic energy of those wee beasts as they frolicked and nipped, rolling on their tummies and sides, going after the unwary’s ankles with their puppy sharp teeth… that was the same sort of energy Thor exuded.

 

It was impossible to be upset with someone who clearly held you in such high regard.

 

Steve sighed, patting Thor on the back as he pulled away from their hug.

 

“Ah Warprize, it is so good to see you. The camp was taking wagers on when you would shuck the First’s orders. Yensin has been keeping us apprised on your progress. He told us it was a near thing for a bit there - which explains why the First is so protective of you. Tell me, was it really true love’s kiss that brought you back from the brink?” Thor paused as Steve gaped up at him silently, brow furrowing in confusion. “Ach! Don’t tell me. I don’t want you to ruin the magic of it.” he chuckled, his blue eyes sparkling in the late afternoon sunshine.

 

It was then, in that moment with Thor’s amusement ringing in his ears, that Steve got his first look at where he was.

 

His stomach dropped sharply, ripping a gasp from his chest, before hurtling itself all the way back up his throat.

 

He…

 

He was home

 

This was Lynnbrook…as it once was. 

 

Steve let his gaze wander across the same field he had spent countless hours running through as a child. It drifted past that to the garden his mother had once carefully tended. Although the plants were overgrown, patchy with weeds in places, there were still many of the same varieties of herbs that Sarah Rogers had planted and grown with care. His throat tightened, his heartbeat a constant and loud thrumming in his ears. Slowly he let his gaze drift further to the willow tree in the distance. It wasn't the same one. That one, Steve knew, had been burnt to ash in the fires that had destroyed Lynnbrook. But a young tree grew there now, branches swaying in the afternoon breeze. Steve knew he would find his mother’s grave there. It hadn't been just his childhood home that Tony had recreated. He had gone back to Lynbrook and…rebuilt it. The fences, the buildings. 

 

They were all here.

 

“He…He…”

 

“Would be most displeased to find you out of bed, Warprize. Come, you’ve had a bit of a shock, yes? You should rest. Gain strength.” Thor looked around, his sparkling blue eyes taking in the lay of the land. For a moment they both simply stared off into the distance, enjoying the beauty of a warm afternoon. The green, long grasses, waving in the wind, the birds soaring through a cloudless blue sky. The bittersweet feeling of peace, of home, filled Steve’s chest and lungs until he felt as if he were bursting with it.

 

 “Sometimes it is not always clear what is in a man’s heart, Warprize. But I think… I think you know now what lies in the heart of the Warmonger. Truth be told he did all of this some time ago. I was with him the day he discovered your home burned and in ruins.” The muscle in Thor’s jaw ticked before he forced his uncharacteristically solemn gaze to Steve’s. 

 

“He was devastated. He rebuilt the cottage himself, by hand. Would not accept the aid of other warriors. Not me, not even the Second. It was clear he was grieving you, and this cottage was his monument to the young man who had once lived there. We had the coward King’s forces breathing down our neck, and it was here we made our first stand against him. Just beyond that rise. Because the First Warmonger refused to leave until the work was done. Until he had put back to rights that which your King had sundered. We won that battle, as we have won every battle since coming here. But, I think, after he had discovered your ruined village… it became much more personal for him. He fought more fiercely. Smiled less. That is why when he found you on the battlefield he wasted no time in claiming you as his. And why his people celebrated the night of your claiming. It was the first time we had heard him laugh and smile in an age. That you were found alive and well after all these years was nothing short of a miracle. A gift from the Gods. One that the Warmonger was not about to turn his face away from. Ahh, speaking of which…”

 

Steve lifted his gaze to find none other than Tony making his way up the path, his strides long and purposeful, his eyes intent on Steve’s flushed face. 

 

“Third.”

 

“First.”

 

The two men paused, a moment of unspoken conversation passing between them, before Steve once again found himself bustled back into the cottage, swooped up into the arms of the Warmonger.

 

“You were not ready to be moving out and about on your own, Steve.” Tony’s voice was gruff with concern. Steve was too shocked to voice a protest.

 

“Did you really do all of this for me?” He finally managed, some time later, long after Tony had tucked him back into bed, made him a cup of tea, and read another passage from his father’s book of poetry. It had been something the two of them had been doing together recently, reading out loud to each other. It was a comfort, to share the words with another person the way he once had when he was a boy. 

 

Tony cleared his throat, a hot streak of pink dusting his cheeks.

 

“I…I thought you were dead, Steve. There is, in fact, very little that I would not do for you. I owe you my life. I -” He swallowed, his tone measuring. Careful. “I care for you. Deeply.”

 

Steve nodded, fingers twisting in the blankets in his lap as he gazed off at flames flickering in the fireplace. 

 

It was a lot. All of this. This whole thing, and everything he had been through since meeting Tony, it was all… it was a lot. Too much. Steve just needed some time to  process all of it. 

 

He must have been lost in his thoughts, felt the downward pull of his lips and the crease on his brow, before his twisting fingers were engulfed in Tony’s warm grasp. The shadows had deepened, the sun had set, time had passed him by with him having little awareness of it.

 

“Ah, Warprize.” He felt Tony’s hand brush against his cheek. The touch featherlight and familiar. “Tell me what it is that you want and I will lay it down before your feet.”

