(A/N: Y'all ready for some rootin' tootin' arrow shootin' action? :D This story is set when Will was still apprenticed to Halt. Also, I'm using Clint's Civil War costume, but instead of one quiver for both trick and regular arrows, I gave him one quiver for regular arrows and another for trick arrows.)

When the arrow was seven eighths of the way to Loki, Clint disappeared into thin air. He began to glow green, not like Loki with his signature emerald green, but with the greens that one might find in the shadows of an ancient forest, mottled and cool. Clint had barely a moment to blink before he simply… wasn't there.

Before Clint even opened his eyes, he knew that something wasn't right. That definitely wasn't his and Laura's Tempurpedic mattress underneath him and he was pretty sure that his room didn't usually smell like horse dung. He cracked his eyes open, peered around the room, and flopped his head back onto his pillow, holding back the exasperated groan that crawled up his throat. Yeah, he definitely wasn't in Kansas anymore.

The room that he found himself in was fairly sparse, with a paper- and book-strewn table underneath a window that was paned with translucent canvas instead of glass. There was also a small nightstand next to his bed, which felt like its mattress was stuffed with straw. A large chest sat at the end of the bed and an unlit oil lamp was on the nightstand. As Clint sat up and took another look around the room, he could also see a rustic, beaten up leather case in the corner that probably held some sort of stringed instrument and a vase of wildflowers on the windowsill. Other than that, the room was bare, with no paintings or paint on the wooden walls and no rug to cover the floor.

The sounds of a door creaking open and two pairs of soft footsteps entering the room adjacent to Clint made him turn to look at the door, his back ramrod straight and his muscles tensed.

"I swear, he just appeared in front of me!" There was a soft chunk as someone closed the door. The voice seemed to be that of a young man or even a teenager. "Right in front of my target! I almost shot him." This last declaration was quieter, but Clint's hearing aids still managed to pick it up. He felt his chest, thankful that there wasn't a bullet hole underneath his fingers.

"You said he collapsed?" This voice was deeper, rougher. Clint imagined someone of similar height to Thor, probably with either a pot belly or huge muscles. "Where did you put him?"

"I carried him into my room," the youth replied. Clint blinked in surprise. At his last physical exam, he had weighed just over 200 pounds. I couldn't have been easy for the youth to lift him. "He was still asleep the last time I checked."

"Good. We'll let him rest for a bit." There was a pause. "He's an archer." Clint frowned as there was another pause and a grunt. "This has a pretty good draw weight as well, especially for a recurve bow. This thing has to have at least 150 pounds of force behind it." There was a low whistle of appreciation.

Clint's eye widened and he quickly cast his gaze around the room. He saw—or rather, didn't see—exactly what he expected. His bow was missing, as was his two quivers. The two men must be examining his equipment. Strangely, his gun was still strapped to his thigh. Why would they take some of his weapons and not the others?

"What kind of metal is this?" Clint's attention was pulled back to the voices as the older one spoke again.

"I don't know, Halt," the younger one replied with a huff. "I've never seen anything like it before."

Clint frowned. Sure, his bow was made from a lighter, stronger material than most bows, but these men should have at least recognized it as some sort of steel alloy. Stark never did tell Clint what exactly was in it.

The older man—the younger one had called him Halt, which struck Clint as a particularly… unique name—grunted again. "Neither have I."

"And his arrows are strange as well," the youth added. "They seem to be made of a material that I can't even begin to identify and their broadheads have a very odd shape." Clint could hear the clacking of his arrows in his quiver. "I don't even know how a blacksmith could forge that shape."

Clint frowned at that. Didn't these people know about modern manufacturing techniques?

"And in this one," the young man continued, "none of the shafts are even connected to arrowheads! And I'm not even sure if these are even arrowheads in the first place. I don't even know what they would be used for." Those must be his trick arrows in his second quiver. Based on the technological ineptitude that he had observed from these two so far, he was glad that the explosive ones could only be set off using the controls on his bow. "And it isn't just his bow and arrows, Halt. His clothing was made of a material that I couldn't recognize either. And the way he just appeared… Halt, he wasn't there and then, in the blink of an eye, he just appeared out of thin air! I don't—"

"Will!" Halt yelled, stopping the younger man in his tracks. He continued in a quieter, more soothing tone, "Don't worry. We'll figure it out. I'm sure that there's a completely rational explanation for this."

