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Chapter Two: In Harm's Way

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and it may be necessary from time to time to give a stupid or misinformed beholder a black eye."

― Jim Henson

Eowyn had seen a great many things in her life, but of all of them this was possibly the strangest and most alarming. It was mid-winter and the only freedom that she could get was in riding out in the hills, barely out of sight of Edoras. Her uncle was in decline and brother and cousin harried trying to reign in the ever more encroaching power of Grima Wormtongue. There was no place for her there, she feared.

It was one of the reasons she went on her morning ride. A chance to get away from the need for her to appear strong when some days all she felt like doing was hiding in her bed. Sometimes she even managed to forget why she needed to escape.

This was one of the times that she was slapped in the face with it. After rounding the last hill, one where she often contemplated just riding away and never returning, she came across a battlefield. A score or more of wargs and orcs were dead, all ringing only one man who laid in the middle of the carnage.

It was difficult to see that he was injured, with the black leather that covered his body from neck to feet, but across his torso three long gashes showed where a warg nearly spilled his innards out. Four similar marks across his jaw were most likely from an orc, and his leather covered arm was sliced at the bicep. It was strange how he only wore metal armor on his left arm, Eowyn thought, but it was secondary to noticing that the leather hadn't done its job. There was no sword scabbard or sign of a bow, just a series of strange metal tubes with handles and one longer one without.

Carefully, in case one of the beasts was still alive, Eowyn dismounted and picked her way across the battlefield. Many of the orcs and almost all of the wargs had been killed by a single round hole in the forehead or through the eye, but what could have done that? Perhaps the assortment of metal objects around him were weapons.

It was only when she knelt down beside him that she realized with a shock that he was alive. How that could be she was unsure, when he was so badly injured. But his chest rose and fell shallowly, and she could hear his breathing above the rustle of wind through grass.

There was nothing for it, she had to bring him back to Edoras to get treatment for his injuries. First Eowyn picked up all the strange weapons and packed them in her saddlebags, the long one slung across her back by a long bandoleer attached to it. She made a sling from her cloak and tied it behind Windfola to drag him on, hoping that it wouldn't jar his injuries too badly.

Getting him on it was difficult. He was tall, perhaps as tall as her brother, and heavy with muscle, leaving Eowyn to drag him along the ground.

Tying him in the cloak, she jumped back onto the back of her trusty steed. "Home, Windfola, carefully," Eowyn said, and nudged her horse to get going. They couldn't afford to stay here, more enemies may come.

Still, she went slowly and avoided as many rocks as she possibly could until reaching the gates. "I need someone to carry this man up to Meduseld!" Eowyn called to one of the sentries, "He is badly wounded!"

It may be war, but the Rohirrim did not turn away a person in need of help. The stranger was untangled from the makeshift litter and quickly borne up to the golden hall, Eowyn for once handing the reins of her horse to a groom for him to take care of. No, she had to help this man who had nearly been killed just out of sight of the city.

The room that he was taken to was in the healing wing of course, and when she got there the healers were already fussing and shaking their heads. "He won't live out the night, my Lady," said the head healer gravely, "His wounds are badly infected."

It was a blow, despite that Eowyn knew nothing about the man. "You cannot just quit," she said, hoping against hope.

"There is nothing that we can do except make his passing comfortable," the head healer said with a pitying little smile on his lips.

For reasons that she could not understand, Eowyn was angry. "Fine. I will tend him as best I can, then," she told them, clearly a dismissal.

The healers took it, the last closing the door on his way out.

Left alone with the stranger, Eowyn drew on all she could remember of medicine. This would be the ultimate test of her abilities. Determined that yes, he would last the night, she started water to boiling on the fire and fetched honey and garlic.

When dawn came the next morning, Eomer and Theodred found her asleep at the man's bedside and his breathing remarkably improved. Both out on scouting missions and raiding parties, they had only just found out about it. Stubborn, stubborn Eowyn, they had said to each other fondly, if sadly, when they heard of the prognosis and her will to defy it.

