Warnings to come by chapter, this one contains fairly accurate representations of war, and life for the prewar years. character death, miscarriage. tell me if I missed one.

Chapter 1: Prologue

There was always potential within Steve Rogers, whether he knew it or not. It was this potential that made him the perfect subject for the Erskine Serum; but there is more to his tale than just being a little scrawny kid from Brooklyn. His tale stretches back to the earliest days of Christianity and to another world all together. This is the tale of the House of Arthadan, and the two descendants that, beyond reason and vision, changed the course of the Future. This tale is that of a light that sprung up unlooked for within a house of nobility and royalty, and that guided the World through the Shadows of War and back into the light of Freedom. This is the story of Steve Rogers and James Buchanan Barnes, though it may not seem it at times, and their trials through War and Death, into resurrection and new life.

But first as with all tales, we must start at the beginning.

It began truly that horrid day when mighty Numenor fell into the depths of the sea. As you all know the tale, you would know that, though the great isle was sank beneath the Great Wave that rose over the hills and mountains of the land of the Men of the West, there were survivors that were carried away in the ships of the Faithful. In these ships were the last descendants of Numenor, and among them were Elendil and his two sons, Anarion and Isildur. A great many of the Faithful were counted among those pledged to Elendil's house and that of his sons.

But among these ships was one Man whose fate was to forever change. His name was Arthadan, and he was Elendil's younger brother, indeed his only brother. He was a very young Numenorean; he was not yet past his sixtieth birthday when he was given charge of a great portion of the host of the Faithful. He was on a separate ship than his brother and led a host of ten ships packed to the brim with men, women, children, and horses; as well as no small amount of wealth carried by each of the families in trunks and chests. His own wealth was small compared to that of his brother and Nephews but it was still considerable. In total those that he led away from Doomed Numenor numbered over two and a half million fighting Men (this number did not count the women and children not yet of age in the eyes of Numenoreans) and this was a considerable force.

As he sailed away from his only homeland, keeping his eyes on his brother and the ships of his nephews, he and his portion of the fleet was caught by the same wave that sent Elendil to the north to what would become Arnor and his nephews south to what would become Gondor; but instead of begin sent off course and landing with his brother or nephews, his fleet was caught in a storm that flung them further south than even Anarion or Isildur.

Arthadan kept in constant contact with his ships as the storm threw them further and further way from shore, shouting over the howling winds and fighting with the wheel of the ship in a hope to keep his charges from meeting a watery grave. The storm grew worse and Arthadan clung to the ship's wheel with his fading strength. In desperation, he cried out to the heavens, "My God, My God, why hast thou forsaken me? What have I done to incur thy wrath? I beg thee, oh Lord of the heavens, of the winds and the waves, send us a guide; a sign to guide our path to our new home, where we might repent of our sins before thine eyes and return to thee as thy children again!"

By some miracle, some divine will of God, Arthadan's prayer was answered in that moment, when before him the sea seemed to shine before the prow of the lead ship, his ship. It started as a small and single ray of light as wide as the ship and it grew, becoming wider and wider until the whole size of it was a wide as the number of ships to either side of his own. Arthadan smiled and rode the waves into the light, crying out for the other ships to do the same. The wind that hand blown them about upon the sea like a cork, now blew with purpose, the purpose of the Will of God, and the ten ships sailed into it.

All at once, when Arthadan's ship past through the light, the waves were silent and the wind calmed. Arthadan looked back and saw that the other ships had made it, before he looked about him again. Not only had the wind calmed and the waves become more sedate, there was not a cloud in the sky to suggest that they were even in such a storm not moments ago. Arthadan's confusion was shared among the men as they gazed about them at the strange sea that now boar their ships. Arthadan looked to the sky with a smile and spoke softly.

"Thy Will be done, Lord of the most High. Thou hast my thanks, and that of my men. Wherever Thou hast sent us, we will endeavor to be good children and a wiser people from the lessons we have learned. Guide us to where we need to be, Lord, and we will go; I will go." With that the winds blew strongly east and Arthadan steered his ship to let the wind and waves carry them; following the birds that soared on them to land.

The azure blue sea carried them for many hours, through the day and into the night. Arthadan stayed at the wheel, though his exhaustion was great and his need for food and rest gnawing at his weary mind. It was not until the light of the first dawn began to break that Arthadan finally had reason to rest; the look out, that stayed in the crow's nest all night, had turned his wearied eyes once more to the horizon and saw the faintest glimpse of land. Screaming loudly so that all the ships would hear, he cried, "Land, there is Land!" over and over until those on the ships began to come out of the passenger and cargo holds and strain their eyes to the eastern horizon. Sure enough, one of the sharpest eyed among them cried out as well, "Land! I can see it!" Arthadan looked up and saw the faintest outline of Land, before he sagged in relief. He handed the wheel over to his lieutenant and staggered into his cabin and collapsed on his bed; he was asleep in moments. ~*

Now, why, you are asking, am I telling you this? It is simple and you must have a bit of patience. You'll see your beloved duo soon enough. But if you want me to speed it up, I will. This part will be a bit briefer than the last.

