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Chapter 4

Blue Birds Over…

Fourteen years later…
The Bugle Building, New York

Ben Urich was parked in front of his computer trying to knock tomorrow's column into shape. It was part of an ongoing exposé of corruption in the tax assessor's office, corruption Ben was working to connect to mob kingpin Wilson Fisk, with little success. Aside from not getting a single credible source to go on record, Urich just couldn't find a hook. Facts, sources, and documentation were all necessary, of course, but Urich had been in the game long enough to know this simple truth; if you didn't hook the reader with a good opening sentence, forget it. He needed a hook.

Ben pulled out his notebook, looking for some pithy observation he could use, when a braying voice cut through the raucous office noise.

"Urich! My office!"

The rumpled fiftyish reporter popped his head into the office of the Bugles owner/editor, J. Jonah Jameson.

"I believe you called?"

"I just finished your piece for next week's Sunday magazine." Jonah sat back in his chair, staring hard at Urich.

"And?"

"Crap," Jameson said. "It's a puff piece—piffle, pabulum. Any first year journalism student could do as well. It's crap."

"Don't hold back on my account Jonah, what do you really think?"

"I think," Jameson snorted, "that any writer who's won a Pulitzer ought to do better than this." He tossed the pages across his desk.

"Two Pulitzers," Urich corrected. He scooped up the sheets, shuffling them back in order. "What's wrong with it, specifically? Aside from being crap?"

"It's not telling me anything I don't already know, for one thing. It's a gooey love letter for another. Jesus Urich, you come off like some doe-eyed high school girl. I can practically see where you've written 'I-heart-Captain America' in the margins."

"So you want me to take the anti-Captain America slant? You do realize this isn't Spider-Man we're talking about, don't you?"

"Don't be a smart ass. I'm not asking you to take a swipe at the man, just give me something real on him. We need heat here. We need substance." Jonah got up and began to pace. Like Urich, he was an old-school newspaperman and once he got his teeth into a story, he found it impossible to stay seated. He walked around his massive desk, coming to a stop in front of Urich. "What we need is an exclusive, a sit-down interview, one on one. I told you this last week."

"I tried, a dozen times. The Avengers press secretary politely told me to take a flying leap. I did some checking. Cap has never given an interview, not even back in the forties. He gives press conferences, he takes questions from the media, gives the occasional speech...but he doesn't do sit-down interviews."

Jonah sat back in his chair, fuming.

"Next March is the fifteenth anniversary of Captain America's return. Fifteen years! Every paper in the country is gearing up to cover it, and this," Jonah said, snatching the pages from Ben's hand, "is just so much white noise. I want something that stands out. I want that interview."

"Jonah…"

"I mean it, damn it. Look, you're in good with those super-freaks, aren't you? Why don't you call in a favor with that weirdo Daredevil?"

"Call him? What, you think I have some hotline to him back in my hideout? Besides, I doubt he'd be inclined to do the Bugle any favors. You've got a reputation when it comes to superheroes. As in you hate them."

"Ah baloney. I only go after vigilant showboats like the web-head. Crazies like that Moon guy."

"Moon Knight."

"Moon Knight, Moon Pie, Moonbeam—who cares? My point is, legitimate heroes like Cap, the Avengers, the FF, they always get a fair hearing in my paper. You know that."

"Cap may not see it that way. Look, Jonah, if you're serious about getting this interview, maybe you ought to call in a favor of your own. You do happen to have a son who works for the Avengers, you know."

"Hey," Jonah said sharply. This time there was real anger in voice, not the gravely bluster he affected to motivate his employees. "I told you this last week. Keep my son out of it. I'm not putting John on the spot here."

"No, just me."

"You're dammed right you. You happen to be on my payroll. You're also supposed to be the best reporter in the business. Prove it. Get me that interview."

Jonah hit the intercom, calling for his editorial staff, and Ben realized this meeting was over. He left Jameson's office, wondering just how the hell he was going to make this thing happen. What really pissed him off was that Jonah was right; his story was piffle. The truth was, he wanted this interview as much as Jonah did. More. Captain America…a get like that would be bigger than the Pulitzer. An interview with Cap was history.

On his way back to his desk, Urich nearly collided with one of the Bugles freelance photographers.

"Whoa, sorry Ben," Peter Parker said, nimbly sidestepping him.

Parker plopped down on the edge of Urich's desk. "Saw you coming from J.J's office. What kind of mood is Smiley in today? I've got a meeting with him later."

"Oh, just peachy," Ben said, rubbing a hand across the back of his stiff neck. He looked up at the young photographer. "Say, Pete. If you were me, and you had to get hold of Captain America, get an interview with him, how would you go about doing it?"

"Jeez Ben, how would I know?" Parker stammered, on the spot. He was famous in the office for his spectacular action photos of superheroes, particularly Spider-man. Parker had amazing luck when it came to catching the web-slinger in action. Urich had a theory about how he managed to be so lucky.

"Oh, just thought you might have an idea or two. You know, you being so close to Spidey," Ben said, smiling. "You'll let me know if anything comes to mind?"

"Sure," Parker said, quickly finding someone on the other side of the office to talk to. Ulrich chuckled quietly and reached for the phone. After a quick dial, he heard the pleasant voice of Cheryl Hernandez, the Avengers press secretary, on the line.

