"Have you ever fired a bow and arrow, Clint?" Jacques asked me with a sinisterly suspicious look etched onto his features.

Casting my eyes down guiltily, I shook my head. "I'm pretty decent with a slingshot though. I can knock a can down from twenty paces!" I announced, hands deep in my pocket with self-consciousness.

Jacques lead us around the cluster of caravans and over to the tent which was being propped up: telescopic poles raised, wires being strung out and pegs being hammered into the ground and the canvas of the big-top being stretched over the skeleton of metal.

"Well," he hummed, twirling the end of his textured moustache around his finger. "If you are as good a marksman as you say you are, then it should be no trouble switching from a slingshot to a bow and arrow. It's simple enough..."

Behind the sunken mess that was the half-constructed tent, Jacques kicked around some hay bales into place and darted into his caravan.

"I'm not so convinced, kid," The Swordsman's butch colleague grumbled, arms crossed cynically.

"You'll see," I said smugly, puffing my chest out proudly.

Jacques plodded merrily out of his caravan with two things in his hands; a longbow and a quiver. "These, my little Hawkeye, will be your tools of trade. Prove to me you're any good, and I'll happily let you join the circus. Otherwise..." He left the remainder of that sentence to my imagination.

But the offer hung in the air like a carrot on a stick. Not letting any of the nerves bleed through, I snatched the quiver of arrows from his hand and slipped it over my shoulder, getting a very surprised look from the guys accompanying me. The bow was a tad heavier than I had anticipated and I slipped that carefully from his hand, testing the weight of it.

As I reached behind me to summon an arrow to my hand, there was a tutting.

"No, no! Twenty paces you said!" Jacques dark eyes lit up. "Twenty paces you will get!" Measuring the steps from bale to where I currently stood, he walked me backwards, counting up to twenty, and then held me still by the shoulders. "Go on then... Prove to me you're as skillful as you claim!" He waved his hands about animatedly.

The distance was daunting. Though the target was substantially larger, the weapon in my hand was foreign to me. All the same, I masked my inhibitions and withdrew the slender shaft of one arrow, twirling it adeptly between finger and thumb as I took it to my bowstring.

I lined the groove in the feathered butt of the arrow up with the bowstring, the shaft resting on the hand clutching the arc of the bow. Fingers curled sound the string, I drew the taut elastic back until it was extended to its maximum.

I flexed my fingers as I lined up the shot, my hands clamming up. The muscles in my arms were straining, unused to the unnatural position they were contorted into and the bowstring bit into my hand.

Breathe in... My target drew into focus and I angled the tip of the arrow towards it.

Breathe out... My back muscles went lax and my hand released the bowstring.

The arrow twirled as it was freed and in the blink of an eye it skewered the centre of the hay bale; the arrow stuck in and flexed before standing proud.

"My, my; it appears our little Hawkeye is a superior marksman after all..." I was clapped on the back as I lowered the bow. "You're a natural! Are you sure you've never done this before?"

"Never..." I breathed a sigh of relief and tittered nervously.

And that's how I ended up joining a travelling circus and becoming one of the skilled carnies I cheered for. All completely on accident. 

It turned out in the travelling carnival, no one went by their real names. And 'Hawkeye' seemed to stick. The group as an elusive band of misfits with convoluted talents and tricks, all of whom were equally unforthcoming about their origin. Some carried their past on their bodies in the form of tattoos, scars and other disfigurements. 

At the carnival, I learnt to harness the eccentric talent that had been latent within me for years.

"These, my little protege-" Jacques announced with ambitious gesticulation in his regal French accent. "Are your livelihood!" He brandished a bundle of arrows in his hand, all with strangely augmented arrowheads. "Your Magnum Opus! Your salvation!"

Rolling my eyes petulantly, "Hardly..!" I scoffed, lunging to snatch them off of him. "They're just a bunch of arrows!"

A finger was waggled in my face accompanied by patronising tutting. The arrows were whisked away out of reach. "Non, non, non, my petit Hawkeye!" I was tapped on the tip of my nose. "These, my apprentice, are trick arrows!" He presented them to me, the varied silver tips glinting under the glaring bulbs of the carnival. My larcenous fingers inched towards the arrows. "Respect them!" Jacques demanded.

Finally the arrows were entrusted to me. Ritualistically, Jacques dropped to one knee, bowed his head and presented the ammunition to me. He had always been rather theatrical and flamboyant, but I appreciated that was the persona he had adopted to disguise the unsavoury personality of the past. 