Upon their arrival into the new lands, Arthadan and his people came to realize that they were no longer in the world of Arda marred, but upon a different world they came to know as Terra. It was a world very different and yet, it was still the same as the old one. It was here that Arthadan and his people found forgiveness for their sins in the eyes of God. The land that they had seen on the horizon was the coast of Judea and the land of Israel. Arthadan left the ships and with his most trusted lords, he wandered the land on foot and on horseback. It was during these wanderings that he came upon a gathering of people listening to a man speak and teach. Arthadan and his men harkened to his words and found them just and wise. When the crowd had disbursed for the night and the man and his followers were alone, Arthadan approached him. Much has fallen into legend about that day; but what I can tell you, that is truth, was that the moment the teachers eyes locked with Arthadan, the Numenorean lord fell to his knees trembling and bowed low before him; his face in the dirt, and his hands on his head, as he shook with tears of sorrow and repentance.

The people of Numenor, displaced and lost found repentance and forgiveness in God through His Son that day and ever after they devoted their lives to thanking God for the gift they were given.

Arthadan and his followers came to know Christ that day and Arthadan followed the Son of Man and listened to his teachings, writing down the words he said and asking for stories, from those that knew him, of earlier teachings. Soon Arthadan and his people had all that they could ever want and more in the written teaching. Arthadan was young by the counting of his people but he was wise and kind, thus when he heard that the Philistines had the Teacher arrested and tried with Heresy, Arthadan rushed to Jerusalem to do something; but by the time he had gotten there it was too late: the Romans were marching Him and two other prisoners down to Golgotha to be Crucified. Arthadan watched helpless as they nailed his Lord to the cross and hung him from the Tree on the hill.

Yes, he was there. Arthadan was there that horrid day. And he mourned and cried with Mary, His mother, and watched and heard Him take His final breath. It was here on the Hill of the Skulls that Arthadan met the man who would become his Father-in-Law: Joseph of Arimathea. Joseph had taken a mysterious bride some thirty years before, and the bride had borne him a daughter before she past. The bride was an elf maid of unfathomable beauty; beauty that rivaled that of Luthien herself. Joseph named her Sarah, and her mother called her Miriel for her jewel-like radiance.

When the prophecies were at last fulfilled and the Days of the early Church were founded, Joseph met with Arthadan to ask what he and his kin would do now that things had changed. Arthadan told him that he would search for a new home for his people and try to bring the Word to wherever they went, and to whomever they met. At long last he asked Joseph if he would grant him a single boon: his daughter's hand in marriage. Joseph, hesitant to marry his only daughter off to just any man, was delighted to have his new friend and Brother in Christ become his Son-in-Law; and so the two were arranged to meet and Court formally for a year before it would be decided whether they would wed or not.

As it would turn out, the two of them fell deeply in love and did wed that next year. It seemed that life was about to become good for the young lord, but fate has a way of turning on you when you least expect it to. Rome turned its eyes on the fledging group of Christian Numenoreans and their eyes turned green with envy and greed. They attacked one of the settlements set up in the east but fell to the superior technological and military might of the Numenoreans. When Arthadan heard, he took up arms and rallied his Men to fight; and fight they did. They swept across the lands of the empire like a blazing brush fire, and soon Arthadan and his armies were marching into the city of Rome itself. Arthadan rode through the streets on his mighty black war steed, as the Conqueror of Rome. He and his armies had done what none had before: crushed the might of Rome and pushed them back to the very heart of their empire. Arthadan rode up and into the senate. Here he dismounted and walked up to the emperor himself and stood as equal with the mightiest man in the world. At his back were his most trusted lords and warriors, each and every last one willing to die to save their uncrowned King, and for what they believed. The emperor looked upon Arthadan and saw a warlord clad in strange, bright armor and shining mail; his sword, long and bright, a heavy weight as his side; his great kite shield held in the hands of his lieutenant and in his right hand was a mighty lance and spear of strange make and design. This was the conqueror of Rome: a man of strength and might, shining brightly in the sun, in his armor; with a single pendant jewel strung from a silver chain about his neck, catching the sun and flashing like a star.

Arthadan spared Rome that day and showed them mercy, where they had showed none before. He left Rome just as he entered it: unharmed and untouched and perhaps a bit wiser than before. But he warned the men or power not to attempt to oppress his people again, lest he return and destroy Rome; burn it to the ground and tear down its stone work until there was nothing left for even their grandchildren to remember the might of Rome by.

This was not the last time Arthadan would enter the city of Rome as Conqueror; that was almost four hundred years later. Arthadan was no longer a young Numenorean in the springtime of his strength and youth. He had aged, and was strong but not the young man he once was. His golden locks had begun to turn silver many years before, the lines of worry and care had become etched upon his face, and though he was still strong and filled with life, he had begun to feel the years in his body and spirit. This time, at his back was not just his most trusted lords, but also his two Sons; his eldest, Aaron Laurion, and youngest, Joshua Mormegil. This time, it was the young and yearly Roman Catholic Church that had incurred his wrath to war again; and again Arthadan was merciful and gave warning before he turned back to his sons and rode home.

