'Til The End of The Line

What else could the god of the forge do to repay his son for running his errands? Console him? Talk to him? Say son, I’m proud of you and I’m sorry this happened? Ha!

No, gods aren't really known for their stellar parenting. Instead, his father built something out of it.

It was state of the art, if such a mortal phrase could be used for something made by divine hands. It was made of bronze  and celestial iron, gold-threaded mechanisms beneath the plating, joints so fluid they moved like water. His father carved protective spells into the inner frame and fitted it to him so perfectly that Bucky could still feel heat, pressure, texture, weight of everything.

It didn't feel so different from the arm he had lost, and that made it worse. 

Because men saw it and thought it was a miracle. Kings saw it and thought it was weapon. Heroes saw it and thought it was an advantage. They stared at the shining metal and forgot there had ever been flesh beneath it. They forgot a monster had taken something from him before his father gave anything back.

So Bucky stopped going to war.

He let other men chase glory while he stayed in Lemnos.

His father gave him the forge there, the greatest forge on the island, built deep into black volcanic stone where the heat rose from the earth itself. The whole place breathed fire. The walls glowed at night.

Or, at least, everyone said it did.

The son of Hephaestus in a forge, the man with the metal arm making metal things. Very poetic. People loved when suffering became useful.

And Bucky was useful. That much, no one could deny.

He made swords for kings who wanted their enemies to slain before sunset. He made armour for heroes who spoke of destiny as though destiny had ever once done the washing up after a war. He made arrowheads for hunters, axes for warlords, helmets for princes, daggers for queens who pretended they had no use for daggers at all.

His work was legendary. A blade from Barnes’ forge did not dull. A shield from Barnes’ forge did not crack. Chainmail from Barnes’ hands could turn aside a spear thrust, a lion’s claw, sometimes even a god’s temper.

Men came to him asking for things that could cut, pierce, crush, defend, maim, conquer, survive. 

And Bucky gave it to them.

Because that was what all his hands were good for.

At least, that was what he believed.

And then you come in.

You are a wood nymph, Bucky realises, because no ordinary girl walks into a forge with leaves in her hair and moss on the hem of her dress. You look too kind for all the heat and smoke here, too green and alive for a room full of fresh weapon. 

For a second, Bucky forgets to be rude.Then he remembers.

“Forge is closed,” he says.

You blink at the swords on the wall, the armour hanging from hooks, the coals burning bright enough to turn the whole room gold. “Oh,” you say with a frown. “I just… I heard you fix things.”

Bucky froze.

Nobody… has ever said it like that before.

They say he makes weapons. They say he forges armour. They don’t say fix, like his work made people happy.

You open your palm and show him a broken anklet, thin gold, little leaves dangling from the chain. “It caught on a root.”

“A root,” Bucky repeats.

“A rude one,” you say, as if you have a personal vendetta against the tree. You probably do. 

He should send you away. He has a sword half-finished for a king and a shield waiting for Ares demigod. He doesn’t mend pretty little things for pretty nymphs with sunlight in their eyes.

But you’re looking at him like he can help.

So Bucky sighs, reaches for the anklet, and mutters, “Fine.”

Your smile blooms so quickly he has to look down.

It is the first time anyone has asked his hands to make something that wasn’t meant to hurt.

He pretends that doesn’t matter.

But the. you keep coming back.

At first, Bucky assumes it is coincidence. Wood nymphs probably break things all the time. You live in forests. Forests have branches, rocks, rude little animals with grabby mouths. So when you return three mornings later with a bent hairpin, he only grunts and takes it from your hand.

“Another root?” he asks.

“A bird,” you say.

Bucky huffs despite himself and fixes it in less than five minutes.

Then you come back with a clasp from your dress. Then a little bronze bell. Then a ring made of twisted copper that you swear belongs to a dryad friend, though Bucky notices it fits your finger perfectly when he gives it back.

You don’t have gold or silver, and Bucky knows that, so he insisted you don’t pay him. You said nonesense! And only ever pay him in flowers.

He’ll never admit it but it’s… sweet.