But when they looked in on the room, they were surprised to see the man awake and lucid as he stared around. The moment the door opened his head snapped to them, keen grey eyes watching with wariness that Theodred normally only saw in hunted men.

"Calm, friend," the prince said with a smile as he took a few steps into the room, "We are merely seeing if Eowyn is well. She stayed all night with you." He made sure that his hands were visible at all times and he made no sudden movements, so as not to seem a threat.

That did not calm the man, but he made no counter movements. "Where am I?" he asked in a deep, hoarse voice. His accent was unfamiliar.

"You are in the golden hall of Meduseld, in Edoras," Theodred answered. He had come up behind his cousin and laid a hand on her shoulder, maintaining his distance from the stranger.

The eyes sharpened even more, cutting through Theodred like swords. "How did I get here?" the stranger questioned. He looked like he did not expect an answer.

"Eowyn found you badly injured," Eomer answered from where he stood in the doorway, observing the scene keenly, "Where are the rest of your company, so that we may return you to their care?"

Suddenly, the man looked like a dog who had been kicked one time too many and expected more of the same. "I am alone," he answered roughly. He sounded like he thought he deserved another kick.

Theoden looked from the man to his male cousin and back quickly, reassured when the other man seemed as startled as he. This man was a mighty warrior, indeed! "Welcome to Edoras," Theodred said with a smile, "I am Theodred, crown prince of Rohan. These are my cousins, Eomer and Eowyn." He gestured to each of them.

The man struggled to sit up, flinching slightly. The blankets fell to reveal bandages wrapped around his entire torso as well as his arm. On Eomer's side, a metal arm appeared to be welded into the man's shoulder. How much must that have pained him?

"James," the man replied, after a moment when he seemed to be deciding what to call himself, "My name is James Buchanan Barnes." He peered up at them through thick lashes, still expecting to be kicked.

Theodred smiled instead, and from how James's eyes went wide he did not expect it. He hid the ache that caused in his chest, and instead picked up his cousin like the child he sometimes still thought of her as. "Rest, recover. I will send someone with food for you," he told the man gently.

Eomer held the door open for him, then fell into step beside him. "He is strange," he observed quietly, "A mighty warrior, but like a beast that expects to be punished for the smallest of things." The grimace on his face was not contrived.

"He feels that he had no place to go," Theodred agreed, "Even if he did, I would be against him going back. A man should not be treated as he is used to."

"He is to stay in Edoras, then?" Eomer questioned keenly.

"Yes," Theodred answered instantly, "We need fighters, and I saw the scene of the battle from which Eowyn took him. There are no signs that he was not alone as he says." Knowing that it was only this one man fighting twenty warg riders made him reel every time he thought about it. What was this man?

"King Theoden will not be pleased," Eomer warned.

The reminder was unwelcome. Theodred's father had come under some kind of spell and refused to listen to reason; Saruman had betrayed them and he did nothing. "I will take care of it. Not even he can deny that we need James as much as he needs us," the prince said with a sigh.

At first going up the mountain wasn't so bad, even without winter gear. The Captain America suit was very warm and his helmet still fit well enough to help trap heat. Bucky laughed at how silly he looked, but stopped after 'falling' halfway down the foothill they were on at that point.

Then Frodo fell down, and the Ring went missing.

Warily Steve looked around for a gleam of gold, half hoping that he wouldn't be the one to find it. He didn't feel like being tested when he felt so weak and vulnerable.

As it was, Boromir was the one to pick it up. Longing was in his voice as he commented at how such a little thing could cause such a big fuss. He looked to be on the verge of putting it on.

Perhaps it was because he was from a different world and no use to the Ring, but instead of feeling a need for it like Gandalf had warned, pain flashed through Steve's head. It was just like when Bucky- the Winter Soldier- punched him in the face over and over, wrapped up into one hit. Panting, he let out a little moan of pain and squeezed his eyes shut.

