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marvelstoriesepic · 26 days ago

Text

Like a Phoenix (epilogue)

Pairing: Mercenary!Bucky x Princess!Reader

Series Summary: An attack on your palace thrusts your only hope for survival into the hands of a mercenary who is forced to protect you, all due to a vow he made many years before. Though, those are circumstances neither of you have chosen.

Word Count: 12.2k

Warnings: mentions of fire, dead parents, murder, death, ignorance, betrayal, sexism, arranged marriages; classism; feels; tension; suggestive themes; kissing

Author’s Note: Omg we have reached the end to this series. It makes me a little sad but I'm so satisfied I managed to complete this. And hell, I did not expect it to get so long. When I came up with the idea I was planning on making it a one-shot lol. Thank you so much for reading it this far! I hope you enjoy ♡

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

Your journey goes on for another three and a half days. You walk through thickets and shadow-dappled glades as before, but time bends strangely now. It feels no longer like the lonely, endless trek it once was.

It does not feel like a road paved with dread and pain. It feels like something else entirely - something softer, warmer. Like the disentangling of the past and the mending of something broken.

Bucky is always close. Not just in the way he was before, walking beside you, always in your eye line - but in the way he feels close. The way his hand brushes against yours as you trek side by side, fingertips grazing, neither of you acknowledging it out loud, but neither of you pulling away. The way his gaze lingers so unashamed, unreadable, yet soft in a way you are not sure he quite realizes.

The nights are no longer cold.

The forest air is crisp and the earth unforgiving, but you haven’t felt cold since the first night you let yourself fall asleep curled against his chest.

His arms drape around you every night like they were made to hold you. He always mutters that he is not supposed to sleep, that he has to keep watch, and you know he has never been the kind of man to rest easily.

But then, minutes later, his breathing slows, deepens, his body molding against yours, his lips pressed into your hair as if the scent of you alone lulls him into slumber.

Sometimes, in that hazy space between sleep and wakefulness, he mumbles things into your skin - your name, half-formed words, things you wish you could catch before they are lost to the night.

He clings to you and buries himself in you like you are something to be sought out even in the darkness of his dreams. His hand finds the curve of your waist, fingers splay out over your ribs as if grounding himself, and he breathes you in.

He wakes in the mornings with a deep inhale, lips finding your shoulder before his mind even fully registers that he’s awake. And it is soft. It is slow. The kind of gentleness you never imagined a man like himself capable of.

But Bucky Barnes is a man of contradictions.

Just as he kisses you tenderly at dawn, he kisses you with reckless, insatiable hunger in the next breath.

One moment, you are walking beside him, mindlessly following the path, and the next, your back is flush against the bark of a tree, Bucky’s hands bracketing your face, his breath warm against your lips before he takes them in a kiss that leaves no room for air, no room for anything but him.

It’s fierce, consuming, his mouth slanting over yours, his tongue sweeping into your mouth with a desire that sets your veins alight.

His hard thigh slots between your legs, pressing just enough to make your breath hitch.

His hands would dip to your neck, fingers tangling in your hair as he devours you, drawing out a sound from deep in your throat that you didn’t even realize you were capable of making.

His breath hot against your lips as he exhales a soft, gravelly curse.

But it never goes further than this.

No matter how heated, no matter how desperate, he always stops.

His hands never stray past the places he’s already touched, never cross the threshold into something that would tip you into the point of no return. Not yet.

He made his promise - to make it good for you, to wait for a better time.

And Bucky Barnes, after all, is a man who keeps his promises.

So he pulls back, even when his chest is heaving, even when his pupils are blown wide with want. Pressing his forehead against yours with a shuddering breath. He only drags his thumb across your swollen lips and smirks at the way you chase after him.

The fire at night is different now, too.

Before, you used to sit in front of it, staring into the flames with an open wound in your chest that you thought would stay hollow and bleeding for the rest of eternity.

Now, you still stare at the fire, but this time with a weight at your back - Bucky sitting behind you, his chest pressed against your spine, his arms wound around you in a tender hold. He rests his chin on your shoulder sometimes and murmurs against your skin - tired yet, sweetheart? - and you shiver at his lips on your neck and shake your head, because how could you ever be tired of this?

The fire crackles and it’s not the only source of warmth anymore. Bucky’s arms tighten. And the hollow place inside your chest is filling slowly, surely, with something meaningful, something fervent.

Something that feels a hell of a lot like him.

There is something different in the air now, too.

You don’t know if it’s the season shifting, the air growing a little warmer, fresher, or if it’s something in you that has changed.

Maybe it’s the way the wind no longer feels like it’s pushing against you but instead lifting you forward. Maybe it’s the way the sky looks a little wider, a little vaster like it belongs to you now.

For years, you lived with the certainty of a future that was never truly yours. A path laid out before you like a straight line - one that led directly to a fate you never wanted.

You were raised to believe that love was not yours to seek, that choices were not yours to make, that freedom was not something women like you could have. You would be given away, just as your mother was, just as so many others before you were. A transaction. A signature on a parchment, your body and soul the fine print of a deal you didn’t want. A deal between men who had never once asked what you wanted. Never cared about it.

Only to be a prize for a man who had done nothing to earn you but exist in the right family, with the right title, with the right wealth to buy your hand.

You tried to convince yourself that it was inevitable. That maybe you could learn to accept it.

But that never happened.

And when Lord Ward spoke these ugly words about marriage something inside you rose like a beast with bared teeth.

Never had you wanted to end up with the life of a wife to a man who would never know you. Who would never see you.

Would never kiss you like Bucky does - like he’s breathing you in, like he’s savoring something rare, something he will never find again.

Would never hold you like Bucky does - tight, protective, almost desperate, almost possessive. Terrified the world might steal you away from him.

Would never look at you like Bucky does - like you are something untamed, something wild, something so far from the obedient, well-mannered woman you were raised to be. But he relishes it. He does not try to fill that flame. He lets you burn.

And now, here you are.

Not in a castle or a palace, not in a cage refined by luxury, not dressed in stiff silks, not standing in front of an altar beside a man whose hands would never be gentle, whose eyes would never soften when he looked at you.

No, you are out in the wild, the scent of pine and earth and Bucky thick in your lungs, with tangled hair, dirt on your dress, and under your fingernails.

And you have never been lighter.

When you dreamed of freedom, you always pictured yourself alone.

The idea of escaping had always been something singular, something you would carve out with your own two hands, even if it left them bloodied and bruised. Never had you imagined that freedom might come with someone beside you. That it might come in the shape of a man whose past is war-torn, whose hands are rough with calluses and sins but who holds you like you are something sacred.

You don’t know what to call this. You don’t know if there is a name for the way his lips trace over the back of your neck in the early hours of the morning, for the way his voice goes warm and husky when he mutters your name. For the way he watches you - really watches you - like he is memorizing the way you move, the way you breathe.

You don’t know what to call the way he lets you take up space.

Lets you question him, tease him, push at the edges of his patience. Lets you be difficult and vulnerable and does not try to shape you into something easier to control.

There are no words big enough for it yet, no name that fits neatly into your mouth.

But whatever it is, you know you don’t want it to end.