It was not long after that Arthadan looked out at his people and saw the bleak future ahead of them, as their numbers slowly but steadily dwindled. It was in that moment, that Arthadan felt the call of Sleep and rest. In a last act, Arthadan had his finest artisans and craftsmen recreate his armor, his sword, chainmail, and his shield and lance. Every inch of his armament was recreated down to the last detail. At long last, when the replicas were finished and construction on his burial tomb complete, Arthadan put on his armor and laid down his last. He gifted the original armor to his eldest son, and gave him the pendant he wore around his neck. All these things Arthadan treasured above all else save for his beloved wife and children; for they were gifts from Celebrimbor himself, the greatest Smith of the Second Age. Celebrimbor had a soft spot for the young lord, and saw himself within the youth; so he fashioned Arthadan his armor and weapons, and made him the pendant that Arthadan wore. Aaron knew in his heart that these were his father's final moments with them and took the gifts silently, putting on the signet ring and placing the chain around his neck.

Arthadan smiled to his sons and asked them to be brave and wise, and to lead their people where he could not. Joshua took command in the east and Aaron would lead from their home in the north of Ireland. At long last Arthadan laid down his burdens and fell in to a Death Sleep. Here in this moment age seemed to melt away from Arthadan's face, making him young again.

The following morning Arthadan's body was placed in a casket with his armor and armament, and was laid within his tomb to rest until he was needed again.

A few centuries later Arthadan's 8th descendant by his first born, Rogers founded a new house in Ireland and from then on the House or Arthadan became the House of Rogers. And halfway across the continent the descendant of Joshua's house held control of a small province in Romania and brokered a peace with the gypsy king called Barnes. ~*

It wasn't until almost nine hundred years later that the House of Rogers and Barnes met, but it was a great time for fate to align.

It was in the early years after the turn of the century, that this happened.

The year was 1913. It was a time of unrest in the land, and none sensed this more than the Numenoreans scattered around the world. In the many long centuries since Arthadan fell into his Death Sleep, the people became divided, and they disbursed throughout the lands. Many settled in the east where they landed and followed the rule of the younger son and his descendants, while the rest settled throughout the lands of the West, moving further into the west and into the remote corners left untouched by Rome. And they dwindled, their numbers growing fewer with each year. The once mighty people, whose people once numbered over five million, were now diminished. That number was halved over the years and the mighty Numenoreans, whose heroics were once remembered in songs, became a myth; though they lived, most thought the tales of their long life, inhuman strength, and cat-like reflexes, were simply that: Stories; made up fairy tales of grander days long past. Only the Numenoreans knew the truth and they resigned themselves to this fate, but fate has a way of changing when you least expect it.

This year was a year of joy in the western house or Arthadan; for the heir to this house had just married his betrothed, Sarah, daughter of the House of Beor; herself a descendant of the House of Arthadan by many descents. This union of the house of Rogers and Beor united the house of Arthadan in the west through marriage at long last. Joseph Arathan Rogers was the eldest son of his house, followed closely by his younger wilder brother, Andrew. Joseph was young and brave, and he had a fire within his spirit that burned at the sight of injustice. He was a tall man in that day, over six feet in height. He was broad of shoulder and chest, but had a trim waist. His hair was a dark burnished gold that turned to sunshine in the summer months, and his wide smile captivated every person directed at it. Joseph knew his duty was to marry a woman of Numenorean descent, but he was a man of the heart; and though they were betrothed since her birth, Joseph loved Sarah, and courted her during their long engagement. He thought her name was fitting, Sarah Tinuviel: princess of the Nightingales. Though Sarah was fair where Luthien was dark, she was a vision in those days of her youth; beautiful inside and out.

Their marriage was to bring a short time of peace to the land, but as they say: peace never lasts. Decent had broken out in the lands, and soon riots could be heard even from the remote manor on their estate. Joseph worried for his young bride and feared that the unrest could be a way that their enemies would try to wipe them out. It was as war loomed on the horizon, that Joseph began to gather his most valued heirlooms to be stored in safety. And just as Joseph had finished packing away some clothing, the worst thing that could have ever happened, shattered the peace of the young couple and brought an end to the House of Rogers rule as lords in Ireland: War broke out, and the world spiraled in to war. Ireland's distaste for British rule created the perfect storm to allow the enemies of the House of Rogers to strike and attack. A riot broke out in the town near Rogers Manor, instigated by the enemies of the Numenoreans, and pushed forward toward the estate.

Fearful for the life of his family, Joseph gathered as much of his belonging that he dared to take with him, and with the clothes on their backs, and a few bags of clothing and valuables, the two Rogers fled their home for the coast. For the first time in his life, Andrew protected his elder brother and led the rioters away from his ancestral home, and his brother and sister-in-law. The Great Hall of Castel O' Rogers was spared that night, and the loyal servants took over the care and maintenance of the estate until the Rogers could return. They could not know that neither Joseph nor Sarah would ever set foot in the great manor again; and indeed no Rogers would for many years.

