A/n: IT'S FINALLY HERE - guys, I've been working on this fic in some form for stupidly long and I can't believe I'm finally here.
Thank you to the actual army of betas and cheerleaders over the years who've been absolutely invaluable to me, fixing my mistakes, helping me untangle this beast, brainstorming, and more - I literally would not be here without you: The Beta Branch ladies, stars_inthe_sky, inkspire, and anyone else I've whined/complained/cried at or who has offered me advice, encouragement, etc. Endless love. \o/
A big thank you to my two great artists this Bang, penumbria & dutchoven! Thank you both for your hard work! :D (To see the art, check out the linkage on my livejournal or AO3). Per the Marvel Bang rules, this entire fic is complete and posted on AO3. I will be uploading slowly here on for those who prefer that format, with new chapters every Tuesday and Friday. As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and I'd to hear your thoughts either way. :)
Warnings: This story is rated PG-13 for minor character death, mild/moderate language, and some moderate violence (which will be warned for in relevant chapters). There will be very minor background pairings of Tony/Pepper and Clint/Natasha, but this story is Gen/Action/Adventure.
Timeline: takes place after Iron Man 3, but before Thor: The Dark World. Ignores Avengers: Age of Ultron (sorry Laura).
if we bridge this gap
[ TONY ]
"When confronted with the impossible, the rational mind will grope for the logical." – Claire, Outlander
Hector Lazarus was a piece of work.
First, he claimed he was from the future and started monologuing about his super-evil plans. Second, he'd brought some weird looking machine with him: it vaguely resembled an upside-down mushroom, that hummed and buzzed softly. The widest part sported several panels that glowed with an eerie pink light. Third, he said the thing was a bomb.
Tony was pretty annoyed his team's peaceful Saturday had been interrupted by a call for the Avengers to assemble and bag this lunatic. He was ready to blast the dude and call it a day—or let Natasha at him—when Lazarus' device lit up and glowed steadily brighter. As the team traded worried looks, the guy giggled (no, actually freaking giggled ). Thor casually elbowed Lazarus in the face to shut him up, knocking the mad scientist out cold. Tony couldn't help smirking a little as Lazarus crumpled to the floor.
There was a loud rumble overhead and all around, like thunder. The floor gave a great shake. Thick metal walls slammed into place, trapping them. From there, it only took four seconds.
One one-thousand.
"Oh my God…" Tony whispered, fearing the worst—the bomb was detonating. He looked to Natasha.
Two one-thousand.
The beeping changed to a constant, piercing tone accompanied by a loud whirring noise.
Three one-thousand.
Tony slapped down his faceplate. His team members dove for cover. There was an explosion of ice cold air that blasted them off their feet, they were blinded by a flood of brilliance, and they were falling, surrounded by noise and light.
Then, nothing at all.
Four one-thousand.
Tony moaned as he regained consciousness, aching like he'd been bashed around by Mjolnir, despite the protection of his suit. His HUD display was dark as he cracked open his eyes, relieved to discover that at least he was not, in fact, dead.
"J? You there?" Tony asked the darkness, though he dreaded the answer. "JARVIS?"
Must've been damaged in the blast, he thought when he received no response of any kind. He sighed. Well, that's inconvenient.
Tony struggled to a sitting position so he could reach the manual overrides on his suit. Popping off the faceplate, he squinted at the brightness around him until his eyes adjusted and he took stock of his surroundings. His breath hitched and his gut jolted with shock.
The air around Tony was thick with the smell of the outdoors. He was in a forest, full of huge, leafy trees in every direction. Sunlight peeked through the tangle of branches overhead, washing the area in shades of green and yellow. The ground was a mix of fresh grass, fallen leaves, and pine needles. Nearby, visible in between tree trunks, was a blue pond. A pair of small birds dashed over the water's surface.
Tony took a deep breath, trying to slow his racing heart. Last he remembered, he'd been standing with his team, facing down a crazy mad scientist and his weird machine. In a crappy old house. In New York. Tony knew the guy had once talked a good game about a theoretical physical displacement device—maybe it wasn't so theoretical after all.