 

Steve shook his head. “I don’t want anything, Tony. All I’ve ever wanted was peace. To live a quiet life on the land I grew up on. Taking care of my animals. Helping my neighbors. I never wanted to fight -  I just wanted to defend my country so that no one would have to go through what I went through.”

 

Tony sucked in a breath, his face creased with contemplation. The snap and crackle of the fire in the hearth was the only sound that filled the room.

 

“The life of a King is anything but quiet.” He finally managed, his voice tight. His lips pressed together, as if to keep the rest of the words he wanted to say from escaping. Steve reached up and cupped the face that had started to become as familiar to him as his own. His thumb brushed across the seam of those soft lips.

 

“I know, Tony. It’s okay.” Steve knew that their time here, in his newly rebuilt village, would soon be coming to an end. He felt his throat tighten with regret. He wished that Tony wasn't the crown Prince. That he was just a warrior, a simple soldier, with no great destiny or calling. But Tony was destined for greatness. It was something that Steve had witnessed over and over again throughout his recovery here. How many times had he woken up with his head pillowed on Tony’s thigh to find the room crowded with warriors in the midst of a war council? All talking in furtive whispers and undertones so as to not disturb his sleep? When he would rouse, sleepy and knuckling his eyes, Tony would clear the room to tend to him. It was clear, to even Steve, where Tony’s priorities lie.

 

It was just as clear to Steve, however, that whatever it was they were doing here in these stolen moments was not something that could weather the test of time. No matter how much Steve wished it were so. Tony… was a prince. A commander. A leader. A man of great importance.

 

And Steve? Steve was…well, just him. The son of a healer. A soldier, who had been fighting for the wrong side. He was important only because the Prince held him in high regard. Theirs was not a love story written in the stars, no matter how much Thor would try to twist it to be so. Steve knew that, saw that. It was becoming increasingly more apparent, however, that he was the only one who did. 

 

His chest tightened at the thought. He’d love to throw caution to the wind, lose himself in the arms of the Warmonger. All these soft touches, the long talks through the night, the poetry readings, the way Tony would card his fingers through Steve’s hair and press sweet kisses to his face and neck… Steve could see himself getting lost in the romance of it. Of what they were building here between them. Things had changed between them. Slowly. Gradually. Tony was showing Steve who he was, who he had been all along, and Steve was helpless but to feel himself falling for him. Falling for that wicked, sharp, tongue. His snark and his kindness. Tony was full of contradictions and Steve … well hell. Steve was finding himself slipping a little more closer to the edge of something real. Something irrevocable.

 

But he couldn't allow himself to. If not for his own well being, than for Tony’s. His country and their people. 

 

Tony could not marry the son of a simple farmer and healer. He needed someone genteel. Someone noble. Someone… worthy to stand at his side. A part of him protested at that thought. But it was not his place. It could not be. 

 

He resented that Tony would make him spell this out for him. That he couldn't just see what Steve saw. That their time here in this place was running out.There was a war on, after all. A king to dethrone. A regime to end. And when it was over? Tony needed to take his rightful place as King of Norkyew. 

 

“I have made a promise to my people…” Tony sounded pained. Steve’s gaze lifted to meet his, and the look in those whiskey dark eyes twisted his stomach. “Steve, I have to. I have to do this. And I know in my heart that it’s the right thing to do. Ross’ reign must end.”

 

Steve nodded his throat tight.

 

“But after… after I will come back to you. Here.”

 

Steve jerked backward, shock rounding his eyes.

 

“We can live here in your village. No one needs to know who I am. I think…I think we could be happy together here. Tending your farm. Growing old together.”

 

And then Steve could see it too. Him and Tony working together in the field, the way the sunlight would glint off the dark highlights in his hair, the way that same sun would turn his skin a dusky tan. He could see the two of them working together side by side. Taking their evening meals together, cuddled up by the fireplace. Falling asleep in each others arms.

 

And he wanted that. He wanted it with a desperation that shocked him. 

 

He was shaking his head before the words even registered.

 

“No. Tony, no.”

 

He watched the hurt flash across the Warmonger’s face. The soft, earnest, part of him being tucked away somewhere less vulnerable.

 

“You do not want me?”

 

Of course Steve did. Of course. After everything they had been through, all the misunderstandings. All the hurt. The pain. And now they were here, in this place, and Steve wanted nothing more than to stay in this moment forever. But he couldn't. Neither of them could. 

 

“You are to be King.” He said simply, his tone soft but final.

 

Tony opened his mouth to protest, but Steve put up a staying hand.

 

“You are, Tony. You need to be. You are the Crown Prince, the last of the Starks. It is your duty to sit upon that throne and lead our people. You know this.”

 

“I would give it up, Steve. I would give it all up if it meant that I could…I could have you. From that first day we met it has only ever been you. The beautiful man with fire in his eyes and heart three times too big for his body. You have this spark inside you, this drive, that just won’t quit. Even when you’re beaten. When you’re down in the dirt and covered in mud, hands tied, even then you just won’t quit. You refuse to give up and will fight with the very last breath in your body. You always stand up for what you believe is right, even when it’s in your best interest to stay quiet. To stay still. Even,” the corner of his mouth quirked upwards into a smirk. “When you are desperately wrong.  You don’t shy away from the work, you put others before you. You’d run yourself ragged if it meant protecting someone else. And for all your stubbornness, and down right pigheadedness,” Steve snorted. “You are in equal measure kind. Gentle. You’ve got the heart of an artist, a love for beauty and the written word. You are just, and true, with a kindness that is tempered with steel. And you are exactly the type of King our country needs. A King I would gladly serve as Prince consort.”