Some of the discomfort left when he took his eyes off it, but his skin still crawled. Just like it had every time he got too close to Frodo since they met. The Ring didn't want him anywhere near.

"Stevie? You okay?" Bucky's voice was gritty with discomfort.

"Yeah. You?" Steve replied wearily, opening his eyes just in time to see Boromir ruffle Frodo's hair and walk away. Thankfully no one had noticed his moment of weakness, too wrapped up in the real issue.

"Fine and dandy," Bucky said, shaking out his head. His dark eyes were confused and discomfited as he tried to reassure his friend with a smile.

The incident left Steve shaken. Even as they got walking again he kept one eye on Frodo, wondering exactly what had happened. The Ring was supposed to make people want it, but it had actively rebuffed him and Bucky. Whatever was happening here, it was weird and even more unnatural than the Chitauri or robotic octopi he had faced.

Snow got deeper and deeper, a storm raging worse the higher they went until Steve was buried up to his chin, only saved from being frozen alive (again) by Bucky. As always, he thought fondly even as he shivered uncontrollably. He was getting a ride on his friend's back, limbs too stiff to keep walking and unable to get through the snow in the first place with how deep it was.

The hobbits were in similar straits, he noticed with a smile that made his lips crack. Blood oozed, metallic, into his mouth as he watched Boromir and Aragorn carry them all. Gimli rode on the poor pony's back.

"There is a fell voice on the air," Legolas called, just loudly enough to hear.

When Steve strained his ears, he still couldn't hear anything. Maybe it was too quietly for anyone but an Elf to hear.

"It's Saruman!" Gandalf roared.

The mountain chose that moment to throw several boulders down at them.

"Gandalf, we must turn back!" Aragorn shouted over the howling wind. Steve couldn't find it in himself to disagree with this idea.

"No!" The wizard tried to calm the storm, chanting what must have been a counter-spell.

As if the words were a signal, an avalanche of snow buried them all. Steve was knocked dizzy by the rush of white, only keeping his bearings by wrapping his arms tighter around Bucky's shoulders. He clawed at the snow that fell on top of them, no matter how good it sounded to just go to sleep…

Steve knew that was one of the warning signs of severe hypothermia. It had been a long time since he had a panic attack, but here on this mountain he found himself on the verge of one. The Serum wasn't working, it wasn't active, so the chances that he would die up here were monumental no matter that he was stubborn.

No, he resolved as he and Bucky broke through the snow to gasp in cold mountain air. Even as an asthma attack took him by storm, he resolved that he wouldn't die up here.

"We must get off the mountain!" Boromir insisted, "Make for the Gap of Rohan then take the West Road to my city!" That sounded like a great idea, but maybe Steve was just frozen.

"The Gap of Rohan takes us too close to Isengard!" Aragorn refuted. It took a little too long for Steve to remember that Isengard was the name of the evil wizard's Fortress of Terror or whatever he was calling it these days.

That was when Gimli put in a third option: the Mines of Moria.

The look on Gandalf's face said that was a terrible idea, and Aragorn seemed to agree. It still sounded better than becoming corpses on this mountain. "Let the Ring-bearer decide," the wizard said, almost too softly to hear.

"We cannot stay here!" Boromir shouted, fear ladening every syllable, "This will be the death of the hobbits and Steve!"

He wasn't wrong; Steve lost feeling in his feet hours ago. The hobbits that he could see didn't look any better off.

"Frodo?" Gandalf prompted.

Frodo's panicked face calmed. "We go through the mines," he decided.

The grim resolve in Gandalf's face almost made Steve reconsider the mountain. What could be worse than this? "So be it," he said, as if proclaiming a death sentence.

Getting out of the snow was enough for Steve. They could face the mines when they came- after he could feel his limbs again. As if satisfied that their resolve was broken, the storm let up after that. That more than anything was enough to convince Steve that magic was responsible for at least this bit of bad luck.

"Still ain't no thing?" Bucky huffed, dropping him to his own feet once on the foothills.

