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He was running, bare feet on the tamped-down earth, rocks cutting into the soft soles. Branches whipped in the darkness, leaving stinging thin lines on his bare arms and across his cheek. He held his aching wrist tight against his stomach, twisted when he’d tried to break an earlier fall as he careened through the woods. A mosaic of small patches of moonlight filtered through the canopy; he’d long since lost his sense of direction, turning on whims and searching for the most shrouded paths to give him cover. And still, he could hear their voices occasionally call his name, the mocking laughter ringing through the trees. His pursuers didn’t try to be quiet, crashing through bushes and squeezing off shots that echoed off the low-lying hills.
How it had come to this, he didn’t really know. That Barney was jealous of his success had been clear in the angry muttering and stale smell of cheap beer that filled their wagon. Chisholm’s spitefulness was plain to see, a sour old man past his prime whose protege’s skills were better than his own. Duquesne’s loathing as Clint eclipsed him, stepping out of Jacques's shadow and into the spotlight. Those dangers he was aware of, but the stealing and murder? How could he have suspected his own brother would turn on him?
They were in the middle of nowhere, of course, when it came bubbling to a head, driving through the mountains on a single lane, winding road, nothing but trees and rocks and the waning moon in the sky. He’d had no choice but to open the passenger door and roll out onto the asphalt, lungs gasping for air as his heartbeat pounded in his already partially deaf ears. The barrel of Jacques's gun was burned behind his retinas, appearing over the front seat and pointed right at his heart. The whoosh of fletched feathers passing, the thunk of broadhead hitting rowan wood and sinking deep as he barrelled past. How he managed to get away in those first few chaotic seconds was a mystery, everything a blur of forest and shouting and tense ache that settled in his chest as he fled.
He stumbled, toes catching on an exposed root, and almost went down, catching a branch of the spreading oak next to him to stay upright. Curse muffled behind his lips, he hopped two paces as pain flared then forced himself to put his weight on the foot and keep going. There was nothing to do about the bloody fingerprints he left on the tree trunk; a steady flow ran down his arm from the bullet hole in his shoulder, a lucky shot before he got off the road. It should have hurt more, he knew, but the razor-sharp had dulled to a throb and his fingers were starting to go numb.
A crack of broken wood and skittering of stones was too close for comfort; he ducked his head and pulled up his sweatshirt’s hood, hiding his blonde hair under the worn cotton. If he was silent enough, maybe they’d pass by, not seeing him in the dark.
“Clint?” That was Barney, further away; it must be Duquesne closing in on him. “Hey, man, come on out and let’s talk about this. You just got to see reason and everything’ll be okay. Nobody has to get hurt.”
A lie and a bad one; his brother wasn’t nearly as good at charming marks as he was. Clint knew too much, had seen Duquesne pull the trigger and the guard fall. It was as good an excuse as any to get rid of him, the little brother who’d become a liability. Wrapping his fingers around the carved yew of his bow looped across his back, he wished one more time he’d grabbed his quiver as he’d run.
The path, if he kept on it, would take him right back towards Barney; he had no choice but to leave it and head into an inky pool between two fir trees, risking the unknown direction to avoid certain death. Not two steps in, he cut his foot on something sharp as he tried to slip away, leaving fresh blood on the ground behind him. If he could get away, find a place to hunker down, maybe they’d miss him. He had no idea where he was, but wandering lost was a better option than being dead.
“Gotcha.” Duquesne’s hand reached out and caught the fabric of Clint’s sleeve. “Time to pay the piper.”
Moonlight glinted off the polished metal of the gun, and Clint reeled back, using every bit of the flexibility he’d learned from the tumblers. The bullet buzzed by his ear but he was already moving, crashing through a hawthorn bush, its thorns digging into his skin, catching on his jeans and ripping them. Dodging behind the trunk of an ash tree, he felt the splinters of wood fly as the next volley hit.
“Nowhere to run, little hawk,” Duquesne called. “Been a pain in my ass for long enough. This is the end.”
“Fucking asshole,” Clint muttered to himself as he clambered up the incline; he rammed into an oak tree and sharp pain knifed through his shoulder. If he was going to die tonight, he was going to make his mentor work for it; he’d taken enough abuse, gone to bed hungry, suffered the lash of Duquesne's anger. He damn well wasn’t going to turn a blind eye to robbery and murder; he might be nothing but an uneducated carnie with good aim, but he knew right from wrong.