Not today. Not tomorrow. Maybe not ever.

Bucky makes everything feel more.

The silence of the woods isn’t lonely with him there. The fire isn’t just warmth, it’s a place where you rest, where you curl into him and breathe in the scent of leather and steel and him until you can’t tell where you end and he begins.

The simplest things are different now.

The air tastes sweeter, the wind feels wilder. Your chest feels lighter.

Your food tastes better, even if it’s nothing but charred meat and stolen apples because Bucky makes you laugh between bites. When he makes some dry, wicked comment that should not make your stomach jumble the way it does but you never put in much effort to stop it.

The night feels less like a thing to be wary of and more like a shroud that envelopes the two of you, keeping you hidden in a world of your own.

Your body feels different.

Because of the way he looks at you, the way his fingers graze your skin absentmindedly when he’s half-asleep, seeking you out even in his dreams.

Because of the way your blood sings when he pulls you into an unexpected kiss, when he presses you against a tree, or the ground and growls something against your lips that makes your knees weak.

Because of the way you feel in your own skin now - like it belongs to you, like your choices are finally your own.

And that’s what this is.

Choice.

For the first time in your life, no one is making it for you.

Not your father, not even your loving mother, not some nobleman with a name older than the stones of his estate, not an entire court that speaks of duty while drinking their wine.

You chose this.

You chose to run.

You chose to fight.

And now you are choosing him.

It is the thrill of being wanted - not as a bride, not as a duty, not as a treaty, but as a woman. As a person.

It is the way Bucky does not possess you - but he holds you like you are something worth keeping.

And you think, perhaps you might believe you are.

****

“Bucky!”

Two gleeful voices, high-pitched and brimming with joy, call his name in unison, and before you even register what is happening, two boys come hurtling toward the man beside you like arrows loosed from a bow.

Bucky barely has a moment to brace himself before they collide with him, small arms wrapping around his torso with so much force that he stumbles back a step.

A surprised chuckle rumbles from his chest as he catches them, his hands ruffling through unruly heads, squeezing them against him in a hug.

You don’t move.

You stay where you are, frozen, watching as something in Bucky softens. He crouches slightly, to be more level with the boys, shaking his head with mock exasperation, but his face is split in a smile that might just blind you.

“You’re back!” one of them exclaims, clinging to him.

“We missed you,” the smaller one adds, eyes wide and earnest.

“Steve said it could take longer and that we have to be patient, but we knew you’d come back soon,” the first one says, so proud of himself, his words spilling over each other in his excitement.

Your stomach tumbles - not unpleasantly, but in that strange, fluttering way that comes with being overwhelmed.

You knew Bucky had friends, knew that wherever he was taking you, you would not be walking into a place full of strangers to him.

But this is something else.

Because they love him.

And they are not the kind of people you imagined Bucky Barnes might surround himself with. These children adore him, are safe with him, and throw themselves into his arms without hesitation.

Your throat closes up as you shift, not knowing what to do with yourself.

Your nerves had not touched you this morning, as you lay in Bucky’s arms. Not when he murmured against your skin, lips pressing lazy kisses along your shoulder, voice slow and sleep-thick.

“Won’t be much longer now, darlin’.”

You hummed.

“Just a few more hours, and we’ll be there.”

You felt his smirk against your neck.

“You nervous?”

You thought about it. The idea of stepping into a new place, meeting new people who knew him, who might not trust you, might not like you. But it was hard to be nervous with the way Bucky was touching you, tracing patterns over your bare arm, kissing your hair, holding you close like there was nowhere else he would rather be.

“Tell me about them,” you whispered, half to distract yourself, half to just hear his voice a little longer before the day truly began.

And he had.

“Steve’s a pain in my ass. Got that whole ‘honor and duty’ thing goin’ for him. Thinks he’s gotta save everyone. Stubborn bastard.”

You had laughed at his crude language and he just kissed you some more, sporting a proud grin.

“Sam’s loud as hell. Talks too much. Thinks he’s funny.” He sighed dramatically, the vibration of it tickling against your ribs.

“Is he?”

Bucky exhaled sharply, and you realized it was almost a laugh.

“Sometimes,” he grunted out gruffly, but there was something fond in it. He placed a deliberate kiss just below your jaw. “But you better not tell him I said that.”

“He’s got a sister. Sara. She’ll probably try to feed you the second she lays her eyes on you. Got a good heart.”

“Noted,” you whispered, fighting a smile.

He brushed his nose against the curve of your cheek. “Natasha’s a little sharp. She’ll size you up, but don’t let it get to you. It’s just her way. She’s got a good read on people. But I got a feeling she’ll like you.”

He kissed you, slow, savoring the way your lips parted beneath his, the way you let him pull you closer.

“Bruce is quiet. One of the smartest people I know. You’d like him.”

His fingers traced unhurried circles against your waist, his touch warm and possessive without meaning to be.

“Peter,” he sighed. “Kid’s a menace. Talks too fast. Asks too many questions. Has no idea how to shut up.”

You smiled. “But you sound fond of him.”

Bucky groaned dramatically, letting his head softly fall onto your collarbone. “Damn kid grows on you.”

“Wanda’s a little different. Maybe a little odd. She’s got a heart bigger than she knows what to do with. M’ sure you’ll like her.”

He shifted, rolling onto his side so he could study you in the dim morning light.

“Vision’s…” he adds, shaking his head slightly. “Can’t really explain him. But he’s a good man.”

“And Tony’s an ass.”

“That’s it?” you laughed.

“That’s all you need to know.”

You traced the shape of his jaw with your fingertips. He leaned into you, eyes drooping. Your voice grew softer. “But he’s your friend.”

A pause. A sigh. “Yeah, I guess he is,” he admitted grudgingly.

Then you kissed him again and he certainly did not object.

It felt so intimate then, the way he spoke, the way he let you into something personal. His family. You hadn’t been nervous then. Not when he was so warm against you, not when he whispered promises of breakfast and stolen kisses and safe places against your skin.

But now, watching these two children light up at the sight of him, watching Bucky melt and soften, you start to feel the nerves.

The enormity of what you are stepping into.

You are not just entering a place.

You are stepping into his world.

These people are not just his friends. They seem to be his family.

And they seem to live a comfortable life, judging the clustered timber-and-stone houses before you. Slanted roofs are layered with thatch, their wooden beams weathered but sturdy.

A large two-story tavern sits at the heart of the settlement, its balcony draped with drying herbs and bundles of corn.

The earthy scent of bred and corn and ash and tilled soil all mingles in your nose. You breathe it in.

You watch a woman lean out of an open window, shaking dust from a rug.

A great tree stands a little off, roots twisting into the soil like fingers gripping the land, branches stretching, leaves flying in the light breeze. Wooden tables and benches sit unevenly on the dirt ground. A group of men sits hunched over one of those tables, mugs in hand, deep in conversation.

Horses are tied to a hitching post near a small stable, flicking their tails. Chickens peck at the dirt, completely unmoved by their surroundings.

Garlands of wildflowers and wheat hang from beams and doorways.

Nearby, a wooden stall displays golden rounds of bread stacked high, the crusts crips and sun-warmed.