Joseph took with him nothing and left everything behind; his home, his history and his family fortune. Joseph knew that their security was unsure, in the coastal town where they found themselves; so he took his mother's ring from Sarah, and sold it at a pawn shop to buy tickets for the next ship to America. It just happened that the next ship was heading out the next day for New York and Elis Island. Joseph and Sarah took the ship ride and clutched to each other fearfully throughout the voyage, knowing that at any moment the Germans could sink the ship and kill them. Thankfully the two of them make it to America. Joseph and Sarah gave their names to the man at the gate telling them that they were married. After they past the medical exams and signed the books, Joseph and Sarah went out to look for a new house and jobs to pay the bills.

Joseph was a strong man in those days, and got good work at the docks hauling crates and barrels off ships. It was hard work, but it paid well and Joseph was grateful. The manager didn't mind his Irish accent, and thought him just another Irish boy come to make his way in the world. Joseph was grateful for the anonymity, and gave no details of his life before; not knowing if there could be spies for the enemy in the city. Brooklyn was full of Irish immigrants, so another slightly odder pair didn't bat an eye with the new neighbors. Sarah was a well-educated woman versed in all kinds of healing lore and medicine, and earned a job as a nurse at the hospital caring for the worst patients. It was grueling work, but the pay was handsome, and it gave them a good apartment near some Numenoreans that came to America hoping to avoid the war in Europe.

It seemed for a time that things were good until Sarah discovered that she was pregnant. Now normally this would be a time of joy for a Numenorean couple, and it was for a time, but it did not last. Sarah lost the child late in the pregnancy, and the two mourned their baby's death greatly. Joseph promised that someday they would have a child; a strong child with her eyes, and his hair and smile, and Sarah's strong morals tied with Joseph's sense of honor and Justice and duty. It was a dream neither would see fulfilled completely.

It was not but two years later that Joseph received his Draft letter. Though afraid, he was willing to fight for the country that took him in, so he packed his things and shipped out for training. It was months before Joseph would see his beloved wife again, and when he did it was in a sharp military uniform with a bright smile on his face. Sarah found joy in every moment he was with her, knowing all too well that the relative peace would not last, and her Joe would be shipped out to Europe to fight in the Great War.

While this was happening, elsewhere in Brooklyn, a young couple found themselves in a similar boat. Another descendant of the House of Arthadan found herself in America not long before. Her name was Winifred Itarillë, and she was descended from Joshua, Arthadan's second born, though she and her family were not directly descended from that line in an unbroken chain like Joseph was. Her family came from Romania and the lands that Joshua and his descendants ruled. They had long ago opened a dialogue with the House of Rogers that one day they would unite their houses in marriage. It was planned that Winifred would wed Sarah and Joseph's first born son, but that was not to be. Unrest was in all lands at that time, and it was not many years before Joseph and Sarah fled Ireland, that Winifred's parents packed their things and fled to America; loosing valuables along the way and heirlooms, but gaining a freedom more than they had before. The last unbroken heir to the house of Joshua, son of Arthadan, had died not long before they left and thus the lands of the Numenoreans began to fade.

When Winifred arrived in New York, she was a poorer girl than most, but she was smart and well-read. She had a family that was good with money, and soon enough the family of Cúthal were well off and could afford some luxuries that most could not. In New York she met an older man by the name of Thomas George Barnes; he went by George to his friends and acquaintances. Winifred fell for him hard and deeply, and George loved her just as much. George Barnes was the son of a Gypsy king from Romania, and had come to America to leave behind the life of a wanderer and become a different man than his father. He had very little to give as a bride's price for Winifred; only the promise to protect her and love her with all of his heart. The two wed in the spring of 1916, and Winifred was given a beautiful gown of the latest fashion and glamor, made from the purest of white silks and lace, with jewels and pearls sewn to the bodice and collar. The only things that were missing were the veil and head-piece her mother wore at her wedding; lost on the trip to America.

By December, Winifred was pregnant with their first child; and though it would only be one quarter elvish, Winnie knew that it would have a strange and unusual fate. And right she was, for it was that in the early dawn of March the 10th 1917, Winifred gave birth to the first Barnes child born in America. The problem was that they could not tell if it was a boy or a girl. This shocked the attending doctor, and midwife but not the parents of the young mother. Hermaphroditism was rare but not uncommon among the Numenoreans of Terra; In fact, the condition was on the rise. Whereas one or two generations before only one in four sons would have the condition, this generation and in those after, it was one in two.

Winnie was reluctant to give their child a gender neutral Numenorean name, and wanted it to have a name to reflect its personality and the new country that had taken its parents in. The two wondered at it for a bit, and finally decided on the name James Buchanan Barnes. It was a good name and honored their new homeland quite well. The young couple said that they could just call the child Jamie for the time being. And Jamie it was called for 8 long months. During this time, many things happened; chief of which was the United States entry into the Great War. George found himself holding a draft letter one day after work, and Winnie was struck by a horrible fear that she would lose her husband to war. George told his wife he would do his duty and head for basic training as assigned in the letter.

