Hello all,

Apologies at the time this chapter took. I have just graduated with my second degree (yay!) and am job hunting, so life is a tad hectic. Please allow me to make an alteration or clarification before this chapter begins so that I can set the proper tone for the rest of this story: for the purpose of this chapter and this piece, Steve Rogers has passed. It has been unclear in much of the MCU post End Game, but for the purpose of this story he has passed on. I promise it will make a ton of sense later.

Please enjoy. I have enjoyed your feedback and truly appreciate it.

Happy Writing,

Elaine

IOIOIOIOIOI

If he was being totally honest, he hadn't intended on finding much at the auction that day. Complete transparency told him that he had every intention of walking away with just the gelding that Laura had fallen in love with – an ex-dressage horse that had most definitely seen better days but was as mellow as room temperature butter. Clint despised places like this, not just due to the number of people that fluttered about but for the state of the animals that they had come to see. He had made a living off of eliminating the dregs of society… but there was a special place in hell for people that could turn animals into the pitiful creatures that shared the shed row space he currently walked down. If he were any lesser man, he would have made that opinion well known in the most blatant of ways.

A sudden clamber of escalated voices met his ears and it piqued his interest, sending him across the crowded shed row and out a side door. Never would he forget the chaos that was unfolding there. Seven men, all far from out of shape, hollered loudly at each other as they attempted to down a very fractious stallion. The animal was having none of it, kicking and bucking and throwing his weight as hard as he could against the humans fighting him – until finally, with an alarmed neigh, he crashed to the ground. One of the men cocked the shotgun in his hand and rushed up to take aim, just narrowly avoiding the muscled black neck of the alarmed horse who strained to rise again.

"I'll take him," Barton heard himself speak, the hissed anger in his voice no where near even being attempted to be hidden.

"Damn thing is rabid," the man with the shotgun sneered back to him without sparing him even a glance, dodging again as the animal thrashed.

"I said: I'll take him."

That time his words were nothing but ice, and one of the other men present (whose eyes were massively wide as he realized who they were speaking to and who reached out to shakily tap the armed one on the shoulder) intervened, whispering fearfully into his companion's ear. Finally, the shotgun holder looked up and recognized who it was that spoke to them and wisely chose to lower his weapon and lean it against a wall before approaching Barton. He was clearly terrified, and after a very short exchange he accepted the $100 bill shoved into his hand and hurriedly waved all of his companions away and into the stables.

The 'rabid' animal gave only one snort as the archer approached and then stilled as he crouched behind the horse's head, running a sure hand down the black furred neck that twitched and trembled under his touch. The quick motion of attack the animal had started was abandoned just as quickly at the Avenger's touch. Every scar that marked the animal's body surely told a tale, and each one of those tales made the archer's desire to slam an arrow into the human responsible more and more intense. His hands ran over the scarred skin beneath him like a blind man clinging to braille…. Had he known then what would come – had he known that this animal was the first step toward the inevitable conclusion of everything, he might have reconsidered. Or would he?

The scars marring the finely built horse told so many stories – from the deep halter lines on his face to the twinged flesh of his back – and that patchwork quilt of marks tied human and animal together. In an instant the supposedly 'rabid' creature was calm, whether from exhaustion or from acceptance Clint was unsure, but he was never far from wondering if he would be the next target of this wounded creature's righteous fury. He would remain a shaky unknown for a while. His past history? No one knew. His prior owners? No one cared. His training? As far as they were concerned, he had none and was better off as dog food.

Instead, the stallion chose to accept Hawkeye as Hawkeye accepted him, keeping a keen visual over the fence with the clever foxes and the sharp-eyed hawks as the Avenger slowly strolled through the wild grasses of his field toward the rising sun. The wild grass had always been his grounding element…. More than once Natasha or Laura had watched him from the porch, observing him aimlessly ambling through one of the many fields surrounding the farm. He was at peace there, walking with no decided purpose though the waving stalks as his hand, held out at his side, brushed their lightly haired seed pods. He would lose himself there, nothing but the wind caressing his skin and bringing him the smell of hay mixed with delicate jasmine, the hairs on the grass tickling his palm and the sweet melody of the grains crashing together and his children laughing in the background easing his mind. So he would walk…and walk…and walk…

IOIOIOIOI

When his senses finally returned from overload, they struck all at once; the searing pain of impact through all of his joints, the sharp stabbing in his skull, the metallic stickiness of blood that clung to the back of his throat all coming together to rush him straight back into reality with a sickening groan. Barton's eyes cracked open against his better wishes and he found himself still grasping the control yoke of the jet with a white knuckled grip that would have made the son of Odin proud. His fingers flexed as a test, and then his shoulders, feet, knees, all in an order to make sure that the joints still functioned on some level. The scene in front of him revealed mangled equipment, a plastered viewing shield filled with sediment and trees, and his own hands grasping at the controls that were obviously dead. There was no sound.

