Chapter Text
Bucky’s best friend was dying. Again.
For as long as he could remember, Steve Rogers had been his best friend. According to family lore they had met when Steve was barely toddling and had rolled his favorite ball into a patch of pricker bushes and had promptly dove in after it. Annoyed at the yelling, Bucky, toddling slightly more confidently, had fished him out, retrieved the ball, and dragged him home to get his scratches patched up. It certainly sounded like something they would do, though Bucky suspected it had been greatly embellished over the years.
That was twenty years ago. They weren’t toddlers anymore, but grown men supporting themselves and Bucky’s mother and sister. But he was still pulling Steve out of scrapes. This time, though, he wasn’t sure if it was possible.
He listened to Steve cough, the sound loud enough to drown out the howling winter wind. He hunched his shoulders and stared down at his soup while his mother and sister glanced at him and then the door behind which his sick friend lay.
“He gets sick every winter,” his mother said quietly. “He always pulls through.”
That was true enough. The only thing as sure as Steve getting himself into trouble was Steve getting sick. Mother said it was because of an illness he’d gotten as an infant. The village gossips said the Rogers line was cursed. Either way, Bucky had spent every winter in his memory worrying about whether he’d have a best friend come the spring.
It was different this time, though. The cough was wetter and wracked Steve’s whole body. He’d been too sick to eat, throwing up when he tried. The last time Bucky had checked on him his lips had been blue, skin so pale he could see the other man’s veins in stark lines. This was different. Maybe it was a curse. Maybe even Steve had met a foe he couldn't fight.
“I need to do something,” he said quietly. His mother and sister exchanged a look.
“Steve wouldn’t want you to do anything drastic,” Rebecca offered.
Now they were even talking about him like he was dead.
If he told the women his plan they’d try to stop him. They wouldn’t succeed, but they would try and he didn’t want to worry them. So he kept quiet and ate his supper.
After eating he sat by the fire and carefully knotted a fishing net. It was difficult doing it one handed, but in the years since the hunting accident that had taken his left arm he’d learned to do a lot of difficult things one handed. The women did their washing and mending before turning in, each stopping to give him what was surely meant to be a comforting hug on the way by.
He waited until the house went quiet and the lights went out behind his mother’s door before putting down his work and going in to check on Steve.
He was as he had been the last time he’d checked, and the time before that. For a moment Bucky just started at him to make sure he was still breathing. His friend’s chest finally rose, just barely and Bucky allowed himself to breathe as well.
“They say a flower from the witch’s garden will cure anything,” he said, crouching down beside Steve’s bed. “I’ve been past her walls dozens of times out in the woods. I’ll go in, get a flower and be back here before you know it.” He wrapped his hand around one of Steve’s thin ones and squeezed. “Hang on until I get back.”
He bundled up in his boots and glove and the warmest coat he had and went out into the snow.
The witch’s walls had always been there. In the stories witches that lived in the woods always seemed to be known fixtures. As old as the forest around them, a fact of nature. Bucky remembered stories about the witch when he was little. It was a mystery where she’d come from. Some said she’d come to torment them, others to guard them. Some said she was long dead. Or was it that she’d lost her powers in a deal with the devil or a bet with other witches and living out here in the wilds was her punishment?
Far as Bucky was concerned, he didn’t see why a witch couldn’t just settle somewhere, like any other person. Maybe she’d finished her witch apprenticeship and had struck out on her own. It happened with blacksmiths and leather workers all the time. How many towns had enough business for two witches?
Of course, if it was business she was after she’d come to the wrong town. Superstition and fear ran deep here, deeper than most places. People still sprinkled salt on the threshold and hearth and planted rosemary for luck. His mother wove and sold evil eye charms that hung in almost every home. And when a man got sick every winter saying he was cursed was a perfectly acceptable diagnosis.
No, no one had every thought to ask the witch for anything. Maybe she was the best witch in the world, but she’d never be able to show it off here. Maybe she liked the solitude and that’s why she stayed, concerned another town would come knocking, asking for love spells and curses. No one had ever tried, so who knew?
But everyone knew about her garden.
The walls in the woods were old and weathered and dusted with moss. There was a big house behind them, that could barely be glimpsed over the stone. No one had seen the witch, though some claimed to hear a woman singing when they got too close to the walls. Like a siren’s song it was, or so they claimed, making them want to get closer. Bucky had passed the walls as often as anyone else, but he’d never heard a damn thing. He could smell the garden, though.
His mother kept a garden. Mostly food and herbs, but a few flowers around the edges. In the height of spring you could step out the door and smell a dozen different scents. The rosemary, lavender and mint. The sweet pea blossoms, just about to burst into pods. And the lilacs and mums that lined the path. She’d tried roses once. Once had been enough.