It was here at basic, that he met Joseph Rogers; brought back into active duty with the outbreak of the War. The two men found themselves fast in friendship and comradely, and as fate would have it they would both serve in the 107th infantry of New York in the same unit until their discharge; the same unit their sons would serve and represent years later; but that is a later story. While a basic, Winnie sent a telegram to George that the Numenorean Healer had declared that their child was a Boy by his examinations, and would most likely follow that trait into adulthood; masculine with a slight softness in the lips and face that would not be noticed unless it was looked for. The boy was now 8 month old, and Winnie sent a picture of the boy in her next letter. Joseph saw the picture and yearned for a child to call his own, and prayed that his beloved wife could carry the burden.

It was not until nearly December that Joseph returned home one last time to the little apartment in Brooklyn. It was his last time to be with his wife before he shipped out, before the end of the year, for England and Europe. His only solace was that he would not see his old home, or the men that tried to have his family killed in Ireland over three years before. Joseph loved his wife, and knew without a doubt that he might die before seeing her again. Joseph was a smart man and a practical one. He knew of the death rates in the trenches of the Western front, and though young he was, his family had seen many wars over the centuries and saw enough of death on the battlefield, that he knew the chances of him coming home unharmed were slim to none. Joseph was not afraid of dying, though he thought that he would live to see many centuries pass before that happened. Both he and his wife were three quarters elvish by blood, and felt the call of the Choice in their veins; but felt that the war would take that choice out of their hands. But Joseph was courageous and had a lion heart, and feared not the sight of battle. What he did fear was leaving his wife with an empty womb, and leaving the world without an heir to take on the name of Rogers, reclaim their home and lead their people into being one race and one kin once more. Joseph felt that an heir with his blood would unite the scattered houses of Numenor and rally them under one banner; united forever against the night and the darkness that dwells therein.

So it was that Joseph returned to his wife and lay with her, and he knew her in body and spirit; and in those moments Sarah conceived and became with child. Joseph was gone the next morning, and Sarah waved her goodbyes and kissed him one last time, before he boarded the ship that would take him away to war. ~*

The War was bloody; it was not like the wars that Joseph's father had told him of, nor was it like the tales of his grandfather, faint though the memories were, of men in brightly colored uniforms and woolen coats. Joseph saw his men dying by the droves all around him, and with each new hour, Joseph thought that he would never hear from his wife again. A Chaplin was in their unit to help them deal with the horrors they saw every day, but Joseph could not speak with the man. Joseph was a young Corporal now, and had hopes that the new battle tactics being brought down from above would get him and his men out of the trenches and onto the fields. It was on this bright and early morn that Joseph was given a letter sent by his wife over a month before. Letters were a rare and wonderful treat on the front, for the men, and letters from their wives and sweethearts were even better.

When Joseph was handed the old letter, he thanked the letter carrier and sat down beside his closest buddy, George Barnes. Barnes was a Corporal himself, now, and was reading his own mail from home, when Joe sat down beside him. The two exchanged greetings, and Joseph settled in to read his letter. It was short and only one page long, but the contents within filled Joseph's heart with joy unimaginable. The letter read thusly:

"My Dearest Joseph,

These last few months have not been the same without you. I find myself missing you in all the things I do these days that you would have been here to help with. I even find myself missing your horrendous snoring, in the early mornings and late at night. I started reading those medical journals from the library to see what this so called 'modern medicine' is all about, and, darling, it is all hogwash. These so called learned men don't know a lick about how to heal a man or woman like our own Healers do. Why, you can heal better than what they can, and your gift of healing is not as strong as my own. The things that they say to do about some illnesses are absolutely barbaric! I want to scream and rave and thrash them about like ragdolls, by their lapels to make them see sense. It's no wonder that more people die in hospitals, than are cured in them. If they had the Healing Halls of our ancestors and the knowledge that they had, people might actually go to the doctor if something is wrong, rather than wait until it is life and death.

"Joseph, love, I wish you were here. And I wish that I could tell you this in person, but if it must be by the pen and letter, then so be it. I am pregnant, Joe; nearly three months along! If I am counting it right, then it was conceived the night before you left. I am due in late August or early September, and I hope to give you a picture, before you come home, to see him. I think it's a boy, Joseph; in fact I know it is. Don't ask me how, I just do. What I do want is a list of names for the baby; good strong Christian names. I want our baby to be an America child with an American name, so I think if we give it an American historical figure's name for a middle name, instead of the traditional elvish ones, he might fit it with his school mates better. I love you, Joseph Arathan Rogers, and I miss you dearly. Come home soon, and be with us. Until then, be safe and be well.

