.

Chapter 4

Blue Birds Over…

Today…
The Bugle Building, New York

Ben Urich was parked at 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, which he was trying to connect to mob Kingpin Wilson Fisk, with little success. Aside from not getting a credible source to go on record, Urich couldn't find a hook. He had been in the game long enough to know this simple truth; if you don't hook the reader with a good opening line, forget it. He needed a hook.

As Urich pulled out his notebook for something he could use, a braying voice cut through the raucous noise of the Bugle's city room.

"Urich! My office!"

Urich popped his head into the office of the paper's owner/editor, J. Jonah Jameson, who was glowering from behind his imposing desk.

"I just read your piece for the Sunday magazine."

"And?"

"Crap, " Jameson said, tossing the pages across his desk. "It's a puff piece, piffle, pabulum—any first-year journalism student could do as well. And you won a Pulitzer?"

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

"It's not telling me anything I don't 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."

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

"Don't be a smart ass. I'm not saying take a swipe at the man, just give me something real. We need heat, we need substance," Jonah said, getting up and pacing. Like Urich, he was an old-school newspaperman, and his blood was up for the story. "We need an exclusive interview, 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 one-on-one interviews."

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

"Jonah…"

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

"I doubt he'd be inclined to do the Bugle any favors. You have 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 FF, they always get a fair hearing in my paper."

"Cap may not see it that way. Look, if you're serious about this interview, maybe you should call in a favor of your own. Your son happens to work for the Avengers, you know."

"Hey," Jonah said with real anger in voice, not the gravelly bluster he affected to motivate his employees. "I told you to keep John out of it. I'm not putting my son on the spot."

"No, just me."

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

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

Back at his workstation, Urich found one of the Bugle's freelance photographers plopped down on the edge of his desk.

"Saw you coming from J.J's office," Peter Parker said. "What mood is Smiley in today? I've got a meeting later."

"Peachy," Ben said, massaging his stiff neck. "Say, Pete, if you were me, and you had to get hold of Captain America for an interview, how would you go about it?"

"Jeez, how would I know?" Parker stammered. He was known for his action photos of superheroes, and had particularly amazing luck catching Spider-Man at work. Urich had a theory about how he managed that.

"Just you being so close to Spidey," Ben said, smiling. "You'll let me know if anything comes to mind?"

Parker agreed, and then quickly made his way out of the office. Urich chuckled, and reached for the phone. After a quick dial, the pleasant voice of Cheryl Hernandez, the Avengers press secretary, came on the line.

"I'm sorry, but as I told you last time, Captain America currently isn't granting interviews."

"Could I ask him personally?"

"He's out of the country. Barring emergencies, I can't contact him."

"I don't suppose my career going down the drain counts as an emergency?"

Cheryl laughed. "I'll pass on your request, I promise. I don't think he'd mind me telling you this, but Cap reads your column, you know. He likes your writing, so hang in there, Ben."

Urich hung up, encouraged. Sweeping the stack of papers littering his desk to the side, he grabbed a black magic marker, writing in big bold letters:

Get that interview!

He underlined it twice, wondering what corner of the globe Captain America was at today.

England

Steve Rogers was traveling south down Britain's M6 highway, behind the wheel of a sporty Saab 9-3 turbo, enjoying a rare bit of alone time. The traffic was tolerable and the day bright and sunny—amazingly so for England in autumn. With 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, he listened to contemporary music these days. Clinging to the past wasn't healthy, a lesson he learned after awakening in the frozen blackness of the arctic. He despaired of finding his way in this strange new world, but only for a time. It came down to making a choice, and Steve chose to live. Not as some quaint historical relic, but as a flesh and blood man.

The transition was easy for Cap. The United States celebrated his return, as did much of the world. He became a member of the Avengers, the world's premier superhero team, adding to his renown. 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 in partnership with the hero called Falcon. Captain America hadn't missed a beat, but Steve Rogers found it 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 sitting home alone on a Saturday night.
4) No listening exclusively to the music of his youth.

Rules 1 and 2 took no time at all. As for rule 3…although the politics of romance had changed, the mechanics remained the same; Steve had no trouble finding companionship. Rule 4 was another matter. Music was damned hard, but bit by bit, he got there. His Spotify list held many new favorites: the Beatles, Bruno Mars, Adele, among others—but today he was allowing a rare moment of nostalgia. No place brought back the memories like England, where he'd spent so much of the war. Today, he let himself indulge; Basie, Goodman, Satchmo, and best of all, Ellington.

