[ TONY ]
"Time. Time, it has been proposed, is the fourth dimension. And yet, for mortal man, time has no dimension at all. We are like horses with blinders, seeing only what lies before us. Forever guessing the future and fabricating the past." – Roebling, Kate & Leopold
The longer they rode, the more Tony lost track of time. Somewhere about four or five days after they'd left Dunfe, he finally started to feel like he could maybe do this after all. Maybe he could actually survive this whole shit-show. He'd made it almost two weeks in medieval Scotland without dying, so he figured he was doing all right. Right?
He wasn't a master with a sword, but the steady training from Dommal had brought his skill level up from "hopeless" to "adequate." His saddle soreness was receding, the blisters on his feet in the too-thin leather boots were becoming callouses, and his back was getting used to the ground. Plus, he wasn't dealing with massive caffeine-withdrawal headaches anymore, which was nice.
Mad John took to calling him "Starkling" with irritating consistency. That was fine until it caught on with Anselm, William, and the others, which made it as annoying as hell . Alric apologized for it, but must've taken his fair share of amusement in the name, as he didn't bother to stop the others. His lips twitched with a suppressed smile every time.
"It could be worse," said Dommal cheerily. "Be grateful they don't refer to you as something even more insulting."
Tony rolled his eyes and Dommal laughed.
The younger knight's continuous optimism about everything was something else that was pretty damn annoying after a while, too. Tony chalked up his irritation to his general exhaustion, mild starvation and malnutrition, and continued homesickness. Like everything else, though, he was getting used to all of it.
Dommal wasn't all that bad. He was the only one who could tell when Tony had had enough ribbing, and enough riding, and just enough everything . He was good at ensuring Tony got a little peace and quiet when he needed it. Tony couldn't be mad at the kid for that, no matter how annoyingly cheery Dommal was.
It was in those times, when Dommal knew Tony had had enough, that Tony wondered if Alric had told the kid about their conversation in the forest, if Dommal was going a little easier on him as a result. Ss Tony spent more and more time with the group of knights and soldiers, though, he figured Dommal was just that kind of guy: the one to be obliging and kind to anyone and everyone, to look out for his friends and do what was best for them, even at his own expense.
The kid often volunteered for night watch after a gruelling day or to run supplies back to the rear guard. He was always ready with a smile and a joke, and even when it was irritating, Tony admitted it was still kinda nice.
Steve would like him , Tony decided. Natasha would want to punch him after fifteen minutes.
"Look!" said Dommal, grinning from ear to ear, green eyes sparkling. He pointed out a flock of white birds taking flight off the ridge. "Aren't they magnificent?"
Okay, more like five minutes.
"They're merely birds," Mad John grumbled.
Tony privately agreed but Dommal's enthusiasm at the sight didn't deserve dampening. "They really are," he said, ignoring John's snort.
"Count on the Starkling to be impressed by mere fowl," the big man growled.
"I can take pleasure in everyday things," Tony shot back. "Unlike some people who insist on sucking the joy out of life and being foul themselves."
Mad John glared and Tony smiled widely back.
"Good for you, Sir Tony," laughed Dommal. "That's the spirit!"
They made camp on the edge of vast forest. Rolling meadows stretched out for miles to the east and south, and the forest thickened to the north. As the sun descended and cast the world in deep orange and blue tones, Tony settled down in the grass to enjoy his supper. He'd only had one bite of his piping hot chicken leg when he was bumped from behind hard enough to send his meal flying into the campfire's ashes.
"Apologies, Starkling," John grunted, coming around the circle of men seated by the fire. He plopped down beside Clerebold. "'Twas an accident."
Tony ground his jaw together. Like hell it was, he thought.
He met John's eyes across the fire—the other man was silently daring him to make a fuss. John chomped down on his own chunk of juicy meat. Tony didn't need to look to know tonight's birds had already been divvied up and there wasn't anything left for him to have instead.
"It's no problem," Tony said, impressed he didn't sound as pissed as he felt. He sat up straighter. "I wasn't that hungry anyway." He took a big swig of ale from his leathery canteen and ignored the rumble of his stomach.
Alric and his sharp ears and eyes didn't miss a thing. "Neither am I," he said and held out a portion of his meager meal to Tony. "Here, Sir Tony. Have some of mine."
Mad John huffed and shared an exasperated look with Anselm. Tony colored but honestly didn't care if this was some sort of manly test he was failing. He was flipping hungry.
"Thanks," he said to Alric, and picked up a mouthful of dark meat.
Another thing he was getting really good at was not thinking about people handing him food. And not thinking about how dirty Alric's hands were, or dirty he was, or how freaking medieval this whole thing was. He chewed and swallowed, doing his best to ignore the churn of his gut.
Well, he was trying to get good at not thinking about it.
