Chapter Text
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
t’s mid-morning when Steve arrives at Tintagel, the sun warming the air and a light fog receding out to sea. It’s spring, almost summer; yellow and purple flowers cover the rocky hills. Sheep graze by the edge of the road, and they must remind Steve’s horse of home: his ears perk up and he pulls a little at the reins. Steve lets him increase his pace, running a hand through the horse’s pale mane. It’s been a long ride. He’s eager to wash off the dust of the road and sleep in his own bed.
The grounds of Tintagel Castle sprawl along high cliffs, on a promontory connected to the mainland by a tiny strip of earth. The hills beyond are dotted with sheep and cattle, and smoke rises from homesteads scattered on the moor. The castle is a high-walled fort of stone and timber, surrounded by a small village. The isolated location has proved an ideal defense against raiders, and the sea is rough and dangerous to those not used to sailing it.
Steve is surprised by the amount of cheer with which he’s greeted at the castle gate, and even more surprised to find Lord Rumlow waiting for him in the courtyard, arms crossed.
“You were supposed to be back days ago,” Rumlow says. Of all the soldiers and servants around them, he alone is frowning.
“Sorry,” Steve says, dismounting. “I didn’t know there was a hurry.” He’d lingered in Exeter, the townsfolk so happy he’d solved their dragon problem that they’d insisted he stay for the spring festival. “What’s happened?”
“You haven’t heard?” Rumlow raises his eyebrows. “Ireland has surrendered.”
Steve inhales sharply. “Surrendered?”
“The queen sent a delegation; they’re here, now, agreeing on terms.” He waves off Steve’s attempts at unburdening his horse. “Let the grooms do it,” he says. “His Majesty wants you at the talks. God knows why.”
Taken aback, Steve lets Rumlow steer him into the castle, and into the great hall where the king and his council are meeting. Too late, he remembers his dusty, road-worn traveling clothes, and tries to brush himself off. A guard announces them: “Lord Rumlow and Sir Rogers, Your Majesty.”
Steve bows, his sight adjusting to the dim, smoky torchlight. The king is seated at the head of the council table beneath an enormous silk banner, the hydra-and-crowns facing the Irish delegation proudly.
“Steven,” Alexander, the king of Cornwall, says. “I’m glad you could finally join us.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Steve says. “My task took longer than I expected. I would have come back sooner if I’d known you wanted me.”
“Yes, of course,” the king says, a little indulgently. He waves a hand. “Be seated,” he says. “So we may continue.”
Steve takes his place in one of the heavy, carved chairs. He feels the attention of the Irish envoys on him, and when he returns their gaze he realizes he knows them. They’re the queen’s cousins, and they look far older than Steve remembers. White-haired and tall, they’re calm and dignified under the demands of the Cornish king, though their eyes flick to Steve occasionally.
Though Steve tries to listen to the negotiations, his attention keeps wandering back to the king, who’s sitting back in his chair smiling. Steve respects his king - he gave Steve a home when his family fled from Ireland, a family when his passed, and a knighthood to secure his future - but there is a glitter in his eyes and a triumphant set to his mouth that can only be described as ugly. Alexander Pierce has never been gracious in victory.
There’s a stir among the council, and it takes Steve several moments to realize what was said. When he does, it’s a cold shock: the king has requested the hand of the queen’s eldest child in marriage.
Bucky.
“She has many children,” Alexander says. “Surely she can spare one.”
The delegates glance at each other, apprehensive. “Your Majesty,” one says. “I don't know if my queen will accept this.”
“Oh?” the king says. “Isn’t it she who came to me in surrender? Well, if she prefers war, war it is.” The councilmen murmur and the guards wrap their hands around their weapons. The Irish lords are tense and pale. War is no longer an option for them: plague has ruined the queen’s army. If fighting were to resume, Cornwall would overrun them.
The king smiles like a cat, satisfied. “It’s not such a terrible request. He would even have a familiar face at my court. Sir Rogers knew him as a boy - didn’t you, Steven?”
“I did,” he says. His heart stutters. Is this why Alexander wanted him here?
Recognition dawns in the envoys’ faces. “You were much smaller, then, Sir Rogers,” one says.
The king says: “You were close to him, isn’t that true?”
Steve’s mouth is dry. “Yes,” he says. “We were like brothers.” He’s no stranger to the concept of political marriage, but this is Prince James - Bucky - his first and best friend, bartered as a war-prize. Steve still thinks of him as the round-faced boy he left behind.