Well, this was far from ideal.

It was with a dry bit of humor he told himself that he could at least still land a jet…all points considered, the fact that he was still breathing was a testament to just how carefully he had to maneuver the dead-in-the-air bird to the ground. He gave himself seven stars….okay, maybe eight.

"Ugh," Clint heard himself groan, muffled as it was through the barely functioning eardrums he had. He cringed as the creaking agony set back into his bones, lips curling back against his blood coated teeth as he rolled his shoulders in preparation to move. The sharp pain in his skull was suddenly back with a searing wave of pale orange light, and just as he convinced himself to finally raise a hand from the plane's yoke–

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP

Oh dear heavens he nearly leapt out of his damn skin when the mechanics of the jet came screaming back to life along with his hearing aid. The controls above his head all lit up in an alarming bright array of colors and his eyes revolted at the sudden change, freezing his body with his right hand halfway to his face and his eyes squinting pitifully at the flurry of lights. For a long few moments, he sat just like that. He could only imagine that he looked like a drunken deer caught in headlights. Then, with an annoyed scowl and a huff of breath he sent a sharp smack into the panel to shut the alarm off.

"Yeah, yeah," he grumbled to it, finally bringing his hands to begin to undo his safety harness, "Thanks for the heads up. Had no idea I was gonna crash."

It was annoyingly difficult to gain dexterity again, but he was finally able to release his restraints, hauling himself upright and grappling around in the dark to find the switch for the emergency flood lights. They flickered on after some coaxing and Hawkeye surveyed what was left of the jet….which wasn't much. At least the hub had survived – with him intact. Barton rolled his shoulders to loosen his now-battered body, collecting his quiver, bow, and sword quickly as he prepared for the long walk.

Fifteen miles, he guessed. That's about the distance that the guidance system had told him when the jet had lost power and went tumbling to the ground… fifteen miles from home. He could run that he was sure, but the nagging voice in the back of his head reminded him dully: nothing is ever that easy. The nose of the jet was covered in leaf debris, blocking his only sight line out of the machine. If the Hawk hated anything, it was not having sight.

He gave a small huff of surprise when the doors leading outside actually functioned. His eyes snapped quickly back and forth across his surroundings as he notched the first arrow into his bow. This was odd, he told himself as he carefully picked his way down the ramp and to the ground, the slight breeze tussling his hair and assaulting him with the smell of smoke and melted plastic. It was dark… when it should be daylight.

It had to be six in the morning, he reminded himself as he surveyed, and at six in the morning the sun should be starting to rise. Yet when he went searching for it in the sky, he was met with the view of…nothing.

No sun.

No moon.

No stars.

There was cloud cover, but in no natural circumstance would that cover be enough to turn the world around him pitch black. The only light in his world stemmed from the jet behind him which cast a long shadow onto the desolate world – the world that his shadow blended wonderfully with.

Old sins cast long shadows.

That was something that he had taught Kate well. She had struggled hard to understand why she was always met with hesitation from Bucky, from Bruce, from Sam; it was more work than Clint had bargained for to explain to his young partner that it didn't actually have anything to do with her. Their sins, he explained, they all viewed as ink.

If you drop ink on the finest, snow-white paper it will inevitably absorb wholly into that perpetual black – its purity demands it. The Avengers were not as saintly as they had always been portrayed to be, and so it was their place to match their sins against the sins of others. Black does not absorb black, it only grows bolder as the layers are added in… and so it was only poetic justice that those who fought their own sins sought to purge the sin of others that seek to harm the innocent. It was none of their desires to drip their own shadows onto the pure innocence of those they didn't know, and so their purpose became to drive out the darkness that was deeper than their own. It wasn't a business for everyone. The Avengers, he taught her, wanted to protect her from a darkness that could outdo any horror she had ever seen…until she was ready. When she had asked him how she would know, he only spared her a half smile and a tilt of the head.

"You'll know."

He was confident that she would know exactly as he did right now, measured steps taking him away from the wreckage of the jet and very cautiously toward where he knew the road was. He knew there was something here with him that shouldn't be. There was something waiting patiently with a darker soul than he could tolerate, simply biding its time to make itself known. Kate was young, but she would learn quick…just like her partner. Clint had already learned a lot since his encounter with the Ravager – and when the hair stood straight on his neck and his breath caught stiffly, he knew that he would need that knowledge to survive what was hunting him.

