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marvelstoriesepic · 16 days ago

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Like a Phoenix (5)

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: 9.3k

Warnings: Reader having an epiphany; violence; murder; blood; injuries; Bucky being intense and protective; guilty feelings; mentions of swords, knives and pain

Author’s Note: Struggled with this a little, honestly. Took me longer to write. But I hope you like where this is going. Enjoy ♡

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

You are back in the forest.

Bucky always chooses the forest. Perhaps he doesn’t like the idea of walking out in the open.

Admittedly though, the new boots Bucky bought for you at the market make it easier to walk the ground.

The aromas of moss and pine have become so recognizable to your senses that you hardly notice them anymore. The twigs and undergrowth snagging at you are ignored.

Your calves still ache and your shoulders droop but you long since learned to swallow your complaints.

And the night at the inn actually alleviated the stiffness in your neck and helped relax your muscles somewhat, owing to the fact that you slept in a bed again for the first time.

And you had it for yourself.

Bucky was sitting in the chair when you dozed off and remained there when you awoke at daybreak.

He was unaware that you woke up. Thus, you took your time to observe him.

His posture was deceptively relaxed, though you saw the tension in the line of his jaw, the way his fingers occasionally flexed as if reaching for his weapon. The smirk you came to know was gone, faded into something more reserved. His gaze was fixed somewhere beyond the window, though you doubted he was actually seeing anything. He almost looked soft for a second. So lost in thought.

As soon as his gaze touched yours though, something in him shifted and he rose from the chair almost urgently, as if sitting in front of you a second longer would render him more vulnerable in your presence.

He reprimanded you for sleeping in, although his tone didn’t suggest that he was upset about it. And he could have woken you up, after all.

It has been two weeks since everything you knew burned to the ground. Two weeks since you walked the tightrope of sorrow and dread, since you��ve stumbled along behind a man who barely spoke to you, dragged forward not by choice but by the cruel momentum of survival. Two weeks of aching muscles and dirt-streaked skin of cold nights and colder silences. Two weeks of walking, stopping, eating sparingly, and sleeping fitfully.

And still, you walk.

Bucky’s steps are purposeful in front of you. He scans the path ahead, the trees around you, and he even slows sometimes to glance at you with an expression that seems almost suppressed.

He never says anything during those moments but the way his gaze lingers makes you wonder if he is checking for signs of weakness, if he is measuring your ability to keep up.

The woods come alive around you, filled with the softest rustle of leaves, the far-off call of birds, the sporadic break of a twig, and the soft buzz of crickets sending their melody your way.

And you’re unsure what to do with the shift in your emotions regarding this noise throughout the journey.

Because it grew familiar.

Maybe you would even call it comforting.

Because for all the difficulties - the sore legs, the persistent hunger, the cold that permeates your bones at night and makes them seemingly shrink - there is an aspect of this ceaseless walking that feels like a release.

You know you should not feel that way.

Not after everything that has happened.

But there is a faint glimmer of light beneath the ash of your ruin.

And it does its best to remain ignited.

There is no curt tonight, no stares lingering too long, no pointed tiara digging against your skull. There are no expectations pinning you in place, no endless corridors of duty stretching out before you like a luxurious prison. You are no one here. Not a Princess, but also not a pawn.

You think about the way nobody at the market paid you a single mind. Eyes skimmed over you and Bucky without interest, moving on to the next transaction, the next distraction.

You expected suspicion, braced yourself for recognition. But it never came.

You were a ghost in this place. Just another face among many. They didn’t know you. They didn’t see you. You were no Princess to them, nobody to be played in political games.

You were just a girl.

Just a girl walking beneath the stars, free from the burden of her title. If only for an instant.

And isn’t that what you wished for? You have dreamed of this for as long as you can remember. Thought of this in the safety of your chambers, seeming so long ago. To escape. To run. To taste the air beyond the walls of the palace, untethered and carefree.

Here, in this wilderness are no watchful eyes, no polished manners to perform, no fake smile to force up, no tiara to wear.

You never imagined it would feel like this. Freedom. Brutal and lonely, but somehow lighter in a way you know you should not feel.

No one is here to whisper in your ear how you ought to behave.

You don’t have to hold yourself like a queen in waiting anymore.

You can slouch if you want to. You can scruff your shoes against the dirt, even though your upbringing screams at you that it is improper. You can walk with your hands swinging at your sides, uncoiled from the forced grace that has been drilled into you since you were old enough to toddle.

But for the first time in your life, no one cares if you trip over a root or stain your hem in the mud. No one cares if your hair is tangled or your hands are full of scratches.

Well, perhaps no one except him.

You glance up at Bucky again, your eyes tracing the broad line of his back visible beneath his pack, the way his shoulders tense as he scans the path ahead. He is so watchful in a way that makes your nerves tingle.

And you have seen the tiniest bit of something else underneath the hardness of him. A care and concern he conceals in small gestures. The way he slows his pace when you lag behind. The way he tosses you his bedroll without a word every night. The way he pressed his hand to your back the other day, guiding you over a steep incline. The way he lets you have the first sip of water every time you fill it up at a river.

It unnerves you how much you notice these things. How much you notice him.

And yet, for all the reprieve you feel, it’s guilt that makes you stumble slightly. How can you even feel the smallest measure of peace when your kingdom is gone, your family lost, your life reduced to ash?

You tell yourself it’s not peace you feel. Only the sense of survival you need.

But this strange life you are leading - this wandering existence - is, in some way, closer to freedom than anything you have ever known.