“Surely it is a small price to pay,” the king says. “For peace.”
The room is quiet, and Steve’s heart pounds in his ears.
“So be it,” the old lord says. He stands stiffly. “If your majesty would excuse us, we will return to our ship and bring the news of our agreement to the queen.”
The king, pleased, dismisses them. As the gathered men filter out, he beckons to Steve. When they are alone, he leans back and gives Steve a fatherly smile. “I saw your face when I mentioned marriage,” he says. “I hope I did not surprise you too much.”
“No, sir,” Steve says. “I just wondered - why now?” Why him? Alexander’s wife passed many years ago and more than one conquered enemy have offered their daughters and sons in exchange for the king’s favor.
“Why not now?” the king laughs. “Don’t worry about your friend, Steven. I’m sure he will learn to be happy here. Now, tell me about that business in Exeter - I trust everything went well?”
Steve stumbles over the account, his enthusiasm about the experience lost. Unease has settled in the pit of his stomach, and when he finishes the telling he blurts out: “Sir, when it’s time - May I be the one to bring him here?”
The king steeples his hands and smiles. “Of course,” he says. “I would trust no one else.”
When news comes of the queen’s agreement, Tintagel springs into readying for a royal wedding. There’s a festival atmosphere: people are glad that the war with Ireland has finally ended and are eager for a reason to celebrate. Steve wants to get on his horse and ride somewhere far away from the commotion, but doesn’t want the king to forget his promise and send someone else to Ireland in his place. He spends most of his time training with the other knights, sparring, or breaking wooden dummies with his spear. Even there he can’t escape it; his fellow soldiers are all too eager to gossip about, as Rumlow calls him, the king’s “new bride.” Steve overhears more than a few lewd comments and grits his teeth, trying to resist turning his weapon on live targets.
The king sends for him frequently, and Steve always arrives in the great hall to find an army of tradesmen. The late queen’s chambers have been cleared out, and Alexander has commissioned dozens of workers: carpenters, smiths, jewelers, tailors, all to give his new prince trappings worthy of an emperor.
It should be a comfort to Steve, that the king appears to intend to treat Bucky well, but he worries that Bucky is no more to him than plunder to fatten his hoard. Alexander doesn’t know him, he tells himself. When he meets Bucky he’ll be sure to love him; how could anyone not?
The king is in a fine mood, and smiles broadly at Steve whenever he sees him, declaring: “Let no one say I don’t provide for him.”
“No one could ever say that, sir,” he says, and it’s true. Bucky will, at least, never lack for things here.
It’s a relief when it’s finally time to go. Steve is dressed up in a set of fine new clothes, and is given a jeweled brooch with the king’s arms, which he pins next to the badge of St. George he always wears. He’s entrusted with an emerald ring, a betrothal gift for the prince.
Alexander sees him off personally. Even Zola, the Saxon magician and the king’s confidant, scuttles out of his workroom to make an appearance. As Steve boards the king’s ship, Zola flicks him with stinging powders and mutters about Irish witches. Alexander claps him on the back and wishes him a swift journey.
Steve touches the heavy weight of the ring in his pocket, praying that Bucky won’t hate him for this.
Pairs of strong oarsmen crew the king’s ship, and they largely ignore Steve as he huddles at the stern. The space is cramped and the sea-spray cold on his face. The oarsmen occasionally shout to one another over the sound of the green-and-gold banner snapping in the wind. The motion of the waves makes Steve sick, and he thinks about how much more pleasant it is to travel by land.
He gets some fitful sleep, and wakes to morning mist and the insistent crying of gulls, Ireland’s green coast on the horizon. They land at a coastal village, and the local fishermen watch Steve disembark with a wariness that’s not quite hostility. From there, he sets off on foot along the High King’s Road, toward Tara. He encounters few others on the road; the sickness that had taken his parents had finally made it’s way to Ireland and cut down many of her people. It was the main reason behind the queen’s surrender. While Steve welcomes the end of war between them, he can’t be happy at the losses suffered by people he still half-considers his own.
He walks for miles through a light rain before encountering a troop of riders in the queen’s colors. He shows them the badge with Alexander’s hydra, and they grudgingly put away their weapons and offer him a mount. The horse and the company make the rest of the journey pass swiftly, but he thrums with anxiety as they approach Tara. He’s going to see Bucky again, and he doesn’t know what would be worse: that Bucky will hate him or that he won’t remember him at all.
