𝐍𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐒 || a Bucky Barnes story

01 | The Black Maiden

CHAPTER ONE
T H E B L A C K M A I D E N

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The chilled air fills her insides like a matted blanket. Pieces of snow have collected in her hair only to be dusted off by the wind. She never got used to the cold, not even after spending years in its presence.

The ground moves underneath her, but not nearly fast enough. Her legs have lost their length, they weigh of nothing, they weigh of everything, that's why she can't keep up. She is running— burning her limbs, burning her lungs. Something is chasing her and it won't stop.

She's looking for a way out, but the path seems to stretch on forever. Snow weighs down the branches under her feet, tugging on her prickled skin like snares coiling for her blood.

She cannot make out what's in the dark around her, and the shadows casted upon her figure from the growing trees, flash with a distinguishable serenity that does not match her fright. As she runs this dread covers her body, boiling under the skin, cauterizing tissue which breaks and heals, and breaks again. Though her lips are faded with purple, she feels as though the growing steam inside her might just break through entirely. She runs in terror, wishing she could disrobe, wishing she could peel her own skin off.

It's a different kind of horror— one she's not used to.

Her bleeding feet leave footprints in the snow.
Now she'll never get away.

She is running, always running— and for what?

She awakes with a jerk.

The nights should be peaceful now that she's out of hibernation, but they very rarely are.

The heat beneath her skin has been silenced, or perhaps it is only resting for now. And although there is yet another discomfort in being awoken, the absolute stillness she is met by brings a certain peace. Her lips are warm. The taste of blood is gone.

She lifts her head and opens her eyes, but finds herself blinded by a headband, tied at the back of her head. She is somewhere different, someplace foreign, and definitely not the frozen wasteland she's used to.

Her feet and arms are bound too, but with tougher and much stronger materials. The texture feels new— perhaps some new kind of metal. They must have changed the ones she broke through last time.

Though her vision is covered, glimpses of the light manage to peek through. It is somewhat blinding, and soon enough she closes her eyes once again, wondering if she perhaps can go back to the unconsciousness she pursued before. Then again, when has anyone taken on her muted wishes?

It is not the first time she has awoken like this. In fact, it seems part of some kind of rhythmic taunt that always repeats itself at the end of her inner head's turbulence. Flashes of thoughts still echo inside her, but as she stays awake, they always seem to slip away after some time, leaving her bare— nearly newborn. The dreams, too, seem like a regular occurrence. They nudge the parts of her that still hold onto the need to understand.

Light footsteps echo in the far distance. Some seem to be approaching her, others slowly disappear into nothingness. Voices, too, seem more apparent, though she cannot make out what they are saying. At least not at first.