You gave him small white blossoms, bluebells, white thyme, and tiny yellow things you say grow near the river. Sometimes you bring fruit wrapped in leaves, because apparently you’ve decided he forgets to eat and apparently you’re right.

The first time, Bucky says, “This isn’t payment.”

You look genuinely worried. “Do you not like them?”

“No, I—” He stops, because saying I like them feels impossible and saying I like you feels too vulnerable. He looks down at the flowers in your hands, too bright for his forge, and mutters, “They’ll die in here.”

You smile. “Then I’ll bring more.”

And you do.

Soon there are flowers everywhere, tucked into old jars, hanging upside down from the rafters where the heat dries them beautifully. One little daisy sits in a crack on his workbench for three days before he realises he’s been carefully moving around it.

He tells himself he is only being polite.

Except he starts saving pretty scraps of gold and copper and stone because maybe you’ll bring him another broken little thing and maybe he can make it better than it was before.

You ask him to fix a chain, and he adds tiny leaves to it.

You ask him to mend a pin, and he shapes the end into a flower.

You ask him if he can make a clasp stronger, and he makes it so beautiful you stare at it with no thoughts for a full second.

Bucky looks away every time.

He’s not making pretty things because he thinks you’re pretty. That would be ridiculous. He makes swords for kings and armour for heroes. He doesn’t sit in his forge at night thinking about what different shades of gold would look like against your skin.

Ugh. Fine. He does.

One day, Bucky realises you have not come by in too long.

The forge feels too quiet without the little chime of your anklet, without you leaning over his workbench and asking if something hopelessly broken can still be fixed.

So he goes looking, until he realizes he doesn’t actually know where you live.

He asks a fisherman near the cliffs says he saw a wood nymph by the olive groves that morning. He asks an old woman carrying figs and says she thinks you keep to the trees by the river when you are upset, though she doesn’t explain how she knows that and Bucky doesn’t ask. A shepherd points him farther inland.

By the time Bucky finds you, he is already in a temper, but not at you. At the world, mostly. At whatever has kept you away. At himself for caring enough to come all this way.

Then he sees you, sitting by the riverbank with your knees drawn up, your face turned away, shoulders hunched so small The whole grove is green and dappled with afternoon light, lovely in the way nymph places always are.

You are crying.

Oh.

He clears his throat.

You look up, startled, and then your eyebrows softened when you see him. You are relieved.

“Bucky,” you say, and your voice wobbles.

He hates whoever caused that.

He comes closer. “What happened?”

You wipe at your face with the heel of your hand and laugh a little, embarrassed. “It’s silly.”

He waits.

You glance down at the grass. “I made a flower crown this morning.”

Bucky says nothing.

“I know,” you say quickly. “It sounds ridiculous.”

“It doesn’t.”

You look at him then, something in Bucky’s chest goes tight.

“I spent all morning on it,” you murmur. “I made it from river jasmine and clover and the little blue flowers that grow by the reeds. It was very pretty.”

He can imagine it.

You make a face that is halfway between misery and indignation. “A local river god stole it.”

Bucky blinks.

“He said it was the prettiest thing he’d seen in a long time,” you continue, clearly offended all over again, “and then he just… he just took it. Put it on his own head and disappeared back into the water.”

For a moment, Bucky can only stare.

That little river bastard.

Bucky knows a little of what that’s like. He has spent his whole life making beautiful things only for someone else to walk away with them. At least, though, he’s beautifully compensated for it. 

“Come to my forge in three days,” he says.

When he gets back to his forge, three men are waiting with commissions. And enough money to last him many months.

Bucky looks at all of them and says, “No.”

Then he shuts himself inside the forge and begins to make the most intricate thing he has ever made.

He bent gold into branches and shaped silver into tiny blossoms. He embeds blue stones like river flowers, set like dew. Each leaf was made by hand, each petal delicate beneath his metal fingers.

He has made a flower crown that will not wilt.

The, you come to his forge.

Bucky hears the anklet first, that soft little chime he has grown helplessly fond of. He pretends to be busy, pretends he has not spent three days thinking of you.

Then you step inside, and the forge feels warmer for reasons that have nothing to do with fire.