This does, in no way, come close to how you have been raised and lived your whole life. Nothing like the sterile corridors of the palace, where voices were kept soft and every step was measured.

This place is unrefined, full of noise and movement, loud laughter, and unguarded conversations.

It’s the most beautiful thing you have ever seen.

“Who are you?”

The sharpness of the question snaps you from your swirling thoughts and drops you harshly into the present.

Your gaze turns down to meet dark and narrowed eyes. The kind of look you would expect from a man twice his age, not a boy of the age of perhaps 10.

There is suspicion in the hard set of his mouth, in the furrow of his brow. His thin shoulders are squared, his stance too defensive for someone so small. Too wary for someone so young.

He is looking at you like he is judging you. Assessing you. Ready to cast you out.

You don’t know what you expected from those little boys who nearly took out Bucky with a hug. Curiosity perhaps, maybe even excitement, because what child is not intrigued by someone new?

But this boy has learned caution young.

Bucky had not mentioned him, nor the other who is still clinging to Bucky’s side and watches with wide, observant eyes. They seem to be brothers.

You inhale and part your lips, ready to offer something - your name, perhaps, or some reassurance that you mean no harm - but Bucky steps in.

“Hey,” he chides, voice carrying a note of authority, but it is still easy. As though he expected this reaction. “C’mon now, AJ,” he says, ruffling dark strands. “That any way to treat a guest? Hm?”

The boy scowls, wriggling his head free of Bucky’s grip and standing a little straighter, eyes still on you.

“I have questions,” he insists, crossing his arms over his chest.

You blink.

This boy is so small, and yet so serious, staring you down like you are his enemy.

Bucky sighs dramatically beside you, shaking his head.

“You hear that, darlin?” He turns to you, blue eyes glinting. “Little punk thinks he runs the place.”

You smile amused and tilt your head slightly. “Does he?”

The little guy seems taken aback for a moment, like he hadn’t expected you to address him so directly, hadn’t expected you to engage instead of deflect.

But then he squares his shoulders again.

“I do when Steve isn’t here,” he informs you seriously, sharp eyes on you.

Bucky chuckles.

“So?” the boy presses. “Who are you?”

You take a breath in.

“She’s mine.”

The words, low and firm, come from Bucky.

You turn, startled, but Bucky is not looking at you. He is looking at the boy, at both of them, his expression unreadable. But his jaw is set.

“She’s with me,” he tells them.

But that makes the older boy before you narrow his eyes further.

“You brought her here?” he asks, and there is an accusation in it.

“I did,” Bucky confirms, voice turning a note harder. “And you’re gonna behave, alright?”

“Why?” the boy presses. “You don’t bring people here. Ever.”

That catches your attention. You glance back at Bucky, but he still doesn’t look at you.

He opens his mouth, about to crouch down to his eye level.

“Oh, mother of gods, James Buchanan Barnes, you did not!”

Your head snaps up at the harsh exclamation, dragging your attention to the woman storming toward you. She has fire in her eyes and disbelief clear in every step she takes. The fabric of her dark skirts rustle with the force of her marching steps, her expression caught somewhere between outrage, horror, and exasperation.

Bucky sighs beside you.

The woman sweeps her gaze over you, fast but uncomfortably precise, drinking in the tangled mess of your hair from wind and sleep, the dirt staining the folds of your gown, the frayed laces at your bodice. They hang limply around you.

Heat wanders along your skin, creeping up your neck. Your fingers jerk against your skirts.

You are painfully aware of how you must look. Not a princess. Not the picture of nobility. And it makes you feel exposed.

She then latches her burning eyes on Bucky, who for his part looks painfully unbothered by the way her glare could send him to his grave.

“The princess?” she hisses, incredulous, her voice barely contained. “Are you out of your mind?”

Bucky exhales softly. “Sara-”

“No, no,” she cuts him off, throwing a hand in the air. “Don’t you Sara me, James. What- What in the name of every god above and below were you thinking?” She jabs a finger at him. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Do you have any idea what kind of mess this is?”

You recoil slightly.

Bucky doesn’t.

Sara exhales sharply and fixes her gaze on the two boys. “Aj, Cass,” he says, voice edged with maternal authority. “Inside.”

The younger boy scrambles away, while the older one hesitates. He looks at you. And you watch the realization of who you are dawn like a slow and creeping sunrise. Color drains from his face, only to be replaced by a deep, mortified flush. He hurries off after his brother.

A low whistle sounds out.

“Well damn,” follows a smooth, almost delighted drawl. “You kidnapped the princess? Man, that is a whole new level of crime - even for you.”

Your eyes shift toward the new voice.

A tall man steps up beside Sara, arms crossed over his chest, a wide, amused, and toothy smile on his face.

“You know,” he muses, glancing at you before looking back at Bucky, letting out a chuckle. “I figured you’d eventually get yourself into a mess you couldn’t talk your way out of, but this?” He gestures at you, at all of you. “This is next level, man. This ain’t just thieving a couple of horses or lifting some noble’s coin purse.”

“I didn’t kidnap her,” Bucky growls, exasperated.

“No?” The man lifts a dark eyebrow. “Then what is it I see before me? Huh? Certainly not the missing kingdom’s princess, looking all rugged and dirty, standing next to the only fool dumb enough to waltz into the palace and take her right from under their noses.”

“Sam,” Bucky warns.

Sam ignores him. “God, I can’t believe this. You kidnapped the princess.” His eyes practically dance with amusement. “Really, man?”

“Didn’t kidnap her,” Bucky repeats, tone and eyes dark.

Sam snorts. “Alright, then.” He shifts his attention to you now. You are only able to listen to whatever this is with wide eyes. “Your Highness. Blink twice if you need rescuing.”

You glance over at Bucky helplessly, but he only runs a hand down his face and shakes his head.

You straighten, eyes going back to Sam, composing yourself as best as you can despite the dirt on your skirts, despite the strange, unmoored feeling of being in this place, surrounded by these people.

“Sir, I-”

But Sam interrupts you, keening with laughter.

It’s full-bodied. He throws his head back, shoulders shaking, one hand gripping his ribs as if the sheer force of his amusement might crack them open.

You startle, staring.

“Oh, hell, yeah.” He wheezes through his laughter, eyes gleaming with delight. “D’you hear that, Barnes? Your girl called me sir.”

Bucky glares. It’s nothing short of murderous.

Sam laughs harder, nearly doubling over, slapping his thigh like this is the greatest moment of his life.

Bucky’s hands flex at his sides, fingers curling, and for a second, you wonder if he might actually lunge at the man.

“You wanna keep runnin’ your mouth, Wilson?”Bucky grounds out, voice flat, but there is something dangerous in it.

“I apologize for the trouble, your Highness,” Sara says, voice full of exasperation, though it is not directed at you. Her sharpest ire belongs to Bucky. She shoots him a look so blistering it could peel bark from a tree. But he only rolls his shoulders like a man unbothered. “You’re lucky she doesn’t look half-dead, Barnes.”

Bucky exhales through his nose. “She’s fine, Sara.”