You don’t have to curtsy or smile until your cheeks ache from how wrong it feels. You don’t have to listen for hours and nod and pretend to understand politics or tolerate the infinite games of appearances.

The gown you wore for the most part of the journey had once been one of the finest things you owned, a masterpiece of silk and embroidery to make you stand out. A statement, not of your own choosing, but of who you were supposed to be.

It was comically out of place in the forest - the delicate stitching snagging on branches, the long skirts dragging through the dirt, the soft lilac dulled to something almost grey.

So when Bucky handed you the blue fabric he picked up at the market for you the morning after the inn, before paying for you to use the restroom, you glanced at the last relic of your old life lying discarded on the ground, its crumpled form like the shed skin of something you no longer recognized.

It didn’t feel like yours anymore.

It didn’t feel like anything anymore.

And when you pulled the blue fabric over your head, it felt like slipping into a new life.

It’s simple, unadorned, and practical. Not meant to dazzle or impress or represent anything. It’s meant to be worn.

The blue is soft. No shimmering silk, no ornate beadwork, no stiff corsetry designed to shape you into something unnatural. Just fabric. And it’s beautiful in its simplicity.

It fits differently. Not perfectly though, because it’s not tailored for you. Everybody could have bought it.

But it feels good on your skin. Less constricting. Less forceful. Less pretense.

It’s simply a garment made for moving, for breathing, for living.

Even Bucky let his eyes sweep up and down your figure when you left the restroom to find him leaning on the wall beside it, guarded emotions in his eyes but with the faintest quirk of his lips.

It’s not a crown or a title that makes you you, after all. It’s not the richness of your clothes or the recognition in strangers' eyes. It is this - this ordinary moment, this glimpse into the freedom you always longed for, stepping into something that is entirely your own.

Here, you are just a girl in the woods. Hungry and cold and tired, sure.

But unimportant.

And it makes you think.

Oh, how it makes you think.

Your throat tightens. A lump rises.

Because the weightlessness of anonymity comes with its own gravity.

For the first time, you saw your life not through the glazed mirrors of the palace, but through the unflinching lens of the world the townsfolk are living in.

These people who have never had the luxury of silk or knew the feeling of heavy crown jewels.

They aren’t worried about alliances sealed with a handshake or whatever duke might be offended at the arrangement of the banquet table.

Their days are shaped by the price of grain, the tightness of worn-out boots, and the pain in tired hands.

Your problems, the ones you have clutched to your chest like they are the heaviest load to carry, now begin to feel fragile. Insubstantial.

You have swaddled yourself in stories of how hard it is to be you. A symbol of power and nothing more.

The court's environment has been stifling, the expectations intolerable, and still-

A crown? A title? What are those compared to hunger? To cold? To wondering whether you could feed your family tomorrow?

But this realization does not feel noble.

It does not feel freeing.

It is bitter. Pungent. It attacks your senses.

It is a piece of rock stuck in your chest, not heavy enough to crush you but sharp enough to scrape against every breath you take.

It is shame for how little you have truly understood about the people you were meant to rule one day.

You thought yourself wise in your suffering, so convinced that your confinement was the most severe of all jails. But now you see the truth and it is uncomfortable. The walls of your life have been gilded - but they were also soft, padded, built to keep out the tougher truths.

It makes you feel unmoored. It causes your skin to prickle, as if it no longer fits your body. Too tight in some places, too loose in others.

You are no longer bound to the strictures of palace life, yet troubled by a strange feeling of loss for the kind of security you didn’t even acknowledge you had.

The air itself seems lighter though the weight of your guilt bears down on you just as firmly as any crown.

Your hands itch - restless and searching for redemption, for something to fix, to erase, to change.

But will you be able to do something with that realization?

Perhaps not as the Princess you were, living in the palace. But maybe as the Princess you are now, living in the woods.

Bucky stops abruptly, his hand rising in silent command for you to halt.

You freeze, breath catching.

Every muscle in his back is coiled, his neck stiffens, and from what you can see his jaw is locked shut. His shoulders rise and stay there. You watch him move his head almost mechanically, darting his narrowed eyes around. One hand is at his blade, the other still in the air, making sure you don’t get the idea to move.

“Stay behind me,” he throws over his shoulder with his head still forward. Low and gravelly.

You nod faintly, heart quickening. Moments like this remind you of how much he carries. Not just your safety but every decision. Every choice that keeps you both alive.

Your body leans instinctively toward him.

You wait a few tense breaths.

“Is something wrong?” you whisper quietly, voice unsure.

He shakes his head, but his hand doesn’t stray from his knife.

You bite down on your lip, observing how his gaze wanders through the trees and the gaps between them. You hate how acutely you observe his breathing, the manner in which his hand clutches the hilt of his sword at his side, and how the muscles in his jaw are moving. And the way you only allow yourself to release your breath again when he does, exhaling sharply and letting his shoulders droop ever so slightly upon spotting a deer further back in the bushes that flees, causing the twigs on the ground to snap.

But most of all, you hate the part of you that doesn’t hate it at all.

****

You wake up to a hand over your mouth.

Or rather, you startle from sleep violently because of a hand tightly pressed over your mouth.

Your breath rips awake with a panicked surge, though it has nowhere to go.

The scream that barrels up your throat dies before it can be born, trapped beneath a rough and large palm that clamps over your lips with a firmness that has your eyes snap open like a whip crack, wide and wild.

