Steve had seen a lot of strange things in his life.
Men with weapons a century ahead of their time. A cube of energy that didn't belong on this Earth. A war that ended with him in the ice, only to wake up in a world that had passed him by.
But watching a medieval city cheer like it was the World's Fair while Tony Stark flew overhead in golden armor with a cape? That was new.
The crowd was electric, shouting his name, kids scrambling up onto their parents shoulders to get a better view.
Stark gave them exactly what they wanted — loops, explosions, bows grand enough to belong in a pageant.
It reminded him somewhat of the first time he saw Howard. He, too, had been amazed at the flying car, even if it hadn't worked very well.
It was funny to think that over fifty years ago, Howard Stark had promised the world flying cars, yet today, that still remains but a distant dream.
Instead, it had medieval cities emerging from the past, legendary kings turned queens turned gods turned rulers.
Knights strong enough to crush tanks and withstand missiles, and now, a flying knight shooting lasers from his hands and with a sword of energy.
The world was indeed an amazing place.
It had mostly been luck that he managed to reach Camelot in time to witness this sight, this grand show put on to honor Stark.
Still, he had to admit, he had likely earned it.
As Steve had traveled through Albion, seeing the land and meeting the people, he also learned just how important the new reactors were for the current prosperity.
So many he had spoken to had mentioned how much they used to spend on their energy bills, to warm their houses or keep the lights on, and now, they didn't pay anything. A small energy tax, and that was it.
And all that was thanks to Stark's work; if nothing else, Steve had to admit he did inherit his father's brilliant mind, and from this show, his flair for dramatics.
Steve wasn't here for the show, though. He'd spent the last few months walking through Albion, from villages tucked into valleys to ports crowded with fishermen.
He'd seen the smiles on people's faces when they lit their homes without fear of a bill they couldn't pay, and he'd seen the pride in their eyes when they spoke of Camelot.
Steve had come to Albion to seek answers, and so far, he had found many. The common people didn't seem to suffer under oppression.
Arthuria wasn't some evil tyrant; if anything, she seemed far kinder, far, fairer than anyone in power he had ever known. He had met his fair share of Governors and Senators back when he travelled around to sell war bonds, and they didn't seem to love their people.
They might have loved their jobs, but that wasn't the same, he realized that now.
Arthuria might be overly harsh on those who broke her laws; she might not believe in second chances, but at least she cared for the little man.
After spending a month meeting people everywhere, from big cities to small villages, it was time to go to the new heart of the Kingdom, Camelot. Even if already before setting foot inside, he saw the signs of what awaited.
Even now, the atmosphere around him clearly said that the people of Camelot loved their king just as much as the rest of her people did. Because this joy he felt from the crowd, that wasn't fake. And it surely couldn't be the joy of people living in fear.
Steve slipped away once the crowd began to break, and finally stepped through the great gates of Camelot, past the legendary white walls, and found before him, a city that seemed to be waking up.
The streets were surprisingly empty for this time of day, with stores all around closed and stalls left deserted. But it didn't last long. Soon, the people who had watched Stark's show returned, and the city quickly came back to life.
But the hustle and bustle of the city was nothing compared to New York, not that there wasn't as much, but that it just felt different.
New York felt cold; people walking past one another, but feeling so distant, so cold. But here? People smiled at one another, stopped to talk, answered questions with a smile, laughed, and played in the streets.
The noise here was human, a thousand voices, not a thousand cars.
Steve let himself be carried with the current of people until the main street opened wide into a marketplace. Colorful awnings stretched across the square, and the air was thick with the scent of bread, roasting meat, and the tang of iron from the smithy on the corner.
He slowed when he saw the forge. The smith was a broad man, his apron streaked with soot, hammer rising and falling in steady rhythm. On the rack beside him rested swords, spears, and shields of every size.
One of the round shields caught Steve's eye — plain steel, reinforced with iron bands. Crude compared to his old one, but familiar enough that his arm twitched with memory.
He stepped closer. The heat of the forge rolled over him as the smith noticed his stare.
"You want it?" the man asked, not unkindly.
Steve shook his head. "No. Just… looking. Reminds me of something I used to carry."
The man gave a sharp snort, "Not many people carry shields around. I sell plenty of swords; everyone wants a sword at home, hanging over the fireplace, but shields? Not so much." He said before going back to his work.
Steve understood that, having a sword might be a fun thing, but a shield? It didn't have the same charm, but he liked them, far more so than swords, because a shield was much better for protecting others.
With one last look at the shield, he moved on, watching children chase each other between the stalls, their wooden toys clacking against cobblestones.
It reminded him of his own childhood, when he too had spent his days playing in the streets, avoiding cars and bikes.
