kathierif_fic: (fandom:avengers:cap)
[personal profile] kathierif_fic
Title: untitled fragment / tournament day
by: kathierif_fic
Fandom: Avengers/AU
Rating: FRT
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Tournament Day. This is the cuddle version of the middle ages.
A/Ns: Cuddle-medieval times. Totally unhistorical. But I let Robin Hood (yes, the Disney version with the fox.) inspire me a little. If you know the movie, you can probably imagine what's going to happen next. If you don't know the movie...I recommend it :)



The archery contest was in full swing, the contestants lined up opposite a line of straw targets with their bows. The tension was high, faces pulled tight and eyes squinting against the glare of the sun.

Clint Barton stood out among his peers, not just because of the wide, almost smug smile on his face, but also because of the quality of his clothes and the skills he had with the bow.

He was a young protegé of Sir Nicholas Fury, and he wore Fury's crest, the black eagle, with pride.

He also dominated the contest.

Rumors about him were flying wild, but nothing exact was known about his past. He avoided talk about his father, and therefore, nobody knew where he'd come from before Fury had taken him in, first as knave and then as his protegé and son in all but name. Sir Fury had no own children, and he wasn't getting any younger, and a few very risky rumours even talked about formal adoption.

Sir Fury himself had not said anything in that order, and Clint himself refused speculation.

The tournament had come to its end, and Clint, as the winner, made his way over to the erected dais where the ladies of the court were sitting in the shade and watching the bustling tournament around them.

Clint bowed respectfully to Lady Virginia, sister to Sir Anthony Stark, before taking Lady Natasha's offered hand and brushing his lips over it. He muttered a few words, lost in the general noise of a tournament, but they made her lips twitch in amusement.

The Lady Natasha was another one of Lord Fury's wards. He had raised her, away from the courts and in seclusion, whispers said, but the truth was that Fury had raised her as little as he had raised Clint.

Clint was the son of travelling jesters, those individuals who could dare speaking their mind in court and not suffer much of the consequences. It showed, occasionally, when he deemed himself unobserved, in his frank and blunt manner.

Natasha, on the other hand, was not the daughter of a royal, entrusted to Nicholas' care when her father returned from Jerusalem with the fever.

Nobody knew who her father was. Fury had found her a wild, untamed thing, already a skilled thief and spy, and he had taken her in and had given her shelter and food in exchange for certain services. Nobody who saw the young lady on the dais now would have recognized the wild girl Fury had brought home all those years ago.

The archery tournament being over, the attention of the spectators turned toward the brave knights of the crown, dressed in their best armors and seated among strong, stocky horses, preparing for the big jousting tournament.

Sir Anthony Stark was, as usual, at the center of the attention. His armor sparkled in reddish and golden hues, a big blue jewel sat proudly upon his chest, and he was riding a chestnut brown horse which was draped in armor as well. Waving and grinning at his many admirers, Stark made his way through the knights, his squire, Bruce, an alchemist who used Stark's fortune to try and find a way to turn rock to gold, always close by in case his master needed aid.

On the other side of the field, Prince Thor, heir to the throne of Asgard, was observing the crowd from the back of his own, pearl white horse. Prince Thor preferred the war hammer to the sword, and his trusty weapon was hung from his belt. His long hair was unbound and not hidden beyond any helmet. He wore his armor with pride and confidence, just like the knight who had ridden up to him and had come to a stop close to him.

Sir Steve Rogers, the undying knight who had sworn his allegiance to Sir Fury just the year prior, was just as tall and imposing a figure as Thor. His hair was cut short, almost like a clergyman's, his armor was black and polished until it seemed to shine with an almost blue hue. Emblazoned on his chest was his crest, the white star, the motif repeated on his shield. He did not wear Fury's coat of armor, not here and not now, but neither did most of the other knights who had sworn fealty to Fury.

They were not here to pull unwanted attention to Fury's vast network of allies. They were here purely to observe, to showcase their skills and armors, to collect glory and goodwill from their fellow knights.

Nobody who was not directly involved in Fury's plans needed to know how well Thor and Sir Rogers were actually acquainted; how Sir Rogers and Sir Stark spent many a night playing boardgames in front of a fireplace, how Bruce was more than just a squire and alchemist.

Nobody who didn't know them very well knew that they spent the winter together in Fury's castle, wrapped into each other like young pups - all of them, from Sir Tony Stark to Prince Thor, from the undying knight Steve Rogers to the Lady Natasha, from the bowman Clint Barton to the berserker Bruce Banner.

And with that in mind, Sir Phillip manoeuvered his own horse, brown and sturdy, but paling next to the magnificent beasts Stark, Rogers or Thor rode, through the masses of knights, his grip on his weapons loose but his eyes and ears wide open, always watching and always plotting and scheming, to get Sir Nicholas Fury, his old friend and the man he would always follow into battle, the one thing he didn't have yet.

Influence on the King's throne.
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