"I'm sorry Mr. Urich, but as I told you last time, Captain America isn't granting any personal interviews. If you'd like, I can issue you a press pass for his next scheduled Avengers briefing?"

"No thanks. Look, Cheryl, would it be possible for me to ask Cap personally?

"I'm sorry, but he's out of the country. Barring an emergency, I can't contact him. Is this an emergency?"

"No," Ben answered, glumly. "Unless you consider my career going down the drain an emergency?"

Cheryl laughed. "I'll pass on your request, I promise." There was a pause. "Ben, I don't think Cap would mind me telling you this, but he reads your column you know."

"Really?" Urich said, brightening.

"Yes—every day. He really likes your writing. So hang in there, okay? Take care."

Ben hung up, encouraged. He swept the stack of papers littering his desk off to the side and grabbed a black magic marker. In big bold letters, he wrote:

Get That Interview!

He underlined it twice, wondering just which corner of the globe Captain America was off to today.


The east coast of England

The object of the reporters intense curiosity was traveling south down Britain's M6 highway, not that Urich would have recognized him. It was Steve Rogers, not Captain America, behind the wheel of the sporty Saab 9-3 turbo. He was enjoying this rare bit of alone time. The traffic was tolerable and the day bright and sunny—amazingly so for England in autumn. With the the top down and the stereo up, he sang in his serviceable baritone, joining Ella Fitzgerald in extolling the virtues of taking the A Train.

As a rule, Steve listened to contemporary music these days. It wasn't healthy clinging to the past. Yesterday was gone; it did no good to pretend otherwise. He learned that harsh lesson fourteen years ago, in the frozen blackness of the arctic night. For a time, he despaired of ever finding his way in this strange new world, but only for a time. At his core, Steve Rogers was a fighter. In the end, the fighter won through. It came down to making a choice (as it so often does), and Steve chose to live. Not as some quaint historical relic, but as a flesh and blood man.

The transition had been easy for Captain America. The United States went wild upon his return, as did much of the world. Cap was honored by half of the nations on the planet (and reviled by many others). Shortly after his return, he became a member of the Avengers, the world's premier superhero team. Time and again the Avengers saved the world from ruin, and Cap was the engine that drove that group. He worked solo as well, and, for several years, in partnership with the hero called Falcon. The victories rolled on. The power and skill of Captain America was as dependable as ever, and it seemed he hadn't missed a beat. Steve Rogers found adjusting to be a harder task, so he set a list of ironclad rules:

1) Stop watching the old movies on late night television.

2) Drop the outdated hairstyles and clothing

3) No more sitting home alone on a Saturday night.

4) No listening to just of the music of the past.

Rules 1 and 2 were easy. As for rule 3…although the politics of romance had changed some, the mechanics remained the same. Steve had no trouble finding companionship. Rule 4 was another matter. Music was dammed hard, but, bit by bit, he got there. On Steve's IPod were many new favorites: the Beatles, U-2, Springsteen, Diana Krall, the Killers, among others—but today's playlist included none of these artist. today he was allowing a rare moment of nostalgia. No place on earth brought back memories as England did. So he let himself indulge; Sarah Vaughn, Billie Holliday, Basie, Goodman, Satchmo, Ella, and best of all, Ellington.

He last listened to Ellington on these shores seventy years ago, at a special USO engagement. As the Duke and his orchestra entertained hundreds of American and British soldiers, Steve was backstage, arm in arm with the most beautiful woman he had ever known, swaying to the music. The touch of her hand and the indigo spell of the music somehow made even the drab army base a pleasure. It was one of his best memories, and for the next hour Steve lost himself in the luxury of it.

The music ended ten minutes before the trip did, and he finished the drive in silence, gathering his thoughts. Seeing the turn he was looking for, he headed down a long private lane, bringing the car to a stop on the familiar cobblestone drive of Falsworth manor. He grabbed a parcel from the back seat. He had come here today for two purposes. Giving this gift was the easier of the two. Getting out of the car, Steve paused, taking in the venerable country estate. It was good to know that some things survived the blows of time and tide. Falsworth Manor was nothing if not a survivor.

He walked up the white granite steps, inhaling the scent of English heather, light and misty. He knocked on the massive door, already regretting his choice of dress: blue jeans, sneakers and a flannel shirt. A grey faced gentleman opened the door. Steve realized (too late) that he was still wearing his Yankees cap.

"Good afternoon?" intoned the man, more question than greeting. His accent was proper and his manner terribly formal, in short, the perfect English butler.

"Hello Trilby," Steve said, hoping to be recognized. He was not. "It's Steve Rogers. I believe I'm expected."

"Indeed, sir," Trilby said. "You may follow me. But first, allow me to take your…hat."

Trilby took the cap, pinched between finger and thumb, as if holding a full diaper. Steve sighed; there was dry British wit, then there was Trilby. The man could draw blood with an arched eyebrow. They soon arrived at the polished oak doors of the formal drawing room. Trilby turned to Steve.

"I shall announce you to her ladyship."

Trilby stepped inside. The conversation was easy to follow, even through the heavy doors. The lady of the manor was in fine form today.

"Trilby, I should sack you on the spot. Show him in immediately—we do not stand on formalities with our old friends here. Be quick about it."

