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artficlly · 1 year ago

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lady of the ghosts [chapter 7]

After a great plague ravages your city, you are looking to marry to secure safety for your people. With a war finally ending, the nearby kingdoms are looking to celebrate. King James "Bucky" Barnes decides to continue his family's tradition of hosting a courting season. A medieval courting marvel AU.

Pairing: king!bucky x lady!reader

Warnings: ANIMAL SACRIFICE, BLOOD RITUAL/MAGIC, description dead body, anxiety, doubt, funeral, cremation, mentions of sexism, angst, tension, miscommunication, mention of war, mention of plague, general assholery, bitta fluff at the end, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 7.8k (eek)

A/N: me saying i want to write shorter chapters and then this happens? whoops. anyway i had a lot of ground to cover, sorry that this is rather plot/world building heavy. we are getting into the heavy romance stuff in the next couple chapters. the funeral scene has been living rent free in my mind for MONTHS so i was excited to finally write it (very midsommar core) please let me know what you think and rebblog/like! sorry for any typos - enjoy!!

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You could smell the sea before you saw it.

Years ago, you believed that the smell of the ocean and the briskness of the icy air would be consoling. The sight of home after all this time – the whirling mass of the city – was supposed to make you happy. But all you felt was dread. Anxiety has been building for days as you grew closer. For so many years, you had been focused on returning to this place, yet now that you were here, you didn’t know how to progress. You would still need to marry to save the city and come up with some kind of solution. Thoughts of James’ proposal still hung heavy on your mind, burden after burden becoming a crushing weight on your shoulders.

Once your mother was put to rest, you would truly be alone. The last of a once great line, a final soldier facing down an army. A ship lost at sea during a storm. When you closed your eyes at night, you could see those enormous waves before you, impossibly large, crashing down and pushing you to the sandy ocean floor below.

If Peggy had noticed your nightmares, she hadn’t said anything. She wouldn’t mention how you would wake in a cold sweat, arms sore and tense as you had desperately tried to claw your way to the surface. With each passing day, you grew quieter until you found no need to talk at all. Some days Steve would extract a grunt or a half-smile from you, but mostly he watched on with concerned frowns, locked in conversation with James.

James. That was another man you had not spoken to in some time. Even the cold of the Stormfall Mountains could not compare to the chill that had grown between the two of you. That was another image that haunted you – the reluctance on James’ face when, moments earlier, you had poured your heart out to him that night in his room. Was he repulsed by you? Did he regret all the moments you shared? Had you pushed too far with your questions about Rebecca? You would never know because no words were shared between you. He pulled back, and you pulled back further, hoping to disappear into the snow and rock like a snow leopard, like a Ghost of the Mountain.

The icy, cobbled streets of Faliene were as you remembered. They were twisted and narrow, and layers of stacked housing were featured on every street. Banners and flags were still strung between upper floors, tattered and faded as they danced in the wind. Salt crunched beneath your horse's hooves, and a biting wind blowing from the docks sank painfully into your bones.

She was just as you remembered, but she was void. A husk of her former self, left gutted and abandoned.

There were no markets and no travelers on the streets. Houses lay abandoned, windows and doors boarded up with the remnants of chipped red x’s painted upon them. Shipping barrels lay untouched in alleys, shops empty and rotting. City of Ghosts. How many were taken during the plague? How much death had your child's brain washed away to protect you?

It was eerie, near silent. The only sound came from the docks, the soft lapping of the waves, the creak of the boats, and the distant chatter of sailors. So empty, so still. It was as if time had frozen and your procession was the only thing left thawed.

Even as dread gripped your core, you couldn’t help but feel the scene was serene. In your mind’s eye you could remember people scurrying to and fro, across the streets and in and out of shops, their goods tucked under cloaks. Children running between their mother’s skirts, and horses whinnying and snorting as they navigated their way through the packed streets. You can even hear a bell chime and you turn your head to the shop next to you. The visions dissipate, and all that is left is a gray, stone storefront with a painted trident fading above the doorframe. The arctic breeze blew through your hair like icy fingers caressing your scalp. Deep in your bones, you felt it – a calling, a whisper, welcome home.

You pulled your horse to a stop at a crossroads, a large open space near the center of the city. The view from the hill provided a clear landscape of the surrounding alleys, lanes, and the docks below, each scattering away from you like shattered glass. Up a wide, well-paved road to the right, Fort Faliene stood proudly, casting shadows on the mountain behind her.

