A/n: Moderate gore and violence warning for this chapter. Battle is really icky.
[ TONY ]
"I believe our adventure through time has taken a most serious turn." –Ted, Bill & Ted's Most Excellent Adventure
Tony cried out.
The furious axe-man gasped as a huge steel-tipped arrow punched through his skull. For a wild second, as the man crumpled to the ground, Tony expected to see Clint standing there with a smug smirk on his face. Instead, he saw Anselm racing across the grass, nocking another arrow in his primitive bow as he went.
"Are you well, Sir Tony?" he called out.
Tony almost collapsed in relief. Maybe the dude wasn't so bad after all. "Yeah," he choked out, though his head spun. "Yeah, I'm good."
Anselm nodded once and bolted for the camp to check on the others.
Tony used a tree for support and hauled himself to an unsteady standing position. The rough bark scraped against his palm. That had been really damn close. If it hadn't been for Anselm—
Another human roar cut through the air. Two more ragged, savage men barrelled over the ground, straight for Tony. He opened his mouth to call out for help but his throat was tight with fear—he hadn't been able to manage one of these guys—how the hell was he going to survive two?
Tony raised his sword as the Scotsmen charged. Behind them, several knights from Tony's company flew out of the dense trees, cutting toward the bad guys with the grisly axes. Mad John caught up with one but the second man didn't break his stride and kept heading for Tony.
Tony held his ground. His heart was beating so fast, he thought it might give out on him. The Scot raised his axe and Tony ducked and spun at the last second, curling around a tree. The man changed the trajectory of his swing to catch Tony and instead embedded the weapon in the tree's thick trunk. Tony kept whirling and brought his sword up with him, connecting with the man's leather-clad back.
The attacker yowled and staggered. Tony's sword cut into the leather and through to flesh underneath. The wild man yanked his axe out of the tree and Tony jabbed at the Scot's unprotected legs. The man snarled and hopped out of the way, taking another vicious swing with his axe. Tony reared back. The axe's tip skittered across the chainmail covering Tony's chest.
The man wound up for another blow, and this time Tony saw it coming—could see the muscles bulging and guess the direction the axe would go—and realized that this guy was deadly fast, but not as fast as Dommal. Tony sucked in a breath and ducked and lunged, slashing with all his strength. The axe whistled across Tony's face, leaving a shallow slice on his forehead. Tony's blade bit deep into his attacker's arm. The man screamed in agony.
The Scot let his injured arm drop, blood pouring from the wound, and took a wild one-handed swing with his axe. Tony dodged it and brought his sword up, catching the guy in the face with a deep cut. The man howled and Tony rushed him again, not letting him have a second to recover. His sword penetrated the man's neck and Tony jumped back, shaking all over as the man tumbled into the grass. Blood soaked the dirt as the Scot quivered and sputtered.
Tony couldn't breathe. He'd just—he'd just—
He heard bellows behind him and whirled, fearing another attacker. Mad John had hacked down two enemies and was battling a third. The other knights Tony had spotted were gone as a fourth wild Scotsman raced towards Mad John. Tony was too far away to help and Mad John was occupied. Horror slammed into him.
"Behind you!" he yelled.
Mad John roared, bringing his sword around fast and hard. His blade cut through the oncoming Scot just in time as the other one John had been battling fell back like a puppet without strings. John yanked his sword out from his second attacker and gave the body a hard kick, sending it sprawling into the leaves and pine needles.
Mad John looked up at Tony, breathing hard. Covered in mud and blood, he was the fiercest thing Tony had ever seen. He stared at Tony for a long second then inclined his head in a slow nod.
"My thanks, Starkl—Sir Stark."
"S–sure," said Tony, still reeling. "No problem."
Mad John ambled away toward the camp, where the crash of battle had stopped. Tony fell to his hands and knees, sucking in oxygen and blinking against the black spots swimming in his vision.
Breathe, breathe—oh, God. He clapped his hands to his chest. Everything tightened with familiar panic, like his ribs had turned into metal bands squeezing his lungs.
It wasn't that he hadn't killed before—he was Iron Man and sometimes killing people, specifically bad guys, was part of his job description. It wasn't new. But that was justified. It was stopping super villains from taking over the world, it was saving civilians from aliens or mercenaries. It was done with bullets and repulsor blasts and explosions. It was part of his job. It was necessary, there was a real saving-innocents-reason behind it.
This…this was some Scottish dudes who wanted him dead simply because he was running with some English knights. There was no rhyme or reason to be murdering each other. There was no grand plan, no apocalypse, villain, or terrorist cell to stop. This was hacking each other up with steel, inches from each other, with no backup, no training, no reinforcements. This was way too real, way too much, way too close, and he couldn't breathe.
Hurried footsteps thumped through the underbrush. Tony glanced up as Alric spotted him and veered in his direction.
"Sir Tony!" he called out. "Are you injured?"
Tony gulped in a few more breaths. "N–no, I'm…" He couldn't say fine. He was anything but fine. He was the freaking farthest away possible thing from fine. He couldn't be fine, not here, not ever, not—
Alric's brow creased with worry, but he gave Tony a once over and chose not to comment.
