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caeslxys · 1 month

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the salt and the skin

Hi! I have been deeply beset by a disease that can only be cured by writing about Imogen Temult’s intensely ingrained mental illnesses. Yeah it’s contagious. Honestly this fic should probably be labeled as some type of biohazard.

Also on Ao3!

The first time Imogen told Laudna about the storm it was, appropriately, storming.

Laudna’s eyes had been swallowed by a blackness darker than that of the night surrounding them, catching and reflecting even the most minuscule scatterings of light in a way that made her gaze look full with shooting stars. She had taken her leather-shielded hand to hold in both of hers as she listened. It was the first time she could remember someone taking her hand simply to hold.

She said, here is what she knows of the storm: it is unrelenting, it is violent, it is hers.

After—as they lay for the first time in a shared space, hands locked together in a promise at their sides—Laudna fell asleep before her, eyes wide open. Imogen had spent minutes watching light shows reflect in them, enchanted utterly. She thought, without really considering the weight of it then: beautiful.

When she finally fell back asleep, she did so with the comfort of knowing she was never out of Laudna’s lightspun gaze.

———

In the time that has passed since that night the same things that have changed about the storm have changed for her and Laudna—which is to say, nothing at all.

(Which is to say, absolutely everything.

In the time that has passed since that night Imogen has become familiar with the difference between the chill that follows Laudna’s skin and the chill that follows a corpse with her face. In the time that has passed since that night Imogen has learned the difference between running from and running to. In the time that has passed since that night Imogen has learned the difference between losing and being left.

Here is what she knows of grief: it is unrelenting, it is violent, it is hers.

It does not escape her that the first time she heard her mother’s voice was in a storm.)

———

On the twenty-seventh day of Quen’Pillar, as the falling leaves and spines begin to create a shoreline on the bordering forest in a glaze of varying orange and brown shades, Gelvaan celebrates the Hazel Festival.

This, like all other celebrations in Gelvaan, is celebrated with hastily put-up stands and stages and games, the best and biggest cattle and produce hauled in on freshly cleaned wagons—some sporting their previously won ribbons as intimidating trophies—and various flowery dedications to various different gods.

The Hazel Festival, as her father explained it, is a celebration of love and divine intention—the concept and promise of soul mates. As the superstition goes, if there exists another half of you, then you would find them here. People would arrive with bouquets of freshly picked flowers, hand-written letters or hand-crafted food, wandering the small stream of Gelvaan townsfolk with the belief that they were about to stumble upon the great love of their life.

It always seemed so silly to her, which means it was something many of the people in that town held very close to their hearts.

Her father told her that they met there. He and her mother. Maybe that’s why it seemed so silly.

But here, in the dark and with the taste of honesty staining her lips, she has the passing thought that she’d like to take Laudna one day. Maybe not to the one in Gelvaan; somewhere new, somewhere that feels syrupy sweet and slow and that sticks to your skin like a joyful glaze when it's over. Somewhere that stains. She wants Laudna to have to lick her fingers clean. She wants to bring her a bouquet of flowers.

But, for now, she is in a chasm that might as well be endless telling Laudna things that she deserved to hear in any other way. She should have told her about how she feels about Delilah’s presence in their room, holding her hand, holding her lips to the skin of her throat in a threat and a promise.

She should have told Laudna she loves her at the Hazel Festival.

Instead she says “I love Laudna,” with the same tense hesitance you would feel pulling a trigger and follows it with a “but” that bursts from her chest like a bullet that precedes “I’m disgusted at the idea of Delilah looking at us all the time.” that leaves her smoking mouth like an accusation. She watches her careless aim land true in Laudna’s chest, sees the conflicted hitch and stutter of her breath from even the short distance separating them.

It ricochets; it strikes her, too.

———

During the trial of trust, when Laudna says she loves her, Imogen’s response is: “I think you’re a doppelganger right now?”

Which is silly. They’ll laugh about it later. It also makes her want to die as soon as it leaves her lips.

Because, the thing is, she knows Laudna. She knows Laudna and she would be able to tell if it wasn’t Laudna if she had been blinded or deafened or made senseless altogether. Her tether, her anchor. She would know. She should have known.

In the same way she should have known the moment they landed in Wildemount that Laudna was in Issylra. In the same way she should have known the moment she fled that Laudna was in the Parchwood. In the same way she should have known twenty years ago that Laudna was coming to her.

Not that any of it matters. She didn’t know. She didn’t know that she was in Issylra—the Parchwood—The Hellcatch—in front of her. It feels as close to sacreligious as Imogen has ever truly felt. Heretical. Like she should be punished or brought down altogether. And, really, maybe she should be. The exercise was to trust one another.

What kind of trust was it, to instinctually keep trying to reach into her friend’s minds? To summon a hound to stand between them all as they stood at the very precipice in case? If she’s honest, she doesn’t truthfully feel like any of them deserved to be called victorious.

She wonders, briefly, if the other side is lacking here, too. Ludinus, Otohan. Her mother. Is it trust that binds them? Is it faith?

The brief thought of it, that her mother has found her own version of the Hells—maybe her own version of Laudna—drives into her chest like a fist.

But none of that compares to—Laudna’s face, fumbling into disbelief at the accusation; Laudna’s grasping, empty hands; Laudna’s nervous, darting eyes. Laudna’s screams, cutting through the night off the bow of the Silver Sun. Laudna’s bleeding fingers, dripping black onto shattered, pink stone.

If it was sacrilegious of her to doubt Laudna’s intention, it is damnation she feels take root in her ribs as a hound aparrates at her side. It bursts forth with a growling howl, its decaying hackles raised, its bright green eyes trained on her, sharp and dutiful. For her to doubt Laudna—for her to make Laudna doubt her—

Well. She supposes it’s fair.

She glances at it, her Cerberus. She says, “Hi, baby boy.”

It calms. Across the fountain, face blocked by the angle of her own extended hand, Laudna calms, too. “Yes.” Laudna utters, “Good boy.”

She closes her eyes as she, Orym, and Chetney breach the barrier surrounding the fountain and drop their ivory sticks into its grasp. She reaches for Laudna’s mind one final, unsuccessful time, the plea for her not to lunge dying unheard in the folds of her mind.

(In the moment, as Morri applauds their upward failure of a success, she doesn’t register the way her now red-scarred fingers come up to brush against the now-bare skin of her temple. She should have known.

Next time, she will.)

———

When Fearne finally makes up her mind and readies herself for taking the shard, Imogen’s eyes are on Laudna and how a line of tension shoots up her spine and draws her shoulders together like folding, skeletal wings. How, as Chetney reaches into the bag of holding, she silently steps away.

Imogen hasn’t been wearing her circlet, has lowered herself once again into the rapid waters of her too-open mind for hours now, but she doesn’t need to be in Laudna’s mind to know what is passing through it.

It makes her sick, the thought of that vile woman in Laudna’s mind or soul or presence. It makes her more sick to think of Laudna spending even a moment around her influence alone.

(When Laudna had come back—when they found her, out at the tree line of the Parchwood—she had run. She had taken a moment to meet Imogen’s exhausted-elated-terrified eyes and sprinted in the opposite direction. She ran for fear of what she was capable of doing, of who she was capable of hurting, of both her lack of control and abundance of power.

She thinks of Laudna running from her and from her and from herself and, briefly, envisions a storm in the place where once she stood.)

She doesn’t really register that she has moved until Laudna is already in her arms.

“You can put your head in my shoulder. Til’ it’s over.” She whispers, one hand burying itself in Laudna’s hair and the other wrapping possessively around her waist, “I can tell you what’s happening, if you want?”

Laudna doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and then, into her neck: “You’re warm.”

She feels the barely-there press of lips to her carotid and tries valiantly not to let the shiver it sparks pass through her. Instead, she takes the hand in her hair and presses lightly, moves so that every point of their bodies that could be connected are. She says, voice silk-soft, lips brushing a metal-armored cropped ear, “So are you.”

For a moment it feels—well, intimate in a way she’s slightly embarrassed about displaying in front of the others. Slightly.

But then Laudna is murmuring “shut up, shut up, shut up,” into the skin of her shoulder and—she can’t help it—she smiles. She giggles. It is pure pride. Her brain in three parts: loving Laudna, hating Delilah, wanting to tell Laudna it’s okay to bite her shoulder to drown out the voice if it’s too loud.