“Fine?” she echoes, eyes flaring. Hands settle on her hips. “Fine is not what I’d call a girl dragged through the wilds, looking like she hasn’t had a proper meal in days.”

You wince, self-conscious.

She notices.

Her gaze softens. “My apologies, your Highness,” she says, sincerely, directed at you this time. “You must be exhausted. Have you eaten? Drunk anything? Lord above, Bucky, did you even let her rest properly?”

Bucky folds his arms over his chest with a huff. “She’s not a child, alright? She’s handled herself just fine.”

Sara glares him down.

You take a step forward before she can start another round of chastising him.

“You do not need to apologize,” you say softly. “I have been taken care of.”

You see Bucky smirk in your peripherals.

Sara pinches the bridge of her nose, exhaling long and slow, before turning back to you.

And this time, when she looks at you, there is no suspicion, no frustration.

Now, there is just worry.

Not the worry of someone who sees you as a liability, a mistake, a problem to be solved.

But the aching worry of someone who sees you as a person. As a girl who has run a long, long way from something big.

Shaking her head, she fixes her eyes back on Bucky. But they are softer. Her voice is calmer when she speaks again, but no less chastising. “The princess, Bucky? Of all the reckless, ill-thought-out things you’ve done-”

“Alright-”

“I chose to come with him.”

Bucky falls silent.

You don’t know why Bucky hadn’t explained this himself. That he didn’t force you into anything, or even kidnap you. Perhaps he still can’t believe that you said yes to him. Or he didn’t want to put those words into his mouth because they should be yours.

All eyes turn to you.

Sara’s brows lift slightly in surprise. Sam, who has been watching with a grin of pure entertainment, lets out a low whistle.

But it’s Bucky’s gaze you feel the most.

You sense the shift in him, the way his eyes find you with an intensity that has you clenching your fingers around the fabric of your gown.

“I wasn’t taken. Especially not by him,” you continue, gaze sweeping from Sam to Sara and back again. “I left of my own accord. It was my decision. And Bucky-” You glance at him for a brief moment, before setting your eyes forward again. “-he kept me safe.”

Sara exhales sharply, hands on her hips, lips pressing together in thought. She studies you, weighing your words against whatever she has imagined. You cannot make a lot of her expression, but there is respect in the way she looks at you.

Bucky doesn’t move, but you feel his gaze on you like a touch. Heavy and lingering.

Sara’s hand on her hips tighten. “That may be,” she allows, her voice slow. “But I find it hard to believe you were given many choices to begin with.”

“Sara,” Bucky warns. But his voice is thicker now.

Sam doesn’t relent on his toothy grin and Sara flicks him on the back of the head. “Alright, enough,” she says, then turns to you. “If you’re staying, we need to get you cleaned up and fed.” She eyes your dirt-streaked gown and your disordered hair, her concern slipping back in. “Gods, you must be exhausted.”

You stiffen.

Not at her words, but at the way something deep in your chest trembles in response.

Because, yes you are exhausted.

You have been for as long as you can remember. But never like this. Never in a way that feels earned.

This exhaustion is not the kind that comes from waiting - waiting for a decision to be made for you, waiting for a fate you have no hand in shaping.

It is the exhaustion of moving forward, step by step, of carving a path where there was none before.

It is real.

And for the first time, it does not feel like a burden.

You do not know how to say this. So you say nothing.

“Come inside. Eat something. Get some rest,” Sara offers gently.

Like she has already decided she will take care of you.

You have spent your entire life refusing. It is a habitat ingrained in the very marrow of your being. To be polite, but never imposing. To be gracious, but never in need.

But you are not in a palace now.

You are in a place where people say what they mean, where laughter is loud, where Bucky Barnes holds children to his chest and lets them believe he is something softer than the world has made him.

A place that is not yours, but could be.

You do not refuse.

Because you don’t want to.

Fingers graze the inside of your wrist, a feather-light touch. A question.

And you answer without words, letting your fingers brush his.

Bucky’s shoulders loosen. His jaw unclenches.

You smile up at him. He smiles down at you.

Sam is gaping.

****

You inhale the food as if you have not eaten in days - because, in a way, you haven’t. Not like this. Not like something that tastes like home, like care, like hands that have kneaded and stirred and seasoned with the intent of nourishing, not just sustaining.

The wooden bowl in your hands is warm, the simple stew inside thick and hearty, brimming with root vegetables and tender meat that falls apart on your tongue.

The broth is rich, salted just enough to bring out the depth of the flavors, but not so much that it overpowers the natural earthiness of the ingredients.

At the palace, everything had been delicate. Well-considered. Gilded dishes prepared for their beauty before their taste. Sauces too intricate, wines too aged, plates of food so finely arranged that they resembled paintings rather than meals. Adorned with edible gold and the finest spices from across the kingdom. They had been created for show, for excess, for appearances.

But this is food meant to fill you.

The bread that Sara placed beside your bowl is dense and still warm from the hearth, the crust slightly cracked from the heat, the inside soft as a cloud. You tear a piece away and dip it into the broth, watching as it soaks up and turns heavy in your hand before bringing it to your lips.

The taste spreads warmth through your bones.

There is no grace to your eating, no careful sips or polite nibbles. You do not have to sit straight-backed in an uncomfortable chair, do not have to mind the placement of your hands or the pace of your bites.

You simply eat.

And for the first time in your life, food does not feel like an obligation. It feels like comfort.

You sit at a wooden table. The texture of the wood is uneven beneath your fingertips, worn and etched with knife marks, scratches, faint grooves from elbows propped against it.

This cabin is small, but it breathes.

The walls are made of sturdy logs, darkened from years of firelight and time. The stone hearth is still slightly glowing with embers from where Sara had cooked, projecting shimmering golden light against the walls.

A simple woven rug lays before it, slightly askew, as if someone has kicked it on their way past.

It is nothing like the palace.

The palace had been marble and silk, cold stone and uncomfortably ringing echoes from footsteps. Walls that expanded too high, chandeliers so grand they could never be touched, windows so polished you could see your reflection clearer than you could see yourself. Every corner a testament to wealth, to power, to the careful orchestration of control.

But this is lived in.

This is home, even if it is not yours. Yet.

And you love it.

You love the way the cabin smells of woodsmoke and earth, of herbs hanging to dry, of something baked earlier in the day.

You love the way the chair beneath you creaks slightly when you shift, the way the light is softer here, golden rather than cold.

You love the way your own body feels here.

Because here you are not wearing a gown that feels like a costume, corseted and pinned and stitched into a silhouette.

Here, you are still wild from the road, still warm from Bucky’s touch, still catching your breath from all the ways your life has changed.

Your fingers tighten around the wooden spoon in your grasp, the thought of Bucky bringing something else entirely to the warmth inside you.

He left moments ago.

Not without touching you.

You stood beside the table when he stepped close, when he tilted your chin up with the barest press of his knuckles, his other hand warm at your waist.

“Eat, sweetheart.” His voice has been soft, softer than his usual rasp. “Take your time.”

He kissed you before you could reply.

Not deeply, not claiming or desperate, just so incredibly tender, something that felt like a promise. A press of his lips that lingered, that tasted like all the words he did not say.