You knew your ladies’ maids and footmen would be waiting up there, having been informed of your collective arrival. You could not bear to look at the fort for long; the ache in your heart was too strong. You were aware that without your family, the hallways would be chilly and empty, and part of you yearned to preserve those early memories, tuck them closely to your chest, and never let them go.

Your moment of thought was broken as Steve pulled his horse to a stop beside yours, shivering as he rubbed a gloved hand over his arms. James remained nearby, close enough to listen but not close enough to be part of your conversation.

“When you said it would be cold, I did not think it could get any worse than those mountains.” Steve mutters through clattering teeth. You bite back a smile, glancing back to watch as the carriages carefully roll closer over the grit and ice.

You were minutes away from Fort Faliene, the place you were raised and called home. Yet a part of you felt content to stay frozen atop your horse. A large serpent had crept its way under your skin, twisting, biting and squeezing your insides until you were left breathless. You were not ready to face those halls yet. Would you ever be?

“I need you to lead the carriages up to Fort Faliene. It’s up the road to your right, follow it to its end. The staff will show you to your rooms.” You finally speak for the first time in days, watching in your peripheral vision as both Steve and James’ faces morph into looks of confusion.

“Why, where are you going?” Steve asks, but you don’t respond.

Your tongue is heavy in your mouth and you fear tripping over your words. Instead, you nudge your horse into a trot, following the winding path down to the docks. If the two men were confused or called after you, you don’t hear it. Your focus is entirely on the docks below. Before you entered that Fort, the place where your father had died, you needed a moment alone with the waves and the wind.

—

The sailors had eyed you suspiciously as you walked to the water's edge, sand crunching beneath your boots. The men were bulky and decorated with tattoos and scruffy beards. The stench of fresh fish was overpowering but familiar; the sailors were using rigging and rope to haul the barrels from the docks. You had tried to pay them no mind as they paused their hauling, their kohl-lined eyes narrowing as they inspected your every move.

They didn’t recognize you, which you quickly realized. They had every reason to be cautious of an unknown noblewoman invading their space. But you did not wish to disturb them however; you just wanted a moment to breathe.

You peeled off your gloves, tucking them into your pocket as you crouched down next to the surf. The icy water stung as it rushed over your fingers, your bones aching with the chill. You did not submit to the cold, instead exhaling sharply as you tried to imprint that sensation in your mind forever. As a child, you played in these waters, barefoot and fearless. The possibility that those were your last happy memories and that everything could disappear in a matter of seconds was something you had not thought about at the time.

“Excuse me, Miss, are you lost?” A thick, northern accent calls out to you from the docks. A younger man stood, peering over at you. You didn’t recognize him, but you could tell he was around your age. He wasn’t as muscled and rugged as the other sailors – fresh meat, you assumed.

You didn’t reply instantly, instead withdrawing your numb fingers from the lapping waves with a short sigh. You rubbed your fingers together, feeling the salty moisture between your skin, before turning to walk back onto the docks.

“If you’re here for the funeral, Fort Faliene is back up–” The man began once more, but you waved your hand with a half-smile and cut over him.

“I’m not lost, just taking the air.” You clarified, pausing before him. Despite the chill, he only wore a thick woolen shirt and pants, which seemed to feature some holes that had been stitched with patches of mismatched fabric. Your eyes swept down to his shoes, noting the scuffs. Time had been hard on Faliene, maybe more so than you realized. The man sheepishly ducked his head, avoiding your gaze. His short hair was tousled by the wind, and a faint odor of fish was surrounded him.

“Oh, I–” the young man stumbled over his words, as if unsure of how to react.

Before he could gather himself, a gruff voice sounded from behind him. “It’s not safe on the docks, Miss.”

That was a lie; you knew it. The docks were always safe, and children would often play in the water while their parents worked. You knew it was rather that they didn’t want you here, a stranger in their home. Falieneans had never been the most hospitable and were incredibly superstitious. The eyes that met you as you glanced up were cold and uninviting. If you had not known the man behind those eyes, you might have felt uncomfortable under his gaze. But you did know him; you had known him since you were a child.

There was little difference from how you remembered him; maybe his beard had grown more gray and his face more wrinkled. Brannigan, Master of the Docks. His assistance in overseeing the sailors and the boats made him a close friend of your father. But from the icy tone and the distant look in his eyes… he did not recognize you.

“No need to fret, Brannigan, I will be out of your way soon.” You hummed to the muscled, older man. You watched as a flicker of surprise crossed his face, his eyebrows twitching upward. He looked at you, truly looked. His gaze turned from frigid to something more analytical. You didn’t speak as he stared, his eyes darting from the silver rings on your fingers, the trident necklace at your neck, and the way your hair was braided.

