Once upon a time in a far away kingdom, a princess lay in an enchanted sleep, dreaming of her prince and of true love's kiss…


In the golden afternoon sunshine of a fairy tale kingdom, a king paces.

He is tall and strong and proud; the picture of what a king and warrior should be. He prowls through his office with feline grace, his intensely focused eyes glittering with frustration.

The leader of the king's personal bodyguard stands beside the doorway, watching her liege with a calm that does not fully conceal her amusement.

It is unusual to see her king, who so prides himself on his self-control, struggling so much to maintain his composure. Then again, that very same lack of composure is a very good indicator of how serious the situation is. The last time she had seen the king so discombobulated, it was because he had been trying to woo the woman who became his wife.

If that is indeed the case again… well. It will be interesting to see the reactions of the country's elders, should the king's consort once again be an outsider.

Then again, Okoye thinks, perhaps she is getting ahead of herself. It is not as though the king has managed to declare his interest as of yet; if she has interpreted his agitation correctly (and they have been friends since childhood, so of course she has), T'Challa has only very recently become aware of his feelings himself. Perhaps as recently as this morning, in fact, when they watched the intaka in question take off for an early morning run through the jungle. Okoye is quite certain she saw T'Challa swallow his own tongue.

A formidable warrior, her king; a dedicated leader, a genius engineer, and a good man. But he is utterly hopeless at matters of the heart. Part of that is his natural reserve, and in part it is due to the inevitable clash between public duty and private desire. But mostly, Okoye thinks, the problem is T'Challa's own healthy dislike of, and resistance to, factors outside of his own control.

Fortunate, then, that this king has the help and support of his Dora Milaje. He can trust their complete discretion and their dedication to his happiness. Moreover, he can brainstorm with them, find ways to woo the object of his affections.

Assuming, of course, that that king allows himself to believe that this relationship is something he is allowed to take for himself.

"Okoye," T'Challa says suddenly. "How are our guests settling in?"
Okoye tilts her head in consideration. "Captain Rogers hardly ever leaves Sergeant Barnes' side. Agent Barton and Mr. Lang have been reunited with their children. Miss Maximoff and Senior Airman Wilson seem… restless."
"Restless?" the king asks, perking up like a predator scenting blood.
"They have nothing to do, my king, except hide from the eyes of the world," Okoye replies. "Especially for a warrior of Senior Airman Wilson's caliber, this must be difficult."
"Mmm," T'Challa muses, rubbing his jawline. "Yes, I can see that. Perhaps…" he says slowly, glancing out the window toward the lush jungle. "Perhaps if they get to know our people, our city, they will find an occupation they enjoy."
"I think it a good idea," Okoye nods. "Shall I arrange for Princess Shuri to-"
"No, no. I shall do it," T'Challa interrupts before nearly running out the door.

As she follows, Okoye allows herself the luxury of a smirk. The old saying is true; man may be the head, but woman is the neck, and she can turn him as she chooses.


In the harsh, white, artificial light of a medical ward straight out of a science fiction novel, a knight sits.

He wears no armor, nor does he bear any crest or shield; he has willingly sacrificed all of that. Exiled from his country, he owes loyalty to no king, though he has pledged himself to the King of Wakanda's service in thanks for the king's hospitality. But even without his title or heraldry, he remains a knight, and he sits vigil, bearing witness to this battle he cannot fight.

To an outside observer, perhaps this scene does not resemble a battle. There are no intruders; no blows are exchanged, nor is there any siren's song of adrenaline-fueled heroics. There is just the lone knight in a plush armchair, ever at his post, watching over his sleeping comrade.

But this is absolutely a battle; yet another battle in the most important war the knight has ever fought. He is not doing his duty for his country this time; nor is he fighting monstrous creatures from outer space, or his own shield brothers in a philosophical dispute gone too far. No, this war is more nefarious, and more desperate; it is a fight for the heart, mind and soul of the man trapped in his crystalline coffin.

The doctors have tried to explain the science to him. There is no pain, they hasten to assure him; his brother is safely entombed in a deep coma, and knows nothing of time's passage.

The knight has slept in ice. He remembers the dark, the cold.

He would never consider such a sleep to be freedom. It is strange to him that his brother has chosen this, considers it safety.

Then again, his brother has been dead for a very long time. Perhaps at this point, it is easier to be dead than alive.

Perhaps he is selfish for trying to drag his brother kicking and screaming into the land of the living. Perhaps after so many decades of fighting, of killing, of serving the powers of evil, it is cruel to ask more. Perhaps there is no coming back from hell.

Despite the warmth of this tropical fairy tale land, the knight shivers against the echo of ice water filling his lungs, numbing his brain, sinking into his bones.