Steve’s companions usher him through the gates into a familiar courtyard that hasn’t changed since he last saw it. This castle was his family’s home for nearly twelve years; walking through it again feels like stepping back in time.
They bring him into the great hall, before the queen. Steve is frozen in heavy silence. The queen sits on her throne, silvered hair braided around her head like a crown. Her long dress sparkles with gold embroidery and her face is solemn and cold as a statue’s.
“Your Majesty,” he says, and the illusion breaks: she’s just Winifred, terribly human, a little more faded and careworn than he remembers. He bows.
“Steven Grant Rogers,” she says. “Haven’t you caused enough trouble in my house?”
“Ma’am,” he gulps, and her demeanor softens. She smiles and stands.
“Come here,” Winifred says, and embraces him. She feels small. The queen had been like a second mother to Steve, and his mother to Bucky. “I heard about your parents,” she says into his shoulder. “I’m so sorry. Sarah was such a good friend to me.”
Though Steve’s father had been Cornish, his mother was Irish, a minor noble in the queen’s retinue. Winifred implored her not to leave when the fighting between their kingdoms began, but Steve’s father had been adamant. Joseph Rogers felt the Irish sentiment turning against the foreigners among them. He was afraid for Steve most of all, who was half one and half the other. It had already made him a target for the other children of the castle, though Bucky had always defended him. Joseph decided they would be safer in his homeland, in the house of his distant cousin the king.
Winifred steps back, clasping his hands. She blinks away a little wetness in her eyes. “At least she got to see you grow into such a strong young man.”
“She missed you,” Steve says, his own voice thick. “I missed you - all of you.”
She squeezes his hands and gives him a bittersweet smile. “One of us in particular, I’ll bet.”
Steve admits: “I think about him all the time.”
The queen lets go of his hands and links her arm with his. “He’s in the garden,” she says. “Would you like to see him?”
“Yes,” Steve’s voice cracks. He ducks his head and takes a breath. “Yes,” he says again, more firmly.
They go through hallways Steve once ran through as a boy half his current size, and emerge into the garden courtyard. He and Bucky used to play-fight here, all bruised knees and skinned elbows. It’s much the same as he left it. The air smells of rosemary and lavender, and there’s a soft humming of bees.
“You were a terrible child, but you were good for him,” the queen says, quiet and fond. She and his mother would sit outside and watch them - Steve waving a wooden sword as long as he was tall, Bucky chasing his sisters around the pillars. He always came running when Steve flagged or fell or couldn’t breathe. Steve would always be grumpy and ungrateful, embarrassed he couldn’t keep up.
The memories are so vivid Steve can almost see them. He pictures himself trying to walk the garden walls, scrawny and short-tempered. His parents, young and whole. Bucky, nine years old, blocking an imaginary sword with a practice-shield painted with the family colors: sable field, silver bend, three red stars.
Winifred lets go of Steve’s arm, breaking him out of his reverie. “James,” she calls, and Steve’s heart skips when he sees him.
Bucky’s sitting in the shade of a damson tree, holding a prayer book, fingers frozen in the act of turning a page. He’s staring at Steve.
His eyes are very blue.
“Steven?” he says. “Steve!” He drops the book, scrambling to his feet.
God, he looks - the same. Taller and leaner and more finely dressed, but the same bright eyes, full lips, and slow-dawning smile. He’s beautiful. Steve doesn’t know what to say. He has a sudden cold stab of insight: his reaction to this marriage isn’t simple concern for Bucky’s wellbeing.
He’s jealous.
How can he ever be anyone’s but mine?
“Bucky,” he says, and they move at the same time. They don’t so much embrace as throw themselves at each other.
“It is you,” Bucky says. “No one ever calls me that anymore. I didn’t believe my uncles when they said you were at Tintagel.”
Steve says: “I can call you Your Highness, if you’d like.”
“Never!” he laughs. “Sir Rogers. I never thought I’d have to look up to meet your eyes! Are you under a spell? Will it wear off at midnight?”
Self-conscious, Steve rubs his neck. He had finally hit a growth spurt after leaving Ireland, and the potions and treatments of the old court magician had greatly reduced his illnesses. “Just the grace of God, I suppose.”