The door opened slowly, followed by the butler, who was perhaps incapable of haste. He ushered Steve into the grand room. Seated on an overstuffed crushed velvet chair was Lady Jacqueline Falsworth, looking stylish even at her advanced years, in a pale green dress, trimmed with white lace. Her silver hair was pulled back. The only jewelry she wore was a small silver pendant, housing a brilliant golden gem.

Trilby stood straight, and cleared his throat. "Mr. Steven Rogers..." he paused, looking at the hat. "Of the New York Yankees."

"Oh Trilby, do shut up. Bring the tea. And mind that you don't come back too soon. Off with you."

Impervious to her scorn, Trilby left the room, pulling the creaking doors closed behind him.

"Hello m'lady," Steve said, smiling broadly.

"M'lady indeed. I'll have none of your cheek. Now come give an old friend a kiss."

Steve bent, kissing the woman's cheek. Her skin was like fine parchment, alabaster white and lined with age. Though her features were frail, her eyes were still bright and clear.

"It's good to see you, Jackie. How's my darling girl?"

"Well, I have just been kissed by the handsomest man I know, and I've just celebrated my ninetieth birthday. I'm quite well, aside from this dodgy hip. Now, what is that behind your back?"

"Just a little something to open later," Steve said, setting down the parcel behind her chair.

"Now, Steven, we have a long standing agreement on this shared birth date of ours. No gift giving."

"I've decided to overrule you. As your elder, I can do that."

This brought a laugh. "Pshaw. I have the wrinkles to prove you are no such thing."

"And I have the birth certificate to prove I am," Steve replied, smiling at their never settled debate. "Fifty-two years frozen in a block of ice doesn't change the fact that I am exactly two years older than you."

"Nonsense. As I see it, today counts as only your forty-second birthday, though you surely look half that old. But come, sit down. I'm in the mood for a good long chat."

She was true to her word. Trilby served the tea and for the next hour, they talked. Jacqueline told him of the doings of some of her younger family members, especially the granddaughter she doted on, and Steve shared his own news with her. Mostly they talked of the event that had shaped their lives, the War. Historians speak of the great battles, the leaders, and the momentous events. Those who fight the wars remember the other things…the songs sung in the air raid shelters, the jokes told over cups of coffee, the friends long gone and the hardships shared. Such were the things Steve and Jackie spoke of, little things which, in peace are forgotten the next day, but in war are seared into the memory. Steve was breaking another ironclad rule reminiscing this way. However, such rules did not apply to Jacqueline Falsworth, as so many rules did not.

During the years of Second World War, Jackie had been gifted with superhuman powers, abilities she used in defense of her countrymen in their darkest hour. Alongside Captain America, the Sub Mariner, the Human Torch, Toro and Buck Barnes (and a few others who came and went as the war raged) she was a member of the Invaders, the famed team of heroes who pitted themselves against Hitler's own superhuman agents. Though her powers faded long ago, to Britons everywhere, she was a hero still.

Eventually, the reminisce ran its course, and Jackie steered the discussion to more current topics.

"Now that we have 'chewed the fat' as you Yank's say, perhaps you will share your news from Scotland." Jackie sipped her tea. "I've been waiting all afternoon to hear it."

Steve set his tea down. "Did you get this from Stony, or did you go straight to the Prime Minister?"

"Both," Jackie said with quiet pride. "Come now, tell me."

He told the story. As she knew, he had taken advantage of being in England this week to honor a long-standing promise to an old Royal army friend. Captain America conducted a master class on hand-to-hand combat for the SAS, the elite British commando force. As the seminar began, the crisis erupted. The terror organization Hydra kidnapped the heir to the British throne, Prince Edward, holding him aboard a drilling platform off the coast of Scotland. Cap led the rescue mission giving the SAS men a firsthand demonstration of unparalleled fighting skill and tactics. Assisting Cap was the British hero, Union Jack. It was this news Jackie was most keen to hear.

"It was a stroke of luck you were at hand. Things might have gone badly had you not been there. Tell me, how did young Mr. Chapman fare?"

Steve knew where this conversation was headed. Jackie never missed a chance to critique Joey Chapman, the new Union Jack.

"He did well. Joe's brave, skillful, dedicated—he has the makings of a fine Union Jack."

"I heard he blundered, almost costing Prince Harry his life. That's a fine way to honor my family's heritage."

"Be fair, Jackie. Anyone could have missed that sniper hiding in the rigging."

"You didn't."

"I've been at this awhile now. Joe's been at it what, a year? Go easy on him."

"It's closer to two years, not one. I shall go easier on him once he goes a little harder on himself."

"He's working on it, diligently. There's a learning curve to this profession, you know that. I seem to recall a certain hero named Spitfire who had her share of troubles starting out, and she had the benefit of superpowers."

Seeing that her disposition had not softened, Steve changed tactics.

"Jackie, I know you wanted the tradition stay in your family, but there was no one to take up the mantle. After your brother died, your father was very clear. He wanted Union Jack to continue, even if it meant going outside the family. It was his choice. You should respect it."

"Were he here now, he might think differently."

"Why? Because Joe is a commoner, because he comes from a working class family?"

"How could you say such a thing? My father was a good man, never a snob, to look down his nose at others because of his title. Is that how you see him? Is that how you see me?"