 

Steve laughed, the sound wild as it bounced across the small room. But the laughter soon trailed away at the patient sincerity in the Warmonger’s eyes.

 

“You’re insane. Absolutely not, no.”

 

“Steve-”

 

“Forget, for a moment, my station of birth. Forget that our people would never allow a commoner to sit upon the throne. It is you who are the rightful King. You who have traveled across the ocean to defeat Ross and the men that murdered your parents. You have been trained from birth to lead. It is in your blood, and you are meant for it. Meant for this. Tony…”

 

“I can’t do it Steve. I won’t. Not without you. I refuse. I’ve almost lost you one too many times and the thought of walking away from you, walking away from this? I’d rather lay down my sword right now than contemplate a life without you in it. I would give you anything, my crown, my Kingdom, my pledge. But do not ask me to walk away from you. Do not ask me to leave you here in some misguided attempt at chivalry. I would not be better off without you, and neither would  Norkyew. If you don’t want my throne, then rule by side. As my consort. My equal.”

 

Steve snorted, lips twisting. The collar no longer sat around his neck. It had not since the night he had been brought to the cottage. But the memory of its weight still sat heavy in his heart.

 

“A slave as consort?” The words held a bitter twang that Steve didn't bother to deny. His hand crept up to his barren neck as if to touch the phantom collar there.

 

Confusion wrinkled Tony’s brow for a moment before understanding dawned. The slightly horrified look that twisted across his face was not one that Steve would soon forget.  

 

“Steve, you…were never a slave.”

 

Steve shook his head, shocked at the audacity. The leather cuffs were still on his wrists, bearing the Warlord’s symbol. A symbol that Steve now knew to be half of the Stark Family Crest. Regardless, after the way he had been treated, the things he had been through he couldn't believe that Tony would have the audacity to lie straight to his face. As if he wasn't there that day when they clamped an iron collar around his neck and dragged him away from his fellow soldiers.  “Thor still calls me Warprize! A prize from war. A  thing to be claimed.”

 

Tony buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking as he tried and failed to hold back laughter. The sound rumbled out of him, filling the room with his throaty chuckles, which only made Steve’s heart rate spike with anger.

 

“Oh that explains so much.” He swiped a hand down his face as if it could wipe away the laughter that was still bubbling in his chest. 

 

“Steve, my apologies. When I found you… a part of me couldn't believe it was real. I also had not slept for about three days -  which made me both thoughtless and a bit of a prick. Your return volley had taken out a good chunk of my forces, and Ross was sending out another battalion. We had to move, and quickly. I forgot that you wouldnt understand the meaning behind being a Warprize - I grew up under Odin’s tutelage and have adopted many of the Vers customs that I sometimes forget how different things are done here. But a Warprize is not a slave, or a person to be owned or claimed like livestock.”

 

And then, curiously, Tony’s cheeks grew a touch pink. It was clear that this was something that was simply understood by other Vers. Tony never thought he would have to explain it. For a moment the normally verbose man seemed at a total loss for words. 

 

“A Warprize…is more like a,” he cleared his throat, ducking his head awkwardly to look up at Steve with a sheepish sort of smile. “More like a battle bride. So you’re right that I claimed you that day. But not as a slave.”

 

“I’m sorry…a battle bride? You claimed me as your wife!?” Steve’s voice rose to an incredulous screeching noise that even he was winced at the shrillness of, but only really succeeded in making Tony grin unrepentantly. 

 

“As my wife. Yes. Traditionally, the Warprize is usually a female. But I am far from the first Warmonger to claim a man as my battle bride.”

 

Steve leaned back, stunned. 

 

Tony had claimed him in front of his people, unreservedly and with pride. He had made no secret of the fact that he wanted Steve - a simple farmer - as his husband. And still his people had celebrated. There had been a feast, for godsakes. What he had thought was a celebration of Norkyew’s defeat was, in fact, a celebration of…their engagement?

 

How very… how very strange. Especially considering how Steve had ended up fighting Tony that night and getting his ass whipped in front of a small crowd of Verisian strangers. Was that…normal courting behavior? Or simply something typical in a situation where one is claiming their spouse from a warring nation? Tony had said the punishment was a light one. For wayward children. Steve well remembered the bite of the belt against his bare skin and heartily disagreed.

 

He would have asked, his curiosity certainly peaked, but so too was his anger. It would have been nice to know…to know that Tony didn't look at him as a slave. Or a thing to be owned. But as a life partner instead. An equal. 

 

Steve wondered how the people of Norkyew would feel if Tony were to make him consort in truth. Howard, after all, had been of the common folk before he had been elevated in status by Queen Maria. Sure, he had come from a family of merchants and traders, but he had not been royalty. Nor had he been of noble birth. The people had celebrated it just as fervently at the time.Well,  perhaps the more noble classes had not been as excited, but the common folk always loved to see one of their own lifted up.

 

Perhaps Tony and his Mother were alike that way. Queen Maria had been a bit of a rebel.

 

It appeared that Tony was shaping up to be one as well.