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

His phone buzzed, not his Avengers com-link, but his personal phone, a number only a select few people had. He picked it up, seeing a text from Sharon.

Sorry to have to wish you happy birthday in a text, but it seems to be how we communicate these days. I stopped by your place, but you weren't home. I suppose I know where you are, but let's not go there. Call me when you get back, please?

He held the phone for several seconds, wanting to call her, knowing he should. He set it down. There were times, no matter how hard he tried, when he couldn't make the ends of his life meet. The past, present, and future were an uninterrupted pattern for most people; for Steve they were separate entities, and he was never able to fully exist in any of them. He couldn't put off calling Sharon much longer. Perhaps tomorrow. He laughed grimly at that idea. What could he possibly tell her? Tell any of them? He shut the stereo off; the music had lost its flavor.

Time passed, his melancholy lessening as he drove. Seeing his turn, he headed down a long private lane, bringing the car to a stop on the familiar cobblestone drive of Falsworth Manor. Grabbing a parcel and a small bundle of flowers from the back seat, he took in the sight of the venerable country estate. It was good to know some things survived the blows of time and tide, and Falsworth Manor was nothing if not a survivor.

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

"Good afternoon?" the man intoned, his accent proper, his manner terribly formal; in short, the perfect English butler.

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

"Indeed sir, you may follow me. First, allow me to take your…hat."

Steve handed over the cap, which Trilby pinched between his finger and thumb as if holding a full diaper. There was dry British wit, and then there was Trilby. The man could draw blood with an arched eyebrow.

The hallway was filled with stacks of cards and letters, along with dozens of floral bouquets, some almost touching the ceiling, bearing various birthday wishes. As they arrived at the drawing room doors, Trilby turned, eyeing Steve's meager collection of flowers.

"There is a small vase in the pantry that should serve. Now, if you will wait here..."

Trilby stepped inside the room. The conversation was easy to follow; the lady of the manor was in fine form today.

"I should sack you on the spot. Show him in—we do not stand on formalities with our old friends here. Quickly now."

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

Trilby cleared his throat. "Lady Falsworth, I present Mr. Steven Rogers…" He paused, examining the hat. "…Of the New York Yankees."

"Trilby, do shut up. Bring the tea, and mind you don't come back too soon."

Undaunted, Trilby left the room, pulling the creaking doors closed behind him. Jackie looked at Steve, smiling.

"Must I offer an invitation?"

Steve knelt, and kissed her cheek, which was as soft as velum, lined with age. Her features looked frail, but there was strength in her eyes, which lit up as she spied the flowers.

"Lilies! Oh, how lovely."

"Only the best for my Darling Girl. How are you, Jackie?"

"Well, I've just been kissed by the handsomest man I know, and I've just celebrated my ninety-fifth birthday. I'm fine, aside from this dodgy hip of mine. Now, what is that behind your back? We have a long-standing agreement on this shared birthday of ours. No gift giving."

"I've decided to overrule you," Steve said, setting the parcel behind her chair. "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. "Spending fifty-nine years frozen in a block of ice doesn't change the fact that I'm exactly two years older than you."

"Nonsense. As I see it, today counts as your thirty-ninth birthday, though you hardly look it. But come, sit down. I'm in the mood for a long chat."

She was true to her word. Trilby served the tea and for the next hour, they visited. Jacqueline told him of the doings of her family, especially Emily, the granddaughter she doted on. Steve shared his own news with her. Mostly they talked of the event that shaped their lives, the war. Historians speak of the great battles, the leaders, and the momentous events. Those who fight the wars remember the small things…the songs sung in air raid shelters, the jokes told over cups of coffee, and the friends long gone. Steve was breaking another of his ironclad rules reminiscing this way, but such rules did not apply to Jacqueline Falsworth.

During the 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 others who came and went as the war raged) she was a member of the Invaders, the famed team who pitted themselves against Hitler's own superhuman agents. Though her powers faded long ago, to Britons she was a hero still.

The reminiscence ran its course, and Jackie steered the conversation to current topics.

"Tell me, how are things with you and Miss Carter?"

"Jackie…"

"Sharon is a lovely girl. You do care for her?"

"Jackie, enough. I don't want to talk about it."

