Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bucky didn’t want to open his eyes. Light was shining onto him from somewhere. He could detect it through his tightly shut lids, but he didn’t want to open them.

“If I’m out, they’ll leave me alone for a while at least”, he thought. Whoever *they* were. Bucky really didn’t want to know where he was. Somewhere bad, most likely. Everything hurt. Everything ached.
He wanted to groan but that would be too much of giveaway that he was conscious.

If he was conscious. Sort of conscious.

He remembered little, except running from Ross’ minions. Thaddeus Ross, now President, was threatening to revoke his pardon. Just when Bucky had found peace, and some semblance of happiness they had come after him. Dragged him in front of the President and presented with an ultimatum: apprehend whatever criminal, terrorist or Rogue enhanced person Ross wanted off the streets or he’d be tried and imprisoned for his “crimes” as The Winter Soldier.

Ross, like everyone else, knew that Bucky had no choice in anything which the HYDRA Puppet did. He knew about the brainwashing, the torture, how he was held captive. How he had no agency and autonomy, how his mind had been ravaged.

Diminished capacity and duress, they had called it back in 2023 when he got pardoned. Had it only been a year?  Ross didn’t care. He just started blackmailing Bucky do his bidding- and he had done it. Two or three times.
Although it made him sick. Although he railed against it with every fibre of his being. Taking orders again, being a slave again.

He had sworn he would never let anyone be in control of him again. Treat him like a mindless machine. Yet it had happened.

To keep out of The Raft he had sold his body and his mind to a corrupt politician. Never again. So, before Ross could come calling agin, Bucky had run.

Leaving behind the comfortable 1940s house that he’d become so fond of. Taking only a pistol and some spare ammo, just in case. Of course, he wasn’t planning to use it in aggression, but a guy needed to defend himself. Especially against a man like Ross.

He’d managed to stay under the radar for several months. He’d once done it for two years. Not so lucky this time. This time his face was too well known. Bucky hadn’t been able to leave the United States. Ross made sure of that: official warnings at every airport and seaport in the country.

Captain America threatened with jail if he even thought about trying to aid Barnes. And this time, Steve Rogers wouldn’t save him. Finally, Ross men had caught up with him in a remote part of rural Missouri.

That was the last thing Bucky remembered. Taking the woods to evade Ross' SWAT team, before finally coming upon a small ravine. Bucky hated woods. Bad things always happened to him in woods. He also hated steep drops.

Somehow, he always ended up near one.

Not that 200 feet was that much of an issue for him. He could jump it and land safely without any trouble, but he’d prefer to avoid the scar cut through the earth by a river

It looked too much like one from long ago in the Alps. So, he’d followed the path of the ravine and run east in search of a bridge or somewhere less wide where he could simply take a running jump to cross.  Or maybe it was north. Either way, he hadn’t crossed the thing.

Damn foolishness.

Next thing, he’d heard someone crashing through the branches. He was a kid really: the cop armed with a semi-automatic rifle, so Bucky hadn’t hit him too hard- but he wasn’t alone.They always came in pairs and somehow the other guy had taken him by surprise.

He had some kind of taser: and it hit Bucky directly in the upper part of his Vibranium arm. The pain surged through his whole body as sparks flew from his arm. Momentarily disabled by the electric shock, Bucky sank to his knees, or maybe fell, he didn’t quite recall. Taser man used the seconds to his advantage, fumbling for his real gun, and speaking into a microphone attached to his shoulder to call for backup.

The next few seconds were a blur.

The officer still held the taser in his right hand, and somehow Bucky had yanked his body backwards, pulling the cop over with it and the taser out of his hand. Although excruciatingly painful, he used his Vibranium arm to yank the evil little dart from the taser out, it was still attached by a wire to the gun itself as its owner tried to get up, cursing.

He was shouting whilst trying to punch the microphone or something on his shoulder which did nothing but crackle and fumbled for his real gun. Bucky remembered feeling nauseous and seeing double, knowing only he had to stop the guy getting backup.

So, he’d got, awkwardly to his feet and the officer went mad, screaming for him to stay down, still fumbling for his gun. Bucky rushed him, or rushed at him but it must have been slow because his head was so fuzzy. All he succeeded in doing was knocking the guy sort of off-balance and as there was a crack and yet more pain, this time in his chest. The next thing he knew he and Taser Guy were stumbling together as the ground seemed to slide away from them. It had been raining, so the ground was soft. Slippery. Covered in damp autumn leaves.

“Oh shit!” someone called out. Taser guy must’ve tried to grab hold of him: a bad move as Bucky was already falling.

Falling.

Falling.

And now he was awake. No point fighting it anymore, they’d find out before long. Better to get up, and out of wherever his was before whoever was in charge realized he was awake.

Bucky opened his eyes. And startled.

He had been lying in a small room, with some kind of slanted ceiling. It was concrete. No wrong colour … Stone. Wood? Who made buildings out of wood?

He’d been lying on soft and remarkably comfortable bed. The light was daylight. Flooding in from some unknown...

A window behind him. Bucky knew when he pivoted his body around with a small wince and placed his legs on the floor. Even the window was weird. It was shaped like an arch… no a leaf. With a fancy frame also made of carved wood. Tapered and pointed at the top. No glass in it or anything. Just open to let in a cool breeze.

What on earth was this place? Certainly not a hospital or a medical facility. They certainly loved their wood. 

Although he knew he didn’t really have time, Bucky stole a moment to look out the window. And nearly fainted.

The landscape outside was unspeakably beautiful. A forested valley tucked away behind mountains, painted with trees of every colour, among them dotted graceful columns, arches and sloping roofs.

It sort of reminded Bucky of an old castle he had once seen somewhere in Europe- Germany or Austria. Only here the buildings seem to grow from the forest mingling with it as though they too, were growing things in gentle hues of brown. And there was a waterfall. Tall, elegant and almost luminous as the fast, ever moving water reflected the light of the sun. 

People walked back and forth below. At least, they must have been walking. He couldn’t see their legs moving as they all wore long, fancy robes of some kind. They seemed to float or glide across the ground, and everywhere there were soft, soothing sounds. Birdsong and the running of water and …. Music?

It was like something from a fairytale. Or a vision of paradise. Bucky shook himself, closing and opening his eyes. But it was all still there.

“Rule out paradise dude: people like you don’t go to heaven. Especially not when they’re still alive.” He told himself. Although it sure wasn’t that little Missouri village either.

He’d been too distracted admiring the view. As stunning as this place was, he needed to get out.

Where were his clothes? He noticed, for the first time, he seemed to be dressed in some kind of long, loose, white shirt. Or a dressing gown? It reached to below his knees. His Vibranium arm was still attached. That was the main thing- but the jeans and leather jacket he’d been wearing the day of the chase were nowhere to be seen.

He sighed, looking around the room which was entirely bare except for a bed and a chair – no, a stool- covered in designs just as elaborate as those around the ceiling and walls. He’d have to leave in his underwear and find some more clothes when he escaped Log Cabin Fairyland, or wherever this was.

He tried the door (also wood, naturally) and believed it was locked. Also, naturally. When he took a closer look, he realized the door was actually only fastened with a latch.

“Well, at least it’s no maximum-security prison” he thought sarcastically, reaching to lift the latch… At that moment, the door swung inwards, knocking against Bucky’s arm. Another figure stood in the now half- open doorway and used his hand to prevent the door ricocheting backwards.

“I see you have risen at last”

Chapter Text

There was no weapon in the room. Nothing which he could take down his new visitor. Except maybe the stool. Forget it. The room was too small to properly swing the thing.

Bucky went through all of that in the second in which the man finally pulled the door fully open and stood, framed in the doorway.

He was HUGE. Tall, like crazy tall. Bucky was accounted tall at 5”11 but this guy would have made Steve look short. And Steve was the tallest guy Bucky ever knew. 
He was also thin, with long straight blond hair which never seemed to end, and was clad in the same long robes as the people walking outside Maybe Bucky could try rushing him again… but that hadn’t ended too well last time. As he could recall.

“I said that you have risen at last”, said the man again; “My Lord will be glad to know, he was starting to get worried”.

Bucky looked the guy up and down, needing to stetch his neck fully upward to see the the guy's face and and just managed it. No use trying to intimidate this one.

“Obviously”. He answered “Look, I don’t know who you are, and I don’t care. I don’t wanna fight, so let me go now and we’ll forget all about this, OK?”

“OK?” The other said in a curious tone and looking down at him continued “I do not think I can let can go wondering around naked, Sir, it is not decent”

“For a start, I am *not* naked” replied Bucky “but if you would give me some proper clothes, I would appreciate it. Then you can show me the way out, provided you don’t work for Ross, of course”

“Ross?” said Mr Tall, once again in that curious and slightly confused tone. “I know no R-oss. My name is Lhindor, and I serve the Lord Elrond”

Bucky sighed “Whatever, man. I’m not planning on staying for chit-chat, OK? Can you get me something to wear or not?”

“Of course” replied Lin-whatever his name. “Your garments were, I fear, too badly damaged to be kept and had to be disposed of. Except the outer layer. That was placed in a chest beneath the bed, with a clean tunic. For when you woke"

 Bucky cursed himself for not thinking of looking *under* the bed, as Mr Tall turned and spoke to somebody he couldn’t see.

As he slid the wooden (surprise!) box known as a chest out from under the bed, he thought maybe that would have been a good opportunity to get past him and escape. But soon abandoned the idea, as there were clearly others around and he didn’t feel quite up to fighting off 5 or 6 others the size of this guy. He felt better, but still not great. Still aching everywhere. Still a little groggy.

He opened the box and examined its contents. His leather jacket was indeed there, neatly folded, and beneath what looked like another long, loose shirt but this time a green colour, as well as – shorts? They looked like shorts of some description, and a pair of long, soft shoes. Leather? They looked like shortish boots. No laces. He almost laughed at the bizarre ensemble.

“You people wherever this is wear some weird shit” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else, eliciting another curious stare from Mr Tall.

“Do you mind”? He said out loud. Stick dude with absurdly long hair didn’t move, and just continued gazing at him in curiosity and confusion.
“I need to get changed” he explained “and you were just saying a minute ago its indecent to see people go around in their “undergarments". That applies to you too so please turn around"

Mr Tall Princess hair seemed to get the picture, stepped back a little and pulled the door almost closed with him. Weird guy, Bucky noted. Potentially not much in his far-too-pretty head.

"Seriously" his train of thought continued as he pulled the green shirt thing over his head “how do guys have hair like that- and wearing a freaking dress!” He’d sported long hair once, of course, at that time he preferred to put out of his mind and until after the war with Thanos even, but not *that* long. Or glossy, for that matter. Dude must have used Pantene, or something.

Also, green was not his colour, but it would have to do for now. He still looked ridiculous, in another too-long shirt thing, but at least it wasn't so thin the light would shine right through and show his ass to all and sundry.

Mr Tall pushed the door open as he finished dressing, holding what looked like a bundle of more clothes.

“Don’t you guys believe in *knocking*?” Bucky asked, sarcastically, then saw what he’d bought “Oh, more fresh clothes… thanks!

“I hope they will do. Not what you are used to, I think” replied Mr---Linno? Lindon? What was it? “By the way, My Lord has been informed that you are awake and would like to see you!”

“Your Lord?” said Bucky? “I hope not “Lord” Ross” or anything to do with him?”

“Nay, I think I said” replied Mr Tall “I serve the Lord Elrond, not this R-oss. I know no person of that name. Elf or man. You are in Imladris, though you may know it as Rivendell, the home of Elrond and the last Homely…"

“Woah” interrupted Bucky holding out a hand: “back up there…. Did you just say ELF…and Rivendell? What is this place, somewhere in Asgard? Did Thor bring me here? This some kind of Norse Myth-y world?”

“No, Sir” replied Lindon-no idea. “I don’t know who Thor is anymore than I know who Ross is, but this is not Asgard, it is Rivendell, and you were bought here by our scouts about five days ago. We found you injured in the forest, and my Lord Elrond, who is a noted healer, tended to your wounds. Your companion, sadly, was beyond even our arts. He had a broken neck and could not be saved”

“Companion?” Asked Bucky “I had…”

Wait. He remembered, Taser Guy. Hell. It made sense now. He must’ve slipped and fallen into the ravine, taking the cop with him The guy had tried to grab him… they had fallen together though naturally he had survived. Whereas the cop had not.

Oh shit.

This was bad. Really bad.

He hadn’t meant to kill the guy or anyone. Just stop him calling for more guys with guns. Knock him out like he had his friend. Ross would never accept that it was an accident. He’d say Bucky had murdered a police officer now too and step up the efforts to take him down.

Running had been a mistake. He’d always known it; he’d just been desperate. He should have gone to Sam: Sam would surely help even with Ross’ threats. Wouldn’t he?

What about the others? Bucky hardly knew them. The Wanda girl might be sympathetic, but she had enough problems of her own. Bruce Banner had had Ross on his tail before. Maybe he should find him.

Wait. If this was Asgard, or somewhere on Thor’s world, then it was another planet and far enough away from Ross, surely? The President did not have intergalactic jurisdiction, although he might think he did.

Bucky shook his head. Space travel. Aliens. Talking, gun-toting racoons. Wizards. Magic. He’d never have accepted the existence of such things a few months… wait, no it had been years. Five years ago. Six now. Even now, it was all slightly crazy: but all had featured in the fight against Thanos. He’d seen and spoken to all of them, Or most.

His head hurt trying to process it all. Must be from the HDYRA brain damage: no, not just that. The nausea had returned. He needed to get himself together. He sunk back down onto the bed.
He had, albeit inadvertently, caused someone’s death. He had killed a man.The one thing he swore he would never do again. His head was in his hands… his vision began to blur and his eyes moisten . Even London looked concerned now.

“Sorry” sniffed Bucky “I’m just a bit… confused. Upset. About what’s happened and what is happening, you know?”

Lindy? Was that his name? replied “That is understandable. If you wish I can ask Lord Elrond to delay meeting you until this evening, maybe even until tomorrow”

“No” Bucky sniffed back the tears he knew had been forming and wiped his eyes “No, take me to your leader. Your boss. You know “Lord Elrond”.

That name rang a bell from somewhere, Bucky realized. He just couldn’t place it. Oh well, he’d find out soon enough.

Now fully dressed in the ridiculous getup the people around here wore, consisting of an even longer gown thing with a spilt up the middle over the green monstrosity they had given him, and a belt Bucky was escorted by Mr Crazy Tall along a corridor and down a flight of stairs.

The stairs were real fun. Getting down them with a long, draping dress that all the way down to his feet required him to lift the damned thing up with both hands and watch his step. At least they’d given him tight pants to wear underneath the dress.  Or major wardrobe malfunction would have ensued.

“Who am I kidding? I am wearing a freaking DRESS tiptoeing daintily down the stairs. Just someone please kill me now! Ross? If you can see me right now you can shoot me? I will allow it”

At the bottom of the stairs, the tall “Elf” led him across a large building like a hall lit with only daylight and a few gaslamps. At least they looked like gas lamps. The type of thing Bucky had known when he was a kid in the 1920s.

He felt like whistling: the architecture was as beautiful as the outside. There was something that looked like a pagoda in the centre, with covered walkways all around, and everything- every wall, every part of the ceiling covered in ornate carvings or statues and ornaments.

“They certainly know how to build; I will give them that, but their fashion sense sucks”

Finally, tall dude stopped near one of the covered walkways with an amazing view of the outside courtyard and even sported a sort of balcony or veranda (showoffs) and told Bucky to wait as he knocked and went through a door which seemed to defy the laws of physics.

Presumably gone to find his boss. That Elron guy. Where did he know that name from?

Turned out, it was hot in double layers of dress, so Bucky moved hearer the walkway where the cool wind from outside was blowing in. Some people were leisurely ambling around again. "Don’t they work? Or have anything to do?"

Two people passed across the courtyard nearest the walkway. They appeared to be women, though it was hard to tell as apparently everyone here had long straight hair and wore these dress-things. If they were women, they were gorgeous. He didn’t want to stare; it was rude to stare at ladies, but he couldn’t help it.

Their clear, luminous skin. Delicate features…. and…wait a minute. Pointed ears.

They had pointed ears. Both of them. He could see the end poking through their too glossy and perfect hair. Bucky hadn’t noticed if Lindy the Tall’s had ears like that due to not being able to see them from his several inches below the guy's head  and constantly having to crane his neck upwards, but these two absolutely had pointed ears.

“Come, on Buck. Those cannot be real ears. Elves do not exist” he told himself. “These people are just some kind of actors or really dedicated LARPers. Or else you really are on Thor’s planet. Either way there must be a logical explanation"

Then again “logical explanation” must now include talking racoons and trees. And purple genocidal alien warlords who made Hitler look like an amateur. 

Lhindor (got his name right at last!) returned saying “My Lord Elrond will see you now. I will wait outside when you are finished and take you back to your room, if you wish to go there” he then held out his arm and gestured towards the fairy-door right in front of him.

“Well, here goes nothing, and probably worse” thought Bucky as he knocked and was summoned inside.

Chapter Text

Bucky stepped inside the door, which was more than tall enough to fit though, and entered a remarkably comfortable room. No, it was more like a suite of rooms with actual furniture. Including bookshelves on one wall.

He didn’t have much time to look around as another tall guy with long-dark brown hair stood with his back to his visitor. This one wasn’t so tall though, in fact, Bucky could look him in the eye without having to stand on a stool. Bucky checked the side of the head out of curiosity…. and yes…pointed ears. Again.

The man turned, looking up form whatever he had been doing to look straight at Bucky.

“Welcome, friend. It is good to speak to you at last.” said the man in s slow, assured tone as Bucky looked him in the eye- and immediately regretted it. It was a cliché, he knew, but the grey eyes of the guy in front of him seemed to trawl the very depths of his soul.

And Bucky’s soul, if he had one at all, must have been the most corrupt and filthiest on earth. Suddenly, he didn’t want anyone to see it. Let alone Elrond. He inhaled sharply. By just being here, could his corruption somehow taint this place? This paradise?

Bucky gulped and looked down. Ashamed. He only just met this guy - and yet somehow, he was ashamed. And afraid.

“Please sit” Elrond continued, moving aside to show nearby chair “can I offer you a drink?”

Bucky didn’t answer. He’d been in the presence of rulers before. He’d never felt this uncomfortable with T’Challa though. This guy made him squirm and want to bolt for the door. Both. The door, he flicked his eyes in that general direction, but couldn’t see it. No escape.

So instead, he mustered all his strength to reply.

“N—o. No, Th—ankyou --- Sir” he managed to stammer out.

“No drink? Alright, please do sit though. Take the weight off your feet” replied Elrond. Bucky had no trouble remembering his name. He immediately obeyed, pushing aside his stupid skirt to sit down. On a large, again ornately carved chair. Elrond had proper chairs.

“Lhindor, I fear, did not tell me your name. Friend” said Elrond, pouring himself a drink from a pitcher. Silver? It looked to be. Bucky noticed he wore- not a crown it looked more like a tiara, but without jewels. More like an interlaced metal circlet. Yeah, that’s what it was called. A circlet.

Oh wait, the man had asked his name and his mind had wondered.  For a fleeting second, Bucky thought of lying. Making something up. That thought fled as fast it had come. For some reason, he couldn’t lie to Elrond. He felt some inexplicable compulsion to be completely upfront and honest with him.

“I didn’t tell him my name” said Bucky, sounding more contrite than even he intended “I think I was rather rude to him. I’m sorry”

“My…er ” he wet his lips. Maybe that drink might have been a good idea, after all. His mouth was parched. “My name is James. But nobody really ever calls me that. Except my therapist. Everyone calls me Bucky. For short” He blurted it all out. Feeling the need to over-explain.

Elrond raised one eyebrow “Bucky seems like a strange version of James”.

Bucky hurriedly replied “It’s my middle name. Buchanan. James Buchanan Barnes, but I didn’t like either. Then my best friend, Steve came up with Bucky when we were k… children and I insisted everyone called me that afterwards”. Oversharing. Again.

Elrond smiled “Unusual, for a man to have three names. Most I know have but one- but you are a most unusual man, I think. Bucky? Is that the name you like best now?”

Bucky responded: “Yeah- I mean you can call me whatever you want but Bucky is great”.

Elrond, sitting too now leaned a little closer “Well, Bucky, as I said you are most unusual. Do you want me to be honest? When we first found you in the forest during a hunting expedition, some of my companions believed you to be an Orc. They advised me to run you through with my spear then and there”

Bucky didn’t know what an Orc was, but it was clearly bad, and not wanting to appear anymore stupid than he already did, didn’t ask.

Elrond continued: “You had a strange weapon about your person when we found you. As did your companion, who had, unfortunately already passed. I have never seen the like. Then there was your arm. Some kind of metal, if I am not mistaken?” Elrond gazed at him quizzically, clearly expecting an answer.

“Yeah” Bucky said “it’s a metal called Vibranium. Supposed to be the strongest and the lightest on earth”.

“It sounds like the men, wherever you come from, nearly match the skill of the Elves in their metal craft, then,” said Elrond. His expression was impossible to read.

“The problem you have, Bucky is that here a man with a metal arm and a strange weapon, may be though a servant of the Dark Powers”

“Well, I don’t really have a Master” said Bucky defensively “but even if I did, I wouldn’t want to serve any Dark Powers. I spent long enough as an unwilling servant to some bad guys, and I don’t wanna ever be in that position again.
As for my arm, I lost my real one in an accident. A long, long time ago now. The bad guys I just mentioned. They put a metal one on me. Not that I wanted it”

“Look” Bucky continued “I really don’t want to cause you, or this place, any problems. If you’re worried that I might be trouble, then I will go. Now, if you want”

Elrond looked him in the eye again with that piercing stare. Bucky was tempted to look away again, but that would look shifty. So, he forced himself to keep his eyes fixed on the… Elf? Person? Elrond.

Elrond spoke again when Bucky was silent for a few seconds but felt like hours.

 “I do not think you to be a servant of the Dark Powers, Bucky.  In my experience, the minions of evil would look fairer and smell fouler and I don’t think our adversaries would someone quite so conspicuous as a spy" and added with more levity "and since I am the Lord of Rivendell, my opinions carry considerable weight”

“Thanks” replied Bucky “its nice to have someone believe in me for once” without a hint of sarcasm or irony. “I will still go if you want though” he added.

“Go where?” asked Elrond. “In a few hours it will be dark, and I think you are lost and far from wherever your home may be. Nay, I’ll not bid you leave. Especially in terrain you are not familar with”

Bucky sighed:  “I haven’t called anywhere home in a long time. Not for long anyway, but it would be nice to be somewhere safe for a bit. Here feels safe now. Safer than it did an hour ago anyway”

Elrond smiled again “Rivendell, you will find, is the safest place a person can ever be. We call It a Homely House, but in truth, it is a refuge, hidden from unfriendly eyes- and none come here who are not invited or summoned. Or found in the forest”.

Bucky actually let out a laugh but stopped himself. It might come over as disrespectful. Instead, he schooled his features. Elrond though, noticed and Bucky again found himself chastened.

“Sorry” he said “it just a little while ago I thought about trying to escape from here. I thought maybe you worked someone who is out to get me. I was scared- and now I actually *want* to stay. Its weird. That why I was gonna laugh”

“No need to apologize, Bucky. I am pleased that you will be staying with us. Stay as long as you wish”. Elrond rose again and walked over to the same alcove where he’d secreted the pitcher from earlier.

“Can I ask you a question?” said Bucky. Finally plucking up the courage.

“Of course,” replied Elrond, digging out another drinking vessel from God knew where and pouring the red liquid- wine Bucky supposed- both it and another vessel next to it.

“Are you really an Elf? Is everyone here really Elves?”

“Yes. I am. We are. Although we often have visitors who are not Elves. You seem surprised to encounter our race. I think maybe there are not many of us where you come from”

“Not really” said Bucky “and the ones we have are er, smaller” he said. Thinking of the people who dressed up as characters to entertain kids on Christmas. They’re not really Elves of course, but he once again found himself not wanting to sound too stupid or like some cynic.

Elrond handed Bucky one of the drinking vessels. It was fancy of course, kind of like a posh wine glass. “You must be thirsty” he said, “You were asleep for five days”.

Elrond returned to his seat as Bucky thanked him and took a sip. He didn’t go in much for wine, but this stuff was amazing. Sweet and smooth. Possibly the best he’d ever tasted. No, unquestionably the best he’d ever tasted.