Blackness bleeds into the periphery of your sight, and the shadows around you are thick, pooling over the forest.

The sky is only beginning to stir, dawn gently brushing over the horizon.

But it’s not enough to tell who or what has you.

Your body twists out of instinct, trying to thrash free, trying to fight. But the grip only tightens and a face enters your field of vision.

It’s Bucky.

The shadows sculpt his face, carving his features into sharp and harder lines.

The first thought that punches through your terror, so loud and irrational, is him trying to kill you. It slams into you with all the force of your worst fears. Maybe this is the moment he decided you have outlived your usefulness, that you are a liability too large to carry and he puts an end to it now.

You just thought he would rather use his knife on you.

Your pulse is a thunderstorm in your ears and you stare up at him, your chest heaving against his hand.

He is crouched over you, the breadth of him stealing the last scraps of your vision. His hair falls loose, the strands tangled and catching faint light. His jaw is a block of stone, but his eyes are what is pinning you in place.

They are fierce, glowing in the dim light like embers smoldering in ash. The intensity is terrifying and all-consuming and you can’t look away.

The scream inside you is still trying to jump out, but his gaze holds it captive, caging it as effectively as his hand over your mouth.

His pointer finger slowly moves to his lips. A warning clear in his gesture. Be quiet. Now.

Your body locks tight. The panic in your chest swells, but you clamp down on it, forcing yourself still. You think you nod - just barely - but he doesn’t immediately move. His eyes stay on yours, boring into you so piercingly, you forget how to breathe.

It’s only when you stop squirming completely, when he seems convinced that you won’t give you both away with a scream, that he slackens his grip.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, his hand pulls back. The sensation of his touch lingers, the illusion of his hand still resting against your skin.

You suck in a shaky breath, and you think for one fractured second that you might cry. But his finger remains at his lips and you swallow the sound before it can rise.

His hand is still stiffly hovering near your face. The line of his shoulders is taut. His breathing is almost mechanical.

He is listening, you realize. Straining for something you can’t hear.

You try to follow his breathing pattern, slowing it, even though your heart is hammering so loudly in your chest it feels like it might give you both away.

Bucky’s face is closer than you’ve seen it. The sharp slope of his nose, the faint stubble lining his jaw, the way his hair clings to the sweat at his temple - it’s all there. So close. Stark and shadowed in the low light. His lips are pressed into a grim line and his eyes constantly shift from you, meticulously surveying the shadows beyond the trees with the kind of precision and control you would only expect on a predatory animal.

But he is on edge, more so than you’ve seen him. Every muscle in his body seems poised for something - a fight maybe, or a chase.

Your thoughts are scattered and tangled, but you realize that something is wrong.

You want to ask. You want to whisper, to demand what has him so wound tight. But his intensity and the sharpness of his movements keep your mouth shut.

And then, just barely above a whisper, he leans in. His breath brushes against your cheek, warm and fleeting.

“Don’t move! Stay down!” His voice is low and rough. And it’s not a suggestion. It’s a command and it roots you to the spot.

You can only stare at him.

“I mean what I say, Y/n. Stay down!”

His words hit you harder than his hand had moments ago.

Or the single word he used.

Your name.

Not princess not your highness not even darlin’ he used before to needle you. No, he said your name. It’s startling in its intimacy.

Your mind trips over it, stumbling, trying to make sense of the sound. He never called you by your name. You didn’t even expect him to know it. But now he took it in his mouth, has taken it, stripped it bare of ceremony and expectation, laid it before you like something unguarded.

It shouldn’t matter. It’s just a name. And hearing it out of Bucky’s mouth of all people should not make your heart pause the way it does. It’s like knowing how it sounds but somehow still hearing it for the first time.

He didn’t lace it with reverence or mockery, didn’t use it to wield it like a weapon to remind you where you stand.

No, the sound of your name rolls from his tongue as if it’s important. And it makes it stick to your ribs, makes it burrow under your skin and settle there.

Your name, stripped of its title, has never sounded so human.

“Do you understand me?”

You are face-to-face at this point. You could count the lines on his forehead. There is a freckle on his nose.

There is something in his voice that makes your skin crawl uncomfortably.

Is he afraid? The thought almost doesn’t compute. Bucky never seemed outright nervous, not even walking through the marketplace. But now, with his eyes like steel, his knuckles whitening against the hilt of his blade, the way he can’t help but keep his hand hovering at your side - It really seems like fear stitched into the corners of his expression.

But not for himself. For you.

Your throat bobs as you swallow against the knot rising there.

“I understand,” you whisper back to him, so hushed, he only hears it because of his closeness.

His eyes dart between yours with a swiftness that has you holding your breath. He is searching you, testing the truth of your words.

And when he finally moves away, it is slow, reluctant, as if some part of him still doesn’t trust you to stay put.

The woods abruptly seem overly silent. The type of hush that descends before something terrible happens. This isn't the peaceful, tranquil silence you have become accustomed to, even finding comfort in, during this never-ending journey. Silence from the birds. Silent foliage. Silent everything. Even the wind, typically so turbulent, halted in caution.

A snap of a branch.

Rigid Bucky.

Another snap.

Bucky positions himself in front of you.

Then you see them.

Fife men, all clad in mismatched finery, that seem to lose its luster. Their faces beat marks of wealth - sharp cheekbones, powdered skin - but their eyes are dark and hungry.

The uniforms. You know them. They are remnants of the royal army. Those men belonged to your father.