It was painful to stand, but Steve made himself. If he leaned on his friend for balance, neither said anything. "Not really," he replied truthfully, "You remember Greenland."

They shared a shiver at the mention of the place, though Steve had additional bad memories. When he was in the ice he had awoken several times, to darkness and silence and the inability to move or even breathe. The panic that choked him and cold that flooded his veins he wouldn't wish on anyone. Getting down from this mountain felt like a narrow escape from more of the same.

That night they all stumbled to the edge of a forest, lit a fire and dropped off to sleep as soon as they had something in their still-frozen stomachs. Only Legolas was able to stay awake, and volunteered to cover the first two watches while everyone else got some much-needed sleep. From what Steve understood Elves didn't need sleep as people defined it, just rest and day-dreaming; it was coming in useful.

When Steve was woken, it was morning and they had to get going again. There was a strange heavy feeling on his chest that he had forgotten, but he knew exactly what it was even after years of not having to deal with it: he was sick. "Great," he wheezed when he coughed and could taste infection, "I've got bronchitis again."

That evening Aragorn did his best to treat the infection with foul herbs, but Steve smiled wryly at the attempts. "I never thought I'd have to deal with this again," he said, the words triggering an itch in his throat that made him cough harder. It was nearly impossible to suck in air, leaving him weak and dizzy by the end.

"Did you learn to take care of yourself better?" Aragorn asked, teasing and chiding at once.

"Nah, just couldn't get sick anymore," Steve said. A weak chuckle was almost more than his abused lungs could handle, and he breathed through pursed lips.

Obviously Aragorn thought he was joking or exaggerating, but he let it go. "You will need to be carried," he said, face troubled, "Do you think that you could ride?" He looked to Bill, who was still drooping from the trip up the mountain.

Of course, Bucky would be the one to understand the dilemma and solve it. "Here, I'm still used to this punk being sick all the time. Put my bag on Bill and I can carry him," he volunteered with a grin that didn't reach his eyes, "He can't ride a horse for love or money."

And wasn't that the truth? The one time Steve had tried, he overbalanced within five minutes and then realized that he could move faster on his own two feet anyways.

Bucky adjusted the smaller man into his arms with practiced ease before they began walking again, constantly trying to gauge his awareness of the world. At first everything was fine. It became harder to keep a sense of where and when he was over the course of the day. Near sunset he sank into delirium.

When they stopped for the night, Bucky was worried. It was lucky he had an immune system forged in the fires of Steve's constant sickness or else he would be just as ill. While Aragorn treated his friend with a grim face, he held the man's hand tightly.

"His fever is too high. He may not last the night," Aragorn said softly, sadly, as he lathed Steve's thin chest and chapped lips with a poultice that should ease his breathing.

Not for the first time, Bucky started praying. He had spent their whole lives praying that Steve would make it through one illness after another. Sometimes, in the darkest of nights, he had said to whoever was listening, I'll gladly go to hell, I'll even skip through the gates when my time comes, if it means being able to love him, but please don't take him from me.

Those prayers had always, somehow, been answered. It was enough for Bucky.

But no matter how he put it, this was possibly the worst situation they had ever been in. Not even that time Steve got shot four times was this bad, because he was a super soldier then and the Commandos had a suspicion that he couldn't die even if he tried. Now he was that same tiny little man Bucky had left in Brooklyn and they were in the middle of nowhere in a medieval world.

"Are all mortals so fragile?" asked Legolas, honest curiosity in his voice as he knelt beside Bucky.

The reminder that they were not alone had him simply keep that thin hand in his, rather than press his lips to the knuckles like he had so many times before. "He's a special case," he answered with a gentle smile.

Steve began shivering even harder, moaned uncomfortably and began muttering under his breath. It was hard to make out what he was saying. If it made sense at all.

Bucky was going to take it as the usual fever-induced ramblings when his friend grasped his hand in a bruising grip. Pale blue eyes met his, unseeing, as he gasped out, "Not the ice, please don't put me in the ice again." The words were startling and curious.