Seeing his resolve to speak no further on the subject, Jackie changed gears. "Perhaps you'll share your news from Scotland," she said, sipping her tea. "I've waited all afternoon to hear it."

"Did you get this from Stony, or did you go straight to the Prime Minister?"

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

He told the story. As she knew, he took advantage of being in England to honor a long-standing promise to their old acquaintance, General Stonewell. Captain America conducted a master class on hand-to-hand combat for the SAS, the elite British commando force. After the seminar, a crisis erupted. The terror organization Hydra kidnapped the heir to the British throne, Prince Harry, 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 fortunate you were at hand," Jackie said. "Things would have gone badly otherwise. How did young Mr. Chapman fare?"

"Very well. Joe has the makings of a fine Union Jack."

"I heard he blundered, almost costing the Prince his life. That would be 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. Joe's been at it for what, a year? Go easy on him."

"It's been nearly 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. I seem to recall a hero named Spitfire who had her share of troubles starting out, and she had the benefit of superpowers."

Seeing her disposition had not softened, Steve changed tactics. "I know you wanted the tradition to 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 name. It was his choice. You should respect it."

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

"Why? Because Joe's a commoner, from a working-class family?"

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

Steve took her small hand, comforting her. "No, of course not. Forget I said it. But be honest, Jackie, you haven't given Joe much support. Your father and Brian left behind quite a legacy, and Joe's working hard to live up to it. A little encouragement from you would mean the world to him."

She bowed her head. "You are right, I know. I always hoped James 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, not easily given to tears, but they came now. Steve handed her his handkerchief, which she used, and then handed back.

"It's terrible, watching all you once cherished fade away. I know you endured a horrible ordeal, lost at sea. But awful as it was, you came through it with your youth. You'll find it different once you, too, grow old…" She stopped, seeing Steve's pained expression. "Forgive me. I've upset you with my thoughtless words."

"No, you're fine. I'm just sorry if I'd upset you. Come on, let's talk of happier things."

She sensed something unspoken in Steve's words, but let the matter be, respecting his silence. They spoke a while longer, but the conversation slowed, and soon stopped altogether as Jackie drifted to sleep.

Steve laid a woolen blanket across Jackie's lap, seeing her as she once was; young, headstrong, beautiful…her strawberry blonde hair close cropped and streaked with flame as she blazed through the sky, earning her the name Spitfire. Their love played out against the backdrop of war, making it a secret thing of stolen moments, including their last night together, in a shattered aircraft off the White Cliffs of Dover. They made love as young people do in such times; with a desperate and fierce tenderness Six weeks later, Steve disappeared, presumed dead. After returning, he found many of the people he once knew were gone. Learning Jackie was alive was a saving grace. As time went on, she became more important than he could express.

"Goodnight, my Darling Girl," he whispered, closing the door.

. . .

Steve wandered about the massive home. It was special to him, and he enjoyed any chance to bask in its atmosphere. With its rough-hewn lines and sturdy foundation, Falsworth Manor was meant for permanence, yet it possessed a beauty beyond what mere elegance could confer. Among its impressive artifacts were tapestries accounted old before the first American colony was settled; cavalry standards stained with the blood and dust of Waterloo, bourn by General Roland Falsworth who died repelling Napoleon's final charge, and paintings of lords and ladies past, their faces remembered only by time. Perhaps that was why this place touched his soul. Like him, it was of another era.

In the library, by the east window, a small glass case sat occupying a place of honor. Steve walked over and paid his respects.

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

On display were a mask and tunic bearing the design of the British flag, and a large combat knife, items that belonged to Jackie's father, a man of distinction. Richard Falsworth was the first superhero of the modern age, the Union Jack. Some argued the point, believing a superhero must possess superhuman powers. But, super or not, no one could argue his heroism. Falsworth was a secret agent for the British during the First World War, carrying out dangerous missions behind enemy lines. He continued operating 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 archeologist helped inspire the Indiana Jones films. Remembering Sir Richard made Steve smile; the man could curse, drink, and fight like a sailor on shore leave, and often did. He could also discuss art, literature and history with a scholar's expertise.

Steve went in search of a book he'd started reading on his last visit, 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, he settled in to read, but his attention was jarred by a commotion coming from the front door.