Barton's head whipped to his left, his body never faltering yet freezing in his stride, dark cerulean eyes piercing the darkened treeline. It was a mix of dark greens and browns and greys, accented by the feather-light touches of snow that had fallen earlier in the night, a seemingly tranquil collection of nature in rest. But there was something there, his brain screamed to him yet his eyes failed to spot whatever it was in the forest. It was hunting him.

Barton kept his eyes on the treeline as he moved in measured motions, returning the arrow he had at the ready to his quiver and retrieving a different one – one that was notched, aimed, and let loose back into the side of the jet with a hollow pinging sound. No motion answered him, but he felt his lips move into a pitiless smile as he notched his next arrow. This was going to be fun.

Hawkeye turned himself back forward again and relaxed his posture, calmly walking on – and expertly dodging the moment that the lighting motion of the beast came crashing to him from behind. It gave a sharp roar as he rolled away and an even angrier cry when the barbed arrow pierced its neck, fraying its insides with needles – in its rage it crashed into the Avenger's body, desperately attempting to land some kind of suitable hit before it was thrown away. That motion was at the cost of Clint's balance. He met the ground full force with a grunt, raising himself slowly to his hands and knees to meet the eyes of the creature that now stalked in front of him.

Its body was so like the Ravager's, yet its build was different; the bony plated figure lurched yards away from him in a hunting prowl just like a starving jaguar. Its back bore what resembled to be steel spikes, its tail snapping ferociously in excitement which sent small bursts of electricity into the ground it struck. It reminded him of the documentaries he watched with Lila: a mix between a tiger, a porcupine, and a god… unlike the Ravager it held a presence, the boney plates a pale, shocking white against the dark background making it appear holy. It was everything but. The soft tremor of a growl met his ears as it grinned to him, the broiling white-hot blue fire spitting from its mouth a testament to just how badly it wanted to tear him apart. From his darkest years, Clint believed he recognized this figure. Just like with the Ravager he could hear its breaths and soft snarls in his ears clear as day…

"Kōeidesu, Byakko," He heard himself say.

In response the creature rushed forward with a piercing roar, fully intent on destroying him, never noticing the deft fingers of its prey quickly press the release trigger on his bow. The arrow formerly lodged in the side of the jet erupted with light – enough to catch a momentary glance of attention from the charging beast – and enough of a distraction for it to catch a devastating blow to the side of its skull by the now-collapsed bow. That hit threw it backward and sent it crashing to the ground. A split second of floundering on its back in confusion led to it snapping back to its feet with an outraged snarl, a flash of white teeth translating exactly what it wanted to tell the Avenger for his audacity. It just received a smirk as the bow clipped to Clint's back and he unfurled his sword, body falling back into his ready stance.

"Made you look."

The pain came with a vengeance in his skull, his only signal that it affected him being a slight twitch of the skin near his eye… but the whispering voice that hummed in his brain is what made his eyes widen.

"….Clint."

….he knew that voice.

"….Clint, run."

He knew that voice.

"Run."

He attempted to obey. Byakko, or so Clint had named it, crouched ready – and then was on him like a starving hunter desperate to curb its prey. Hawkeye was faster, dodging three quick pounces and flipping himself onto the broken wing of the jet, then dodging for his life over its remains and into the treeline. Byakko was tireless, sharp roars mixed with the striking of claws and flashing of teeth tearing up the earth and the foliage throughout their battlefield – and in absolute desperation to turn the tables Hawkeye took a sharp dive and turned quickly around an old growth tree, boots echoing on its trunk as he swung around the base and raised his sword to attack –

But he landed back where he left and met nothing but air. It was gone. Marginally Clint rose to his feet with a glance to his left, then to his right. Nothing. Something in him took control and his gaze suddenly focused, swinging his body in a full pinwheel and catching Byakko on his sword as the creature leapt on him from above. It was a good hit, throwing the demon-cat crashing into tree roots as it fell into the crevice below. As it came back to its senses it turned an angry head to observe the now agonizing gash that opened its shoulder and arm – that earned Hawkeye a merciless open-mouthed hiss of anger, blue flames smoking when they met the cold air.

He couldn't run just yet, Barton reasoned with himself. That odd, controlling, overwhelming urge returned. He was going to kill this thing. He had to destroy it. It was with that determination that he jumped down to meet it, body sinking into the swordsman pose as he waited on the creature to move. He needn't wait long.