“I am actually known as Elrond Peredhel” said the Elf “Peredhel means half-Elven. All that really means is that there were both Elves and men among my forefathers. My grandfather, Tuor, was of your race. The race of men”

“I guess race here means more like species” Bucky thought, nodding to make it seem like he had a remote idea of what Elrond was talking about whilst finishing the wine. Here he was, already accepting that Elves existed. Well, there was one sitting in front of him- and he had GREAT wine. Maybe he was just a little drunk. No. He couldn’t get drunk because of his serum.

“I er…. Wasn’t so sure Elves existed, actually. Before I came here” Bucky added quicky. Why did he say that? Being with Elrond was like a truth serum. If he stayed much longer, he’d be spilling all the beans in his tin.

Elrond looked up. He’d been examining something on the table between them. Not a book, a piece of paper it looked like. It was none of his business, so Bucky didn’t pry.

“Well, that doesn’t surprise me” Elrond replied “My people’s numbers are dwindling. Our strength and potency wanes and many of us are leaving these lands…. sometimes in death”.

“Wait, aren’t you guys supposed to be immortal”? said Bucky, surprising even himself. How did he know that? Where did that come from?

“As men would count the passing of time. Yes, but Elves can die. By the sword. By mischance and in the slow decay of time our souls will- wane. It is hard to explain to a man, but we cannot linger forever in the mortal realm. 
Still, long ages we have been here. By the counting of the mortal races anyway. I myself am nearly 7000 years old”

Had there been any wine left in his cup, Bucky would have spat it out and choked at what he said. Instead he just gaped, open mouthed, and then quickly shut his trap.

“Seriously?” he said in shock “and I thought I was old! Sorry. No offense”

"How old are you, Master Bucky?" asked Elrond in a playful tone  "that you count yourself as old and yet appear to be in your prime?" 

"You might not believe this" said Bucky "or maybe you will. I'm 107. Probably like, no more than a child by Elf standards, right? But real old by the reckoning of men!" 

Elrond beamed. Actually Beamed. The smile nearly cracked his fair face, and then laughed a little.  He had a slightly receding hairline, Bucky noticed.  Not doing badly for 7000.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think we were getting on” thought Bucky.

“I believe I might grow to count you as a friend, given long enough, Bucky” laughed Elrond. "Not many people can surprise me at my age, or make me laugh- but you have!. I find your inquisitve nature at the mundane things of life almost as refreshing as your sense of humour".

 After few seconds, with his head slightly turned down, the Elf replied:  “You remind me greatly of someone I once know well. Not a man, but of the race of Elves. He too had an arm made of metal. Or at least a hand”

“What? You have metal arms here too? I thought you said it was so weird that it made you think I was an evil orc or something” replied Bucky a little more confident in adding levity to the conversation.

“You are only the second person I have ever met who had one” said Elrond, matching his tone, then added  “and I have lived a very long time”

“Who was he, if its not too personal?” asked Bucky “just nice to know I am not alone in the world”.

There was a pause. Which almost started to become awkward. Bucky feared he had offended Elrond by asking, because for the first time, he looked sad.

“His name was Meadrhos” Elrond finally broke the silence. “He died a very long time ago, even by the reckoning of Elves” said Elrond, perking up a bit as he gave Bucky the ghost of a cheeky grin.

“He wasn’t my father, but my parents left when I was very young, only seven years of age, and he, after a manner, raised me. He and his brother, Maglor. I had not thought about him for many years. Until I saw you, Master metal arm”

“Well, I hope the reminder wasn’t too painful,” said Bucky.

“There is both and joy and pain in the memory,” said Elrond. “He was a good leader: he could have been a great one, perhaps even led his people to victory, but his fate and his choice led him down another path.

I speak of him because he once fell into the hands of forces of evil, as I think you said you did, althought he was eventually freed.  I came to know him only some years after he was freed, but many told of what he was like before… the enemy took him. Nobody truly knew the full extent of what he suffered at the hand of Morgoth, our deadliest and most terrible foe. Morgoth slew his father, but for some reason he kept Meadrhos alive. He chained him by his hands to the side of a cliff, and to rescue him, his friend had enter our enemy's territory sever Maedrhos right hand.

Even though he was freed he was never the same when they bought him home. We were able to mend his physical wounds and his craftsmen brothers made a hand for him of steel. Yet there were other hurts. Unseen. It was a if the enemy had torn open his very soul, leaving a wound that could never be healed.

After that, he abdicated his crown to another and sought solitude with his brother. Although he fought many battles, he never led his people again"

Bucky had been listening silently in rapt attention the whole time Elrond told his tale.

“This Maedrhos guy sounds so much like me, its legitimately terrifying” he concluded at last. “I take it he didn’t get a happy ending?”

“No” said Elrond sadly “but many have been lost to grief and pain and yet have triumphed in the end. Maedrhos fate was not determined wholly by the enemy. He had taken a terrible oath, one which cost dearly to fulfil… but I believe that his suffering at the hands of the Dark Lord shaped him. Cast a shadow over his mind and his heart which, although terrible, he may have been able to lift by his great strength and his bond of affection with his greatest friend”.

“Was his friend, the one who rescued him, called Steve?” said Bucky “I had a dear friend called Steve who would have done that sort of thing for me once. And more”.

“No, his name was Fingon” said Elrond “they were both friends and kin. Fingon was slain by treachery even though Maedrhos tried to come to his aid. Perhaps if he had lived, Maedrhos fate would have been different.

Your people have strange naming habits. It sounds though, as if the bond you had with this Steve was as close as that Fingon had with Maedrhos so perhaps the comparison is fitting”.

“Yeah, it really does, doesn’t it?” said Bucky, his voice cracking slightly. It wasn’t just thinking of Steve… it was the whole story. A person whose friend had risked all to save him, only for the whole thing to be useless and end in misery and death. The Maedrhos guy being separated from his friend forever and not being able to do anything about it. That separation had apparently doomed him.

 Good old Steve, still causing him pain from…. wherever he was.

“You clearly miss your friend greatly” said Elrond, looking at him with something which resembled concern. Maybe sympathy. Probably just pity. It was usually pity.

Bucky could feel tears threatening for the second time that day. He was such a wimp.

“Is it OK if we don’t talk about him, after all?  I think I might start blubbing- I mean crying. Real ugly crying. With hiccups and everything”

Elrond nodded “There is no shame in tears, but very well, we won’t speak of your friend if you don’t wish to now”

Bucky sniffed and was going to wipe his eyes on his stupidly fancy sleeve again, but that was probably considered bad manners here.

“Thanks. Sorry too, I pressed you to talk about your friend but then chickened out when it came to my turn. I’m such a coward”

“You don’t seem like a coward either, Bucky” replied Elrond kindly “and I don’t mind that you bought Maedrhos back to my remembrance at all”.

“Yeah, well I am. A coward. In more ways than you could know” said Bucky “and I don’t deserve how nice you’ve been to me at all”. He felt sorry for himself again. Which made him hate himself even more. Damn wine.

“I’m sorry again. I’ve kept you for ages and you probably have really important stuff to do. I’ll ask Lhindor to take me back upstairs, I guess”. Bucky didn’t get up. This guy was a Lord or King or something and there were probably customs, so he probably had to wait to be dismissed or something.

“You are a guest Bucky, and you don’t have to keep apologizing,” said Elrond.

If he kept being so bloody nice, Bucky was going to break down crying, and he would not he able to hold it back this time.

Thankfully the Elf Lord got back up, and so Bucky rose too.

“However, if you are tired you can, by all means, go back to the room. I must apologize this time for how small and sparse it is. It was suitable for an injured, unconscious man but I think you’ll need something larger now”.

“Its fine, really, only can I have a… bowl of water or something? To wash my face? Maybe shave. Do you have equipment for that?”

“I will see to it you have everything you need” said Elrond, walking to one end of the room. THERE was the door. Damn thing had seemingly disappeared before.

Lhindor must have been standing nearby the whole time, probably to attention or something. Bucky liked Elrond, but that guy was just plain weird. He’d come to collect Bucky like a kid after school. Just before he set off at a swift trot after the enormous Elf, Elrond’s voice popped around the door of his room

“I almost forgot to mention. Dinner is in one hour. It would please me greatly for you to come and dine with my household, Bucky. Lhindor will show you the way to the Hall of Fire”

“Thankyou Sir, I will” croaked out Bucky, eyes watering.

Back in the room, Bucky did cry for a couple of minutes. He’d gone from fearing for his life, to having some King invite him to dinner like some honoured foreign dignitary in a matter of an hour. Oh, and he now officially believed in Elves, because someone as kind as Elrond had to be real.

There had to be a shred of light in the darkness that had consumed so much of his life.

“Kind as summer” thought Bucky. “next thing I know, I’ll be going off on an adventure with some dwarves and that little….Billy dude”

Wait.

There had been something all day. Things he just knew. Elrond’s name. And stuff about Elves. Now dwarves too.

He’d left his phone in a safe place before going on the run because smartphones were easy too track, otherwise he could have Googled “Elves, Rivendell and Elrond” or something. Not that he’d get any reception here.

Where did he know it from? Must have been some movie he’d seen. Why a movie? Why would this be…?

A book. The Hobbit. Now it came flooding back. Elrond, Rivendell, Dwarves and the little person was called The Hobbit. That book he’d read before the war. The one he joked about with Sam which had a wizard called Gandalf in it.

It was a dream. He’d been dreaming about a kid’s book he’d read like 80 years ago. More.

 His heart sank. It had been a nice dream. And realistic. He’d even imagined he’d tasted the wine.

He was knocked out at the bottom of that gulley or in hospital or something and would wake up for real soon. And this all would be gone. Just his luck to have all semblance of happiness yanked away like it was about to be.

Wondering why he hadn’t joined the dots before, Bucky realized there was nothing else for it.

He had to pinch himself.

He took a deep breath, looked out the window for a couple of seconds.

“Goodbye Fairyland” he said as he sat on his bed, shut his eyes and pinched his flesh arm with the thumb and forefinger of his Vibranium arm.

Nothing.

He still sat on his bed in fairyland. No, what was it called. Middle Earth?

He closed his eyes, counted to 10 and pinched again. Harder.

Opened them again.

Nothing.

Still here.

Maybe he should hit himself on the head or something. He winced. Nope. It would have to be a *very* hard indeed to knock him out and say if he was actually lying at the bottom of that ravine, it wouldn’t do him any favours.

He rolled back and lay on the bed, arms out. It was pretty narrow and so his forearms drooped off the edge and his Vibranium hand was squashed against the wall.

Oh well. Nothing for it then to accept the dream about Middle Earh LARPland for now. There were worse things.

“Wonder what the dreamworld Elf food is like”

Chapter Text

The Hall of Fire lived up to its name as Lhindor led Bucky through Rivendell’s winding paths. Earlier, Bucky had swallowed his pride and apologized for snapping at the tall Elf. Lhindor’s curt “All is well” felt cold, but he guided Bucky like a stray pup.

The Hall was a marvel, a great house with a curved roof and pointed gables, wood shaped beyond mortal craft. How do they even make that?  Inside, carved beams arched overhead, no columns needed. A roaring hearth blazed at the center, smoke stinging Bucky’s eyes until he adjusted. Fire in a wooden hall? Elf magic, no doubt.

Tables formed an “E” without the middle bar: one high table at the head, two rows along the sides, the furthest raised on a dais. Stay clear of Elrond’s table. Don’t make a fool of him.

Too late. Elves entered from a hidden door, taking their places. Elrond stood beside a radiant lady, her golden hair shining, her gown studded with gems that caught the firelight. Hope that’s not the lady I stared at earlier.

“Lord Elrond and Lady Celebrian,” a voice announced as they stood hand in hand. Elves must love deep, married for centuries. Sweet, but not for me. Love, marriage, kids—too risky when you might wake up dangerous.

“Lady Arwen,” the voice added, naming a maiden with raven hair and porcelain skin. Their daughter, probably. Bucky lingered halfway down the hall, hoping to slip to a side table.

Elrond’s gaze found him. “Master Bucky, you have come. Sit near me,” he said, pointing to a seat by his side. “My sons, Elladan and Elrohir, are away, and there is room enough.”

Bucky approached, eyes on the polished floor. Ground, swallow me now. His face burned under the Elves’ stares as he stood by the chair.

“Master Bucky, or James to some,” Elrond said, his voice warm with a glint of mischief, “is my honored guest. Treat him as kin. He serves no Shadow, though I’d hoped for Mithrandir’s second opinion to be sure—and perhaps his arm will prove handy in a pinch.”

Soft laughter rippled through the hall, light and warm. Not at me, just Elrond’s joke, Bucky told himself, easing slightly.

As all sat and rich food appeared, Bucky eyed the table: no fork, just a spoon and a small knife. Shall I tell them I have a thing about knives? Its just for fruit, Buck. Chill. Stop being so hard on yourself. 

“How do you eat here?” he asked. “Back home, we use a fork—like a tiny pitchfork. Don’t want to mess up your table manners.”

Elrond smiled. “See, we all eat with hands, even I,” he said, lifting a salad leaf. “Ilúvatar gave us hands for such tasks. Your ‘fork’ sounds clever, but these serve well enough.”

“So fingers are fine for everything, right?” Bucky said, selecting a piece of meat and smirking. “Just don’t want sauce all over me.”

“No chance of offense unless you fling food or sing crude songs,” Elrond said, chuckling. “Have no fear, Master Bucky. You are a wonder, not a jest.”

“I don’t want to embarrass you, Lord Elrond,” Bucky said. He’s got a way of making me spill my guts. “Back home, I tried to keep a low profile. This”—he flexed his vibranium hand—“made that tough. Kept me alive, though.”

“You are safe in Rivendell as long as you wish,” Elrond said. “Eat, I urge you. You are too thin for one so tall.”

Bucky wasshed down his food with some wine. Best I've ever had, again. He decided to direct the subject away from himself. What should he talk about? The weather?

“So, who’s this Ilúvatar?” he found himself asking instead. “Some kind of god?”

“Indeed,” Elrond said. “Ilúvatar is the One who made all things—this world, Arda, and its heavens. He shaped Elves, the Firstborn, and Men, the younger children, to dwell here as kin. Dwarves, crafted by another, he gave life. Yet all are equal in his sight.”

Bucky kept eating, rapt. One guy made all this, and I’m still confused.

“Back home, men fight for power or money,” he said. “If we had your long lives and magic power, it’d be worse. I’ve seen more bad than good, guys doing evil while acting righteous. I’ve lived a while, seen nothing but war. If I could start over, I’d pick a place like this. Peaceful, far away from all that bad stuff". 

Elrond nodded. “A heavy view, yet not false. Elves, too, have sought power or vengeance, though Men often hasten to such ends now. Do you recall Maedhros, of whom I spoke?”

“Yeah, stuck with me,” Bucky said.

“Maedhros, my foster-father, fell to ruin,” Elrond said. “I was orphaned twice, first when my home, Sirion, was ravaged in a brutal attack led by Maedhros, who swore an oath to reclaim a treasure stolen from his house, turning Elf against Elf.

Yet, in remorse, he took me and my brother Elros into his care, seeking redemption for his deeds. When his oath was fulfilled, he ended his life, unable to bear its weight.”

"He killed himself?" Bucky's chesst tightened. People like us never get a happy ending.

"Yes" Elrond sighed "Some say it was an inevitable fate, fixed the moment he took his oath" 

But then he continued in a voice steady but kind "Yet I do not believe that. I believe that we do not have to walk the path carved by the pain of the wounds inflicted on us.

 Even in our darkest hours, we may turn to good, to healing, though the way be hard. Maedhros could not, but I chose to build Rivendell as a refuge, to mend rather than harm. So may you, Bucky, choose to follow the light, despite the shadows of your past.”

“That hits deep, sir,” Bucky said, voice cracking. Don’t cry in front of these Elves, Buck. But that… that’s something to hold onto.

“I am sorry,” Elrond said, chuckling. “You make me laugh, yet I bring you near tears. Next time, we’ll share lighter joys.”

“No chance I’ll fling food,” Bucky said, grinning. Better lighten up before I lose it. “This arm, though, wasn’t from your Ilúvatar. A king back home made it.”

“You said foes made your arm,” Elrond said. “Is this king false?”

“Nah, he’s solid,” Bucky said. Don’t mention the bad stuff. “The first arm came from… bad folks after I got hurt bad. Used it ‘til it broke in a fight. Then a king, T’Challa, had his craftsmen—real skilled—make this. Lighter, better fit.”

Not a constant reminder of what I was.

“A noble king,” Elrond said. “Yet you speak often of strife. Must I fear quarrels here?”

“No way,” Bucky said. “I never started fights. I’m strong, trained as a soldier, but I fought for others—kings, leaders, not my call. Always their war.”

“A warrior who fights for others’ causes,” Elrond said, thoughtful. “Such tales are known, even among Elves.” Celebrian listened closely, her gaze kind but sharp. She’s hearing everything.  Bucky thought, uneasy.

He coughed on wine, wiping his mouth with a cloth Elrond passed. “Yeah, got wine on my shirt,” he said, laughing. “More wine, and I might start those crude songs you mentioned.”

Elrond laughed, Celebrian too, then the hall. “Your presence gladdens me, Bucky,” he said. “Join my table tomorrow. If you stay, meet my sons, friends to the Men of the North, who face great evil.”

“Sounds good,” Bucky said, half-true. Another feast? Hell yeah. More fighting? No thanks. The Men of the North sounded neck-deep in trouble, and peace was all he wanted.

Chapter Text

Two days after Bucky’s fall: Missouri

Barnes was missing. Ross cursed, paced the office, and then swore some more.

That damned Barnes had evaded him again. He was like a rat, always disappearing into some hole.

9 years earlier, Barnes had disappeared, apparently off the face of the earth, after a terrorist attack in Austria and then going on the rampage in Germany.

As it turned out, he’d been framed, but Ross still wanted him. Officially, he wanted him for his crimes as The Winter Soldier.

The truth is that Ross wanted him for what he had. What was inside him. The super-soldier serum.

Steve Rogers had it, but he’d never been able to go after Rogers. The two-shoes had just been too good- and it would not have done to chase Captain America. Not with some sycophantic President in charge.

At least not before he helped Barnes escape: and then the guy had still managed to avoid him. America’s golden boy. He was untouchable.

Before that, he’d tried to recreate it. It had gone wrong in Banner, making him a monster, and Banner too had evaded his efforts at containment. It had gone wrong in Blonsky. 

Rogers was untouchable or had been until he became President. But then he’d disappeared too after all that nonsense with Thanos.

Barnes was his last chance. Oh, there was a super-soldier or two in Russia. Maybe, but relations with Russia were always iffy.

He had a super-soldier again, right here in the US – and he was not about to let him get away again.

Why couldn’t he have him? There were only so many places a man could hide.

Maybe he should stop being so picky and insisting Barnes was bought in alive. Last time he hadn’t cared: Rogers was a spare after all, but now he was gone and those kids had been blown up, super-soldiers were few and far between.

You could still get blood samples from a corpse, right? His scientists were telling him that it was possible to extract traces of the serum from the blood of a person who had it. Preferably a live person but not necessarily? He hoped so.

Just make sure they didn’t blow him up, or something. Shoot him, have the body frozen, all the blood they wanted. Less trouble all around.

Of course, they had to find him first either way.

The last sighting had been in Missouri. Hence pacing around this tiny little office in the Police Headquarters. Police were so incompetent. He needed something else to catch a super-soldier.

The door burst open, as the Commissioner ran in.

“Sir, Sir we found him! – at least we think we did”

Ross yelled at him:“WHAT DO YOU MEAN THINK!? DID YOU FIND HIM OR NOT!” whilst hurling a pencil pot.

The commissioner, unused to having objects thrown at him, ducked even though the thing didn’t land anywhere near him.

“We found one of our officers beat up near a gulley in the forest. He and his partner were sent after Barnes, and he said the partner was only a minute behind him. The man who hit him over the head met Barnes description.

We couldn’t get any footprints, it was too wet, but our forensic guys reckon there were signs of a struggle near the edge, and they found the officer’s Taser. Looks like one or both of them fell off the edge”

“How deep is the gulley?” asked Ross, now not shouting

“About 300 feet in that part" said the beleaguered Commissioner. 

“So, it's not gonna kill him to fall down" said Ross in a tone that was meant to convey he was stating the blindingly obvious. 

“No Sir, but it would do him some damage- and the taser was discharged too, so he’d be out, or disoriented. Not in a good way to fall down a gulley. He’s gotta be injured at least” said the Commisioner 

“WELL, WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN DOING?” yelled Ross again?

“We’ve got a helicopter and drones scouring the place right now Sir. If he fell into that gulley, even if he got out again, we will find him, or some trace of him" said the Commissioner trying to sound optimistic.  "We also have officers scouring the whole area and every settlement nearby. If he crawled out with a broken leg, one of our officers will find him”

“FORGET SETTLEMENTS, I WANT EVERY SHEPHERD’S HUT AND WOODSHED FOR 10 MILES AROUND TURNED OVER IF NEEDS BE!” yelled Ross.

“AND DO NOT COME BACK UNTIL YOU FIND HIM. NOT A CLUE. HIM, OR I WILL MAKE SURE YOU DON’T EVEN COLLECT GARBAGE IN THIS STATE AGAIN!”

Rivendell

For the next two days, Bucky’s routine continued much as before. He had dinner in the Hall of Fire and spoke to Elrond at length, at least once a day. On the second occasion, his wife, Celebrian and a couple of the other courtiers were present.

He need not have been worried about Celebrian hearing too much. Elves did not go in for gossip, it seemed. At least not once they’d determined their visitor was not dangerous or politically significant.

Celebrian’s parents, he learned by turn, were a King and Queen who lived in another part of Middle Earth, as this place was called.

Their names were Galadriel and Celeborn. The Lady Galadriel was accounted as the most beautiful being alive and the wisest. They said she could see into the very hearts and minds of others. Bucky was glad he hadn’t landed in her Kingdom. Elrond’s Elf Magic truth serum was bad enough.

As promised, Elrond had also moved Bucky to larger “quarters” as they called rooms here. He had a mirror and everything now, and the first night, getting ready for bed he’d discovered a small, round mark below his right shoulder. It hadn’t been there before he came here.

*Gunshot wound* he realized. Fresh, by the looks of it. That officer must have fired. He vaguely remembered a crack and some pain. HYDRA’s experiments had made Bucky’s body almost bulletproof. Almost. They still went in, still hurt, but it would take several to do him any serious damage and he healed quickly.

If not removed, he’d once been told casually by some doctor tending him after a mission, the flesh soon regrew over the bullet, leaving it lodged inside him. They’d pulled it out, naturally without anaesthetic. It hurt like hell. It always hurt like hell.

His bruises, he heard, had faded within one day, and his damaged bones from the fall mended within the week. His ribs had still been throbbing when he’d woken, he recalled.

 The Elves had put his fast healing down to Elrond’s skill, and to his own bloodline.

They said he must be related to the Dunedain-the “men of the North” that Elrond had mentioned. They were a group of humans who had been blessed with long life,  tall stature, and superhuman strength. They also aged more slowly than regular folk and generally sported black or brown hair, and grey or blue eyes.

Bucky didn’t argue.  If this world had the equivalent of super-soldiers without need for a serum, and they thought he was one of them, then who was he to question it?  It was nice to know he wasn’t so exceptional even among the humans here and had better company than an Elf who had committed suicide from depression thousands of years ago.

Also. He didn’t have nightmares here.

Admittedly, it had only been two nights since he’d properly regained consciousness.  Yet each time he’d fallen asleep quickly, usually staring at the starlit sky with a pleasant breeze blowing into his room and woken in full daylight well past dawn. He couldn’t even see the stars in New York, there was too much pollution in the atmosphere or artificial light.

He really could get used to life here. It was almost as good as his time in Wakanda. Maybe better in some ways. Maybe he could ask Lord Elrond for a hut in the forest and some goats. Pick up where he’d left off before Thanos’ invasion. Of course, the dream would end in time. Bucky had to keep reminding himself he was dreaming.

And yet, there was that new scar. You couldn’t feel or taste or get scars from recent healed injuries in a dream, could you? He knew he’d felt pain when he fell, and he now had a scar in what seemed to be the exact same place.

There was clamour of voices and people gathering around, which disturbed Bucky who had been hunkered down reading in the nice, secluded corner he’d found under a tree near the waterfall.