Steve could see she was genuinely hurt. He took her small hand, comforting her. "No, of course not. Forget I said it, please. But be honest Jackie. You've not given Joe much support. Your father and Brian left behind quite a legacy, and Joe's working very hard to live up to it. You know, a kind word from you, a little encouragement, it would mean the world to him."

She bowed her head. "You are right, I know. I always hoped William might…but there I go, wishing for things that will never be. My grandson is dead, along with my family's legacy."

Lady Falsworth pressed her hands against her thin lips. She was a proud woman and even at her age was not easily given to tears, but they came now. Steve handed her his handkerchief, which she used, then neatly folded in her lap. "It's a terrible thing, growing old, watching all you once cherished fade away."

"I know a little about that."

Jackie layed her hand on his. "I know you do. You endured a terrible ordeal...but awful as it was, you came through it with your youth. You'll find it different once you grow old. It's…"

Jackie stopped short, seeing a pained look cross Steve's face. "Forgive me," she said. "I've upset you with my thoughtless words."

"No, it's fine. I'm just sorry if I've upset you. Come on, let's talk about happier things."

Jacqueline was suspicious of his casual dismissal, but she let the matter be. He was as private as she, so she respected his silence. They began talking of lighter fare. Jackie made a great effort to draw Steve out about his romantic life, but as always, he put her off with humor and asides. As time passed, the conversation slowed, and soon stopped altogether. Jacqueline drifted off to sleep. Steve gently laid a woolen blanket across her lap, and then paused, looking at her. In sleep, the years seemed to fall away. He saw her as she once was; young, headstrong, beautiful...her hair, strawberry blonde and close cropped, streaked with flame as she dashed through the sky, earning her the name Spitfire. During their time in the Invaders, a romance blossomed between them. It was something they tried to keep secret, consisting mostly of stolen moments here and there. Time and circumstance allowed little else. They spent their last night together in a shattered aircraft, off the white Cliffs of Dover. Two months later, Steve disappeared off the coast of Norway, presumed dead.

After returning to the world, Steve found that many of the people he once knew were gone. Learning Jackie was alive had been a saving grace. As the years went on, and fewer and fewer of his comrades remained, she became even more important. Now, she was more important to him than he could express.

"Goodnight, my darling girl," he whispered, closing the door.

. . .

It was too early to turn in, so Steve explored. This place was special to him, and he enjoyed any chance to bask in its atmosphere. Falsworth manor was not an elegant building; its rough-hewn lines and sturdy foundation were meant for permanence, not elegance. Yet it possessed a beauty beyond that which mere elegance could confer. It housed an astonishing collection of historical artifacts. Tapestries draped the walls of the south wing, works of art accounted old before the first American colony had been settled. Above the entrance hung cavalry standards, stained with the blood and dust of Waterloo, carried into battle by General Roland Falsworth, who died repelling Napoleon's final charge. Every wall held portraits of lords and ladies past, faces now remembered only by time. It was a familiar feeling to Steve, and perhaps one of the reasons why this place touched his soul.

He stepped into the library, a high vaulted room that was once the manors great meeting hall. By the east window sat a glass case, holding a place of honor. Steve stopped to pay his respects.

"Hello, Sir Richard. How're they treating you, old boy?"

Steve ran his sleeve across the glass, polishing its clean surface. The items inside—a tunic bearing the design of the British flag, and a large combat knife—belonged to Jackie's father, a man of distinction. As Union Jack, Richard Falsworth had been the first superhero of the modern age. Some argued the point, believing that to be a true superhero, one needed to possess super-human powers. But, super or not, no one could argue his heroism. Falsworth was a special agent for the British during World War I, carrying out many dangerous missions behind enemy lines. He continued to operate after the war's end until an accident left him without the use of his legs. He led a remarkable life—his early exploits as an archaeologist and big game hunter inspiring the Indiana Jones films. Remembering Sir Richard always made Steve smile. The man could curse, drink, and fight like a sailor on shore leave, and often did. He could also dine with royalty and discuss art, literature and history with a scholar's expertise. He was quite a man.

Steve went in search of a book he'd started reading on his last visit, titled 'Temple of the Moon', a fascinating account of sir Richard's 1928 discovery of a lost Egyptian temple in the Valley of the Kings. Finding the volume in the study, Steve settled into a chair to read. As he turned to the final chapter, his attention was jarred by a commotion coming from the front of the house. He jumped up to investigate, astonished to discover the cause of the disturbance; standing at the front door was Namor, ruler of the under-sea nation of Atlantis, the fearsome warrior known as the Sub Mariner. Trilby was attempting to maintain order.

"Sir, if you please," he said, his cool British reserve breaking ever so slightly. "It is not the custom at Falsworth to receive uninvited guests. If you will wait here, I shall inform her ladyship, and ask if she will receive you."

Namor's eyes flashed and his voice thundered. His accent was a mysterious alchemy of Greek and Spanish and something long forgotten by man. It was almost lyrical.

"Heed these words, little man. This is Namor you address, the Avenging Son, Lord of all Atlantis and Master of the Oceans…and Namor does not wait upon servants! Many times have I been a guest of your mistress, who will no doubt have you flogged for your insolence. Take me to her immediately, or I will string you up by your ridiculous cummerbund."