Yours forevermore in life and love,

Sarah"

Joseph sat on his stool completely dumb, so great was his shock and joy. Soon a bright and wondrous smile creased his face and twitched his thin whiskers up in a smile of their own. A laugh started to build in his chest, small chuckles and giggles erupting from his mouth, as he read and reread the letter. Clutching the letter in his hands, he let out a shout of laughter and joy, jumping from his seat and wrapping his arms around Corporal Barnes; all the while laughing and shouting out his joy.

His laughter and joy was infectious, as the men around him began to laugh at his antics and smile themselves. Barnes looked at his friend as if he had gone completely mad.

"Joe, what's gotten into you?" he said, as he tried to pry Joseph off his person. Joseph pulled away, with a wide mouthed grin splitting his face from ear to ear.

"Sarah's Pregnant, George!" he cried, tears of joy running down his cheeks, as he continued to laugh, "We're gonna have a baby!" At first Barnes was dumbfounded, until the reality of what his friend had said sank in, and then a goofy grin began to grow on his own face, until it became as wide as Joseph's. Congratulations were called out from all over the trench; each man sharing his own joy over the good news brought in the old letter.

Joseph took out a pen and pulled a piece of paper out of his journal and penned a letter back to his wife; all the while a stupid grin splitting his face and lighting up his blue eyes.

"My beloved wife, Sarah,

The news that you have given me has lifted my spirits and bolstered my strength. I never thought in my life I could be so happy, yet here I am, in the worst place in the world, and I cannot help but smile and laugh with joy.

A baby! I could never wish for a greater gift than what you have given. That God has blessed us both again with a chance to become parents is wondrous. I write this letter to you a month after you sent yours, and the day I received it. I can only hope that this letter finds you in good health and strength, and our baby strong and on its way.

I do so much hope that it is a boy, Sarah, if only to fulfill my desire for an heir to my House and that of my forebears. As for a name, I have always been fond of James, but that is far too common and I don't want to curse our child with a name that is so popular in our neighborhood. Another choice could be Joshua, but I don't think that it would fit.

I have saved the best for last my dear. I have always heard the tale that Arthadan was amazed by the strength and wisdom of St. Stephen, and said that someday a man from his House would bear that name, and carry with him the courage and wisdom marked by the martyr. The more American version of the name is Steven, so we could name him that. Steven Rogers has a nice ring to it, and if you insist on giving him a name from some historical American hero, pick one from the American Civil War. Grant is a nice name, and it can double as a middle name. It is your choice, my love, but I do hope that you are well and so is the baby. You can name it whatever you wish, as long as it is healthy and all there.

From Your loving Husband,

Joseph"

With the letter penned and signed, Joseph grabbed an envelope and some stamps. He carefully wrote out the address and placed the stamps in the corner. Joseph ran quick as a flash to the Quartermaster, in hopes that he could have the letter mailed that day. And as luck would have it, the mail heading for home was just getting ready to be sent out and Joseph slipped in his letter with the rest. Sarah got the letter faster than her husband got hers, but that didn't matter. The moment she read the letter Sarah had a moment of clarity.

"Steven Grant Rogers," she said out loud to herself. Rubbing her belly, she mused over the name for a moment, and in her mind's eye she saw a vision of the child she would bear: strong and tall, like Joseph, with her golden hair and his eyes. The man she saw, looked like every inch the Son of Arthadan's House, and she saw the man, who looked like an old painting come to life, smile and call her mother. He was Arthadan's living image, and she knew this was her son. She smiled and looked down at her belly. "I think it has a nice ring to it. Perfect. You have a long way to go, my little one, before you get there; I can only hope I will be a good enough mother to you." Sarah smiled and rested her eyes.

A vision of what her child was to become, was what she saw, but not the son she would know. It was always Sarah who told her child that he could be more, and fixed within him a burning sense of moral goodness and justice, pride in country and in wanting to be better. It was Sarah that forged the man that would become Captain America. ~*

The day that everything changed was a bright and hot sunny morning on July the 4th 1918. Sarah was finishing her work in the baby's room, when it happened: a sharp lancing pain tore through her belly, from back to front, like a hot poker being drawn through her. Sarah fell too her knees, as an agonized scream was torn from her throat. The neighbor in the next apartment heard her cry out, and rushed to the door. He was a Widower with two children, and knew all too well the sound he had heard from the frail, young slip named Sarah Rogers. He pounded on the door, calling out her name and asking if she was alright. When he was answered by a low groan, he departed from proper decorum and broke the lock on the door.

As the door swung open, he was met with the sight of Sarah collapsed to her knees, holding her swollen belly and groaning in pain. The widower rushed to her side, and knelt down beside her. Gently he coaxed her attention to him and asked her what was wrong.

"The baby," she gasped, clutching her belly again. "I think he's coming!" At this, she breaks down in tears. "It's too early! He's too early!"

Upon hearing this revelation, the widower picked up the pregnant Sarah and carried her out to his apartment. The widower had some money, and thus could afford such luxuries as a car and a single line telephone, and never was he more grateful than at his moment for such things. He set Sarah down on his sofa, before rushing to the phone and calling for a help. The operator directed him to the hospital, where a young doctor in charge answered the phone.