 

“Steve, I love you. I love you enough to walk away from my throne if you so wish. But I am a selfish man at heart. And I refuse to walk away from you . Unless you don’t love me back.” Tony gritted his teeth, shame flashing briefly in his eyes.

 

“If you don’t love me, tell me so. And I will leave you here on this farm to tend to your goats and rams in peace. I won’t like it, I probably won’t be very good at leaving well enough alone. But I won’t force you to marry me. I couldn't.”

 

Steve knew what he should do. He looked straight into Tony’s eyes, framed by thick lashes, with the laugh lines creasing the corner. The eyes he had seen glazed with fever, the eyes he had seen red ruined and leaking tears of grief, the eyes he had seen dancing and laughing, the same infuriating eyes he had seen glimmer with mischief and snark. Steve had always admired those eyes, and he never felt more warm or cared for than when they were focused on him. These past couple of weeks together had been illuminating. There was a comfort between them that did not exist before. An ease. And in Tony’s eyes, now, he saw fear there. He saw vulnerability. But he also saw tenderness. Hope.

 

Steve sucked in a sharp breath as his chest ached with pain and indecision. The correct thing, the accepted thing, wasn't always the right way forward. As his father had once told him when he was a young boy, ‘There’s more than one path through the forest, son.’

 

He blinked, and in that moment his heart conjured up all the memories of their time together here, both in the past and present. They hadn't known each other very long, true - although it certainly felt like they did. Steve had carried the memory of his wounded soldier close to his heart for years. Clearly Tony had done the same. And some of the best relationships had been formed upon less. Did Steve want to walk away from that? His heart ached at the thought.

 

If Tony was brave enough to take this chance…shouldn't Steve be as well? Then again, Steve had been through quite a bit in the last few weeks. His teeth bracketed his lower lip, chewing thoughtfully.

 

“Tony,” he finally managed, some long moments later. “I want to try this with you. I care for you a great deal. I am willing to try. A lot has happened in such a short span of time, I’m willing to walk the path with you, to see this trail to the end. And once Ross is defeated, and you have your throne, if you still feel the same way as you do now…ask me then. I know you want a promise now…”

 

“Warprize, I have waited years to hear your voice again. I will wait as long as you need me to.” He captured Steve’s hand and pressed his soft lips against his knuckles. “I hope you never again doubt how much you mean to me, or your worth. If you decide you do not want the Kingdom, if this is ever too much, all you need to do is say the word and I will abdicate. We can live this peaceful life out here on your farm with your animals and herbs.”

 

Steve snorted. 

 

“I would never be so selfish. You were meant to rule. Norkyew needs you.”

 

“I am nothing without you, Steve. Norkyew needs us.

 

And then Tony was pressing those wicked lips to his. And Steve was drinking that kiss down, down, down. The emotions choking his throat, making his eyes burn with unshed tears and his chest ache from repressed laughter. He didn't know what to feel. He didn't know how to process this unexpected turn his life had taken. Tony wanted him as consort. Co-ruler. An equal. A King.

 

It was ridiculous. Ludicrous, even. And yet Tony pressed him down into the bed, his larger form caging Steve in, one hand cradled on the back of his neck warm and supportive, while his lips and tongue and teeth claimed Steve’s mouth with a thoroughness that left him breathless. Steve realized that right now there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

 

________________________________________

 

It was the very next day that Steve bullied Tony into taking him outside.

 

“This is ridiculous, even for you, Warlord. Yinsen said I was fine to start traveling short distances days ago. You can not keep me cooped up in this house forever.” His indignation might have been more impactful had he not been wavering slightly on his feet. 

 

Tony sighed, reaching down to cup the stubborn tilt of Steve’s jaw. 

 

“Would if I could, farmboy. There’s a part of me that wants to stay here with you forever, war be damned.” He paused, eye rolling skyward at Steve’s fierce glower.

 

“Fine, you are right. There is no putting it off any longer. Come, get your boots and we will take a walk about.” 

 

And that's how Steve found himself arm in arm with the Warmonger, strolling down the well worn dirt path that led from the cottage. Their first stop had been not very far into their journey. But when Steve saw his mother’s garden and the rather sorry state it was in, he couldn't help but pull Tony in that direction. The next thing he knew he was on his knees, sinking his fingers into the loamy soil, plucking unmercifully at the weeds that choked the rosemary and milk thistle. At first Tony said nothing, content to merely watch as Steve worked to restore order to his mother’s beloved herb garden. He had so many memories here as a boy, some of the fondest of which were spent on sunny afternoons much like this one, working alongside his mother to care and tend for the plants herein. 

 

It wasn't long before Tony joined Steve, plucking back the weeds and removing the detritus that would allow the herbs room to grow. They spent a good part of their late morning tending to the garden, trading stories, jokes, and pointed barbs. It was after one of Steve’s rather pointed barbs that a clod of dirt had been thrown at the back of his head. Not one to take such abuse without reciprocation, Steve had turned to a madly grinning Tony and returned the favor. Before long there may, or may not, have been a slight tussle somewhere near the feverfew that involved Steve pining the much larger Warlord to the ground. He had loomed over Tony, his knees bracketing the other man’s hips as he pressed Tony’s wrists into the ground over his head. He was breathing deeply, a broad smile of triumph on his face, and Tony was looking up at him content and lazy. Very much like a cat that had eaten the canary.