His fingers brushed against your jaw so delicately as he pulled back, his breath warm when he whispered. “I’ll talk to the others. You eat somethin’ and get some rest, yeah? I won’t be long.”

And then you were alone.

And what feels like for the first time in your life, no one is watching you.

There are no guards, no courtiers, no looming figures waiting to tell you what you must do next.

You are alone.

And it is wonderful.

A slow breath fills your lungs. You let it out slowly, feeling your shoulders loosen, your limbs grow heavier with something softer than exhaustion.

“You must be starving.”

The voice - deep, smooth, touched with humor - startles you so thoroughly that your spoon slips from your grasp, clinking against the rim of the bowl before settling with a soft plop into what’s left of the broth.

You snap your head up, heart lurching, body still half-wired for a fight that is no longer necessary.

A man stands in the doorway, arms crossed over his broad chest, framed by the golden light of the setting sun behind him.

He is tall. Not just in height, but in presence. His shoulders are square, built with strength, but there is something calm in the way he carries himself. His blond hair is slightly tousled from the breeze outside and his blue eyes scan you.

His expression is unreadable at first, gaze sweeping over you, taking in the way you hover over your food like it might be taken from you, the way your hands twitch before stilling, the way you study him as though he might be another threat.

He lets out a short, remorseful breath but smiles at you then. Warm. Open. Easy.

“Sorry,” he says, lifting a hand as if to show he means no harm. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

You exhale slowly, steadying yourself. You take him in for a little while longer.

“It’s okay,” you reassure. “You must be Steve.”

His expression shifts. His brows lift just slightly, eyes glinting with something wry and knowing, but also a kind of surprise. As if it isn’t normal that Bucky talks of him to people who don’t know him already.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches you for a beat longer, like he is trying to place something about you.

Then he drops his head a fraction, a smile tugging at his lips. He glances around the cabin like this is a place he knows, a place that has always been home to him.

“Had to see for myself,” he starts, stepping closer, “what kind of thing Bucky’s gotten himself into this time.”

There is no accusation in it. No sharpness. Just a lightness, an understanding - something that makes you feel like this is not the first time he’s had to check in on Bucky’s reckless decisions.

“It was my decision,” you retort before he can go any further. “He did not take me. He did not force me. I chose this.”

You expect surprise. Like the others.

But Steve just nods. As if it makes sense. As if he might already have known that.

He chuckles, the sound low and genuine, before lowering himself into the seat across from you. The chair groans slightly under his weight, and for a moment he just studies you.

Not in the way people at the palace or castle did. Not with judgment, or scrutiny, or expectation.

Just curiosity.

“Bucky’s done some rash things before,” he then muses. “I had to make sure you aren’t one of them.”

It is said without malice. Just a simple, honest statement.

He doesn’t dance around it. Doesn’t pretend he wasn’t concerned. And strangely, that puts you more at ease.

You exhale, your fingers brushing the rim of your bowl.

“I appreciate the concern,” you say carefully. “But I meant it. This is my choice.”

Steve smiles.

Not a small smile. Not an uncertain or fake one. It is true.

“Then I guess that’s all I needed to hear.” He shifts, pushing his hands against the arms of the chair, preparing to stand. “I should let you rest.” He says it with a kind of old-fashioned politeness that reminds you of a man who has spent his whole life minding his manners. “Didn’t mean to intrude on your alone time, your Highness.”

But before he can rise, something in your stirs - curiosity, but something else, too.

“Wait.”

Steve pauses and raises a brow as he looks at you. But he eases back into his seat. Blue eyes flicker with interest.

“What did you mean?” you ask quietly.

Steve tilts his head. “About what?”

You hesitate, but the question is already lodged in your chest, needing release. “You said Bucky has done a few rash things before. What kind of things?”

A short laugh shakes the chest of the blond man. He leans back slightly, shaking his head and resting one ankle over his opposite knee. He crosses his arms over his chest and regards you with a look that is both amused and considering.

“You really wanna know?”

You nod.

His lips quirk and he lets out a slow breath, rolling his jaw, weighing whether he should actually tell you anything. He contemplates for a moment.

“Alright,” he relents. “I suppose I can tell you something.” He leans forward slightly, forearms braced against the edge of the table. His eyes glint with something that seems nostalgic, fond, but at the same time exasperated.

Then, he chuckles, obviously thinking of something. “Let me tell you about the time he stole a nobleman’s prized warhorse because some poor stable boy was about to be flogged over it.”

You blink, eyebrows shooting up, not even noticing that you are leaning in yourself. Watching him intently as he speaks.

“We had been passing through a town. Saw a stable hand, just a boy, barely a teenager being dragged out into the square because the noble, some smug son of a bitch-” he winces. “Pardon my language, your Highness.”

You huff a laugh, shaking your head.

“The noble he worked for claimed the kid had let his prized horse go missing,” Steve continues. “That boy was about to be publicly whipped.”

You frown, heart seizing.

“Buck broke into the nobleman’s stables,” he says with a disbelieving laugh, “stole the very horse they were fighting about, and rode it right through the center of town, causing a distraction long enough for the kid to escape.”

Your lips part.

Steve watches your reaction with a grin.

You don’t think you have ever been this invested in a story as of now.

“Of course, half the town guard ended up chasin’ him for miles,” he continues, amused smile on his face. “His plan, mind you, was to just return the damn horse the next day, all casual like nothing happened. Didn’t wanna keep it, he told me. Just wanted to prove a point.”

Steve’s gaze softens as he watches you take it in.

He leans back again then, palms planted on the table. “Well, the horse did send him flying straight into a pile of mud. So maybe that’s the true reason he wanted it gone.”

A laugh bursts from your lips.

Steve’s eyes are glinting. “Left him sitting there, covered in filth, swearing up and down that it wasn’t his fault.”

You press a hand to your mouth, shoulders shaking with laughter.

Steve seems even a little proud. Satisfied, with the way you are laughing so carefree. He lets a few beats pass.

Your ribs ache pleasantly.

It is rare, this kind of lightness, this kind of ease.

It is especially rare that you let yourself feel it. Let yourself sink into it. Relish it.

Suddenly, a shift in the air tugs at your awareness, a pull, like something in the room has changed shape without a sound.

Slowly, you turn your head toward the doorway.

And there he is.

Bucky leans against the frame, one shoulder pressed casually against the wood, arms crossed over his chest.

Candlelight catches on the lines of his face, casting a glow over the edges of his cheekbones.

He hasn’t said a word, hasn’t made a move to interrupt. He is just watching.

Watching you with something in his eyes that makes the giggles in your throat falter - not because they fades, but because they become something different.

He looks at you like he is seeing something he didn’t know he needed to witness.

Like he is listening to the sound of your joy and tucking it away somewhere safe.

It is in his eyes. This softness, something golden that flickers like a flame caught in the cradle of his chest.

His mouth is curved at the edges, not a smirk, not quite a grin. Just something fond, something private.

Your heartbeat slows into something deeper, warmer. A flush creeps up your neck that has nothing to do with laughter.

He has been standing there, silent and content, just watching you laugh so brightly with his best friend in a place he calls home.

