edge_of_forever | the merest breath of circumstance

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the merest breath of circumstance

Tyrion slept poorly. He'd always slept poorly, plagued as he was by nightmares of one sort or another. Though lately they'd been less nightmare and more...unbidden memories of past mistakes and missteps, the gods' preferred method of fucking him right up the arse.

But tonight, nestled among the Second Sons's camp, Tyrion dreamt of dragons. Vague, shadowy shapes as large as castles loomed over him, their breath hot upon his skin. His exposed skin. Some time during the night, he'd been stripped bare. His breeches and tunic, gone. Even his smallclothes had fallen away. He was naked, and though exposed to the savage gaze of the enormous, scaled beasts, he was unashamed.

He woke, then, taking a deep breath and then rubbing at his scarred nose. Frowning, he took another deep breath. The air smelled...odd, and he was sure his poor stump of a nose wasn't the culprit. Gone were the lingering odors of many men crammed into a small space. No stale sweat. No shit. No piss. Not even the acrid smell of fresh vomit, and he knew the mercenaries stayed up drinking well into the night. He knew because he was with them for much of that night.

He sat up in the bed, puzzling over his surroundings. He was in a cell of some sort. And since I've become somewhat of an expert in cells over the past few years, I can honestly say that this particular one houses the nicest accommodations so far. And I've never known prison togs to fit so well. Still, the Eyrie owns the best view. Lady Lysa and little Lord Robert Arryn ought to be proud of that.

His circumstances seemed simple enough. He'd probably been carried off somewhere while he was unconscious. Not the first time he'd been taken against his will, after all.

But he wasn't alone.

The gods have finally granted me a cellmate! A reward for my many years of service to the faith, no doubt.

"And what crime have you committed to have earned your spot in this place of honor?"

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"Time usually tells," Steve answered honestly, and was not getting any less confused. He knew - first hand - what people could be like when you were a little different, a little weak in some way, but to the point of Hugor having rarely enough shaken someone's hand to point it out? That was pushing it.

"Do you know where we are, Hugor?"

Because the dwarf might be crazy (that might actually explain why so few would shake his hand), but he might still know if this was a madhouse. And if he was going to be stuck in this cell for very long, it was not even a question - he would call him by his first name.

"That is exactly the problem, young Rogers. I'm thoroughly unsure of how long we have together. If my crimes mirror yours, execution might be the only way out of this."

What a pity. He rather liked living. It wasn't a particularly fantastic life, but it had its moments. Wine. Wine was a good moment. Also fucking, but he'd not done a lot of that lately.

He rather wished he could've fucked more before meeting his end.

"I know as much as you," he confessed, a little taken aback by Rogers' brazen use of his first name. Dwarf and bastard he might be but --

But then someone appeared in the middle of the cell. A woman, comely in her own way. More sorcery? This cell was filled with more surprises than a mummers' farce.

He didn't like it.

Young Rogers? It had been so long since anyone had called him anything like that, and not derisively at that. The corner of Steve's lips quirked up into a small smile, but before he could answer the dwarf's weirder and weirder words...

Hello, hologram, and he focused on the woman as she spoke. A quarantine. A space station. This wasn't even S.H.I.E.L.D, but if Fury had been here, he would have gotten another ten bucks for his trouble.

"Not a prison, then," he pointed out, and turned back to Hugor, mock-chiding. "I told you I wasn't a criminal."

A quarantine on a space station he never signed up for. It wasn't like it was something he was familiar with, but after you woke up from a seventy-year-long nap in the Arctic, there weren't many wake up calls that would throw you. So Steve moved to the screen the woman had pointed out and tried to get it to turn on - less for the movies and music, more for the news. Trying to work with technology he was completely unfamiliar with? Check. But usually, he managed to get the technology to do something, even if it wasn't a good thing.

"Do you know how to use this?" he asked Hugor, turning back around to the dwarf.

He scarcely understood the woman's words, and when she flickered out of existence (as swiftly as a blown-out candle) he jumped. Only slightly, and only out of surprise. But he still jumped.