You have flowers in your hair again. Little white ones this time, tucked messily behind your ears, already wilting from the heat. 

Bucky unwraps the crown after you say hi.

And it’s clear it’s not a crown for a queen. It’s not meant for a throne. It’s simply little piece of your grove, shaped by fire.

For a moment, you only stare.

Then your hands come up to your mouth. “Oh, Bucky,” you whisper.

“If the river god tries to take this away,” His chest goes tight. “Tell him a son of Hephaestus will come for him.”

You look at him like that is the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to you.

Maybe, from him, it is.

You take it so carefully it makes his heart ache, setting it on your head with delicate fingers. Firelight catches in every petal, every leaf, every little stone, and Bucky forgets all the clever, gruff things he might have said to survive the sight of you.

You look like spring wandered into his forge and decided to stay.

You touch the edge of the crown, shy all at once. “Does it look pretty on me?”

Bucky’s answer comes without a filter. “Everything’s pretty on you.”

Oh, Bucky. 

So you rise onto your toes and kiss him.

Bucky freezes because he’s not expecting it, startled still as stone, both hands hovering uselessly in the smoky air. But you are warm and gentle and careful with him, and when you start to pull away, he finally wakes up and chases another kiss.

His human hand finds your waist, his metal one touches your cheek. 

He kisses you softer, deeper, like he is learning how to love again for the first time since the Hydra nearly killed him. 

When you part, you look away shyly and rest your forehead against his chest. Bucky tries to ignore the patch of green growing by your feet magically, your emotions are bursting from the ground, but he can’t help but smile anyway. 

The crown glimmers in your hair.

Bucky finally looks down at his hands, one flesh and one bronze, and thinks of every weapon he has ever made. All those years, he believed that that was all his hands were good for.  

But you’re standing in his arms, wearing metal spring on your head, and for the first time in his life, he thinks maybe that was never true.

Maybe his hands can make beautiful things, too.

Maybe they were meant to hold you. 

(You come back in a few days with a freshly made flower crown, of course. When it dries, he casts it in iron 🫶)

What else could the god of the forge do to repay his son for running his errands? Console him? Talk to him? Say son, I’m proud of you and I’m sorry this happened? Ha!

No, gods aren't really known for their stellar parenting. Instead, his father built something out of it.

It was state of the art, if such a mortal phrase could be used for something made by divine hands. It was made of bronze  and celestial iron, gold-threaded mechanisms beneath the plating, joints so fluid they moved like water. His father carved protective spells into the inner frame and fitted it to him so perfectly that Bucky could still feel heat, pressure, texture, weight of everything.

It didn't feel so different from the arm he had lost, and that made it worse. 

Because men saw it and thought it was a miracle. Kings saw it and thought it was weapon. Heroes saw it and thought it was an advantage. They stared at the shining metal and forgot there had ever been flesh beneath it. They forgot a monster had taken something from him before his father gave anything back.

So Bucky stopped going to war.

He let other men chase glory while he stayed in Lemnos.

His father gave him the forge there, the greatest forge on the island, built deep into black volcanic stone where the heat rose from the earth itself. The whole place breathed fire. The walls glowed at night.

Or, at least, everyone said it did.

The son of Hephaestus in a forge, the man with the metal arm making metal things. Very poetic. People loved when suffering became useful.

And Bucky was useful. That much, no one could deny.

He made swords for kings who wanted their enemies to slain before sunset. He made armour for heroes who spoke of destiny as though destiny had ever once done the washing up after a war. He made arrowheads for hunters, axes for warlords, helmets for princes, daggers for queens who pretended they had no use for daggers at all.

His work was legendary. A blade from Barnes’ forge did not dull. A shield from Barnes’ forge did not crack. Chainmail from Barnes’ hands could turn aside a spear thrust, a lion’s claw, sometimes even a god’s temper.

Men came to him asking for things that could cut, pierce, crush, defend, maim, conquer, survive. 

And Bucky gave it to them.

Because that was what all his hands were good for.

At least, that was what he believed.

And then you come in.