A shudder is rushing up your spine. Because they don’t carry themselves like that. They have cruel air around them. Arrogance. Greed. Spite.

Your breaths turn sharp, frantic.

There seems to be a leader. A man with hair as black as the shadows around you walks at the front. He’s taller, bulkier than the rest. And he stops a few inches before Bucky. The man oozes with haughtiness, his hand resting casually on the hilt of a jeweled sword.

Bucky is standing still in front of you. Like a stone wall. You watch the grip on Bucky’s blade tighten.

“Well, well,” the first man drawls, his voice slick with mockery. “James Barnes. The mighty soldier.” He lets out an ugly short laugh. “It really is you, eh? Went quite off the map. Imagine my surprise hearin’ you’re still up and breathin’.”

Bucky doesn’t respond. He doesn’t move. But his rage is silent. Sharpened into something lethal. He looks almost different now. More like a machine.

Boots crunch against leaves as the arrogant man takes another step toward you. His companions hang back. They look eager.

“What’s the matter, Barnes?” The leader tilts his head sardonically. “Nothin’ to say? No loyalty left to that golden crown’a yours?”

Bucky still doesn’t respond. But you notice the slight shift in his weight, the faintest tremor in his hand.

The man circles slowly then. More leaves crunch.

“How’s that little girl doin’ huh?” the man continues, his wicked smirk widening, voice dripping with feigned thoughtfulness. “Rebecca, was it?” He drags it out.

Something changes within Bucky then. Something terrible. It’s not the sharp, visible kind of anger, the kind that burns bright and loud.

It is darker. Ferocious.

Your stomach turns to water, your spine to ice.

Bucky doesn’t snarl or shout. He simply turns his head, fixing the man with a gaze so cold and venomous it sends a chill through your veins.

He holds the knife in his hand low, deceptively casual, the blade tilting forward as though it is leaning into the kill before he even moves.

You try to press yourself further into the shadows. Watching with wide eyes. It’s all you can do. Your hands are curled, knuckles white and nails pouncing on your soft skin.

You don’t know what is going on, but it seems like Bucky knows these men. You don’t like it. At all.

The air grows thicker, cunning, and it prickles on your skin, making you shiver.

“Lookin’ good for a dead man, soldier. Got a lotta nerve showin’ your face after all this time,” the leader hisses, clearly losing patience.

“Likewise,” Bucky says lowly, malice in his tone.

Your mind becomes a crowded room, thoughts bumping into each other, none of them clear, all of them loud.

“We’re just here for the girl, Barnes.” The man’s tone is casual, with a humorless laugh accompanying it. His head jerks toward you and Bucky immediately shifts deliberately to block more of your form. “Hand her over and maybe we’ll let you walk away this time.” His tone suggests that that’s a lie.

A shorter man standing behind his leader with crooked teeth and a twitchy demeanor nods fervently, licking his lips.

You feel a quiver in your throat. It rises too fast, pushing past breaths meant to fill your lungs but only causes them to stumble out of the way. It vibrates so enormously, seemingly coming from beneath your ribs, a sound dredged from the depth of your body, where words were never meant to go.

A dangerous stillness settles over Bucky.

His cheekbones catch the faint glow of the early light, making the hollows beneath them look darker, deeper, like they hold shadows he’s never managed to shake and now try to control him.

The leather strap across his chest strains with every considered breath he takes, each inhale swelling his upper body with a contained kind of violence, each exhale releasing a promise of it.

“Turn around, Rumlow,” Bucky says almost flatly. Though there is a hint of ice. “This ain’t worth it.”

Your heart is trying to run away from you, desperately asking your legs why they are still frozen in place.

“She’s the king's daughter, ain’t she.” It’s not a question. “They’ll pay through the nose for her, dead or alive.” A cruel grin. “Preferably dead. I’d expect you’d want that too, Barnes. What happened?”

Your stomach drops. A freefall into emptiness.

The blue of Bucky’s eyes is glacial, like the frozen water of a lake that will crack and shatter and make you sink to your icy death if you step too close.

“I won’t say this again.” Bucky’s voice is dangerous. Too calm. The tendon along his neck stands out against his skin. “You don’t want to do this. Walk away.” There is a readiness in the way his feet shift slightly against the forest floor.

You realize with a shudder that his eyes assess them, weigh them, calculate the angles and weaknesses of the men he seems to know.

The leader barks a laugh, sharp and hollow. “And you’re just out here wastin’ her, eh?” the leader sneers. He spits on the ground, his face twisted into something ugly. “What, Barnes? You keepin’ her for yourself? Tryn’a ransom her back and cut us out? That your plan, huh?” There is bitterness in his voice. It is startling. Almost making you flinch. Bucky doesn’t so much as twitch.

Rumlow lets his head swing back to you, greedy eyes boring through your skin. You feel like prey caught in a trap. “You gonna be a good little princess and crawl over to us, eh?” His voice is wheedling. Hungry. The insult that is your title lands hard.

“Say one more word to her and I’ll make sure you choke on it,” Bucky growls, voice rumbling like thunder.

The morning mist swirls around his feet, as though it’s afraid to touch him.

“Oh, we’ll happily take her over your dead body.”

“You’re welcome to try.”

The first man, short and younger looking, lunges, but Bucky is already moving.

He sidesteps the attack with the precision of someone who has seen this play out a thousand times in his mind. His blade flashes for a second before slicing through the air to meet the man’s neck. The sickening thud of a body hitting the ground echoes through the clearing, but other than you, Bucky doesn’t flinch.