Clint nearly laughed. His explanation was far from rational.

"Now," Halt continues, "you can start making coffee while I go and check on our guest."

Clint's eyes widened as footsteps approached his door. In the space of a second, he had rolled off the bed, putting it between himself and the door as he drew his gun and leveled it at the door. These people could be harmless, but there was always the off chance that they could be trained killers.

The door swung open moments later to admit someone that was most definitely not Thor-like in any aspect other than his wild and rustic appearance. The man was actually shorter than average height, with salt and pepper hair that looked as if it had been cut with a weed whacker and an unruly beard that seemed to have received the same treatment. As strange as his hair seemed, his clothing was even stranger. He was wearing brown pants, simple leather boots, a leather bracer on his left arm, and a long green tunic that reached to his mid-thigh. The tunic was cinched with a leather belt that had a dull brass buckle. At his hip hung a scabbard with two brass-pommeled knives. One was larger and was probably used for hacking through vegetation while the smaller one seemed to be a throwing knife, although Clint couldn't be sure while it was sheathed. Around the man's shoulders was a long cloak that reached almost all the way to the floor. The cloak was colored green and grey in a mottled pattern and Clint suspected that it was most likely a form of camouflage. Around his neck hung a silver oak leaf that glinted in the filtered sunlight.

The man simply stared at Clint, his eyes half lidded in an unimpressed expression with a single eyebrow raised in challenge.

"What are you going to do with that thing? Club me?" He turned back towards the door, leaving it open for Clint to follow behind. "Come on, you must be hungry."

Clint was speechless for a few seconds as he stared after his host. He quickly checked his clip and chamber in confusion. Yep, all of his ammunition was still there. Why did Halt not even bat an eye at a loaded gun?

He slowly slipped the gun back into its holster and rounded the bed, approaching the door with even, careful steps. He stopped in the doorway to examine the small room in front of him, which consisted of a wooden table, three rickety wooden chairs, a cabinet, and a small woodstove. Two unstrung wooden bows leaned next to the door. One was a recurve bow and the other a longbow. Clint surmised that the longbow was probably Halt's due to the larger draw weight. Two leather quivers, one with black-feathered arrows and one with grey, leaned next to them. Based on the lack of recognition that Halt had shown moments before, Will had probably almost impaled him with an arrow earlier rather than a bullet.

The young man in question was putting a copper kettle on the stove when Clint came in, but turned to examine his and Halt's guest. Just like Halt, the teenager was shorter than how Clint imagined him. The boy couldn't be any older than 18, with thin, wiry limbs and closely cropped brown hair. He was dressed similarly—no, identically—to Halt, with the same double scabbard, cloak, and oak leaf necklace, although Will's was bronze rather than silver. If Clint couldn't see the vast differences in facial features, he would have said that the two were father and son.

Will seemed to be studying Clint as blatantly as he was studying Will. The young man's piercing gaze seemed to go right through Clint and he fought the urge to shift uncomfortably. Suddenly, Will broke out into a wide easy grin and wiped his hands on his pants before approaching Clint with one of his hands extended. Clint hesitated only a second before he clasped Will's hand firmly in his and smiling back.

"It's good to see you awake. I'm Will," the youth said as he released Clint's hand, "and that's Halt." He gestured behind him to where Halt had taken a seat at the table.

Clint nodded and leaned against the doorjamb with his arms crossed over his chest. "I know. I overheard you two talking earlier." Despite his relaxed posture, Clint kept his feet planted firmly on the ground, his muscles ever-so-slightly tensed. As Coulson had told him during his training, "Always assume that you're in danger. That way, you won't be surprised when you find that you are." Of course, this stance didn't go unnoticed by the other men. Halt nodded to himself. If he suddenly found himself unarmed in a house surrounded by strangers, he would be a little tense, too.