You watched as he slowly understood who you were, a glimmer of familiarity crossing his features. You could not blame him; the last time he saw you, you were a child. And now you were here, returning as a woman.

But as quickly as that familiarity crossed his face, it was gone, once again replaced with an indifferent gaze.

“I was sorry to hear about your mother, My Lady.” Brannigan finally spoke. His words did nothing to quell the gnawing anxiety in your stomach as you picked up on the bitterness of his tone. The sweet man you had once known was gone in that moment, replaced with something hardened and apathetic.

You kept your face straight as your eyes found the sailors, all of whom had paused their duties to watch the interaction with their own hardened stares. There was no joy or spark of excitement to see you. Their lady finally returned, and they were filled with resentment.

They were angry with you.

You nodded stiffly at Brannigan, meeting his eye once more. “Thank you. I am just glad to see her returned to Faliene.”

Brannigan gave you his own rigid nod in return, a hum grumbling in his chest. The ache in your own chest continued to grow, the imagined serpent squeezing tighter until you nearly forgot how to breathe. You could understand why they were angry; they had been abandoned in their time of need. For the years that your mother was ill, money and trade grinded nearly to a halt with no one to oversee the paperwork. Those duties were supposed to fall to King Harrison, who failed to do so once the war began.

And now those duties would fall to your future husband, if he decided to make it worth his time.

The Falieneans must have been aware of your situation and that of your mother. They must have been familiar with the intricacies of politics and war, but they had come to despise you. They assumed you were spoiled at Haiford Castle, and they were starving. You could see the hunger that clung to them, the holes in their clothes, and the weariness in their bones. You were stuck between two worlds, one of which considered you too northern, while the other considered you too southern.

“We had hoped for news of a marriage.” Brannigan spoke once more, his words being the final nail in the coffin. There it was – the hatred, the bitterness, and the loathing. You let out a sharp breath through your nose, trying to ignore the bile rising in your throat.

You felt the urge to explain, to pull apart all that had happened in your absence and lay it bare. You wanted them to understand that you did care and that you weren’t some foolish little girl. You wanted to explain the Rumlow problem, the relationship forming between you and James, and the older lords who simply wanted more children and not a ghost city–

But you didn’t. It wasn’t right.

Instead, you held it close to your chest and plastered on a small, brittle smile. “I had hoped so too.”

You quickly bid them farewell and walked stiffly back to your horse, hoping they had not noticed how badly your hands shook.

—

By the time you were walking through the front doors of Fort Faliene, you were sick with anxiety. A cold sweat had begun to form under your layers of clothing, and a sore ache was developing in your stomach. It took all your strength not to let tears slip on the ride back up the hill; that would have to wait until you were alone. Thankfully, it did seem like you were. Since there was no carriage, luggage, or guests in sight, the ladies’ maids and footmen must have shown the traveling party to their rooms.

The dark wood floors and stone walls were just as you remembered, with deep azure rugs, paintings, and banners lining the walls. A grand staircase stood before you, with blue-stained rope twisted around the bannister as decoration. Old netting hung from the upper levels, with seashells and driftwood intertwined to look like fish.

The scent was what hit you the most – something indescribable but specific to your childhood. Your heart squeezed as you noticed the rocks and seashells lining the windowsills, the bookshelves stuffed full of books, and the unique knick-knacks your father had once collected.

“You look like shit!” A voice called down from the staircase. You glanced upward, unable to hold back the smile that grew on your face. A young redheaded woman stood half-way up, grinning back at you. You knew she had never been one to consider her words before speaking. It was probably one of the reasons you two had grown so close during your childhood. She probably wasn’t wrong either; you imagined the stress and travel and had made you a bit haggard. The ache in your chest eased at finally seeing a familiar face who didn’t hate you immediately.

“Nice to see you too, Wanda.” You called back up to her, and she bounded down the stairs. Her skirts bounced and swirled around her legs, and you were only able to let out a soft ‘oof’ noise as she bowled into you. Her arms wrapped around you as she pulled you in for a hug, the strands of her hair tickling your cheek as she rested her chin on your shoulder.

You resisted the urge to inhale her scent, instead winding your own arms around her form as you hugged her back tightly. Another piece of home.

Wanda’s mother had been your mother's maid. You had run rampant through the halls of Fort Faliene, causing chaos and stealing food from the kitchens. The two of you would gossip and play along the docks, balancing on the wooden railings and softly singing Falienean folk songs. Wanda, like you, had grown into a woman since you had last seen her; in fact, she was a few inches taller than you now. Unlike you she had received her coming-of-age tattoos: a line on her chin and swirling patterns and runes across her fingers, hands, and forearms.

