章 52: POV - Steve Roger (iv)
Something woke him. He wasn't sure what it had been; a bat fluttering too close to the house, a spider nesting under his bed, it could have been any number of countless things or even nothing at all.
Steve looked over at his wife, peacefully sleeping next to him with an arm draped across his bare chest. She didn't stir, her breath coming slow and deep, and so he carefully moved her limbs so as not to wake her and stood up. He peaked out the shuttered window as he pulled on a tunic, scratching idly at the yellow blonde beard that was always fighting to grow, and took a guess that the hour was around four in the morning. It was difficult to tell when thick snow-filled clouds blocked the sky, but a faint red glow from the horizon was a strong hint.
He smiled and softly asked himself, "I wonder if anyone is in the bathhouse right now. I feel like I need a soak." The smile faded as he remembered the accident; when he and the men were digging into the ground above the hot spring, and the scalding spray of pressurized water that left two men bed ridden for a week. Still, the bathhouse finished construction a few days later and became instantly popular with the people. So much so that many tried to sleep there in an attempt to escape the cold and he was forced to make a rule against that.
Exiting his home wasn't difficult, despite the dozen or so people sleeping on the floor around his hearth. Once outside his breath came sharp and quick, the cold night air sapping the warmth from his lugs with each breath. The road to the bathhouse wasn't very steep or far, but the cold sapped at his body and slowed him. It only made seeing other people out and about all the more surprising.
The men and their snow shovels stopped to wave and shout greetings, and he replied in kind. They worked hard to fight against the never ending snow, and made great progress at it each morning. The work was hard and tiring, but it allowed business to continue. A mobile coal-burning blazer was wheeled along with them to provide warmth as they worked, along with a pair of glass containers attached to it by a chain. As they worked, the occasional shovel of pure white snow would be dropped into the glass so it would melt and provide fresh water.
Steve shivered a little as he went down the last section of hill. The area around the bathhouse was nearly unrecognizable during the day and a complete mystery at night; half a dozen other structures all in various stages of completion ranged from sticks and string outlining foundations to those nearly complete; mud and rocks and horse fertilizer in the open spaces between them, sawhorses and frames and tools cluttered around with everything from hatchets to hammers.
There was little of the peaceful little hamlet he'd seen when he arrived.
But people don't seem to be saddened or mad at how their town is changing, he thought. Maybe because it has all been, generally, for the better?
The bathhouse sat at the end of a long rectangle of future homes and places of work, but as Steve approached he caught the intoxicating odor of woodsmoke and meat cooking. It drifted from one of the nearby shops, a little inn that became more and more popular, and his nose twitched involuntarily at the unmistakable smell of barbecue. A large wild boar had been brought down the day before by some hunters, and he suspected that this was where the beast had ended up. His stomach rumbled slightly in protest, demanding attention, and he decided that it would be best to eat after the bath.
He waved greetings at Will, the owner of the bathhouse who ran it by keeping clean towels in stock and lanterns lit, as he put a hand on the door and walked in grinning. It took all of a few seconds to wiggle out of his clothing, and even less to hop from one foot to the other to kick his boots off. He dumped the bundle of cloth in a hamper near the door, attached a small wooden tag with numbers carved into it that he could use to identify the items later. Helpers would come by later and collect the clothing for laundry, and the numbers were used to know who's clothing belonged to whom.
The whole structure was fairly large, about the size of a high school gym but with the pool taking the place of the basketball court. There was a separate smaller room for people to actually bath in, complete with soap and smoothed stone floor and walls. There was a sign hung in that room that generic figures washing, rinsing with buckets of water, soaping, and rinsing again. Dirty water would then run out a drain and down a pipe into what would eventually be an orchard and garden surround the building so nothing was wasted.
Once satisfied with the bath he marched through a door and into the next room before sinking into the hot natural spring water with a groan. The bath was, for the most part, a large hole in the ground about waist deep. Instead of ceramic or shaped stone, the bath was covered in smoothed stone collected from the site and then laid atop a waterproof mixture to keep out the mud. Half of the structure was separated by board partitions with various local drawings engraved atop, and the other half was broken down even further into a dozen private stalls that people could pay extra for. There was a drain at one end that, as the spring was constantly filling, would feed all the water out to the ocean.
Steve allowed himself the luxury of a private stall and relaxed. He could feel the water pleasantly soothing away his aches, and sighed in relief. Despite the effects of the serum, he had been working his body to the breaking point for days and it needed a rest. From building new homes, to digging the early starts of a canal, to lifting heavy stone blocks for hours on end at the Capital, all while tinkering away in his shop and pretending to be a politician; he had been more than busy.
But what really bothered him was the question of, "why?" Why was he pushing himself so hard? Why was he trying to finish everything so quickly that he was pushing his super-human body to its limits? Tonight wasn't the first time he awoke so early, and he was sure it wouldn't be the last. He often went to bed late and rose early, but lately he had been rising several times a night for no clear reason. His mind spun ahead of his ability, and he would sometimes lay awake at night while thinking about everything that would pop into his mind.
Maybe what was really keeping him awake at night was his fear. It seemed like his world, where there was an America and everything else he knew, was a dream. And with each day it passed more and more into the ether.
Peggy, Bucky, I miss you…
He closed his eyes for a moment, a silent prayer to a God he wasn't sure existed here floated from his mind and rose like the warm steam from his bath. When he opened them again, shock held him. Seated across from him in the water was a person. They stood atop the water like it was a solid floor, unmoving and uncaring at how the bath suddenly sloshed in Steve's attempts to stand fight off another assassin. But unlike the black gaseous shadow he once fought, this one was solid and dressed from head to toe in a blue robe that concealed all but a thin neck and bare hands. It took a moment for him to realize it was a woman as she wore a dark red lacquered mask of wood, only her wet, shining eyes were visible from behind.
After a moment Steve calmed down, and laid back in the water. He calmly asked, "You're not really here, are you?"
Her voice was sing-song light, but the answer struck him as hard as a brick, "No." After a moment she added, "Very perceptive of you."
"There is only one man who can walk on water, and I don't think you are him." Steve replied, then frowned in puzzlement. "Why are you here."
"My name is Quaithe of Asshai, and I bring a warning. Magic is flowing back into this world, the glass candles burn, and war is coming for you. Trust in your machines to aid you, but do not rely upon them. They may protect you from man and beast, but only the dragon can end the winter." Her voice sent shivers up his spine. "Remember who you are, Captain. Your shield does."
The Lord of Sea Dragon Point blinked, and the figure was gone.
Had she been real, or a figment of his tired body and active imagination?
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