That night when Tony got up to relieve himself, on his way back to his cushy cot, he realized the men on watch were talking about him. Tony slowed to a stop behind some trees to eavesdrop; he couldn't help it.
"...Sir Tony's story?"
"I think he's a nobleman," William was saying, his voice low and melodic. "Some rich baron who had his lands stolen and now he has naught else but to trounce about the countryside."
"Nay," said Anselm. "He is a fat prince, on the run from his enemies."
Tony glanced down at his stomach in the dark. Fat? Asshole. He was liking Anselm less and less the more time he spent with the guy. Plus, he seemed to be tight with Mad John, which lost him some more points in Tony's book.
"It is unkind to speak ill of our fellow knight this way," Dommal piped up, rebuking his friend. "You do not know his experiences."
A burst of warm affection filled Tony's chest. Good ol' Dommal, always rushing to his defense. This, of course, was followed quickly by a pang of guilt that Tony was still completely lying to the kid about his "experiences". But it wasn't like Tony could tell him the truth.
"Neither do you," William pointed out. "Suppose he is false? Suppose he is a criminal, a vagrant? A treasonous fugitive?"
"He does not strike me as such," Dommal replied.
"Perhaps you are too trusting. Young. Naive."
"Perhaps I am not so cynical," Dommal shot back. "Unwilling to believe good intent when it is as plain as day."
"I still think he is a fat, useless prince," Anselm put in, sounding bored.
They continued tossing theories back and forth, amusing themselves by inventing a whole backstory about the Fallen Prince of Winterfell. Tony listened, torn between complete irritation and trying not to laugh and give himself away. When they finally tired of the subject and moved onto other topics, Tony tiptoed back to his cot. With images of himself as a wealthy prince in a massive castle—albeit a millennium or two away—lingering in his imagination, he eventually fell asleep.
The company took a full day to rest; Tony didn't know whose idea it had been, but he was grateful not to have to ride his horse for once. He spent the morning doing little but watching the other men in the campsite tend to their horses, spar with each other, tell stories, and repair worn-out boots and saddlebags. In the afternoon, as the sun peaked high over their heads, Dommal retrieved the pair of wooden practice swords from the stable boys and tossed one in Tony's lap.
"Time to give it another go, yes?" he prodded.
So much for a day of rest.
Dommal poked Tony's knee with his stick. "Come, Sir Tony. Your skills will not improve by merely observing all day."
"Fine," Tony relented and got to his feet.
Dommal was patient when they sparred, as he and Tony circled each other at the edge of the campsite. Tony, on the other hand, had never been very patient and couldn't resist attacking first. Every time. He dove at the other man, slashing wildly with his wooden sword. Dommal dodged him and whirled around to snap Tony on the back.
"That was foolish," the knight commented with his signature amused grin.
"Yeah, I'm kinda known for that," Tony grimaced, rubbing the spot where Dommal had struck him.
"Try again."
Tony tried to wait—he seriously did—but after a half minute of circling and watching Dommal's muscles tense and relax with anticipation, Tony went after him. He jabbed and swung, missed, and got another thump from Dommal's stick, this time to the shoulder. Tony grunted and stumbled.
"Attacking first shows your weaknesses to your opponent," Dommal reminded him. "You must learn to be patient—let your enemy make the first move so that you may counter it. Let me show you."
Tony resumed his ready stance, planting his feet in the dirt and grass. Dommal lifted his sword and lunged, stabbing at Tony's middle. He saw it coming and dodged out of the way.
"You see?"
"Yeah," Tony admitted. This was a lot harder than just blasting some bad guys with his repulsors, and he didn't particularly enjoy it. Dommal wasn't taking it quite as easy on Tony as usual, which was both irksome and welcome. After all, Tony wouldn't learn if Dommal handled him with kid gloves all the time.
"Again." Dommal pounced even faster this time.
Tony barely got out of the way, but he understood what Dommal was saying—he could see the other man tense and anticipated his first blow. When he thought about it a little more, it was kinda like boxing and hand-to-hand combat—he wasn't an expert, but he'd taken down his fair share of people that way. Plenty of hours in the ring with Happy and random personal trainers over the years had to count for something, right?
Tony brought his sword up when Dommal came at him, and this time he connected with the kid's slow offensive maneuver. And then again, and again.
He blinked and let out a surprised laugh as he blocked another slash from Dommal. "I think I'm getting the hang of this!"
"Well done, Sir Tony!" Alric called from the sidelines where he and William were watching the makeshift duel.
Dommal increased his speed and overtook Tony, getting a few hits in. Tony wasn't about to be cocky, but he did get in some pretty solid attacks himself, and damn if he wasn't legitimately getting the hang of this. The training session went on until Tony was soaked with sweat but wielded the sword better than he ever had. If only, you know, about a fraction as good as Dommal. But still.