Elrond had lent one of his books: finally locating one in a language he called “Westron”, which was basically English. He could understand this one- mostly. The first time Elrond showed him his books he’d been intimidated by some weird script he didn’t recognize and sheepishly had to explain he didn’t understand.

Elrond was fine with it, and found him another book, in “your own tongue”. He’d sat reading contentedly about the history of a place called Númenor for several hours, before everyone had begun converging near his little bench and looking downwards towards some place in the main courtyard.

He closed his book with a sigh and returned it to a table in the little room Elrond frequented, before going to see what all the fuss was about.

“What’s going on?” he asked someone next to him.

“The Lords Elladan and Elrohir have returned at last!” he said, “and they have a companion with them, one of the Arthedain warriors from the North, most likely!”

“I thought they were called Dunedain” said Bucky in confusion. “Are these not the same people then?”

“Arthedain is their country, but by race, the Men of the North are all Dunedain” explained the Elf patiently. “They live in several separate Kingdoms, since the great Kingdom of Arnor fell” he finished.

“Oh, I get it” explained Bucky- only half getting it.

“Look”, said the Elf gesturing with his hand.

Three figures on horseback emerged into the courtyard. Two were almost identical in looks, with long, dark brown hair, the inevitable pointed ears and very fair, pale skin. They were doubtless Elrond’s sons.

Honestly, Elvish reproduction was - interesting. Their kids looked like clones of the parents and these two, obviously identical twins, were also the spitting image of Elrond, just without the receding hairline.

The third figure, in the middle, on a grey spotted horse, had similar dark hair, only cut shorter to the shoulder, he also sported a somewhat square jaw and- no pointed ears.

Hurrah! Another human at last.

Whilst the two Elves greeted their parents and chatted, the human was more watchful and hung back. He craned his head up and looked directly up at the people watching him from above. Scanning the crowd.

Bucky’s stubble must’ve made him stick out like a sore thumb and mark him out as the only human, because the guy began to stare directly at him.

Bucky stared at him. The newcomer continued staring back. Blue and brown eyes locked together in a battle of wills. Challenging. Suspicious. Thirty seconds passed before the newcomer looked away. All the while, Bucky felt a chill, despite the mild air and pertetual sunlight in which Rivendell seemed to bask. 

As Bucky turned around and walked away, he decided he didn't like the guy one bit.

Chapter Text

A few hours later, Bucky found himself trotting after Elladan and Elrohir with a bow—a bow of all things—slung across his shoulder.

He had no idea how to use it. Clint Barton would’ve been a godsend right now.

The Elvish twins, after a council with their father, had been formally introduced to “Master Bucky,” his new title here. They seemed utterly captivated by him—more than by their companion, it appeared. They had a clear fondness for humans, especially those trained as warriors with metal arms.

Their other human friend, Barahir, remained with Elrond, caught up in urgent matters Bucky overheard through careful eavesdropping. He didn’t mind the attention shifting—he preferred to stay out of the spotlight, keeping a low profile.

“Here we shall make our trial,” one twin announced, halting in an open space bordered by trees. Bucky wasn’t even going to attempt distinguishing them. Other Elves moved swiftly, setting up what looked like archery targets.

Great, They’re gonna make me shoot at those, aren’t they? Get ready for a total flop.

The Elvish pair demonstrated a few precise shots at the targets, likely for his benefit.

He copied their stance—sideways, feet apart, pulling his arm back to align with the bow hand, no arrow yet, just testing the motion. Fitting an arrow proved tricky; he fumbled for a moment but managed. Aiming was the real hurdle. He was a sniper—hitting targets was his thing—but this wasn’t a rifle. Nothing like the weapons he knew.

With several eyes on him, Bucky drew the string (careful not to overdo it and snap it) and released. The arrow veered off, vanishing into the trees beyond.

“I told you I’m not much good,” he said with a forced chuckle. “Want me to go again?”

“You draw the string with strength, beyond what is common,” one twin noted, “yet your aim strayed far from the mark.”

“Yeah, you’ll have to bear with me—I’m really not used to a bow!” By “not used” he meant he’d never touched one before.

“Practice may bring mastery, Master Bucky,” the Elf said, his tone bright and steady. “Try again a few times.”

Bucky obliged. On his fourth or fifth attempt, he hit the target, though nowhere near the center.

“Wouldn’t be much use against orcs, would I?” he remarked.

“I would not send you into battle with haste,” the twin replied, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Three days here, and Bucky was trading quips with Elves. He liked these twins—they carried the optimism of youth, like he’d had in Brooklyn before the war, despite their thousand-plus years.

“Is there a weapon you favor more than the bow, one wherein your skill lies?” asked one brother.

“Besides the ‘strange weapon’ your father found with me,” Bucky said, “I’m not bad with a knife—or, uh, a dagger?”

They spoke to another Elf, perhaps a servant, who hastened to a building and returned with a leather pouch, items protruding.

“These are daggers,” a voice behind him said. “Suited for hand-to-hand, yet also for throwing.”

Bucky didn’t want to admit how he’d wielded knives before—or why. Each time he touched one, a memory flared: blood on his hands, voices commanding him, guilt clawing at his chest. He wasn’t sure he could handle this. They’d asked, though, and it was just wood. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply twice, then took the pouch, selecting a dagger. It was light, balanced, with a sharp, narrow tip.

He tossed it up once or twice to test it, then faced the target. One throw—dead center. The Elves looked impressed; one twin raised a neat eyebrow. Regaining his rhythm, Bucky used the other daggers to hit the remaining targets dead center, arranging them in a neat row when targets ran out.

“No fault lies in your aim now,” the Elf observed. “Truly you are skilled with a dagger, Master Bucky.

“Yeah, well, I’ve had plenty of practice with them,” he muttered, the weight of his past pressing down.

“What other forms of combat do you know?” the Elf inquired.

Why’s he asking? Bucky wondered. They weren’t planning to drag him into a fight, were they? Maybe he should downplay his skills. “I’m decent at hand-to-hand. I can throw a solid punch,” he said, nodding to his metal fist. That drew a laugh and a grin from him.

“I might manage a wrestling match too,” he added.

“And a sword?” asked another Elf.

“I haven’t done that much,” Bucky replied—meaning never.

“We may see if your skill can grow,” one twin said, signaling a servant who brought wooden swords, like toys from his 1940s childhood.

Good thing they’re not real, he thought. Accidentally beheading someone wouldn’t win him friends.

They handed him one—curved, single-edged, like a pirate’s cutlass.

“Our swords are fashioned for use on horseback,” an Elf explained, “but here we lack the space. Let us practice on foot.”

Bucky traded a few swings and parries with the Elves, taking more hits than he blocked. It didn’t take long to grasp the basics of defense, though.

“When you tire of children’s play, perhaps you would test your strength against me!” a new voice called.

Bucky turned sharply as his opponent froze, sword mid-air, to see who spoke.

Barahir strode into the clearing, offering a customary salute to the Elves but ignoring Bucky until he reached the center. There, he sized Bucky up, arms crossed, contempt clear in his gaze.

“Yeah, I’ll fight you. No problem,” Bucky said, unsure why he agreed. Something about this guy got under his skin—like a loudmouth needing a quick lesson.

“I thought as much,” Barahir said, a sly grin forming. “But that toy will not serve you.”

“Oh, great, a sword expert,” Bucky shot back, sarcasm dripping. “Guess I’ll just wave my stick and hope for the best.”

Bucky cursed himself. Should’ve known it wasn’t a fistfight—Barahir wanted swords, his advantage.

Barahir gestured, and another figure appeared, carrying a sword in a scabbard.

“Take my spare,” Barahir said, drawing his own—real, sharp, and menacing.

Bucky glanced at the Elves. They weren’t stopping this? Just watching? Maybe they enjoyed death duels for sport.

A youth handed him the spare sword. He drew it, returning the scabbard, and paused to note its beauty—elegantly crafted, leather-wrapped hilt, runes etched into the blade.

He stepped back, mirroring Barahir’s stance, raising the sword upright.

Barahir attacked. Bucky barely parried—fast, strong, aggressive. A flurry of thrusts and swings drove him back; he ducked a high strike that would’ve taken his head.

Give him a guy with a gun or a martial arts move any day—those he could handle. This was uncharted territory.

Hating the retreat, Bucky put his full weight into a swing. The super-soldier force threw Barahir off balance. Good. He pressed with a thrust, narrowly blocked.

Raising his arm for another, Bucky felt cold steel at his throat. Barahir’s sword pressed against his neck.

“Not bad, but you are finished,” Barahir panted.

Bucky realized his error—left his side exposed. He could’ve died. Still could. Barahir smirked, blade steady.

Instinct took over. Bucky dropped his sword, swung his metal fist, and punched Barahir hard in the face.

“Turns out I don’t need a sword,” he said to the stunned man sprawled on the ground, adding dryly, “Hope that ego’s still intact down there.”

“This matter is settled,” an Elf said. “Put away your weapons for this day.”

Someone helped Barahir up—bloodied nose, bruised cheek. Bucky felt a flicker of remorse, but only a little.

“You OK? I didn’t break his nose, did I?” Bucky asked the assisting Elf.

“He will live,” the Elf replied, a knowing smile on his face.

Barahir glared silently as they headed back toward the main complex.

Later, Bucky figured all Elves except Elrond and his sons must hate him. Why else seat him next to Barahir at dinner?

Barahir now bore a cut below his nose, a bruised cheek—maybe a tooth or two loose. Bucky had a tiny, healing nick on his neck from Barahir’s sword, which would be gone by morning.

He wasn’t apologizing if that’s what they wanted. They sat in awkward silence until Barahir spoke.

“Lord Elrond has said you come from a land far to the west. Is this true?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Bucky replied, biting a chunk of cheese off his eating knife, a jolt of panic hitting before he steadied himself.

“Perhaps from Númenor? They say it is fair at this season,” Barahir said, meeting his eyes.

“At the bottom of the sea? No, not from Númenor,” Bucky said, grateful for that book he’d read. “Nice try, though—real smooth.”

The book clued him in—Númenor sank 2,000 years ago, and Barahir was testing him. It also mentioned Elrond’s twin, Elros, Númenor’s first king, who chose mortality and died. Elrond’s talk of loss made sense now.

“Hope that doesn’t hurt too much,” Bucky said, his sarcasm flaring. “Looks like it stings more than your pride.”

“Not greatly,” Barahir admitted. “I misjudged you. For that, I ask pardon.”

Stunned, Bucky wondered if Barahir wasn’t all bad. Still, he didn’t trust him—maybe a tactic to lower his guard. “Well, miracles do happen,” he quipped.

“No hard feelings,” Bucky said, “as long as you weren’t out to kill me.”

“No, I sought only to see what Lord Elrond’s famed guest is made of,” Barahir said with a faint smile.

“Famed already?” Bucky tested. “So everyone already knows I'm here?" 

“Not to my knowledge,” Barahir replied. “I saw you upon my arrival and asked Lord Elrond. Few of our kind come to Rivendell for leisure.”

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t on my itinerary,” Bucky said. “You should know that.”

“I did,” Barahir nodded. Silence fell again until Barahir spoke.

“In truth, I came to seek Lord Elrond’s aid—a thing not lightly done by the Dúnedain,” he said.

“Yeah, he mentioned orc trouble,” Bucky said, dodging deeper discussion.

“Would that it were only orcs,” Barahir sighed. “Orcs we can withstand. The Witch-king is a greater peril.”

Bucky didn’t know the Witch-king but sensed trouble. Oh, fantastic, a wizard. Just what I needed.

“Look, sorry you’re in a bad spot,” Bucky said, “but what’s that got to do with me? The Elves can handle it.”

Barahir gazed at him intently, perhaps surprised Bucky saw through him. “The fate of our realm concerns all Men of the West. Though Westernesse fell long ago beneath the waves, you bear Dúnedain blood.”

He’s the second to say that, Bucky thought. Better play along.

“Okay,” Bucky said, “but as I told Lord Elrond, I don’t want to fight. Not anymore. I’ve had enough of it.”

“You were an exception,” he added quickly, “because I thought you might take my head with that sword.”

Barahir paused. “I understand the wish to shun battle. My people were once farmers, driven from our homes by the Witch-king’s host years ago. We lost all—almost all.”

“So why not farm again?” Bucky asked. “I tried it for a while—peaceful life.”

“We cannot,” Barahir said. “Raids come too often. The enemy burns, slays all. No peace remains where the Lord of the Nazgûl walks.”

“You fight back, don’t you?” Bucky said. “Unless these foes are too strong, even for you and the Elves.”

“We do,” Barahir said, “but the Lord of the Nazgûl wields not the weapons of Men or Elves.”

“He is a sorcerer, great and terrible. With dark power he brought a plague upon us. Many died. The wilds, once ours, he fills with unspeakable horrors.”

“What kind?” Bucky asked. “Scary, dangerous, or both?”

“Both, and more,” Barahir said, a slight tremor in his voice.

“They speak of necromancy—raising the dead, reanimating corpses. Evil spirits walk as ghouls, wights, wraiths—fell things that take men. Scouts vanish, women, children, whole bands.”

Bucky would’ve dismissed it as nonsense back in Brooklyn, but with an Elf as a friend, who was he to rule out ghosts? Barahir seemed genuinely afraid—a big guy, not easily shaken. Maybe a manipulation, but unlikely, given his talks with Elrond and the twins’ aid, backed by their father.

Bucky trusted Elrond fully—more than Barahir. If Elrond risked his sons to help, it was serious. People didn’t send their kids to war without cause—unless drafted, which didn’t seem to apply here.

His heart sank. He’d sensed it but denied it. This morning’s tests—archery, daggers, swords—it was all to measure his warrior skill, as Elrond likely boasted. He’d walked right into it, dragged into another conflict Elrond meant for him to join.

When he returned to his room, Bucky seriously considered slipping away. Get out before they forced him into a fight.

Then he recalled last time—running left him nearly dead here. If it was a dream, it’d end soon, right? Before any battles, he hoped.

But he was less sure it was a dream with each passing day.

Chapter Text

It took another two days to make and complete the preparations to leave.

Bucky in the end hadn’t so much allowed Barahir and Elrond to persuade him to join in with whatever mess the Men of the North were in. He’d more accepted that it was inevitable.Maybe if he’d insisted, Elrond wouldn’t have sent him, but he felt guilty living off the Elf Lord’s hospitality as it was.

He hated feeling like a charity case, always had. Maybe he just had a weakness for lost causes and sob stories. He’d always had this incessant need to help people who were in trouble. Defend people. Feel needed.

It started with Steve of course, always getting beat up in alleyways. Then T’Challa who had called on him to help defend Wakanda from Thanos. That hadn’t ended so well. Hopefully, this would go better.

This time around, he’d been a little more assertive. After a talk in which he’d dared suggest Elrond was being ever so slightly manipulative (the Elf Lord didn’t deny it) he’d agreed to accompany Barahir on two conditions. He could return to Rivendell afterwards, and the Elves would help him find his way home. Elrond agreed. Bucky didn’t know how the “finding his way home” would work. Maybe he could persuade Elrond to set him up on that nice little farm with some goats.

Did the Shire and Hobbits exist at this time? As he remembered from the book, the Shire sounded like a real nice and peaceful place to make a fresh start.

 Somewhere he could be left alone. Properly this time. As he remembered, The Hobbits had nothing to do with the affairs of the wider world and would suit him just fine. No Kings. No warlords. No ghosts, sorcerers or other annoying human beings. Just little people with hairy feet who liked smoking and drinking beer.

On the second day, hours before setting off, they’d offered Bucky an Elf Sword, but he’d asked for the throwing knives instead. He also insisted on having his gun back. The Elf in charge of Rivendell’s armoury had been hesitant, but Elrond gave permission.

Bucky at least would have a weapon he knew how to use safely holstered at his side, along with some spare ammunition he’d had on him when he fell. Only a handgun, sadly. What he wouldn’t do to have his semi-automatic rifle. With the sniper sight.

Everyone had a horse, and they gave one to Bucky too. He had no idea how to ride it, and it would look awkward to ask how. Surely everyone here knew how to ride.  However, he did manage to get a quiet word with one of the stable hands who told him the basics.

With everything packed up, routes planned and a few handpicked Elven companions to accompany Bucky, Barahir and his squire North, everyone was ready to leave. This time, Elladan and Elrohir weren’t coming. Apparently, they were sending someone more senior and experienced in “the arts of war”.

As Bucky checked on his kit and provisions, making sure he’d left nothing behind (his leather jacket was packed up too), Elrond called him over. He was still a little mad at the Elf Lord, and so ignored the summons the first time, pretending he hadn’t heard. On the second call, he came

“I hope there is no ill will between us” said Elrond “for I would hate to part with you on bad terms” 

“Not ill will, but I’m a still a bit angry” said Bucky, awkwardly. “I don’t like feeling manipulated, I guess. I’ve had it before, and the end result wasn’t pleasant at all”.

“Well, I trust in your skills and abilities- and in your judgement” said Elrond “so I think the result this time might well be more favourable”. Then he added “I don’t think fighting is about the cause with you, Master Bucky, but rather helping protect what they care about.

That is why you don’t like being manipulated. You would rather choose to fight for that which has meaning to you. Am I correct?”

Elrond had the measure of him once again “Yeah. You are. As always. You sure you can’t see into people’s souls?” asked Bucky.

Elrond laughed again, and Bucky smiled back. They were friends again.

“I actually summoned you to give you a parting gift” he said, producing a small item wrapped in cloth.

“You’ve done enough for me already, My Lord” said Bucky, slightly embarrassed.

“Nevertheless, I want to give you this” and with that he unwrapped the cloth to produce a small, curved knife with an ornately decorated handle tucked into a leather sheath.

It wasn’t the type of thing you’d use for combat. Too fancy by the looks of it. But it was beautiful and probably valuable too, judging by the gold filigree around the hilt. Real gold of course.

“I can’t accept this, Sir” he said “its too much and I can’t stand being indebted to people”

“Master Bucky” said Elrond, sounding slightly annoyed with him for the first time “I have told you do not owe me anything. This is a gift- and it would offend me if you did not accept it”

“Ok, sorry” he said, suitably chastened and took the little dagger in his hand, gently running his fingers over the fine thick leather of the sheath and delicate metal of the handle.

“You see the carvings on the blade?” he asked Bucky. Bucky took the blade out of the sheath carefully and held it up a little to the light to examine it.

“Yeah” he’d replied: “Are they words? They look like the letters in one of your books?”

“Yes. It is Quenya, an ancient language of my people and sacred to us. It says Aurë entuluva , which means “day shall come again”. He paused “They were words of hope spoken in the darkest of days by a great man”.

“I could do with a some of that. A lot of that” said Bucky, putting the knife carefully in its sheath and securing it safely under the new thick leather belt the Elves had also given him.
He’d have put it in his jacket pocket, but that seemed like sacrilege for such a precious gift.

As he left to mount up then Elrond said “Farewell for the time being, Master Bucky, and Namárië”

He had no idea what that meant, but he knew it was nice. Despite everything, Elrond was always nice to him.

Bloody hay fever, making his eyes water again as he rode with his company out of Rivendell.

Bucky’s thighs ached. His butt ached too. He was not in a good mood.

Riding a horse was not comfortable. Especially at the speed the Elves went. It must have been at least 15mph which required a "fast trot" as they called it. 

The nasty, grumpy, smelly beast he was on top of was probably as annoyed at having him as a rider as he was sitting on its back.

It was very literally a pain in the ass. Or horse.

Normally he’d have smiled at his own joke, but today it did nothing to lighten his mood. They said it would take the better part of four days to get to their destination. Four days with a sore ass and only Elves for company.

Them and the most annoying man on earth, the one and only Barahir who had barely spoken to him since their sparring match.

He didn’t know what aggravated him more. The guy’s arrogant and smug demeanour, or just his generally belligerent attitude. Bucky’s beating him hadn’t knocked that out of him for long. His squire though seemed like a nice kid. Sad, he had to be in service to such a jerk.

There were also four Elves. Their leader was called Glorfindel. He was as pretty as he was tall with long; golden hair and he boasted a suit of armour to match. Embossed with the design of a golden flower.

Bucky would not dare make light of his looks and tastes in design though. He carried a very shiny and very deadly looking sword, as well as a bow. Judging from how the Elves spoke about him, and everyone deferred to him without question, he clearly an experienced and respected commander.

If Bucky only a Seargeant then that guy was like a Colonel in Elf terms. Or a Field Marshall.

*A shadow in the undergrowth. Something moved*

It was probably just some animal. Nevertheless, Bucky fidgeted in his saddle, finding himself suddenly on edge. He was always hyper-aware. Any movement. Any sign of danger. A hangover from…. that time.

He instinctively found himself fingering the handle of his gun, which was holstered at his side, along with a couple of the throwing daggers tucked into his belt.

“Psst” he whispered to the Elf riding next to him to get his attention. “Did you see something move in the bushes?”

The Elf didn’t answer, but instead looked around carefully, more prepared. Weren’t they supposed to have keen senses?

Movement again, out the corner of his eye. The Elves noticed it too.

Second later, an arrow thudded into a tree, narrowly missing Barahir. It was black.

“ORCS!” one of the Elves shouted. “Keep together and be on your guard, they’ll not come into the open and fight us as a group. Not unless there are many of them”

“Orcs? This near to Imladris?” said Glorfindel, in a voice as smooth as his hair “the enemy is growing bold”.

As if to confirm his words, two figures bolted out of cover. They headed not for the party of Elves, but instead away towards the denser thicket.

“Take them, but don’t kill, we want to know why they are here” said Glorfindel quickly.

Bucky tried to pull the reigns of his horse to the right to give chase, but the stupid animal just began going round in a circle so he slid off its back, landed on the ground hard and sprinted after the Orcs.

“Wait….” Someone started to speak but Bucky ignored them, chasing down his prey.

He soon caught up with some kind of diminutive creature with large ears protruding from a small round head that made it look vaguely like a Chihuahua from the back.

It span around and stared taking aim with its bow, so Bucky dodged, and veered off slightly causing the orc to lose concentration and jerk its head around looking to find where the person chasing it had gone.

He jumped it from the side. Took it down, grabbed the bow and threw it into the bushes.

As the orc screeched in outrage its friend appeared from nowhere and tried to jump Bucky, but because of the size difference it only managed to crash into his leg.

As one orc tried to pull the leg and the other squirmed beneath him, Bucky punched the one in the face and tried to kick the other off his leg. Instead, it held fast, with one arm around his midriff whilst trying to stab at him with a small weapon in the free hand.

He grabbed the flailing hand with the knife causing the creature to drop it and howl in pain before bodily pulling it off him and hurling it over his shoulder.

Not exactly a fair fight, he thought taking hold of the Orc he’d knocked out with a punch and carried it on his shoulder back towards the rough direction he remembered the rest of the group had been. They hadn’t wanted both. Right? One would do. The other one lay limbs akimbo, dazed, nearby.

It would probably run off soon anyway.

He soon found the others, still clustered in a semicircle. At least they’d had the decency to wait.

“The Orc you ordered, I believe its still alive” he said, jerking it a bit before putting it on the ground.

“You believe?” said one of the Elves.

“Yeah, it’s just knocked out,” said Bucky. He really hadn’t punched it that hard, taking account of the size.

Someone tied the Orc to a tree, until it came around a few minutes later. Then the Elves interrogated it. Not tortured or hurt, just looming over it asking questions.

They wanted to find out who its Master was. Didn’t Orcs just roam in bands?

“Maybe just a raiding party or foraging” suggested Bucky helpfully?

“Could be” said one of the Elves in exasperation, not getting the answers he wanted. He was a redhead whose name Bucky had forgotten but it was something like Oberon, Eberon? “I could just ask Glorfindel. He has certain skills. Elf magic, you might call it”.

“Let me have a try first” said Bucky “I can be very persuasive”.

Bucky squatted down by the Orc which stared at him mutinously, and rolled up the sleeve of his tunic to the elbow to reveal his Vibranium arm.He flexed both hands in front of the Orc’s face, making sure it saw the contrast between the flesh one and the metal one.

“Remember me?” asked Bucky cheerily, then not waiting for an answer continued, “I understand these nice Elves want some answers from you. And you have not been very obliging”.

The Orc continued to just stare silently.

Bucky gave the Orc his scariest look, then said “You see, I am a monster man with a metal arm. Here, have a good look” he said moving his arm right in front of the orcs face and making a sawing motion.

 “I like to use this to crush orcs alive. Slowly. The Elves wouldn’t let me do it before but if you keep refusing to answer I think they won’t mind letting me have a little orc snack tonight”.