"I don't think that will be necessary, do you Namor?" Steve said, stepping into view. He motioned to the butler to stand aside. "It's all right Trilby, I can vouch for him. The lady's sleeping."

"Very good sir," Trilby said, gladly stepping aside.

Namor removed his shimmering black overcoat, thrusting it at Trilby. "This garment is of the finest shark skin. See that you do not crease it."

"Upon my honor, not a single fiber shall be disturbed," Trilby said, making a dignified, if hasty, exit.

Namor was dressed in fabrics matching his coat. He wore a sleek jacket, collarless and with the sleeves cut at the elbow, trimmed in glimmering green and gold. His pants, flared at the ends, were also black. He wore feet sandals of burnished copper. The few buttons and buckles he wore were made of polished coral, and his shirt was brilliant white. Upon each wrist, he wore golden bracelets; the symbols of his royal station. Steve felt like a country bumpkin standing next to Namor. He cut an elegant figure, regal and commanding.

"Captain. It is a surprise to see you here," Namor said, coolly. He paused, as if searching for a memory. "But as I recall, you and Jacqueline share a birthday, do you not?"

"That's right. I take it that that's a gift for Jackie?"

"It is." Namor answered, holding up a small package. "I shall leave it for her to open later. Clearly, I am intruding on her visit with you. Happy birthday to you both."

"Namor, for Pete's sake. You just got here."

"Oh? I am welcome in your company? I am not a criminal in your eyes?"

"Is this about that oil tanker incident?"

"You tell me. It was your communique that informed me of my loss of status with the Avengers. For 'reckless and unlawful behavior', was that not how you put it?"

"Because you smashed that tanker and grounded it on the Alaskan shore."

"Because they polluted my ocean," Namor retorted.

"All right, that's true. But now you're pursuing them properly, in a court of law. Why didn't you go that route in the first place?"

"Because, Captain, I have found when dealing with surface dwellers, a show of force helps to move things along nicely—that is why. Your people have a history of ignoring the opened hand, but the clenched fist demands respect," Namor said, his voice rising. "And tell me, why is it that whenever the rights of my people are violated, we must seek redress in your courts, under your laws? Do the tribunals of Atlantis and Lemuria count for nothing in your eyes?"

"Whoa, time out," Steve said, throwing his hands up. "Your people have many real grievances. For what it's worth, I support your lawsuit one hundred percent. Roxxon Oil has one of the worst environmental records in the world, on land and sea. I'd love to see them brought to account. There's more that unites us than divides us, Namor. What do you say we set aside our problems, in honor of Jackie's birthday?"

Namor stood, resentment smoldering in his ink-black eyes. But slowly, his imperious expression softened.

"Aye. Let it not be said that Namor broke the peace. Let all disputes be set aside…for now." He extended his hand. "It is good to see you again, my old friend."

Instead of shaking Namor's hand, Steve clasped his forearm against Namor's, at the same time extending his left hand out, palm forward. He spoke the words 'eyn clouthu', meaning 'in peace'. It was the traditional Atlantean form of greeting. Namor could not conceal his surprise, or his pleasure.

"You honor me."

"Hey, I pay attention," Steve said, smiling. "Come on, let's see if Jackie's awake."

She was not. Steve peeked into the room, and found Jackie sleeping more soundly than before. Namor asked him not to disturb her, but to let her rest.

"Sorry Namor. We had a long visit earlier, it must have worn her out."

"I'm sure she enjoyed it thoroughly," Namor said, taking a last look before closing the door. "Though it shames me to say, this is my first visit to see Jacqueline in five years."

Steve smiled, recalling Jackie's eighty-fifth birthday celebration at Buckingham Palace. "I don't know if Queen Elizabeth has gotten over the excitement of meeting you Namor. It was quite a day."

"Indeed," Namor said, in his rich baritone. "A reunion of the three surviving members of the Invaders—a very good day. And now we are gathered together again, for perhaps the final time."

"Final time? What do you mean?"

"Perhaps I chose my words poorly...but one cannot help but notice how frail Jackie has become. The years lie heavy upon her."

"I don't know, she's still got quite a spark."

"Of course she does. I wish her nothing but health and long life," Namor said, his tone of voice as conciliatory as the proud monarch could make it. "But then, ninety years is already a ripe old age, is it not? As measured by surface dwellers."

Steve did not answer, appearing lost in thought, as a man with a weighty issue on his mind. Namor regretted his casual words. He had forgotten the strange attitudes surface dwellers world had about discussing matters of death. But it surprised him that as seasoned a warrior as Steve Rogers was so affected.

"My pardon," Namor said, breaking the silence. "Clearly, my words offended you."

"No, you're fine, really. It's me. I've been a little distracted. There was something I wanted to talk over with Jackie, but the moment came, and I…" Steve trailed off.

"If it is something you need to unburden yourself of, I shall gladly lend an ear."

"Maybe I'll take you up on that," Steve said, clapping a hand on Namor's shoulder. "But first things first. I don't know about you, but I could eat a horse right about now."

"Yes," Namor said, heartily. "I am ravenous. But I would prefer cow, if there is any."

Steve laughed uproariously. Namor was nonplussed. "You know, I think I could go for some nice fresh cow myself," Steve said, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye. "Let's go rustle up some grub."