"No ice, Stevie, I promise," Bucky said even as pain erupted in his chest. It may have helped if there was some.

It seemed that his assurances weren't heard; Steve began muttering apologies for not dancing with Peggy and asking Howard Stark questions about how to land a plane or something. It was almost like he was seeing Bucky when he begged, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please forgive me, you fell and I wanted to jump after you like you did for me and it's all my fault. Please don't leave me again. I'm so sorry."

Smiling hurt. "It's okay, I forgive you," Bucky said soothingly, "You just sleep and get better."

Gallantly Legolas removed his cloak and laid it over the sickly man, tucking in the edges gently.

The extra warmth must have had some effect, because Steve settled down after that.

What was revealed about Bucky's future, and his friend's, was disturbing. From how Frodo asked tentatively, "What did he mean, about the ice?" he was not the only one to think so.

"I don't know. It must have happened after me," Bucky answered frustratedly, running a hand through his hair. It was getting too long even for him, and oily enough to grease a skating rink. If only he could get a damn haircut, or at least a shower.

"Here, it's not much but it's hot," Sam said unexpectedly, offering a bowl of soup.

It was accepted with a quiet mumble of thanks. Some of it, Bucky was able to coax down Steve's throat. That counted as a win in his book.

As he settled in beside his friend, keeping them warm with his body heat (no other reason, of course) Bucky prayed, one last time.

Please don't make me live without him.

In Edoras, Eowyn wondered just what she had gotten into when she brought James here.

It was not that he was a bad guest. He was courteous to everyone he came across and appreciative of everything he was given. If anything he was too helpful, assisting the servants with any task too difficult for them even when he should have been resting.

The problem that Eowyn pondered as she watched him break his fast was his frustration. When she looked in on him that morning, she found him staring uncomprehendingly in down at his torso. The bandages were undone but the stitches still clean and in place, the wounds well scabbed.

"My lord?" she called attention to her presence at the door.

Confusion and horror warred in his eyes. "It should be healed by now," he said quietly.

Eowyn blinked at the wound he was referring to. "Most men would not have lived through such a wound," she stated calmly, "You are only human, James. You need time to heal." It would likely take a great deal of time, she thought, from how close he had been to being disemboweled.

When James shook his head, there was something desperate about the movement. "I've had to hold my intestines inside my body before and that healed overnight," he told her, "This is wrong."

Normally Eowyn was made of sterner stuff, but the vulnerability in his voice broke her heart. The story he had just told chilled her to the bone. "I do not know what to say," she admitted, "We will have to wait and see what happens. You are welcome to wander where you would. It would ease my mind greatly if you stayed near the hall, however." She gave him a rare smile, hoping that it would help to take his mind away from what he thought was slow healing.

The expression was returned with a small nod. "What is there for me to do?" he asked quietly.

There was not much that Eowyn could think of for such a man to do that would not be below him, but James seemed to think nothing of reading old stories or helping to peel potatoes. If anything he looked like he was waiting to be told off, or given some unpleasant order. For every moment that neither happened, he looked more befuddled.

That night, he asked, "Why are you treating me so well?" They had just finished eating dinner and sat on the steps outside of the hall, watching the village and gazing at the stars.

It must have been a sad world that he came from, Eowyn thought, watching him out of the corner of her eye, for him to be so surprised. "You are injured from fighting enemies that would have attacked us. We owe you a great deal," she answered diplomatically.

"I was saving myself," James replied. Almost too low for her to make out, he said, "I was running away."

As the words weren't meant for her to hear, Eowyn let them be. Instead she asked, "What is it like where you come from? So far from Edoras?" She had always wanted to leave the golden hall and wander the far green countries. Hearing stories from someone who had been there would have to suffice, for now.

"My memories are still hazy," James admitted, "but I'll tell you what I can."