Glancing around, Tony neither heard nor saw any threats—the forest was pleasantly quiet, filled with the occasional chirp of birds or the rustle of a breeze—so he extricated himself from his armour and stood up, debating his next move. His suit lay open and empty at his feet.
With any luck, the others would be nearby. They'd find each other, figure out where the bomb had dropped them, and then get themselves back to New York to deal with Lazarus and the fallout. Tony's stomach twisted as he thought of what they might find. Had part of the city been destroyed? Obliterated? Thousands dead? Or had they all been displaced like him and the team? Scattered around the planet, dropped into the middle of nowhere?
For that matter, had Lazarus' house been reinforced enough to even contain the bomb? Were the Avengers lucky enough to be the only ones affected by it? Tony certainly hoped that was true. Hell, maybe he was the only one special enough to have been displaced, and the others were still standing around, wondering where he'd gone.
With their track record, he figured anything was possible.
Tony crouched down and popped open a small panel on the right side of the suit. He tugged out a pair of cables and used them to bundle the armour up as best as could, preparing to pull it behind him. The last time he'd had to resort to hauling a dead suit behind him, he'd crash-landed in the snow outside of huppitzville, Tennessee. At least it was warmer here—wherever here was.
He grabbed his cell phone from his pants pocket and was surprised to discover it was completely dead.
Of course, he thought with frustration. The one time I need it more than anything. With a sigh, Tony put the useless thing back in his pocket.
The sun was directly overhead, meaning it was probably the middle of the day (his digital watch was fried and blank like his phone), and didn't give him a clue as to which direction was north. Even if Tony knew which direction was which, he had no idea if heading that way would get him anywhere faster than heading any other way. He shrugged, picked a direction at random, and started walking.
He'd only taken a handful of steps, the suit scraping away pine needles and leaving streaks of dirt in his wake, when the quiet of the forest was broken by some distant noise, coming closer. Tony's instinct was that it was his team, but in the next instant, he realized it sounded more like hooves trotting over soft ground. He amended his thinking to horse and/or possible threat.
He tossed a frown at his lifeless machinery and glanced around for a suitable hiding spot. Before he made a move, he spotted the horses and their riders calmly making their way through the trees in his general direction.
Tony squinted at the riders as they approached. They were dressed in some sort of armour, complete with swords and chainmail. They chattered good-naturedly with backwards wording and English-like accents, reminding Tony of the way Thor spoke.
"Of course," he grumbled with the roll of eyes. "Of all the places in the world to get dropped, I get dropped outside a freaking Renaissance fair."
Tony waved his arm over his head and halloo-ed the approaching riders. They changed course and trotted their steeds his way.
"Greetings, sir," one said, reining in his white horse. He raised a quizzical eyebrow, taking in Tony's appearance. "What brings you to these woods, stranger?"
Tony chuckled. "It's a long story, fellas. Point me in the direction of the nearest city? Or, better yet, can I get a lift back to the fair so I can make a call?"
"I apologize, I do not know of what you speak," he glanced at his companion who was as equally baffled. "Pray tell, are you lost?"
Tony sighed. "Yes, I'm lost. Just take me to the fair so I can get a taxi or find somebody with a phone."
The riders exchanged confused looks.
"Your speech is quite peculiar, stranger," said the second man, astride a handsome brown horse. He looked Tony up and down, taking in the long-sleeve black tee and dark pants. "As is your attire."
Tony thought this was a bit rich coming from a pair of guys fully decked out as Knights of the Round Table, and who had pretty weird accents and manners of speaking themselves. It was sort of British, but a really bizarre sounding kind of British, with something else he couldn't identify mixed in there, too. Either way, Tony was torn between being a little impressed that the guy had mastered such an authentic-sounding accent and mild irritation he wouldn't drop it and give Tony some damn directions.
"Where do you hail from? What is your given name?"
Like they don't know, Tony thought with a shake of his head. He may not have had the signature blue glow emanating from his chest anymore, but he was still rather distinctive looking. And ridiculously famous.