The second and third men come at him together. And you see the difference between them and him. They are noblemen who pick up their swords with comfort and arrogance, muscles padded with blinding rapacity and movements not entirely thought through.

Bucky is just brutal.

His steps are effective, his stance is strong. There is no hesitation, no wasted motion.

This is not the guarded, sarcastic Bucky you have come to know in the last two weeks.

There is an awareness lighting in you that this fight is about more than just your protection.

His lips curl into a snarl, his teeth bared as if he is more wolf than man. But beneath it all, there are other emotions carrying the blade in his hand, making his actions seem like not quite his own. Something personal.

The next man barely has time to swing his blade before Bucky disarms him with a brutal twist of his wrist. The attacker crumples to the ground with a strangled cry, clutching at his arm, but he is already sidestepping another attack.

He doesn’t fight like someone who enjoys violence, he fights like someone who has lived it. Who has been forged in it. His strikes are not just attacks, they are statements. Declarations of his interest to survive, to ensure no one leaves this clearing alive but him and you.

But there is no recklessness in him. Another strike, another block, another dodge - wanton, as though he has anticipated the outcome of each move before he made it.

He fights like a man who has nothing to lose and everything to prove. Like a man who has faced death before and came out the other side as a new bitter and harder version.

You press yourself closer to the ground, heart hammering so loudly you think it might betray your presence. But your eyes can’t leave him. You can’t look away - not from the fury in his speed, not from the way he keeps glancing over his shoulder to make sure you are still there.

Rumlow lunges, blades are clashing, the metallic ring sounding so shrill, it hurts your ears. Bucky grunts as their weapons lock, the veins in his arms straining as he shoves the other guy back.

“Girl’s worth more dead than alive. You know that better than I do, Barnes,” Rumlow shouts, spit flying from his mouth.

“Shut up!” Bucky’s voice shakes with fury and he dives in again.

He meets the man with a force so brutal, it makes you flinch.

Your hands grow restless.

Your chest is constricted.

There is that helplessness again. The worthlessness you despise within yourself, the initial thought for a reason Bucky might have, to grow tired of you and end your life when he clamped his hand over your mouth earlier. The uselessness that grates against your ears and makes you want to cover them with your hands.

You see something glinting.

But it’s none of the weapons currently used only a few feet away. It’s a blade glinting in the dirt not far from you, knocked loose perhaps from the first fool who lunged at Bucky. Who’s now a dead body on the ground. You try not to pay him any mind and rather keep your gaze on the discarded dagger.

The world narrows to that single point - the weapon within reach, the chance to do something.

And you do. Scrambling forward, fingers curling around the hilt.

You stand. Your breath comes in short, panicked gasps as you struggle to find out what to do with it.

But your hesitation was enough time for one of the men to catch your arm, yanking you back with a force that sends you sprawling. The blade slips from your grasp, skidding across the ground, and you barely manage to twist as he leaps on you.

You don’t know what he aimed to hit but due to your squirming, his fist connects with your shoulder, the impact radiating pain through your entire body.

But you don’t cower back.

Fueled by adrenaline and sheer desperation, you lash out, your hands wildly searching the ground for something. And there is something. A snaggy branch is lying in the dirt and your hands fumble to grasp it. You swing with all your strength, the wood splintering as it connects with the side of his head.

Your attacker stumbles and curses and you scramble to your feet, lagging the grace you knew.

Your heart pounds as you turn to search for Bucky and find him engaged with the three others, including the leader.

“Y/n!” He shouts, visibly aggravated. There is blood on your temple, the branch in your hand is trembling. His expression is dark. Almost panicked.

“Stay back,” he roars, not even looking at the man he’s ruthlessly shoving to the ground, a knife embedded between ribs.

Your gaze is drawn to Bucky, not noticing that your earlier assailant charges at you once more, anger fueling his strength.

Bucky yells your name again. He’s furious.

You barely manage to dodge in time, a blade grazing your side. The pain is sharp. One of your hands clutches your side, your fingers instantly slippery with blood, the dark warmth of it a horrifying contrast to the chill in the air.

You gasp at the sting, stumbling slightly, uncoordinated, and in that moment, you let go of the branch. It thuds to the ground and you step back, the soldier before you, only grinning at you. It’s cruel and dark. There is blood on his teeth. He is playing with you. He is enjoying your show of weakness. Making fun of the way he can easily overpower you. Making fun of the way you are scared despite him not doing anything.

But that dagger you dropped still lays and glints on the ground, and you scramble to reach it. Holding it in front of your chest, you grip it with an intensity so strong, your hands are shaking, partly to stabilize yourself and prevent this wound from overpowering your senses and breaking you down. The nerves in your hand are screaming at you to raise it and swing the weapon at your opponent once more, but the shock in your mind is resounding even louder.

Your assailant takes a step toward you, tilting his head in mockery when you take one back, despite the dagger lifting higher.

Your heart is racing, your side is throbbing, your head is swirling, and the man facing you seems poised to leap at you again, done with his taunting antics.

But before there is anything he can do, there is a wall in front of you.

Bucky. His back.

He is moving with a reaction that is instantaneous. Like he couldn’t afford to waste even a second. His knife slashes through the air so fast and fluid, your head is spinning, deflecting the other man’s strikes with a grace that is effortless.

The way Bucky is moving is terrifying and mesmerizing all at once. There is a fury in him, unbridled rage that you’ve only seen glimpses of before, but now it’s fully unleashed. His opponent falters. Just for a second. But it’s enough for Bucky to put an end to this.