“Whatever it is, you’re - You look-” Bucky stumbles over his words. “You look to be in great health.” His hands find Steve’s and hold tight. “I missed you,” he says. “Every day.”
“I missed you, too,” Steve says, hugging him again, fiercely. “You have no idea how much.”
The queen makes a soft noise, and Steve startles, having forgotten she was there.
“I hope that you will stay with us for a few days, Steven,” she says.
“Of course I will,” Steve says. Once they go to Cornwall he might never get Bucky to himself again.
At the evening meal, Steve sits with the royal family at the high table. The oldest of Bucky’s sisters hug him and exclaim at how tall he is; the younger ones hang back, shy. They were little when he left. There’s another young woman at the table, with red dress and redder hair. Steve doesn’t recognize her.
“This is Natasha,” Bucky says, beaming at both of them.
Steve waits for a title or a surname, but gets none. Natasha gives him a sharp, cold stare. He feels a pang of worry. Were she and Bucky betrothed? He hadn’t even bothered to consider that Bucky might already be promised to someone.
“She’s a very good friend of mine, and to our family,” Bucky says. “Natasha, this is Steve - Sir Rogers, of Cornwall.” He adds, a little shyly: “I’ve told you about him before.”
“You have,” she says. “It’s nice to meet you,” she says to Steve, though her expression is still less than friendly.
Despite her chilly reception, Bucky’s sisters, at least, make him feel welcome. Rebecca, the crown princess, has grown tall and lovely and acquired a quick wit. She asks Steve questions about Cornwall, the state of trade and border disputes, and his thoughts on the Saxon invaders from the east. The younger princesses grow bored and turn the conversation to more exciting things, asking if Steve’s ever been to war or if he often wins at tourneys.
Gamely, he talks about skirmishing against Saxon raiders, hunting dangerous beasts in forests and caves, about contests of strength and skill against knights from faraway lands.
“Do you often win?” asks Tabitha, the youngest.
“Sometimes,” Steve says, trying to be modest. Bucky kicks his ankle under the table and grins at him.
Princess Mary pipes up: “Are you married, Steven?”
“No!” he says, too quickly, eyes wide. “No, definitely not.”
He changes the subject, asking the queen about her hounds, a passion of hers. She’s happy to comply, and Steve is glad to have the attention off of himself. He notices, though, that the royal family avoids talking about Bucky’s impending departure. None of the girls ask questions about King Alexander, or how Steve feels about the relationship between their kingdoms. He understands; it’s one more night they can spend in relative normalcy, as a family.
Princess Esther broaches the subject, once. She lays a hand on Steve’s and asks: “You will make sure he writes to us, won’t you?”
“If he’s allowed,” Natasha says.
Bucky fidgets a little, and when Steve turns, Bucky’s looking at him. Steve has the sudden, wild thought that they’re close enough to kiss.
“I’ll remind him every day,” he says, and the talks turns to other subjects. They don’t mention war, or marriage, or Cornwall again for the rest of the evening.
The next day, he and Bucky go up on the castle walls. They perch on the battlements, examining the low, grey clouds.
“I hope my family wasn’t too overwhelming, yesterday,” Bucky says. “And I’m sorry that Natasha was so rude to you.”
“Is she like that a lot?” Steve asks.
“Yes,” he admits. “Worse, lately. She’s angry with me.”
“What for?”
Bucky sighs. “The - arrangement. The marriage. She doesn’t want me to go.”
Tentatively, Steve asks: “Are you and her - Do you have an understanding with her?”
“Oh, no,” Bucky says. “She’s my friend. But she thinks I should have fought harder against this.”
“She wants you to be happy,” Steve says, thinks: I want you to be happy.
“She does,” he says. “But I have to do it. If not me, it’ll be Rebecca or Mary or Esther. Or, God forbid, one of the little ones.”
“Buck,” Steve says, hesitates. “It won’t be so bad. He’s not - he’s not so terrible as you think.”
Bucky watches him with dark and shuttered eyes.
“He’s not a gentle person,” Steve says. “But he’s never been cruel to me.” He wants to reassure his friend, promise that his fiance is ideal, that Alexander will love and cherish him and make him happy. He owes it to Bucky to be honest. “When the fever took my parents, he could have sent me away, but he fostered me instead. He’s not sentimental. I don’t think he did it out of the goodness of his heart.”
Bucky listens, quiet and intent.