"Look, I'm really not in the mood to play along here, guys," he said, holding his hands out before him beseechingly. "It's kind of an emergency."
When they didn't reply, and continued to stare at Tony as if he was potentially from another planet, Tony looked from one to the other.
"You're really not going to break character for even a second, are you?" He scrubbed his hand over his face with irritation. "Okay, fine."
Attempting to channel his inner Thor, Tony swept his arm out and bowed low. In a loud booming voice, he announced, "I am Sir Tony—Anthony Stark of…Winterfell. Through a…great accident, I have been stranded—separated from my, uh, companions and request…assistance. And who, pray tell, are thee, my fair countrymen?"
Almost immediately, the two guys seemed a lot more helpful and Tony silently cursed medieval nerds everywhere. The men introduced themselves as Sir Alric of Newcastle and Sir Dommal of Berwick, knights of the English realm, in the service of the honourable and mighty King David. Based on Tony's use of "sir" in his fake introductions, the pair indicated they were pleased to encounter a fellow knight and were at his service in this time of trouble. Tony fought not to roll his eyes at their over-the-top earnestness.
"Are you injured?" asked Dommal, the younger of the two men, as he dismounted.
"No, I'm fine," Tony replied. "I just need to find my… companions so we can journey home."
"Is this your…armour?" Dommal squatted beside Tony's bundle of metal, clear green eyes roaming every inch curiously. "'Tis queer."
"Hey," Tony protested. "It's state of the art, extremely technologically advanced, and pretty awesome, if I do so say so myself. Granted, I built it, so I can actually take the credit for it being awesome. It might be suffering from a severe glitch at the moment, but…"
The riders were peering at him with perplexed expressions again and Tony rolled his eyes.
"Right, sorry," he waved his hand at them and then cleared his throat. "Yes, 'tis my armour and it was recently damaged in the great accident I spoke of, fine sirs. I require tools and a, uh, dwelling in which to commence repairs on it." He finished with a cringe—he was terrible at this.
"We have a smith at our camp who may repair it for you, Sir Anthony Stark," Alric offered with a gentle smile. He looked to be about forty years old or so, with fine lines around his eyes.
"Just Tony is fine. Or Sir Tony if you must." Tony sniffed.
"Very well, Sir Tony," Alric inclined his head in Tony's direction, and his long bronze hair dusted his shoulders. "Come with us to our camp to refresh yourself after your troubling journey. Perhaps Sir Dommal and I may be able to aid you in finding your lost companions."
"Thanks—I mean, thank you so very much, my fellow knights." Tony barely restrained himself from adding, "of the Round Table" and making a comment about Merlin. Given how into character these guys were, he didn't think they would even respond to the joke, so he didn't bother.
Dommal offered to let Tony take his horse, but Tony had never particularly had a love for the creatures—something about their size and potential for incredible strength rattled him a bit, he supposed. They were dangerous at both ends and crafty in the middle—so he politely refused. Dommal insisted on hitching Tony's bundle of armour up to his saddle, however, and let the horse with drag it through the trees instead of Tony. He was just glad that they were finally moving—the sooner he got away from these geeks and back to actual civilization, the better.
"Where is it you hail from again, Sir Anthony?" Alric inquired as the horses plodded along at a slow walk so Tony, on foot below, could keep up.
"Oh, uh, Winterfell."
Alric made a hmm-ing noise. "I have not heard of that place before."
"Really? It's pretty famous where I come from," Tony smirked. "The Starks of Winterfell are a big deal."
Dommal looked impressed; Alric thoughtful.
"Perhaps I might visit someday," Alric said. "Is it near? In England?"
If he's trying to say I'm not supposed to pick a fictional place for this game of theirs, I'm not playing along, Tony thought.
"Nope, it's not in England. It's in Westeros—it's very, very far away. I'm not surprised you haven't heard of it."
This left the pair looking even more puzzled than before, but at least Tony was able to get them off the subject of trying to make him come up with a period appropriate backstory.