"Do you have a name?" Halt asked.

Clint hesitated for only a moment, but it was enough to make Halt disbelieve his next few words. "I'm called Hawkeye." If these guys didn't know about modern technology, then he doubted that they would know about his identity as a hero either, but he still wanted to see if the name would ring any bells.

Halt raised an eyebrow. "Your real name, Hawkeye." Apparently not.

"My name is Clint Barton. But I wasn't lying, people really do call me Hawkeye."

Halt nodded, motioning for Clint to take the third chair at the table. "And why is that?" The kettle began to whistle and Will stood to pour the rich black coffee into three cups.

Clint chuckled, shaking his head as he took his seat. "It's a long story."

Halt smiled. "Fair enough. There'll be time for that later. Where are you from, Clint?"

"New York City," Clint replied. He watched the other men's faces in the hope of a look of recognition or a nod. Their confused frowns only strengthened Clint's fears. He was a long, long way from home.

"Never heard of it," Will said as he set Clint's coffee in front of him. He took his own seat and spooned some honey into his coffee from the pot at the center of the table, frowning pensively the whole time. "Is that in Gallica?"

Now it was Clint's turn to frown. This was getting worse and worse for him by the minute. "Gallica? Is that in Europe?"

Will shook his head, his frown turning confused. "No. I've never even heard of Europe. Gallica's a large country across the Narrow Sea."

Clint leaned back in his chair with a sigh of resignation, his coffee forgotten. He might as well ask the question that had been plaguing him. "Where am I now?"

"You're in Araluen. Redmont fief, to be exact, just outside Castle Redmont," Halt replied, his head tilted to the side, as he regarded Clint, his face giving away nothing.

Clint locked eyes with him, his mouth set in a determined line. "What year is it?"

Halt hesitate briefly, glancing to Will, who shrugged. He turned back to Clint. "It's the 634th year of the common era. Were you expecting something different?"

Clint let out and exasperated groan, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table and shoved the heels of his palms into his eyes as his fears were confirmed. He was nearly fourteen centuries in the past. That would explain the rudimentary tech and differences in countries.

"I swear to God, I'm going to kill that horned bastard when I get back." He didn't dare replace that "when" with something shorter and more uncertain. He couldn't give up hope, not yet. That spell could have just as easily sent him into a coma and this could all just be in his head. He shook his head. If only his life were that simple.

Halt spoke again, this time in a more commanding tone. "Clint, are you from another year?"

Clint raised his head to look Halt in the eyes, willing him to believe his next words. "Yes. I'm from the year 2017."

Both of his cloaked hosts froze. Will stared at him in slack-jawed disbelief while Halt regarded him with impassive scrutiny. After several seconds of uneasy silence, Halt leaned back in his seat gestured regally towards Clint. "Prove it."

Clint blinked. He had been expecting some sort of exclamation of disbelief or confusion, not a calm and collected request for proof. He tilted his head in thought before experimentally patting his pockets. He had thought of using his phone, but he had left that at the tower. Who needed a phone when you had com links to communicate with your team mates? The only things he had on him were weapons. He guessed that that would have to do.

"You've already commented on the material that makes up my bow, arrows, and clothing," Clint began as he leaned back in his seat, his hands folded in his lap. "My bow is made from a steel alloy, which hasn't even been invented yet. The string is made from synthetic fibers, as are my clothes, which are resistant to most blades and projectiles. My arrows are plastic, which hasn't been invented yet either, with steel tips and they can do much more that pierce armor or flesh. They also explode, put out fires, start fires, and do anything else that the scientists and engineers at S.H.I.E.L.D. deemed necessary for me to do my job." He smoothly pulled his gun from the holster on his thigh and set it on the table before leaning back again and crossing his arms over his chest. "That's a gun," he said, nodding to the weapon. "It shoots metal projectiles at a velocity so fast that you can barely see them, allowing them to pierce through practically any material, as long as it's in a thin enough layer." He scooped the weapon back up and replaced it in its holster. He watched as Halt's eyebrows rose. He was probably remembering how Clint had pulled the thing on him earlier. He quickly continued. "I guess you'll want more than my word. Do you have a place where I can shoot?"