He hates that he cannot fight this battle against his brother's damaged brain tissue and injured soul. He hates that he cannot feed his blood into his brother, and force the magical potion that flows through his veins to add its strength to the weaker concoction in his brother's. He hates that there are no easy answers, that he cannot force his friend well with the strength of his wishes or the depth of his faith in his brother's strength.

For his brother must be strong, no matter what he believes of himself. To survive the unspeakable hell he did, to endure so much horror and to come out the other side with any shred of sanity left, let alone a determination to do good, to atone… That implies more strength and courage than anything the knight has ever been lauded for.

His brother has always been the better man.

The knight sighs, reaching out a hand to lay on the glass coffin. It galls him that he cannot take his brother's hand, as they used to when he was the one sick in bed. He needs so badly to touch his friend, to feel the physical reality of him, lest he blink and discover this has all been a dream. It hurts, to have his brother so close and yet so hopelessly far away.

Out of desperation, he begins to talk. There are no microphones to transmit his voice to his brother's ears. Even if there were, the doctors have told him that his brother's coma is too deep for him to hear. The knight does not care. No matter how delirious he became when he was sick as a child, he was always aware of when his brother was sitting by his bedside. Sometimes, he is sure he remembers his friend talking to him through his fevered delirium.

You listen to me, Steven Grant Luke Rogers… Don't you dare leave me, you little punk… Stay alive stay alive stay…

"You listen to me, James Buchanan Michael Barnes," he whispers, clenching his fists and wishing not for the first time that he had his ma's glass bead rosary with him. "Don't you dare leave me, you dumbass bastard jerk. Don't you dare leave me alone. I lost you once and I ain't doin' it again, you hear me? You need your rest, I know that; you deserve that. But don't you dare die on me."

Steve draws a shaky inhalation as his throat tightens and his eyes fill with tears. The bitter burn of guilt in the pit of his stomach is familiar; he has carried it since he hung along the side of a damaged train car in the Alps a lifetime ago, watching this man plunge into a ravine. He thinks he will always carry it; he thinks it is too light a punishment for what he did and failed to do.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "God, Buck, I'm so sorry. This shouldn't have happened to you."

The guilt flares hot, burning its way up into what remains of Steve's heart. My fault, pulses the guilt, whispering to the beat of his heart. My fault, my fault, my fault…

"I was so selfish," he confesses, a martyr to the only church he knows anymore. "I got you back, after Azzano, and I barely even stopped to ask if you'd go with me. I just assumed you'd be there, like always. You were always there, cleanin' up after me, pullin' me outta trouble. And the one time you needed me, I couldn't even return the favor."

Steve sniffs, impatiently wiping away the tears. It hurts to make his confession. But is this not what he deserves? What does this small pain matter, compared to the pain he condemned Bucky to? He had left Bucky with no hope and no way out; he deserves everything he feels right now.

"I'm… I'm still selfish, aren't I?" he asks, his voice small with fear and shame. "Because I can't let you go. I want you back, no matter what the cost. Is… Am I as bad as Hydra?"

A voice echoes through Steve's memory, warm and steadfast beneath the precise, clipped consonants.

Did you love your friend? Did you respect him? Then give Barnes the dignity of his choice.

Steve huffs, leaning forward so he can rest both hands and his forehead against the glass of Bucky's chrysalis. It is cold, so cold; he can feel the cryogenic gasses pressing against the glass, and the chill seeps through his skin into his bones. Perhaps he and Bucky should fall into a cold sleep together.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I know you chose this. We'll get you better, I promise. And when you wake up, I'll never force you into anything, ever again. You'll never have to fight, okay? Or go on the run. We'll… We'll find something else."

He tries very hard not to remember the menacing, strangely humanoid robotic voice mocking him.

God's Righteous Man, pretending you can live without a war…

Shut up, he whispers frantically.

He has Bucky's recovery to focus on; that is more than enough of a war for the rest of their lives.


In the heavy cold of absolute darkness, a shadow hides.

He was a man once, he thinks. He is pretty sure that was once true. He is not sure what he is now; a ghost maybe, or a memory. Perhaps he is his own dream of who he was, or who he was supposed to be.

He does not remember darkness, exactly, but he knows it. He knows this utter lack of anything; he thinks he created this darkness. A place to hide, back in that time it hurts to be aware of.

He does not have to think about that time, here. Here, he is safe.

He does not remember exactly why he is hiding. Is he in danger, or is he the dangerous one? Did he choose to come here, or was he shoved back here?

It does not matter. Either way, here he is.

It is good here, he thinks. There are no white-hot flashes of pain dancing in his limbs or swarms of whispers crawling in his brain like stinging ants. Pursuer or pursued, he is alone here, and this is a relief.