Tony arced the sword over his head and spun, and couldn't hide the triumphant grin that broke out on his face when he stalled Dommal's complicated counter-attack.
"Hah!"
Man, if Thor could see me now—I'm a sword god! Okay, so maybe he was being cocky after all. He figured he was allowed.
Dommal backed off, panting, and lowered his sword. "Well met, Sir Tony," he said and bowed. "Well met indeed."
Tony bowed back and swiped his arm across his wet forehead, still grinning. He was totally going to be an awesome knight in no time.
Clerebold tore across the ground, out of the nearby trees, yelling and waving his arms. A spike of cold dread went through Tony.
"What's wrong?" Alric called out in alarm.
"Spies! Scots!" shouted the knight. "They're coming!"
The campsite erupted into action. Fires doused, horses rounded up, weapons gathered, armour and chainmail slapped on. Dommal charged past Tony one way, Alric bolted the other. Tony spun on the spot holding his wooden practice sword, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
He tried to grab at Charles. "What do I—" but the knight shook him off. Tony reached out for William. "What should I—hey—" William either didn't hear him or ignored him and kept on running.
Tony gripped his stick tightly. Shit! He didn't have armour, he didn't have a weapon, and if they were under attack, he was so very, very screwed. Despite his puffed up, triumphant feeling a minute earlier, he knew he wasn't that amazing with a sword.
A horn sounded in the distance—a long, deep, mournful kind of sound that made goosebumps sweep over his skin. He whirled in the direction the noise had come from, but if the enemy was coming from the north through the forest, Tony couldn't see them yet.
Alric rushed in front of Tony. "Here." He pushed a bundle of chain mail at him and grabbed the practice sword out of Tony's hands. "Put this on," he instructed.
With shaking hands, Tony did as he was told, yanking the chainmail over his head. It fell to his mid-thighs and was quite loose, but it was better than nothing. Alric handed him a sword—a real, steel sword. It was much heavier than Tony expected and he almost dropped it in surprise.
Alric gave him a nod and hurried for the trees. Panic sparked in Tony's chest and he took off after Alric, but stopped at the treeline.
"Wait—I don't know what to do!" he blurted. He didn't know how to sword fight, not really, he couldn't go to battle—not without his suit or his team or something. He couldn't do this. He'd never felt more out of his element.
"Just stay back," Alric told him. He nodded again and sprinted deeper into the trees.
"Right, sure," Tony mumbled, seeing the majority of the men he'd travelled with rushing after Alric into the forest. His fear subsided. The other men would take care of the threat. All he had to do was wait. It was fine, it was going to be totally fine.
Shouts and roars sounded beyond where Tony could see. That chilling horn echoed through the leaves and there was clanging and horses shrieking and war cries and screams of pain.
He took a few stilted steps, struck by indecision. Staying behind seemed like a good way to be safe, and Alric had told him to stay put. But it also felt pretty cowardly. These men were all risking their lives and Tony was just standing there.
Still, it wasn't like Tony was going to be of any use in a real honest-to-God medieval battle, so following his comrades was a completely stupid idea. No matter how morbidly curious he was… well, when would be the next time he'd see a real medieval battle?
He could stay really far back, though, maybe take a peek. Tony moved farther into the forest, and this time, his heart beat faster with excitement and adrenaline...
Tony stopped walking. No, following was completely and totally stupid. Getting killed was not worth getting a glimpse of the battle. He gave his head a shake and glanced back at the camp, barely discernible between all the trees. The men remaining were the elderly or ill and injured, with only a couple knights to protect them. Tony was supposed to be one of them. What the hell was he doing?
A crashing noise—closer than any of the other battle sounds. Tony whirled. A blood and mud spattered man hurtled through the trees, swinging a massive, blood-soaked axe high over his head. The howl coming from the man's mouth was feral and raw, thick with hate. Tony stumbled backwards, clumsily raising his sword. His heart pummeled his collarbone and his arms trembled with fear.
The man swung his axe and Tony dove behind a tree. The axe cracked into the tree's trunk and gave Tony the second he needed to get back on his feet. The man freed his weapon. He shouted at Tony—ugly, incomprehensible words—and took another powerful swipe.
Tony brought his sword up just in time, holding it tight with both hands and bracing himself. The impact with the other man's weapon jarred Tony so hard, he bit his tongue. His arms buckled and he dropped, rolling out of the way. The axe slammed into the ground, so close it ripped in Tony's pants.
He kicked out, connecting with the man's shins. The man yelped and staggered a step back. He charged with that bloody axe again. Tony had a terrified second to wonder which of his friend's blood was dripping off that steel—and if the other Avengers would ever find out how (or when and where) Tony Stark died—before the axe came slashing down.