Twizzling them like a baton between my deft fingers, I tried to figure out the various uses. "What do I have here?" I asked, testing the weight and precision in my hand. 

Stilling my handling of the precious arrows, Jacques listed off the inventory. "A bola arrow, putty arrow, cable arrow, smoke bomb arrow-" I understood why he had halted my frivolous handling of the more volatile weaponry. "-ricochet arrow, boomerang arrow, flare arrow and cable arrow." 

Jacques perched himself on a stack of haybales, gauging my reaction to the new weaponry. "Some of it, of course, you understand is purely for performance visuals - the others?" A sly smirk modulated onto his serpentine face. "You will perform daring feats to stun!" He raised his fist triumphantly. "And to captivate!" He wriggled his fingers like a magician performing a spell.

I plucked my bow off the rack and slung it across my body, standing in line with the targets set up in an archery range. "Do I get to test them out?" Excitement crackled under my skin like a bolt of electricity. 

"Why, my little ranger, the arrows belong to you..! Do with them what you will."

The training that Jacques put me through was intensive, a comprehensive crash course in how to master the medieval weapon. He taught me how to utilise all of my five senses - albeit one was very very weak - to shoot a bow and arrow.

"Focus, Clint!" His voice was like the crack of a whip.

Disorientated by the rotating platform I was on and the blindfold strapped across my eyes, I tried to zone in on the sound of Jacques voice.

"When you think you have the target in your crosshair... Fire!" 

The arrow was notched in my bow, and I steadied my breathing, certifying my orientation by the heat of the big-top lights burning down into me and the sound of Jacques accented timbre. Trusting my gut instinct, I let the arrow fly, and I was satisfied when I head the 'thunk' of it planting in the target. 

Lifting the strap of fabric from where it was tied across my eyes, I peered into the darkness. "How'd I do?" 

Quirking an eyebrow at the target, namely the arrow spearing the bullseye. "You did perfect."

Once I had a grasp of basic archery and seemingly intermediate too, Jacques pushed me to perform more outlandish stunts, bordering on the miraculous. 

"See this apple?" Jacques waved the shiny green fruit at me in the daylight, its skin shiny and ripe. 

"I see it." As an instinctive reaction I plucked an arrow from my quiver and loaded my bowstring.

He scanned the campus, eyes darting between the caravans and trailers that belonged to the carnies. "You there! Yes, you boy!" He beckoned a bemused looking stagehand who dawdled over timidly. He clasped him by the shoulders. "Stand here." He slapped him beneath the chin. "Head straight, and..." He balanced the apple on the boy's head. "Perfect."

The boy's eyes swelled with fear when he saw the boy and arrow in my hands and he open his mouth to garble excuses. "Sir, I don't mean to be objectionable-"

"So don't be! There's a good lad!" Jacques smiled threateningly at the boy, frozen stiff. "Hawkeye here is one of the best marksmen the world has ever seen! A budding William Tell! You've nothing to fear!" He pranced about exuberantly, buzzing with exhilaration at what I was about to do. 

"Apart from having my head shot through with an arrow," the boy mumbled, his head beginning to droop. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed thickly. 

"Exactly!" Jacques chorused, and his hopeful and gleeful attention returned to me. "So, master archer, show me what you've got!" 

An innocent kid's life at stake, a new facet of difficulty was added to an otherwise trivial act. I gave him a reassuring smile, trying not to mirror the fear on his face. I depersonalised my target and centred in on the delicious fruit perched on his head; because after all, I wasn't aiming for a casualty. 

In the blink of an eye, the arrow had shot the twenty paces and a crisp, squelch resounded. To my amazement, it wasn't the sound of a caving skull and kebabed brains, but the apple being skewered and bolted to the tree by the arrow. From it, trickled golden juices and a significant portion had been chipped away by the impact. 

The boy collapsed to his knees with a sigh of relief, and his sobs of happiness were drowned out by Jacques obtrusive clapping and applauding. "My mentee! We'll make a Robin Hood of you yet!"

Naturally, next in my training regime was the infamed archery tribulation said to be stuff of legend due to it's impossibility. Even with my mother's absence and my father's drinking, I had bedtime stories of Robin Hood and his quest for the hand of the fair Maid Marion. I knew of the competition for the golden arrow and the shot he put Guy of Gisborne to shame with. 

The first shot from fifty paces was easy enough: putting arrowhead to bullseye. It was the second part of the trick that was the menace. 