 

 By the time they were done with the garden both of them were streaked with dirt, hair tousled, and clothing in complete disarray.

 

It would not take a genius to figure out just what had happened amidst the herbs and plants, but the other Vers warriors seemed to be giving them a wide berth. Which gave them plenty of privacy to enjoy and delight in each other's company. The laughter flowed freely, as did the lingering touches and warm, sweet, kisses that left Steve breathless and light headed. He could feel the burn on his neck from Tony’s beard. The bruises on his hips from Tony’s fingertips. He savored the slight ache in his body as much as the feeling of his arm wrapped in Tony’s, their fingers intertwined, as they traversed down the path toward the animal pens.

 

Steve’s heart gave a strange lurch at the sight ahead of him. A bittersweet sort of sadness filling him. It had been kind of Tony to replace his animals, as surely as he had replaced most things here on the Rogers homestead. But the one thing that could not truly be replaced was his animal friends. And more specifically, Bernard. That ache still had not quite healed over, even all these years later. 

 

“Here, I want to show you something. Take a look in the sheep pen.”

 

Steve approached carefully, his steps as measured as his heart was tender. And then his eyes widened with shock and a disbelieving smile spread across his face and pulled at his cheeks.

 

It was Daisy! There, in the back, happily munching on some fresh hay, her belly fat and coat thick. She was clearly being well cared for. She blinked a baleful eye up at him, her head bobbing slightly as she chewed.

 

And that’s when Steve saw him. If Steve hadn’t buried Bernard himself, he would have sworn the young ram strutting up along the fence line was one and the same. A closer inspection revealed that this Ram was younger, his right front horn not chipped, and there was no recognition in his eye when Steve approached the enclosure.

 

“He looks just like…”

 

“I believe that is his son. We found the female close to here. She must have escaped the enclosure somehow when the attack happened and ran to safety. She came back, obviously, after Ross’ men had left. She birthed two lambs. One male, one female. He’s a protective little fellow, but the men have been having a hell of a time keeping him in the enclosure. We aren’t sure how he’s managing to get out.”

 

Steve snorted and then laughed, turning to Tony with a broad smile on his face that made his cheeks ache with the force of it.

 

“This is… the best gift you could have given me. He is very much his father’s son. Does he have a name?”

 

Tony shrugged, mirth shining in his eyes. “He’s your ram, you can call him whatever you like. Thor has been the one tending to him recently, though, and the one tasked with catching him when he escapes. He has taken to calling him Loki,” at this Tony laughed, clearly amused. “After his meddlesome younger sibling. I’m sure his brother would not find the humor in the name, though.”

 

Steve turned back to the young ram, Bernard’s son, and smiled.

 

“Loki. I like it. Thank you, Tony. For all of this. It… means a lot.”

 

“There is little I would not do for you, Warprize.” Tony bent his head and captured Steve’s lips with his own. Steve leaned into the kiss, a pretty blush suffusing his cheeks as he lost himself once again in Tony’s arms. When he pulled back, breathless, with kiss swollen lips and a glazed look in his lust drunk eyes, Tony merely smiled.

 

“Would that we could stay here forever, farmboy.”

 

Steve sighed, the sound weighted and sad. “We must leave?”

 

He knew Tony had been keeping something from him recently. There was a weight to his gaze these past few days, as if his eyes were memorizing every detail of Steve’s face, his voice, the words he spoke. There was a hunger there, but one tinged in sadness.

 

“Aye. It is time to press on the Coward King where it hurts. He has retreated further inland and is shoring up his defenses. Our forces are growing by the day as more and more learn of his perfidy. My mother was a favorite of the people and they do not take kindly to her murderer sitting on her throne. I have to go to the front. But I will return, Steve. I promise. I will come-”

 

Steve reached up, indignation firing hot in his blood, as his hand moved upward to cover Tony’s wicked lips. The Warmonger paused, shock and then amusement coloring the warm brown of his eyes. 

 

“Where you go. I go.”

 

Tony’s eyes narrowed slightly, he felt those lips move beneath his palm as if to voice protest.

 

“No. Where you go, I go. My place is at your side. If you are to take down Ross, it will be with me at your back. If you leave me alone, I will simply follow you. I’m getting better every day. By the time we reach the front lines I will be ready for battle.”

 

Tony’s glower could have stripped paint from a barn. Steve merely met that gaze with the stubborn determination that was his birthright. 

 

“We’re in this together, Tony.”

 

Tony’s fingers curled around his wrist, the touch infinitely gentle. His lips pressed softly against Steve’s palm in the type of gentle kiss that Steve was growing to love. Softly he pulled Steve’s wrist away from his mouth.

 

“I can’t bear the thought of losing you, Steve. It is one thing if I fail - but knowing that I failed and you -”

 

Steve shook his head, jaw clenched. “You’re not going without me. I won’t allow it.”

 

Tony laughed, loud and warm with just a touch of disbelief. “He won’t allow it.” Tony looked around Steve’s to address Daisy and the other sheep. “Can’t leave him here because he won’t allow it. Still weak as a newborn kitten, but somehow strong enough to order the King of Norkyew around.”

 

Steve’s lips twitched upwards at the corner into a smug sort of smirk.

 

“Ya ain’t King yet, Tony.”