“Men to not eat orcs” the orc finally rasped out, more for its own benefit than as defiance.

“I am not like most men “said Bucky, leaning in closer and whispering “and I like to try out new foods" , he added smacking his lips for good measure.

“I serve the Necromancer!” it blurted out “Lord of Dol-Goldur!”

The Elves soon appeared, and the Orc was spilling all the beans in his tin shouting about Necromancers, and sorcery and other such hocus-pocus.

An arrow struck the orc in the arm, it squealed but was silenced by another to the head.

Everyone wheeled around to see if they could spot the assailant, and there stood Barahir with one of the Elven bows, just lowering it after shooting.

“What?” he said, at the shocked look from the Elves “it told us all we need to know”.

All you needed to know perhaps, thought Bucky darkly, glaring at him. He was hardly a Saint and perhaps he had no right to judge but even he had some morals left.

Orcs might be homicidal little savages, but you did not just go killing a captive like that for no reason. When he was in the army, that sort of thing would earn you a Court Martial or worse.

Glorfindel ordered them to dispose of the Orc’s body, looking equally annoyed with Barahir. He thought everything it had said important enough to send word back to Rivendell but could not spare any of them for the trip.

“Does the Lord of the Arthedain still use birds to send messages?” he asked Barahir suddenly.

“Yes, My Lord, he does He ties them to the bird’s feet and sends it flying in the right direction, though Manwë alone knows how the bird is aware of where to fly to” explained Barahir.

“Maybe I will send word that way, though I don’t like to leave it so long” said the Elf, thoughtfully.

That’s where cellphones come in handy.

 Then smiled at the thought: just when he was getting all up to date with modern technology, he landed up in the Dark Ages. Or the Stone Age or whenever the heck time Middle Earth was caught in.

As darkness descended, the woods gave way to a river valley. Still trees, but not so many.

Bucky didn’t mind roughing it, sleeping out in the open. He’d done it during the war many a time. Barahir though wasn’t so keen, apparently, he was prissy and particular, requiring a small tent to be pitched. He’d bought it with him, naturally.

 Bucky was tempted to sabotage the effort to put the thing up under the guise of helping, but Barahir would probably blame his kid squire, so he decided to behave.

Later, though, when the jerk had disappeared into his tent to do whatever it was he did, Bucky struck up a conversation with the boy who had, of course, been left to sleep outside.

He’d found a long-lost candy bar in the pocket of his leather jacket. Somehow it was still edible and had survived the journey mostly intact, so he broke it in half and gave half to the boy. He looked on the thin side, probably needed it.

“I’ve not seen such as this before, it looks like salt beef” remarked the lad examining it before taking a bite. 

“I guarantee you it tastes a lot better,” said Bucky, biting into his own half.

The boy’s eyes widened, and he nodded vigorously before devouring the rest.

“Yes, sir, it does. Delicious, what is it called?” asked the child enthusiastically.

“Oh er, its called chocolate” said Bucky “bit of a delicacy where I come from, although I don’t think they have it in these parts”.

“No? You don’t have anymore?” said the child sounding a little disappointed.

“Afraid not, kid, but if I do get hold of some, you’ll the first to know, OK?”

“I don’t want to be greedy” he said, realizing his “mistake” and looking down.

“Hey, no shame in eating if you’re hungry- and I always seem to be” he added with a cheeky grin.

Super solder serum and high metabolism, blah blah.

“You know, I never did catch your name, and I can’t keep calling you kid, can I?” asked Bucky

“You can call me whatever you want, Sir, but my name is Meldir” he was told.

“I’m just going to call you Mel, it’s easier,” said Bucky at last.

Then he asked "I know its not my place and you're not my servant Mel, but are you cold? Do you have a blanket or whatever?"

Mel looked at him curiously now "No, I mean I'm not cold and I have everything I need, and I do have a blanket too!"

"Good, I just wanted to make sure you were OK". He sighed and decided to just come out with it:"I mean don't get me wrong but your Master doesn't always seem very- kind to you"

Mel looked at him silently for a few seconds, then said "My Lord Barahir provides for my needs, he doesn't have to be kind".

Bucky nodded, deciding not to press the matter, but still said: "I understand, but if you ever need anything else, you can come to me OK?" 

Then with a reassuring smile, he added "And don't worry about being disloyal, we're all on the same side here"

Heading for his own patch of grass where his blanket was set down he hoped it was true.

Chapter Text

It rained in the night, but Bucky was more concerned about the howls and other animal noises he heard in the distance. At least, he assumed they were animals.

Did they have wolves here? They sounded like wolves. Wolves he wasn’t worried about though. Not really, the Elves could handle them easy enough. Him too.

What really bothered his mind was the Orcs from earlier. Steve thought he still had the strategic, soldier’s mind from his time in the war.

It made no sense for them to have fired that shot before running. Maybe one of them was just very brave or very stupid, but the only other explanation is that they *wanted* to draw attention to themselves.

Why give away your presence and then not attack? Maybe the Elves were right, and they were outmatched so a direct attack wasn’t’ a good idea, but he had a suspicion there was something off. Like they wanted to be captured.

Which meant what the dead orc told them was probably a lie. But why? What did all that have to do with their objective?

Bucky rolled over beneath his blanket; first time he couldn’t sleep since he came here. Finally, he got up, startling the Elf that sat nearby. The Elf was holding a little thin stick between his fingers. No, it was a flute.

“Sorry” said Bucky “gotta go er, relieve myself.”.

“Mind you don’t go too far” said the Elf “we Elves can see in the dark but even our sight is limited”.

Gross don’t watch someone using the bathroom.

Bucky made sure to select a tree behind Baharir’s tent. He saw what looked like a faint glow from inside, maybe a candle.

Out of vague curiosity he made sure to circle around the tent on the way back to his makeshift bed. He expected to hear nothing but here was a slight, muffled sound like… weeping? No more like sighing.

Weird guy...

 Bucky heard it before he saw it. A scrunching. From behind.

Just for a second, enough to put him on guard. He wheeled around, only to have something almost crash into him, head on.

Instinctively he threw an arm in front of his body, and it turned out to be a good thing. He felt a sharp tug and a prick and grabbed for the – whatever it was.

The shadow moved fast, but not fast enough to evade a few elbows and palm punches. When he got hold of something solid, he twisted downwards and soon had it on the ground.

A good kick to keep it there, and his boot placed carefully in the middle of his wriggling assailants back to stop them getting up. He made sure then to call out. Not that he needed help, but they were less likely to try anything if there were witnesses.

Mel came running, followed by the redhead Elf. No Barahir, typical.

“What happened”? asked the bleary-eyed child.

“Someone came out the dark. Fought them and knocked them out. Mostly out anyway,” said Bucky.

“Hey… er…. Oberon” he addressed his other companion “you can see in the dark, who is it?” he asked pulling off some piece of clothing about the face.

“My name is Elberon” said the Elf “and that appears to be a young woman”.

The “young woman” was indeed human: at least seemed to be, and from what was possible to discern through the dirt, grime and matted hair appeared female. She had carried a small dagger, but his would-be assassin was apparently no professional.

What bothered him more was that a total stranger had apparently emerged from the dark and tried to kill him.

The Elf took her for “interrogation” to Glorfindel, and he rather hoped they weren’t too rough on her.

In his unfortunate experience most non-professional assassins were driven by two things. Desperation or survival. She could even be some random bandit who had just seen her chance for good pickings. 

By morning, he discovered they had let the girl go. Taking her weapon first of course and making sure she didn’t have anymore. Apparently, the small slip of a thing wasn’t that much of a threat without her dagger- and she hadn’t tried to attack anyone else just run off.

Bucky had stood by when they interrogated her, but left after a couple minutes, deciding she was probably scared enought he presence of the Elf.  Glorfindel hadn’t managed to get much out of her except “rich man” and “money”.  It confirmed his belief that she was probably just some starving peasant who had taken a desperate chance on robbery. Not that he had much worth stealing anyway.

As they mounted up, Bucky spoke his thought aloud to the Elberon.

“Maybe, but Lord Glorfindel suspects something else” he answered

“Then why let her go?” asked Bucky

“…because he thinks the child wasn’t a threat herself, and taking her with us would only slow us down" he said.

Then he continued  "Besides of which, we Elves are good at detecting lies and her talk of robbing you was one. After you left, she told another tale. It appears she wasn't acting out of malice or greed after all. She seemed afraid of something" 

"What"? asked Bucky. A sense of dread began to creep upon him again. He didn't know why. 

The Elf lowered his tone slightly "She said... something was compelling her to leave her hovel nearby. To wonder in the dark of night and to attack you. Something perhaps not of the flesh. She called it a "gray ghost". 

Bucky froze.

"Is that.. is that even possible?" he stammered out. 

The Elf nodded sadly "Yes, there are magic arts, not practiced by the Elves. Evil arts. I have heard of such things in the tales and chronicles of the Elder Days..." 

He'd stopped listening as the Elf's voice trailed off. That dread which had gripped him got worse. He tried to breathe normally. 

Not magic. Mind control. Hell, no. Not mind control. Not here. 

Chapter Text

Four Days Later

Finally, the small party reached the Kingdom of the Arthedain. It was just steep hills, and rocks. Lots of rocks. At least this part. Pretty to look at sure but didn’t seem to be very remarkable.

No great cities, or big buildings at least not in this part. Perhaps Rivendell had given Bucky unrealistic expectations.

Nothing of much note had happened in the days since the assassin girl.

Bucky checked himself. He must stop thinking of her as such. She was just a poor peasant, probably no more than a kid. He really didn’t hold what she’d done against her at all. Especially if there was mind control involved.

Mind control. Manwë, he hated those words.

 To have your mind, your entire consciousness taken away from you. Erased and replaced with something else. To see through your eyes and move in your body, but the movements, the actions – were not yours. Not really. You weren’t choosing to do them.

To pull that trigger, wrap your hand around someone’s throat ….

Morbid thoughts. Or … memories.

Bucky shook them out of his head as they passed a group of smallish wooden huts nestled between two hills and surrounded by scrub. A handful of sheep were corralled nearby, and small girl gazed, wide eyed ad the little group from outside the hut before and adult came out to usher her back inside.

Hardly a settlement really. Was this where the King lived? Surely not?

They rode on for an hour or so more, butt hurting as always, before finally a more substantial looking set of buildings came into view, this time halfway up a hill, above a small stream which had carved its way through the hill.

There were even some palisade walls. The Elves turned their horses in the direction of the settlement which Bucky observed had larger buildings near the back further up the hill, with the biggest about the size of the Hall of Fire at Rivendell. Maybe a little larger.

“So, is this the capital?” asked Bucky.

“No” snapped Barahir, speaking for the first time in maybe a couple of days “nowhere near. The capital is Fornost, a few days ride northeast.  This is but a small town, but it is where the King is staying. For now.”

“Just asking” muttered Bucky.

Barahir glared at him, then spurred his horse a bit ahead towards what passed for a gate. Bucky pretended to fiddle with his horses tack but gave the middle finger to his back.

The gates opened and they were admitted.

Smaller houses were clustered together, a lot more than in the other settlement. Some had rooves made of a smooth, black stone, others were just huts with thatched roofs and mud walls. People began emerging from the houses to see who was coming, and mutters then louder shouts.

Cheering? Were they cheering? Some of them were. Others just exclaimed

“Mummy, MUMMY THERE ARE ELVES!” shouted a child.

More voices exclaimed “Elves? Elves! The Elves have come!”

Typical pointy-eared show-offs getting all the attention.

The small huts gave way to a dozen or so larger, more elaborate buildings before they finally approached the largest of all and bought their horses to a stop.

Finally.

What looked like a Hall from below was a rectangular tower, three or four storeys high and constructed apparently from a mixture of stone and rougher rock. More like the keep of a small castle, really. Bucky was grateful he’d seen so many castles in Europe in his time that he knew what they looked like.

The castle, he decided to call it that, had its own little wall surrounding it, and a couple of tiny outbuildings.

Guards led their party inside.

Bucky was expecting to see some portly Lord, wearing magnificent robes setting on some throne in the middle of the room.

Instead, when their presence was announced, Barahir went down on one knee (and his human companions followed suit). An older, bearded man turned around. He wasn’t fat, he looked in very good shape for his age and was dressed in a simple tunic with some fur trim and leather boots. The only sign of his status was a simple gold circlet around his head.

He was flanked by a younger man, but also beaded with long, dark-brown hair and a woman similar in looks.

“Welcome, Lord Barahir” he said “I trust you had a safe journey? Who are your companions?”

Elberon stepped forward and spoke then. None of the Elves had knelt, but they touched their index fingers to their foreheads in what must’ve been some kind of salutation

“I am Elberon, Sir and I bring the best wishes of Elrond, Lord of Rivendell. He has sent a party here to aid you in your fight and our Commander, Lord Glorfindel”

At this Glorfindel stepped forward, but it was the King’s turn to go weak at the knees.

“Glorfindel? My Lords, I am honored at your presence. No Elves have been seen in these lands for many years, save for the sons of my Lord Elrond, and now the greatest of the Eldar come among us? You- you have saved our lives!”

His son had to prop him up at hat point. It must be his son. Probably. Poor old man nearly fainted at the presence of Elvish celebrities.

“Forgive me Sirs, my father is just overwhelmed,” said the younger man. “I fear we forgot our manners. I am Aranath, and this is my sister, Arlana”

The King had recovered again. “Sirs you are a blessing from the Valar themselves. I asked Lord Elrond for aid, and he more than delivered! But we won’t hold a Council of War now. Please, come, take refreshment with us!”

“Of course, we shall” said the Elves and Barahir, who finally got to his feet. Bucky was left kneeling awkwardly. Not knowing what to do. Should he ask for permission to get up? Did he need to kiss a ring or something?

The King’s eye finally fell on Bucky “Forgive me, I didn’t notice your presence Sir. Please get up. What is your name?”

“I er… go by Bucky Sire. Elrond sent me with Barahir because I’ve er… something of a reputation as a warrior”. He finally got up unsteadily, his knee aching.

“You must be a great man, to be a guest of the Lord Elrond. You are welcome too” said the King, beckoning him to come with the others. “Please tell me more about yourself”

They walked into another room where a couple servants were scurrying around putting food on trestle tables.

“Well in truth Sir, I only arrived a week or so back. Lord Elrond found me lost in the forests near Rivendell and took me in. I am er… of the men of the West. Northwest really”. That sounded terrible. He had to think of a better cover story.

The King raised an eyebrow “Well if Lord Elrond trusts you, I do too. Are you acquainted with Barahir? You were sent in his party?”

“Nope” said Bucky “I only met him a week ago but Lord Elrond thought I might be useful”,

He decided to let on a little more candid. 

“In truth, I think I impressed Lord Elrond with my skill as a warrior because I bested Barahir in a sparring match”.

The King let out a quiet chuckle.

“Truly?” said the King “You got the better of him? Lord Barahir has a little too high an opinion of himself so anyone who can do that has my respect”

They all sat down and the King (of all people!) summoned Bucky to sit near him. Barahir was on the other side sitting near the Princess, just out of earshot. He glared at Bucky.

The food was a lot simpler than in Rivendell. If the landscape outside was anything to go by, they probably weren’t able to produce that much.

The King leaned over a little and spoke to him again.

“I shouldn’t let Barahir hear that I am bad-mouthing him for there are a few here who are very loyal to him.  But he can’t hear us from this far away. Tell me *all* about your sparring match. Spare no details”

Bucky drank from a horn cup, some kind of weak beer.

Then he said “Well there’s not much to tell, really. He surprised me when I was practicing archery with the Elves and he had a swordfight. So, I took him by surprise and well… landed him. Punched him square in the face. He went right over”, he swallowed again and slightly rolled up his sleeve.

“I have a metal arm you see, and I pack quite a punch” The King leaned forward to examine it more closely.

“Remarkable. Both the arm and you punching Barahir. I hope he had a bruise?”

“He did. Split lip too. He wasn’t happy landing on his butt in the dirt” said Bucky.

This time the King hid his laughter behind his hand.

“That man has needed to be humbled for a long time, and I’m pleased to know the man who did it”.

As everyone finished their food, Bucky asked

“Weird question, but what is your name Sire? I won’t use it of course but I can’t just keep saying. “The King”.

“Arvedui, son of Araphant. My son and daughter are Aranath and Arlana, though you probably heard that already. My people and this land are known as the Arthedain. It is but a small part of what was once a much larger Kingdom called Arnor”

“Yeah, I heard that” said Bucky “and of the enemies all around you. I hope I can help with that. A little. Not as much as Glorfindel of course”

“To think you travelled with him all this time. How long? Four days? Five? Were you not honored?” the King asked. 

“Yeah, he’s pretty impressive,” said Bucky. Not entirely a lie. “And a very great commander if the stories are true”

He didn’t know the stories of course, but decided to do a little fishing.

“Of course they are, though it was long ago,” said the King. “He fought in single combat against a Balrog of Morgoth at the Seige of Gondolin” he said.."and killed it". "He had no fear in the face of a terrible demon, and sacrificed himself to defend his Lord" 

What’s a Balrog? Who’s Morgoth? I really need to listen to those Elf Songs

The Prince was engaged in conersation with the Elf Commander at that moment- or rather talking at him by the looks of it. 

"My son has been raised all his life on Tales of the Elder Days, of the men and heroes of old" explained the King "so to have one here, among us now. It is beyond anything he could've imagined" 

"I guess he's as old as Elrond.." said Bucky, again trying to hide his ignorance. The people in this world took it for granted that you knew either everything or nothing and didn't explain much unless you asked. 

"older" said the King "and the only one of the Eldar Race to return from the Blessed Realm, Valinor, to Middle-Earth. Sent back by the gods themselves" 

Back from presumably the dead? No biggie. Elves can Probably just walk it off. Bring themselves back by sheer willpower..

As he finished his small meal Bucky said : "There's gonna be a Council later? Will I need to attend? I guess so?" 

The King started: "Ah yes, yes you must be there along with Glorfindel, Barahir and all the other warriors. Alas, we haven't many left. It will likely be later today, or tommorow for we're still waiting for one or two to arrive. I hope no harm has come to them" 

Yeah me too.

"Until then, perhaps you can meet the ones who are here? Arlana can introduce you.." began the King. 

"No need really" said Bucky, "I can introduce myself. Can I er... leave the table Sire?" 

"You don't need my permission" said the King. 

Bucky inclined his head and tucked in his stool as he got up, a servant girl quickly clearing away his things. He wanted to tell her to not bother, but she was off before he got the chance. 

Looking around the room for anyone he knew (Barahir didn't count), he found they;d all either left or were still engaged in conversation. He kind of sucked at introductions, but he had told the King... 

As he walked towards the middle of the room making a beeline for the exit, an attractive woman approached him. The brown-haired lady from earlier. The King's Daughter. She must've been in her twenties, tall and slender, her hair in an untidy braid. 

Bucky tried to pretend he hadn't seen her, but could *feel* himself going red. Why was he so bashful in in the presence of women suddenly? He had a girlfriend... well ok Sarah wasn't a girlfriend... not really. He hadn't seen her in months. 

"Sir, did you wish to come outside and meet the other warriors?" said the Princess, now right in front of him. She proffered an arm. 

I met you like 10 minutes ago, I am not holding your hand. Even if it is a very pretty hand. 

"Um yeah, thanks" he said, walking beside her but not linking his arm in hers. He made sure to keep looking at the ground. 

Chapter Text

A small group of about 20 men were gathered outside. They weren’t lying when they said they didn’t have many warriors left. How were they meant to defend the kingdom with so few?

“…simply say we must not rely purely on the Elves,” said one, mid-sentence. Barahir. Typical.

“My lords?” said the Princess, clearing her throat. “Another of your number. Master Bucky, who came with Barahir from Rivendell.”

Some of the warriors turned, and one introduced himself. Barahir folded his arms and scowled.

He expected the Princess to leave, but instead she began asking Barahir about horses and metalworkers. His air of superiority remained. Didn’t he think himself better than his own people? Surely not?

“For my part…” muttered one of the men, “I fail to see what use even five Elves are against thousands of orcs. Why didn’t Elrond send an army? This is a delegation…”

An older man beside him said, “These are not just any Elves. Glorfindel himself is among us! Doesn’t that bring you hope?”

The first one scoffed, “Hope won’t bring us victory, and we’re standing here dragging our heels when we should be in Fornost! Defending our capital! Why are we hiding like vermin in the hills?”

The conversations dragged on like that for a while. Bucky felt awkward. He didn’t know anyone here, and except for the one or two who introduced themselves, the others paid him no mind. He’d attend the council, but he wasn’t wanted at this little committee meeting.

Instead, he headed back toward the castle. Maybe he’d ask one of the Elves how things were going… “Ow!” he grunted as he bumped into someone.

“Oi! Mind yer step!” The voice came from below.

A short man, barely four feet tall with a long beard, glared up at him. Another stood nearby. Bucky had collided with the first, a ginger with a matching beard.

His friend was blond, resembling that little guy from *Game of Thrones*—Sam had raved about it, but Bucky quit after four or five episodes. The violence—beheadings, blood-soaked battles—had dragged him back to HYDRA’s cold rooms, to hands he couldn’t control.

Both dwarves wore helmets and leather armor.

“What ye starin’ like that fer, longshanks?” the ginger dwarf asked. “Never seen a Dwarf before?”

Not in real life, anyway.

“Um, no, actually,” said Bucky awkwardly, looking down. “Sorry. For bumping into you.”

“Well, there’s a first time fer everythin’. I’m Dorin, son o’ Farin, and this is me cousin, Borin, son o’ Dalin,” the ginger said, puffing out his chest. “Finest smiths in the Blue Mountains, we are!”

Rhyming names, really?

“Bucky—son of George. I came here from Rivendell, but not originally from there, of course,” Bucky said quickly, recalling his father’s name.

“Ye came wi’ the Elves then? How many are here?” Dorin asked.

“Um, five in total. I’m in their party, but we’re not really close buddies or anything,” Bucky explained.

“Aye, well, we Dwarves dinnae get on wi’ Elves, but since we’re all guests here, I s’pose we can tolerate ‘em. Fer now,” Borin said, grinning through his blond beard. “Long as they dinnae touch me forge-work!”

I’m calling you Tyrion. Just hope you don’t have a sister.

“You here for the council then?” Bucky assumed.

“Well, it ain’t fer the food, laddie!” Dorin laughed. Bucky chuckled too. Silly names aside, he might like dwarves. “We come from the Blue Mountains to the south—and well, let’s just say yer people make better neighbors than orcs. So we’re here to offer any help we can. Got some fine axes to prove it!”

“Yeah, orcs are kinda inconsiderate, aren’t they?” quipped Bucky.

“…and they’ve no appreciation fer our craftsmanship. Which is bloody rude,” Dorin said. “Men, though, are our best tradin’ partners.”

Bucky noticed Dorin leaning on what he thought was a staff, but it had a triangular head. An axe.

“Is that a throwing axe?” he asked, curious.

“Nay, just a fightin’ axe—though I suppose ye *could* throw it. Is that how ye fight? Throwin’ axes? I’ve nae heard o’ men usin’ those before,” Dorin said, enthusiasm rising.

“Um, no. I throw daggers,” Bucky said, lifting his jerkin to show the belt pouch with his weapons.

“May I see?” Dorin asked, even more eager.

“Um, okay,” Bucky said. Dwarves liked weapons, apparently.

“Verra nice,” Dorin said, examining the blade, testing its balance and edge. “Light and well-balanced. Most likely Dwarf-made. We forge the finest blades this side o’ the Misty Mountains—axes too, o’ course!”

“No doubt,” Bucky said, playing along as Dorin handed the dagger back.

“Well, I can forgive ye fer bein’ a companion o’ Elves if ye use a Dwarvish weapon,” Dorin said cordially.

“Come on, Dorin,” Borin said. “Let’s see if we can find somethin’ worth drinkin’ around here. Ye comin’?” Bucky realized Borin was talking to him.

“Um, yeah. They might not have much, though,” he said, following his new friends back into the castle.

The council gathered in the large hall where Bucky had first met the king and his family. Now warriors and Elves sat in a semicircle around the king’s seat—not really a throne. Arvedui was there with his children and the dwarves, who’d positioned themselves as far from the Elves as possible.

More had arrived, but still only about 50 people. Hardly an army.

Formal greetings were exchanged, and the situation summarized before the real action started.