A sickness of some sort and quarantine. Was she speaking of the bloody flux? He shivered, reminded of the deadly symptoms of the plague ravaging Meereen. Locking oneself away seemed the best way to curb the sickness, he supposed.

"Ask it politely?" he suggested, only mildly sarcastic.

Steve's eyebrows raised as he thought it over. That was not actually a bad idea. Tony had his computer butler he actually talked to, after all. Steve wasn't sure exactly how it all worked (and had made a point not to ask), but this might be the same sort of thing.

"Computer, please turn yourself on?" he requested at the screen, and nothing happened. No butler, no luck. He straightened up, pushing a hand through his hair as he came back to the bunks and sat on one of them. Arms on his thighs, he looked over at Hugor. "So what were those places you were talking about earlier? None of them ring a bell."

Unless Hugor was going to turn the computer on, it seemed that all the entertainment they would have for 24 hours would be three meals and each other's conversation. Hopefully they were actual places, and Hugor was not actually mad.

Steve would keep asking what crime it was he had committed to expect execution for later. Once they knew each other a little more; it seemed like a more intimate question.

Rogers' actually attempted to speak to the thing! Tyrion's eyebrows raised in amusement, and he didn't even try to hide his chuckle. "Perhaps she doesn't like you," he said with a smirk.

He rubbed at what was left of his nose. The thrice-cursed thing tended to itch terribly when he was frustrated, and this situation called for a good nose-scratching.

"Places in Westeros and on the eastern continent, across the Narrow Sea. I'd thought that as a Rogers you'd be from the Stormlands, correct?" He started ticking off locations with his fingers. "Storm's End? The marshes? Summerhall? Bitterbridge? Mistwood? Blackhaven? Tarth? Rainwood? I've run out of holds to list and fingers to tally them with on this hand. None of them sound familiar to you?"

Steve was frowning, and thinking, both very hard. "I think this might be even more complicated than she said," he eventually allowed, with a nod of his head towards the place where the hologram had appeared.

"I come from Earth," he tells Hugor, because apparently he needs to. "America. The United States of America. It sounds like we are from different dimensions."

A few days ago he had not even known that other dimensions existed, had never met - or killed - anyone from another dimension, and now he seemed set to be making a habit of it.

All Tyrion could muster in response was a half-hearted "Ah." The only beings he knew who came from 'the earth' were the children of the forest, and they had long since disappeared, and magic along with them.

"You're not a Rogers from the Stormlands," he said slowly, allowing himself to ease into the shock. "You're from a place beyond the ken of the merchants and the maesters, and beyond the knowledge of books." He took a deep breath.

"If dragons exist in the world again then why not folk from other realms as well? I need a drink," he admitted. "I need to get incredibly, undeniably, shit-faced drunk and I need to do it soon. She did say we'd get meals...?"

"From that dispenser," Steve confirmed with a look at a machine that was thankfully separate from the screen. It might be less whimsical, and actually turn on. "If it is in the mood to work."

Now, whether Hugor would get his wish, and alcohol, Steve had no idea, and did not much care either way. He couldn't get drunk, and if he could, he would not have risked it now.

"You have dragons," he stated, echoing Hugor's words, a topic he preferred to that of alcohol by far. It really was a good thing Fury wasn't around; even if he had his wallet on him, there were only so many ten dollar notes Steve could have pulled out of it. "What else is your world like?"

He approached the section of wall which Rogers pointed at, and pointed at it himself, seeking confirmation that it was, indeed, the correct spot.

Ridiculous, speaking to a wall. Well, Tyrion, you do know that talking to objects which won't talk back is a sign of madness, do you not?