“You smell like horse.” Wanda comments in her dry, northern accent, wrinkling up her nose as she pulls away. You roll your eyes at her in return, allowing her to take your cloak into her hands. It seemed she had followed her mother's profession, becoming a maid for your family, though you could not say what duties she would have had in your absence.

“Travelling does that, I’m afraid.” You state as you walk up the stairs. They were the same dark color as the floors, with a cerulean blue runner down the center. The stairs reached a landing and split into two sets, which led to different sides of the balcony that overlooked the entrance.

“I trust the pass wasn’t too terrible to travel?” Wanda hummed as she followed you.

“It was fine. I couldn’t say that same for the guests though; but we all know traveling that pass is the initiation process to see who will survive the chill.” You reply, and Wanda snickers softly in response.

You paused briefly on the landing, straining your neck to look at the large portrait that hung overlooking the space. An oil painting of your mother and father after their wedding, smiling happily in their dress and suit. Your mother wore the heirloom necklace you had worn to the ball – layers of pearls and seashells – and seeing it now left you feeling uneasy.

“It’s creepy having them watching.” Wanda admits from beside you, and you bite the inside of your cheek, tearing your eyes away. Living within these walls must have been unsettling after the plague, having to grow accustomed to the eerie silence that smothered the city.

“I imagined these halls would feel… wrong without them, but it’s just as I remember.” You utter back, turning to face the next set of stairs. You see Wanda smile sadly from behind her hair, her own eyes briefly looking back at the portrait before following you.

“You sound like one of them now, your accent is all strange.” Wanda observes as the two of you ascend.

“I do not.” You grumble, and Wanda gives you another beaming smile, a teasing one.

“Who would’ve thought? I remember when we would curse the bastards while throwing stones off the dock! My Lady, a proper southerner, how wrong is that?” She mocks, and you visibly cringe, scoffing.

“Don’t say that, I’m already having a terrible day–” You begin with a groan, your head leaning back as you look at the high ceiling.

“I take it the docks didn’t go well?” Wanda interjects; she is still smiling, but you can sense the uncertainty in her tone.

You bite back a sigh. You don’t question how she already knew you had gone down there. She probably guessed you had the moment you didn’t turn up with the main party. Even as a child, you had the tendency to slip away to the shoreline, and your mother was often exasperated by your avoidance of important dinners. The two of you had treated the waters like a safe haven, a place you could disappear and cause havoc.

You chewed on what had happened down at the docks, debating if it was worth bringing up your worries to Wanda. You had been close friends once, and you hoped time had done nothing to ruin that bond between you. “Brannigan seems to have become bitter in his old age–”

“Don’t listen to that idiot.” Wanda interjects once more, her tone irritated, and you bite your tongue.

From her reaction, your assumptions are correct. The cold stares were purposeful; there was distrust and unease spreading through your beloved home. Your people were angry with you because of things you could not control and because of things they could not know. They felt abandoned by your mother and, in turn, by you. Your one duty was to marry and provide security, but it seemed you had failed even that. A part of you felt like a fool for assuming they would welcome you with open arms.

If only your mother had not grown sick, if only the lords of the continent were not pigs in fancy dress, if only James was not in debt to Haiford... You could list so many reasons to feel sorry for yourself, yet you were still stumped for solutions. You were still in the midgame, hesitantly moving pieces as you tried to fix everything.

Maybe you were just a foolish girl after all.

“What if he is right?” You mumbled, assuming that Wanda had heard whatever grievance the sailors had with you.

“About what?”

“About me? I get the feeling that he does not approve of me as a lady, like I am somehow sabotaging Faliene. All the sailors hate me, he must be muttering things in their ear. He had the gall to bring up my lack of marriage prospects in front of all of the men.” You groan as you look down at your feet in defeat.

Wanda lets out an annoyed hiss, rolling her eyes while her shoulders tense. “Brannigan has been muttering about change for years now, he’s just too much of a pussy to do anything about it beyond bitching and moaning to anyone who will–”

Wanda's words stopped abruptly as you rounded the corner onto the balcony. You look up from your feet to see why. Steve and James linger by the banisters, trying to seem like they hadn’t watched and listened to the whole interaction unfold below them. Steve turns his back, as if trying to hide his face from you. Your lips press into a fine line, James’ gaze burning on you as always.

“I keep forgetting we have company for once.” Wanda mumbles under her breath to you, and you shake your head, pulling your gaze away from the two Galantians as they intensely try to make themselves look busy or distracted.