Except…

He is not, he knows with sudden clarity. He is never alone, even here. There is an infinity outside of the darkness. A whirlwind of hurts and howling and hurricanes of words and images that make no sense; and in that eternal, infinite storm, he is hunted. But here in the darkness where it's safe, he is hunter; this is where he hid the Light.

He is not alone.

He does not remember who he is or why the Light is important. But he knows his Light. Here in the dark, where there are no words, the details do not matter. It does not matter who or why the Light must be protected; all that matters is that he is, and the Light is, and they must continue to be.

He does not remember having a body capable of movement or of the darkness having features, but he is sitting against a wall, leaning against the Light. The Light is small and fragile; it could so easily be broken. It is why he had hidden the Light in the darkness in the first place, even though the Light hated being hidden. He was meant to shine, but the shadow could never bear the threat of his Light being taken from him.

He has always been greedy and selfish where his Light is concerned. As beautiful as the Light is and as much as he knows he should surrender it so it can illuminate the world… He cannot. The Light is his, and he cannot bear the idea of giving it up.

The Light envelops him, drowning him in alien warmth. He gasps, clings to it like a dying man, greedily pulling that beautiful, delicious heat into his frozen core.

"Don't go," he whispers frantically, clinging to his Light. "Don't go, don't leave me. God, don't leave me alone, just… stay…"
"Never," the Light whispers, reaching into the ghost's chest and cradling his frozen heart. "Haven't left you yet, have I? You've kept me safe, all this time. I ain't leavin' now."

He has no concrete physical senses here in the dark. He knows his Light does not have features. But he looks at his Light, and he knows what he is seeing. Clear blue eyes burning with righteous fury, long clever artist's fingers, a voice as smooth and deep as a good scotch.

"My Light," he whispers reverently. "My Captain."
His Light grins. "Your Alexander."

The ghost shivers, his eyes drifting shut as his Light – his Captain – traces a finger along his jaw, the warmth setting him ablaze.

"My Shadow," he whispers tenderly. "My Soldier. My Hephaestion."

The Shadow, the Soldier shudders, the wintry ice at his core throbbing painfully at the reminder that he is the hunter, he is the darkness, he is the evil where the Light is the good.

"Hey, no," the Light says, surrounding the Shadow with warmth again. "Stop. We're both here, right? You and me. Like always. Nobody can take you away from me."
The Shadow shakes his head. "Other way around. This is my head we're hidin' in."
The Light's smile slowly slips away, his hands framing the Shadow's face. "We can't stay here, you know."

The Shadow makes a pained noise, weakly trying to withdraw from those awful words.

Why not? Why can they not remain here, hidden and safe in the dark? They are safe. The whispers cannot reach them here; even the cold cannot freeze the Shadow solid again, not with the Light here to keep him warm.

It is peaceful here, in this darkness at the edge of the world, just out of reach of the hurricane of electricity and blood. Why can he not have peace? Does he not deserve it? He does not remember what he did Before, in the time of the hurricane, but he knows it was horrible, and he knows he will never be free of it. But he can sit outside of it, here, so why should he not? It was the only freedom he was going to get…

"This isn't freedom," the Light says, shaking his head and staring with serious, beautiful blue eyes. "This isn't peace. This is fear."

The Light stands. They are standing on a narrow cliff face, a ledge barely large enough for two. Before them stretches a shaky expanse of bridge, barely wider than their feet. The swaying, crumbling metal bridge reaches over a deep ravine, before ending abruptly a pace before the Light's feet.

The Shadow freezes, the ice in his soul clenching as he stares. Snow stings his cheeks and the wind howls in his ears as he stares, transfixed, at the yawning chasm below.

He is a dead man staring at his own grave.

He shakes his head wildly, desperately trying to back further away onto the cliff. "I can't. No. Stevie, I can't…"

His Light – his Captain – his Stevie smiles, an incongruous, tiny figure dressed in a threadbare shirt and suspenders in the middle of an October snowstorm. Tiny and sickly and God, so fucking beautiful.

Steve reaches a hand out, smiling like his own personal guardian angel.

"C'mon, Buck," he says, voice jarringly gentle against the howling wind. "You and me. Or are you gonna leave me here all alone?"

Bucky stares, petrified, horrified. There is no bridge; they will plunge to their deaths. He cannot do this again; he will fall and he will die and Steve will not save him this time…

"Go on," he says hoarsely. "Just get out of here."

Echoes, whispers, screaming… heated steel girders and greedy licking flames… separated by a chasm, no way out…

Steve smiles again and shakes his head. Bucky knows his answer before he opens his mouth.

"Not without you," they whisper together.

Bucky takes Steve's hand and steps onto the bridge.


Author's Note: I'm using Google Translate, so as always, apologies for the inevitable inaccuracies.

Intaka – Xhosa for "bird"