"I, for one, am pleased that you are of English descent, though your accent is strange indeed," said Dommal after a few moments. "When we spotted you in the woods, we feared you were one of those Scottish pigs until you spoke."
Dommal and Alric shared a hearty laugh. Tony wasn't sure why this was funny, but he forced out a bark of laughter all the same. He was only going to humor these guys as long as absolutely necessary.
They arrived at what Alric called their camp. Scattered around were dozens of canvas tents and thrown-together ramshackle huts. The huts looked like they'd been constructed out of mud, reeds, wood, and grass. There were pens for animals of varying sizes: some containing horses, others with smaller animals like dogs, pigs, and chickens. Men in armour, similar to the kind Alric and Dommal wore, trod back and forth, going about their business. A fewer number of women passed by them with armfuls of straw and wool, buckets of water, or baskets of food.
Tony found himself impressed against his will. It was all very well done and authentic looking, down to the last detail. The smell of dirt and manure was thick in the air, which made him wrinkle his nose and wonder why they'd had to make the fair quite so authentic.
As he took in the sights and sounds (and pungent smells), Tony wondered where the fair-like things were—not that he'd even been to a Renaissance fair before, but weren't there supposed to be booths with crappy swag or silly medieval themed games and stuff? Hot dog and donut booths? And where were the normal-looking people not dressed in costume milling about? Unless there wasn't those things at these fairs—he really had no idea.
He shrugged, brushing it off. Maybe this was just one section of the fair—he didn't know how big these things were—and maybe this was the live re-enactment section or something (did they have those? He decided they probably had those). A prickle of unease rose high in his chest but he stamped it down before it could take root. Everything was totally fine.
People nodded in greeting to Dommal and Alric, observing Tony with curious or suspicious looks. Several stopped to openly stare when Tony passed by with his bundle of red and gold metal. He ignored them irritably. Yeah, yeah, I'm not in costume, he thought. Sue me.
Across the camp a group of men on horses came riding into the camp looking worse for the wear, all banged up and filthy. Some were blood-spattered and injured too, made to look like wounded soldiers returning from battle.
"Ah," said Alric. "They have returned."
To Tony, Dommal explained, "They departed a fortnight ago to aid in the construction of another magnificent monastery commissioned by King David. We shall meet with them to hear what news they bring from Paynekirk."
Oh joy, thought Tony grouchily, but he didn't comment.
Alric and Dommal dismounted their white and brown horses respectively. A boy who couldn't have been more than seven years old rushed up to take the reins of the men's steeds and lead them to the stables. The knights led Tony to a sloppily-made hut with a thatched roof and walls made of wood planks. He ducked in the door after them.
The interior of the shack was hot and muggy despite the cracks between the wood of the walls. Two other men were inside: one was older and stooping with graying hair and a gentle seeming demeanour, while the other was a huge man decked out in knightly armour, tall and stocky with a chest like a barrel, and great, meaty fists. The second, Tony learned, had returned from the monastery with the riders he'd seen.
"Welcome back," Alric greeted with a respectful tilt of his head. "How fare our fellow Northumbermen?"
The big man grunted. "Well as can be expected, what with the heavens emptyin' every last drop of rain o'er those lands. Crops are drownin', men are slavin' for David in the muck and mire to raise that damn monastery…Old Wyck says it's goin' on near 'leven days straight."
Dommal approached the man with a pewter tankard of ale. "Could be worse, though, aye?" he said as the man grasped the ale gratefully.
"Aye," he agreed and took a big swig of his tankard before setting it down with a loud thunk. He began extricating himself from his various pieces of armour.
"Look, would you mind doing this all later?" Tony interjected. He was trying and failing to be patient. That prickle of unease was back, making his shoulders tense; he worked to ignore it. "I did say I was kind of having an emergency, didn't I?"
As the big guy slipped off his gauntlets, he turned his frowning gaze on Tony.
"I'm sure this is all very important," Tony continued. "And you're very important—"
"Mad John is one of our finest warriors," Alric said, gesturing to the red-headed man. "He has braved numerous brutal battles all over Scotland."
