The current tosses me violently as I break through the surface, gasping for air. The black waters of the Gjoll river cling to me, colder than anything I've ever felt, but I barely notice the chill. Through the mist ahead, I can see them – the apple orchards of Fólkvangr, white blossoms glowing in the golden light. And there, beyond the trees... movement.

My heart stops. Even from this distance, I'd recognize that silhouette anywhere. Steve.

He's standing atop a ladder, hammering boards into place on what looks like a small cabin. The scene is peaceful, almost idyllic, and that thought sends a cold dread through me. This is real – he's really chosen to stay here, in this land of the dead, instead of returning home.

The river current carries me closer as I swim toward the shore. Steve looks up suddenly, as if sensing my presence, and our eyes meet across the water. For a frozen moment, there's only shock on his face – then recognition, then something unreadable as he freezes mid-swing with his hammer.

He drops the tool, sending it clattering to the ground, and leaps down from the ladder in two bounds. I haul myself onto the muddy bank, collapsing onto my hands and knees, chest burning from the swim and the effort of simply breathing. Through the haze of exhaustion, I see him running toward me – not as Captain America, not as the superhero, but as Steve, my Steve, the boy from Brooklyn who once protected me as fiercely as I protected him.

He skids to a stop in front of me, chest heaving, his face a complex mixture of emotions I can't parse through my own exhaustion. "Bucky," he says, the name catching in his throat like it hurts to say. "What are you doing here? How did you...?"

Before I can answer, he reaches out a hand. I stare at it, then at him, suddenly terrified that this is just an illusion, that I'll reach for him and find nothing but air. But when my metal hand closes around his, it's solid – warm, real, familiar. He pulls me to my feet, his strength undiminished even in this realm between life and death.

Now that I'm close, I can see it – the faint shimmer around his edges, like heat rising from pavement. He's already fading, becoming part of this place. If I don't act quickly, he'll be lost to me forever.

His blue eyes search mine, and I see it plain as day – he's happy here. This peace, this rest after a lifetime of fighting, is exactly what he thinks he wants. What he thinks he deserves.

"Steve," I say, my voice rough from disuse and the cold water. "We need to talk."