“Don’t worry, they won’t say anything.” You murmur back. “In fact, they will probably find it funny.”

“You know them well, then? It seems I have missed a lot.” You don’t miss the teasing tone and can only muster a low groan in reply.

Wanda giggled softly in your ear, linking your arms together as you walked past James and Steve. She offers the two men a curt bow of her head, while your gaze remains fixed strictly ahead. The last thing your anxiety needed was the two men meddling with your emotions.

“I had you moved into your parents' old room, I hope you don’t mind.” Wanda mentions as you reach the end of the balcony, turning down one of the long corridors that lead to the main wing. “The rest are in the guest wing.”

“Were my parents' belongings removed?” You ask cautiously, following the familiar path down the halls and up a spiraling staircase.

“Some of your fathers were after... but most of it remains the same. I can have them removed, if you like?”

“No, leave them. I just... hoped that they hadn’t been discarded.” You admit sheepishly, and Wanda gives you another one of her sad smiles.

You were eager to dismiss Wanda once you arrived in your parents old room, wanting a moment alone. Although some spaces remained empty where you knew your father's belongings would have been, it was mostly the same as you remembered.

It seemed to have been regularly cleaned and dusted, with a new set of sheets and furs atop the bed. One of your father's many bookshelves stood against the wall, half empty. Your mother’s vanity lay mostly bare, with the exception of some shells you had gifted to her as a child.

Tears pricked your eyes at the sight of the half-empty closet. You ran your fingers through the fabric of your mother’s old gowns, left behind as you two fled to the capital. Beyond the lingering scent of dust, you could still make out the faint smell of her floral soap and perfume clinging to the fabric.

You could not stand to look at your mother’s crafts which still decorated the room. Cushions embroidered, the fabric and thread faded by the sun. Even the large lace doilies remained draped over the bedside tables. You wondered how many pieces of her craft still lay unfinished in your dowry chest. You recalled your mother handcrafting your wedding veil not long after your eighth birthday.

With a hard swallow, you kick off your boots and curl up sideways on the bed, staring up into the canopy. Only then do you allow the tears to flow.

—

The drums began at dawn. They started out low and distant, and it was not until the sun started to rise higher over the waters that they picked up speed, rumbling and thundering down the streets. Faliene came to life for the first time in years, her heart beating so quickly that it drowned out the sound of the waves crashing on the shore.

The final traveling party had arrived the night before, after a week or so of traversing the mountain pass. Families had descended from the Stormfall Mountains, and sailors had returned from the open ocean, their beards frozen and their skin chapped. Today was your mother's funeral. You needed to be strong.

The crowd congregated on Caloe Peak, a small outcropping of land close to the fort. An open, level landing was surrounded by mounds of snow. At its center lay the funeral pyre, wood logs stacked to hip height with your mother's body atop. The stiff, pale limbs of your mother were clasped at her chest. An assortment of flowers, shells, and rocks formed an outline around her body. Her long, dark hair spread out beneath her, giving her a small, sickly appearance. In spite of that, she finally appeared at peace.

You stood near the back, your cloak obscuring your form and your hood pulled back to hide your face. The crowd had not yet become aware of your presence. Instead, a knot in your stomach tightened as you considered the situation in front of you.

The Falieneans and the visitors made up two groups within the crowd. In contrast to the Haifordians and Galantians, who appeared more uncertain, the Asgardians appeared at ease and unfazed by the situation in front of them. James was standing at the front of the group, his eyes sweeping the Falienean women as if he were looking for you.

Beside a flaming torch, Priest Helman stood. He was an older man, balding with a salt and pepper beard. He had numerous tattoos on his body, and below each of his eyes, kohl was drawn in a line. Rither and Arthard, his acolytes, stood beside him, attempting to control a rambunctious, wild mountain goat that had been captured and brought down from the mountains.

Only as you expertly weaved your way through the crowd did the Falienean’s pause their murmuring. Your heavy cloak dragged across the icy ground, and the material was soiled and damp. The fabric itself was embroidered with swirling runes and designs, which served as spells of protection, and the edges were trimmed with a thick, heavy coat of fur. It was critical that you remained strong and protected in preparation for the ritual. Falieneans believed that spirits hung close when a funeral was near, and it was hard to predict if a spirit was friend or foe.

As you paused in front of Priest Helman, a heavy silence fell over the clearing, the drums falling silent for the first time in hours. Brannigan could be seen in your peripheral vision, his face as cold as ever, arms crossed over his chest. This funeral was a test in many ways, not only in terms of your strength as a daughter but also as a leader. Brannigan hung near the crowd of guests, assuming the role of explaining the significance of each part of the ritual.