“Bucky.” His name slips from your lips as you shift in your seat. “How long have you been standing there?”

Something shines in his gaze, something unreadable but vast. The space between you seems to hold more than just air.

His lips press together, holding back a chuckle. Pushing off the frame, he ambles toward you. “Long enough to wonder what kinda shit Steve’s tellin’ you ‘bout me.”

You try to suppress a smile, glancing over to the blond man, who only smirks, clearly enjoying this.

“He told me about you falling off a horse.”

Bucky lets out a groan, but his smile never wavers. He steps over to you unhurried, like he is savoring the moment, having all the time in the world.

He drags a hand down his face as he stops beside you, but the exasperation in his sigh is a lie - his smile still does not fully vanish.

His fingers find your shoulder as if drawn there naturally. His touch is light, absentminded. He rubs slow circles with his thumb before trailing down to your arm, his palm coming to rest warmly at the bend of your elbow. It sends something skittering down your spine.

Leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest, the look on Steve’s face turns downright knowing.

Tilting his head, Bucky shoots the blond a look that lands somewhere between betrayed and amused.

“Really, punk?” he groans. “Coulda told her anythin’.”

Steve shrugs, unbothered and smirking. “She should know what she’s gotten herself into.”

Bucky scoffs.

Steve then pushes up from his seat, muscles in his arm bulging under his shirt. “I should leave you two to it,” he says but his gaze lingers on Bucky, before briefly switching between you two. His gaze is warm with something satisfied, something knowing, something relieved.

“Yeah, yeah, get outta here, Rogers.”

Steve smirks and turns toward the door, clapping a heavy hand against Bucky’s shoulder in passing. Before he steps out, he throws another look over his shoulder at you.

“It was good meeting you, your Highness,” he says, and though there is respect in his tone, there is something else. Something approving.

You nod, smiling warmly. “And you, sir.”

Steve chuckles. Bucky sighs.

Then he is gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

Bucky doesn’t say a word at first.

He only guides you up from your chair, touch warm at your arms, just enough to maneuver himself into the seat. He doesn’t sit a second before pulling you onto his lap with a kind of possessiveness that feels more like safety than restraint.

A hitch disrupts your breathing.

You sit sideways, his arms winding around your waist, drawing you close, settling you comfortably against him.

The moment feels intimate. It’s as if time and space have thickened since Steve left. It’s slower and it sinks into your bones, into the spaces between your ribs, something deeper pressing in. It feels delicate and releases a pleasant tingle along your skin.

Bucky looks at you.

His eyes are softer now, the smirk something half-forgotten in the face of whatever this moment is becoming. So focused, so without teasing. His gaze moves over your face, slow and searching, reading the shape of your expression, as if he is trying to pin down whatever thought lingers in your eyes before you can speak it aloud.

There is almost something like wonder in his eyes as if he is still not used to this - to have you here, in his arms, so close that the space between your breaths barely exists anymore.

You swallow, fingers twitching where they rest against his shoulders.

You feel him in your pulse, in the warmth of your spine where his arms brace you.

Softly, as if not to disturb the air too much, you speak up.

“I like him.”

Bucky’s smirk twitches wider, but it is gentler now. Not sharp. Not cocky. Just fond.

His nose skims along your temple, featherlight, and he exhales warmly against your skin.

He hums, low and gruff but amused like he already knew it before you said it.

He inhales, slow and deep, as if breathing you in, as if you are something he can’t quite get enough of.

“Knew you would.”

And then, so gently, his lips meet your cheek in a kiss. Soft and lingering, and you close your eyes for just a second, letting yourself fall into it. Letting yourself feel him.

You lean into him, the weight of your body pressing more fully into his, and it feels like home.

He hums against you again, pleased, the vibration making you shiver. He feels it.

His voice is lower when he speaks again, his breath warming your skin as he smooths his words there, slow and teasing but full of something truer beneath the surface.

“Still gonna have a word with him, though. Can’t have him fillin’ your head with stories ‘bout me I ain’t got a chance to defend myself against.” Something about the way he says it feels important.

You lift your head, enough to meet his eyes, your fingers tracing absently along the line of his collar, your touch light, thoughtful. The depth in his blues nearly makes you forget what you were about to say.

“I like knowing more,” you basically whisper, only for him.

Bucky’s smirk fades into something quieter, something that makes your stomach churn in a slow and uncomprehending way.

His hands tighten where they test on you, fingers tenderly digging into your waist.

A muscle jumps in his jaw. He is reading you, something in your face that you don’t even know you are giving away.

And Bucky kisses you.

Slow and meaningful.

Like he knows there is no need to rush, that he has all the time in the world. Certain of the fact that he’ll get to do this again. Again and again and again, as often as he wants, as often as you’ll let him.

And you will.

His lips move against yours, coaxing, claiming - but it doesn’t feel claimed. It feels given. Offered. Cherished.

He is taking his time learning you, savoring you, not because he is afraid this might be the last time, but because he knows it won’t be.

He kisses you with a softness that contradicts the strength in his hands, the way they hold you - sure, definite, fingers curling just enough to tell you he’s here, but not so tight that you ever feel caged.

His fingers slide against the fabric of your clothes, keeping you exactly where he wants you. Where you want to be. One of his thumbs brushes slow strokes at your ribs as if he can’t help but touch, as if he needs to keep that connection even as he has his mouth firmly planted on yours.

His tongue sweeps against yours, the heat of it making your stomach tighten, something deep inside you ignite and spread low in your belly.

And then, softly, from deep in his chest, he lets out a groan - so content, so relaxed. Right against your lips, against your skin, shuddering through you like the quietest kind of need. It’s him sinking into this moment just as much as you are. You feel it vibrate through him, through you, pooling somewhere deep and warm and thrilling.

By the time he pulls back, you are lightheaded.

He doesn’t go far. Doesn’t let you go. His forehead meets yours, and it feels like a moment held in stillness. His breath is warm. His lips are swollen.

“You eat enough?” His voice is husky.

You nod. Or maybe you think you do. You’re still dazed, still floating somewhere between his kiss, his scent, and his voice.

“You drink something?” he murmurs next, the concern filling up his tone so seamlessly. His fingers tighten slightly and then start to trace shapes along your back.

Another nod.

His lips curl, just slightly, like he is amused by how wrecked you already look from a single kiss.

“You wanna get some rest?”

He says it so sweetly, so soft and careful, already preparing to gather you into his arms and lay you down himself if you so much as waver.

You blink at him, at the softness in his voice, the way he is still so close, his lips just a breath away.

“Not just yet,” you whisper.

His lips curve fully this time, his breath escaping in a breathy chuckle, warm with affection. Dipping down again, he presses another kiss to your temple. Then, another just behind your ear. And one against your jaw. Unhurried.

You almost forget the question forming on your tongue, almost forget the reason you wanted to ask in the first place.

“What did the others say?” you ask quietly.

Bucky exhales through his nose, thumbs remaining to glide idle patterns over you.

He tilts his head, considering his words. “They had questions,” he answers, tone light, but there is something thoughtful in it. “They just wanna understand.”

His eyes are intense, gauging your reaction.