Steve jumped up to investigate, and his eyes went wide at discovering the cause of the disturbance. Standing at the doorway was Prince Namor, the fearsome undersea warrior known as the Sub Mariner, his formidable scorn on full blast as Trilby attempted to maintain order.

"Sir, it is not the custom at Falsworth to receive uninvited guests. If you will simply wait here, I shall check with her ladyship."

Namor's eyes flashed and his voice thundered, his accent a mysterious alchemy of Greek, Persian, and something long forgotten above the waves.

"Heed these words, little man. This is Namor you address, The Avenging Son, Lord of Atlantis and Master of the Oceans…and Namor does not wait upon servants! Many years have I known your mistress, who will no doubt have you flogged for your insolence. Stand aside, or must I string you up by your ridiculous cummerbund?"

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

Namor strode into the manor, removing his iridescent black overcoat and thrusting it at Trilby. "This garment is of the finest shark skin. See you do not crease it."

"Not a fiber shall be disturbed," Trilby said, making a dignified, if hasty, exit.

Namor was clothed with exotic opulence. His sleek jacket, collarless and arrayed with buttons of polished coral, was hemmed at the elbows, revealing golden bracelets on each of his wrists, symbols of his royal station. His trousers, flared at the ends, were trimmed in glimmering green and gold. On his feet were sandals of burnished, bejeweled copper. His brilliant white shirt was of a mysterious fabric that shimmered like water. As always, Steve felt like a country bumpkin next to Namor, who cut an elegant figure, regal and commanding.

"Captain," Namor said, coolly. "I'm surprised to see you…though as I recall, you and Jacqueline share a birthday, do you not?"

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

"It is." Namor answered, setting a small package on the hallway table. "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. Is this about that oil tanker incident?"

"You tell me." Namor riposted. "It was your communiqué 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."

"They did, 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 moves things along nicely. 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 when 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. "Can we call a truce? Your people have many real grievances. I support your lawsuit one hundred percent. Roxxon Oil has one of the worst environmental records 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?"

Prince Namor stood, resentment smoldering in his dark eyes, which matched his ink-black hair. Slowly, his imperious expression softened.

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

Steve clasped his forearm against Namor's, at the same time extending his left hand out, palm forward, speaking the words 'eyn clouthu', meaning 'in peace'. The traditional Atlantean greeting. Namor could not conceal his surprise, or his pleasure.

"You honor me."

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

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

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

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

Steve smiled, recalling Jackie's ninetieth birthday celebration at Buckingham Palace. "I don't know if Queen Elizabeth ever got 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. Here we are again, gathered for perhaps the final time."

Steve looked up, taken short. "Final time?"

"One cannot help but notice how frail Jackie has become. Age lays heavy upon her."

"I think she has years ahead of her."

"Of course, my friend," Namor said, his tone as conciliatory as the proud monarch could make it. "I wish her nothing but health and long life. Still, ninety-five is already a ripe old age, is it not? As measured by surface dwellers?"

Steve fell silent, appearing lost in thought. Namor regretted his casual words. He knew of surface dwellers' reluctance about discussing matters of death, but it surprised him a warrior as seasoned as Steve Rogers was so affected.

"My pardon," Namor said. "Clearly, I've offended you."

"No, you're fine. I've been a little distracted. There was something I wanted to talk over with Jackie…but I couldn't seem to find the moment."

"I shall gladly lend an ear."

"Thanks," Steve said, clapping his hand on Namor's shoulder. "But first things first. I could eat a horse about now."

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

Steve laughed uproariously. "I could go for some nice fresh cow myself," he said, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye. "Let's raid the kitchen."

Within minutes, they were at the small table in the butlers' pantry, which was 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.

"You've set a fine table," Namor said to Trilby. "But I should like some water."

"Of course, sir. Still or sparkling?"

The smolder returned to Namor's eyes. "Plain. Fresh. Water. You do still have fresh water 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 three bottles."

They set to eating, the only sound that of knife and fork, as platters of food were cleared. Steve was a heavy eater; his enhanced metabolism required many times the calories of an average person, but he was a piker next to Namor, who, despite his trim build, packed away enough food to feed a platoon. The only man Steve ever saw 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.

Eventually, conversation began, as they picked over the remains of the feast. Namor spoke of his wife and children and Steve shared news of the Avengers. Both 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. My father now, he was known to be an expert on the subject," 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 show pride in it.

"My mother always insisted 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 damned fine animal. Ugly things, but very tasty, all around."