She does not do that, and instead whispers the incantation she has all but ingrained on her tongue from countless back-and-forth trips on too shaky gondolas and grief insurmountable—she says, in some dead language or a command—calm.

She thinks, as the spell leaves her and Laudna’s tense body melts completely—as Fearne’s body rises into the air, encompassed in flame—as Chetney’s grip on the tools he has taken out to hold for comfort, and then on FCG’s raging body, turns white-knuckled—as Ashton flinches and almost doubles over from another shock of pain that passes through them and then as healing energy into Fearne—as Orym bounces anxiously on his heels like a flea or a warrior looking to strike—as FCG’s eyes flicker red and his tiny healing-hands become something violent—as her mother says her name through the roaring of a storm—I’m not running anymore. I won’t run.

She imagines, as Laudna pulls back when things have settled and her taloned grip releases Imogen, that her skin has formed new scars in the shape of Laudna’s hands. She holds the idea in her mind in place of an oath.

———

That night, she gives in.

It’s inevitable, really, no matter which way you look at it she and the storm and the moon have always been meant to collide. To swallow each other whole. It’s better that she does it on her terms.

Laudna agrees. It’s good that Laudna agrees. The best, actually, because she was hoping that she’d say no. She was hoping that she’d say no because she doesn’t actually want to be swallowed whole by the storm or the moon or the concept of a mother. What she wants is for Laudna to say no, and to take her hand and walk her out of the room—the house—the feywild—this entire situation—and into whatever is next. Because the truth of it is, no matter how many people go into her dreams with her, she still feels alone.

In the end, she tells herself as red bleeds into the nothing behind her eyelids, the future she has been fighting for has never been her own. The hope she holds like water in her hands was never meant for herself. Her last fight. Her last hope. She stows them away like weapons. She thinks, They’ll owe me. She thinks, They’ll free her.

Except, when she gives in—when her friends fall away, as they always do, and she is left alone and cradled and warm with the echo of her desperate mother’s voice ringing in her mind—it’s everything. It’s twenty years of nightmares and ten of minds on minds on minds and months of grief and love and wrath all wrapped up in a bow and labeled “purpose”.

She feels like a child. Or what she imagines most children felt like. Weightless. Like if she’s simply good enough there will be someone who loves her there to wrap her in a hug or a blanket and tell her she did well. Who will carry her tiny half-asleep form to her room and tuck her in and kiss her forehead and say “good night.” Like she could close her eyes and let the darkness swallow her and know someone left a light on.

It’s everything. So when she wakes to her friends hovering, groggy faces she is only guilty for a moment at the spike of disappointment that shoots through her at the sight of them. And only guilty for a second longer when her eyes land on Laudna who is still, also, endlessly, everything.

It’s not—she’s not really there for the next few seconds—minutes—hours. All of their voices come through as if she is submerged in something thick that pulls every time she tries to break for air. Or maybe a lack of air altogether. There are still stars behind her eyelids every time she blinks.

At some point in their conversation two things finally register in about the same amount of time. One: her mother had called for her. Her mother had been there. Her mother had sounded like she was crying. And two: Laudna is holding her hand.

Laudna has been holding her hand, maybe. For a few moments and a few years. It's this, her tether, that finally brings her back to—well—Exandria.

The others are—asleep? No, they’ve—that is, she and Laudna—have moved. To their room. They had a room? Have they spent a night here already? If time is a soup then she has made quite the mess.

Regardless, Laudna is holding her hand. It’s everything.

Then there is shifting, slow and slight.

“Imogen.” She hears her whisper, voice dropping to that low husk that her choked, only lightly decayed vocal cords must reach to achieve a tone so soft. She doesn’t ever mention it, but Imogen knows how sometimes kindness exists like a war in Laudna’s body. In the way her throat rebels against the scratchy dip of her voice, in the way her bones ache when embraced. It hurts her to be so soft. For Imogen, she does it anyway. “Imogen. Would you like to lie down?”

She doesn’t respond—she doesn’t think she responds—just squeezes Laudna’s cool hand in her warm one and laces their fingers together in lukewarm knots.

She feels Laudna’s hands take and cradle her close—holds there, chests rising and falling against each other like lapping waves for an amount of time Imogen doesn't bother to count—and then she twists and shifts and lays her down like a sleepy child on their shared pillows. She tucks her in. She stands.

“I’ll be back.” Laudna husks somewhere above her. “Rest, darling. I won’t be but a few minutes. I’m sure Nana has a pitcher of water somewhere around here that I won’t have to—I don’t know—make a deal for, or something.”

She thinks she feels the tiniest beginnings of a grin pinning her lips up as Laudna's steps slow near the door, hesitate—begin to close—and then open the door long enough to peek in and say: “Pâté is with you, okay, I’ll be right back. I’ll try not to bargain what remains of my soul for water, but—you know—as they say—what must be done and all—okay, bye” punctuated by the croaking sound of their door pinching shut.

Definitely a grin, then. “Pâté,” she says, dream-drunk, “Your mom is the best.”

She feels Pâté land on her chest with a soft, somewhat wet flop. His tiny feet pitter like he’s excited or dancing. He says, “I know. She’s the whole package.” And then, after letting loose a rattling sound that could be considered a yawn, he asks, “Can I get cozy, then? While we wait for mum?”

Imogen, eyes still blissfully closed, let's loose a breathless laugh. Her hand blindly makes its way to the ball of fur and viscera and bone and love on her chest and scritches, “‘Course, Pâté. We’ll wait together.”

He hums. She feels him turn in one, two, three circles on her chest before finally curling up and settling in on her skin. He makes another rattling noise that could be a yawn or maybe a purr and says, “You’re warm.”

She is undeniably smiling when she responds, “So are you, buddy.”

———

When Laudna comes back minutes or hours later, Pâté is fast asleep on her chest.

His little body rattles with what she assumes are snores, softly vibrating against her collar. She holds a finger to her lips as Laudna goes to shut the door behind her. Laudna makes a face like she’s about to burst into tears.

She doesn’t. She instead turns to—softly—shut and lock the door, and then turns soundlessly again in her direction. She takes a breath. She smiles, “I’m not going to lie, I was kind of hoping you’d be asleep when I got back.”

She hums, low in her chest. “Why?”

Laudna looks at her in that somewhat blank way she does when she thinks the answer to something is quite obvious. She says, “Because you need the rest.”

She hums again. Laudna treks the distance between them and sits softly beside her, her sharp hip just barely pressing against the bend of her waist. Her bony hand catches Imogen’s cheek—or, maybe, Imogen’s cheek willingly falls into her hand—regardless, suddenly she finds herself held. A thumb brushes under her eye with the barely there gentleness one uses when full with fear for something breaking in their grasp.

She leans forward and over her, dark hair falling around them like a curtain of ink, blanketing them in shadow, encompassing her entire vision. She asks, breath falling upon her lips like a torrent or a phantom kiss, “Are you alright, darling?”

Imogen lifts up the barely there distance to press their lips together, sighing into her mouth. “Careful with Pâté,” she whispers when she falls back, a hand splaying on Laudna’s chest to keep her from fully settling in atop her, “he needs the rest, too.”

Laudna opens her eyes as if from a good dream—and then rolls them. She lifts a hand to wave in the air as if swatting at something. “He’s dead.” She says, like it’s an obvious thing—which, it is. But. “Besides, if he dies from exhaustion or something else ridiculous then I’ll just bring him back.”

Imogen frowns. “I don’t think he’s dead. Not, like, dead-dead, anyway. ‘Sides, he’s comfy. I’d feel bad if we woke him.”

Laudna hums, then. “Yes, he is. Comfy. And also dead.”

Her turn to roll her eyes. “Where’s his house?”

Laudna sighs like the world is ending—which, well—and leans down for one more soft kiss and then back and up and off of her entirely. Imogen tries—valiantly, she might add—not to openly wince at the loss.

She watches Laudna brace her nonexistent weight against the bed in a way that would cause the mattress to dip if it were anyone else, and instead just presses with the barely there imprint of her palms into the silk. She reaches for Imogen’s chest, cups Pâté’s tiny form in her hands; Imogen brings her hands together overtop them both. When Laudna looks at her, her eyes are full of shooting stars.

“Can I?” she asks, “Please?”

Laudna stares at her for a few slow heartbeats more, a little like she is stunned. Eventually, she leans down over their joined hands and kisses her fingers. Again. Moves her thumb to run over her knuckles like she is wiping away a stain. “Of course.”