He made a fist with his right hand and cleared his throat into it. Then he began speaking in a ringing, clear voice, suitable for addressing the rabble of King's Landing and stirring them to action. If it was good enough for them, it was good enough for the wall. "My...compatriot and I would like something to drink. Something...strong--"

But before he could clarify his request, two glasses filled with a clear liquid appeared in the conclave set into the wall. He hesitated before grasping at the glasses, fairly certain that his fingers would slip straight through them. He lifted one of the glasses up to what was left of his nose, and groaned in disgust. "I'm fairly certain this is water," he said, dismayed. Still, he offered the other glass to Rogers.

"Have dragons?" He let out a chuff of laughter. "Not myself, personally, no. If I did, my circumstances would differ from my present state. But, yes there are dragons in my...realm. We'd thought they'd died out, generations ago." He sipped at his glass. "I've witnessed men roasted alive from dragonfire. It is not a thing I wish to witness often." Though he did find it a strangely beautiful sight. The flames, at least. Not the screaming, nor the smell of cooking flesh.

"My world," he began, "My world consists of good wine and fine whores. Or fine whores and good wine. Unfortunately, my world only exists in the realm of my imagination. My reality is war, Rogers. Westeros is at war, and men play at being kings by letting other men bleed for them on the battlefield. If King Robert had less love for hunting, I'd still be at home with my nose buried in a book. But there we are. Robert's dead, and I've no nose to bury in a book. Such is life's little ironies, I suppose."

He took another swig of his water. "Is my tongue playing tricks on me or do I detect a distinct bouquet of..." He swirled his glass, allowing the liquid to slosh around. "...ham?"

"And butter," Steve confirmed. He was a lot more perplexed than he sounded, but he had made the very same discovery while Hugor was talking, and had by far preferred to focus on what the dwarf was saying. "Hopefully this is not one of the three meals she mentioned." Steve liked to keep his strengths up, and the shawarma hadn't been enough, although now that he had tasted the 'water', he suddenly found the sandwich very appealing.

"There are very few kingdoms left, in my world," he replied after a few seconds. "My country, the United States, has not had one since it became independent. We elect our president instead, although it doesn't prevent war."

Steve brought his free hand to rub at his nape. He himself was the product of war. They never would have made him the way he now is if they didn't need him... or so he had liked to think, but seeing the weapons Fury had made out of the Tesseract, he was not so sure anymore.

"I've heard of a dark, strong ale referred to as 'liquid bread' but this is taking things too far," he said. "And this won't get me shit-faced drunk," he added, sourly.

If what the woman spoke were true, they'd be released within a day. But to what? What lay beyond the cell? Tyrion was used to knowing answers, or at least knowing where to seek them out. Here? Here he felt entirely out of his element.

"The smallfolk choose their leaders?" He smirked. "A novel concept, but wouldn't everyone just demand more? More of everything? More resources? More land? More power? Or are those reasons you still have wars in your world?"

"In my experience, there are wars because the people in charge want more," Steve answered, after a moment of thinking Hugor's question over. Hitler had wanted to rule the world. So had Loki. From what he had heard of the modern war in the Middle East, it was all about oil.

"In my experience, that is the only reason men go to war. The only one that counts, anyway." He laughed, but the noise held little humor.

"Have you fought in many wars, Rogers? What are they like in your realm? Are men more willing to spill their blood for a leader they chose over a leader who believes he was born to lead? I rather think they are."

"Two," he answered, and he hoped that he would never live to say that he had fought in many wars. He hoped that there wouldn't be enough wars for that. "I fought in two wars." He wasn't sure if the Chitauri attack could actually be called a war, but he counted it as such. If they hadn't been there, Earth would have been invaded.

"I never fought for my leader," he added, answering the rest of Hugor's question. "and most of the men I knew didn't either. We fight for ideals. We fight for freedom, for our rights, for our country, for everything it stands for. We don't fight for our leaders. We fight because we're free."

The best of them did, anyway, and he could only fondly think back to the Howling Commandos. The best men he'd known, but he hadn't had the heart to try to track them down in 2012 - the few that would still be alive. He had felt too inadequate. But not all men were like them, and there was conscription.

"But not all soldiers volunteered, and some fight because they have to, and for no other reason." It was not in his temperament to say anything but the truth of things.