"I've never seen anyone pull this trick off before, you know?" Jacques muttered to me as I settled the arrow against my bowstring. "Some say it is impossible. But nothing is impossible for my little archer!" I was clapped on the shoulder, in almost a fatherly way.

The sun behind me and the night closing in, I read my surroundings. The wind was subtle, but not non-existent; feeling the direction it tousled my hair, I swung my bow in the opposite direction. Estimating the lift and the power required to carry the arrow the distance, I raised the trajectory. 

"You can do this, Clint..." Jacques said more as encouragement to himself than to me. He seemed more pumped and edgy than I was about tackling such a feat. 

Tunnel vision snapped into play and my sights were locked on the feathered end of the arrow already lodged in the bullseye. Breathe in, breathe out, relax back muscles.

The arrow soared the distance before splitting the previous shaft in two down the middle, sending splinters spraying sporadically outwards and a few feathered flittered to the floor. 

"Son... You're ready." 

That evening I was presented with my costume; blue chaps and a blue tabard, all trimmed with flowing purple ribbons. To top off the outfit I had a matching pair of violet knee-high boots, violet gloves and a violet masked cowl, winged in the style of a hawk. My gloves had an inbuilt bracer to protect my wrist from snapping bowstrings. It was ostentatious, eye-catching and extravagant. 

"What do you think?" Jacques questioned, loitering in the doorway as I plucked apart the different pieces of folded up clothing.

"It's amazing..." A smile stretched across my face. "Thank you."

"You've no need. You've earned this..." Jacques bowed his head modestly, pride glowing in his eyes. "Hurry up Hawkeye, you're on in ten!" With that, costumed, he headed off to present the carnival.

Putting on that costume for the first time I felt like something more than just little Clint from Iowa, the lost orphan with his older brother and his dead parents. I felt important. I felt wanted. I felt like a part of something. I had assumed a new identity, migrated into a new lifestyle, joined a troop. 

Eyeing myself in the mirror, looking every bit the cliche performer, I headed out. I weaved between the caravans and to the tent, peering through the flap where the performers entered and surveying the crowds.

The crowds were being whipped up into a frenzy by Jacques goading and antics and people had got to their feet, clapping and chanting and whistling. He was dashing about, pleasing the hordes hungry for impossible tricks.

"And now!" All of the lights switched off, the exception the spotlight whiting out Jacques. "For our latest act!" A timpani drumroll began. "The newest addition to Carson's Carnival of Travelling Wonders!" The screaming, whooping and cheering intensified. "For the first time in history!" My heart jumped into my throat. "Here!" My stomach knotted. "Tonight!" My breathing quickened. "In West Virginia; please welcome..." Time froze. "Hawkeye!"

Showtime. 

A/N - Instead of doing masses of chapters about Clint's training getting progressively better, I elected to go for a montage, because then I can explore the dynamic and Clint's place at the circus a bit more. Also, Clint's talents aren't as much learnt as natural; and supposedly his great eyesight owes to his lack of hearing (like a reverse Matt Murdock!). Also, Nat's training in the red room shapes her as a human being because of the abuse coupled with it and that's the only place she lives. Clint's more defined by his hardship of his homelife, or lack thereof; he's nomadic and criminal. Not to mention most of Clint's practical mastery of the bow and arrow will happen at S.H.I.E.L.D. which is where I'm racing to get to; because that's where the story begins.

If this felt rushed, I will compensate for it in the next few chapters!

Hopefully you enjoyed this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. I hit a wall at the six-hundred word mark when I was in Spain, but after a plane ride jam-packed with reading, I came back at this bursting with ideas and energy. The plane ride was horrific, ten minutes of turbulance at take off and the kid behind me loved kicking my seat... For the entirety of the journey. Border Force was miserable as usual too. All in all I'm glad to be back in England, the heat was driving me insane!

 I saw someone was wondering a while back. so I thought I'd clarify! Clint is about sixteen years old at this point!

My fancasting for Jacques Duquesne is Luke Evans! The moustache and dark hair made him perfect for it! Plus I've seen him as Aramis in 'The Three Musketeers', where he's a skillful swordsman.

Reminder to go and check out some of my other books (Vagabond Chronicles is the one I'm working on in tandem with this currently, but that will switch out to something else; likely 'Checkmate' if I find the inspiration to write the next chapter.)

Wow this has been a long authors note! And I've extended it with this sentence!

Dedication goes to Avengers_Apprentice! x