Her body still feels a little gone, a little floaty, as she brings her hands to catch Pâté’s tiny body in their joint grasp, lifts herself up against the headboard, and then swings her legs over the side of the mattress. She sways to her feet slowly, slightly wobbly, eyes never leaving from the curled-up ball of fur in her hands and on her chest. Laudna’s hands have moved and are pressing into her biceps from somewhere behind her, steadying.

She lifts her head long enough to find where Laudna had placed Pâté's little home across the room, its golden-brown wood resting silently atop the possibly skin-covered drawer by the archway that opens into a vine-wrapped, flower-lined balcony.

She half-shambles, half-stumbles her way over with Laudna on her bleary-eyed heels. It feels infinitely important—it’s always felt important, but—that she is gentle. That Laudna sees her be gentle. It is more important than she has words to describe that Laudna could leave or fall asleep or be elsewhere and feel and know that Pâté would be put softly, lovingly to bed. That he would be tucked in. That Imogen would leave a little light on for him if he asked. She looks down at Laudna’s most special little gift and drops a tiny, feather-light kiss against his skeletal head. “G’night, buddy.”

He mumbles out a gargled sounding, “G’night, ‘mogen.”

She smiles, pulls apart the tiny curtains that act as a privacy sheet to his home, tucks him in as well as she can, runs one last soft finger down the length of his beak and just like that—she can’t help it—she starts to think of her mother.

She wonders how gently Liliana held her, when she was so small and helpless and vulnerable. She wonders if Liliana ever sang to her, ever held her little hands and kissed her stubby fingers. That memory—the one that Otohan conjured or summoned or triggered—her mother had caught her as her toddler legs had stumbled; she had smiled and wiped her tear-stained cheeks and lifted her into her arms and held.

The phantom memory of a mother and the phantom memory of Ruidus begin to overlap—how long had it been, before Laudna, that she was shown gentleness? Before Laudna, two decades into her life, was it her mother? Before her mother, before she was ever given a name, was it the moon?

How was she meant to—how was it fair to expect her to—is it so evil of her, to wish? She won’t—she won’t—because she knows that it’s wrong no matter how desperately it feels right. But the—the venom she catches pooling in the depths of Orym’s gaze, sometimes, when he talks about the moon and the vanguard and she—she gets it—of course she gets it, of course she understands—but it’s not like she’s ever genuinely entertained the thought of joining the vanguard—of joining Otohan—but the moon, Ruidus, Predathos—she won’t—the silence, the comfort—her body, radiant even among the stars—running, tripping into her mother’s arms—she won’t—

“Imogen?”

A chilled hand on her shoulder, gentle, gentle, gentle.

Breath enters her empty lungs in a shock-sharp inhale. Light enters the world again—natural, silver-white moonlight like a stripe of paint from the open balcony; warm, flickering orange from the candle by the bed—and the temperature goes from freezing to scalding to cool as she collapses back into her body like debris flung from orbit. Laudna’s hand on her skin; she crash-lands back home.

On impact, she whispers, “Laudna.”

A moment of hesitance and then a soft, cool pair of lips against the curve of her neck and shoulder. Her hands circle to wrap around Imogen’s waist. She asks, again, voice feather-fall soft, “Are you alright?”

A moment of hesitance and then her traitorous mouth, her traitorous heart: “I don’t know anymore.”

Laudna presses another, more lingering kiss to the space below her ear, then moves to run her nose along the curve of her jaw. She whispers there, in a way that she feels the words press against her skin, “That’s okay.”

Imogen finds her hands against her belly and twines them together as tightly as she can—tether, anchor, home. Her breath trembles.

They don’t say anything, holding each other in the space and the silence. Laudna presses gentle, gentle kisses to anywhere on Imogen that she can reach—neck, shoulder, ear, jaw—until Imogen turns to meet her there, barely capturing Laudna’s bottom lip between hers and then moving in again, more insistent. She feels Laudna’s lips pull into a smile against hers. Imogen notes that she’s becoming familiar with the feeling. The thought pulls her own smile forth.

But they haven’t kissed like this before, at this angle, in this room. There are so many other perfect kisses they have yet to discover.

It doesn’t make sense that she only kissed her a little over a week ago. She should have kissed her a month ago, the moment she came back on the floor in Whitestone, the moment they arrived in Jrusar, two years ago in Gelvaan. She should have kissed her a hundred more times than she did the day that she first gathered the courage to kiss her in the first place and then kissed her some more. She should’ve bought lipstick so she could leave a stain.

Laudna pulls back first, half-laughing and half-sighing at Imogen’s attempt to give chase. She leans back in to press a quick kiss to her nose—new, perfect—and then dips down, seals their foreheads together, looks up at her. She asks, “Would you like to talk about it?”

No, not really. “I think I’d need another week to even begin to process what’s happened to us in the last three days, to be honest.”

Laudna nods. “Yes, understandable. It’s been a lot.” She pauses, as if to see if Imogen will respond, and then says, “Still, I’d like to listen.”

She’s perfect. That’s it, really.

Imogen finds her hand and brings it up to her lips, kissing each finger once and then each knuckle. She whispers, “I’m not sure I know how to.”

Laudna kisses her cheek. “That’s okay, too.”

When she pulls back she also pulls forward, taking Imogen’s hand in her own and guiding her. She twines their fingers together, and then they are on the balcony.

Catha shines more brightly here than she is used to in the Material Plane. There is no bloody red or pink shine of Ruidus to speak of after their work at the key. It is navy-dark, struck through with silver cuts from Sehanine’s light. There are moving, shifting vines wrapped around the stone-skinwork railing of their little alcove, purple and yellow and orange and bright, vibrant green dancing and swirling and alive around them.

Laudna gasps, her lips forming a perfect, excited “O” when she notices the little movements. “Hello, there,” she says to the vine, “Sorry to disturb you. Would it be impolite to talk to my girlfriend out here, for a minute?” and then, her hands coming up like claws and her voice deepening to the tone she uses for her most important and dramatic of questions, “Is this, like, your domain?”

The vines shake back and forth as if to say knock yourself out or maybe well I can’t stop you.

Laudna grins, “Oh, perfect. Excellent. You're much less ferocious than your feywild-forest-flower friends.” Her brows furrow, a single finger coming up to tap nervously against her lips. “Hm. I hope that wasn’t insulting.”

Before Imogen can stop her she reaches forward and lightly taps the vine with two fingers, sharp teeth exposed in a smile, “You’re perfectly ferocious as well.”

The vines shutter as if to say fuck off and then pull back and vanish, leaving clean stonework behind.

Laudna pouts. Imogen takes and tangles their hands together. “Maybe next time.”

She sighs, all dramatics, “I’m beginning to believe plants hate me as much as people do.”

Imogen knocks their shoulders together. “People don’t hate you.”

“Objectively untrue. Regardless,” she says, waving Imogen’s immediate attempt at a counter aside, “Are you ready? For tomorrow.”

For the key? For Ruidus? For her mother?

She shrugs, “As I’ll ever be. You?”

”Oh, I think so.” She leans her bony hip against the balcony wall. “It’s been a long road. To get here. I never doubted you would.”

Imogen scoffs. She leans against the wall, too. “A long road is certainly one way to describe it. A shitty road, would be another.”

Laudna tilts her head at her, raven-like. A rope of black hair falls into her face. Imogen clenches her fingers around her arms in an effort not to reach across the space and brush it behind her ear. She says, with the upward tilting, insecure cadence of a question, “It hasn’t all been shitty, though?”

Imogen heaves a heavy breath. “No,” she says, fingers still digging into her own skin, “No. Not all of it.”

Laudna hums. There is still hair in front of her eyes. “But quite a bit of it.”

”Quite a bit, yeah.”

Quiet. Some likely incredibly fucked-up feywild bird flutters its incredibly fucked-up feywild wings and takes off into the moonlit night. Imogen turns and balances her weight on her elbows, leaning over the wall. The vines from earlier are just over the edge, as if eavesdropping. She says, “But not all of it, Laudna.”

”I know,” Laudna whispers, “I agree.”

”About not all of it sucking absolute ass or about it sucking absolute ass in general?”

”Yes.”

“Awesome.” Imogen chuckles, “I’m glad we agree that everything sucks.”

”But not everything-everything.”

”This is getting pretty circular,” Laudna steps closer, “How do we make it suck less?”