 

Tony laughed, pulling Steve to his chest, and burying his face into the soft strands of his hair. He felt the kiss pressed against his crown, and Tony’s arms wrapped tight around him. 

 

“What if we lose Steve? What if-”

 

“Then we do that together too, Tony.”

 

Tony sighed, the heat of his breath tickling the tops of Steve’s ears. 

 

“You’re stubborn to a fault, you know that?”

 

“Yes. So I’ve been told. I’m not letting you out of my sight, Tony. I just know…I just know I need to be there with you when you do this. It’s like…”

 

Steve pulled away slightly so he could look up into the Warmonger’s eyes. “After my village was burned down, my friends and family lost, I felt adrift. Searching for something that I didn't have a name for. I think I know, now, that it was you. You’ve given me a purpose. Somewhere to belong. You gave me a home. And it’s not here in Lynnbrook with the sheep and the chickens. It’s with you. At your side.That’s where I belong.”

 

Tony stared at him, his whiskey eyes alarmingly bright. He blinked rapidly before a rueful smile curled across his lips and he let out a small huff of breath.

 

“You are such a little shit. Fine - we’ll do this. Together.”

 

“Together.” Steve chorused, his tone smug with satisfaction as he leaned forward to capture the Warlord’s lips with his own.

 

____________________________________________



Epilogue: 

 

FIVE YEARS LATER

 

Steve took a deep breath, head tilted back to stare up at the cloudless blue summer skies above Lynnbrook. The birds were singing in the trees, a sparrow darted out overhead, sweeping through the air and riding along on the soft warm breeze that stirred the fine hairs at the nape of his neck. The day was a hot one, well in the midst of summer, and Steve felt the sweat that wet his hairline and made the fine tunic he wore stick uncomfortably to his back. He shifted in his saddle, giving Gilbert his stallion a friendly pat to the shoulder for a job well done. The easy going horse had been an anniversary gift from Tony three years ago, and a better riding companion Steve had never met. It helped that Gilbert was from sturdy stock, placid in nature, with a soft mouth and a definitive love for sugar cubes. He was a horse that was near impossible to spook, and the best gift he had received to date from his doting husband. 

 

Steve had long ago gotten over his distrust of the Vers horses, having spent so much time on the back of a warhorse in those early days. There were a lot of things he had been forced to get used to, none more jarring than the constant attention he received whenever he was at court. Steve had come back from the War as a bit of a hero to the people. Everyone had heard the tales of the Captain who had the Warmonger’s ear. Whose bravery and quick wit had gotten the Vers heroes out of more than one of the corrupt coward King’s traps. It was Steve who had parried the blade that would have taken the Prince’s life, Steve who had thrown himself in the path of the arrow that had been aimed for the Warlord’s heart. Steve rubbed ruefully at his shoulder, which still ached on cold nights or right before a rainstorm. Tony had been livid that he would do something so reckless. He had been banned from the battlefield indefinitely after that little fiasco. He still remembered Tony’s face, ghoulishly white, as he carried Steve to Yinsen. And then how it had flushed a pretty shade of vermillion when Yinsen said that Steve would be just fine. Oh how the Warmonger had blistered all their ears that day, threatening to tie Steve to his sick bed if he even thought about rejoining them on the battlefield.

 

Steve, of course, had simply nodded at Tony’s bluster, and then made a pained sound that had the Warmonger stopping his tirade mid complaint. It had taken a week, but Steve was on the back of a horse in no time, sword in hand and orders for staying away from the fight completely disregarded. Steve was great at following orders - but only if he agreed with them. Letting Tony go out there alone? Absolutely not. Clearly he was needed at Tony’s side, much to the Warlord’s ire and dismay whenever Steve snuck past his guards to fight at Tony’s side. After so many failed attempts at keeping Steve away, Tony had given up and instead assigned a contingent of warriors to watch Steve’s back. 

 

Still, he had earned himself a bit of a reputation as a hero, and then became even more of a person of interest when the Crown Prince reclaimed his throne and named Steve Rogers as his consort. 

 

The court had been in a tizzy, to put it mildly. The people of Norkyew had celebrated. Not only had their Prince returned, whole and hale, but he had unseated the pretender King, the murderer of the Queen Maria and her consort Howard. And he had appointed not one of the nobles of the court, but had raised up one of the people. Plucked from poverty and picked for his courage and his bravery in battle. Or that’s how one of the many stories the bards sang in the great halls at the castle went. Steve rolled his eyes at some of the rather sappy and lurid retellings of his and Tony’s love story. There was some small truth to all the stories, save for the one where Tony slayed a dragon and rode on the back of a fleet of  mermen to the shores of Norkyew just to deliver the heart of the dragon to Steve’s country doorstep. That one, while fun to listen to and made Tony’s chest swell and his eyes glitter every time it was told in court, had not a single shred of fact to it. Steve enjoyed it solely for the way it made Tony preen. That bard was always given an extra bottle of port at the end of the night and his pick of sweets from Cook’s Kitchen.

 

Life at Court was busy. It was fun and a different type of adventure, and it certainly offered up its own challenges. There was always some sort of intrigue afoot, some plot or plan that Steve and Rhodey (the new and improved Captain of the Guard) would have to run to the ground and get to the source of. As Tony had oft mentioned, Steve had a nose for trouble. He knew where to find it, which came in handy when one was tracking down would-be assassins. But for all he was valued and celebrated at court, he would be a liar to say that being in the public eye constantly was not just a little grating. Eventually he started to feel worn out, rubbed raw. No matter how he tried to hide it, though, Tony always seemed to know when his husband was nearing the end of his rope. 