Helman reached out with wrinkled fingers, carefully removing the hood from your head before wordlessly unclasping your cloak. You wore a simple black dress with short sleeves that exposed your arms and shoulders to the chill. Helman murmured a brief prayer under his breath, and you felt goosebumps spread across your skin.

“It is believed by our people that when there is a funeral, spirits linger. Until it can be freed by fire, the soul of the deceased is imprisoned inside the body. The women can see and feel the spirits, so it is their purpose to protect the soul so it does not become another spirit, trapped between worlds.” Brannigan’s rough voice explained, and the crowd hesitantly hummed in response.

You continued to move through the motions of the ritual as he spoke. Having observed and participated in numerous funerals in your youth, you knew every step by heart. Getting down on your knees, you encircled the mountain goat's face with your hands, gently hushing it as it wriggled in your hold. You could see the whites of its eyes and the split pupil darting around in fear. As you caressed the goat's face with your fingers and muttered a silent plea, Rither and Arthard kept the animal still.

“Give us strength, little one.”

The animal jerks under you, its scream of pain cut short as Helman swiftly runs a knife along its throat. Blood spills down the goat's neck, dripping into a large wooden bowl below. With the goat's knees buckling, you move with it, stooping lower to the ground. You mutter soothing words as its eyes roll back in terror and its chest heaves. Only as its body grows still, slumping to the ground fully, do you withdraw your fingers from its coarse coat.

“The women must dance around the body, creating a wall to keep the spirits away. The closest living relative must lead the dance, it is their duty to stay dancing until all the other women have fallen and the body is burnt to ash.” Brannigan continues to explain as you carefully close the eyes of the goat.

Some of the men advance, picking up the body and dragging it out of the clearing. The carcass would be delivered to the kitchens, where it would be prepared for the subsequent feast. Slowly, you rise once more, an arctic breeze caressing your skin as you lock eyes with Priest Helman.

Rither and Arthard take the bowl of thick, crimson blood, pouring a small pitcher of salt water in. Their hands reach into the mixture, swirling and mixing it until the liquid is smooth. Their hands extend and lather the mixture along your arms, upper chest, and neck, sending a chill down your spine. The layer is warm at first, then quickly grows cold under the frigid breeze blowing from the ocean.

“What is the blood for, then?” You hear one of the guests ask as you flex your fists, exhaling sharply as Rither and Arthard move on to the crowd of women. The mixture is slick against your skin, droplets pooling in your palm and cleavage as you find your position next to the funeral pyre.

“For strength. The essence of the animal will give the women the strength to continue on, the ritual can last for hours or days. The leader needs the most strength, so she is given the most essence.” Brannigan continues to explain. You watch as the women of Faliene line up, allowing Rither and Arthard to flick blood onto their faces.

“And what happens if she falls before the others?” The familiar voice of Prince Michael asks, and you don’t have to look up at him to hear the sneer in his voice.

“Then her mother’s soul is lost forever.” Brannigan says, and you swallow hard. You doubted Brannigan would hold you in much respect if you failed or gave in to weakness.

Around the pyre, the women slowly start to join you, forming several layers of close circles. The young and elderly occupied the outer ring farthest from the pyre, while you stood in the one closest to it. Those who were most likely to fall first would be on the outer rings, while the strongest were in the middle as a final defense against the spirits.

As Helman moves through the rings holding a blazing torch, silence descends once more. The dry brush comes to life in vibrant orange and yellow hues as the pyre ignites. Helman pulls away from the circle, the wood crackling and smoke filling your nostrils. Only when you give a small nod do the drums start once more.

Your ring started dancing to the right as soon as your hands were linked to the women next to you, while the next ring started dancing to the left. You envisioned it from above to resemble a swirling mass of skirts, with each ring moving in a different direction in time with the beat.

Your circle drew inward, tighter, and nearer to the flames as you whirled around the pyre. You could feel the heat licking at your skin. Relief was quick as you pulled outwards again, arms stretching out as far as they could go until interlocked hands were ripped apart. You all spun in place three times, then moved toward the fire again, hands interlocking as you continued to spiral in the opposite direction, pulling in and out like a beating heart.

It was easy to fall into a trance, only focusing on your breath, where your feet fell, the heat of the fire, and the smoke in your lungs. The crowd of people became a blur; there were only you and the fire now. You could not see the Haifordian’s sneers, James’ heated gazes, or Brannigan's cold stares anymore; you were alone with the spirits now.