He drives his elbow into the man’s gut with a force that makes him groan loudly, then follows it with a swift and clean slice of his knife. Another body slumps down.

Bucky turns before it hits the ground, focus snapping back to you. He quickly, almost urgently, scans your body, taking in every detail. “You okay?” His voice is unnecessarily loud, but not bitingly so. It sounds more like worry.

For a moment, with him standing there before you, blade dripping crimson, shoulders rising and falling with the effort of breathing, stormy eyes so intently fixed on you, he looks almost otherworldly. Like a fallen angel - beautiful in its lethality, terrible in its wrath.

You nod weakly, even though you’re not okay. Not even close.

The ache in your side is like a persistent, pulsing signal, and your sight blurs just slightly at the corners of your periphery. It gives you the feeling of a cruel kiss that burns hotter with every breath you take. But you succeed in standing a bit straighter, gripping the dagger still in your hand more firmly. Shivers move through your fingers around the hilt but you hold on tight. It almost feels grounding.

Bucky’s eyes are wild when he sees the blood.

“He got you,” he grounds out roughly. The cords in his neck tighten, his jaw a stark line against the pale light. Teeth click together, sending out a sharp sound that feels loaded with frustration.

He doesn’t say anything more, but his hand shifts and you let him carefully press against the wound to staunch the flow, and you bite back a cry. His lip twitches, caught between a word unsaid and a growl restrained.

His eyes resemble steel, yet they flicker with chaotic elements that spin and swivel so rapidly and then slip away, leaving you unable to comprehend them and grasp their meaning.

Suddenly, there is a rustling behind Bucky and your heart lurches. It’s the leader. Rumlow. The one Bucky fought before rushing to you. He’s not down yet. He’s battered and bloodied, red streaks lining his face, movements sluggish and uneven. His breaths are labored, but he is still standing.

Bucky’s focus is entirely on you. And Rumlow sees that. He sees the momentary distraction, the second of vulnerability. You watch with fear the way he angles his body, the way his eyes are fixed on Bucky’s unguarded back.

Bucky hasn’t noticed him - he’s too focused on you, his attention divided at the worst possible moment.

Slowly at first, Rumlow moves. Then faster, his sword trembling in his hand, but raised as he closes the distance between himself and Bucky with tottering steps. His face is twisted with hatred.

Panic floods your system, so cold and all-consuming. Your grip tightens on the dagger in your hand, palm clammy with sweat and blood. There is no time to think. There is merely time for instinct, untamed and primal.

You take a breath - a shallow and painful breath - and pull your arm back, the motion pulling slightly at the wound on your other side and it still feels awkward and shaky, but you are driven by the horror of seeing it unfold in slow motion in your mind.

You let the dagger fly. For a heartbeat everything else fades away - the pain, the terror, the sound of your own ragged breathing, the feeling of Bucky’s hand on you. There is only the blade, its trajectory, and the hope - the desperate, fervent hope - that it will hit its mark.

And it does.

The leader staggers, his eyes widening in shock as the dagger buries itself in his side. His body jerks with the force and his momentum falters, his steps stumbling as he plummets to the ground. Slipping from his grasp, his sword lands uselessly in the dirt beside him. His breath hitches in broken gasps until he lies still.

Bucky spins around, his eyes immediately locking onto the man on the ground, then snapping back to you. For someone whose expressions are typically inscrutable, he looks rather shocked right now.

He blinks. And then he just stares. In disbelief. Lips slightly parted. He even loosens his hand at your side for a moment in astonishment. His chest rises and falls with heavy breaths, the strong tension in his shoulder visible beneath his blood-caked armor.

“You-” He starts to say something, but his voice falters, words stuck in his throat. He swallows hard, his gaze darting from your face to the wound in your side, then back to the man on the ground.

“He- he was going to-” You start to defend yourself, but he cuts you off with a rasp.

“I know.” He clears his throat. There is something more translucent in his eyes now, wild elements settling in place. It’s fierce and protective and proud and stunned all at once. His shoulders slump slightly. “I know.” It still sounds hoarse.

Neither of you speaks for a while. The forest is quiet again. But there is a distant chirp of birds that comes with the morning. And more light is shining through. Your hands feel weightless, the trembling so fine it’s almost a vibration.

Bucky’s hand steadies on your wound, his touch firm but not harsh. His gaze stays on you as if he is memorizing every detail of your face in this moment.

Then, with a slight shake of his head, as if remembering himself, he carefully lowers you to the ground, deliberate but brisk, as if afraid even the air might injure you further. He makes you sit on a tree stump.

He’s muttering something under his breath, perhaps a curse at the situation, or maybe just words to fill the silence, but you can barely hear it over the roaring in your ears. Pain lashes through your side and you hiss.

You don’t register if Bucky’s following words were an apology, or a curse, or something else entirely. Your ears are muting your surroundings, every sound collapsing into a muffled rush that swells in your head. You only see his muscles ticking.

Bucky is kneeling in front of you, his knee pressing into the dirt. Shadows dig deep into the lines of his face, his brows furrowed so deeply, giving the impression they are bearing the full force of the world.

Anger, worry and emotions much more deeper are stretching his mouth into a grim line.

He pulls the cloak he bought for you, the one you had shrugged off before the fight began, and drapes it around your trembling shoulders.

He grinds his teeth while doing so, hands tugging at the edges of the cloak, pulling it snugly against your frame.

His broad form casts a shadow over your shivering body.