Within minutes, they were sitting at the small table in the butlers' pantry, which was closer to the kitchen and more agreeable than the formal dining room. The larder was well stocked, and with Trilby's help, they soon had a nice spread of meats, cheeses, and bread, along with an assortment of pastries and sweets. There were bottles of wine and good stout English beer.

"Gentlemen," Trilby said after setting out the silverware. "Is there anything else I might do before I retire?"

"Yes," Namor said. "I should like a tall glass of water."

"Of course sir. Still or sparkling?"

Namor looked up. The smolder had returned to his eyes. "Water," he said. "Plain. Fresh. Water. Nothing more, nothing less. You do still have fresh water somewhere on this god's forsaken island, do you not?"

"Well, there is the Lake District, sir. Shall I give you directions?"

"Get him a bottle of Perrier," Steve quickly said, to save possible bloodshed. "You'll love it Namor. Freshly bottled water—from France."

"Ah, the French. Good beverages, better women," Namor said, smiling. "Bring me two bottles."

The men set to eating. There was little conversation, just the sound of knife and fork as plate after plate of food was cleared. Steve was a heavy eater (after undergoing the Super Solider treatment, his metabolism required many times the calories of a normal man) but next to Namor, he was a piker. It was unreal watching Namor, with his slender, muscular build, pack away enough food to feed a platoon. The only man Steve had ever seen top him was Thor, though it was hardly fair to call the mountainous God of Thunder a mere man. Thor was one guy who probably could eat a horse, Steve thought, with a cow for an appetizer.

After a time, the two old comrades began to speak, in between picking over the remains of the feast. Namor talked of his wife and children and Steve shared news of the Avengers. Both men studiously avoided any subject of controversy.

"That was good," Namor said, pushing away from the table. "I enjoy surface fare. Especially the cheese. I've instructed my chiefs on the art, but something is always lacking. Now, my father, he was known to be an expert on the subject of cheese," Namor said, referring to his biological father, a surface man named Edward McKenzie. Though usually sensitive about the subject, at times Namor would acknowledge his unique dual heritage, and even take pride in it.

"My mother insisted that I remember and honor my father's customs. If nothing else, the surface world can take pride in its cheese. Whale's milk has the wrong flavor altogether. The cow…now there's a dammed fine animal. Ugly things, but very tasty, all around."

Steve grabbed two of bottles of Guinness and the men walked outside to take the night air. It was cloudless and cool. Under the light of a nearly full moon, which made the countryside glitter with the evening dew, Steve Rogers and Namor McKenzie sat on the edge of an ancient, low-lying stonewall, and talked.

"I remember standing on this very spot, seventy years ago," Namor said. "The moon was full that night as well."

"That's right. I was over there," Steve said, pointing off to his left. "There was a little stand of birch trees then."

"Oh, is that why you chose that spot? Because you admired the trees? I thought it might have been because it put you next to Jacqueline."

"What are you talking about?" Steve said, a little too incredulously.

"Come my friend, you always were the worst liar I knew. Do you say you were unmoved by her beauty?"

"I didn't say that. I mean, I am human."

"Well I'm not, but that would not have stopped me."

Steve laughed. "You dog you."

"I jest," Namor said. "In truth, I would never have made any advance on her. I saw how you looked at her, and she at you. I was always surprised that nothing came of it between you two. Or did it?" Namor said, looking questioningly at Steve. "All these many years, and you have never spoken of it."

Steve smiled, wistfully. "Guess we weren't as sneaky as we thought. Did everyone know?"

"Your countryman Barnes did, but of course he was your close friend. The others were unaware. I, however, was a prince of the realm, raised on palace intrigue. I knew, and was happy for you both."

"We were happy ourselves. It just wasn't our time. If I hadn't disappeared at war's end…" Steve trailed off and grew quiet. A moment passed, and Namor sought to break the melancholy. He lifted his bottle.

"To the first meeting of the mighty Invaders. A most auspicious night."

"That it was," Steve said, his tone brightening. "I'll let you in on a little secret. I didn't think there was a hope in hell that the group would last a month," he said, laughing.

"You? What about me? The Sub Mariner, teaming up with the Human Torch? What fool thought that was a good idea?"

Steve raised his hand. "F.D.R. and Churchill gave me the responsibility of making that team happen, and I needed all the heavy hitters I could get my hands on. I just hoped I'd find a way to keep the two of you from killing one another."

"Quite a gamble you took."

"I thought so myself. But you know, aside from a bump or two along the way, you were a model teammate. You gave the effort your all. I don't mind telling you, a lot of people in the early days of the war feared we might lose you to the Axis."

"Indeed. Many of my people did think we should join them. After all, the only real problems Atlantis had with the surface world was with the great seafaring nations. Primarily that meant America and Britain. It was thought that if Germany was your enemy, than she should be our friend."

"What changed their attitude?"

"I did," Namor said. "It took patience and time, but eventually I was able to sway public opinion. You must understand, my people knew very little of the surface world in those days. For centuries, we had lived in virtual isolation. They did not understand, as I did, what a vile band of scum Hitler and his cohorts were. I knew that eventually, when all other nations had fallen, he would bring the war to us. No holier cause have I ever known, than to wipe his black stain from the face of the earth."