“The king said my father once saved his life in battle, so he owed us a debt. I sometimes wonder if he would have been less kind if he didn’t. He prizes people who are useful to him, and I’m sure I was nothing but a burden for many years.”
Bucky considers this. “Do you think he’ll be cruel to me?”
Steve seizes his hands. “I would never let him. I’d never let anything happen to you.”
“You can’t promise that,” Bucky says. “Though God knows you’ll try.”
“I will,” Steve says. “I’d rather die than see you hurt.”
The corners of Bucky’s mouth turn up, but he glances away. “Even after being apart all this time,” he says. “You would take my side, over his?”
“Yes,” Steve says. He’s clutching Bucky’s fingers in a grip so tight it must be painful, but neither of them let go. “God, yes. You must know that. You know me,” he says.
“I do,” Bucky agrees. He meets Steve’s gaze honestly for a moment, but puts back on the smiling mask of bravado he’s been wearing for his family. “Even with this on your face,” he says, poking at Steve’s beard.
He catches Bucky’s hand, unsure if he means to pull it away or hold it there. “Am I really so different?” he asks.
“No,” Bucky says, and his smile, this time, seems real. “I would know you anywhere.”
Steve drags out his time in Ireland for as many days as he can. Bucky and his family are grateful for it, though it becomes increasingly clear that they can’t put things off forever. He still hasn’t given Bucky the ring; the thought of seeing it on his hand fills him with dread.
One morning after prayers, Steve lingers in the chapel alongside the queen. They stand in silence for a while, Winifred with her hands clasped and head bowed. Steve’s eyes follow the trails of dust motes floating through the early summer light.
The queen takes a heavy breath. “I’m glad that you will be there for him,” she says. “It’s such a weight off my shoulders. His too. He was so happy to see you again. All these years - he never once stopped thinking about you.”
Steve quirks his mouth. “I thought he must have forgotten me.”
She laughs a little. “Never,” she says. “He talked about you all the time. Wondered how you were doing, if you were well. You made quite an impression on my son, Steven.”
He shuffles his feet. “He made an impression on me.”
“I prayed,” she says. “That he would not be alone, there. I know it is a lot to ask of you, of all people - Please, try to keep him out of trouble.”
He swallows. “I will do everything I can,” he says. “God help me.”
When Steve has retired to his room for the night, a knock on his door surprises him. Bucky is on the other side of it.
“Is something wrong?” Steve asks.
“No,” Bucky says. “I just wanted to see you.”
Steve lets him in, and they sit on the edge of the bed. Bucky seems on the cusp of saying something, but doesn’t; the silence between them stretches out, unwieldy. After a while he sighs. “You’ve gotten so big,” he says. “I never imagined you seeming so well.”
“Well, thanks for that,” Steve pretends to be affronted, and Bucky elbows him. He admits: “I never imagined it, either.”
“I’m glad, though,” Bucky says. “I was afraid you’d just waste away. Not much chance of that now, though. Do you still get sick?”
“Sometimes,” Steve says. “Not often. Not like I used to. Rain and hot weather make me cough, and I still don’t like the cold, but I haven’t been badly ill in a long time.”
“I’m glad,” Bucky says again, and Steve smiles to himself. He remembers how Bucky would flee his lessons to climb in Steve’s sickbed with an armful of handkerchiefs and toy soldiers. He would fall ill himself, staying around Steve during his worst winter fevers and summer colds.
“Sir Steven Rogers,” Bucky says, savoring it. “I thought you’d be Saint Steven by now. Your mother was always threatening to send you to a monastery.”
“They’d have kicked me out with a week,” Steve laughs.
“A day, more likely.”
“Whatever got me back to you faster,” Steve says, before he can stop himself. Bucky stares at him with dark blue eyes, and Steve’s heart flutters. With nervous fingers, he takes Bucky’s hand. “Buck,” he says. “Whatever happens, from now on - I’m going to be there with you.” He wishes he could go back and never leave Ireland, undo the war between them, or talk the king out of his demands. He wants to fix this. He wants-
Bucky laces their fingers together. “I know,” Bucky says shakily. He admits: “That’s just going to make things harder,” and kisses him.
At first, Steve is too startled to move. Bucky pulls away, stricken. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I won’t- I shouldn’t have-”
Steve’s hands reach out of their own accord and tug him back in. This is terrible, impossible. This is everything Steve never knew he wanted. Bucky’s mouth is soft and warm on his, and his hands tangle in Steve’s shirt. When they break apart for air, they rest their foreheads together, breathing hard.