It didn’t take long for the first to stumble and drop out, mostly younger children and the elderly, as the pace became too much to follow. You could taste copper in your mouth; your breathing was ragged; and a layer of sweat was growing across your skin. Even if the air burned with each gulp you inhaled, you felt alive. The women who stood on the edges began to sing Falienean folk songs along with the drums, swaying in place as they silently encouraged those still dancing. You could’ve sworn in your daze that you saw the spirits hovering – translucent and frightening with crooked smiles and long talons.

You did not notice as the sun arced further into the sky, then back down to earth. You did not even notice as the crowd began to thin, guests abandoning their posts in favor of sleep as the sun was replaced by the moon. As time continued to pass, you became one with the drums and fire, your limbs aching with each step.

Briefly, you jolted and stumbled as the woman beside you fell to her knees, a nearby man dragging her out before she was trampled by the dancers. The fire had begun to grow cold; the roaring flames had turned to crackling embers. Even as the smoke cleared and you were only left with the icy winds that burned your lungs, you did not fall.

One by one, the dancers grew tired, falling to their knees, limp and exhausted. The once-slick blood that had layered your bare skin had begun to crack and peel, with some sections smudged by the sweat that had gathered. The sun began to rise once again, its warm rays of light a welcome gift for your stiff, exhausted body.

The crowd grew in size once more, with guests gathering as they sensed the dance was nearing its end. Across the ashes was Wanda, and the two of you locked into a silent stare as you continued to dance. You could see her movements were growing sluggish; she was beginning to trip over her own feet as she fought to stay upright.

Through your haze, your reactions slowed as Wanda finally fell, her knees biting painfully into the frozen earth below. You staggered as you came to a stop, your chest heaving and your legs trembling. Wanda’s hands dug into the frozen mud, a small sob escaping her as the exhaustion and pain took over her frame.

Your body did not feel like your own as you walked slowly towards her, your lungs burning as you cocked your head to one side. You could not crouch down beside her out of fear of not being able to get up yourself. Instead, you extended your hand, using the last of your might to pull her to her feet and into a brief embrace.

“Savor your strength.” Wanda choked into your ear, tears still trailing down her pale face. “Your journey is not over yet.”

—

You crouched by the waters edge, scooping handfuls of the arctic waters onto the exposed sections of skin to scrub away the blood and ash. it stung your flesh and left an ache in your bones. Your legs were still shaking from exhaustion as you knelt by the water's edge. The crowd had dispersed, and they were now returning to Fort Faliene for the eagerly anticipated feast.

Even though the last few steps of the funeral ritual were simpler to complete, they still required all of your remaining energy. You were expected to gather handfuls of your mother's ashes, and place them inside a small ceramic urn. The ashes had still been warm as you collected them with your bare hands, with bone and rock hidden within. The last of the ashes that could not be stored within the urn would be spread at sea by the next boat to depart.

After gathering the ashes, you walked down to the docks and got onto a rowboat, which ferried you to the Island of Tilla. Tilla was for the dead. The living were only allowed to step foot on the Island to bring the dead to their resting places. The only exception was the winter equinox, when Falieneans celebrated their ancestors.

You had only visited the crypts a few times in your life; the dark, icy, winding stone corridors had terrified you as a child. Now, as an adult, it intrigued you. You found yourself examining the urns of your ancestors, your fingers tracing over the damp stone shelves and engravings.

Your exploration was only interrupted when you came across the well-known urn of your father, where you ran your fingers along the dust-covered blue ceramic. You placed your mother’s urn next to him, uttered your prayers, and returned to the surface.

Even though the cold made your hands and body tremble, you persisted in washing the final remnants of the ritual off your skin. You knew that if you took a bath, you would fall unconscious in the warm waters before you were able to attend the feast. So, instead, you opted for the more painful solution – shocking your system awake with the icy sea water. As usual, the ocean wind was biting, cutting deep into your bones until even your core felt frozen.

“You look like you need this.” A familiar, deep voice spoke from behind you. You whirled your head around, your eyes snapping to where James stood, extending a heavy cloak for you to take. Your legs wailed in protest as you stumbled to your feet and gratefully buried your hands in the plush furs that trimmed the edges.

“I take it that you’re talking to me again, then?” You grumble at the King, maybe a little too aggressively, “You haven’t spoken to me since the pass,” you clarify at his bemused head tilt.

As you sweep the cloak over your shoulders shuddering while clasping it in place, James rubs his stubbled jaw in contemplation. Only as you pull the fabric closer to your body with a content sigh do you notice the scent. James’ scent. Your eyes flicker over him briefly, now noticing the glaringly obvious lack of a cloak around his own shoulders.