The widower relayed what had happened, and told the doctor that the woman needed a physician immediately. The doctor was instantly alert, the moment he heard the name Sarah Rogers; Sarah was his Nurse.

"Sir," he said to the man on the line, "you get that woman in a car, or any form of transportation, as fast as you can, and bring her here to the hospital. If she is who I think she is, both she and that baby are going to need every bit of help that medical science can give them." The widower nodded, before asking for directions to the hospital. After quickly writing it down, the man ripped the note off the pad and stuffed it in his coat pocket. Picking up Sarah, he quickly rushed down the stairs as fast as he dared. He helped Sarah into the passenger seat of his brand new Ford, and started the engine. Slow though it was, it was safer than the trains or subways for Sarah and the Hospital was not far.

The Widower pushed the new car as fast as it would go, not daring to stop for fear that Sarah would have her baby right in his car. At an intersection, the traffic Cop stopped them with a smile, and asked why he was in such a hurry. Sarah answered him by way of an agonized scream. The traffic cop went white with shock, and looked at Sarah, then the Widower.

"The baby is early, and she needs a doctor," was all he said, before the Policeman wove them on through and told him to get her to the Hospital. Thankfully it was not much further.

Upon arrival, Sarah looked up, and saw the hospital where she worked, and thanked God for small miracles. The doctors here knew that the baby was not due for a little over two months, and also knew that the baby would need special care. The doctors and nurses rushed out to help her onto a litter, and carried her into the hospital. The widower followed, and stayed in the waiting room while Sarah was being settled.

After unsuccessfully trying to stop the labor, Sarah's waters broke and the baby was on its way. The next few hours were fraught with worry and tension, as Sarah progressed further into labor. All through the morning she labored, and into the afternoon and evening. Then, at 7:21PM in the Evening, on July the 4th, Sarah gave birth to a baby boy, just as she had hoped. But he was frail and weak, his cries no more than fragile whimpers and frail bleating; not the lusty cries of a newborn, and especially not the cries expected of a three quarter elvish Numenorean child. The doctors took one look at the child, and shook their heads in despair. They gave the child to her, and told her it might be best not to get too attached to him; that he might not last the night. Sarah refused to believe it, and smiled down at her baby boy.

He was frail and small, his body barely the length of her two palms end to end. His little head was brushed with the faintest wisps of golden hair, and his lashes were dark and thick. His body was all bony, like a baby bird, and he was thin and pale. He was the very image of a sickly child, but Sarah saw the strength within him, and knew in her heart that her boy would live. His little ears were pointed, like most Numenorean's with a high amount of Elven blood, and Sarah expected them to round off as he grew older, and lose their elvish point.

In her eyes he was perfect, frail and fragile but perfect, because he was their son. "Steve," she whispered to him, with a smile, "my little Steve. You are loved. You are perfect." The doctors left her to the baby, and to wait out the night. The Widower came in hours later, and saw Sarah singing softly to her baby, as his slept in the incubator. It was a hunting sound, filled with longing and ancient sorrow, as it softly filled the room with its sound. Sarah placed her hand upon the glass, as she sang, next to her forehead. She smiled, and prayed to God that her baby would live.

"Let him live, God," she prayed, "take away this specter of death set upon his face, and let him live. Give him your Spirit, and make him whole. I will do anything, Lord; just don't take my baby from me. Don't take my only son." The widower entered, and gave Sarah comfort and added his own prayers to hers; hoping against hope that the boy would live the night.

And against all odds and expectations, Little Steven Rogers survived. Frail though he may be in body, there was a heart of fire within him; and iron will to live and survive all that would accost him.

Half a world away, and across the Atlantic, at 10PM the 5th of July, a call rang out for Joseph. It was a messenger, bearing an unexpected telegram. Confused and shocked, Joseph signed for the telegram and opened the envelope. Inside was a short note that changed his life forever. There, written in black and white were four little words and a date: "His name is Steven (stop) Born July 4th 7:21PM (stop)"

It is amazing how those four little words and a date could change Joseph's perspective, but in the moment he read them, it was as if the whole world had shifted for him, and a new perspective was brought forward into crystal clear clarity.

"I'm a father!" he breathed, with tears running down his face. Soon laughter and a bright smile erupted, as he began to realize just what had happened. "I'm a father! It's a boy!" he laughed and cried, waking his fellow soldiers from their light doses. Congratulations rang out around the unit, as Joseph laughed and grinned like a loon.

Barely a month later Joseph and his unit met up with an Irish conscripted troupe. In it was Joseph's own baby brother, Andrew. The reunion was bittersweet, and their time together again was brief, for the next day, Andrew was gunned down in No-Mans-Land while Joseph watched. The Corporal found himself turning back, and running towards the gunfire, instead of away from it. Joseph's pistol rang out five times, as he neared his brother's prone form, each shot hitting his target in the machinegun's nest. The 107th rallied behind him, and charged the trench, breaking the German lines once and for all, in the trench, as they turned and fled under the onslaught. Joseph grabbed his brother and hauled him over his shoulder, before carrying him back to the new trenches. It was here that Andrew Rogers breathed his last, in the arms of his elder brother, which had held him at birth. It seemed fate that the young would perish in the arms of those elder than them, and that the elder would bury the younger.