Kiss me, Imogen thinks. “I have no idea.” Imogen says.

“Because, you know,” Laudna continues as if Imogen hadn’t spoken at all, “I think you’re…so capable. Truly. And I really haven’t ever doubted that you’d make it here—“

”—to the moon?—”

”—from the moment it became apparent it was possible, yes—but, really, even then—anyway. I just…I want to protect you. On the moon, but also here,” She lifts one dainty hand and presses her finger against Imogen’s forehead, “I know the dream was a lot.”

Imogen grasps Laudna’s wrist where it is in front of her face, leans forward to press a kiss against the veins there and then again at the tip of that same finger. “It was.”

Laudna shifts closer, still, leaning over her just slightly. “Do you feel any different?”

Imogen finally, finally allows herself the gift of brushing those stray hairs back, lets her fingers linger against Laudna’s gaunt cheek. “Yes and no.” she admits, eyes on the silk-soft hair tangled in her fingers to the side of Laudna’s face, “I’m not sure how to explain it.”

“That’s alright. Maybe I can help you find the words. You just—well, I…don’t want to, you know, but. You’ve just seemed a little—“

”Out of sorts.”

She sees Laudna’s breath stutter and then release. “Yes, I…I didn’t want to pressure you, or anything. It’s been a lot, so much. And you don’t have to—I trust you. I do. But if you…if you need or want help, then I would like to offer it. Is all.”

Imogen swallows. “I meant it, earlier,” bursts from her chest, her heart, “When I—That I love you. That I’m—in love with you. In case that wasn’t, um, clear.”

Laudna, for her part, looks genuinely surprised. Which is itself surprising. Not in the least because she had said she loved her, too; but, also that Imogen realizes that she very simply is not super good at hiding it.

Quietly, softly, Laudna’s lips part. Her eyes go a bit glassy. She shifts forward slightly, leaning into her palm still on her cheek. She says—whispers, really— “I know.”

Imogen inhales. Exhales. “You—well, that's good. That’s great.”

Laudna smiles against her skin. “You’re warm.” she whispers. She presses a kiss there, to the crease of her palm. “I love you, too.”

Imogen inhales. Exhales. “Well. That’s good. That’s great.”

”Mhm.”

”I don’t—“ she licks her dry lips, “I don’t know what to do now.”

Laudna hums. “Yes you do.”

”Right.” she says, “Okay.” and then she’s kissing her again.

”I’m going to ask you—“ a pause, another kiss, “I’m going to ask you about the dream again, when—“

Imogen pulls back. Laudna’s lips are kiss-swollen and shiny. It makes her want to break something. She asks, “When?”

Laudna sighs. Her eyes open to find her slowly, and then stop half-way, hanging over her iris’ heavily. Her eyes are dark. Hungry. She says, “When I’m done.”

Imogen’s eyes fall back to her lips. “Right.” She whispers, “Okay—“ and then the rest of her sentence and the rest of her breath and the rest of her thoughts are stolen from her.

———

“Now, then.” Laudna starts. She wipes the back of her hand across her uptilt lips. “What’s different? Do you have gills? Webbed fingers? Though, I supposed I’d have noticed that much by now—”

”Laudna—“ she heaves a laugh, lungs still desperate, voice a little hoarse, “God, let me catch my breath first.”

Laudna’s tongue runs lightly between her lips. She is above her, still, grey-ish arms bracketing either side of her. There is hair in her face again, sweat-stuck to her skin. Imogen is too mesmerized by the way that it splits her into like running ink and catches the nearby moonglow in a contrasting showcase of light to bother to want to brush it away. Chiaroscuro personified.

She tilts her head, bird-like and uncanny. Her eyes, shooting stars. It makes Imogen want to pull her back in. “Shit, Laudna,” she whisper-giggles, “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful.”

Laudna stutters and then grins, all too-sharp teeth. She says, teasingly, ”It’s nice to not be the breathless one for a change.”

Imogen’s laugh leaves her like a strike to the chest, “Oh, that’s a good one.”

”I thought so.”

Laudna leans down, kisses her again. Imogen sighs into her.

This—the intimacy of it—is still so new and beautiful and exciting and—well—frankly, they've both discovered that they’re ravenous. For each other and for love and for touch. That first night—at Zhudanna’s, her body still thrumming hours later with the electric echo of their first kiss—Imogen had taken Laudna’s hand after they passed the threshold of their little makeshift and borrowed home and led her to their windowless room, their small bed. She had asked: Can I kiss you again?

It was indescribably wonderful, and took approximately two lung-heaving, feather-light minutes in the aftermath to discover that Laudna was starving. Voraciously hungry. Thirty years of nothing and then—suddenly—this. Suddenly them. Imogen could hardly stand the handful of weeks apart.

Which is to say, Laudna has a tendency to lose herself in her, a little bit. It has quickly become one of her greatest prides.

Except—well.

Imogen falls back, separating them. “Sorry,” she whispers, “What were—what were you sayin’?”

Laudna pouts. ”Asking.” She corrects, “Well—maybe theorizing, but mostly asking. You said—earlier—it feels different?”

Imogen nods. She reaches up to brush her fingers over Laudna’s cheek. “Yeah.”

”Is it…good different? Or bad different?”

Imogen nods. “Yeah.”

Laudna nods, too. Imogen watches something like self-consciousness settle on her shoulders. She isn’t sure what to do about it.

Laudna braces to press a kiss to her cheek and then rolls over. When her skin hits the light it makes her look made of marble. Like a statue. A work of art.

She bends across the space and tugs the blanket up and around them both, reaching around Imogen to make sure she is covered completely. Imogen uses the opportunity to press her lips to the skin of her bicep in passing thanks.

She settles back against the sheets. “I love you.” She says. Somehow, it sounds like a plea. “And I’ll support whatever it is you decide you want to do.”

Imogen turns on her side to mirror her. “Even if—if it’s giving in completely?”

Laudna's eyes are dark. Hungry. “Whatever you decide, Imogen.”

Imogen swallows. She feels like she’s choking. Something is rising in her, clawing at her chest and stomach and ripping its way into the world. Laudna’s eyes are so dark. There is a hound in her chest. Imogen swears she hears the echo of its howl, somehow, in her own chest. In the breaths between heartbeats, something is growling.

The howl, her eyes; it rends her completely. With blood in her teeth, she says, “My mom was there.”

It leaves her like a strike of lightning, seeking the quickest way to earth, splitting and bursting apart her ribcage as it rips from her lungs. Or like a hound, pent-up and caged, let loose to hunt and sprinting, snarling to the nearest indicator of meat. Or like sickness, like bile, burning.

That’s the bursting, bleeding, burning truth of it: her mother was there. On Ruidus, at the key, in her dreams for as long as she has had them. Guiding her or warning her. In the end, isn’t that a form of love? Isn’t that what a mother would do? She felt so held, there at the center of Ruidus, in the eye of the storm, in Predathos’ hand or maybe its jaws. Her mother had screamed for her. Her mother had cried for her.

And she can’t remember the feeling of her mother’s warmth, but she can remember the sound of her voice: Run. Imogen.

Does Predathos have a voice? Would it mourn her? Would it leave?

“What did she do?” Laudna—like a thunderclap, or a resonating howl, or a hand on her heaving back—takes and wraps their bodies together like twisting vines. She presses their foreheads together. Her eyes are still dark. “Imogen. What did she say?”

Laudna would. Laudna would mourn her. Laudna would tuck her corpse into bed before leaving her.

”I don’t—she just—called for me. My name. She said no. Laudna.” Laudna’s hands on either side of her clenched jaw, Laudna’s lips centimeters from her own, Laudna’s hand in hers in the middle of the storm. “She sounded like she was crying.”

She feels the well in her eyes overflow, cutting down her cheeks. Laudna makes some gasping sound and leans in, pressing her lips to the skin and the salt. “Imogen. Imogen, I’m sorry. Imogen.” She pulls back. The dark in her eyes is gone. “Darling, what can I do?”

Imogen shakes her head. They’re close enough that each passing arc causes their noses to bump. “I don’t know.” She says, voice tight. “I don’t know. What if I fucked up? What if she left to protect me and I wasted it? I don’t know anymore, Laudna.”

Laudna kisses her, lightly, a barely there press of their lips and then gone. Like she isn’t sure how else to respond. “What happened? When you gave in? What did it feel like?”