“They wanna meet you,” he goes on.

You exhale a breath, but it doesn’t seem enough to push some of your lingering nerves from your chest. You swallow hard, and he catches it. He sees the way you shift slightly in his lap, the way your hands tighten where they rest lightly against his chest.

“But I told ‘em they’re gonna have to wait,” he adds, his tone firm now like the matter’s already been settled. “They know what they need to know and you’ll talk to them when you’re ready.” His gaze holds steady. Unblinking and piercing. “Not while you’re still catchin’ your breath.”

A part of you wants to say that you’re fine.

To brush it off, to tell him you can handle a conversation right now, that you’ve been handling things your whole life.

But you don’t say it. Because it’s a lie. And Bucky would know.

You are tired. Your mind is still catching up with the reality of where you are and what you left behind and the unknown of what is ahead. And it is so much, so much more than you ever thought you’d allow yourself to have.

Bucky shifts, leaning in and smoothing his palm down your back in grounding strokes.

“We’ll figure everything out,” he assures you, voice sure, but gentle.

Your pulse picks up.

It’s not a grand declaration. Not a sweeping promise of a happy and prosperous future. But it comes from him. And he is genuine. Solid.

There seems to be no doubt in his mind that this is right for you.

He believes in this.

In you.

And then, he pulls you closer. His breath fans warm against your skin, you feel his chest move as he speaks his next words.

“You’re safe here, darlin’,” he whispers. A hand reaches up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I promise.”

You believe him.

Maybe because of the way he says it so earnestly, unshakable, determined.

Maybe because of the way he holds you as if you mean more to him than anything else ever did.

Maybe because of the way his strong heartbeat beneath your palm is so reassuring, so passionate.

Maybe it’s just him.

After all, it has been him since the first moment your eyes found him. A man standing rigid and intimidating, his silhouette cut from the very shadows that enveloped him.

His gaze alone sent a tremor through you, those many weeks ago, in the tunnels of the palace, as if he already decided your worth before a word had even passed between you.

The hatred in his eyes had been undeniable, a roaring fire fed by years of betrayal and injustice, all hidden behind a mask of indifference.

But something else had lurked there. Something wounded, something searching, something that you would come to understand.

It has been him when you found out where his hatred was rooted.

Born from the sins of your father, in the broken promises of a ruler who swore loyalty to his men only to cast them aside when their usefulness was deemed expired.

A soldier betrayed, a man left with nothing but scars and grief and the knowledge that his devotion had been answered with silence.

Bucky Barnes has fought for your kingdom. Has bled for it. Has faced death for it. Has believed in it.

And in return, he has been given exile, stripped of his honor, and robbed of the people who mattered most - his mother and sister used as a leash to keep him compliant.

Your mother ensured their safety and sent them far away, but he still has to live with their absences, the uncertainty of how they are doing, and where they reside.

The anger that has festered in him was not misplaced. It was justified. You know that now.

And you know that if there is anyone who should reunite them with him, it is you. The idea has taken root inside of you, latching onto your ribs like vines, growing stronger with each passing day.

If your mother had the power to save Bucky’s family from your father's hands, then surely you can find the strength to bring them back. You don’t know where she sent them, where she thought they would be safest, but there has to be a way.

A letter, a name, a whisper of a clue waiting in the dark. You will find it. You will search every inch of this world if you must.

Because it is not just about justice. It is not just about redemption. It is about him.

The man who has been forced to protect a princess born from the same bloodline of a man who has stolen something irreparable from him. The man who once looked at you like you were the sum of every lie he has been told, the man who now watches you with something softer, something hopeful. The man who has kissed you like a promise, who has held you like you are something precious, something he wants to keep. The man who has chosen you when he has every reason not to.

Bucky Barnes deserves to see his family again. He deserves to know they are safe, that they live, that they are not lost to time and cruelty. And you will be the one to give that to him.

You are certain of that.

“Bucky.”

It’s barely a word, spoken so softly, but Bucky hears it.

His brow furrows ever so slightly at your tone, concern rushing through his eyes for a second, regarding you with attentiveness.

His hands continue their exploration, fingers smoothing over your waist, mapping your form.

“What is it, darlin’?” he asks patiently, nodding for you to go on.

You swallow, heart twisting as you gather your thoughts.

“I need to say this,” you start, but his brow only furrows deeper. His hands stop on your hips, waiting for you to continue. “I cannot express how sorry I am for what my father did to you.”

The blue of his eyes darkens. He parts his lips, ready to dismiss it, ready to push it aside like he has done with so many wounds inflicted upon him.

But you press on.

“I know I’m not him,” you continue, meeting his eyes. Voice a little frail, but remaining resolved. “And I know I cannot undo what he did - cannot rewrite the past or erase the pain he caused. But I hate that it happened. I hate that I was ignorant for so long, that I did not ask more questions when I should have.”

Bucky’s jaw clenches, muscles ticking beneath his skin and his gaze lowers.

His expression is unreadable at first, carefully guarded. Like a man who has spent a lifetime learning how to keep his pain behind locked doors. But you don’t want him to do that with you. Not anymore.

The fingers on his chest start to trace a careful path over his left shoulder. Even through the fabric of his shirt, you can feel the uneven texture of marred flesh, a reminder of the pain he had endured, a reminder of something he can’t escape. Your heart bleeds for him.

Bucky’s breath catches, shoulders tensing up slightly, but he doesn’t stop you. Just watches you, searching for something he won’t ever find. Disgust. Fear.

He exhales after a beat, something deep and profound, before reaching up to take your hand gently in his. His thumb brushes over your knuckles and he takes your hand off his shoulder to bring it to his lips, kissing your skin there tenderly.

His eyes find yours again, something shimmering in their depths. Something breaking and rebuilding all at once.

“You don’t owe me an apology, sweetheart,” he quietly says, his voice a thick rumble. “Not for him. Not for what you didn’t know.”

Your throat tightens.

“Still,” you whisper. “I’m so sorry, Buck.”

Bucky stiffens. Just slightly.

His fingers twitch where they hold onto yours and when you take a better look at him, you catch the faintest flush creeping up his neck, settling at the tips of his ears.

He blinks, then glances away for the briefest moment, trying to compose himself.

You bite back a smile.

He exhales a breath that is almost a laugh, but there is something softer underneath it. He turns your hand over in his and presses another kiss to the center of the back of your hand. You bite your lip.

“Buck?” he rasps out, clearing his throat. “Where’d you get that from?”

“Steve said it earlier. I liked it,” you declare, grinning softly.

There is a tug at the corner of his mouth, but the color on his face hasn’t entirely faded. If anything, it deepens when he meets your gaze again, something affectionate flashing in his stormy blue eyes, the simple act of you calling him that seems to have rattled him more than he might have expected.

“Yeah?” He lets out another breath, shaking his head like he can’t believe you, as if you managed to unearth something in him he long had buried deep. A kiss meets your nose.

“Yeah,” you whisper back.

It is a strange thing, this feeling inside of you.

Strange because it is so unfamiliar, but even more so because it does not frighten you. It is something so new, so boundless, and you feel like it should be more overwhelming than it is right now, should make you hesitate.