“Today I received word,” said the king, “that the Witch-king himself is encamped nearby with a large force. We cannot let him find us. It is the recommendation of my warriors that we attack now. It is not, however, *my* recommendation.” There was some muttering at that.

The king spoke again: “My lord Glorfindel recommends that we treat with the enemy first before any attack. We must buy ourselves time to gather our forces, perhaps send for reinforcements.”

“From where will they come!” cried one of the warriors Bucky had seen earlier. “All the best warriors are gathered from miles around, and the delegation from Rivendell!”

“Not all our people are here. Not even most. There are many more who can come. They may not be our best or most elite warriors, but they *can* fight,” said the king, unfazed by the rude interruption.

“Women and old people!” someone said. “Peasants with farm implements and no armor. What use are they?”

More clamor. The king raised his voice to quiet it, but the guards stepped forward, hands on hilts, as the tension thickened.

He continued, “There is also Gondor: our kin to the south will not abandon us in our hour of need…”

“They abandoned us *years* ago!” That was Barahir, naturally. “Where was Gondor when our people were slaughtered? Where were they when our kingdom fractured and was consumed by Angmar like a ravenous dragon?”

Nods of assent. The king was losing the argument.

“We cannot fight them with fifty men and five Elves,” said the prince, sensible as ever. “Even if one of those Elves is Lord Glorfindel. He may drive the Witch-king off, but when he returns to Rivendell, our enemy will return to attack again!”

“Besides… there is always the possibility that this is a ruse,” the prince added. “It is Fornost the Lord of the Nazgûl has in his sights. Perhaps he merely seeks to distract us—or draw us into a needless fight and slay us all!”

Murmurs again—some of agreement. Bucky hoped so.

“Which is why we should be there!” yelled Barahir. “I say that if we do not fight now, we return to the capital at least. Defend it at all costs!”

So, suicide or sitting ducks. Is this guy for real?

The prince stood again. “In case you didn’t hear, the Witch-king himself stands between us and Fornost. How are we even meant to get there? Sneak past under his nose disguised as orcs?”

“So we fight here,” said Barahir. “At least we die defending ourselves instead of hiding like rats in a hole!”

“Ye go too far!” said the king. “The Dúnedain do not hide!”

“What do you think we’re doin’ here! This isn’t a council of war! We’re cowards discussing when to surrender!” yelled Barahir.

Then everyone broke into uproar. Some reached for their swords, blades half-drawn, as the king’s guards shouted, struggling to push through the crowd.

“ENOUGH!” boomed a voice, cutting through the chaos. Glorfindel stood in the middle of the semicircle, tall and resplendent, the setting sun glinting off his golden armor. His Elven sword was raised aloft in his right hand.

“There will be no bloodshed!” the Elf cried again, softer this time.

Bucky stared in awe as everyone froze. The belligerent warriors stood down, heads hanging. Glorfindel’s mere presence quelled the madness.

Did he use elf magic on us all? If so, I’m grateful.

“This discord is doing the enemy’s job for him,” the Elf finished in a normal tone. “We must be united, or the Dúnedain will be destroyed. We will decide peacefully, but I am not beyond making the decision for you if you force my hand.”

Barahir looked like a chastened toddler, pouting and glaring at Glorfindel.

When everyone calmed and returned to their places, Bucky found himself standing and walking forward, his hands trembling slightly.

“My lords, may I have permission to speak?”

“Yes, go ahead,” said the king.

Bucky took a shaky breath. Public speaking wasn’t his strength, but here he was, in the middle of the semicircle.

He gulped and said, “I think the prince is right. Why would the Witch-king attack the capital when the king and the best warriors aren’t there? It’d be an empty victory. He knows we’re not there. I think he wants to kill two birds with one stone.

Draw us out, then take Fornost—or maybe attack the city first to provoke us.”

“So what do you propose?” That was Glorfindel.

Elves, taking suggestions from me. Please don’t mess this up, Buck.

“Well, first off, we don’t do what he expects. We don’t attack. Not directly anyway.”

He took in the room. Everyone was listening.

“Second, we take Lord Glorfindel’s advice. We negotiate. We tell him he has a certain amount of time to leave before we attack. Then, we use the opportunity the time affords us to gather our people here… and maybe send for those reinforcements the king mentioned.”

He continued.

“Big groups attract attention, so we might need to be scattered or split up. You said the Witch-king is between us and the capital, right?” he asked the prince.

“Yes,” he replied.

“Then we evacuate everyone left in the city, but instead of bringing them here, we send them to some safe place until the coast is clear. Even if that means…”

He took a deep breath. This was gonna be controversial. “…Even if that means letting the Witch-king attack the city.”

“Are you suggesting we sacrifice our capital?” asked Barahir, pure venom in his tone.

“After we evacuate, if needs be. Yes. What would you rather happen? The enemy captures an empty city, or massacres the entire population? We’re trying to save our people. Not some stone.”

“How dare you, a stranger, speak of our people? You don’t even believe in the Valar!” sneered Barahir.

Right, I’ve officially had enough of you.

“Excuse me? There are Elves here. From Rivendell. There are dwarves. All the races of Middle-earth are represented—well, except maybe Halflings, but we’re all united to save the Dúnedain. None of us are strangers.  We’re all children of Ilúvatar, and that makes us family. That makes us the same people.”

Murmurs—this time voices of agreement. The king had a massive smile on his face.

“And as it happens, I *do* believe in the Valar…”

Bucky decided to deliver the fatal blow to Barahir.

“Anyway, I’m not suggesting we give up. I’m just suggesting we… do things a little differently. Live to fight another day, instead of dying at once in a needless battle for some buildings.

We might not defeat the Witch-king this week or this year, but eventually we will. We just have to be smart.”

“Where I come from,” he added, “we have this thing called Commandos. They’re like tiny armies. They don’t fight battles. Instead, they… sort of take out enemy bases or supply stores. That’s often a lot more effective than a battle.”

“Are you suggesting that instead of battle, we become raiders? Like the orcs?” said someone. Not Barahir for once.

“Not raiders. More… Rangers. A small, mobile force that plays the enemy at his own game. And defends our people as well as travelers passing through these lands.”

Finally, he stopped talking and walked back to his seat. He prayed his little speech worked.

“Well, I for one approve his plan,” said the prince.

“As do I,” announced the king. “Lord Glorfindel?”

“I have my reservations, but I think the concept is sound. I approve for now, but it might need some modification…” said the Elf. Was that a compliment?

“Shall we put it to a vote?” asked the king. “All in favor, raise your hands.”

More hands than Bucky expected went up, including his own. Hey, of course he voted for himself. Barahir didn’t, nor did several of his friends. The dwarves voted for him, though, and all the Elves too. But they were probably siding with Glorfindel rather than him.

“Thirty-six in favor,” said the king. “Those who are not may choose for themselves. Stay and aid in our efforts, or return home and fight the enemy in whichever way they think fit.”

“We’d better start drawing up terms of negotiation then, and send scouts to the settlements within two days’ ride…” said the prince.

“What about Fornost?” asked Bucky. “Isn’t it further?”

“No, it’s close—maybe one and a half days’ ride? Less than a day if it’s an Elf horse…” replied the prince.

So Barahir lied about the distance? Interesting.

The king approached them then. “You may not need to send out scouts yet, son. We still have three Palantíri. If I can get to one, I may be able to communicate with the rest of our kin, maybe even Gondor.”

The prince lowered his tone. “Father, aren’t those dangerous? And surely you don’t have one here?”

“Nay,” said his father, “but there is one in Annúminas.”

“I’d rather send out scouts first then wait for you to take chances on a seeing stone that might not even be there, but go if you must,” he said.

“Very well,” replied his father, “but I will only take some of my guards. I won’t deprive us of warriors.”

“Then may the Valar be with you, and your return be swift!” said the prince, embracing his father.

“It’s less than 20 miles!” laughed the king.

Bucky felt awkward again, even though he’d just persuaded everyone of his plan. “Hey, erm, if you need somebody to run hard missions, you have me!” said Bucky.

“We may have a much more important job for you, Master Bucky…” said the prince. “Come. Let us speak with Glorfindel.”

Chapter Text

The “important job” was to personally deliver Glorfindel’s newly-written missive containing their terms to the Witch-King.

Glorfindel didn’t deliver it himself because apparently the Witch King was terrified of him and would probably run away with his tail between his legs. Bucky failed to see why that was a bad thing but then this was all part of his plan. Maybe it would make things worse in the long run if the enemy came back vowing vengeance after being scared off?

Thus, he found himself riding on his own up to the makeshift gates of the fortress, banner in hand, to deliver a message to the enemy on behalf of Glorfindel and the King of the Arthedian. The King and his party rode out of the actual gates with him, but they were headed in a different direction, South, towards another town where the King hoped to find some magic crystal ball and use it to contact a distant outpost called Amon Sûl. 

Bucky had suspended his skepticism a while ago. These people wanted to call science and mass- communication "magic" then who was he to judge? They had their beliefs and it helped them explain the world. Besides, there were all kinds of weird stuff here, so maybe part of it was true.

Besides, there was tall, pointed tower faintly visible above the summit of a not-too-distant hill. So the King was actually headed for a real place, not some abstract. Unlike Bucky who was literally chasing ghosts. The Prince and Glorfindel had urged Bucky to take several men as an escort, but Bucky insisted on going alone. He'd already began to question the wisdom of that choice. 

He rode for about 2 hours after breaking the cover of the hills. Since he had an Elf horse still it was much faster than normal. He didn’t notice except how uncomfortable it was. And the countryside was prettier here. As soon as he left the cover of the hills it flattened out into heathland. Which could actually pass as pretty because it was dotted with patches of purple heather and yellow gorse, as well as clusters of trees. It was even possible to hear the chirping of birds.

Far in the distance there was another group of hills, and there, on the horizon was what looked like a white steeple. Like a Cathedral, surrounded by white walls, and other buildings covering the top of the hills.

Must be Fornost. Shame I’ll never get a closer look.

In truth, he was admiring distant city to avoid looking at the enemy camp, which was getting closer and closer. It was horrible. Dark, bleak. The earth around it looked black, how was that even possible? And… were those stormclouds?

Finally he reached it.

Now, where was the door to knock on? In fact, how did he announce his presence? Shout? Wait?

He waited a while. Outside the palisade fence which served as a barrier around the camp. He couldn’t just return home and say there was nobody in. Eventually, he cleared his throat and shouted.

“Helllooo? Excuse me?”

Vague movement was visible from between gaps in the wood. Finally. But still no answer. They made him wait even longer.

Finally, Bucky got off his horse, picked up some stones and hurled them full force over the wooden walls.

“I … said… hello!” he enunciated with each stone.

That got their attention. Irate shouts inside and finally someone yelled at him “State your purpose stranger or die where you stand!”

“I have a message for your er… Lord,” said Bucky. “from some really, really important people. Glorfindel – oh and the King of Arthedain wants a word too so are you gonna let me in or what?”

Was that…… laughter? Bucky had elicited many reactions in his time, usually fear.  But he wasn’t really used to being laughed at except in a friendly teasing way.

“No man comes into the presence of the Lord of the Nazgûl willingly. Especially not a mere messenger. Unless he wishes to die” shouted a person he couldn’t see

“OK” said Bucky, “first of all, where I come from there are rules, and one of those rules is you do not threaten the messenger”

More laughter.

So, he continued unabated, “and second, Glorfindel is really running out of patience with you people and he’s not an Elf you want to get on the wrong side of”

They didn’t laugh at that. Glorfindel’s name seemed to work like a magic charm around here. He should use it more often.

A few minutes later, the gates, if they could be called that, cracked upon and some extremely ugly orcs appeared, clad in some kind of armour and with some mean looking spears and pikes.

“The Lord of the Nazgul will see you now” one of them said. “Come with us”

“That’s better” said Bucky, glad to leave his annoying horse behind whilst following the hideous diminutive creatures.

They didn’t walk back into the main encampment, as Bucky thought, but instead skirted around the outside palisade headed for a large rocky outcropping which seemed to have some kind of huge platform set up in front of it.

On the platform was an enormous throne and on it sat… a creature.

The Orcs made some kind of gesture and fled; literally ran, as they left Bucky in front of the thing.

Was this a trick?

The creature looked like a massive black suit of armour. Perhaps 8 feet in height, more than 7 anyway. Topped with a cone shaped helmet encircled with spikes and a massive spike coming out of the top. The top spike made it look taller; Bucky realized.  All in all it wasn’t much taller than him.

The helmet had a t-shaped slit for the eyes and nose but… there was nothing inside. No face. It was empty.

How was the armour holding itself up? Strings? Wires?

Then he saw the eyes.

Red and glowing, inside the helmet. Just eyes. No face.

If he was being honest with himself, it did scare him.

For a few seconds, he might even have been bordering on terrified, until it struck him how utterly absurd the whole situation was.

He’d fought Nazis, super Nazis, Avengers, and an intergalactic alien Warlord, he’d gone toe to toe with T’Challa and Iron Man, all without a modicum of fear. Though granted, he’d been deep in his programming at that time after that bastard Zemo said his trigger words. He was scared of T’Challa when in his right mind.

Not this guy though. Now he was standing in front of a ghost villain from a fantasy novel, and he was supposed to be *scared*? Of what? Red glowy eyes? The guy was pretending to be invisible. He wouldn’t even show his face.

Give him tangible threats at least, but an invisible man trying to intimidate him with a trick anyone could pull?

He scoffed. That helped. He audibly scoffed.

The thing didn’t move, so he said

“Are you trying to scare me? If so, it’s not gonna work. Let’s cut the crap and I can get on with my day”

“I feel your fear, mortal” it said.

 At least Bucky thought it was Mr. Invisible Armour. The voice was a raspy whisper.

“Oh, ghost voice too! So scary!” said Bucky, slightly annoyed at having his time wasted.

“Are you the guy in charge or some side-show freak they use to intimidate people, huh?”

“I am the Greatest of the Nazgûl, The Lord of Angmar. Lieutenant of the Lord of the Earth, Sauron the Great”

“Yeah? Well, I am Sargeant James Barnes. Of Brooklyn and formerly of the 107^th, buddy of Captain America himself and friends with Elrond too. Are we done with introductions now?”

“Do you not know death when you see it, fool?”

“You keep threatening to kill me. You were going to do that; you’d have done it already. Let’s stop being big and clever and just get our business over and done”

Ghosty armor said nothing, so Bucky took it as an invitation to go on.

“Glorfindel says you one week to leave these lands forever with all your armies. Let the Dunedain have back what’s rightfully theirs and go back to wherever you came from”

“You think I fear a mere Elf? Glorfindel will die. You will all be destroyed”

“Yeah? Well, Glorfindel said he died once before, and it didn’t stop him first time ‘round so I don’t think it’s gonna work this time either” replied Bucky remembering the story of the Elf commander’s origins.

“You too will be destroyed. All will die, none can stand before the might of the Lord Sauron”

“Good thing I’m not all that worried about dying then. Nor are most of the others. You can’t threaten people with what they do not fear.

All men fear death.

“Not all. A lot I know don’t, and I know people like you too. Fought many of them. You can kill as many of the good guys as you want but, in the end, you will always lose”

“Then only you will die now. Your friends will die later”

With those words, a huge Orc emerged from Bucky didn’t know where, and another behind him.

“Creaky doesn’t even do his own dirty work” he thought wryly, reaching for his gun. Those guys wouldn’t be hard to take out.

Except the Orcs weren’t being sent to kill him. They were dragging an enormous chain, and something on the end of it was letting out a series of screeches and roars.

Bucky wasn’t going to stay and find out what it was. He turned his heel and sped off in the opposite direction, back towards the hills

As he expected, dozens of enemy soldiers suddenly appeared, blocking his path. He couldn’t use up all his remaining ammo on them, so it was gonna be brutal.

He sighed, and grabbed the point of one of their spears, pulling him over and kicking him, another he punched full force with his metal arm, sending the orc flying into the middle of a group of his friends.

He wheeled around and stabbed another one on his left with one of his throwing daggers before using another for its intended purpose. With a running jump, he leaped over his felled opponents and kept running, retrieving his dagger from the body of an orc as he passed by.

He ran in zigzags to confuse the enemy, trying to remember where he’d left that stupid animal he was supposed to ride. Thing had probably run away by now.

He was still being pursued by orcs, with some more coming up from the side but thankfully they stood no chance of catching up a super-soldier. Well, unless he did something stupid like tripping over a rock again.

There finally, near an outcropping of heather was the horse. He considered leaving it behind for a moment. He could move faster on foot, but it had most of his equipment on it, and the missive from Glorfindel.

He pivoted and ran in a semicircle, once again to confuse the enemy and threw one of his daggers just for good measure, before jumping onto the animal’s back and digging his heels into its sides.

As it reared and took off at a gallop, he chucked the piece of paper from Glorfindel over his shoulder. He’d delivered the message verbally anyway.

“I guess that concludes negotiations…”

….”and that definitely was all he said?” asked Aranarth.

“Yes Sir” Bucky explained, having relayed the exchange with the Witch King to the Lords around the great table in Glorfindel’s tent had at least twice already. “Lots of threats. That was all”

“We didn’t expect very much more” the Prince concluded, rising to his feet.

“I think it can be taken as not intending to surrender anytime soon,” said Bucky.

“No, indeed” added the Prince. “But … Master Bucky, I am intrigued. You saw HIM? Not some messenger?”

“Yeah, well he said he was The Lord of the Nazgûl or something”, said Bucky, accepting a cup of beer from a servant “I’m afraid that word doesn’t mean very much to me”

The Prince looked a little sceptical, and asked him “What did he look like?”

Bucky answered “I just saw a huge black suit of armour and a big helmet with spikes. Yeah, it was like a crown but with spikes.

 It looked like it was keeping itself up, really weird, like nobody in it at all. Until the eyes. Glowing red eyes. And his voice was…. strange. Like a whisper, but really raspy”

The Prince’s eyes widened and turned his head to glanced awkwardly towards the Elf standing in the corner.

“Master Bucky” said Glorfindel , “you may be the only man who has ever stood before the Lord of the Nazgul and returned to tell the tale”

Bucky smiled. “Well, he wasn’t exactly a warm and friendly host” he said, “but thankfully he didn’t have too many Orcs around”.

“I would say it was a miracle you got away” added the prince. “I regret having sent you alone”.

“Sir, I said I prefer to go alone, and I meant it” said Bucky “I’m a pretty fast runner and well, someone else might not be able to keep up. And it would be a risk to us both if I had to rescue them”

Bucky finished his drink and wondered where he could find some food. Then felt guilty. More and more refugees were arriving, which meant less food to go around. Outside the King’s fortress, everyone was probably starving. He could do without.

“I do have one question” asked Bucky “surprised I didn’t ask this already really, but what exactly are Nazgûl ?”

“You really don’t know?” said the prince “even though you are of our people?”

“Well, my branch of the family come from quite a long away from here” he said.

“Not everyone is versed in the lore of the Elves or knows of the history of the dark days after the fall of Eregion” said Glorfindel.

Prince Aranarth laughed “You of the Eldar speak of events from many centuries ago as though they happened only last week. Is it any wonder that we mortals have forgotten?”

Glorfindel nodded “That’s true, and truthfully Elrond knows more of those days then me, since it was not long after my return. Perhaps I will begin the story, and my Lords can fill in any of the gaps?”

The Prince nodded and settled back down into his “throne” which was just a folding seat with an extra cushion on it.

The Elf continued “it really began with the forging of the Great Rings. In the Last Age, by the reckoning of men, before the Fall of Westernesse, The Dark one, Sauron the Accursed came among the Elves in fair guise. He said he was an emissary of the Valar and had come as a giver of gifts.

He taught the great smith Celebrimbor to make rings. You would call them magic rings, we called them Rings of Power, they were said to be imbued with the power and wisdom to rule our race”

Bucky nodded. He was keeping up so far. Evil Lord, magic Rings. Pretty straightforward.

“In time, Celebrimbor became suspicious of the motives of the Sauron and made secretly three more Rings without his knowledge. When Sauron revealed himself, he hid them.

Sauron became angry, because the three were more powerful than any others, and they were unsullied because they had been untouched by the hand of the Dark Lord.  Without them he could not wield power over the Elves, as he desired.

Although he destroyed many of the lesser Rings, Celebrimbor was not able to destroy them all before Sauron attacked him in his fortress and seized all the Rings he found there”

“After that he slew Celebrimbor because he would not reveal the location of his greatest work” said Glorfindel with a sigh.

“It was then that Sauron turned his attention to the mortal races. He gave seven of the Rings he found to the Dwarf Lords, and nine he gave to great Kings of Men. He found that men were the most corruptible. The most susceptible to the temptation of the Rings of Power”

Why doesn’t that surprise me at all? Thought Bucky. Not at all ashamed to admit he had no faith in his own race.

“But before that, Sauron made the One, did he not” asked the prince?

“Yes, I was just getting to that” said Glorfindel

Then he began to repeat a rhyme or poem, in an almost musical tone:

“Three Rings for the Elven Kings under the Sky,

Seven for the dwarf lords in their halls of stone,

Nine for mortal men doomed to die

And one for the Dark Lord on his Dark Throne”

 

There was a sudden chill, probably just the cold wind blowing in the tent flaps. Nevertheless, Bucky shivered.

“Sauron had one, too. Who gave it to him?”

“Nobody” said man in the corner in a dark and quiet, tone “he forged it himself, somewhere deep in the heart of The Dark Land, Mordor”.

Glorfindel nodded “In his will to rule and dominate, he forged in secret a Master Ring. One Ring to rule them all”

“Oh, that sounds bad,” said Bucky, pausing until there was an awkward silence.

 “But I’m a bit lost. How does this relate to the Nazgûl? Are they- did they have something to do with the “Nine Rings for mortal men?”

“Yes” said the prince “The Nine were corrupted. Men took them willingly but instead of power, their Rings made them slaves of the Dark One. Bound to him and to the One. Forever”

“Aren’t they dead?” said Bucky at last “Barahir seemed to think the Witch King was a ghost?”

“Nobody know for certain” said the Prince“or maybe the Elves do, but their souls were bound to Sauron, and because they lingered in the world far beyond the lifespan of men, they were called Nazgûl. Ringwraiths. Some say they are neither living nor dead”

“I suspect they used some dark sorcery to remain in the world” said Glorfindel “to bind their bodies, or their souls within it. Or Sauron did”

“Which means” said Bucky “I suppose that, well He can’t be killed by normal means right? The Witch King?”

“They have been known to disappear,” said the Prince. “In the days of Valandil, son of Isildur, after the Last Alliance nobody saw or heard of them. For many years they were gone, but then when He returned…”

“The One Ring was lost many years ago” interpolated Glorfindel “and although it is gone, it is not, I fear, destroyed. As long as it exists, they too will continue to exist”

“Which makes or situation that much harder” said the prince with a sigh. “I still say we should seek aid from Gondor”  

“What happens if his boss appears, Sauron I mean” said Bucky “or is that another stupid question from me?”

“Then all is surely lost” said the Prince “nobody can stand against…. Him. Even without the One Ring, he is too powerful for any of us”.

“That’s what the Witch King said” explained Bucky “but, with all due respect, I got away from him. Can you not stand against this Sauron too. Isn’t he just a jumped-up human sorcerer?”

“No” whispered the prince, with genuine fear. “He is not a man”

Glorfindel nodded, his face serious and confirmed: “Sauron was one of the Powers. The greatest of the Maiar. His name them was Mairon, the Admirable, before he fell to evil, and became known as Sauron. The Abhorred”

“You…. you mean he was of the gods?” said Bucky. Shit. No wonder they were all scared of him.

They were fighting the undead Lieutenant of a psychotic demigod who wanted his jewellery back. If he’d known that earlier, he might have been scared too.

Chapter Text

Three days in, and people had begun to converge on their small town from miles around. They took a longer route to avoid the Witch-king, steering clear of the faster path between the two ranges of hills where the capital and the city of * were located.

Most were peasants with nothing but the clothes on their backs. Years of raiding in the north had devastated the countryside, stripping livelihoods and food sources—Barahir had been truthful about that. Those from the south and east fared slightly better, some bringing sheep, a few goats, even the odd horse.

Those who didn’t arrive hid in the hills or safe places away from Fornost and population centers. They’d join later, Bucky and the king hoped—that’s what they were meant to do.

The Witch-king had disappeared two days earlier, a day after Bucky delivered the ultimatum, along with most of his orcs. This should’ve cleared the path, but with his whereabouts unknown, they weren’t taking chances.