"They have been beaten back," he told Tony instead while Tony wheezed and got his breathing under control. Blood and dirt smeared the knight's face and armour but he wasn't hurt either. "The Scots—what's left of them—have retreated. These ones—" he gestured with his sword to the dead men littering the forest floor. "Slipped past our guards."
Tony exhaled and picked himself up out of the dirt. His knees wobbled and he tried to hide it as he fell into step with Alric. He could barely process how close he'd just come to dying. How he sliced that guy up. His heart fluttered around like a trapped moth and Tony tried to suck in some more breaths to calm himself down. His stomach roiled and without warning, he had to stop to empty it.
Alric stepped out of the way but didn't leave. When Tony had recovered and straightened, the knight didn't look scornful or judging. He laid a gentle hand on Tony's shoulder.
"That was your first true battle, wasn't it, Sir Tony?"
Tony bobbed his head up and down, drawing in more forced deep breaths. First one like this, anyway.
And there was that all-too-knowing smile that Alric often wore when he was around Tony. "It is never easy," he said. "No battle is ever easy." He gave Tony a reassuring pat and walked towards the campsite. The Englishmen who'd survived the attack staggered through the trees.
Tony sat with the wounded as Godwin tended to them. He'd gathered a few shallow cuts on his hands and face, though he didn't remember getting them. Godwin pressed a minty-smelling paste onto them then tottered over to help the next victim.
Tony imagined that if he were back in his world, someone would've diagnosed him with shock by now. Pepper would've made him some tea—even though he didn't like tea, she'd've insisted on it—and Rhodey would be giving him a lecture about how going into full-scale battle (without him) with very little skill was the dumbest idea in a long, long line of dumb ideas. Imagining Rhodey here, pacing and ranting, and Pepper, with a worried frown tilting her pretty lips and shoving a teacup into his hands, almost made Tony smile.
But he wasn't in his world. Pepper and Rhodey weren't with him. That almost-smile dissolved, and his eyes prickled and misted. Tony buried the ache that threatened to consume him, forcing himself to swallow down the lump rising in his throat. He couldn't think about it, or them—he could not think for a second about home, or he'd lose it.
Charles curled up on a cot, wailing in agony. He still wore most of his armour and Tony couldn't quite see what was wrong with him, but knew it was bad. There was way too much blood coming from Charles' gut where the knight held his arms. Hugh's face sported a new and nasty slice, and Aber—Abin—Aba—whatever-his-name-was was missing an arm. He was white as cotton and shaking on the mat next to Charles.
Dommal had made it through, Tony was happy to see, though the knight's characteristically cheery face was drawn in despair. He returned with Alric, Mad John, and Anselm from the forest, along with any wounded men they discovered, then left to deal with the dead. Tony had to look away from the sadness cloaking the knights, especially when he realized William hadn't returned from today's fight.
Save for Charles' occasional pain-filled screams, that evening everything was grim and quiet. The loss of their comrades weighed every soldier and knight down, and they all moved slowly as the sun slipped behind the horizon. Mercifully, by late evening, Charles either passed out or died, because his screaming finally stopped.
To Tony's surprise, some smiles and laughter punctuated that night's dinner around the fire. Then again, Tony was the only one who hadn't experienced this sort of battle before—for these guys, this was not exactly an uncommon event. The thought made him feel even heavier. Death and blood were everyday things for these guys; after less than a day, they could be jovial again.
Dommal bumped Tony's arm with his elbow, pulling Tony from his blue thoughts. "Be well, Sir Tony," he said with a smile, though it was not as bright as usual. "They are with God now, at rest. They led lives of honor and died the same. Dwelling on the loss will bring them no peace, nor you."
Tony nodded and chugged some of his ale. Homesickness clawed at his insides, sharper than ever. He struggled to shove it away, to think of anything but Pepper, but didn't think he could anymore. Not today. Tony didn't know when he'd grown so emotional but maybe a few weeks in the wrong century could do that to a person.
Dommal patted Tony's back. "It is never easy," he said, echoing what Alric had said in the forest.
No, it's pretty much the farthest thing from easy. All of it was.
Tony set his leather canteen down in the dirt. "I'm gonna take a quick walk," he told his friend. "Stretch my legs."
"Of course."
Tony left the ring of men crowded around the campfire and wandered out into the darkness. The half-moon overhead spilled its light down over the open meadows and towering trees on either side of Tony. He couldn't quite make out the distant mountains, but he knew they were there as he trudged through the grass.
He had never felt so lost in his life. So far away, cut off, alone… The only time that compared was when he'd been trapped in that damn cave in Afghanistan. That'd been a different kind of hell. Even then, he'd had people looking for him. He'd hatched an escape plan. He'd had tools and Yinsen and a way out. 'Course, most of it went to shit, but at least he'd had options.
Tony kicked at chunk of dirt. Here, he had nothing. He was stuck. And Alric and Dommal were nice dudes and all, but they weren't Yinsen. Or his team. They weren't Rhodey or Happy. Or Pepper.
God, Pepper...