Tyrion let out a hum. "Ah. Me too. I've fought in the War of the Five Kings and I've fought in another, longer war which I don't expect to win. I've fought it since the day I was born, since the gods gifted me with this..." He indicated himself, his stunted little body.

"The name 'Lannister' means little to you, does it, Rogers?" He sighed, clambering onto the nearest bed. "I've told you a lie. It's nothing personal, you understand. Nothing against you. My true name is Tyrion Lannister. My family is one of the great noble houses of Westeros, and through circumstances not entirely of my own design, I'm now in hiding from those who wish to kill me. Though some days I wonder why I even bother."

Odd, he thought confessing the truth would lift the weight of the burden from his mind. He was certainly free to share his true name with those not from the Seven Kingdoms, but the burden still pressed upon him. He smiled, the expression on his face mostly a sad mockery of a smile. "What a luxury it must be to fight for ideals. I think I'd prefer to live in your realm. In your 'America'."

Tyrion Lannister. Steve committed the name to memory, nodding along to Tyrion's conclusion. "Then when I find a way back home, I hope that you are by my side, to be surprised at the number of people willing to shake your hand."

Steve did not have a dishonest bone in his body, but he could at least understand why Tyrion had lied, and would not hold it against him. He felt a certain affinity for the dwarf on account of what his body used to be, and for better or worse, he was inclined to see the best in him.

"When we get out of this cell," which he hoped would happen after a day, like the hologram had said, "there'll probably be others. Do you want me to still call you Hugor?" If it was a matter of safety, he would. He would not have Tyrion's blood on his conscience.

Tyrion didn't truly believe that as much as Rogers did, but he appreciated the man's sentiment. "If you so certain of that outcome, then I'd certainly endeavor to be by your side."

And Tyrion also appreciated Rogers's actually asking after his name! Not everyone would have the courtesy, but then this man did not come from Westeros. What an oddly fascinating place this 'America' must be.

"I've neglected that name for too long, I think. Best give Hugor a rest for now. Tyrion Lannister I shall be. But if you find yourself missing the other name, I'll answer to Hugor still. Or Halfman. Or Imp. No one's called me 'Imp' for a good while. I'm ashamed to say I miss that affront the most."

"And I'm not ashamed to say I won't be the one to call you it," Steve answered with a half smile. He had been given enough names - before and for a short while after the serum, during the months they paraded him like nothing more than a symbol, on the lips of soldiers who had lost too many comrades to the war.

Too many could even be one, if it was one that mattered enough, and Steve could only think of Bucky.

"So your family is a powerful one?" Steve asked, back to getting to know his cellmate. "How come you're scared for your life?"

"I've had worse names than 'Imp' hurled at my direction." 'Murderer', 'kinslayer', and 'kingslayer' come to mind the most, but so tiresome! I'm the only Imp in Westeros, yet the place is lousy with murderers and I have to share 'Kingslayer' with my brother. Better then to be the only Imp in Westeros.

"I've learnt over the years that once one embraces them, makes them a part of one's own, the names lose all their destructive power."

He gave a limp shrug. "I was born, and I lived. And there my troubles began. I don't think I could account for an entire lifetime in a mere 24 hours. Could you?"

"Probably," Steve answered genuinely and honestly. "There are defining moments in anyone's life."

And a lot of details that did not matter as much, not for a first encounter.

As for calling Tyrion names - Steve could not disagree with his assessment, even if he had never been able to do so himself. But he was still not at all likely to ever call him Imp, or anything else that sounded offensive. Steve liked to give, and receive, respect.

"I take it you'd still like to know something of my life before this place? Even though I'm starting to believe there was nothing for me before this place..." He shook his head, chuckling. "My mother died giving birth to me. I was a murderer the day I was born. When I say my troubles began at my birth, it was no jape."

He rubbed at his scar, conscious now of the way it itched.