 

And so the two of them would retire to their “country estate” for a bit, escape the hustle and bustle of the castle and get away for a week or two. Sometimes a month. Tony was King, true, with a country in desperate need of reform and rebuilding, but he was whip smart and organized. He was also fond of mentioning that he had left plenty of people in the capital who were more than capable of running the Kingdom without him. He liked to joke that he was merely a figurehead, the new council of Lords and Ladies would delight in him being out of the way so that they could finally get some work done. Tony had changed many things at the capital  with how Norkyew was run, one most notably being the new ruling body now known as the council of Lords. It was an elected position, appointed by the people, very similar to the style of government that Versanga implemented and was, so far, very effective. So Steve knew that it was in jest, despite there being a new ruling body the King still had the final say on most things, because Tony was as brilliant a King as he had been a commander. But he was right that he was leaving the running of minor affairs in the capable hands of his most trusted advisors. Rhodes, Lady Potts, Sir Clint and Lady Natasha were more than capable of taking care of business while the two of them sought some much needed respite out in the country. Oh what a fun little family they had now - the story of meeting the clever Lady Natasha and her cohort in crime Lord Barton a particular favorite of his that involved a kidnapping, robbery, and an  escape from behind enemy lines. 



Steve heaved a content sigh at the thought of his life and the wonderful people in it. The war had certainly been long and hard fought, but there was little Steve would change about any of it had he been given the chance. He loved his found family with a fierceness that surprised him. Many of whom had been Vers warriors that had chosen to stay after Thor returned home. He missed his friend Thor, the easy companionship they had shared, and the man’s love for a good jest or wrestling match. The latter of which didn't much matter to Thor if the recipient was willing or not. He had stayed for a nigh close to a year after Ross had been defeated and Tony had risen to power. They had become used to the Vers warriors milling about the castle and grounds, causing as much trouble as they sometimes broke up. That was a culture fond of a good brew, good fight, and indeed a good bit of trickery. Many of their customs had stayed with the castle residents long after they had left. One day Thor had looked up halfway through the evening meal and met Tony’s eyes. Tony had nodded even before Thor had said. “It is time.”

 

The next morning the Vers warriors who had helped them reclaim the throne a year prior were packing up and moving out with a swiftness that could only be attributed to their people. That had been a painful goodbye. And both Steve and Tony thought of Thor often. Later, Tony had promised, once Norkyew was more settled they would travel to visit Thor and Zer Odinson in their homeland of Versanga. Steve looked forward to the day. 

 

For now, when he needed to get away, he traveled the two day ride to Lynnbrook. Usually Tony would accompany him on these little getaways. This time was no exception, save for the fact that the King still had some business to wrap up in the capital and he would be about a day's ride behind. That was okay. It would be nice to have the family cottage to himself for a bit. He could visit his mother’s grave and chat with her for a time, catch her up on all of the happenings that had taken place since his last visit. And then he would visit with Loki, Bernard’s son, who had quite the harem of Ewes and a full brood of offspring that kept him busy. Steve smiled fondly, immensely grateful once again for his thoughtful husband and King. The farmstead that Tony had rebuilt all those years ago remained largely unchanged, save for the barn and stable that had been built within the last few years. Tony had taken quite the interest in breeding horses, and thought there was no better place to foster and raise a foal than out in the wide open fields of Lynnbrook. Steve had nodded his assent when asked if he would be okay with the transition. His family had once grown wheat and corn in those fields, but they had been lying fallow for years. At least this way they would get some sort of use. 

 

Instead of growing corn, they were now growing horses. The thought set his lip to curling in wry amusement. 

 

Yes, it was quite lovely to be home. His retinue of guards, Courtesy of his Majesty the over-protective King Stark, followed at a sedate pace some half a mile back. They knew, at this particular point in the journey, Steve preferred to be alone. They would make themselves scarce once Steve arrived at the cottage. 

 

Steve was looking forward to the break. For a little bit he could pretend that he was simply Steve, Sarah Roger’s boy. He tilted his face upward toward the sun, feeling the warm rays of light beam down, even as the breeze sent eddies of dust flying up from Gilbert’s hooves. He looked forward to handing Gilbert off to the new stable master. 

 

Tony had warned him the man could be a bit testy, he had been at one point grievously wounded in the war, and hadn't been quite the same since. But he was a fine horseman, with a good eye and even better instincts, even if he was a little rough around the edges. Better with horses than people, but he was working wonders. He worked with the horses every day and stayed on the property, but kept to the barn and the outlying fields. At first Steve hadn't been sure how he felt about that. He hadn't liked the idea of anyone living on his old homestead, especially when he wasnt there to keep an eye on things. 

 

Tony had assured him the new man was trustworthy. “I just know you’ll love him.” Tony confided before pressing a slow kiss to his forehead. “You can give me all your first impressions when I get there. Don’t let him get too far under your skin.” Steve had rolled his eyes fondly at his husband.

 

He could only guess at what type of character would be at the stables to greet him if that was Tony’s parting shot.