Tony covered his face with his hands, hating how thick his beard was against his palms. Hating his situation, hating Lazarus and Scotland and everything he could think of to hate. A cool breeze tugged at his clothes and carried the voices of the other knights, laughing and chatting. Tony squeezed his eyes tight against his fingers.
Breathe. He inhaled as much air as his chest would allow him, shaky as the breath was.
Exhale. Inhale.
He was alive. He was still alive and he had to hold onto that, if nothing else. He couldn't let himself wallow—wouldn't let himself. And he had to trust that wherever, whenever Bruce was, he was fixing this. Tony wasn't going to be stuck here forever, he had to believe that. And damn if it wasn't the cave all over again anyways.
Maybe he was out of options, but maybe his team wasn't. He had to have faith that his friends would pull him out of here.
And Tony had never been one for faith, but at this point, there was nothing else he could do.
They came again at dawn.
A horn blared, and Tony jumped at the blast, sending his breakfast into the dirt. Panic flared inside of him that he couldn't tamp down.
"They come again!" Hugh screamed, charging across the grass into the campsite. "Ambush!"
From the hills to the north and west came a wave of a dozen Scotsmen on horses. Tony blanched and Dommal grabbed his arm.
"With me!" the kid shouted.
Tony stumbled after his friend, too scared to think straight. And it only got worse when Clerebold sprinted from the opposite direction, hollering about more men approaching from the east. The Scottish riders to the west broke off and circled south, cutting off the only possible exit.
They were trapped.
The sudden activity had the horses in the camp spooked. Six of them took off, while the others nervously stamped about. Tony fumbled to get a hold of the reins of his horse and wondered if they really had a chance at outrunning their attackers. Dommal snagged at his horse's saddlebags and tried to hold the animal steady enough that he could jump on.
"They must have planned this—tested us—thinned out our ranks!" Dommal said breathlessly. "Lying in wait, watching us through the night—why didn't they come then? Why now?" No one replied; Tony barely heard his friend's frightened babbling.
There was a horrible roar of horrible voices—the blare of that deep, chilling horn—and the company was out of time.
Chaos.
Horses screamed and bolted, weapons flew, men on both sides hollered. Tony's horse made a break for it and left Tony in its wake. He yanked the sword he'd used in battle out of the scabbard Anselm had given him and readied his stance. The Scots poured into the area, hooting and blowing their terrible horns. English soldiers and knights rushed forward to meet them and swords and axes and spears clashed and clanged. Arrows whistled overhead.
Tony tried not to get trampled, tried to keep an eye on Dommal, tried to run. They were surrounded and there was nowhere to go. He saw Hugh get cut down, heard Edwin scream. Tony dove out of the way of a stampeding horse with no rider. The stench of fear and blood assaulted him.
He leapt back to his feet, sending a puff of dust into the air. Certain he was definitely, definitely about to die this time but for lack of another option, Tony charged into the fray.
He slashed his sword at a furious Scotsman, catching the burly man square in the chest. With no protective chainmail, the man wailed and tumbled to the ground. Tony narrowly dodged an axe from another attacker and whirled to stave off a third fierce, growling warrior.
Tony's moves were clumsy and every blow he deflected rattled his bones and forced him to fumble to regain his stance. There was no way he could keep this up, not for long. Terror coated his veins and his mouth was desert dry.
Mad John lived up to his name, tearing through the fight like a possessed demon, taking down twice as many foes as the others. For a second, as Dommal burst forth and finished off the man Tony was about to lose to, he thought they might actually have a chance.
Something barrelled into Tony then, slamming him to the ground. The air rushed out of his lungs and his sword tumbled out of his fingers. Struggling for breath, Tony beat uncoordinated fists against the beefy the man who'd tackled him. The Scot yelled at him with snarling, indiscernible words and brought his jagged knife down towards Tony's head.
Tony threw his arms up in defense and then Mad John was there, bellowing like a crazed animal. With one vicious swipe of his sword, he took the head of Tony's attacker clean off. Blood spattered and Tony choked and he didn't have a moment to thank John because then two more Scots were on the burly knight.
Tony scrambled backwards on his hands, shaking and gasping for air. He heard Dommal cry out but couldn't see the kid in the fray. Tony's lost his sword in the dirt and grass and blood so he snatched an axe from a dead Scot's brawny hands.
Tony jumped up and spun—and dropped. Like a full bottle of wine slipped out of someone's grip, straight down, hard. Tony never saw what hit him. Just struggled to stay conscious as the chaos around him slid in and out of focus. His head throbbed.
There was no way they could win this fight, he realized, as his vision edged with black. There were too many Scots and not enough English knights. They couldn't win: not with Clerebold bleeding out over there, and Mad John overtaken, bloody and roaring, and—Tony forgot his name, but the tall blonde, gruff one—dead over there…where was Dommal…Alric, where was Alric…
Somebody yelled for surrender, for mercy. Someone screamed about prisoners. More pain and noise and horses thundering and swords clashing...
Tony fought to stay conscious. He'd get trampled. Had to get up. To move. Run. He got his hands under him and pushed until his chest left the ground. Something wet was on his face. Someone was dying. Something hit him again.
The world slipped sideways and tunneled to black.