He turns for a second and then the gleam of his knife catches your eye. Before your heart can even skip a beat he brings it to your new dress. To the part where your wound is sitting. You gasp. The tearing sound that follows makes your stomach twist and you flinch, but his hands hold you in place.

“What did you do?” you breathe, in shock. Staring at him. Staring at your side. Staring at the torn fabric.

“I need to see the wound,” he answers, not meeting your eyes. His voice appears to aim for indifference, but he doesn’t quite pull it off. Perhaps there's even a slight hint of an apology in his tone.

“Hold still,” he murmurs, softer this time, as though he genuinely regrets acting this impulsive. His fingers brush against your skin, warm and calloused, as he pulls the torn fabric away from the wound.

You take in a sharp breath at the exposure, the chilly air nipping at the tender areas of your wound. His jaw tightens. His hands go stiff.

“Damn it,” he grounds out, and you see a faint slip in his control. His features are taut, pulled into opposite directions. He is angry - there is a flash in his eyes that confirms that much. But the frustrated vibrations in the set of his shoulders sags lightly, and there is a hesitation in his fury. It shimmers underneath the blue. It’s crackling and colliding, crawling and fighting to reach the forefront. Guilt. Bitterness. Desolation.

A sharp exhale leaves him and he drags a hand down his face.

There is a tremor in his hands. And he leaks of tension. But there is something else, too. Something softer. Something deeper.

You saved him, and he knows it. But you can’t tell if that makes things better or worse.

Glancing at you then, his eyes search yours for something you’re not sure you can give. You think he might say something, but then he just releases another profound breath.

Sitting up slightly, he takes your hands and presses them to your wound. “Hold this,” he instructs stiffly, his fingers guiding yours to show you how to keep the pressure firm.

His touch lingers for just a moment before he pulls away to reach for something in his pack. You do as he says, though your hands tremble, and the blood soaking through your fingers makes you want to vomit.

You want to say something. Anything. To apologize for disregarding his orders to stay put, for being reckless, for putting him in this position. But the words don’t come. No words come. Your lips are barriers no word dares to cross. Your tongue is heavy. And you can’t really bring yourself to look at him. Especially his shifting eyes.

Instead, your gaze averts to your boots, then to the forest ground, but only to the sections that lack a corpse, your shocked mind desperately attempting to undo everything that just took place.

Squatting down in front of you again, you take notice of what he retrieved from his pack and your skin grows hot with uncomfortable blisters.

The flask glints in the morning light. Bucky unscrews the cap and the sharp tang of whiskey wafts into the air.

You press your hands more firmly to your wound in hopes of shielding it better. You start to shake your head, but he sighs heavily.

“We need to clean that wound,” he explains, and for a heartbeat, his voice carries an unfamiliar softness. Maybe it’s vulnerability, maybe it’s tenderness. You can’t tell. “It’ll stop infection.”

Your gaze drops to the ground. To the dirt, the blood, and the remnants of the torn blue fabric that litters the space between you. A defeated breath falls from your lips and you build up all your courage to let your hands slide off your wound.

“It’s going to hurt,” he says with the same tone and still only holds the flask up in his hand, waiting for your permission to continue.

Your mouth is still guarding your words. But you manage a nod.

And with that he quickly tears a strip of clean cloth from the hem of his own shirt, soaking it in the alcohol. His hands are steadying themselves, but there is that uncoordinated twitch in his fingers, a quiver, when they linger too long.

“Bite down on this,” he says, handing you another piece of cloth. You hesitate, but the heat in his eyes compels you to take it and press it between your teeth.

With a last glance at you, and another nod from you, he presses the soaked cloth to your wound.

The pain is a searing fire that tears through your side and sends a strangled cry spilling from your lips, muffled by the cloth. Your entire body jerks, but his hands are there to keep you stable.

“Easy,” he says, low and strained, but you keep on hafting to the note of reassurance. “Easy.”

Your breaths are sharp and irregular gasps, and tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

The world compresses to the searing torment in your side and the pressure of his hands on your skin, anchoring you even as the pain risks dragging you under.

“Almost done.” His voice is barely a whisper, as though the words aren’t even meant for you, but himself. His gaze falls over you, your face, lingering longer than necessary, trying to gauge your condition.

Finally, he pulls the cloth away and examines his work. “That’s the worst of it,” he says almost through gritted teeth, voice a little thicker than he surely meant it to be.

You watch him some more when he retrieves a bandage from his pack and wraps it around your side carefully.

When he finishes, he sits back on his heels, exhaling heavily. “That’ll hold for now.” His voice is low. He doesn’t look at you. His gaze is fixed on the ground. Then it’s fixed on his hands that hold your blood and the ones of the dead men lying around the clearing. The muscles in his face are tight.

You don’t look at him either. You don’t even know where you look.

All you see is this man you killed. His face is there every time you blink, imprinted into the dark of your eyelids like a haunting. His eyes wide and disbelieving, staring at you - not Bucky, the man who shielded you and bought you here - but you.

You, with the dagger in your shaking hand. You, who let it fly. The way his body had jerked, the dagger sinking into flesh, his mouth opening as though he wanted to speak but couldn’t. The way his knees buckled, and he fell to the ground like a heap. The way he didn’t get up. The stillness. Utter stillness.

No amount of air you fill your lungs with feels like enough.

The memory is too much. The knowing that he lies in eyesight on the ground is too much. Too much to hold. Too much to process. Too much too much too much-

You have killed before. In stories, in the sanctuary of your imagination, where brave princesses slayed dragons or vanquished evil knights.