Halt and Will stared at each other for a moment or two before Halt nodded. Will quickly stood, motioning for Clint to grab his bow and quivers with a grin. "Follow us. We have one out back."

Several minutes later, the three of them were standing a hundred and fifty feet from a scarred wooden target that had been nailed to a tree. Will and Halt stood to one side, their cowls slid back and their arms crossed as they watched Clint take his stance.

"Halt, he can't possibly be from the future," Will murmured, just loud enough for Halt to hear. "It just isn't possible."

Halt grunted as he watched Clint put five arrows into the center of the target in rapid succession, each within centimeters of the last. "You said it yourself, Will. He appeared right in front of you, which isn't possible. His clothes and weapons are make from materials that don't exist, which isn't possible. Maybe it's about time that we started accepting the impossible."

Clint heard every word of the exchange. Sometimes having hearing aids could come in really handy, especially when those hearing aids were developed by Tony Stark himself. As soon as Tony found out about Clint's disability, he immediately paid to have Clint's implants replaced with new and improved Stark tech, which actually gave Clint above-average hearing. Clint smiled in relief as he went to collect his arrows. At least they didn't think that he was crazy.

"Do you want me to demonstrate the exploding ones?" Clint asked, grinning as he walked back to the two cloaked figures. The fact that he was so excited about that prospect should have been worrying.

Halt smiled and shook his head. "I think a demonstration of your 'gun' should be enough."

Clint set his bow on the ground and shrugged with a resigned smile. "If you say so."

In one smooth motion, he turned, drew his gun, and fired a single round at the target. The two archers jumped at the sound and Will even had to glance at the sky to be sure that what he heard hadn't been a crack of thunder. Clint chuckled at their reaction, motioning for them to follow him to the target. The two men followed behind in bewilderment. Neither of them had seen any sign of a projectile.

"So how does that thing work?" Will asked as they walked the hundred fifty feet, nodding to the gun that Clint had replaced in his holster.

Clint hummed in thought. "Well," he said, tilting his head to consider the question, "the bullet is basically propelled by a small, controlled explosion." He slid the gun back out of its holster, deftly removing the clip to show Will the bullets inside as Halt watched from Will's other side. "There's a small amount of gunpowder in there which is ignited by a striking pin within the gun that is activated when I pull this trigger." He replaced the clip. "The explosion propels the bullet out of the barrel and towards the target," he concluded, sliding the gun back into his holster.

"That's ingenious!" Will exclaimed, grinning widely. Halt ducked his head to hide his amused grin. "How long does it take to reload?"

"The bullets are replaced automatically from the clip once they're fired, so it only takes as long as it takes for me to pull the trigger again." Clint waved his had dismissively. "But replacing the clip only takes me about two seconds."

Both Will's and Halt's eyebrows rose in surprise. That was certainly faster than any bowman could manage.

"Why use a bow when you've got that?" Will asked.

Clint shrugged with a smile. "I guess I just like my bow better. Besides, bullets don't usually explode."

Before either of the other men could comment on that, they had reached the target. Clint ran his finger over the center, where his bullet was just poking out of a ragged hole. Halt deftly freed his saxe knife from his scabbard, causing Clint's eyes to widen at the sharp serrated edge. Halt carefully pried the bullet from the wood, examining the piece of now-deformed metal in amazement.

He passed it to Will for him to examine before turning to Clint with a resigned sigh. "I think it's about time that we went and saw Baron Arald."

(A/N: Guess who's a high-school gra-du-aaate! :D Sorry guys with school trips and graduating and whatnot I literally haven't worked on this is two weeks. :( It probably won't get any better because I am preparing for college and I'm getting a job, but I promise that I WILL NOT drop this story!)