The garden beyond the wall smelled like that and more. A hundred scents, a thousand maybe. Every flower and herb he’d ever heard of and probably a more he hadn’t. It smelled in the spring and summer, but also the fall and winter. That, more than the mysterious wall and house and childhood tales, had convinced him whoever or whatever lived on the other side was magic. No one could make a flower bloom in the snow. Not without magic.
So if the garden was magic and she was magic and the walls were magic then maybe the other stories were true, too. Maybe those magic plants could heal. Maybe he could save Steve.
The wall loomed in front of him before he knew it, cutting through the heart of the forest. He wondered if any animals had been caught on the other side of it when it had gone up. Were there very confused deer and squirrels and foxes living on the other side, in the garden that never wilted? Did the witch let them live in peace or was there no room for mundane animals in magic plants?
If he thought about it too long he started wondering about bees trying to pollinate enchanted flowers and it made his head hurt. Instead, he turned his mind to getting over the wall. There were trees that grew right up against it, he should be able to use one of them. Tree climbing with one arm was tricky, but Bucky was determined. It wasn’t the most dignified thing in the world, but he eventually got up and out to the closest branch. From there he was able to drop to the top of the wall and then into the garden beyond.
His feet landed in rich, dark earth. There was no snow here, not even the feel of frost. Once he hit the ground the harsh wind no longer bit into his exposed skin. Here it was as warm as a spring day, even though it was still dark as night. The smell of flowers here was all but overpowering, underlaid by the scent of fertile ground.
For a moment he stood in shock, trying to take everything in. There was moonlight enough to make out the shapes of bushes and plants near him. He was a few steps from a path and so carefully picked his way over to it. Now that he was here, how in hell was he supposed to know what plan to take? What flower to pick?
Right, well, he’d come this far, no sense turning back. He crept along the path, peering at different flowers as if one would jump out at him suddenly. The path he was on met another, wider one and he took that deeper into the garden. He had a brief moment of panic that perhaps the garden was a maze and he would be trapped there forever. But when he looked up he could see the stars and recognized them and was relatively confident he could use them to navigate his way out.
The path turned in on itself and he found a large cobblestone courtyard ringed with roses. They were all colorless in the moonlight, but he could tell they had to be every shade he could imagine. Surely they had to be the most magical. Normal roses were hearty but occasionally finicky. Growing this many types, this close together and so tall and fully bloomed had to take powerful enchantments.
He pulled his hunting knife out and chose the biggest, darkest flower and carefully cut the stem, catching it before it could fall. He tucked the knife away again and turned back the way he had come. He was on the smallest path, within sight of the spot he’d entered the garden, when his coat caught on the branches of a hedge. Without looking, he tugged his arm away.
And the branches tightened around his arm.
Slowly, he turned and found a cloaked figure standing beside him on the path. The hand holding his arm was covered in a supple leather glove and the cloak made it impossible to tell if the person was male of female. Or even a person, for that matter. Who knew what creatures guarded an enchanted garden?
Then it spoke. “Stealing from a witch. You are very foolish or very brave.”
The voice was soft and bit out through stiff lips. But it was undeniably female. Panic made his heart flutter in his chest but he forced his voice to stay even. “I apologize. I need this. My friend is sick and I thought. . . they say a flower from your garden can heal anything.”
“Hmm. Foolish, then.” She squeezed his arm and dropped her hand. “Magic can’t be stolen, my dear. There’s always a price.”
“What is your price?” he asked immediately. “I’ll pay it.”
“Now you want to pay for it?” There was a noise that might have been a laugh. “Where was this bartering before you snuck in?” Before he could answer, she added, “What is he sick with?”
“His lungs are weak,” Bucky replied, feeling a faint glimmer of hope. “He coughs and can’t keep food down. It happens every winter but this time it’s worse.”
This time she was definitely laughing, though it was a dry, humorless cackle. “Well, you picked the wrong flower.”
Bucky closed his eyes, feeling that hope die. All this work, all this danger. And now he was caught and probably going to die or get turned into a toad. Which meant Steve would die and God knew what would happen to his mother and Rebecca. All for the wrong goddamned flower.
Then the witch spoke again, “I can give you the right one. But you must pay my price.”
His eyes snapped open. “I will. Anything.”
There was a long pause and he had the distinct impression she was staring at him. Then the hood of the cloak moved as if she had nodded and she turned away from him. “Come along, then,” she said as she walked towards the center of the garden.
He hurried after her, having to jog a bit to catch her. She moved damn fast. She took him through the courtyard, past the roses and down a different path. In the distance, over the tops of the hedgerow, he could see the roofline of her house and knew they were getting closer to it.
At the end of the path was a greenhouse, impossibly tall and bigger than his house. The glass required to make it would have cost more money than he would see in his lifetime. But he supposed magic glass didn’t cost a thing.