You are a wood nymph, Bucky realises, because no ordinary girl walks into a forge with leaves in her hair and moss on the hem of her dress. You look too kind for all the heat and smoke here, too green and alive for a room full of fresh weapon. 

For a second, Bucky forgets to be rude.Then he remembers.

“Forge is closed,” he says.

You blink at the swords on the wall, the armour hanging from hooks, the coals burning bright enough to turn the whole room gold. “Oh,” you say with a frown. “I just… I heard you fix things.”

Bucky froze.

Nobody… has ever said it like that before.

They say he makes weapons. They say he forges armour. They don’t say fix, like his work made people happy.

You open your palm and show him a broken anklet, thin gold, little leaves dangling from the chain. “It caught on a root.”

“A root,” Bucky repeats.

“A rude one,” you say, as if you have a personal vendetta against the tree. You probably do. 

He should send you away. He has a sword half-finished for a king and a shield waiting for Ares demigod. He doesn’t mend pretty little things for pretty nymphs with sunlight in their eyes.

But you’re looking at him like he can help.

So Bucky sighs, reaches for the anklet, and mutters, “Fine.”

Your smile blooms so quickly he has to look down.

It is the first time anyone has asked his hands to make something that wasn’t meant to hurt.

He pretends that doesn’t matter.

But the. you keep coming back.

At first, Bucky assumes it is coincidence. Wood nymphs probably break things all the time. You live in forests. Forests have branches, rocks, rude little animals with grabby mouths. So when you return three mornings later with a bent hairpin, he only grunts and takes it from your hand.

“Another root?” he asks.

“A bird,” you say.

Bucky huffs despite himself and fixes it in less than five minutes.

Then you come back with a clasp from your dress. Then a little bronze bell. Then a ring made of twisted copper that you swear belongs to a dryad friend, though Bucky notices it fits your finger perfectly when he gives it back.

You don’t have gold or silver, and Bucky knows that, so he insisted you don’t pay him. You said nonesense! And only ever pay him in flowers.

He’ll never admit it but it’s… sweet.

You gave him small white blossoms, bluebells, white thyme, and tiny yellow things you say grow near the river. Sometimes you bring fruit wrapped in leaves, because apparently you’ve decided he forgets to eat and apparently you’re right.

The first time, Bucky says, “This isn’t payment.”

You look genuinely worried. “Do you not like them?”

“No, I—” He stops, because saying I like them feels impossible and saying I like you feels too vulnerable. He looks down at the flowers in your hands, too bright for his forge, and mutters, “They’ll die in here.”

You smile. “Then I’ll bring more.”

And you do.

Soon there are flowers everywhere, tucked into old jars, hanging upside down from the rafters where the heat dries them beautifully. One little daisy sits in a crack on his workbench for three days before he realises he’s been carefully moving around it.

He tells himself he is only being polite.

Except he starts saving pretty scraps of gold and copper and stone because maybe you’ll bring him another broken little thing and maybe he can make it better than it was before.

You ask him to fix a chain, and he adds tiny leaves to it.

You ask him to mend a pin, and he shapes the end into a flower.

You ask him if he can make a clasp stronger, and he makes it so beautiful you stare at it with no thoughts for a full second.

Bucky looks away every time.

He’s not making pretty things because he thinks you’re pretty. That would be ridiculous. He makes swords for kings and armour for heroes. He doesn’t sit in his forge at night thinking about what different shades of gold would look like against your skin.

Ugh. Fine. He does.

One day, Bucky realises you have not come by in too long.

The forge feels too quiet without the little chime of your anklet, without you leaning over his workbench and asking if something hopelessly broken can still be fixed.

So he goes looking, until he realizes he doesn’t actually know where you live.

He asks a fisherman near the cliffs says he saw a wood nymph by the olive groves that morning. He asks an old woman carrying figs and says she thinks you keep to the trees by the river when you are upset, though she doesn’t explain how she knows that and Bucky doesn’t ask. A shepherd points him farther inland.

By the time Bucky finds you, he is already in a temper, but not at you. At the world, mostly. At whatever has kept you away. At himself for caring enough to come all this way.