Steve grabbed two bottles of Guinness and they walked outside to take the air. The night was cloudless and cool, lit by a full moon, making the countryside glitter with the evening dew.

Walking alongside an ancient, low-lying stonewall, Steve Rogers and Namor McKenzie 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 standing over there," Steve said, pointing to his left. "There was a 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," Namor said with a sly smile.

"What are you talking about?"

"You always were the worst liar I knew. Do you mean to say you were unmoved by her beauty?"

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

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

Steve laughed. "You dog you."

"I jest," Namor said. "I would have made no advance on her. I saw how you looked at her, and she at you. I was always surprised nothing came of it between you two. Or did it?" He looked 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 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…" Steve trailed off and grew quiet. Namor sought to break the melancholy, and lifted his bottle.

"To the first meeting of the mighty Invaders. An auspicious night."

"That it was," Steve said, clinking his bottle against Namor's. "I'll let you in on a secret. I didn't think there was a hope in hell 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?"

"You're looking at him," Steve said, raising his hand. "Hey, FDR and Churchill put me in charge, and I needed all the heavy hitters I could get. I just hoped I'd could keep the two of you from killing one another. But you know, aside from a bump or two along the way, you were a model teammate, Namor. I don't mind telling you, a lot of people feared we might lose you to the Axis."

"Indeed, my people thought we should join with them. The only real problems Atlantis had with the surface world was with the great seafaring nations, America and Britain. It was thought if Germany was your enemy, perhaps she should be our friend."

"What changed their minds?"

"I did," Namor said. "With time and patience, I swayed public opinion. For centuries my people lived in isolation, knowing little of the surface world.. They did not realize what a vile band of scum Hitler and his cohorts were. I knew when all other nations had fallen, he would bring the war to us. No holier cause have I known than to wipe his black stain from the face of the earth."

"Amen," Steve said. For several minutes, they sat in silence, drinking their ale, until Namor spoke.

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

"I don't think so. Trilby said she often sleeps in that chair, especially when her hip is bothering her."

"Then, unfortunately, I will miss seeing her. 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, what was it you wished to speak of earlier?"

"Oh…it was nothing."

Namor sighed. "Did I not just say what a poor liar you are? Clearly, something is on your mind. If you do not wish to share it, I will take no offense."

Steve set down his Guinness and started to speak, but faltered. After a long pause, he found his voice.

"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."

"You are," Steve said, his smile genuine, but tinged with sadness. "I'm just going to say it then, and get it out. I…I'm ill, Namor."

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

"It is. I'm dying."

Namor stood in silence. With his heightened senses he heard much: the cattle in the neighboring field, quietly chewing their cud; a farmer calling his dogs; a thrush beating its wings in the chill night air, and the grandfather clock inside the manor, ticking off the minutes. But certainly, he thought, his ears had failed him just now.

"How is this so? You look the picture of health."

"Unless the doctors are very wrong, that's going to change. Something's causing my body to break down. It's like cancer, but it's not, like AIDS, but it's not. There's a window of maybe six months for the doctors to find a cure…but it's evading them."

"Six months?" Namor said, stunned. "I have seen you resist poisons, injury, all manner of bodily harm. How can you be dying, with such a powerful immune system?"

"It may have become too powerful. The doctors aren't exactly sure how, but it appears my immune system sees its own DNA as a foreign agent, and is attacking it, while at the same time propping me up. For a while it was a stalemate, but the balance has begun to tip."

Steve walked a pace alongside the stonewall, trailing his hand over its rough surface, which had grown cold, whispering of an early frost.

"I remember how excited the doctors were after I took the Super Soldier treatment, when all of…this happened," Steve said, looking down at his body. "They kept saying, 'pinnacle of human perfection', and, 'this will change the world'."

He laughed quietly, and looked at Namor. "Turns out the world went on same as ever, and the pinnacle of human perfection is six months away from an early grave. Kind of funny when you think about it."

"I fail to see the humor. I am no doctor, but I know this thing was done, so surely it can be undone. What medical aid have you sought?"

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

"Is that all? Surely more can be done."

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

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

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

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

"People die every day, Namor. What did you think, that we're above it all somehow? I hate to break it to you, but we're not gods."

"Do not put words into my mouth! I'm only saying that more can be done, and more 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."