It was something he had long noticed was absent in the current New York; kids weren't just running around on their own. And it wasn't just in New York either. It seemed that all across the states, kids weren't allowed to just be kids anymore.
He wasn't one to tell people how to raise their kids, but he preferred this, to see kids just running around freely, because it meant that people trusted one another, and people felt safe leaving their kids on their own.
In this aspect, he really did believe Albion, and Camelot in particular, were far better than the states.
A woman selling apples waved at him when he paused to look, pressing one into his hand before he could offer coin. He tried anyway, but she laughed and pushed his hand back.
It struck him how quickly he had been accepted. Not because of who he was — no one here knew his name — but simply because he was a man walking their streets.
Steve carried the apple with him as he wandered further through the city, biting into it absently while he took in the sights. The streets wound upward toward the heart of Camelot, where the shadow of the great keep loomed.
That was where he found it.
A wide plaza opened before him, dominated by a marble statue: Arthuria herself, frozen mid-motion as she pulled a sword from stone. At the statue's base rested another relic, one far less familiar — a hammer, simple in shape yet radiating weight, the surface etched with runes that seemed to catch the light in ways no metal should.
Mjölnir.
That statue, and that hammer, were one of the most popular sights in the city, and the hammer in particular was one of the most talked about topics in the world.
The power of a god.
That was the prize for claiming that hammer, or such were the rumors at least.
Before he left, SHIELD had even asked him to try to claim it if he could.
But he hadn't agreed, and he still wasn't sure if he wanted to try it.
There was only one god, and he didn't wield a hammer, and he sure wasn't called Steve.
Yet as he stood here and watched the long line of people, tourists from across Albion and the world, waiting for their turn to test their luck, their worthiness, he couldn't help but question his choice.
If that hammer really could give great power, wouldn't it be better off in safer hands? His own hand?
He turned away from the statue at last, though the weight of the hammer lingered in his thoughts. Whatever power it promised, he doubted it was meant for him. And if it was… he wasn't sure he wanted it.
Further up the street, he found another gathering. A ring of onlookers had formed around a raised platform, small but carefully built, with a pair of uniformed squires standing at its edge to keep the crowd from pressing too close. This wasn't some wandering performer's stage — it was official, sanctioned, and carefully watched.
The man at its center looked every inch the part of what people thought a wizard should be. His robe was deep crimson, trimmed with gold thread that caught the light, and his staff gleamed as though wrought from solid gold, topped with a glass crystal that sparkled in the sun.
Even his hat was tall and pointed, ridiculous in a way, but so perfectly in line with the expectations of children craning their necks to see.
With a dramatic sweep of his staff, sparks flared into the air, twisting together before bursting into a shower of colored flame. The crowd clapped. He bowed, flourishing his wide sleeves, then conjured again — pulling water from a brass basin at his feet, shaping it into a glittering dragon that coiled through the air before dissolving into mist.
The children gasped, coins clinked into the collection bowl, and the would-be mage spread his arms like a conquering hero.
Steve had seen strange things before, that cube Red Skull had, that had been something else, and it had been dangerous.
Magic too, sounded dangerous, at least the news constantly spoke of the dangers of magic and mutants, as if blaming Arthuria for both, but what he saw now, didn't feel dangerous at all.
It looked impressive, he had to admit that. The way he summoned water and fire, the way he toyed with it, shaped it, and controlled it was impressive. But it wasn't dangerous.
If this were magic, then it wasn't a weapon. A gun was more dangerous than this; he could easily dodge the water and fire, and the amount, not more than his old shield could block.
The mage swept his staff again, this time scattering sparks that fell as glowing motes, drifting like fireflies over the heads of the crowd. Children laughed and tried to catch them in their hands, squealing when they faded into harmless wisps of smoke.
The crowd clapped louder, and the man bowed so deeply his pointed hat nearly slipped from his head.
Steve found himself smiling despite his doubts. Maybe this was what magic was supposed to be — not terror or tyranny, but wonder. A moment of light in the middle of an ordinary day.
By the time the performance ended, the sun was setting over Camelot. The white walls of the keep glowed in the evening light, and lanterns began to flicker alive along the streets, each appearing to shine in a magical light.
"Truly a city of magic and wonder," he muttered as he continued his walk across the still lively streets.
-----
High above the streets of Camelot, inside the office of King Arthuria of Albion. Yalena Belova, leader of The Veiled Hand, reported to her king. "Your Majesty, Steve Rogers has entered Camelot itself. He entered with the crowds after Lord Stark's display."
"Is that? Keep an eye on him, and once he is ready to meet me, arrange it."
(end of chapter)
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