Joseph had no time to mourn the loss of his brother, for a plume of bright, yellow mustard gas swept in from across the lines. Joseph was one of the lucky ones; he managed to get his gas mask on, but not before inhaling a lung full of the burning fumes. The gas burned, and made him choke and cough in his gasmask, but he held it on; hoping it would filter out the gas still in his breath. His eyes watered and his lungs burned, but when the enemy came in to reclaim the trenches, Joseph leapt up and turned the machineguns on their former masters. It was hours later that the rest of the US army found him, still wearing his gasmask, standing over the corpse of his baby brother; clinging to the machinegun in his hands. The survivors of the attack called him a hero; told the others what he had done, but Joseph felt like none of that had happened. All that he could recall was his brother's body hitting the ground and the feeling that he needed to save him.

Now any other man, in this time would have been commended and decorated. At the very least Joseph should have received the Medal of Honor, but all that the immigrant Irish boy Joseph Rogers received was a Purple Heart with Valor for defending the trench in the attack, while suffering from mustard gas poisoning, and an honorable medical discharge. George Barnes was even luckier; he was on leave when it happened, and saw Joseph in the medic tent, before Joseph was shipped home and George went back to the front.

You can imagine Sarah's joy, when she got the news her husband was coming home; bittersweet though it was. Joseph was badly scarred by the attack on the 107th, and it left him with a bad wheeze to his breath, where there hadn't been before. In the end, though, it didn't matter; Sarah met her husband at the docks, just as he stepped off the ship. The tightness in his chest eased a bit, when he saw her whole and hail.

"I missed the birth, Sarah," he said with a slightly raspier voice. Sarah smiled and took his hand. Joseph looked around for a carriage, before Sarah's laughter brought his gaze back to her.

"He is with the neighbors, until I can take you home," she said, with a slightly bitter twist to her smile, "the smoke from the ships will irritate his lungs. I didn't want him getting sick the day you came home." Joseph grinned and took his wife's hand, bringing it to his lips in a chivalrous kiss. Sarah giggled and tugged him toward home.

When he entered the door, he was met with the smell of sweet milk and baby powder. It brought a smile to his face, and life to his deadened eyes. He looked about the room and greeted the neighbor politely, before his gaze set upon an even sweeter sight: the baby's cradle. Setting his duffle bags down gently and walking with silent steps, Joseph walked toward the cradle, and peered down at his first born Son. In the three months since his birth, little Steve Rogers had put on enough baby fat and color to look healthy, but he was still tiny. To Joseph's eyes he looked like a little porcelain doll; pale skin with only a hint of healthy color, little pink lips budding on his mouth, and eyelashes that were so dark and thick they looked painted on. Sarah leaned on her husband's shoulder with a smile.

"Do you want to hold him, Love?" she asked. Joseph looked at her with alarm and shock, before his gaze turned back to the baby.

"I dare not touch him," he said in a quiet voice. "He looks so fragile, could break him with my big hands." Sarah chuckled at her husband's unfounded fear. She stepped forward, scooped Steve up into her arms, and deposited him in the arms of his dumbstruck father. Joseph froze for a moment then eased, and relaxed his arms around the baby; moving him gently to settle him better in his arms. An amazed smile swept across his face, as he held Steve. "He's so tiny!" he breathed, "he looks like me, Sarah. He's got your hair." The couple laughed, as Joseph continued to name off features they could recognize in themselves. Then Steve moved and squirmed in his father's arms, before opening his mouth in a big yawn. Joseph smiled at it, and then found his breath stolen, when Steve opened his eyes and gazed back and his father for the first time, with a familiar set of deep blues. "Oh, my boy," Joseph gasped. "My beautiful baby boy, I love you so much; my son; my only son." Steve grinned and reached up to grasp at his father's cap. With a smile on his face, Joseph looked at his wife with tears of joy in his eyes. Sarah told him while in hospital, through letters, that Steve was not healthy, but in Joseph's eyes, in that moment, he was perfect. "What's his name?"

"Steven Grant Rogers," she answered proudly. "He's small now, but he'll grow. I know he will."

"Steven Grant eh?" he questioned, as he looked back at his boy, "you look like a Grant, eh Steve?" the baby boy giggled and grabbed for the medal pinned to Joseph's breast. "Oh, you're gonna be a trouble maker, aren't ya, Stevie boy? Yer gonna run your mum ragged, when you learn to walk, aren't ya? Yes, you will." Joseph smiled and talked to his son, all the while is brogue getting thicker and more pronounced as he talked. With a smile, Sarah said goodbye to the neighbor, and went about making dinner; singing softly old elvish songs under her breath.

Less than a month later, the War was over and the soldiers were sent home to their families. George Barnes came home to a son just beginning to walk, and would be two years old in less than four months.

End of chapter 1 TBC...

AN/ what do you think? please review.