"Don't lecture me," Steve said, his cheeks flushed as he faced Namor. "I want to live, believe me, but I won't waste my last days in some hospital sickbed, waiting for a cure that just 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!"

Namor turned away, a tense silence descending like a heavy fog. In a blur of motion, he brought his fist up in a looping arc, hammering down onto the stonewall, sending a blast echoing across the countryside as a four-foot section of wall vaporized into dust and fragments. Namor turned to 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."

"No, it's not. Too often have I had to beg your pardon, for some stupid word, some rash action. I vow it will not happen again. I know you would never surrender without a fight. In fact, in case I have never told you…I think you are the bravest and finest man I have ever known."

They stood in silence. Steve cleared his throat, and spoke.

"I'll consider your generous offer, Namor…if you promise to fix Jackie's wall."

Namor looked to the gaping hole in the structure, chuckling low. "We have a bargain," he said, wiping salty brine from the corner of his eyes.

A voice called out and they turned, seeing Jackie standing at the edge of the veranda.

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

Steve turned to Namor. "Don't say anything, please."

Silently, the monarch of Atlantis nodded, and the two men headed back to the manor.

. . .

Inside, Namor stoked a good blaze in the fireplace as Steve fixed mugs of hot chocolate. From the comfort of her easy chair, Jackie once again held court.

"Namor, I can't believe you are really here."

With a courtly bow, Namor kissed her hand. "And where else would I be on your ninety-fifth birthday?"

"Ah, but it is now past midnight," she said, looking at the grandfather clock. "By my reckoning, you are a day late. I should be very cross with you."

"I will make amends. I have business in London next Tuesday. If you will have me, I will stop by afterwards, and spend the afternoon with you."

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

"Here," Steve said, handing Jackie a steaming cup of cocoa. "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, and when I hear a commotion, I investigate. What was that terrible racket?"

"It was me," Namor said. "We were reliving old war stories, and in my enthusiasm, I carelessly lashed out. I'm sorry Jackie, but I'm afraid I damaged your garden wall."

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

"I will hire the finest stone mason in the British Isles. It will be made as new, I promise."

"I trust so. But I can't be cross, I'm too happy having my boys with me again," she said, taking both Namor's and Steve's hands. "My regal Prince and my noble Knight. No Lady in days of old could ask for more."

"Unfortunately, your Prince has duties in the morning which he can't neglect."

"You're leaving?"

"I'm afraid I must…for the hour is grown late."

Namor and Steve looked at one another, for only a moment. No words were spoken; none were needed. Namor walked to the hall and retrieved the package he brought, handing it to Jackie.

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

Jackie took the gift, which fell heavy to her lap. Unwrapping it, she stared transfixed at the item inside; a plaque, the size and thickness of a notebook tablet. Golden and pitted, it bore the engraved likeness of a beautiful woman, serene and slightly sad, with streams of fire radiating from behind her. Words were etched along the bottom, in a language she did not recognize.

"I confess I don't know what it is," Jackie said. "But it's lovely. It looks quite old."

"Perhaps five thousand years," Namor said. "My people found it in the Aegean Sea, from the wreckage of a Trojan warship. It is the standard of Helen of Troy, bearing the flames of the sun god, Apollo."

Jackie's eyes widened. "It must be priceless. Surely it belongs in a museum."

"I do not know of such things. I thought only it was a fitting gift for Spitfire, the beautiful and valiant."

"I'm touched, Namor, deeply touched. I shall donate it to the Royal Historical Society when I pass…but for now, I will treasure it."

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

"Oh, it's Steven's present. I almost forgot it."

"Really," Steve said, feeling self-conscious. "You don't have to open it now."

"Nonsense, I'm over my earlier piety. I've decided I enjoy opening presents."

"Well, it's not much, just a little painting I did for you earlier this year."

Jacqueline opened the slender box. As with Namor's gift, she was speechless, but this time the emotion was deeper. She clutched the framed canvas to her body. Seconds passed, and she looked up, tears streaking her face.

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

"I did my best," Steve said, kneeling at Jackie's side, dabbing her tears with his handkerchief. "I painted it from memory. My favorite memory."

Steve stayed by Jackie's side, holding her hand and drying her tears, which were more sweetness than pain. Namor lifted the painting, looking it over approvingly.

"Yes, it is very good. I'd forgotten what a talented artist you are. I know this view well… the White Cliffs of Dover."