Imogen trembles. “I—you all—left. Were pulled away. It brought me in and then—my mama—but it—“ here, she sobs, “it was warm.”

Laudna’s body stiffens around her, arms locking like rigor mortis around her waist. She doesn’t exhale for a long, long time. When she does, it passes over her lips like a torrent.

“My mother taught me to sew.” she starts. “Did I ever tell you that? We didn’t often have enough money to go get new clothes so we made our own. Anyway, the first time it was because I ripped a hole in one of my shirts out in the woods—I was digging for worms—and when I came back I was all in a huff, expecting to be in so much trouble and felt so terrible for ruining clothes I knew she made for me.”

She pauses to press a kiss to Imogen’s hairline, “She took the ruined thing out of my hands and taught me how to fix it.”

She inhales. There’s the tiniest stutter in her chest that makes Imogen want to level another city block. “I used to think about her quite often. Everytime I found myself trying to sleep on the floor of some cold, abandoned cabin, all alone, I remember wishing she were there to teach me how to fix it.”

Their eyes find each other again, snapping together like magnets or puzzle pieces. Laudna’s eyes are full of shooting stars again. “I just—I’m just sorry, Imogen. I’m sorry I don’t know how to fix this. I’m sorry she doesn’t.”

No longer the snapping wolf, no longer the lightning strike or the thunderclap or the bile or the hand; Imogen breaks.

“God, Laudna. It feels like—like I'm mourning her.” She sobs. The words loose from her throat like an arrow held taut for too long, aimless. “But, Laudna, she isn't—she was never gone."

It is an ugly, sharp, irrational thing, her grief; she feels it drive like icicles into Laudna’s already chilled skin and dig rot-guilt up from under the warmth of her own when the weight of it tugs her over and into Laudna further. She wishes, fleetingly, that she could wear her grief as prettily as she thinks Laudna does. Laudna slips into hers like an old coat or an old blanket—scratchy, filled with holes, utterly familiar in a way that settles onto her shoulders in some poor facsimile of comfort.

Imogen’s is always, always this: an implosion. An excavation of the self. Her body nothing more than a dig-site of scars with histories older than she is.

“She’s my mama, Laudna.” It is a pathetic plea, it drops with the weight of a stone into water from her lips, “She was always with me. I never knew her. I love her and I loved her. She was dead. I have to kill her. I have mourned so why am I still mourning?”

The last word rips out of her in two tones, caught in the hiccup-choke of a sob into Laudna’s shoulder.

"Oh, darling." Laudna whispers, her lips against Imogen’s temple petal-soft in a way that makes the guilt dig deeper, sugar and salt. For a moment she only holds her. Presses kisses to the side of her head. And then Imogen feels air fill her chest, hears her lungs expand with the accompanying sound of bones like a creaking ship at sea or a growling hound. She says, with all the wisdom of someone who has lived and died and lived again, "Mourning is just…love in a transitive state.”

She shifts, catching the wet guilt dripping from Imogen’s face and forming lakes of grief at her collar, rivers of it down her chest. It makes Imogen’s breath catch, watches the moonlight catch in the momentary proof of her on Laudna. She continues, more softly, “It is…an adjustment to distance. Not gone—just far."

At this, Imogen glances away from the stain of her to meet Laudna’s eyes. She hesitates, breath a pathetic stutter in her lungs. She asks, “Are we still talking about my mother?”

Laudna watches her. And watches her. And then, voice like a bleeding wound or creaking branches or whining rope: “Death could not take me from you.”

“Don’t—“ she begs, “Do not—Laudna—“

”It can’t, Imogen. She can’t.”

Imogen sobs, reaches up desperately to cradle Laudna’s face in her hands. “I don’t want you to be another voice in my storm, Laudna. I can’t. I won’t.”

Laudna's gentle, cool hands gather her own callous, warm ones together at their collar. She asks, "Can I tell you something you don't want to hear?"

A laugh breaks out of Imogen’s lungs, desperate and sad. “You already are.”

Her grip on Laudna's hands is not gentle, it is clinging. Clawing. She imagines that when Laudna pulls away, her wrists will bear the bruise of her.

She says, in that same creaking branches voice, "You would have been fine without me."

She pulls away—tries to—hears her voice from outside her body saying, "No—No, I—" but then Laudna's fingers are entangled in hers like roots and Imogen is—she's—clinging, too.

"Don't say that." She cries. There is thunder in her voice. A precursor and warning. "I love you. Don’t say that.”

Laudna’s hands release hers to wrap around and claw at the skin of her hip, dragging them close again. Her eyes are swimming. “You’re so strong, so capable, and you are going to live. Your storm won’t take you. You will outgrow it.”

”You are, too.” Imogen demands. Because it is a demand, of herself and of the world. “You’re going to live, too.”

Laudna says nothing. Imogen continues, “I won’t let her have you, Laudna. If I can outgrow my storm, you can outgrow her.”

Laudna’s face is choked up in grief, now, in a way that Imogen has never really seen. “I just mean—“ she starts, chokes, starts again, “I just mean—my mother taught me to sew. And I did. And I think maybe your mother taught you to run. And you did. And I don’t think it’s…it’s understandable, that you wish she had taught you how to sew instead.”

Something in her, some roaring thing—the storm, maybe—cracks her skin at the words. She thinks if she were to look at her hands right now there would be new scars.

Laudna takes her ruined hands into her own; she tries to fix them. “But I can teach you how to sew, Imogen. I can—and then when I'm—gone. You can still sew. Or cook or—or paint or—whatever it is, Imogen. Imogen.”

Imogen rushes in; she kisses her. What else is there to say? What do you say when I love you isn’t big enough anymore? How do you say I don’t want you to teach me how to sew, I want you to teach me how to hunt?

Maybe there aren’t enough words to encompass them. Maybe they’ve created their own expanse of love and devotion here, between them. Maybe they’ve spent two years carving a space for the other in the ether of the world.

Everything they’ve found, all of the information they've picked up on the Gods and what makes or breaks or conjures them in these past months—faith. Both the call and the creator, the word around which divinity molds itself. And her faith, her divine call into the dark—her unanswered pleas on her knees in Gelvaan, on her knees at the altar of the Dawnfather Temple in Whitestone—if they can pick and choose whose faith they deem truthful, then what does it mean to be truly faithful?

The confidence in the callous hands of a blacksmith as he brings the hammer down, striking metal into shape. The gentle hands of a gardener digging into the soil, preparing it for life, removing that which would otherwise ruin and rot. The small hands of a child held in the soft, guiding hands of their mother. Are these not examples of divine faith?

Would the Dawnfather's hands hold her face so gently? Would the Wildmother's lips press so softly to her brow? Would the Changebringer's fingers dig just so into the skin of her shoulders, sweaty and heaving in the aftermath of her storm?

What could the gods offer her that Laudna hasn't? What would they ask in return for what Laudna freely gives? What faith of hers have they earned?

If faith is the ultimate test of love and passion and trust—than whose altar but Laudna's would she kneel to?

If godhood, then, is as simple as a state of faith and belief then maybe she alone can love her to the point of divinity. Immortality. Imogen could make a God of her. Maybe, she thinks with Laudna’s bottom lip caught between her teeth, maybe one more kiss will do the trick. Maybe one more. One more.

Eventually a sob—Imogen’s, of course—breaks them apart. Her head falls into Laudna’s neck. Laudna’s arms cross behind her back and press her close. She runs her taloned fingers over the bare skin at Imogen’s shoulder blades, the base of her neck, down every popping vertebrae. She is breathing at the normal human rate—for her it is heaving. She kisses Imogen’s temple.

“No one can take away the love for the mother you wanted. Not even the mother you have." She says into her hair, and then pulls away and down—kisses her. Keeps kissing her. When she separates to speak it is by centimeters, “And no one can take me away from you. Not Delilah. Not Otohan. Not Predathos or The Matron.”

And then, into her trembling mouth, “If we are apart, then I am within.”

Imogen lets out a wrecked—choking—dying sound, “Yeah—Yes. Laudna, I—“ desperate and clumsy and broken, she brings her shaking hand up to Laudna’s face and presses her finger to Laudna’s forehead, “Here. As long as you’re here.”

Laudna nods, brings her own talons up to Imogen’s face in a mirror-gesture, “Here. As long as you’re here.” And what is left for Imogen to do besides to rush up and in and in and in. Again and again and again.