Another shot, then another, and Clint thought he was going to make it to the crest of the hill and over, maybe lose them on the other side. He put on a burst of speed and found himself breaking out of the treeline into a small clearing. Hard ground gave way to soft clover under his hurting feet, and the moonlight reflected off the low-hanging mist that curled in tendrils. A breath of clean air and a cool breeze danced over his skin as he sprinted across the space.
When the blossom of agony exploded, it took a second to register that it was a bullet tearing through his stomach, the force of the impact knocking him off his feet. He tumbled as he fell, hitting hard on his shoulder and landing on his side, leaving splatters of blood around him. Blinking, he tried to clear his watery eyes but the waves of pain left his head fuzzy. His wrist gave out when he tried to push up, his shoulder refusing to move his arm.
“Get up, get up, get up,” he mumbled to himself as he tried to roll over. Fingers scrabbled through grass and pulled up dark-skinned mushrooms that were growing all around him. “Not like this.”
A sudden rush of cold wind, and Clint saw Duquesne step out of the shadows, pushing the rising mist aside as he strode forward.
“You had some skill, kid,” he said. “But now you’re like a horse with a broken leg who needs to be put down.”
“Barney.” His brother’s name bubbled out of Clint’s mouth along with bright red blood.
“You should have just gone along with it.” Barney appeared, arrow notched and aimed at Clint; in the moonlight, he looked just like their father, same cant to his shoulders and darkness in his eyes. “But you had to be noble and shit.”
“Was gonna take care of me. Promised.” He was having trouble forming sentences, couldn’t quite make sense of things. The clearing seemed to be getting lighter, the mist turning the landscape into something different, something strange.
“It’ll be quick.” Barney nodded to Duquesne.
Duquesne cocked the gun and started to pull the trigger … then everything stopped.
Clint opened the eyelids he’d squeezed shut.
A man stepped out of the mist.
Clint saw the toes of his leather boots first, soft worn suede, then the brown pants, wide belt, and hunter green shirt that hung partially untied, revealing a pale chest with a smattering of dark curly hair. The man took in the tableau before he turned his gaze toward Clint. Piercing blue eyes looked him over; he tilted his head to one side, raised an eyebrow, and quirked one corner of his lips.
“Okay, this looks bad,” Clint managed to say, unsure if he was talking about the bleeding and gun or the seeming suspension of time. “You the devil or something? Come to bargain for my soul? ‘Cause it ain’t worth much.”
Whatever he was, the man sounded so very normal when he laughed. “Not the devil, although I’ve got a friend who is one. He’s more of a crossroads, drag you off to hell type; me, I’m more interested in how a dying human ended up on my doorstep.”
“Wasn’t easy.” Clint coughed, the muscle spasm like slashes of a knife across his chest. He faded into the pain for a few seconds before he dragged himself back. “Wouldn’t happen to have … some arrows … lying around …”
“For that magnificent bow you carry?” The smile grew wider on his face. “Even if you can shoot, I doubt you could break the string in your condition, much less hit anything.”
“Be surprised what I can do.” Why he was arguing, he didn’t know. The growing pool beneath him said he didn’t have much time. “I’m the Amazing Hawkeye, World’s Greatest Marksman. I never miss.”
“Really?” Interest flickered across those expressive eyes. “And if I were to give you some ammunition, what would you do with it? Kill your brother and your friend?”
“Only … if I … have to.” It was getting harder to breathe, his throat tightening and his sight growing dim. “Don’t … want … to …”
“Look at me,” the man ordered, soft fingertips sliding along Clint’s jaw and turning his head so their eyes met. The depths of blue dragged him in and Clint found himself falling. Through time and space, past worlds and under seas, deep in the ground and high in the sky. “I offer you a bargain, Clinton Francis Barton, son of Edith, daughter of Nell, granddaughter of Bronwyn. A choice for a choice, a life out of death. Will you come with me of your own free will?”
He saw it all, laid out in an endless pattern that curved back around on itself, always moving forward but never moving away. Pain and comfort, music and silence, the twang of the bowstring and the sharp edge of the knife. Love and loss, sorrow and joy. Caresses and kisses and promises kept.
“I need you to speak your answer,” he said. “Death is waiting.”
There, just behind Duquesne, the shape of a woman with hair as red as fire flames.
“Yes.”
Hands laid over his wounds and icy cold seeped into his body, skin and bone and tissue and muscle knitting together. Wind whipped and the mist rose, consuming Duquesne and Barney until they were nothing but phantoms that blew away into another life.
“You always find the interesting ones, Phil.” The woman shook her head as she looked down at Clint. “This one may give you a run for your money.”
As winter crawled up his body, Clint saw warmth in the man’s gaze.
“I certainly hope so,” Phil said.