Byakko feigned left, right, left, right, left, right –

And a solid strike of three broiling claws ripped right through Hawkeye's jacket and shirt. It tore the skin of his chest wide open, searing long marks over his ribcage and heart before the spikes on Byakko's back glowed with anger. Clint realized the warning just in time, practiced flips and turns helping him to dodge those projectiles despite the searing pain in his chest hindering his movements. When they finally stopped flying he stopped, crouched, and attempted to catch his breath. Byakko hissed, crouching as well, a small bout of electricity circling its body – and before he could question what it was doing his eyes caught the shake in the spears near his face. He was sent back into dodging again as the steel spikes returned to their charge, a few coming daringly close enough to graze his skin and give him a jolt of electricity. Taking the small token of time he had while Byakko retrieved his weapons, Clint was off running, tearing through the foliage and undergrowth of the forest in a desperate search for cover. The trees flashed through his vision as he could hear the creature roar behind him to signal its chase. His heart was blaring in his ears, his legs burning as he blitzed through the maze of plants, his left hand pressed to the searing wound on his chest.

He had to get close to it. The cautious approach wasn't going to be useful and its ability to launch those spears told him one valuable piece of information: distance combat was clearly its strength. He had to get it in close quarters. His eye caught the remains of a rundown old shed in the distance, buried in overgrowth amongst the trees

…well, at least he would make a stand. It would have to do. He sprinted for it, hauling himself onto the rotted roof, twirling his weapon sturdily in his hand – noting only for a brief flash that it had regained its orange glow - then braced himself as Byakko's weight slammed fully into his waiting form. The impact sent both barreling through the rotted roof and into the poorly standing structure of the shed. It gave a groan and collapsed on top of them both.

The world grew suddenly still and silent, only the slight breeze teasing the limbs of the evergreen trees around the chaos. Finally, after what seemed to be a deathly wait, a soft pulse of orange warmth bathed the space, and another sound broke the silence. The rotted boards clattered aside as Byakko's shoulders pushed their way toward open air… and then the body of the demented thing was tossed aside with a grunt by Hawkeye, who climbed out to plant himself on the collapsed beam of the roof. A final nudge with his boot assured him that it was dead. His sword was still firmly housed in its chest where it had found its target – and he released a relieved exhale as he finally allowed himself to slump back onto the rotted beam.

He was getting to be too old for this, he told himself wryly, one hand delicately tracing over the cauterized claw marks on the flesh of his chest. Three more scars. Laura was going to kill him.

Laura.

That dream echoed back in his mind. The twinge of fear reminded him of a very sobering reality. His family was out there and these – he nudged Byakko's corpse with his boot – things were all around them… he had to get home. He had to get to them. Quickly.

Clint didn't so much as twitch as the creature's body began to glow, turning into the black mist (just as the Ravager had). It lazily swirled around the Avenger before dissipating into the air, letting his sword fall to the ground with a metallic clatter where it was once planted in the hunter's body. He really did feel like he was losing his mind. He retrieved his weapon with shaking hands, haphazardly wiping it on his pantleg before retracting it into its holster and clipping it to its place near his quiver. He wasn't going to question how he had made that quiver so functional that all his arrows were still in place. Old sins, he reminded himself. Old Sins.

He had to get his bearings. The smoldering wreckage of his jet in the distance gave him a point of reference, and without the guidance of stars or the moon or ANYTHING… he could only use his last known location as aid – and with it he began to drag his exhausted body through the short underbrush and in the direction of his home. It was only fifteen miles. He could handle fifteen miles.

He thought he could handle fifteen miles. He managed three before he found himself crouching on poorly worn dirt road, breath shaky in his lungs as he cringed against the pain echoing in his chest. He was so tired. A humorless chuckle escaped his lips and he looked to the clouded sky; eyes worn. One hand reached up to pull the humming hearing aid from his ear and, finally blessed with silence, he began to speak.

"Y'know, you always made it a point to make me understand my limits, Cap," he muttered to the sky before chuckling, "I could use a quick kick in the ass right now."

He felt the breeze tickle the back of his neck like laughter and he rolled his eyes.

"I know Stark: language. You guys…"

His eyes were suddenly downcast, and he felt himself frown. They bit painfully….a feeling he refused to acknowledge.

"Look you guys… I wish you were here right now. I need your help," Clint's voice was a low shaking tremor. Internally he revolted at the emotion that tried to claw its way out of him as he called to his friends. He was drained, "Laura, the kids, Kate, I – I don't know what to do. I don't know where I'm going anymore, there's these… mutant demon things from some portal to hell that are popping up everywhere and –"

His free hand clenched at the sandy soil beneath him. One steadying breath fueled his lungs.