The witch lead him into the greenhouse and he found it even warmer than the garden, lit by candelabras hanging from the ceiling. Exotic flowers of every shade lined two aisles running the length of the house. Next to the door was a bench with shears, a trowel and some small pots. It was incongruously normal, a little potting bench in a magic greenhouse. Next to the bench was a table with more esoteric tools and glassware.
“Roses aren’t for lungs,” the witch said. “Especially one this red.” In the light he could see the rose he picked was, in fact, a deep blood red. The witch took it from him and set it on the table. Then, she went down the far aisle. “Roses are for the heart. If his blood was running thin or his heart pounding. If he was love sick or heart broken. Then you’d steal a rose. But for lungs - well, that’s something else entirely.”
He walked hesitantly past the magic table and the potting bench to watch her pace the aisle, carefully choosing flowers. “Lungs need iris and violet. A sprig of jasmine might ward off the next illness.”
There was a cluster of purple, pink and white flowers next to him that he’d never seen before. “What are these?” he found himself asking.
She barely looked over. “Orchids. Only if you’re having trouble conceiving.” Instinctively, he took a step back.
After making a loop of the house she returned to the table and set down her armload of flowers. Bucky hovered at one end of the table, uncertain as to what was going to happen. Then she lifted her hands and pulled down her hood.
She was beautiful. Warm brown hair pulled back in a bun and a long graceful neck. Her cheek was a perfect curve, nose a straight, aristocratic sweep. Her lips were full, though turned down at the corner. Despite what her voice had told him she didn’t look any older than him. He must have made some noise because she looked over at him. And then he saw the other side of her face.
It was scarred, horribly. He had seen men mauled by wolves or bears marked by similar wounds. They crisscrossed her cheek, bisected her eye and fused her lips. No wonder she spoke like an old woman, with only half of her mouth working. Her right eye was white, clearly sightless. The scars continued down her throat, disappearing under the cloak.
Her mouth twitched and she turned back to her work, ignoring his reaction. She tugged her gloves off and he saw that while her right hand was smooth and perfect her left was as scarred as her face.
He didn’t know what to say. There was nothing to say. And so he stayed quiet and watched her pluck petals and crush them in a mortar.
“You haven’t asked my price,” she said after the silence had stretched.
It didn’t matter. Whatever it was he would pay it, if it meant Steve would live to see the morning. But it was probably best to know, so he could start dealing with it. “What is it?”
Her hands stilled a moment as if she was reconsidering. Then she straightened her shoulders and said, “You.”
He choked a little. “Me?”
“Yes. I need someone around the house. Someone to fetch and carry things, keep the fires going. Chase away any thieves who make their way into the garden.” That last with a sidelong glance at him.
It was a real effort not to glance at his missing arm. “Surely there was men who would be more . . . capable.”
“Indeed. I’m sure if I tacked a job notice to the board in the town square I would have to beat back the applicants with a broom.”
That was a fair point. “What about my family? Without me there won’t be enough money or food.” Handicapped he might be, but his fishing nets and lures sold regularly and he could still shoot one handed. His kills fed them, often with enough left over to sell.
“It’s a job, not slavery,” she said, sounding irritated. “You’ll be compensated. I can send it directly to your family.” She paused her work again and looked at him. “That is my price. If you don’t want to pay it-“
“No,” he said sharply. There was no other option. Steve was dying. “I’ll do it.”
Something that might have been a smile crossed the non-ruined half of her mouth. She turned back to her work, filling little glass bottles with her concoctions. Then she turned to him and lined the bottles up.
“Smear this one on his chest tonight when you get home. Then boil a pot of water, put five drops of this into it and set it out in his room so he can breathe the fumes. When he wakes in the morning use two spoonfuls of this to make him tea. Have him drink the tea twice a day for three days. Keep him warm and dry. Understand?”
“Chest, fumes, tea,” he said, pointing to each bottle in turn. “And he’ll be cured?”
“Yes.” She looked him in the eyes and he tried not to be distracted by the blind one. “This will cure him of this illness. I cannot promise he won’t get sick again in a month or a year or five. I’ll not have you saying I welched on our deal when I can’t control the future.”
“I know,” he said quietly. “This is enough.”
Turning, she gathered the bottles up and put them in a box. She picked up the rose, as well. “You have one week to make what arrangements you need. Be at my gate by sunset the seventh day. What’s your name?” she asked, holding the box out to him.
“James Barnes. Everyone calls me Bucky.” He reached out to take the box and she handed it to him, then stabbed the tip of his third finger with one of the thorns from the rose. He jerked his hand back in surprise.
She held the rose up and he saw a drop of blood clinging to the thorn. “Seven days, James Barnes. Come back to me or I’ll come and find you.” She smiled a hard, dangerous smile and flicked her fingers.
Cold bit into his skin and he sucked in a lungful of snowy winter air, making him cough. Glancing around, he realized he was at the door of his house, the box of medicines clutched to his chest.