Instead of kicking his heels, Bucky sought ways to occupy his time. He discussed worst-case scenarios with the king and prince. They decided to send non-fighters to Lindon, an Elven kingdom not far west—farther from Angmar and the Witch-king’s ravages. A large river there offered a natural defense.

“The only other options,” said the prince, “are Gondor and the frozen north. I don’t rate our chances escorting 5,000 half-starved peasants there, let alone surviving winter.”

So, they settled on Lindon. To Bucky’s surprise, most agreed.

“Remember,” said the prince, “this isn’t a retreat. When our people are safe, we’ll return and fight.”

Bucky also used the time to practice skills he wasn’t great at or teach hand-to-hand combat without weapons—a mix of karate, Krav Maga, boxing, and other styles he’d picked up.

Borin and Dorin were his first and most enthusiastic students. Dwarves were famed for fighting and smithing, and these cousins proved it, compensating for their size with agility and grit. Borin excelled at a low, spinning leg sweep, using his height to unbalance taller foes, while Dorin paired it with a quick elbow strike to the ribs—moves Bucky adapted into the training. 

Humans took more convincing, but when reminded they’d be defenseless without weapons, they volunteered. Bucky stood before a small group, joined by Princess Arlana and a couple of her ladies, who’d swapped dresses for tunics and tight pants.

Two days prior, Bucky had underestimated Arlana, pegging her as a pampered princess. She was a skilled archer and decent with a sword—now he prayed she’d handle unarmed combat. Would he face punishment if he injured the king’s daughter? Probably.

No need to worry. Over the two days, Arlana proved a fast learner. On the first day, she struggled but managed a shaky throw, landing Bucky on his butt. By the second day, after hours of practice, she refined it, throwing him twice more—once butt-first, then face-first—mastering the technique.

“I think you’re good now,” he said, sore and dazed from the final throw.

“Are you sure?” asked the smirking royal. “Don’t want another try for matching bruises?”

The warriors chuckled, and so did Bucky. “Nah, I’m good. Anyone else want one-on-one?” He wasn’t ashamed of being bested—especially by someone as capable as Arlana.

After more training, the exhausted, dirt-covered group headed back toward the castle.

A bird call distracted them. An eagle circled above—brownish-gold, not the bald eagles Bucky knew back home. Even from afar, it was huge.

“A good omen!” announced a man, stopping. “Isn’t it one of them? The Great Eagles?”

“Nay,” said another. “Their eyrie’s far north, and it’s too small. Just a common eagle. Still, good to see one.”

“I guess you use them for hunting,” asked Bucky. “Capture and train them?”

Arlana turned. “No. Other birds, yes, but never eagles. They can’t be tamed or submit to men—they’re sacred to us.”

“Oh,” said Bucky. “That makes sense.”

“I suppose you don’t know about the Eagles of Manwë?” she asked, her tone gentle, used to his cultural gaps.

“I do, actually. Weren’t they above the Holy Mountain in Númenor? Flew off and never seen again?” he recalled, thinking of Elrond’s book.

“They still live in Middle-earth but are rarely seen. Only the King of the Valar can command them. We hold all eagles sacred, believing they’re Manwë’s servants, watching over us.”

The bird circled a few more times, then flew west toward the castle.

“Seems it wants us to go west,” said Bucky, seizing the PR chance if they saw it as divine.

“Or maybe Manwë wishes us to know we’re not alone,” smiled Arlana, walking beside him.

She continued, “My mother had a special affinity for animals—horses especially. I think she read their thoughts. They obeyed without command.”

“Maybe she could,” said Bucky. “I know folks like that with dogs.”

“She was with birds too. Once, she let me raise a baby hawk, abandoned by its mother. I fed it by hand, made it a nest, trained it.”

“Hope nothing bad happened,” said Bucky.

“No, it lived long, pampered—though it couldn’t fly. I tried, tying food to branches with other falcons.” She sighed. “Those were my last happy days.”

“I’m sorry. What happened?” Bucky asked softly.

“She died of illness. Father tried, but grief and duty consumed him. He was always fighting. I abandoned childish things and trained as a warrior.”

“To get his attention?” Bucky guessed.

“Partly, yes. The Witch-king’s ravaged us since before my father’s time—maybe his father’s too. No one remembers peace. Outsiders say we never mourn, hardened like steel. My mother wasn’t like that. Last of her line, she could’ve claimed Gondor’s throne but chose to tend a sick foal over killing.”

“You miss her,” said Bucky.

“She died over thirty years ago,” Arlana replied, her tone unreadable, turning away.

“You didn’t answer,” Bucky pressed gently. “For what it’s worth, I miss my mom too—eighty years gone.”

She turned back, aghast. “How old are you?”

“107. Old even by Dúnedain standards, huh?”

“My grandsire lived to 175, Isildur over 200. No. And I’m 43—curious?”

“I thought you were 25,” Bucky admitted.

“My brother and I have pure Dúnedain blood from both parents. Most have it from one.”

“So, twice the slow aging?” Bucky asked.

“Yes. Age spares us until late. Hence, I’m unmarried—stubborn, they say.”

Bucky laughed. “Men fear women who can beat them. Don’t bother with those. Marry someone you can spar with.”

She smiled. “Do you have a wife? Back home?”

“No. My family’s gone—except my sister. War took me, and I never returned.”

“What were their names?” she asked.

“Winnifred, my mom; Rebecca, my sister. Yours?”

“Fíriel.”

“Your names are nicer,” Bucky said.

“Rebecca’s beautiful,” she replied.

As they neared the castle, Arlana slid her hand under his. Bucky didn’t mind and held it, a quiet comfort amid the day’s weight.

It was that evening everyone sensed something amiss. A thick, cloying smell of burning hung in the air. Some spotted a smoke column east, but hills and the setting sun obscured it.

Then birds flew frantically north and west, and farm animals grew testy—sheep bleating, horses whinnying, a few bolting.

Sending scouts at night was risky, but the king agreed.

Bucky couldn’t sleep in the castle hall, where he’d made a makeshift bed his first night. He dismissed omens, but that eagle now seemed to scout easy prey among fleeing animals. In his experience, they acted like this for tidal waves or forest fires.

Early next morning, a filth-covered man in rags ran to the castle, shouting for the king. Bucky pulled on his boots and watched a guard escort the stranger to the king’s tent.

This can’t be good.

Soon, he and key warriors were called. The king sat before a trestle table, weeping, hands covering his face. Glorfindel stood stone-faced beside him.

“Fornost is fallen,” said the prince, the only one not too shocked to speak. “The Witch-king attacked yesterday, overrunning to the North Downs and sacking the capital. It still burns.”

Shit—no, fuck. Fuckery fuck. You said this could happen, Buck—but now it has

Barahir stared, and Bucky knew the bastard and others judged him—maybe the king too. He judged himself.

The Witch-king had struck four days before the ultimatum expired. Messengers on the long route wouldn’t have reached Fornost in time to evacuate. With 5,000 outside their town, how many hadn’t made it? The capital’s population—100,000? A million?

How many had died?

Dead because of you. Your fault. This is what comes of playing hero. Thinking you can save everyone. You’re a murderer. Never anything else. Now countless more are dead. Because. Of. You.

Bucky hyperventilated, feeling sick. He closed his eyes, sinking onto a stool. What had he done? The voice wasn’t his—or was it? Who else was in his head?

He missed the prince’s next words, unaware until a gentle poke in the ribs.

It was Mel.

“Sir, did you hear? The prince says we must hasten plans. Tell people to gather what they can carry, leave the rest except horses. We leave tomorrow.”

Bucky nodded.

He glanced at the prince, back turned, and rose, hoping to slip out unnoticed.

No luck.

“It appears you were correct, Master Bucky. The Witch-king attacked Fornost to provoke us,” said the prince dryly.

“I wish I wasn’t right,” whispered Bucky. “This is my fault. If you want to send me away in disgrace…”

“No,” said the prince, surprising him with a consoling hand on his shoulder. “Don’t blame yourself. We knew this could happen. He likely planned it.”

“…but all those people…” Bucky murmured.

“We saved more than died. Scouts and Father’s sources say the city was largely empty when attacked. Most fled to the hills or were en route here. They survived.”

“You did that,” added the prince. “Your plan got them out. We’ll enact mine earlier now. Travel light tomorrow. I want time for Fornost’s refugees to reach us. Then, a two-day journey with this many.”

Chapter Text

The Dúnedain trudged through rugged hills, the refugees’ faces drawn with exhaustion, their eyes fixed on the promise of Lindon’s safety. The Fall of Fornost clung to them like a shadow, the Witch-king’s menace whispering in every gust of wind.

Bucky rode at the flank, his vibranium arm hidden under a tattered cloak, scanning the horizon. On edge. Watchful. Witchie’s army had disappeared after Fornost—armies didn’t evaporate into thin air. Two days trudging through mud and trees until Lindon. A lot can happen in two days. Too much.

Prince Aranarth led the column, his jaw set, but tension simmered among the warriors. Those who’d favored evacuation now wavered. Fornost’s fall had shattered their ancient pride, leaving a raw husk of vengeance. Men itched to defy the Witch-king with steel, even if it was their last act.

“Running to Elves shames us,” one warrior muttered, his words echoed in low grumbles. Barahir fueled the unrest, his sharp tongue cutting deeper in the king’s absence. Arvedui had gone north with a small band to retrieve the Palantíri and heirlooms from his kingdom’s ruins.

Bucky thought it a fool’s errand. The people needed their king, especially now. To abandon them for a rock? It seemed off. He checked himself—he’d known Arvedui for five days, a week? Who was he to judge?He was still pissed. Glorfindel had gone too, costing them their best commander.

The air grew heavier as a scout failed to return by noon, and whispers spread of strange shadows flitting across the hills—dark shapes vanishing when pursued. Bucky’s instincts prickled, his hand on his dagger’s hilt.

Mel rode close, hands tight on his pony’s reins. “Those shadows… they’re not right, are they?” he whispered, glancing nervously at Barahir. Nothing is right about this mess. “Stay close, kid,” Bucky said, steady but firm, eyeing Barahir’s distant figure.

A soft cry broke his focus. A little girl, no older than six, stumbled, her hands scraping stones. Her mother, burdened by a baby and pack, struggled to turn, face taut with worry. The girl’s sobs grew louder, palms red.

Bucky dismounted, kneeling. “Hey, hey, you’re okay,” he said gently, pouring water over her hands, washing dirt and blood. “See? Good as new.”

The girl sniffled, eyes wide. “Is your arm Elf magic?” she asked, glimpsing vibranium.

Bucky chuckled, grinning lopsidedly. “Nah, just shiny. Helps me carry brave girls like you.” He wiped her hands with his sleeve.

Arlana appeared, bow slung back, and eased the mother’s pack off. “Let me take that,” she said, steadying her, then smiled at the girl. “Want to meet my horse? He loves brave ones too.”

She guided the child to her steed, letting her stroke its muzzle. Handing Bucky his waterskin, their fingers brushed—a fleeting warmth sparking through him. Their eyes met briefly before Arlana turned, her laughter soft as the girl giggled.

Bucky stood, gaze lingering on Arlana, then scanned the horizon. Dorin and Borin trudged nearby, axes glinting. “Hope those shadows ain’t just animals, Shiny-Arm,” Dorin called, grin half-forced. “Those wee daggers o’ yers won’t do much against a troll!”

Bucky smirked. “At least I can hit something with them.” quipped Bucky. 

As the party entered a narrow pass, guttural snarls erupted. A handful of orcs emerged, scores more squeezing through the gap. Refugees screamed, clutching children as warriors formed a ragged line.

Bucky leaped off, yanking his gun, firing three shots—three orcs dropped in black sprays. The gun clicked empty. Figures. He tossed it, drawing daggers, vibranium glinting.

Thalor, an Elven scout, charged, his sword a silver blur, felling three orcs to draw attention. “Run!” he shouted, guiding people to a hollow. An arrow pierced his chest, then a spear ran him through. He staggered, shielding a child, then fell. An orc yanked the spear free, howling, another hacking at the body, severing Thalor’s head and ramming it onto the shaft as a trophy. Another orc grabbed the child by the hair, its terrified screams piercing the air.

The Dúnedain froze, stunned—Elves seemed eternal. The orc’s triumph ignited Bucky’s rage, a suppressed Winter Soldier fire. His blood ran cold; he charged, roaring. A dagger caught the spear-orc’s throat; his vibranium fist shattered another’s jaw; a backhand crushed the child’s captor’s chest. The boy ran to his mother.

Aranarth rallied warriors, sword flashing, cutting down two orcs. “Hold the line!” he shouted. Arlana climbed a boulder, arrows felling orcs with precision. “Bucky, duck!” she called. He dropped; an arrow struck an orc behind him. “Nice shot!” he yelled, hurling a dagger into an orc’s eye.

Ecthelion, scarred and limping, carved through orcs with ferocity. “Old man’s got fire,” Bucky muttered, impressed. Ecthelion nodded at Arlana, pride warm. Bucky punched out an orc creeping on him, earning a curt nod from Ecthelion—a silent bond.

Dorin cleaved an orc. “Oi, Shiny-Arm! That metal outshinin’ our steel yet?” Borin hurled his axe, missing into a tree. “Too heavy for tossin’ orcs!”

“Bad aim,” Bucky said, yanking Borin’s axe free. “Borrow this?” He hurled it, dropping an orc. “Thought ye didae throw axes!” Dorin cried.

“Nah, fluke,” Bucky said. "Liar" the Dwarf muttered, catching his axe from Bucky and sinking it into another orc. 

A massive gray troll lumbered from the trees, its hide thick and gnarled, eyes glowing with malice. “Troll!” Dorin yelled. It swung its club, a shockwave splintering trees. Bucky dodged, a dagger sinking into its shoulder—barely a scratch. It bellowed, charging Borin, whose axe was stuck. “Shiny, my steel!” Borin shouted. Bucky tossed it; Borin caught it, leaping clumsily but landing on the troll’s back, sinking the axe into its neck. It roared, thrashing, dislodging Borin, who rolled away.

The troll’s hide regenerated around the wound, its club swinging wildly. “How do we take it?” Borin panted. “Lure it!” Bucky shouted, dodging a swing. He grabbed Mel, pulling him from behind a boulder, and ran, the troll following.

With a super-soldier leap, Bucky soared high, driving his dagger into its skull, twisting hard. Arlana loosed arrows, piercing its eyes—blinding it. Ecthelion and Dorin hacked at its legs, slowing it. It staggered, roaring, then collapsed, shaking the ground.

“Ride’s on you, Shiny!” Borin laughed, retrieving his axe with Bucky’s help. “And I didn't get my "wee daggers stuck"  Bucky shot back, smirking at Dorin’s earlier tease.

 He retrieved a dagger, then shielded Mel as an orc lunged—crushing its skull with a punch. “You okay, kid?” Mel nodded, drawing his small dagger.

“Where’s your master?” Bucky asked. Mel’s eyes flicked to Barahir, standing apart with warriors, blades sheathed, watching coldly.

The orcs faltered, cut down by Dúnedain, Aranarth, and Arlana. As the fight ended, Barahir’s inaction drew glares, Aranarth’s jaw tightening.

Dorin clapped Bucky’s back. “Yer arm’s worth mithril!”

Bucky smirked. “Keep axes sharp, not stuck.”

Barahir approached, his black eyes glaring with malice. He barged past Bucky, shoulder slamming hard into him. Bucky rubbed his shoulder, wincing. “Bastard,” he muttered under his breath. The man’s lack of shame after his earlier shouting match with Aranarth only fueled Bucky’s irritation.

They dealt with the dead—two Dúnedain, dozens of orcs—burning bodies with felled trees, acrid smoke rising under gray clouds threatening rain. Aranarth gave the Elves a bedroll shroud for Thalor. “We’ll take him to Lindon,” Elberon said.

Bucky turned away as they carried the bloodstained form to a cart—not from blood, but disappointment. He’d wanted to kill those orcs, even the unarmed ones, out of hate. Elvish Sindarin prayers reminded him of Rivendell, where such actions would disappoint Elrond, his beloved mentor.

He clung to Elrond’s words: *“We do not have to walk the path carved by pain. You can choose the light, Bucky, despite the shadows of your past.”* Yet now, amid black blood, he saw no light.

*You had no choice. It’s war.*

*Yes, you did. You’re free now. You killed because you wanted to. A killer, always.*

What was wrong with him? He slinked away, seeking solitude amid the crowd.

Chapter Text

As dusk fell, the Dunedain camped near some footfills through which flowed a tributary of the river Lune. It was a good defensive position. The attack had made everyone more wary. Just for good measure, some of the warriors had dug small holes and stuck thier spears in the ground, point upwards. Now, the one open edge of the camp had a defensive barrier like a row of porcupine spines. 

Bucky took the night watch, his senses sharp in the dark. The stars gleamed, but a chill of menace lingered—distant howls, the rustle of leaves, as if the Witch-king’s gaze pierced the night.

A crunch of feet on the grass. Bucky hand went to the hilt of his dagger. 

An old man with white hair silver in the moonlight approached, his limp barely slowing him. Ecthelion. Bucky eased. 

“Hey, Ecthelion,” he said, leaning against a gnarled tree, its bark rough under his hand. “You’re up late. Something wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost". 

Ecthelion’s scarred face was grim, his voice low, barely above the wind’s whisper. "I did. An unwelcome ghost from the past. The tall warrior they call Barahir" 

"Not a name I like to hear too much"  hissed Bucky " Whenever he's around, trouble isn't usually far behind" 

Ecthelion nodded. He spoke a little louder now as they were close "Aye there's trouble afoot alright. At twilight, I saw Barahir muttering to the guards, his voice low, eyes sharp, their faces… dazed, eyes unfocused. What with his defiance of the Prince and those friends of his not fighting today. It doesn't bode well... none it it" 

Bucky nodded "I don't see why the Prince can't just banish him. We're all better shot of that guy" 

Ecthelion found a small stick the poked at the embers of a nearby fire. Pointless. "He can't. Its the law. He can't pass sentence against traitors or criminals when the King is still alive, not unless he's appointed Regent. Which he hasn't been" 

Pretty pointless being a stickler for old laws when the Kindgom is fallen. 

"I’ve known him since my days serving Queen Fíriel, Aranarth’s mother- and never liked him" continued Ecthelion. 

"You and me both" saud Bucky "and I've only known him a week. He travelled with me from Rivendell. He's been a pain in the ass the whole time. Arrogant, always throwing his weight around- and far too influential in my opinion" 

Ecthelion’s eyes darkened. He decided to test the waters “Years ago, he came to court. That was back when Aranarth was a boy. I was a royal gaurd then, in the service of Queen Firiel. I came with her from Gondor. He was like that then too "far too influential" but... worse. Far worse" 

"Worse how" asked Bucky? Curious now. 

The old man's brows furrowed under the weight of memory "Not long after he arrived the Queen became ill. Not in body, but in mind. She... changed. She was so gentle and kind before. She'd talk to anyone. Serving girls, peasants. Like they were her friends" 

Bucky listened intently as the old man continued his story. 

"But when he began worming his way into the court, she became harsh. Cruel. Didn't want anything to do with anyone. Not even her children. She only wanted him around. Began supporting him and turning on her own kind, ignoring her own family. Acting in ways she never had before. 

She always wanted private audiences with him. Whispers, skulking in corridors. I'd have thught it was just manipuation and intrigue until I saw... something. Something I wasn't meant to see. Somethihng even I could barely believe" 

Probably them making out. Gross. Who'd want him? 

Ecthelion stared then a Bucky. Darkly and intensely: "I am telling you this because you have been loyal to the Prince and never shown any sympathy for- him. Stranger you may be, you've earned the trust of many loyal to our King and his heirs" 

"I won't betray a confindence" said Bucky "You have my word" 

Ecthelion, watchful, shifted his eyes around then leaned in closer "One night, I couldn't sleep. I was drawn by,..  I don't know what to walk past his chambers. I saw I cold light. Heard strange words in the dark in a tongue I didn't know. I dared to look in and there he was. Etching runes on the earth- and his eyes! Black as midnight. They're normally brown. It wasn't natural. It chilled me to bone. I fled then" 

Thre was a breath of icy wind Bucky hadn't noticed before. He drew his woolen cloak closer around him. 

"What... was it" asked Bucky? Even though he didn't want to know the answer. Images flashed unbidden in his mind. A tent at night. Strange words. A black figure running out of the dark. A knife. 

"I'm not a superstitious man" said the old warrior "but I know sorcery when I see it- and that was it. Black arts forbidden to our people.

Then it all began to fall into place. The Queen. When she was with him her eyes were glazed over. Dead and empty- and she just sat there. Not saying anything unless it was to agree with him. Compliant to his will. I believe he was poisoning her, twisting her mind. And not, I think, with any potion but with his Black arts.

I meant to report him to the King, but he caught me spying. He threatened to accuse me of sorcery and treason, to turn the court against me. Fíriel protected me—she vowed to tell the King of his deeds, to see him banished or worse if any harm came to me. But her sickness worsened after that, and within months, she was dead. Her will was strong, but it seemed the more she resisted, the greater his hold over her became" 

Bucky’s gut churned. He was sick to the teeth of undead sorcerers, magic rings and orcs. Couldn't there just be some normal bad guys? But the twisting of minds? The Queen sitting there- ready to comply.  Mind control.  His deepest fear—losing himself, becoming a tool again. Not that. Never again. 

He shifted, his boots crunching on the frost-kissed ground. He tried to keep his tone even, covering the rising panic and fear.

 “Okay, hold up,” he said, rubbing his neck. “You’re saying he had some kinda hold over the Queen, Aranarth’s mom, and when she fought back, she got sicker and died? Him threatening you like that, turning the tables? That’s messed up. Why didn’t you try again to stop him after she was gone?”

Ecthelion’s face darkened, his eyes distant with old pain. “When Fíriel died, there was no one left to shield me. I had to protect my children—they were young then. I took them to Bree, near The Shire, where Barahir wouldn’t follow.He despises ‘lesser men,’ those not of Númenórean blood, and Halflings too no doubt.

I stayed away for years. I returned at the King's call only a week ago. I was shocked to find him still here, lurking among us. His bullying, his defiance—it’s a mask for darker work. Tonight, muttering to the guards, their eyes glassy. It reminded me of the Queen" 

Bucky crossed his arms. Images flashed across his memory unbidden. A chamber, icy, like a frozen coffin. The chair. Flashes and pain. The trigger words. Then again Strange light and muttered words. A black figure running from the bushes. The glint of a knife. 

Please have a rational explanation. 

“Alright, I’ve seen something weird with him before. A couple weeks back, right after I got here, a girl came out of the bushes with a knife, tried to kill me. Before that, I heard muttering, saw a strange light in his tent. She said dark magic compelled her. Nobody pinned it on him then, but now… it’s starting to add up.
Him and those guys not fighting today? Stirring up trouble, pushing against Aranarth? It’s not just talk, he's manipulating others to his side.”

"Did she nearly kill you" asked Ecthelion? 

"No, I took her down easily" replied Bucky  "It gave me a scare though. Put me on edge for the rest of the journey" 

Ecthelion exhaled sharply, his eyes widening: "Probably a test of your metal- or his arts. Then added in a tone tinged with sorrow "Its their way, his kind. They prey on the vulnerable, find chinks in thier armor until they can dominate them. They don't like being defied" then he added more quietly as to himself "Just like his mother..." 

"Who precisely are this "they" you speak of? Isn't he still a Dunadian like us" Bucky asked, trying to push down the fear. 

Ecthelion cocked a brow: "Did Lord Elrond ever tell you of the Fall of Númenór?" 

Bucky thought that was a weird tangent to go off on, but answered anyway "Yeah. I learned about it. The Kindgom was consumed by the sea for the people's pride" 

"It was more than pride" said Ecthelion, with emphasis in the last word. "The Númenóreans craved power—over men, over death itself. Sauron fed that hunger, promising dominion, eternal life, as he did with the Witch-king, their greatest lord. That’s how he twisted them. Bent them to his well. Until they became monsters.

They enslaved other men. Burned them on altars in the abominable worship of Morgoth. Sauron taught them the Dark Arts too. Unnatural power. Over all life. To twist and bend mend's minds and bodies to their will. Until they became puppets. Empty and hollow shells bound to another's power, like the Nazgul" 

Bucky felt that strange chill again. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes before the images came again.  It was too often that he couldn't sleep these days. Not like Rivendell where he slept like a log. Tiredness was the only reason he was having flashbacks again. Wasn't it? 