"Mad John?" Tony laughed. "Sounds like a pirate. Arr, matey. Not very medieval sounding, I have to say."
Mad John narrowed his eyes. "And who the blazes are you, stranger?"
Tony didn't like this guy's tone one bit, but before he had the chance to retort, Dommal helpfully spoke for him.
"He's Sir Anthony Stark of Winterfell," Dommal said and gestured up and down Tony like he was showing him off. "He's suffered great tribulation recently, losing his companions."
Mad John grunted. "And his manners?"
Dommal chuckled, though Tony didn't find it funny. He was really over this whole charade and just wanted to find a working phone and go home. Something was very wrong here, and he needed to get away and figure out exactly what it was.
"Yeah, about that—my companions," said Tony. He crossed his arms over his chest. "Can weplease get on with the finding of them?"
"Patience, Sir Tony," said Alric with a soft smile. "We shall find them, do not fear."
"I don't fear. I'm kind of out of patience right now," Tony huffed. "Just point me to the nearest city, please. I'm pretty much begging you right now."
Mad John shot Tony an odd sideways look and continued to remove his pieces of armour. He looked about as old as Alric, if not older, though his thick beard made it hard to guess his age. He winced and hissed through his teeth, gingerly accepting help from the quiet gray-haired man in the hut. The old man was wholly uninterested in any of the conversation—in fact, as the stooping old fellow bustled about gathering supplies, Tony got the distinct impression the guy was deaf.
"Mad John, are you injured?" Dommal inquired, frowning with concern.
"Aye, 'tis a scratch," the big man replied and gave a great belly laugh. Tony watched as the last of Mad John's armour and mail was stripped away, revealing the "scratch" he was referring to. The gash was at the point where his arm met his shoulder, and was very deep, bloody, and generally disgusting. Tony shuddered.
"Wow," he commented. "That almost looks…real. Nice job."
Mad John took a mighty swig of his ale, ignoring Tony. He hissed some more at the supposed pain of his wound, settling with a heavy thud on a sturdy wooden chair. The old man set to work cleaning John's cut while Alric, Dommal, and Tony looked on. The makeup really was pretty impressive. All bloody and hanging open like that.
"Ran into a band of ragged Scots." Mad John shook his head, his bushy beard swishing against his broad chest. "Lost Myr, lost Quiet John. Gave 'em a hell of a fight though—had 'em runnin' for their ma's skirts before we even broke our fast."
Alric proceeded to question Mad John about the details of the battle while Tony impatiently tuned them out. His eyes were drawn to Mad John's big, meaty shoulder as the gray-haired man tended to the ugly wound.
The old guy dug the needle right into the flesh, sewing Mad John's skin closed. In and out, in and out. Tony realized he was staring, but the longer he stared, the more real the injury looked. In fact…
Bile rose in his throat, that uneasy sensation from before washing over him hard and fast like he'd fallen into a tank of ice water. He'd never been super squeamish, but that was a nasty wound, and worse, it finally, fully dawned on him that that wasn't makeup.
That's what's wrong, he thought, his heart pounding in panic. The wound is real. Fuck—it's all real.
His knees became liquid and he lashed out to grasp the table for support. His head spun. The pieces fell into place. Lazarus' device had been a displacement bomb—he'd assumed only a physical displacement had occurred, but clearly it'd been physical as well as temporal. Freaking temporal.
This wasn't a Renaissance fair. This wasn't people in costume. This wasn't people playing at medieval life.
This was medieval life.
A/n: So, creative license with the language here. In this timeframe, though English is widely spoken, it's Middle English (which as far as I can determine is basically a blender of English, Norman, French, and Germanic bits and pieces). It's considered a "low" language, mainly spoken by uneducated peasants and the like. French was used more in the courts and amongst nobles, interestingly even in England. I looked up a ton of maps, and while Tony is currently physically located in the English-speaking section of Scotland of that time, technically the English they'd be speaking would probably be rather unrecognizable. So just like movies have German guys speaking English with German accents…in order to make this understandable, I'mma have to Hollywood this thing. ;)