 

Steve sighed. It was so good to be home. He could see his family’s farmstead in the distance, a sight for a young man’s homesick heart and sore eyes. The air was sweet with the scent of honeysuckle and the countless wildflowers that grew in abundance in the long valleys and open fields of his old hamlet. Although once abandoned after the war was over and the Vers warriors had left, there were now obvious signs of new inhabitants. 

 

It was always good to have neighbors, Steve had told Tony with a wink, as he sent off another widow and her children who had approached the throne for help. Steve was becoming known for his soft heart, something that Tony warned him the people would take advantage of if they could.

 

So let them. If there was a person in true need, a child hungry, Steve would do everything in his power to help them if he could. And with so much time and resources at his fingertips now, he was starting to make some real impactful change in the lives of the people of Norkyew. Some were large changes, programs to assist those who needed help, food, or work. Other were small on a smaller but no less meaningful scale. Like sending a widow and her children to Nanny Porter’s cottage. Steve’s gaze cut to his left where Mr. Mcgregors old farmstead’s fields boasted row upon row of sweet summer corn. There were cows milling about —- Further down the lane a young woman walked with a basket perched on one hip and a squalling toddler on the other. Eventually, Steve knew, the Hamlet he had grown up in would be filled with new and unfamiliar faces.

 

He was okay with that. Many of the people who lived here now had lost their homes and their families to the war. After all, it was silly to keep an entire Hamlet to themselves. Tony and the Vers had spent all of that time rebuilding the entire town, including many of his old neighbors' homes. There were empty cottages and plots of land just waiting to be lived in and cared for. It would be wrong to allow them to sit empty when there was such need for them. Especially considering that both he and Tony now spent the majority of their time at the capital, living in the castle that had been Tony’s boyhood home. 

 

But Steve was well and truly happy, and so was Tony. Their life wasnt a quiet one, but quite honestly Steve would not trade it for anything else. He loved his friends and he loved his husband - as infuriating and occasionally high handed as he could often be, he had the most generous and thoughtful heart out of anyone Steve had ever known. No, Steve wouldn't change anything about his life now, but that didn't mean that he didn't miss his formative years out here in Lynnbrook and all of the fond memories he had built around this place. When he finally reached the cottage the sun was beginning its descent from the noon sky. He rode Gilbert at a sedate walk to take in the beautiful vista around him that lived and breathed forever in his heart. 

 

This was the place where his and Tony’s story began. The good, the bad, the ugly. It was here that Steve had brought his wounded warrior and nursed him back to health, and it was here where Tony had made his first stand against Ross, sick with grief from the thought of losing the young man who had shared so much of his home and his heart with a complete stranger.

 

This place was meaningful to the both of them, steeped in history. As he rounded the bend around his cottage, the sunlight glinting off the windows, and the long grasses waving in the wind, Steve felt the tension melt from his shoulders. The ride to the barn wasnt a long one, a good distance away from his mother’s cottage and garden, but well within sight. The fields where he had worked and played as a boy were now fenced in and as Steve dismounted off of Gilbert’s broad back, he greedily took in the sight of yearlings racing across the field.

 

Steve almost didn't see the man at first, too busy enjoying the sight of the horses at play, one hand on Gilbert’s bridle as he led his faithful friend toward the barn and the promise of a few sugar cubes and a good rub down. The stranger stood in the shade of the open door to the barn, his form tall and lanky, a rake resting in one hand. Steve could read his body language before he looked into the man’s eyes. This stranger, dressed in a simple plain tunic and dirt stained leggings might look at ease but there was a cagy readiness about him. Steve didn't doubt for a second that the rake in the man’s hand could easily double as a weapon to the unwary. It didn't matter that the man was missing a limb, Steve had no doubt that he was perfectly capable of defending himself.

 

He pulled back on Gilbert’s reins to slow their forward march, lips parting in greeting, before his grip went utterly slack in surprise. He was older, battle worn and broad of shoulder. Gone was the soft roundness of youth, and in its place was a stubbled, grizzled, stranger who had seen better days. Even with his thick mane of hair, considerably longer than most of polite society’s standards, which he allowed to fall forward into his face - Steve would have recognized him anywhere. 

 

His heart stopped in his chest. For one tense moment the two of them simply stood there. Staring at each other.

 

“Bucky?” Steve finally managed, his tone incredulous.

 

“Who the hell is Bucky?”

Notes:

Well. There it is. It took two years, but we finally got there.

Thank you for sticking through this journey with me and my first time writing small Steve. Writing from Steve's POV was definitely a challenge, but a fun one. I so appreciate all of you who read along, and especially those who took the time to leave love on my little part of the fandom. I might not have always had the spoons to respond to you folks during more crazy times in my life, but getting a notification in my inbox was always a straight hit of dopamine to my stressed out little writer soul. Especially when I hadn't updated in months.

A special thanks to Dime, who volunteered as tribute to read this chapter before I completed it and pointed out some of the things that I had missed as far as plot points. You the real MVP - thank you so much for helping me :) Any spelling or grammar mistakes are, once again, my own.

If you'd like to chat or are interested in talking stony/fandom/fic then come join us at Put On The Suit which is a great 18 group of creative people over on discord (and probably where I spend most of my time on the interwebs).

or feel free to come shout at me on Tumblr

I hope you all enjoyed this story, and the little surprise at the end there. Sabre, I hope you liked it! Thank you for the wonderful prompt <3

-Sayah