Here, in Jrusar, in their room at Zhudanna’s, in Zephrah, in the Feywild, in Bassuras, on the moon, in the storm. In the evening, in the morning, in the middle of the day, in the depths of the night. Crying, laughing, bloody, triumphant. Again and again and again and again.

Better halves, Imogen thinks—into Laudna’s head and then, endlessly, into her own, Better wholes. I love you. I love you.

“I love you.” Laudna gasps aloud, ripping away and then rushing back in, “Imogen. Imogen. As long as you’re here. I love you.”

Imogen nods, gasps, and then neither of them say much at all.

———

In the end, Imogen doesn’t say: I lied. When I promised to move on. I lied to you. Nor does she say: I’m sorry. I’m not disgusted by you. I could never be. I love you so deeply that every time I look at you I am remade. She doesn’t say: I sundered her once. I’ll sunder her again. If you’ll let me, I’d plant a new sun tree in your mind. One that makes you think of picnics and not nooses. One that makes you think of the view and not the fall.

She does not say: I don’t think I can do it. I don’t think I can kill her. Will you do it? Can we trade?

She tucks these confessions away in the divots of her mind right alongside her circlet. She hopes the weight of them, the promise of them, will help to keep her runaway feet firmly rooted.

———

(After, Laudna falls asleep before her, eyes wide open.

Imogen lays next to her, one hand softly running up and down Laudna’s exposed navel, the other curled under her own head as she allows herself to trace the profile of her face.

It is late enough—or, early enough, maybe—that Catha’s light cannot breach the shared darkness of their space. Or maybe it does, and is swallowed entirely by the pitch of Laudna’s eyes.

Laudna’s eyes—the empty, dark swirl of them—Imogen remembers her gaze full with stars—captures her attention. The shadows in the room paint Laudna an even deeper dark, cutting her features into shapes that catch the barely there impression of light that Imogen’s weak, mortal eyes require to capture form.

With no light, with nothing to reflect in her sky-locked, sleep-awake stare; Laudna appears hungry. Like even in sleep, she is hunting. In the dark, she takes the form of a predator.

Watching her, Imogen thinks of Ruidus and of the storm there and of the one in her mind and of the one that takes the shape of her mother—reaching and watching and waiting for her, the entirety of her life—like an animal, like something waiting in the grass for her to make a mistake or lose her footing—waiting on the opportunity to close in on her—to consume her or to change her—

She reaches across the space.

Gently, mournfully, she closes Laudna’s eyes.)

#critical role #imogen temult #laudna #imodna #liliana tumult #writing #I don’t think I love this anymore BUT. at least it is Finished and I can Move On. To Other Equally Distressing WIPs #i have a full blown liliana character study locked in the chamber of my brain. she is in there.#and delilah is right next to her. in a away i am just like the gay girls #also sos. this is the first time i’ve posted fic anywhere but especially on here in YEARS and why the FUCK #did they take away being able to simply add a line break. or am i dumb. i couldn’t get the HTML to work either orz #Also post-posting update. I am now recognizing a collection of formatting errors specifically on this version that I am like. h about.#But Whatever. The Show Must Go On

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amiharana · 11 months

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i come bearing a revalink suggestion,, they’re friends?? rivals?? but Revali’s been trying to rile Link up in a more flirtatious way and it all comes to a head when the champaign’s are out on an expedition with Zelda and oops! someone forgot to bring enough bedrolls for the night, enter: sharing a bed

yk what i mean

HI ANON i'm sorry i took so long to answer 😭 but thank you for the suggestion 👁️👁️ i've written about revalink sharing a hammock, but that was them in an established relationship, so this.... and they were hammockmates (oh my god they were hammockmates)

the premise of my canon-based situationship fic (if i ever get to write it LOL) was going to kinda be like this, a pre-calamity revalink who have decided they are no longer going to be rivals, but not necessarily friends, and then somehow revali catches feelings for link 😄 i just love the idea of revali seeing link and being like "this fucking idiot. i want him so bad." and reluctantly attempting to court him even if he knows that link doesn't understand what he's trying to do. my favorite part of this is that link is completely clueless. he has no idea what the hell is going on but he appreciates that revali is nicer to him :D

(warning: long ass fucking post. but we are so fucking back baby)

imagine revali trying his damndest to work up the courage to go give link a bouquet of swift violets, because (1) he knows it's a hylian courting ritual and link is a pretty simple guy, so he'll probably appreciate flowers, right? (2) revali thinks swift violets are very pretty flowers actually, and (3) they have a functional use in increasing link's speed during a fight when cooked into a meal, and with how often link gets injured in battle, goddess knows he needs the extra boost. imagining revali trying to give the bouquet to link on several occasions, but he always ends up chickening out or he waits too long so the bouquet gets ruined or dies so he has to gather more flowers for a new one, and when he finally gets to actually hand the bouquet to link, he gets nervous and insults link like the dumbass he is 😭 ("being the one with more foresight between the two of us, i predicted you would be in great need of something as simple as these swift violets. perhaps you could stand to learn a meal or two utilizing their innate effects on the field.") and then it turns out link is actually allergic to swift violets KJDHFKJSHDKFJH and revali has to take him to the infirmary in shame

just an endless string of the most cartoonish failures of revali's attempts to court link ☝️😹 because it either ends in disaster or link completely misunderstands the situation, and of course revali gets frustrated that link isn't understanding his advances, what an idiot! and it makes him want link even more! so his advances become more and more obvious until even daruk is like. hey man. please calm down now it's not that serious. and revali is like NO he's so stupid daruk how can he not understand that i am trying to court him!!! how much clearer can i make it? (meanwhile daruk is like 🧍)

but revali's desperate pleads are answered when zelda calls the champions early in the morning into the throne room for a mission 🙇 i'm thinking maybe there have been sightings of a lynel up in the northernmost part of akkala and it seems to be much more powerful that the citadel squadrons can handle, so they've called in the help of the champions. not that i'm actually gonna write about them fighting the lynel though 😹 you know me, i just be creating context and circumstances wherever i go

"they couldn't handle one lynel? revali says, when the princess finishes. "you would think a fortress chock-full of hyrule's greatest soldiers would be able to take at least one down."

"well, i don't see you volunteering," urbosa says crossing her arms, a faint smile on her lips. "would you like to show them how it's done?"

revali shoots her a glare and then tilts his beak up, tossing his braids over his shoulder. "hmph. i normally don't waste my time on something as savage as a lynel, but if it could inspire better archers of the citadel, then i suppose my extraordinary skills may be necessary there." out of the corner of his eye, he glances at link; the little hylian doesn't react at all to his boasting, continuing to stand calmly at attention. it irks something in revali, but he blows air out of his beak and turns his head again. stupid link.

zelda sighs. "well, if we are all settled then, i dismiss you all to begin preparations to leave. we hope to leave just past noon and make it to foothill stable by nightfall."

"that'll be right in between our homes, miphy!" daruk says, placing his hands on his hips and leaning backward to laugh heartily. "ah, we've stayed at the castle so long i almost forgot what the heat of death mountain feels like!"

"i feel similarly, daruk," mipha says, giving a small smile. "i wonder if my father and sidon are doing well..."

zelda bows her head in remorse. "i apologize for keeping you all from home for so long. i did not intend for you to stay this long, either."

"it's alright, little bird," urbosa says, stepping forward to place a hand on zelda's shoulder in reassurance. "it's our duty as champions to serve the land of hyrule and protect it from all evildoing. if staying a little longer is what will ensure this era of peace and prosperity, then so be it; we can be patient." she smiles at the princess, and zelda stares at her with wide eyes for a moment before returning the smile.

"thank you, urbosa, i appreciate your kind words," she says. zelda turns back to the rest of the champions and bows her head slightly again. "i will see you all in a few hours. thank you."