“Buck,” Steve says helplessly, words dragging themselves out of him. “We can’t.”
“I know,” Bucky whispers. “I know. But there’s never been anyone for me but you.”
Steve takes his face in his hands, traces the line of his jaw. In the lamplight, Bucky is flushed, a desperate smile playing at the corners of his lips. He’s so beautiful. How could Steve have been so stupid, to not realize the depths of his own feelings for him?
Bucky kisses Steve again, and then again, and then puts his head on Steve’s shoulder, leaning heavily against him. “It’s not fair,” he says. “I prayed that you would come back to me. But you’re here, and I can’t have you.”
Steve combs his fingers through Bucky’s hair. “You have me,” he says. “You’ll always have me.”
“Not the way I want to.”
“No,” Steve says, clutching Bucky tight. There’s nothing he can say to that. “But I did come back to you. I’m here, now. I’m here.”
They sit like that, wrapped up together. It’s a long time before Bucky takes a deep, shuddering breath and speaks.
“I’m scared,” he says. “What if I’m not enough? We don’t have the men or the resources for another war.”
“You’re enough,” Steve says, heart twisting.
“What if he sends me back and asks for one of my sisters?” Bucky says. “How could I live with myself?”
“Buck,” Steve says. “James Buchanan Barnes.” Steve takes his face in his hands. “You are beyond enough. The king is a fool if he doesn’t love you on sight.”
“Isn’t it stupid, though?” Bucky laughs brokenly. He wraps his arms around himself. “Why do I care? I don’t want to love him. I love you.”
Steve wants to hold him again, but knows if he touches him once more he’ll never stop. “I love you,” he says, and it’s dangerous, but he keeps going. “I love you, Bucky, I always have, and that won’t change. Even if we can never be together.”
Bucky rubs his face, trying to compose himself. “We shouldn’t put it off any longer,” he says. “We can leave tomorrow. My mother agreed.”
“Are you sure?”
His mouth twists, but he nods. “My family - We’ve already said our goodbyes. It’s time.”
Steve hunches his shoulders, worrying at the ring in his pocket. He takes it out and clutches it tightly in his fist. He has to give it to Bucky. He’s held onto it long enough. “This - I was supposed to give this to you when I got here,” he says, opening his hand. The ring is warm from being carried so close to his skin for so long. His voice catches. “A betrothal gift, from the king.”
Bucky stares at it. He makes no move to take it, and swallows, hard. “Put it on me,” he says.
“Bucky-”
“Please,” he says. “I want you to.”
With shaking hands, Steve slides the ring onto Bucky’s finger. Bucky shuts his eyes and takes a shuddering breath. He slips his hand out of Steve’s. He gets up, hovering like he wants to throw himself back into Steve’s arms and not let go, but pulls himself together and leaves without looking back.
They leave the next morning in a horse-drawn cart accompanied by a handful of guards. Bucky doesn’t take much with him, just a small chest. The sun is well overhead when they reach the coast. They’re dropped off, and Steve carries Bucky’s chest to the boat.
The king’s oarsmen call out to him in greeting, but Steve stops, squinting against the sun. There’s a young woman with them.
“Natasha?” Bucky gasps, and Steve recognizes her. She’s not wearing the embroidered gowns she had at court, but a servant’s plain garb, her wild red curls tucked under a veil.
“I’m coming with you,” she says, and stares at Steve defiantly. “Don’t think you can stop me.”
He puts the chest in the boat and raises his hands in surrender. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” one of the oarsmen says. “She showed up at dawn and refused to budge. I didn’t know how to remove her without causing a scene.”
“It’s fine,” Steve says. “She’s the prince’s - companion. Of course she’s coming with us.”
Bucky rushes forward and hugs her, almost lifting her off her feet.
“That’s enough of that,” Natasha says when she regains her balance.
“Thank you,” Bucky says, so quiet Steve barely hears him. “I thought you weren’t coming.”
She keeps her face blank, but there are small, concerned creases around her eyes. “You don’t know me very well if you thought that.”
When they board the ship, she takes Bucky’s hand and they huddle together in the cramped space, cloaks pulled tight against the sea spray. Steve tries to tamp down his envy, but can’t stop watching them, watching Bucky, as the ship sets sail and they leave Ireland behind.