Eowyn listened with wonder as he told her of buildings as high as the distant mountains and horseless carriages and glass screens able to show people who are far away. Patiently she listened, never pushing for fear of him going quiet. It wasn't until Wormtongue appeared that he did, stopping in the middle of an explanation of the weapons she had found around him (pistols and a rifle) to stare at the counsellor.

It wasn't the first time that Eowyn wondered how such a clever, inventive man had become lackey to a sorcerer. It wouldn't be the last either. "Yes?" she demanded coldly.

"I overheard your conversation and simply wished to know more about… James," Wormtongue said with a snake-like smile. It made Eowyn's skin crawl.

"It is a shame that you reached us at the end of our discussion," Eowyn said, pushing herself to her feet.

Without a word, James copied her motions. He was more graceful in it, and tall enough that even two steps below Wormtongue he was able to look the worm in the eye. The look in his eyes was analytical as he watched the situation play out.

The counsellor noticed, and smiled. It was not a nice smile. "A pity. Perhaps we can speak more on the morrow. For now, it is late, my lady, and people may wonder what you are doing at such a time with a… foreigner." Wormtongue's usage of the word was akin to an insult.

Unlike most men, James did not take offense with his tone. He did not have any reaction.

"That is not your concern, privy counsellor," Eowyn said, pulling rank. To James she said more sharply than intended, "Come, the healers must change your bandages."

Again there was no protest. James simply followed her as she swept past Wormtongue and into the hall. When he kept himself between her and the snivelling excuse for a man, she was grateful.

Darkness closed in around Eowyn until she felt ready to choke on it. Only James's metal arm reflecting the occasional torchlight kept her from running to sit beside the bright fire in her rooms. It was a relief to get there anyway, and more so to close the door behind them.

"That man… Who was he?" The look on James's face told her that he had asked that question before and the answer was harsh.

"His name is Grima, but we call him Wormtongue now. He is the King's privy counsellor but also an agent of the enemy, whispering poison into my uncle's ears to make him more malleable to the White Wizard," Eowyn said, collapsing onto her bed. It felt like all the energy had been bled out of her by that one encounter.

The words were strange to James. There was very little change in his expression, but the slight narrowing of his eyes said enough. "Why hasn't anybody got rid of him yet?" he asked. There was an innocence to the question that Eowyn hadn't expected.

She couldn't help smiling tiredly. "We have tried, but the King refuses to send him away," she answered softly. Oh, how many times she and Eomer and Theodred had tried since Grima became a turncoat. And her uncle had ignored all of them, falling deeper under the spells of words and magic.

"I am very good at... making bodies of people." The way James offered was rehearsed like he thought it was only a formality.

"No, you would be suspected. You are a stranger. Only I and my cousin have any kind of trust in you," Eowyn denied, no matter how she wished to take him up on it. "I will save that as a last resort," she added mischievously.

There was a feeling of camaraderie as Eowyn stared into the fire and James at the floor. The way he stood was as if he were guarding the door from unwanted interlopers, protecting her. Safety was a rare feeling right now.

"You should get to the healer's rooms," Eowyn suggested. Though she hated it, Wormtongue was right when he said that people would talk. Right now her position could not afford that.

Taking that as an order, James spun neatly on his heel and reached for the door handle.

"Thank you for talking with me today. I hope to perhaps see your New York one day," Eowyn said longingly. It sounded like a fairy tale land.

"So do I, again," James said with the beginnings of a smile on his face as he left. Despite the heavy boots and multiple belts and accessories he wore, he was silent.

Once alone, Eowyn laid back on her bed with a huff. Her brother and cousin were sorting out the orcs and wild men roaming Rohan and her uncle was falling ever deeper under Saruman's spell. Only she was left of the House of Eorl both in Edoras and of her own mind.

Wormtongue was ever behind her when she looked over her shoulder now. There was nowhere within Edoras except maybe her own rooms that she could be rid of him. Though, she realized when she looked back at today's interactions with the loathsome man, he (rightly) was wary of James.

Perhaps she could use that to her advantage.