"And yet, I remained a Lannister. A powerful family breeds powerful enemies. And when you have a father who hates you for killing his beloved, one's life becomes a constant, ongoing siege from all sides But what do you know about hardship? You're...perfect. You remind me a bit of my older brother, actually. Not in face, so much as demeanor. And size."

Steve made a skeptical face at Tyrion's assessment of his person, a hand coming to rub at his nape in something that spoke slightly of unease. "It isn't a man's size and demeanor that decides what his life will be. I used to be weak, plagued with many illnesses. This was given to me," he added, with a gesture that indicated his body.

And, since such a statement would probably require an explanation, "They wanted a supersoldier. They got me."

"You were...given that body?" he asked, a harder edge to his tone. Of course he knew the old stories. Skinchangers could slip themselves within animals, sometimes even within other people. As a boy he dreamt of such powers, before the maesters reminded him that all magic had long since gone from the world.

If the magic truly existed to place him in a body which no one would bat an eyelash at, which no one would jape at, which no one would dare humiliate? Something so...normal...

He swallowed thickly. "A supersoldier? Impossible. A true supersoldier ought to be strong and stupid. Stupid enough to follow orders and not question them. And since you obviously still have your wits, they must trust you a great deal not to betray them, Rogers."

"I would never betray my country," Steve confirmed, or protested. He wasn't entirely sure which, but his voice certainly was ringing with the loyalty he bore his country.

Now, the Avengers had ended up saving Manhattan from the missile the Security Council had sent their way, and he would have been very surprised if there had been no American councillor on that Council, but the way he looked at it, they had gone against men and political interests, not against the United States. On the contrary.

"I was injected a serum that made my body what it now is," he explained. "Until a year ago -" or seventy, depending how you looked at it, "I was about this height, and had no muscle mass to speak of." Yes, he could easily indicate said height without standing up from the bunk.

Tyrion wanted nothing more than to pat Rogers on the head for his devotion, like one would a faithful dog. He smiled ruefully. "Then I misspoke. You are a supersoldier. Any army would be blessed by the Warrior to have you."

A maester's draughts might give sleep to the sleepless. They might remove pain for a few hours or for eternity. Whatever serum Rogers received was beyond a maester's understanding, and, frustratingly, it was beyond Tyrion's as well.

"You don't miss it, do you? Being like that." He leveled his hand where Rogers indicated, and he had to stretch up a bit. "Who would, really? Better blessed by the Warrior than by the Stranger, any day."

Tyrion spoke of the Warrior and the Stranger as if they were gods of his, and it made Steve frown in thought, imagining what they stood for, and how best to answer Tyrion's question.

"I volunteered," he finally replied, after a few seconds. "I wanted to serve my country, and could not do it the way I used to be. They wouldn't let me, or I wouldn't have minded fighting their wars the way I was. But this was the only way, and I wouldn't go back now. I can do a lot more good like this than I ever could before."

A pause, and then, "And I like it better, yes. Like you said, who wouldn't."

"Who wouldn't?" he parroted, his smile faint. He reigned in his jealousy with difficulty, angry with himself for his spite. And for what? I'm no longer that little fool of a boy who prayed to become common. Fuck 'common'. What has 'common' done for anyone? Best be unique.

"What a gift. I hope you're not squandering it. It doesn't look like you do. I imagine the maids fall over themselves trying to get close to you, don't they?"

The maids? Steve is torn between slightly confused and very self-conscious about the question, and in fact even proceeds to blush. Not a lot, but his cheeks are definitely getting a little pinker, and he feels a little hot.

"There's been a few incidents," he answers, thinking most recently - manner of speaking - of the kiss Peggy had walked in on, and then Peggy herself, and there was no shame when he thought of that one, only regret.

The man's face had gone pink, and Tyrion let out a wicked little laugh. Rogers might be more than willing to fight on the field of battle but it seemed that between the sheets was another story entirely.

"The perfect man in every way," he said, chuckling. "I salute you, Steve Rogers. You and your presence of heart." He raised his glass towards Rogers and took another swig of the strange-tasting water. "Presence of heart still tastes like butter and ham."