They’re greeted with fanfare at the rocky landing below Tintagel. The king himself is there, and he offers a hand to Bucky, who takes it, allowing Alexander to help him out of the ship.
“James,” the king says. “I’d like to welcome you to your new home.”
“Thank you,” Bucky says stiffly. He pulls his hand back before Alexander can bring it to his lips to kiss. The king doesn’t seem bothered; he smiles and puts his hand on Bucky’s back, guiding him up the steep steps built into the cliff-side. The wind plucks at their clothes and hair, and Alexander leans in to say something quiet and private into the shell of Bucky’s ear. Steve burns. It’s a torture he hadn’t expected, seeing the king’s hands on what could have been his. What isn’t his, his heart taunts, and never will be.
He’s knocked into and regains his balance to find Natasha next to him.
“Would you mind helping me get his things settled?” she asks, tone carefully demure, stare boring into him.
“Of course,” Steve says, a little thrown by her demeanor. They head up the steps and the wildflower-freckled hill, and go into the castle. He leads her to the queen’s chamber - Bucky’s now - to find the king and Bucky already there.
“Ah, Steven,” the king says. “I’m giving His Highness a tour. Do make sure you get some rest before the wedding tomorrow.”
“I will, sir,” he says.
Bucky doesn’t look at Steve as Alexander ushers him away.
Natasha has opened Bucky’s chest and is digging through it.
“What-” Steve starts, and she pulls out a little green bottle, half-filled with dark liquid. “What is that?” he asks.
“A love potion,” she says. “James wants us to dispose of it for him.”
“A love potion,” he repeats.
Her grasp is tight around the bottle. “He asked me to make it for him,” she says. “I told him it was a stupid idea, but he thought it would make things easier.”
“He asked you-” Steve says, “He asked you. You’re a witch?”
“A sorceress,” she says.
“There’s a difference?”
Her mouth quirks. “Respectability. A witch wears rags and lives in the woods. A sorceress lives in a castle and wears pearls. I’ve been both, and I must say the second is more pleasant.” She shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter, though. As far as anyone here is concerned I’m only James’ lady-in-waiting.” She taps her nails against the glass, then thrusts it at Steve. “Make a circle of iron, and break the bottle inside of it. It’ll lose its power.”
“Iron-”
“Nails, tools, anything,” she says. “Look, Rogers. I don’t like trusting people I’ve just met, but James thinks quite highly of you, so I’ll make an exception. Go now; I don’t want to be caught with it.” She hesitates. “And anyway - you’re the reason he doesn’t want it anymore. I thought you should know.”
Steve goes. The bottle is warm in his hand, and he takes it to the farrier’s, which is thankfully empty. He doesn’t know what excuse he would have come up with to send away nosy apprentices. He gathers up nails and bits of scrap, and even some iron filings, shaping them into a circle on the floor. The low light from the forge catches in the potion and glitters, mesmerizing. How frightened Bucky must have been to resort to this. How close Steve came to losing his heart.
A clatter startles him out of his thoughts, and he dashes the bottle against the stones. Sparks fly up against the boundaries of the iron circle, then die out. A rat, the source of the noise, scurries into a corner.
“Sir!” the farrier comes in. “Is everything alright?”
Steve stares at the puddle and broken glass. The color of the liquid evaporates, leaving it clear as water. “It’s fine,” he says, trying a small smile. “I just dropped something. Sorry to bother you.” He rushes off, blindly, half-hoping to run into Bucky and the king, and half-dreading it. He finds himself in the stables, where he saddles his horse and climbs on. He rides away from the castle, and tries to lose himself on the green, windy heath.
Steve lurks in the crowded royal chapel, numb and exhausted. He barely slept, and wonders how Bucky is feeling. He didn’t see him at morning prayers or breakfast, but Bucky seems alert enough. His back is straight and his head held high and he’s so handsome it hurts. He’s wearing a blue tunic with gold embroidery at the collar and cuffs.
The king is also dressed in his most jewel-encrusted finery, crowned and shining. He takes Bucky’s hand and they kneel before the bishop. Steve clenches his teeth. There are vows, and long, Latin prayers, and the Sacrament. The bishop blesses them, and invites them to rise.
Through the ceremony, Bucky has kept his face as smooth and unreadable as stone. Steve sees him close his eyes when he is announced to the applause of the gathered crowd: His Royal Highness, Prince Consort, James Pierce.