"I need to get to them. I need your help."

He received no answer. There was no heavenly light, no choir of angels, no opening of pearly gates. But there was a change, something that sent vibrations through his fingers that were laying on the ground. Something was coming, and it was coming steadily with a measured rhythm toward him; he was too exhausted to get into another fight. His hand left his chest and shakily reached up to switch on the damaged hearing aid in a desperate attempt to focus in on the danger. There was no danger. The sound that assaulted his senses made him pause in confusion…. And then, in the darkness, he could see it approaching.

The soft clacking of steel against the ground was what was vibrating in his palm, the metallic clanging of the hard stirrups echoing off the trees and the jingling of the harness called his attention. There he was, ears pricked, eyes alert, mane waving – fully tacked and aware the stallion trotted his way toward Hawkeye, a gleeful whiny signaling that he had caught sight of him down the road. Clint, open mouthed and flabbergasted, looked back to the clouded sky.

"The horse?! Really?"

The breeze became icy and bit at his neck and back – the proverbial kick in the ass pulling him to his feet.

"Alright, alright!" he called back out, looking toward the horse that drew ever closer.

The animal came right to his outstretched hand, a soft knicker sounding as the velvet nose met his palm. Even with his sense of feeling and his sight, he couldn't understand quite what he was looking at. He started to speak three separate times – the fourth time, he finally succeeded.

"How did –"

He looked behind the horse and around himself, making sure Laura and the kids weren't hiding in some bush snickering at his confusion.

"How did you get here? Who put this tack on you? How did – oh God I'm talking to a horse."

The last bit came out dryly with a sharp face-palm from himself in horror - and earned him an irritated neigh from the horse, the black head tossing in frustration. Clint was really grasping at straws here…. And if Stark were around, he would have gladly flipped him the bird as he giggled like a schoolgirl at the assassin's dumbfounded look.

"Look we – damnit I'm doing it again…. Hey bud, listen…"

The black head turned back to him, and the ears piqued. That was abnormal. He pondered for a long moment. It was like this animal understood what he was saying…or at least what he was trying to do… and if that weren't odd enough, the eyes that stared back at him were. They gave a very quick snap of orange light just as the twinge knocked against Clint's head again – and at that moment, he understood. Well….he understood as much as could be understood right now.

"You too, huh?"

A soft nicker.

A quiet sigh in return.

"Look bud…you really need a name…. look, I don't know what's happening right now. I don't, but I'm trying to figure it out. Right now, Laura and the kids are in trouble and I – we – have to get back home."

As if in understanding the stallion bobbed his head and began to sidestep a bit, slowly edging his way to stand next to the man. The scarred neck turned so he could stare at his human almost knowingly. A trembling hand reached out to grasp the reins that showered the animal's neck. Clint didn't think he had the strength to do it.

"I'm not… look, I'm not in the greatest of shape," he explained, reaching a hand to palpitate the new scars on his chest, "I don't think I can get up there right now."

Dark eyes studied him for a minute, and then the black stallion gave a loud snort, walking the short distance across the dirt road to stand next to a three foot tall boulder. The expectant look came back, one front leg pawing at the ground. That was easy enough to translate. Clint let himself chuckle dryly and hobbled the short distance to where the animal stood, stepping first onto the short boulder before finally hauling himself up and into the saddle. The stallion stood still as he adjusted himself to be collectively seated and secure, a soft nicker sounding when a dirt and blood covered hand reached forward to shakily stroke down the scarred flesh of his steed's neck. He had so many questions…but now he had time.

"Okay boy…take me home," the archer whispered to him and then gave a soft click of his tongue to set the horse down the road in the direction he came from, "Nothing crazy please…not for a while. I think I need to catch my breath."

The rhythmic steps of the stallion lulled him into a drowsy daze before long, his better sense of self warning him to not loose too much focus. There was too much information, too much had changed and happened in the last few hours for him to make sense of it. His only purpose now was to prepare himself for what came next, to get his family to safety, and then to find Kate… there was no rest for the weary. And rightly so, there was no rest as he rode steadily toward his home that felt so far in the distance, the echoing questions smacking around his beaten skull. The breeze tickled his back and caressed his neck soothingly, drawing a short smile from Clint's lips and a grateful glance to the sky.

"Thanks, Cap. I was needing that kick in the ass."

IOIOIOIOIOIOIOI

Some deep moves will be made next chapter….it's going to be a true challenge to write. I hope you all are enjoying the ride so far!