SORRY FOR WRITING OUT THINGS THAT HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH THE PROMPT LMAO. ONCE AGAIN. I JUST LOVE TO SET THE STAGE AND CREATE A CIRCUMSTANCE. i also just miss the lack of champions in totk 🥹 but anyways! zelda & the champions meet at the front of the castle and with some extra personnel (hi impa!) & a battalion, they all set out towards the akkala citadel as the sun hits its peak in the sky.

at this point, you might be thinking, why don't they just travel in the divine beasts since they're bigger and can cover more ground in a shorter period of time? and to that i tell you, 🌸 shut the fuck up 🌸 KJDFHKDFJKH nah but in my head in this point of time, the champions all left their divine beasts in their respective regions because they're all still learning to control them and they would rather not go stomping around on random civilians while traversing hyrule. do you know how insane it would be to be a traveler going through hyrule field to visit the coliseum or something and then all of a sudden, a gigantic stone camel with long ass legs nearly squashes you flat? i would die of a heart attack on the spot.

i also think it's important to romanticize the naturalness of traveling on-foot and it would also be interesting to see how they would accommodate for each champions' needs or habits as they travel together; they have to travel near water so that mipha doesn't dehydrate, revali and daruk leave the main group momentarily every now and then to go burst into the sky or roll down further along the path respectively bc they're sick of walking, etc.

the group reaches foothill stable just after sundown; revali complains that they should have just brute forced it to the citadel since it was just further down the road, but zelda insists that it could be dangerous since ganon's power seems to be growing and they could be ambushed by monsters in the night. as safe as the citadel seems, they shouldn't let down their guard! so revali, not wanting to fight with the literal princess of hyrule, just shuts his beak and trudges along after the rest of the group, the calm warm glow of the stable in the distance growing brighter as they approach. he won't admit it out loud but he's a little weary from travel too 😹

link and zelda board their horses at the stable, and everyone else sets up camp just off to the side of the stable, pitching tents, starting campfires and cooking pots, and passing out bedrolls. but as they unpack and pass out bedrolls, they realize that there's not enough for everyone to sleep comfortably through the night. zelda pays for the rest of the beds in the stable to cover for the rest of the battalion, but it leaves out one soldier who link knows happens to have sleeping problems or something. so he decides to give up his bedroll to the dude; it's not like he needs it as much, he could probably fall asleep straight in the dirt right now if he wanted.

"ah, champion link! i couldn't take this from you—" the man starts, but link just shakes his head and pushes the bedroll into his arms, giving him an insistent look. the soldier accepts the bedroll in defeat, but bows his head. "oh... well thank you, champion, i appreciate it very much!" link nods and turns away before returning to the rest of the champions.

"hello, link— where's your bedroll?" mipha says, noticing the lack of one in his hands. link tilts his head back towards the soldier he had given his bedroll to. "oh, what about you?"

he just shakes his head. "don't need one," link says softly. though he's comfortable speaking with the champions, he's still not used to the way his own voice reverberates against his throat; he hasn't used his voice as much as he should since he took his 'vow of silence'.

"what do you mean you don't need one, little guy?" daruk says, scratching his head. "i might be a goron, but fleshy little hylians like you are made for fluffy beds and—"

but link pays him no mind and strides over to a nearby tree (one that happens to be near the two that revali has set his hammock up at 👁️), drops his stuff on the ground and sits next to it, leaning against the tree with his arms crossed. mipha and daruk both open their mouths to object, but urbosa places a hand on both of their shoulders.

"leave him be," she says, as all of them watch link settle against the tree. "that boy is far too stubborn for his own good. once he has his mind set on something, he won't give up."

"you sure the little guy's gonna be alright?" daruk says, face contorted into an expression of concern. "i know he's tough, but i can't imagine that what he's doing is comfortable at all."

"he'll be fine," urbosa reassures him. she glances to the side, where revali is already keeping an eye on link, sitting at the tree where the farther end of his hammock from the little hylian is tied and tending to his bow. she smirks knowingly; "he's already in good care."

so everyone gets ready for the night; the battalion soldiers are already fast asleep, zelda, urbosa, and impa are sleeping in the stable beds, daruk is rolled up closer to the rockier terrain near the stable, mipha is straight up sleeping in the nearby cephla lake, leaving link and revali to be the only people awake. they're both still sitting against the trees, revali making the final tweaks to the great eagle bow and link polishing the master sword. revali has been stealing glances at link the entire time, watching and waiting for an opportunity (and also working up the courage) to say something. even at the base of death mountain, the cold night wind perseveres and revali catches every single tremor that goes through link's body as he shivers. maybe he could offer to...

"why did you give up your bedroll?" revali says finally. to be honest, he could probably already figure out an answer if he wanted to, but he asks anyway.

link pauses and glances up at him, before returning to polishing. revali's feathers ruffle at the lack of answer and he looks away, beak clenching. while he cared not for link's stance on verbal speech, acknowledging him and not giving an answer was rather unnecessary, wasn't it? especially since link had grown comfortable speaking with the princess and the champions, that should have included revali as well—

"i don't need one," link says suddenly, so softly, revali has to hold his breath, straining to hear the little hylian. link's voice is so quiet, it could be carried away by the night wind and revali is borderline obsessed with it, but the answer he gives is the same one he had given to the other champions. so revali says nothing and stares at link, prompting him to elaborate. "torin needed it more than me."

"torin?" revali questions. he wonders how much of the hyrulean army link knows by name.

"the man i gave my bedroll to," link replies, still wiping at his blade. "excellent fighter, great with a sword. but his chronic pain makes it difficult for him on the field." he sets down the cloth he was using to polish the master sword with and holds it up, appraising the blade. it glints in the moonlight quite elegantly. "giving him my bedroll is the least i can do to aid his comfort."

for a moment, revali is speechless; he had known that link was rather altruistic, always offering to help out even if it was inconvenient to himself. perhaps he shouldn't be surprised at all.

"you didn't have to do that though," revali says. he has stopped tending to his own bow at this point, letting it lay across his lap instead. "isn't it 'first come first serve' with you hylians? you were one of the first to receive a bedroll. you could have kept it to yourself, and i doubt anyone would complain since you're their champion."

link only shakes his head. "he needed it more than me," he insists, still in the same soft voice. "as a captain and a champion, it's my duty to care for my fellow knights. we're only as strong as our weakest member."

"then what about you?" revali says, staring straight at link. "if that's true, you're in no better of a situation than he was in previously."

"i'll survive," link says simply, and then, he yawns. at the same exact moment, another cold night breeze passes by, tousling link's bangs and once more does revali watch, completely entranced by the way link's body shivers in reaction. then, he slides the master sword back in its scabbard before raising his arms to stretch and yawn again. "sleeping on the ground for one night isn't that big of a deal."

and revali sees his chance and it stares right back at him like it's a challenge, like an eye glowing bright gold in the darkness; this is now or never.

"you don't have to sleep on the ground," he says quietly, but he looks down at the bow in his lap when he says it. in the corner of his eye, he sees link's arms pause mid-stretch before he slowly lowers them. he can feel the piercing blue gaze of link's eyes searing right through his cheek feathers and in turn, his heart skips a beat. stupid, stupid link. revali wishes he could despise the effect that a hylian of all people has on him.

"what do you mean?" link says in similar volume.

revali looks up to meet his gaze and swallows at the sight of those terribly beautiful blue eyes sparkling at him in the moonlight. now or never. "you could stay with me," he says softly, before he loses his nerve.

and link's eyes widen. if revali lets his vision blur a little, perhaps he can convince himself into thinking that the pink flush on link's cheeks is just the natural color of hylian skin, or just a trick of the moon's light and the glow of lava oozing down death mountain above them. but nothing can change the fact that he can see the entirety of link's irises, or the slight part in his lips.

"with you? in your...?" link whispers, but in this moment, his voice is the only thing the rito can hear at all. revali gives a single nod. "why?" there's not a single hint of mirth in link's voice, only genuine surprise.

revali looks away. "your heroism makes you foolish enough to give up the supplies necessary for your own survival in order to ensure the survival of others," he murmurs. "look at you, you're shaking in the cold like a loose feather. if you were a rito like i, you wouldn't have this problem."

he hears link snort and glances up at him. link is looking at him fully, a small smile on his face, and perhaps they are far too close to death mountain with the way that heat floods revali's cheeks and makes his limbs melt into the ground.

"and we wouldn't want the princess and the hyrulean army to wake up in the morning finding that their beloved champion froze to death in the night," he continues softly.

"no, i suppose not," link replies, still smiling. but the smile fades in the next moment or two, the pink flush revali had tried to pretend was just the color of his skin returning to link's cheeks much darker than before, as if to goad him. "s-so... how are we going to...?" he trails off, staring at revali with wide blue eyes.

revali blinks, and then swallows. truthfully, he didn't think he would get this far, but there's no backing out now. with his heart grabbing the bones of his ribcage and bashing its head against them, revali stands dusting himself off and hangs the great eagle bow on one of the branches of the tree. then, he turns back to face link, who's still staring at him with wide blue eyes and his pretty pink-flushed face from the ground. he walks towards link until he's standing in front of the little hylian, and then offers a hand.