He barely heard what Ecthelion next said. 

"Elendil and his kin, our ancestors, would have no part of it. They stood alone against Sauron. Clung to the light of the Valar. For thier faithfulness they were spared. Illuvatar himself sent a wave and a wind which blew thier ships to Middle-Earth. We thought that was the end but some of ... them escaped too. The servants of Sauron. Before the fall, they fled to distant outposts of Numenor in Umbar and Far Harad" 

"Shit" said Bucky. Out loud this time "They....survived?" `

"Aye" said Ecthelion “and I've long thought Barahir is no true Dúnadain. He’s a Black Númenórean, a cursed remnant of Númenor’s fallen who served Sauron. His claim of northern Arthedain was false—his accent was Umbar’s, smooth as their sailors, though he’s hidden it since. 

I think he's has been sowing discord for years to weaken our people, aided when he needs it by his black arts.  First the Queen, then the other and the girl you metioned too. 

That's a mark of their sorcery. Bending wills like Sauron’s rings. He used it on Fíriel, and if he’s at it again, no one is safe, least of all Aranarth.”

Bucky’s vibranium fist clenched, the thought of mind control a knife in his gut. Choose the light Bucky. This time I can stop it. No one’s pulling my strings again. Or anyone else's. 

Bucky stood shakily: “If Barahir's messing with people’s heads, he’s trouble. I’ve been through something like that—not magic, but close enough. Can’t let it happen to the Prince. What’s the plan?”

“We warn Aranarth,” Ecthelion said, his gaze steady. “We must act swiftly, before Barahir’s schemes take root.” 

Bucky nodded, jaw tight. “Let’s move. No time to waste.” He paused only to make sure he had at least one dagger tucked in his belt. 

They hurried toward Aranarth’s tent, the night’s silence heavy with menace, the threat of betrayal lurking like a shadow in the dark. Mutterings of Dark Malice in a tongue unheard since the Dark Days. 

Chapter Text

“We tell Aranarth now,” Bucky whispered, his Brooklyn drawl low but resolute. “Barahir’s after him. No waiting for Lindon.”

Ecthelion nodded, his scarred face grim. “The Prince must know the serpent among us.”

They neared Aranarth’s tent, its canvas swaying. Two guards stood watch, their eyes unnaturally blank, movements stiff like the peasant girl who’d attacked Bucky on the road to Arthedain, driven by a force she called supernatural. He’d seen a cold light in Barahir’s tent that night, heard chilling words. Now, the same dread gripped him.

“Easy—” Bucky started, raising a hand, but the guards struck, blades flashing with eerie precision. A sword slashed at his throat; a spear thrust for his chest. A faint, cold glow flickered in their eyes—Barahir’s sorcery.

Bucky dodged with serum-fueled speed, his vibranium arm blocking the spear with a metallic clang. “They’re not right!” he shouted to Ecthelion, who parried a wild blow, his blade steady despite his limp.

Bucky seized the swordsman’s wrist, disarming him with a twist, then knocked him out with a controlled punch. The spearman lunged, but Bucky swept his legs, pinning him with a knee. “Stay down,” he growled, their glazed eyes screaming Barahir’s influence.

Ecthelion panted, sword lowered. “His work. The Prince—”

Bucky tore through the tent flap, heart racing. A lone lantern cast flickering shadows. Prince Aranarth lay slumped on his bedroll, chest rising faintly—unconscious, but alive.

Relief surged, cut short as a shadow struck: Barahir, tall and menacing, eyes blazing with unholy light, a curved dagger gleaming.“Outlander,” Barahir hissed, voice venomous. He lunged, dagger slicing for Bucky’s chest.

Bucky blocked with his vibranium arm, the blade sparking harmlessly. He countered with a brutal punch, his superhuman strength slamming Barahir into a tent pole. “Game’s up,” Bucky snarled, drawing his Dúnedain blade. They clashed, Barahir’s dagger weaving with unnatural speed, parrying Bucky’s strikes.

Bucky ducked a slash, driving his metal shoulder into Barahir’s chest, knocking him back. Barahir rolled, springing up with a second blade, eyes wild.

“You cannot stop us,” Barahir spat, circling Bucky. “For over a thousand years, we true sons of Númenor have burned for vengeance! Isildur’s house stole our birthright, cast us from Númenor’s glory. We swore to Sauron, the true lord, while your kin groveled to the Valar. Arnor’s ruin is our triumph!”

Bucky’s blood chilled, the fanaticism echoing Hydra’s zeal. He lunged, blade clashing, vibranium fist shattering Barahir’s second dagger.

A kick sent the sorcerer sprawling, and Bucky pinned him, knee on his chest, blade at his throat. “Keep talking. You’re done.”

Barahir laughed, cold and hollow. “Fool.” His hands flared with cold, twisting light—the same Bucky had seen when the peasant girl attacked. A wave of dark energy surged, invisible chains pinning Bucky’s limbs, forcing him to his knees.

His vibranium arm whirred, resisting, but the sorcery pressed like Hydra’s restraints, rekindling his deepest fear: losing himself.

“Let’s see if I can get inside this pretty head again,” Barahir grinned, grabbing Bucky’s head, fingers pressing his temples like electrodes.

“When you’re mine, you’ll murder the royal pup. The stranger Arvedui welcomed—a traitor. Murdered his son in his bed. Yes, how perfect. The tragedy will bring the King—maybe that whelp from Gondor. I’ll keep you alive long enough to kill them too after the Prince.”

He began to chant in a guttaral tongue , “Hu-na izish rad, ishi Sauron goth dha…”—words twisting into Bucky’s mind—Hydra’s chair, screams, Zemo. Bucky fought, vibranium straining, will clawing back.

The chant paused; Barahir panted. “Your will is strong. Almost like someone’s done this before, but everyone cracks in the end" 

He forced Bucky’s chin up, black eyes with yellow slits locking onto his. “Hu-na izish rad, ishi Sauron goth dha…”

No, no. Bucky closed his eyes, prayed to the Valar he barely belived in. Not again. Elrond’s voice cut through: "Choose the light, Bucky”* He grounded himself, ignoring Barahir’s thumbs jabbing his eyes.

Sensation returned; he rammed a knee between Barahir’s legs.Barahir screamed like a scalded cat, hands clutching himself. Bucky rolled free, tackling him and pinning him down for a second time. 

The tent flap ripped open—Arlana burst in, bow drawn, hand trembling, followed by Ecthelion with his sword raised. The sudden movement distracted Bucky; Barahir twisted free, his hatred for Ecthelion flaring. With a snarl, he lunged at the old man.

“Traitor!” Ecthelion roared.Arlana loosed, arrow aimed for Barahir. He twisted; it grazed his shoulder, striking Ecthelion’s chest. “For your mother…” Ecthelion choked, collapsing.

Arlana froze, bow falling, a sob escaping. “Ecthelion—no!” Tears streaked her face, her shot stealing her oldest friend, who’d taught her how to shoot a bow and shared her childhood in Fornost’s halls.

Bucky leapt back into action, tackling Barahir again, pinning him as guards stormed in. “Arrest them both!” a guard barked, chains clinking as they seized Bucky and Barahir. The sorcerer’s light faded, his smirk lingering.

The camp churned with chaos under Eriador’s pre-dawn sky, stars fading as Lindon’s promise loomed a day’s march away. Torches cast jagged shadows on the gathered Dúnedain—refugees whispering, warriors gripping swords, their eyes darting between the two chained men kneeling outside Prince Aranarth’s tent. Barahir knelt beside Bucky, his tall frame coiled, a smirk curling beneath his bruised face despite the chains.

Arlana emerged from the tent, confirming her brother was fine, her eyes red and puffy from crying. Barahir and Bucky were brought before her. Bucky took grim satisfaction at Barahir’s girlish scream as the guards handled him roughly. He was covered in blood—his own or Barahir’s, he wasn’t sure—which stirred a fresh wave of nausea he forced down.

“What happened here?” Arlana demanded, her voice steel. “Speak true, or face the Valar’s judgment.”

Barahir spoke first: “I found this cur in the prince’s tent, poised to kill him. I pulled him away, and he attacked me.”

Arlana’s glare pierced him. “Then why did you attack Ecthelion? Why were you chanting? I heard you! It is no natural sleep which has felled my brother!”

Barahir sneered. “You’d side with a stranger over me? I’ve bled for Arthedain. Why would I harm the prince?”

She turned to Bucky. “Convince me!”

Bucky swallowed. With Ecthelion dead, who could back him? “Milady, I had the night watch, cleared with your brother—those men can confirm.” A couple nodded. “I didn’t come until Ecthelion warned me about Barahir. He went for guards, but a guard attacked me. Inside, Barahir assaulted me. I believe he spelled the guards with compulsion.”

He paused, the mind-control tale almost too wild, but added, “Ask Elberon. He saw a similar attack on our journey.”

“Find the Elf!” Arlana ordered. Bucky pressed, “If I’d wanted to harm the Prince or King, I could have. Elrond trusted me here—have I given you reason to doubt?”

“No,” she said, “but you may be a skilled liar. The Elf will settle this.”

“Yes,” Elberon said, after they found him a few tense minutes later.  “A girl attacked Bucky. I saw it. When Glorfindel interrogated her, she spoke of being placed under a magical compulsion.”

“Your account suffices,” Arlana nodded. “Thank you, Elberon.”

Bucky’s relief surged—thank the Valar for the red-haired Elf.

She turned to a guard. “Is the Captain here? Recovered?”

“Yes, Princess. I’ll fetch him,” the guard said, returning with the helmeted man rubbing a goose egg on his head. Guilt gnawed at Bucky—Ecthelion’s death, not the captain’s injury, haunted him.

“Tell us what you recall before you were hit,” Arlana said.

The captain sighed. “I spoke with Barahir earlier, then felt strange—maybe blacked out. All I remember is fighting someone before they found me unconscious in front of the tent.”

Bucky and Arlana looked at Elberon again, who nodded and said “A strange feeling, just like the girl.”

“See?” Barahir sneered. “I wasn’t there when the girl attacked him, or the guards! You have nothing!”

“Bucky had no reason to make anyone attack him. Yet you were close by both times!” Arlana retorted. “Bucky knows no Quenya, let alone your foul tongue. What was it? The Cursed Black Speech of Mordor?” Gasps and cries of horror rippled through the nearby crowd. “I never liked you—your hold on my mother, chants in the dark, cutting eagle chicks’ entrails. I thought you just a vile suitor, not a dark sorcerer—until now.”

“Let Bucky go,” she told the guards. Before they could, she wheeled on Barahir. “It may defy custom, but I care not! I, Arlana, daughter of Arvedui, sentence you to perpetual exile for practicing dark arts, against the Valar’s and Elendil’s laws…”

Barahir’s smirk vanished, eyes blazing with cold fire. “You know nothing, daughter of Arvedui!” His fingers twitched, a faint glow pulsing in his chains. With a snarl, he twisted, chains snapping like thread under a surge of dark energy. Shadows coiled around him; guards lunged, but his hands flared with unnatural light. A guttural chant, and he vanished, the air rippling.

The camp erupted in shouts, guards scattering. Arlana staggered, bow half-drawn, grief and fury mingling. “Find him!” she spat, turning to Bucky, her eyes softening but wary. “You spoke true, kinsman. But Ecthelion’s blood stains us both.”

Bucky nodded, vibranium arm tense. “Find Barahir. He’s not done.” Elrond’s compassion urged him to protect these people, even as Arlana’s pain echoed his guilt. Lindon’s dawn loomed, but the serpent was loose.

"You’re no use to us injured—get your wounds tended.” Arlana'a tone was firm, her eyes flickering with a mix of command and quiet apology for the night’s chaos.

Bucky shook his head, exhaustion warring with resolve. “But Barahir’s still out there—I should help search.”

Arlana’s gaze hardened. “No. I and Elberon will personally guard my brother for the rest of the night. Nobody will get past us. You’re in no state—go.”

Bucky nodded, too weary to argue further. The fight with Barahir and the guards had drained him, his body heavy with fatigue, blood—crusting on his skin and turning his stomach. A female physician guided him to a tent, her hands steady as she dabbed a soothing herbal balm on his cuts and bruises. The scent eased his nausea, and his eyelids drooped.

“Now the rest of you,” she said, her voice brisk.

“What?” Bucky mumbled, jolted from his daze.

“Remove yer tunic so I can check for other wounds,” she insisted, hands on hips. “Young man, I’ve a husband and three sons. I’ve seen it all—metal arm or not. Off with it—it’s filthy, fit for burning!”

Bucky froze, a flush creeping up his neck. The thought of baring himself before a stranger clawed at him, a remnant of HYDRA’s cold scrutiny during his captivity. He shifted uncomfortably, muttering, “No… it’s fine…”

She fixed him with a stern look. “No arguments. You’re in no state to refuse.” Her tone left no room for debate, and his exhaustion won out. He peeled off the tunic, cheeks burning, the vulnerability stinging more than his wounds. She applied more balm, then gestured to a truckle bed. “Sleep. Now.”

He sank onto the surprisingly soft bed, too tired to resist, the night’s horrors blurring as sleep claimed him for the remaining hours.

Chapter Text

The prince summoned Bucky at dawn, pale and drawn after hearing of the night’s chaos. No trace of Barahir remained save a thin trail of blood near the tent, soon lost. “Master Bucky, I owe you my life. I apologize for last night—my sister sought only answers,” he said. Bucky shook his head. “No need, Sir. Ecthelion probably did most of the work.”

The prince sighed. “My sister’s inconsolable—her arrow killed him, though she had no choice. She knew him since childhood.” Bucky nodded. “I liked him too.”

Wincing, the prince added, “We must reach Lindon by nightfall.”

Bucky frowned. “Is it safe, Sir? Barahir might’ve been signalling the enemy—our plans, our position. That orc ambush last time felt too precise.”

The prince’s expression darkened. “Likely, but we’ve no choice but to press on. We have no other safe haven nearby and we cannot stay here" 

Elberon, who had guarded the prince the night before, stepped forward. “Fear not, Master Bucky. Círdan’s veil of protection surrounds Lindon, a ward like Rivendell’s, woven with ancient power. Even Sauron himself has never breached its borders. Barahir’s sorcery will falter there.” Bucky hesitated, then nodded, the elf’s words easing his doubts.

The Dúnedain pressed on, the road a gruelling slog through Eriador’s rain-soaked hills. Barahir’s escape left a shadow, his sorcery a persistent threat.

Bucky walked at the edge of the group, vibranium arm sheltered beneath a Dúnedain cloak, its faint hum drowned by the storm. His eyes, sharp with super-soldier instinct, scanned the ridges, sunlight glinting off his hair. 

Arlana marched beside him, her grief for Ecthelion raw, her bow strung tight. Elberon moved with silent grace, while Dorin and Borin grumbled, their axes catching the midday light. Mel stayed close, his wide eyes betraying both fear and trust. What would happen to him now Barahir was gone? Maybe Bucky would ask the Prince to assign the kid to his care. He'd look out for him anyway. 

As the group paused to ford a stream around midday, Arlana stepped forward, her voice tight. “I’ll hunt Barahir down myself. He won’t escape justice for Ecthelion.” The intensity in her words caught Bucky off guard.

When the group paused to rest, he lingered near her, hesitant but steadying himself. “Arlana, I’ve seen someone close hunt revenge. 

He was leader I once knew, wronged like me, gave me this arm” His vibranium arm flexed slightly. He taught me that pursuing vengeance twists the soul as much as any magic if you let it" 

She turned, her jaw tight. “He was my brother in arms. How do I honor that without losing myself?” Bucky glanced at Mel, then back. “I don’t have all the answers yet, but protecting what’s left might be a start.”

The path grew treacherous, rocks slick underfoot, the air heavy with midday heat. Suddenly, Barahir struck, his cold light flaring from a jagged outcrop, stark against the early afternoon sun. Bucky’s senses screamed; he tackled Arlana, shielding Mel as a pulse of dark energy scorched the earth, singeing his cloak.

“He’s back!” Bucky shouted, vibranium arm deflecting a second blast with a clang that echoed in the daylight.

Elberon darted forward, his blade a blur to distract Barahir’s unnatural agility. Seizing the moment, Bucky reached for one of his usual daggers but fumbled, his hand closing instead on Elrond’s gold-inlaid dagger.

With superhuman precision, he hurled it, the blade slicing Barahir’s arm. The sorcerer’s chant faltered, his light flickering—perhaps a sign of Círdan’s influence creeping closer. “Coward!” Bucky growled.

Barahir spat a curse, snatching the dagger from his wound and vanishing into the shadows, blood trailing behind.

Elberon retrieved the dagger, handing it back to Bucky with a nod. “His power wanes as we near Lindon. Círdan’s strength will shield us there.” Aranarth nodded grimly. “We press on.”

By late afternoon, Bucky and those on horseback crested another hill toward the Lune. Trees stood in front of the river, their branches partially obscuring the view. The river's gleam looked odd and stagnant.

Bucky squinted—no, that wasn't the river. The sun was glinting off what looked like a fence of metal spikes sticking up between the trees. He did a double take. No barbed wire here.

“Elberon, what do your Elf eyes see? Take a closer look,” he urged.

Elberon’s face fell. “Orcs beyond count, stretched as far as I can see. With pikestaffs.” Bucky refocused, spotting the horde. The Witch King’s missing army. Leaderless but ravenous, barring their path. 

If one more person stated the obvious, Bucky feared he might actually stab them. They were most assuredly doomed. 

Aranarth took charge, his voice steady. “Warriors, escort the women, children, and graybeards to the nearest ford. Protect them at all costs.”

A warrior stepped forward, shaking his head. “My prince, you cannot send us away—we should fight beside you!”

Aranarth’s eyes narrowed. “You do not tell me what to do. If this is our end, I’ll die with a sword in hand, buying time for our people to escape.” He silenced further protest with, “Prove your loyalty. Redeem yourself.”

The warrior, once mind-controlled by Barahir, inclined his head. “Yes, my liege. I was wrong to question.”

“My wishes are clear,” Aranarth continued. “My warband will hold them off. The rest, take the people to the ford. Do not look back.” Nods followed.

“When you reach Lindon, do not forget our ways. One day, our descendants will return,” he said, turning away. A woman cried, “How can we return without our king?” He replied, “The Valar will make it so. Go, before I change my mind.”

The warband formed ranks: Bucky, Arlana, Elberon, the Dwarves, Mel, and loyal warriors. The prince clapped Bucky’s back. “You don’t have to be here. Go to Rivendell, find your kin.”

Bucky shook his head. “You are my kin—all of you. I thought my family were gone when I came here, but I've learned family is the people I've meet along the road. The people I love. You are my kin. I’m sticking with you, no matter how this ends.” Borin sniffed, “Stop makin’ me cry.”

The prince smiled. “Then there’s one last thing. Hirluin, Aravorn, stand as witnesses. Master Bucky, kneel.” Bucky knelt.

Aranarth began, “By our custom, state your father’s name, then repeat after me: I swear fealty to Aranarth, son of Arvedui, heir to the house of Isildur. I am bound in loyalty to his house and the customs of the Dúnedain. Until my lord releases me, or death takes me, this oath I swear in the name of Manwë, King of the Valar.”

Bucky took a breath. “I, Bucky, son of George,” he said, then echoed the oath. His voice steadied, a flicker of pride for his father warming him.

“We already count you as kin,” Arlana said, helping him up, “but this makes it official.” She paused, then kissed his cheek.

“This isn’t normal custom, but…” She leaned in, kissing him fully on the lips. Bucky reciprocated, their embrace lingering, a silent vow amidst the looming battle.

Her brother coughed, “I’ll pretend I didn’t see that.” An elf muttered, “I’m surprised the orcs haven’t attacked.” Aravorn added, “They likely have orders to hold.”

Aranarth drew his sword, Arlana her bow. “Valar be with you all—may we meet again when Melkor is vanquished and the world remade!”. Then they began to charge down the hill. 

Bucky jogged forward, which was all he needed to matching the others’ pace.  Never did find out who Melkor was.

The orc line loomed, shadowed by trees. “Dúnedain!” they cried, with a “Durin!” from a Dwarf.

As Bucky drew his dagger, a blinding light erupted.

Screams—unearthly, animalistic—filled the air. Bucky blinked, blinded, stopping as the Dwarves collided in a cursing heap.

The light moved, emanating from an old man dressed in gray on a white horse, staff raised high, brighter than the sun.

A second figure in golden armour gappoped toward the river. His golden hair and armour resplendent in the light. Glorfindel.  “Take cover!” he shouted.

Orcs dropped weapons, clutching heads in agony, then fled some up the hill—some toward the river, trampling each other.

Bucky and several other darted for cover in a nearby copse of trees, not wishing to be caught up in the stampede. 

Below, Glorfindel carved a path through orcs until we waded into the water. He began chanting in a strange tongue. The river rose, sweeping orcs under. Satisfied, he rode out, aided by two Dwarves, cutting down the rest.

Chapter Text

Bucky crested the hill. Again, finding Arlana and others already there, no orcs in pursuit. Arlana dropped her bow, running to the old man on the horse. “Mithrandir!” she cried, embraced like a granddaughter.

Bucky thought, oh, that’s Mithrandir. “I missed you! Not so-little-Arlana now I see!” the old man replied with a warm smile.

Borin shouted, “Gandalf! Yer late, as usual!”

Bucky froze. Gandalf. Elrond had mentioned Mithrandir, but he hadn’t connected it to the wizard from the book he’d joked about with Sam. Wizards were real.

Within the hour, Gandalf, Glorfindel, and the prince’s party reunited with the Artedain. Cheers and tears erupted—the prince lived, and safety loomed. No orc would dare face the wizard and elf. Glorfindel knew a ford three miles off, reachable before dusk if they hurried.

Bucky trudged along the riverbank, exhausted even though he hadn't actually fought. He gave a child a piggyback across, taller men following suit. After several trips, he was soaked and longing for his horse.

Returning, he found Gandalf pointing to stepping stones. “Good day, Sir,” the wizard said cheerily. “You’re giving him a lift?” Bucky nodded, lifting another boy, confused by Gandalf’s presence—beyond Elrond, no other Hobbit figures had appeared, and this era predated the book.

He owed thanks, but Gandalf was gone by his next trip. The kids, growing bolder, rode him for fun. He didn’t mind.

Finally, across, the anticlimax hit. Their goal—safety—was met. Obstacles and losses faded. Bucky had fulfilled Elrond’s task; what now? The prince might want him to stay—especially with Arlana.

He found Aranarth, who pulled him into an embrace. “I thought the worst! Even when Mithrandir saved us, no one could find you!” Bucky gestured to Arlana and the Dwarves. “Ah, that explains it,” Aranarth said. “I haven’t spoken to them yet.”

“What we need is to check you over,” Bucky said. “You were out long—Barahir could’ve done anything, and the skirmish before that , infection’s a risk.”

He winced at the modern slip. Aranarth frowned. “I wasn't stabbed with an orc knife. No poison. I’m fine. You, though—dead on your feet, soaked. Did you fall in?”

Bucky chuckled. “Helping kids across. My arm’s waterproof.” Aranarth raised an eyebrow. “Indeed? Well we have but one more person to meet, and then you're meeting your bed.”

As they rested by the Lune, a figure approached. They were greeted by an old man with a gray beard and long white hair.

He wore flowing robes—no wait, he had pointed ears. He was an Elf. Bucky had never seen an Elf with a beard before. His eyes were gray, as keen as the stars. His face wore the wisdom of ages, and yet was without lines or physical signs of aging.

“His name is Círdan,” Arlana leaned over and told Bucky quietly in his ear, “he is the Lord of this land—and they say he’s the oldest living soul, guiding the Elves to these shores in the dawn of the world, even before Men awoke.”

Bucky had felt uncomfortable when he met Elrond, but it was nothing compared to this guy.

He looked like the pictures of God Bucky had once seen as a child. Elrond seemed to be able to read his mind, and have an uncanny knack for making him spill the beans.

With this guy—it was like he was standing naked before some ancient sage whose foresight pierces all secrets. Nothing was hidden.

They all made the customary greeting to the Elf, bowing with a hand to their chest as they murmured, “Annon edhellen, aníra síla lû n’omentielvo,” and Bucky copied Aranarth, when he wasn’t rooted to the spot.

“Welcome friends,” the Elf spoke at last. His voice was as powerful as the sea, yet soft and full of kindness.

“Welcome, children of Arvedui,” he greeted the prince and his sister, “your journey has been hard and full of peril, but here you will find rest, you and all your people.”