"Amen," Steve said, clinking Namor's bottle. For several minutes, the two men sat in silence, drinking their ale. Eventually, Namor spoke.

"Should we not wake Jackie, see her to her bed chamber?"

"I don't think so. Trilby told me she often sleeps in that chair when her hip is bothering her. I think we should let her rest."

"Then, unfortunately, I will miss seeing her."

"You're not staying?"

"No, I cannot. I'm heading a diplomatic mission to Spain in the morning. The royal ship awaits me in the channel. You must convey my best wishes." Namor drained his bottle in one quick draught. "Before I go Steve, what was it you wished to speak of earlier?"

"Earlier? Oh...it was nothing. Forget it."

"My friend, did I not just say what a poor liar you make? It is clear that something is on your mind. If you do not wish to share it with me, you may say so. I will take no offense."

Steve set down his Guinness. Twice he made a start to speak, twice he faltered and stayed silent. After a long pause, he found his voice on his third try.

"There is something, but…I can't seem to find the right words. I guess that's why I was going to talk with Jackie. Sometimes it's only your old friends you can really talk to, but somehow it felt wrong to burden her."

"I too am an old friend."

"Yes you are," Steve said, smiling. "I'm just going to say it then, and get it out there. I…I have a problem, Namor. I'm ill."

"Ill," Namor said, curiously. "Is it something serious?"

"It is," Steve said, pausing. "I'm dying, Namor."

There was silence. With his heightened senses, Namor heard much. In a neighboring field, cattle were quietly chewing their cud; in the distance, a farmer called for his dogs; high above, a thrush beat its wings in the chill night air while inside the manor, an old grandfather clock ticked off the minutes. But certainly, he thought, his ears had failed him just now.

"Surely I heard you wrong? You look the picture of health."

"I may look it, but unless the doctors are very wrong, that's going to change."

"Change how, why?"

"I can only give you the layman's version. Something's causing my body to breakdown. The doc's don't know what's causing it, but if it isn't checked soon, it's going to prove fatal."

"How long is soon?"

"Three months, maybe less. Unless a cure is found. But so far, it's eluding them."

"I do not understand," Namor said. "The serum which made you Captain America, I thought it imparted immunity to all disease. How is this thing possible?"

"The serum itself may be to blame," Steve offered. "At least that's the working theory. The serum unlocked my genetic code, essentially rebooting my DNA. As a result, my body transformed into a model of peak human performance, including my immune system—"

"Yes," Namor interrupted. "I have seen you resist poisons, injury, all manner of bodily harm. How is it that you can be dying of disease, with your immune system as powerful as it is?"

"It may have become too powerful. In some way the doctors don't understand, my immune system has begun to see its own DNA as a foreign agent. In a neat little irony, that same supercharged immune system has been staving off its attack. For a while, it was a stalemate. But the balance is beginning to tip."

Namor sat in silence, his eyes distant. Steve walked a pace alongside the stonewall, trailing his hand over its rough surface. The night had grown cold, and the air whispered of an early frost. Steve broke the silence with a quiet laugh.

"Seems I've finally met the one enemy I can't defeat. Myself. Kind of funny when you think about it."

"I fail to see the humor. I am no doctor, but I know that if a thing was done, it can surely be undone. There must be a cure. What medical aid have you sought?"

"Hank Pym first discovered the problem six months ago, and he's one of worlds the top biochemists. And I just spent a week at the Royal Medical Center in Wakanda, they're consulting with Hank. Reed Richards is involved as well."

"Is that all?"

"It's plenty. I'm trying to be discreet."

"Discreet?" Namor said, his voice beginning to rise. "Discretion is for choosing a table wine, Captain. This you fight."

"I am," Steve replied deliberately. "My way. And on my terms."

"I do not understand your attitude," Namor said, pacing, agitated. "To die at the end of a long life well lived, that is one thing. Or to die as men like us should die, in battle for a worthy cause, that is another. But this…this is obscene."

"People die every day. What did you think? That we're exempt from death and disease, above it all somehow? I hate to break it to you, but we're not gods."

"Do not put words into my mouth! I only meant that there is more that can be done, and more that should be done. Your people owe it to you to rally to your aid. And you owe it to them to fight for your life."

"I don't need you to lecture me—got that?" Steve's cheeks flushed as he faced Namor. "I want to live, believe me. But, if it's not to be, if I'm going to die? Then I'm going to do it on my own terms. I've earned that right. I won't waste my last days in some hospital bed, waiting for a cure that isn't there. And I will not let my death become some public spectacle."

"I do not understand you!" Namor bellowed. "Where is the man I once knew, the warrior I followed into countless battles? He would never surrender. No matter the odds, he would never give in. Where is he now?"

"You have no Goddamn right to talk to me that way! Do you hear me? None!"

Namor turned his back to Steve. For a long moment, a tense silence hung between them, like a fog. In a sudden blur of motion, Namor brought his fist up in a looping arc, hammering it down onto the stonewall. A crack like a shotgun blast echoed across the countryside as a four-foot section of the wall disappeared, vaporizing into a cloud of dust and fragments. The silence resumed, until finally, Namor turned and spoke.

"Steve, come with me to Atlantis. I will have my finest physicians assigned to your case. We can leave tonight, this very minute."