“I wasn’t ignoring you.” He finally speaks up. “I was waiting until you came to me.”

You give a long and hard stare, trying to hold still as the shivers continue to grip your body beneath his cloak. You clutch the cloak closer to yourself as a gust of glacial air blows straight through you. James seems mostly unbothered by the cold, with only a tinge of pink to his ears and nose. His clothing was thick and expensive, mostly sparing him from the chill.

“I don’t understand.” You finally say, your voice strained as you try not to let your teeth chatter. James lets out a long sigh, motioning you away from the water that laps around your boots as the tide pushes up the shore.

“You seemed… troubled. I understand what it is like to have anxieties about your people and their expectations of you. I thought it better if I allowed you some space to mull it over and be with them.” He explains, gently taking hold of your forearm through the cloak as he leads the both of you off the sandy shore and back onto the docks. Your calves are relieved to be on solid ground once more, no longer fighting against the shifting sands.

“Oh.” Is all you can mutter, your fatigued brain working twice as hard to digest the information it was given. “I thought… I thought you were upset with me for prying about Rebecca that night.”

“What?” James half-barks, bewildered by your assumption.

You furrow your eyebrows. Did he not… remember that night? Your tone is confused as you speak up. “That night when I came to your room because Steve and Peggy were... We spoke of the past, I thought I had upset you or somehow overshared–”

“Why would you think that?” He questions, his tone equally as confused.

You halt your walking, chewing the inside of your cheek with a sigh as you try to decide if your worries are worth divulging. It seemed that James was trying to be more thoughtful than you initially assumed; had you let your anxieties build until you constructed a fantasy in your mind?

“Because... because I reached out for you and then Steve walked in and you wouldn’t even look at me, it was like you were disgusted by me or–” Your words fade off as James looks at you hard, and then, to your surprise, he laughs. He actually laughs.

You feel like recoiling, maybe even crying, but then he closes the distance between you, pulling you into his arms. In your weariness you don’t protest, instead you lay your head against his strong sternum. Below your ear, his chest rumbles with a chuckle before giving way to a short sigh as he brushes his fingers through your wind-blown hair. Some of the braids had come loose during the dance, and you could only assume it smelled of smoke.

“I couldn’t look at you because I knew I wouldn’t have been able to control my actions.” He admits it hesitantly, and your attention perks up at that. “If Steve hadn’t walked in... I would have kissed you right there on the spot.”

“James–” You mutter in astonishment, pulling back your head as you look up at him. His own head dips, his nose ghosting along your jaw and neck as he begins to mumble his next words to you. It was as if a tightly coiled rope had finally snapped within James, his touch and words were suddenly insatiable, as if any sense or sensibility had been unbridled. Your body shivers, this time not from the cold.

“You drive me mad. I am sick with madness for you. I can’t look at you because I can’t control my thoughts. I lay awake at night thinking of you, your scent, and the way you feel. Every day on that damn mountain, I would look at you and imagine how you would taste, how you would react to my touch, the sounds you would make. Do you understand? You’ve intoxicated me, you’ve possessed my mind, body, and soul with desire.” His voice is husky as he speaks, desperate and ravenous as his fingers grasp at your waist tightly and his lips graze across your neck.

Arousal pools in your gut, and your legs feel even weaker than before. You whimper softly at his words. Your hands make a fist around the fabric of his shirt, holding on desperately in the hopes that your knees won’t fully buckle.

“That is why I distanced myself, I knew it was unfair to burden you with such thoughts while you were in mourning and planning the–”

“James.” You cut him off. Your voice is strained, your mind is dizzy and delirious from his scent and touch. Somehow finding the strength, you lift one of your hands and gently caress his face with your thumb. “I feel the same way.”

The grin that he gives you is nearly enough to knock you off your feet once more. If it weren’t for the lingering fear that someone was watching this very public display, you would have stood on your toes to kiss him. You would’ve let him consume you whole.

Unfortunately, the sensible part of your brain knew better, or rather, thankfully, because right on cue, Steve and Wanda rounded the corner of the docks. The two seemed to hesitate for a moment, noticing the proximity at which you both stood. A short, sharp sigh escapes your nose as you glance between Steve, Wanda, and James.

Reluctantly, you pull back, instantly missing the warmth of his touch. Even from a distance, you can see the wide grin that both Steve and Wanda sport. You expected a lengthy integration when you were next alone with Wanda.

“I think you need to fasten a bell on Steve.” You mumble lowly, and James chuckles, briefly rubbing your back before once again gently leading you up the docks.

“He does have a way of interrupting us, doesn’t he?”

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