Then he sees you, sitting by the riverbank with your knees drawn up, your face turned away, shoulders hunched so small The whole grove is green and dappled with afternoon light, lovely in the way nymph places always are.

You are crying.

Oh.

He clears his throat.

You look up, startled, and then your eyebrows softened when you see him. You are relieved.

“Bucky,” you say, and your voice wobbles.

He hates whoever caused that.

He comes closer. “What happened?”

You wipe at your face with the heel of your hand and laugh a little, embarrassed. “It’s silly.”

He waits.

You glance down at the grass. “I made a flower crown this morning.”

Bucky says nothing.

“I know,” you say quickly. “It sounds ridiculous.”

“It doesn’t.”

You look at him then, something in Bucky’s chest goes tight.

“I spent all morning on it,” you murmur. “I made it from river jasmine and clover and the little blue flowers that grow by the reeds. It was very pretty.”

He can imagine it.

You make a face that is halfway between misery and indignation. “A local river god stole it.”

Bucky blinks.

“He said it was the prettiest thing he’d seen in a long time,” you continue, clearly offended all over again, “and then he just… he just took it. Put it on his own head and disappeared back into the water.”

For a moment, Bucky can only stare.

That little river bastard.

Bucky knows a little of what that’s like. He has spent his whole life making beautiful things only for someone else to walk away with them. At least, though, he’s beautifully compensated for it. 

“Come to my forge in three days,” he says.

When he gets back to his forge, three men are waiting with commissions. And enough money to last him many months.

Bucky looks at all of them and says, “No.”

Then he shuts himself inside the forge and begins to make the most intricate thing he has ever made.

He bent gold into branches and shaped silver into tiny blossoms. He embeds blue stones like river flowers, set like dew. Each leaf was made by hand, each petal delicate beneath his metal fingers.

He has made a flower crown that will not wilt.

The, you come to his forge.

Bucky hears the anklet first, that soft little chime he has grown helplessly fond of. He pretends to be busy, pretends he has not spent three days thinking of you.

Then you step inside, and the forge feels warmer for reasons that have nothing to do with fire.

You have flowers in your hair again. Little white ones this time, tucked messily behind your ears, already wilting from the heat. 

Bucky unwraps the crown after you say hi.

And it’s clear it’s not a crown for a queen. It’s not meant for a throne. It’s simply little piece of your grove, shaped by fire.

For a moment, you only stare.

Then your hands come up to your mouth. “Oh, Bucky,” you whisper.

“If the river god tries to take this away,” His chest goes tight. “Tell him a son of Hephaestus will come for him.”

You look at him like that is the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to you.

Maybe, from him, it is.

You take it so carefully it makes his heart ache, setting it on your head with delicate fingers. Firelight catches in every petal, every leaf, every little stone, and Bucky forgets all the clever, gruff things he might have said to survive the sight of you.

You look like spring wandered into his forge and decided to stay.

You touch the edge of the crown, shy all at once. “Does it look pretty on me?”

Bucky’s answer comes without a filter. “Everything’s pretty on you.”

Oh, Bucky. 

So you rise onto your toes and kiss him.

Bucky freezes because he’s not expecting it, startled still as stone, both hands hovering uselessly in the smoky air. But you are warm and gentle and careful with him, and when you start to pull away, he finally wakes up and chases another kiss.

His human hand finds your waist, his metal one touches your cheek. 

He kisses you softer, deeper, like he is learning how to love again for the first time since the Hydra nearly killed him. 

When you part, you look away shyly and rest your forehead against his chest. Bucky tries to ignore the patch of green growing by your feet magically, your emotions are bursting from the ground, but he can’t help but smile anyway. 

The crown glimmers in your hair.

Bucky finally looks down at his hands, one flesh and one bronze, and thinks of every weapon he has ever made. All those years, he believed that that was all his hands were good for.  

But you’re standing in his arms, wearing metal spring on your head, and for the first time in his life, he thinks maybe that was never true.

Maybe his hands can make beautiful things, too.

Maybe they were meant to hold you. 

(You come back in a few days with a freshly made flower crown, of course. When it dries, he casts it in iron 🫶)