But this is not a story.

This is not a knife thrown at a wooden log, or an idle thought in a quiet moment.

You aimed your throw not at a tree, but at a man. He was flesh and blood. A living, breathing man. And you made his breath stop.

Guilt twists its way up your throat like bile.

You saved Bucky - that much you know. That much you hold onto, even as your chest heaves and your heart races. If you hadn’t thrown that dagger, hadn’t acted, perhaps Bucky would’ve been the corpse on the ground instead. He might have fallen, lying in the dirt, lifeless, blood pooling beneath him.

The thought sends icy shivers up your spine.

But it does not undo what you’ve done. It does not change the fact that a man died at your hands.

This wasn’t just any man. He was a royal soldier. A soldier who should have answered to the crown. To you. He was someone who once swore an oath to the crown, to your family.

He should have presented himself with pride, with the discipline you’ve always imagined in the soldiers who served under your father's banner.

Instead, he had snarled your name like a curse, his words full of malice and predatory hunger.

He wore the insignia, the armor. He belonged to you, and yet he hadn’t acted like it. There was no salute, no respect, no recognition. Just malevolence in his eyes and voice and the gleam of his sword.

And, somehow, Bucky knew him.

There was something in his face, something dark and old and full of personal hatred.

Both their words held venom that spoke of history. Betrayal. Something you don’t understand.

How could this have escalated so quickly? One moment, you are shivering in the forest, trying to decipher Bucky’s moods and the significance of your choices. The next moment there is blood and violence and death and so many questions.

Here you are now, your thoughts shattered and wailing, grasping at fragments of logic and reason that continuously elude you.

You glance at Bucky.

He is pacing now, a few feet away, his movements sharp, almost agitated. But still controlled. He is wiping his blade clean, cloth coming away crimson, and the sight makes you nauseous.

There is a river not too far from where your clearing is. He’s told you, you would make a stop there today when you made camp here the day before. He could have cleaned his blade then. But it seems like he can’t wait to get the blood off right away.

His shoulders stand like armored gates, guarding a pressure that seems to press on him. The muscles in his forearms ripple with every tiny motion.

His features are half obscured by shadows and blood but the look in his eyes is clear, and it makes him seem more like a weapon than a man.

You are hit with the reality that you don’t know anything about him. Who is he? Really? What has he done? What has he endured? The man who carries himself like an unbreakable force, who moves with lethal and deadly precision and a soldier's instinct.

All those things said by the man named Rumlow, those accusations thrown, the ugly words about you. They try to choke you from the inside out.

Who is Rebecca? What happened to her? Who is she to Bucky?

And why did this black-haired man speak to Bucky about his loyalty to the crown? Why did he call him soldier?

Bucky has saved you. Protected you. But he did it because he promised your mother he would.

And those things Rumlow has said, the looks they all gave him - it tells a story you don’t know.

He is a mystery to you. A mystery with ghosts that still haunt him, if the look in his eyes is anything to go by.

Your eyes return to your hands. Your palms are still sticky, coated with dirt and blood - not all of it yours. You gulp down, feeling nausea knotting in your stomach once more.

Heat rises to your skin, clammy and unpleasant, a fever that clings without flame.

You saved him. That's the reality you continue to grasp at, yet it seems fleeting, hard to catch.

You saved him, but in doing so, you ended someone else’s life.

Layer upon layer of shame tightens like a noose around your neck.

It constricts. And the feeling spreads. It migrates - to your shoulders, your chest, your belly, your hips, pressing and squeezing even tighter around the part where your wound sits.

You threw the dagger at a human being. And you hit him. True enough to kill.

You want to feel relief. You want to feel proud, even. Bucky is alive and walking, and you had a hand in that. But all you feel is the way the world shifts under you, how unsteady it’s become.

You sense the chilling tendrils of guilt, winding around your chest, your throat, your thoughts.

Guilt for what you’ve done. Guilt for feeling guilty.

The cloak slips from your shoulders, and you let it. Your head bows, fingers curling into the fabric of your garment. It was new. It was blue. It was beautiful. Now it’s ruined.

“They were soldiers.” It leaves you in a breath. Maybe it makes it easier to handle that truth when spoken aloud. It doesn’t.

Bucky pauses mid-step, his back to you, his shoulders stiffening even more at your words. “Yeah.” His voice is unreadable.

“They- they served the crown,” you press. To him, to yourself, to the forest, to the corpses on the ground. You have no idea. It doesn’t matter. “They served-”You stop short, swallowing a lump down. Swallowing tears back.

“They served themselves,” Bucky bites out, his tone sharper than earlier, laced with something dark. He turns to face you then, anger shooting through his eyes, but not at you. “Swearin’ loyalty to a banner doesn’t make a man good. Men with badges and titles might do worse than those without.”

You flinch at his words. They fall. Like seeds dropped into cracks you didn’t know you had. You feel the heaviness of them. The thud in your chest, your heart catching something it wasn’t prepared to hold.

And all you can do is snap your mouth back shut.

You lower your head again. Fingers shake around the fabric of your garment from how tightly you’re gripping them. The guilt festers, tumbles, grows, and you sit there, silent, unable to reconcile the princess you once were with the murderer you’ve become.

“She was never quite ready. But she was brave. And the universe listens to brave.”

- Rebecca Ray

Part six

Taglist: @cjand10 @unaxv @bellamoret @singsosworld

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