But it doesn’t. Not in this moment at least.

Rather, it embeds itself within your bones, your skin, and the spaces between your ribs, establishing a residence there as if it was destined to be.

It is not the fleeting kind of lightness that comes with bringing a forced discussion with some Lord to an end or the temporary relief of fulfilling an obligation.

This lightness is deeper, so warm and weighty, like the glow of the first morning sun spilling through trees and making the earth all shiny. It fills you up, but it does not press down on you. It lifts you. Like a breeze curling under the wings of a bird in flight.

The tight pull of breath always caught too high in your chest is getting released. You feel like you exist without effort, at least right now. No knots in your stomach waiting to tighten. Nothing to brace yourself against here in Bucky’s arms, here in Bucky’s lap. You are simply being hold, by this incredible man and the earth and you are finally light enough to notice.

You think, perhaps, that this is what contentment is supposed to feel like. Not the shallow kind you have convinced yourself you’ve had before, but real and true contentment. It is not desperate or fleeting. It is secure and whole. It lingers in spaces where doubt once lived, replacing it with something softer, something stronger.

And you want to get used to it.

Not just the feeling of Bucky’s warmth against you, his hands on your waist, his breath ghosting over your skin as he watches you with eyes that see more of you than anything ever has.

It is what comes with it - the stillness inside you, the feeling that, for the first time, you are exactly where you are supposed to be.

You never want to stop feeling like this.

There is no fear in that thought, no apprehension, no indecision. Only the truth as sure as the beat of your own heart. A truth that you do not need to run from. A truth you want to hold onto.

You have always felt so helpless, a pawn in a game played by men who viewed you as little more than a bargaining piece.

You had believed for so long, that your fate was sealed - to be given away to some lord, some stranger who would claim you as his possession, who would shape your life to fit his desires.

You never thought you had a choice.

But now, especially here with Bucky, freedom no longer feels like a foolish dream.

But you are not dreaming anymore.

You are no longer walking through marble halls and seeing a ghost in your reflection in the polished floors, your presence announced before you even entered a room.

You had been told your life that power is your birthright. That it is simply something you have because of your blood.

But you have never felt less powerful than when you sat on a throne, looking down at a world you were meant to govern someday but have never touched. Never walked through. Never lived in. A kingdom only yours by name but not by heart.

But here - in this place, this home that is not gilded but real - you feel power for the first time.

Not the kind that demands respect through titles and gold-threaded sashes. Not the kind that is wielded from a seat high above. Not the ornamental power of a princess, where everything was dictated to you, where your hands were kept clean while others did the work.

But the kind that is earned.

The kind that festers in your hands as you work alongside others, as you listen, as you see. The kind of power that does not isolate you, but makes you into something greater than yourself.

You are no longer watching the people you are supposed to rule from afar. You are among them. You are one of them. And that means you can help in ways you never could before.

Not by signing decrees in a gilded chamber, but by standing beside them, hearing their worries not through secondhand whispers but through their own voices, spoken under the same sky, breathed into the same air.

There is nothing grand about this worn-down cabin, its wooden beams creaking faintly due to the wind outside. But here are the walls close enough to feel like an embrace. The fire burns because someone built it, not because a low-respected servant lit it for them. The food is made with hands that know hunger, not by unseen kitchen staff preparing feasts for people who will never truly taste them.

For so long, your life has been a thing of ceremony, of distance.

You smiled in silence at elaborate gatherings while outside the palace gates, there were people who had nothing. You had been dressed in fabrics woven by hands you never saw, had eaten from plates polished by people who were invisible to you.

You were a symbol. A statue.

Here, you are a person.

You are listening. Learning. Understanding. With the will to help.

And you owe them.

You owe Bucky, who risked everything, who once had nothing by the hand of your own father, who still gave.

You owe Sara, who looked at you with concern instead of resentment.

You owe Sam, who teased and laughed when he had every reason to scorn you.

You owe Steve, who came looking for you to make sure you are here because you want to be.

You owe all of Bucky’s friends, who are willing to take you in.

You owe AJ and Cass and all the other children, who are young but already know the world better than you did when you were their age.

You owe the townsfolk, who live with a laugh in their breaths and callouses on their hands, who bake bread and spin needles and sell belongings to earn their living.

You have spent your life wearing a crown, but now you are learning what it means to deserve one.

It took ruin for you to find your purpose.

It took fire to finally wake you up, to finally make you see.

It took the scent of smoke in your lungs, the acrid sting of burning silk, the sight of your world collapsing in embers and ruin to strip you down to something exposed and wholehearted.

It took the echoes of screams, the witness of death, and the brutality of your so-called power stolen by force to finally open your eyes.

It took blood running in the luxurious corridors of your palace, seeping into the cracks of the very foundation that held up your name.

It took watching torches burning high in the night.

It took the fall of a kingdom - the death of a king whose sins caught up to him, a queen who had tried to shield her daughter from the truth but could not protect her from the consequences.

You had never fought for anything before. You had been raised to believe you wouldn’t have to, that battles were waged in war rooms with ink and parchment, that change was something slow and distant and impersonal.

But it never was. It never was supposed to be.

It was blood on marble floors. It was your parent's life’s taken in the dark. It was hands grabbing you, dragging you away from the only life you had ever known. It was hatred in Bucky’s eyes when he looked at you, sharpness in the way he treated you, old wounds bleeding into every moment, every breath between you.

Bucky Barnes had not wanted you. Had not wanted this burden, this reminder of the very throne that had once crushed him beneath his weight.

He had looked at you with cold indifference and that simmering loathing buried behind those storm-dark eyes, seeing nothing but the ghost of a man who stole his life.

But fate thrust you into his hands anyway.

It forced you into the shadows of his world, into the villages and the backroads, into the lives of the very people you had spent your whole life standing apart from. it stripped you of titles, luxury, of safety. Of all the things you took for granted.

You had spent your life being something beautiful, something untouchable. But beauty did not save you. Elegance did not keep you from falling. Manners did not stop the fire from devouring your home.

You had burned that night.

Not just your home. You. The girl who has never asked questions. The princess who has accepted the world as it was given to her. The daughter who has not known the sins of her father.

She has burned away, turned to ash with the palace that has stood for centuries.

Now, you are something else.

You are rage tempered into steel.

You are grief sharpened into resolve.

You are ashes turned into kindling, waiting to catch fire.

And you will rise.

Not as a queen draped in gold and jewels, sitting high on a throne of empty power. But as something stronger. As the force that destroys the old world and builds a new one from its remains.

Something built from the bones of the past, something shaped by loss and truth and the unrelenting fury of a fire that refuses to die.

You will wield it.

You will not let the past define you. You will not let their sins be yours. You will fight. For freedom. For justice.

For the people who took you in when they had every reason to turn you away.

For the mercenary who should have hated you forever but now watches you like you are something worth believing in.

You will be born anew from the ashes of what once was.

You will not let the flames consume you this time.

You will not be caged.

You will set the world alight.

You will rise.

Like a phoenix.

“She survived the war; many times over. And she still somehow looked like royalty.”

- Lalah Delia

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