"Namor…"

"No, hear me out. What I said just now, forgive me. I am a fool who speaks from emotion. I always have been."

"It's all right."

Namor shook his head. "No, it is not. Too many times have I had to beg your pardon, for some stupid word, some rash action. I vow to you now, it will not happen again. I know that you would never surrender without a fight." Namor laid his hand on Steve's shoulder. "In fact, in case I have never told you this before…I think you are the bravest and finest man I have ever known."

"Thank you," Steve said, in a near whisper. He cleared his throat. "I'll make you a deal, Namor. I'll consider your generous offer…if you promise to fix Jackie's wall."

Namor looked back to the gaping hole he had put in the structure. He shook his head, chuckling low. "We have a bargain, my friend," he said, wiping at the salty brine leaking from the corner of his eyes.

Just then, a voice called out from the direction of the manor. It was Jacqueline Falsworth, standing at the edge of the veranda.

"Steven, is that you? Who's out there?"

"Namor, don't say anything to her, please," Steve said. Silently, the Prince of Atlantis nodded his head. The two men headed in, urging the elderly woman back to the warmth of the house. Once inside, Namor built a good blaze in the massive fireplace of the drawing room, and Steve fixed mugs of hot chocolate. Back in the comfort of her easy chair, Jackie was once again holding court.

"Namor, I still can't believe you are really here," she said, reaching out to him. With a courtly bow, Namor took her hand, kissing it.

"And where else would I be on your ninetieth birthday?"

Jackie looked over to the grandfather clock. "Ah, but it is now past midnight, making you a day late. I should be very cross with you."

"I will make it up to you. I will be back this way next Tuesday. If you will have me, I shall stop and spend the afternoon."

"Oh my," she said, genuinely surprised. "I shall look forward to that."

"Here," Steve said, handing Jackie a steaming cup of coco. "Drink up and get some warmth into those bones. I could brain you for going out into the cold night air like that. Do you want to catch pneumonia?"

"Tosh. This is still my house. When I hear a commotion, I investigate. Now, what was that terrible racket?"

"That was me, I'm afraid," Namor said, casting a quick look at Steve. "We were reliving old war stories. In my enthusiasm, I carelessly lashed out. I'm sorry Jackie, but I'm afraid I damaged your garden wall."

"Oh Namor, no. That wall is older than the manor itself. It was built by the Romans."

"I shall make amends. I will hire the finest stone mason in all the British Isles. It will be made as good as new, I promise."

"I trust that it will. But I can't be cross with you. I'm too happy just to see you. To have my boys with me again," she said, reaching out to take both Namor and Steve by the hand. "My regal Prince and my noble Knight. No Lady in days of old could ask for more."

"Unfortunately my Lady, your Prince must be leaving. I have duties in the morning which I can't neglect."

"Must you?"

"I'm afraid I must," he said, looking over at Steve. "For the hour is grown late."

The two men looked at one another, for only a moment. No words were spoken; none were needed. After a second, Namor reached down and picked up the package he had brought with him.

"Before I leave Jackie, please accept this gift with my best wishes for a happy, if belated, birthday."

Jackie made a fuss about such things being unnecessary for a woman of her age (what more could she possibly want than their company, she asked?), but at Namor's instance, she took the gift. After taking care to undo the wrapping without tearing it, she opened the box and then froze, transfixed.

"How lovely," she said. "I must confess though, I'm not sure what it is."

"It is a placard from an ancient sailing ship, lost at sea many years ago."

Jackie removed the rather heavy item, about the size and thickness of a notebook tablet. On it was an engraved likeness of a beautiful woman, serene and slightly sad. Behind her head was the sun, streams of fire radiating outward. There were words, in a language Jackie didn't recognize, etched along the bottom edge. It was golden and slightly pitted, and it had the look of deep age about it.

"My people found it in the Aegean sea," Namor said. "It came from a Trojan warship, some three thousand years ago, the standard of Helen of Troy. Behind her head, come the flames of the sun god, Apollo."

"I don't know what to say," Jackie finally managed. "It must be priceless. Surely it belongs in a museum."

"I do not know of such things. I only know it is a fitting gift for the beautiful Spitfire."

Jackie fretted, unsure how to accept a thing of such historic worth. Eventually she saw that it pleased Namor to give it to her, so she simply said 'thank you'.

"But what is that behind your chair?" Namor said, donning his coat to leave. "It appears you have another gift yet to open."

"Oh," she said, spying the rectangular box, about two-feet by three in size. "It's Steven's present. I'd forgotten it."

"Really, you don't have to open it right now," Steve said, suddenly self-conscious. "It's not much."

"Nonsense. I am over my earlier piety. I've rather decided that I enjoy opening presents."

"Well, all right. It's not very good I'm afraid, but it's a painting I did earlier this year. I hope you like it."

Jacqueline Falsworth opened the box, and fell speechless. She clutched the small framed canvas to her body and bowed her head. After many seconds passed, she looked up, tears streaking her face.

"It is beautiful, Steven. Truly and dearly beautiful."

Namor looked at the painting.

"It is indeed good," Namor said, looking the canvas over. "I forgot what a talented artist you are."

"I did my best," Steve said, kneeling at Jackie's side, taking her small hand in his. "I painted it from memory."

"I know this view well," Namor said. "The White Cliffs of Dover."