It wasn't the first time Steve was called perfect, but he had never been able to take it, believe it, or accept it, and this time was no different. So he was all too thankful for the change of topic Tyrion offered him, and he stood to head over to the food machine, his own nearly untouched glass in hand.

"Do you think the food will be as weird?" He pressed a button by the side of the machine, and two sandwiches appeared.

It was shawarma, and Steve made a face. "That'll teach me," he murmured under his breath.

Curiosity won out and Tyrion glanced over at the food. Meat and bread. The combination was not unheard of but the presentation was certainly...novel.

He stretched a hand out, beckoning for Rogers to give one of those bread pockets over. "You've had that before? What sort of sound did it make when it was alive?"

"It was supposed to be lamb when I tried it," Steve answered, sounding resigned, as he took one of the sandwiches and handed it over to Tyrion, then claimed the other for himself. "Since the water tastes like ham and butter, I'm not sure what this will end up being."

But Steve never backed down from a risk, and he took a bite. No, it tasted just like the one he'd had in New York. A little too much like it, in fact, and he had to wonder if it was the same.

"Lamb", he confirmed after swallowing his first bite. He needed the energy. Of course he would eat it.

He accepted the food with a grateful grin, but took a moment to study its contents before taking a bite. The flavors were unusual, from spices he'd not encountered before. It reminded him a bit of Dornish cuisine, he decided.

"'Baa', then," he said, after swallowing that first bite. "Thank the Seven. I was half-expecting 'neigh'. Or worse, 'meow'." Then again, it would have been no worse than among the poorest wretches of King's Landing.

"In my world, once a guest partakes in a host's food and drink, the host is indebted to protect the guest. Guest right, it's called. So, I imagine whomever placed us here won't kill us, else they invoke the wrath of the gods, both old and new. Wishful thinking, naturally. But...I hold that hope."

"The rules of hospitality," Steve agreed, nodding. "We have something like that, too. But it's more about honor than God."

God had stopped being wrathful after the Old Testament, anyway, so that settled it.

"Honor in my world is in scarce short supply," said Tyrion, smirking faintly. "Better to rely on the vague threats of gods rather than the acts of men."

"Gods," Steve echoes. "You believe in several gods?" It made him think of the Greeks or the Romans - or the Norse, except he now knew their gods existed, even if they were... really more like demigods. And nothing much against the Hulk.

"Seven," he corrected. "My house worships seven gods, but by no means are they the only deities in the realm. The old gods are nameless and innumerable. Those in the Iron Islands pray to the Drowned God. There is the Lord of Light, and in the Free Cities, there are temples for all manner of religions." He spoke dismissively. Gods were of little consequence in the every day workings of things. They did not fight for their gods.

Apart from the followers of R'hllor, but that was an exception.

"Tell me about this Lord of Light?" Steve requested. He sounded most like the God that Steve knew and believed him, out of all the religions Tyrion had just mentioned.

"The Red God?" Tyrion gave a shrug. "I know scarce little about him. His priests claim to see visions of the future in their holy fires, and his followers beg for his protection from the darkness. 'For the night is dark and full of terrors', they say."

He finished off his meal, wiping crumbs and sauce away from his lips with the back of his hand. "Shall we discuss another topic? I prefer my gods to reside in septs rather than in someone's cookfire."

Steve had many more questions, starting with was a sept like a church, and did their visions ever come true, but he relented, and nodded. "Of course. It all sounds so different from what I know, if you let me I'm sure I would fill our twenty-four hours with questions."

That a man would truly be interested in what he had to say shocked Tyrion. He spent most of his waking hours listening to others demanding that he shut up.

"Why not?" he asked, a bit more relaxed and amicable now that his stomach was no longer empty. "Perhaps the questions will make the time pass faster?"

Steve smiled thankfully, and warmly, and made a mental note not to ask any more about religion, since it seemed to have upset Tyrion. But everything else was fair game until he was told otherwise, and he had many questions.

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the merest breath of circumstance

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