"well firstly, are you ready for bed?" revali says, attempting to sound irritated, like his own offer is an inconvenience to him. but it's all in vain; his voice comes out too soft, too tender, too fond.

link stares up at him for a couple moments more before nodding, so revali extends his hand a little further out. "hurry up then," he says, voice still so unbearably soft. "i wouldn't do this for anyone else."

so link takes his hand and revali pulls him up in one swift movement. but he pulls too hard, because before he can even register it, suddenly both of link's hands are on his chest, his body pressed up against revali's. instinctively, one of his arms goes to circle link's waist, pushing them closer together, and the rito's ears are full of the sound of link's quiet gasp at the pressure; is he depraved to want to push him closer, to hear it again?

"s-sorry," link whispers, just slightly pushing off of revali's chest. "i didn't mean to—"

"it's fine," revali whispers back. with all his will, he lets his arm fall from link's waist to let him step away, resisting the urge to pull the warm little hylian back into his embrace. hylia above, how could revali ever have offered to share his hammock with such depravities rotting his mind?

revali turns away to walk towards the hammock, desperately trying to ignore the electric pull of the string tying him back to link. he looks over his shoulder back at the little hylian. "come on," revali says, feigning all the coolness, all the suaveness he can muster. the show must go on, after all.

revali slides into the hammock easily, settling into a comfortable position, and then he looks back at link. the little hylian stares down at his body and suddenly he feels self-conscious, his crest feathers ruffling. "are you getting in or would you rather stand there until sunrise?" revali snaps, and then cringes at his own tone.

but link only looks at him with the same wide, blue-eyed gaze sparkling in the moonlight. "yeah," he whispers, "i just..."

"just get in," revali mutters, looking away. "i won't fall out unless you're trying to make me fall out on purpose."

and slowly, so slowly, link grabs the edge of the hammock closer to him with hesitant, gentle fingers. he looks up at revali, who gives him a nod of encouragement, so he continues, reaching over revali's chest to grab the opposite edge of the hammock and begins to climb in. with some fidgeting and struggling, link lies atop revali's chest, their legs somehow tangled together. revali hopes the little hylian can't hear his heart drumming its high-strung song against his ribs.

"you're so warm," link whispers. "i didn't think you'd be."

"how do you think the rito are able to live so close to the hebra mountains?" revali murmurs back. "our feathers are insulative and keep us warm even in the most bitter of winters." he pauses, considering his next words, and then continues. "if you ever return to the village... our artisans are working on a prototype of an outfit to help featherless hylians like yourself brave the frigid temperatures of hebra. they are... using some of my own plumage to make it. if you wanted to truly experience the power of rito feathers yourself, i extend an invitation for you to come visit rito village at your earliest convenience."

"i'd like that a lot," link murmurs in response.

the rito hums in acknowledgement and they both fall silent. another cold wind breezes past and this time, link curls closer around revali's body, sighing quietly. instinctively, the rito raises his wings and drapes them around the little hylian's form in response, pressing him even closer than before. they stay just like this, beginning to drift off to the sounds of nature around them.

"revali?" link says suddenly, pulling revali a little bit out of his drowsy.

"mm?" revali replies. he doesn't try to summon the energy to even pretend to be irritated, only wrapping his wings tighter around link's body.

"thank you," link whispers. "for this. you didn't have to."

revali just hums back, letting the drowsiness pull him under. "go to sleep," he mumbles. "there will be more time for gratitude in the morning."

"okay," link whispers back, and revali feels him snuggle closer. there's a moment of hesitation, and in the next, it dissipates as revali finally falls asleep, feeling link's arms circle his torso, embracing him gently.

in the morning, the champions find them wrapped around each other in the hammock, urbosa being the first. she smirks down at them, a hand on her hip and shaking her head in amusement.

"ah, urbosa, where's link—?" mipha says as she approaches the chieftess. but she spots them right away, snapping her mouth shut and blinking owlishly until it grows in a held-back grin.

"i told you, link is already in good care," urbosa says. she looks past mipha to see daruk and zelda walking over, the latter yawning and tying her hair up. when they see the predicament that revali and link have gotten themselves into, daruk has to hold back a guffaw and zelda just rolls her eyes.

"they took their time, didn't they?" zelda grumbles.

"with all due respect, you should not be the one to talk, princess," mipha says, smiling politely. zelda wrinkles her nose at the zora princess, who giggles behind her hand.

"none of you should be talking at all," comes revali's voice, gravelly and hoarse from sleep. the champions turn back to the hammock, where revali gives them a dirty look with only one eye open. he remains in his position in the hammock, wings still wrapped around link who's asleep on his chest. "speak louder than a summer breeze and i'll show you the true strength of a rito's shot."

"my, my, so aggressive," urbosa muses. "has he made you soft for him already?" revali's glare only intensifies, so she holds up her hands in playful surrender. "alright, i'll leave you two alone. everyone, let's go start making breakfast. we have some time before we need to be at the citadel."

the rest of the champions begin to walk over to the cooking pots they've set up, zelda's head on mipha's shoulder and daruk listing off what his favorite types of rock meals are for breakfast. when they're out of earshot, revali relaxes and lets a breath out through the nares of his beak.

"what'd they mean, 'take our time'?" link suddenly mumbles against revali's chest.

revali blinks in surprise, staring down at the mop of dark gold hair atop him. "nothing you need to concern yourself with," he says, eyes wide. "when did you wake up?"

"been 'wake since 'fore sunrise," link mumbles. "jus' too warm 'n comfy to get up. hope you don't mind."

revali relaxes and sighs. "you're lucky i'm too comfortable to care either," he murmurs. he adjusts the way his wings are wrapped around link's body, and the little hylian hums and snuggles closer. suddenly, revali feels wide awake and he swears his heart could jump right out of his chest right now. "do you plan on remaining shackled to my body for the rest of the morning?"

"if you'll let me," link murmurs in response, and the rito feels like the breath has been stolen from his lungs.

"fine," revali acquiesces, once he feels like he can breathe again. "just this once... you'll have to get up to eat anyway. everyone here knows about your voracious appetite. you're incredibly insatiable for a hylian." it's not like he truly wants link to leave anyway... but link doesn't need to know that part.

link hums. "okay." they're both quiet for a couple moments, until the little hylian speaks again. "thank you again for this, revali. i appreciate it a lot."

revali pauses, his heart skipping several beats now. "good to know you possess enough of a developed brain to not take my gifts for granted," he replies, barely keeping the tremor out of his voice. but the rito's voice softens as he continues. "and... you're welcome. my kindness is not a gift i grant as often as you might think. so treasure it now; you may not be so lucky to receive it so freely again."

"i will," link replies, his voice muffled in revali's feathers. the rito swears he can feel link smiling into his skin. "so thanks again."

revali blows air through his nares of his beak. stupid, stupid link. try as he might to reject and dislike the effect this little hylian has on him, he can't help but crave it more and more. perhaps the bestowal of more of revali's gifts onto link are in order...

#revalink #loz #botw #loz botw #legend of zelda #amihan's revalinkverse #ask #sorry i stopped writing i've been having a depressive episode and i didn't know until a couple days ago ✋#the way i wrote them here was a bit self-indulgent so sorry if it's not Giving 😔 idc tho i had fun writing again LMAO #happy pride to everyone but especially to this gay ass fucking bird i miss him so much #my revalink headcanon of all time is that revali was the one who designed the snowquill armor for link #paraglider & freeze-resistant outfit all this bird knows is make pretty gift for pretty n danger-prone hylian boy #HOMOPHOBIC ZELDA HAS MADE HER RETURN !!! MY LOVE 🫶#just love the idea of everyone being in on revali's crush on link #meanwhile link is completely clueless and also stuck in his own head about his crush on revali #revalink but it's 'kiss the girl' from the little mermaid #aghh... i miss the champions so bad. i've started to play totk less and less bc my heart yearns for the champs everyday #and of course i miss revalink in case you haven't noticed ✌️👹#very slowly making my way through asks and wips this summer. no promises! but i'm doing my best :]#this piece is dedicated to sen who's had to put up with my insanity for the past month i love u ate #ok bye i hope you liked this sorry again i've been gone mwah mwah mwah

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