Then he greeted Gandalf, “Mithrandir, I have been expecting you.”

“I was almost too late this time,” said the wizard, “You and Lord Glorfindel were correct, I fear. There was an army of Orcs between us and the Lune. I had to deal with them before we could cross.”

“An hour longer and we would not have survived,” said Aranarth, “Mithrandir saved our lives.”

Círdan gave a barely perceptible nod, “A shadow of evil hung above your party until you arrived here. I perceived it for days with my foresight.

The orcs were, I fear, a final gambit in the plans of our enemy. You were betrayed. One among you told the enemy of your intent to come to me and so the orcs were placed in your path.”

“It wasn’t the only betrayal,” said the prince. Círdan turned his gaze directly to Bucky, his gray eyes piercing, yet he said nothing.

Then, he spoke, “Take heart Aranarth,” said the Elf, “the servant of the enemy is not among you now. He has fled far beyond my sight. You need not fear your companions anymore.”

“I want to know who it was,” said Gandalf.

“It can wait until the morning,” said Glorfindel.

Chapter Text

The following morning, Bucky found himself in a breathtaking Elf city at the mouth of the river, its name whispered with reverence: the Grey Havens.White towers gleamed luminescent under the morning sun, their slender spires rising from forested hills like beacons of ancient light.

The port buzzed with ships, their sails catching the breeze, while seagulls and other birds wheeled overhead, their cries mingling with the rhythmic lapping of waves against the quays. Ivy draped the stonework, and the air carried a salty freshness laced with the scent of pine and blooming sea roses, a stark contrast to the blood and mud of recent days.

Only Aranarth, Arlana, Bucky, little Mel, and the Elves had accompanied Círdan and Gandalf there. Borin and Dorin had elected to stay with the rest of the Dúnedain.

“We don’t like havin’ much to do with Elves,” they explained, “present company excepted.” So, Bucky found himself bidding them a fond farewell for what he hoped was only a short time.

“Goodbye for now, shiny,” said Borin, “and dinnae let those Elves sway you with their fancy ways.”

“Aye, they’ll have ye sneering at us Dwarves as vulgar if ye don’t watch out,” added Dorin.

“Don’t worry, I’d rather slug ale with you scruffy little mugs than sip their fancy wine,” quipped Bucky, greeted by much chuckling.

“What’s yer secret, eh?” Borin grinned. “Them daggers ye throw —spot on every time!” Bucky shrugged with a smirk.

“Just practice, I guess.” “Keep practicing with those axes,” he said as he mounted up, waving and turning away teary-eyed, their laughter echoing in his chest.

Later, Bucky let himself sink deeper into a bathtub, sighing with pleasure as the warm water tingled against his skin, washing away the grime of a week's toil, travel- and battle. Some buds or petals floated delicately on top, and a fancy scented soap sat nearby, but Bucky was happy to wallow like a contented hippo, his face bobbing above the surface.

As the dirt dissolved, a faint memory flickered—Barahir's voice in the Prince’s tent, clawing at his mind—yet it felt distant, softened by the water’s embrace, as if Elf magic eased the sting.

A warmth spread through his chest, unfamiliar yet soothing, as if the water carried more than heat—more Elvish influence stitching his frayed edges back together. The sensation lulled him into semi-consciousness until an Elf gently asked if he was finished.

Reluctantly, he climbed out, changed into clean clothes, and was informed another Elf feast awaited him from behind a screen. Such hardship. How shall I cope, he thought, actually running a comb through his damp hair for the first time in- how long? He couldn't remember. He never bothered much with self-grooming. 

Might as well start as I mean to go on.

They sat before a huge table laden with every kind of food imaginable: fresh fruit, salad, what looked like wafers, delicate sweetmeats, and smooth, spiced wine.

“His name is Barahir,” related Aranarth, “and I fear I don’t know many of the details of what he actually did. I was unconscious for some time. Arlana and Master Bucky saw most of it.”

“I don’t think I remember anyone of that name from the time I visited your father’s court,” said Gandalf.

“It was over 30 years ago,” said the prince, “and we were only children then. I barely remember him from that time myself.”

“He was there,” said Arlana, her brow furrowed and looking down, “he just stayed well clear of you.”

“He was a warrior in my father’s warband for years, and often one of his closest advisors,” added Aranarth. “He even escorted Elladan and Elrohir to Imladris more than once.”

“It is a wonder Lord Elrond didn’t sense there was something amiss with him,” said Elberon.

“He sensed a shadow, brooding and malicious for years,” said Círdan, “but was never able to discover its exact source. He must have hidden well.”

Bucky shifted, the memory of the tent flickering back. “There was a strange light around his hands,” he said quietly, “like a yellow flame, though I was too busy fighting him off to dwell on it. He chanted in a guttural tongue—not Sindarin, something darker. I caught ‘Sauron’ in it, but I was more focused on breaking free when he grabbed my head, trying to force his way in.

It felt like- some dark compulsion- like what he did to a girl on the road from Imladris.Ecthelion, one of our warriors, suspected he might be a Black Númenórean—didn’t mean much to me then, but it fits now.”

He paused, the weight of it settling. “He’s still out there, wounded but not finished. Not a threat to us here, maybe, but I’d bet he’s plotting something elsewhere.”

Aranarth nodded, his voice softening. “Your strength in resisting him, Bucky—it’s remarkable. Few could withstand such dark arts.”

Círdan’s ageless eyes gleamed with admiration. “Indeed, a testament to your spirit, shaped by trials few can fathom.”

Gandalf leaned forward, his tone warm. “You fought off that violation with a will I’ve rarely seen. Elrond would be proud.” Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, deflecting humbly. “Had a good teacher, that’s all.”

Arlana’s frustration flared. “He’s not dead. As long as he breathes, his evil is a threat. We should hunt him down.”

Aranarth placed a hand on her shoulder, his expression clouded. “Our father’s safety weighs heavier. We’ve had no word from him in two or three day. He is unaware of Barahir’s betrayal. With that snake loose, we can’t delay.”

He paused, then added, “Perhaps we should honor Ecthelion here, bury him near the Havens with the Elf who fell beside him—a mark of our unity against such evil.”

Círdan nodded gravely. “A fitting tribute, though it stirs the heart to lose such a warrior.”

Arlana’s fists clenched, her voice trembling. “Ecthelion’s loss drives me—his memory demands we act.” Bucky murmured, “He earned that rest,” then added quietly to himself. Not everyone can do this all day. Even you needed a rest at the end Steve,

The group fell silent, the weight of loss and resolve hanging heavy as they considered the path ahead.

Gandalf’s pipe halted mid-puff, and Círdan’s face tightened. “A Black Númenórean?” Gandalf murmured, shock lacing his voice.

“Those of the South who turned to Sauron’s service were thought eradicated—or corrupted beyond recognition. The mention of such kin stirs a dark suspicion… perhaps some of our own sent East have faltered, their fates lost to shadow.”

Círdan nodded gravely. “If Barahir wields such arts, his escape bodes ill, though his reach may extend beyond our shores for now.”

Elberon suggested, “We could send scouts to find him and dispatch word to Eärnur, King of Gondor, for aid against the Witch King.” Gandalf stroked his beard. “Eärnur has sent ships, but the coming winter may delay them. We must prepare nonetheless.”

That evening, as the sun dipped toward the horizon, Bucky and Arlana sat on a cliff overlooking the Grey Havens. The white towers glowed softly in the fading light, their reflections shimmering on the water.

“What’s with all the ships, is this place some kind of trading hub?” Bucky asked, nodding toward the port.

Arlana’s voice softened, heavy with memory. “This is where Elves sail to Valinor, the Undying Lands in the West, leaving Middle-earth behind forever. It brings Ecthelion to mind— I wonder if the peace of this place would have suited him”

Bucky tilted his head. “I think so. He said he went to live in someplace called Bree near The Shire. That sounds pretty peaceful. 

Arlana turned her head slightly "Among the Halflings? A curious choice. They live very calm and quiet lives, apart from the troubles of the wider world" 

Bucky nodded. Is that where Hobbits are? Sounds real nice. He then said "I guess men don't have that luxury? Sailing off into the sunset like the Elves and leaving everything behind" 

“You’re correct,” she said quietly. “Our fate after death is a mystery, though some believe the righteous are taken to the Halls of Illuvatar to dwell beyond this world until its end.Yet even then, the Elves foretell a great battle, led by fallen heroes of old, where all the Free Peoples will face Melkor, the Evil One—only ending when Illuvatar destroys him forever and remakes the world anew.”

Bucky let out a dry chuckle. “That sounds like one epic showdown.”

Arlana gazed at the horizon, a faint smile touching her lips, though her eyes held a warrior’s fire. “It does, doesn’t it? Ironic, really—even in death, there’s no true peace until evil’s gone for good.

I’ve been thinking about my path forward—maybe finding purpose in something meaningful. A Ranger, like you suggested, could be a start. Or perhaps I’ll fight the Witch King alongside the Gondorians.”

Bucky nodded, the memory of the Council flickering in his mind—less than a week ago, yet it felt like a lifetime. That wild idea at the Council, he thought, and now it’s taking root.

A faint smile broke through. “Sounds like a plan—maybe you’ll find a man you can spar with to marry and keep that fire alive.”

She chuckled, recalling his earlier jest. “Maybe. But I’ll settle for fighting beside you for now.”

Bucky’s smile lingered for a moment, warmed by her words, but his gaze drifted to the horizon. “I’m glad you’re with me, Arlana, but ... my path isn't always so clearly mapped out.”

I don't know where I belong. 

She leaned her head on his shoulder, and they sat in silence, the future a quiet question mark against the twilight.

Chapter Text

Night cloaked the Grey Havens, its starlit shores glowing softly through the white towers. The Dúnedain rested under Círdan’s protection, their tents nestled among the forested hills.

Bucky lay awake, the dagger from Elrond its gold inlay glinting faintly—tucked into his belt, his vibranium arm catching the moonlight. Sleep eluded him, a restless pull drawing him from his bed. He wandered to a quiet windowed room overlooking the sea, where Gandalf waited, pipe smoke curling like whispers, his staff casting a gentle glow.

Bucky feigned rest, eyes slitted, watching the smoke weave patterns against the starry sky, Gandalf’s gaze distant yet piercing. The air felt heavy, not with dread, but with an unplaceable weight.

Unable to stay still, he sat up, voice low. “Why are you here, and what do you want with me?”

Gandalf’s eyes twinkled, unsettlingly keen. “James Buchanan Barnes, of Brooklyn, a soldier who fought in a great war, remade by steel and shadow, standing by Captain Rogers until he left to live another life, then walking a harder path with a new shield-bearer.”

Bucky’s stomach dropped, shame flooding him, his past exposed like an open wound. His flesh hand trembled, inching toward the dagger. “How do you know that?” he rasped. “Do you… know everything I’ve done?”

The ghosts of his deeds—blood, orders, lives taken under Hydra’s grip—clawed at him.

Gandalf’s gaze softened, pipe smoke curling gently. “I do, Bucky. Much of what you did was not by choice, bound as you were by others’ will. But it is not my place to judge the hearts of Men. That is for Ilúvatar, at the ending of days, when all is laid bare before the One.”

Bucky’s breath caught. Elrond had spoken of Ilúvatar in Rivendell—the creator, the source of all. “You’re not him, are you? Ilúvatar? Come here specifically to scare my butt off?” he asked, voice rough.

Gandalf tapped his pipe, a soft chuckle escaping. “No, I am His servant. I am Gandalf, though that’s but a name Men give me. I am a Maia, an immortal spirit sent to walk in the world in the form of a Wizard to guide the peoples. In your age, I might better be described as an angel.”

Bucky’s grip on the dagger eased, but doubt lingered. “This place… it can’t be real. Angels, Wizards—I read The Hobbit years ago, back in Brooklyn. You, Elrond—you’re in a children’s book in my world. Is this all just… some dream?”

Gandalf’s pipe paused, his eyes gleaming with quiet amusement. “Nearly a month in Middle-earth with all its wonders and you still have trouble believing in magic and angels? 20th century rationalism indeed…

There is no such thing as fantasy, not really. Middle-earth is as real as your world, Bucky. The man who wrote The Hobbit knew that well—a very clever man, indeed.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, grappling with the idea. “So why me? Why am I here?”

Gandalf leaned forward, pipe smoke trailing, staff glowing faintly. “I brought you here, Bucky, from your world to this one, for a purpose. An agent of the Enemy plotted to destroy Isildur’s line—a line which defeated Sauron once and will aid in his defeat again.

Their survival, and the Dúnedain’s renewed hope, are a valuable gift you’ve given them. Your task is complete. It’s time to return you home.”

Bucky’s mind flicked to Arlana’s smile, Mel’s wide eyes—ties he hadn’t meant to forge. “You dragged me across worlds to play hero? I’m no hero. I’m just… trying to make things right.”

Gandalf’s voice softened. “You’ve done more than you know. What of those who’ll wonder what happened when you vanish? I’ll give a good explanation.

You will be missed, but you will not be soon forgotten. And who knows? I may have need of you again.” His eyes hinted at futures untold.

Bucky’s heart sank. “Home? After Steve left, after everything with Sam… there’s nothing left for me there. Here, I’ve got friends, a purpose. I don’t want to leave.”

Gandalf’s eyes were kind but unyielding, puffing his pipe. “You cannot stay, Bucky. Not because you lack strength, but because I must not interfere too much in time and the fates of Ilúvatar’s children.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed, a spark of defiance. “You already changed time by bringing me here.”

Gandalf chuckled, smoke curling. “The enemy did that first, planting their agent to twist Arnor’s fate. I merely set things right.”

Bucky’s throat tightened. “And if I mess it up back there?”

“You won’t,” Gandalf said, eyes bright. “A hero isn’t forged in grand battles alone. Small acts—your kindness to a friend, your shield for the Dúnedain—ripple across time. You can be that man, wherever you are, even if you doubt it. Your world needs such compassion.”

Bucky lifted his hand to the dagger tucked in his belt, its gold inlay catching starlight. “Can I keep this? To… remember.”

Gandalf smiled, setting his pipe aside. “Keep it. A token of Middle-earth.” He raised his staff, a soft light enveloping Bucky. “Be well, James Barnes.”

The world blurred, then faded. Stars and galaxies spun overhead. He felt weightless, then a jolt as he landed hard, sprawled in a gulley, rocks digging into his back. Bucky opened his eyes, pain searing through his neck, head, and back.

The sky and jagged rocks loomed at a strange angle, a buzzing sound growing louder above. As his senses sharpened, a black dot—a drone—drifted in and out of focus.

An insect? “Heeeyyyy,” a voice called, “anyone down there? You, OK?” He groaned, the sound escaping unbidden. Something dug into his shoulder, agony flaring as he shifted.

The drone buzzed closer, and Bucky raised his arm to swat it away, but it only half-rose before flopping down, sending a fresh wave of pain through him. The drone retreated, and loud voices crackled from above. He yearned to slip back into sleep, to wake by the river with his company—Arlana, Mel, the Dúnedain.

But Gandalf had sent him back. Had it gone wrong? Had the Wizard changed his mind? Two medics were lowered, their green uniforms catching his eye—elves, at first glance, then reality: a stretcher between them.

“Hey man, you’re gonna be fine,” the woman said softly. “I wanna know how the hell he’s still alive after two days down here,” the man muttered. “Sssshhh. You’ll scare him,” she hushed.

Before he could process, they hoisted him onto the stretcher, carrying him up to the gulley’s edge—the same one he’d fallen into before.

The female medic fussed over him as the man argued loudly. “I don’t care! We’re taking him to hospital! He’s got broken bones and probably hypothermia. Yeah, well Ross can answer to me!” Another medic added, “He’s enhanced, not immortal!” The cold voice persisted, but the team stood firm, lifting Bucky into the ambulance. His head swam, a fuzzy haze like magic motion sickness from the spell and time shift.

As they worked, his eyes flicked to the dagger hidden in his belt, its subtle shine a secret tether. Elves, Wizards, angels—he decided to keep that story buried. For now, he’d focus on surviving, maybe proving Gandalf right, one small act at a time.

Chapter Text

A female medic hovered over Bucky as he slipped in and out of consciousness, the ambulance jostling around him. In his groggy state, she noticed the dagger tucked into his belt, its gold inlay glinting faintly beneath weird clothes.

Some hippie Buddhist fashion trend layered under his leather jacket—and, fearing confiscation, slipped it into her pocket for safekeeping without him realizing.

A faint buzz lingered from the gulley—a drone he’d swatted at, thinking it an insect, his arm half-rising before flopping in pain. Voices echoed: her soft “Hey man, you’re gonna be fine,” a man’s awed “I wanna know how the hell he’s still alive after two days down here,” and her hushing “Sssshhh. You’ll scare him.”

The stretcher ride up blurred into a fuzzy haze, like magic motion sickness from Gandalf’s spell and time shift, until he woke somewhere different again.

This time, after a couple of seconds, he definitely saw electric lights and drab paint. Not Rivendell then. He swiveled his head around. Yup. Hospital.

Then he remembered he hated hospitals. Any medical setting made him jerk upright. He had some kind of tube attached to his flesh arm, and the metal one had apparently been removed. Shit. He couldn’t leave without his arm. Where was it?

He threw open the curtain around his bed, only to be startled by a bearded black guy who dropped his coffee cup in equal shock.

“Sam?” asked Bucky, with a flash of recognition as the guy hurried to scoop up the cup while an orderly fetched paper towels for the mess.

“Look what you made me do, you cyborg freak,” said Sam Wilson.

“Lemme help you,” said Bucky, about to swing his legs out of bed.

“No! You stay where you are before you pull out all those tubes and wreck the whole ward with your lumbering idiocy,” replied Sam.

“Yes Cap!” said Bucky sarcastically.

Sam finally came over. “I see you’re finally feeling better,” he said.

“I’m fine. You know me. Heal quick. Anything broken would have mended long ago,” said Bucky in as cheery a tone as he could muster. “But won’t you get into trouble coming to see me?” he asked. “I’m a fugitive after all. Again!”

Sam smiled. “Not anymore! Ross got himself into real hot water going after you. It’s all over the news. Nearly hounding Bucky Barnes to his death just because you wouldn’t do his dirty work. NOT a good look for the new president.”

“Did you help with that?” asked Bucky.

“Well… I might have told some journalists a couple of things, but the rest was all their own work!” laughed Sam.

“Thanks Cap,” smiled Bucky. “I owe you one.”

“Stop calling me that, or I am gonna start calling you Winter Soldier all the time,” said Sam, rolling his eyes nearly to the ceiling. “Why didn’t you come to me earlier?” said Sam, in a more serious tone. “You know I’d have helped you.”

“I was worried about causing trouble for you with Ross,” admitted Bucky sadly. “That guy can get away with anything.”

Not so much now, especially with Captain America calling him out,” said Sam.

“So, I guess I can go home now,” said Bucky. “Wherever that is,” he muttered more to himself.

“Not straight away, they have to let you out of here first,” said Sam. “And they need my permission for that,” he joked.

“Yeah, and the bastards took my arm to keep me here, too!” said Bucky. Then he remembered something. “Hey, what about that cop? I think a cop fell with me. He OK?” The Elves had said he died, but Bucky thought that if Gandalf had sent him back in time, maybe he could have done something about the other guy too.

“Yeah… That’s the weird part,” said Sam. “Turns out there’s no record of him in the Louisiana police force or any other one in the country.”

“What?” said Bucky. “But he had a uniform, and a gun I might add! Which he fired at me!”

“Yeah, I heard. That’s the other weird thing. He’s apparently disappeared without a trace. No body, nothing,” Sam told him.

“Oh no, they’re not saying….” started Bucky, worried.

“Don’t worry about that. The medics swear you were down the bottom of that gulley the whole time, and in such a bad way from the fall and hypothermia you couldn’t have done anything,” said Sam in a reassuring tone. “Also,” added Sam, “if he wasn’t actually a cop, then you were acting in self-defence.”

Yet still, Bucky felt guilty. Cop or not, someone had died.

3 Days later: New York

Bucky was back home, and more importantly free from Ross’ harassment. What’s more, the President had given him a formal apology and, at Sam’s insistence, reaffirmed his pardon from a year ago. With no modifications.

To celebrate, he decided to spoil himself for once. Literally, it might be the first time in his life—or at least in 8 decades—that he decided to be self-indulgent. He started his day by going out to the hardware store and got a wall mount for the dagger Elrond gave him. He thought at first it had gotten lost when he landed back in the gulley.

However, just before he left hospital, the medic who had found him revealed that she’d seen it and secreted it in her pocket for safekeeping. It was against all the rules, but she’d guessed it meant a lot to him and the cops would have confiscated it. She gave it back to him, beaming as he nearly cried in joy.

It was more than just seeing the gift again. He’d convinced himself the whole thing had been a dream: but when he held the dagger in its little leather pouch in his hands, and rubbed his hand along it, he knew otherwise. The dagger would not take pride of place on his wall.

Once, knives had been a painful reminder of his terrible past, and he could barely even have a kitchen knife in the house because of it. But this one? It symbolized friendship. Hope. Maybe even a little bit of faith. Those were all things he wanted to keep hold of.

After getting the wall mount, he treated himself to lunch at Shake Shack, savoring a juicy burger and fries, and then even bought some doughnuts for dessert. He ate them sitting on a bench in Central Park. Not feeling at all guilty for eating 3 of the sticky confections like a greedy kid. Then he gave the last one to a homeless guy and felt very good indeed seeing the joy and pleasure on his face. Bucky had a distinct spring in his step as he walked out of the park.

On the way home, he decided on a whim to go to the library. He loved reading once, but since returning to New York he just hadn’t been able to do it. Not that he didn’t have the time. More that every book he tried seemed to trigger a bad memory. Or he couldn’t concentrate long enough to get into it.

He decided to give it one more try and had one specific book in mind. He asked the lady at the desk if they had a copy of The Hobbit and apologized that he couldn’t remember the author’s title.

She smiled at him indulgently, before saying, “Sir, that is only the most famous children’s book of all time. Of course, we can find it by the title alone—and we have several copies.”

“Oh, well that’s good then,” said Bucky a little sheepishly, sliding his library card awkwardly across the counter towards her. “I have read it before, just wanted to try it out again,” he felt the need to over-explain as if Elrond was in the room.

“I understand,” she said. “I’ve read it at least ten times. And Lord of the Rings at least 5 times.”

“Lord of the Rings?” said Bucky, quizzically.He remembered the conversation he’d had with Glorfindel and King Arvedui about Sauron and some magic jewelry, but it had rather been eclipsed by the more important stuff which happened afterwards.

 The library assistant, stopping mid-keystroke and staring at him in shock, shook him out of his memory. “Did I say something wrong?” he asked.

“You haven’t heard of Lord of the Rings! Sir, I don’t mean to be rude, but either you are kidding, or you’ve been living under a rock the last 50 years!”

“Well, I er… spent a while abroad, quite a long while …,” said Bucky.

“No explanation needed, Sir. The Lord of the Rings is the sequel to The Hobbit and it is the best book in the world,” said the librarian, placing particular emphasis on the last part. “It is an absolute must-read,” she added, “which is why I am taking the liberty of ordering that for you as well.”

This was the reason why, half an hour later, Bucky found himself carrying a box stuffed with 5 books and 3 DVD box sets through the front doors of his apartment block. The library assistant had been so enthusiastic in her love for all things “Tolkien”—apparently that was the name of the author—that she had given him The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, and another book called The Silmarillion.

She’d asserted that the last one might be a little hard going but he must at least try it; the others were compulsory. She’d then checked out the DVDs, saying they were movie versions of the books but to read the books first.

Bucky took them to make her happy. At least he was up to speed with modern technology and knew what DVDs were. Even though he didn’t have the necessary gadget to play the things.

As he unpacked the books and made himself a coffee, he remembered what Gandalf had said about the man who wrote The Hobbit. He turned the books over and examined the cover of each one. “J.R.R. Tolkien, huh? Wonder if you went there too?”

Figuring he might as well start at the beginning—he selected The Silmarillion (the back cover said it was set first)—and began flicking through as he settled down on his cushion on the floor.Not expecting to find much, he did a double take at one of the names.

Maedhros. Wow. Must read about him, at least.

Then there was a Glorfindel. Figures he’s in here.

He also saw, as expected, an Elrond. Then finally, towards the end, a mention of Gandalf. “I can’t get away from you, can I?”

Far off, somewhere in the distance, a deep-throated chuckle.