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vbecker10 · 4 days

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Loki's Silent Sentry (alt. ending Part 1)

Part 2

This is meant to be read after part 2, instead of the original parts 3 - 7

**Seriously please do not read this without reading the trigger warnings**

TW: fire, life threatening injury, blood, death of a main character (if you message me I will tell you who in case that will change if you read this or not), mourning the loss of a loved one, loss of a family member, having to mourn in secret, depression, feeling alone, brief mentions of previous loss of parents, inability to move on, guilt

(Please let me know if I missed anything and I will add it)

A/N: I wrote the fluffy, happy ending for this story but I got this song (tagged below) stuck in my head and it felt like a really tragic way to end this story. The idea just kept getting more depressing and heartbreaking so I had to write it. I understand this is not for everyone, it's not even something I would usually read.

Please, please do not feel the need to read this because we are mutuals or because you read the happy ending version. I will absolutely not be offended if you skip it.

...Last chance to turn back lol 🫣

You close your eyes as he pulls you tighter to him, you are sure he can feel your heart pounding in your chest. "Are you really here?" you ask in a whisper. You fear he will vanish like one of his illusions the second you let go of him.

"I'm here my love," he reassures you. He kisses the top of your head and you look up at him. "Follow me," he says in a low voice.

You smile and nod, telling him, "You know I will follow you anywhere."

He takes your hand and leads you into the room he came out of. You can see he has been busy with his magic, his abilities have always thrilled and impressed you. The magically altered office is twice as large inside as it should be and is an exact replica of his chambers. You look around in awe and can't help but wonder if this isn't an illusion but one of his transportation spells.

He smiles with pride at your reaction and puts his arm around your waist, pulling you close to him again.

"How did you do all of this?" you ask. "Its amazing... you're amazing," you tell him as you turn in his arms to face him.

"I'm afraid the young corporal spent has a large portion of her time this week dutifully guarding my empty office," he jokes and you laugh with him.

He smiles and kisses you, his hands traveling up and down the back of your thin shirt as he hold you close. "Stay here with me tonight," he says between kisses. He doesn't say it as a prince ordering his sentry but you obey his request without a second thought.

It is almost five months since your new Sunday night routine with Loki began. He would slip through the palace with ease after he dismissed his sentry for the night and you would take a left at the top of the stairs after his mother released you.

While hidden away, surrounded by his illusion, the two of you could pretend everything was perfect. You love him with all of your heart and he loves you back just as fiercely. He would kiss you and hold you and tell you that you were his but the moment the sun came up, everything would change. You always did your best to hold back your emotions as you put your armor on and returned to your silent duties.

It devastated you every time you needed to leave him but you kept your pain to yourself. You were afraid to ruin the small window of time you had with wishes and false hope that things could somehow be different.

You stand silently outside of the queen's office and let the smallest smile slip when you notice Loki coming down the hall. He offers you a brief smirk in return as he comes to a stop in front of you.

"Lieutenant Y/L/N, is my mother in a meeting?" he asks you.

"No, your highness," you respond, shaking your head slightly.

"I would like to speak with her for a moment," he tells you and you nod.

After knocking on the door, you wait for her to open it then step out of Loki's way. As he passes you, he carefully slips a folded piece of paper into your palm and you close it quickly. He goes inside, pausing for barely a moment to lock eyes with you before closing the door behind him.

You return to your position next to her door and tuck away the note for later, Loki's sentry stands at attention on the other side. You glance over at him quickly, you recognize him but can't recall his name. He had only graduated the academy a month ago, he was far too new to be guarding someone of Loki's standing but that was precisely why he had been selected. Loki had taken to choosing soldiers with limited experience and often replaced them every few weeks. He said he did this so they were less likely to notice he was slipping away to visit you but you joked that it was because he would never be able to find a sentry to fill your place.

The door opens fifteen minutes later and both the queen and Loki step out into the hall. She closes the door behind her and says, "Prince Loki is going to visit the blacksmith and I've decided to get some fresh air and go with him."

You and Loki's sentry nod to acknowledge the plan. You both follow mother and son down several hallways and winding staircases until you finally reach the steps leading to the courtyard. As you step out into the sun, you take a deep breath and close your eyes for a quick moment. The palace air could be stale at times and you always welcomed a chance to spend even a few minutes during the week outside.

Its almost a twenty minute walk to the blacksmiths, past the stables and a well used for the horses. The apprentice steps out of the one story wooden structure to pick up a few cords of wood that are stacked neatly out front. He opens the door and yells something to the man inside, presumably that the queen and prince are coming. He opens the door and bows his head as they walk past to enter, you smile at him a bit to hopefully help ease the young boy's nerves.

The blacksmith bows to Loki and the queen as they enter and the boy shuts the door once you are all inside. You can't help but look around, you've never been in here before but Loki had told you about his frequent visits. You can feel the heat from the tall fires of the forge off to your left and the breeze that flows through the open windows at the far end of the building. Large timber rafters line the steeply pitched roof and a small rainbow shines onto the sawdust covered floor, caused by the colored glass in the door.

Your attention is drawn back to Loki, as it always is when he is near. He begins talking to the older man, the apprentice's father you assume due to how similar they look. They discuss the knives Loki had previously ordered, a set of two daggers with black leather handles and gold inlays in the shape of a coiled snake. You try not to smile at how obviously Loki his request is.

Your focus shifts to the apprentice, he can't be older than nine or ten you think. He takes something from his father and brings it to the office space in the back then returns with a wooden box containing different types of metal to select from. The queen joins in the conversation with her son and Loki's sentry leans against the wall near an open window, staring off into the forest beyond.

You keep your eye on the boy, watching him run from one errand to the next for his father. He brings things to him and is waved off to find something else, only to do it again. In between helping gather the materials, he continues to feed the forge. He has added at least four logs since you arrived, surly that was plenty to keep the fire raging, you think but truthfully you know little about blade work and forging swords.

Several more minutes pass, Loki and his mother are deeply engaged in conversation with the blacksmith who has easily convinced Loki to get a second set of knives. His sentry has disappeared into his own little world while you continue to observe everyone quietly as you stand near the door.

You stretch a bit and cover your mouth as a yawn slips free, you should really stop reading until the sun comes up, you scold yourself. Suddenly you stand up straighter and sniff the air again, breathing deeply. You can't quite place the smell but the heat from the forge has gotten stronger. Your eyes immediately find the boy who is frozen with fear as he looks into the fire.

Blue flames erupt from the metal and stone enclosure of the forge.

Without thinking, you move to the young boy and grab him by the arm, pulling him away from the rapidly growing flames. Once his feet start moving, you push him in the direction of the door and look for the queen. As soon as your gaze is away from the forge you hear metal grinding and a loud crack as the chimney buckles under the sudden and immense increase in temperature.

You look back to see the fire spark and spit embers onto the sawdust spread over the floor. Walking backwards from the forge, your eyes move up as the fire spreads to the roof of the structure. Smoke quickly begins to fill the air and your eyes sting as you fight to keep them open. You watch in horror as one of the rafters on the ceiling splinters from the flames and you run towards the queen, you know the building won't be standing much longer.

You keep your arm around her waist until you've guided her safety outside. She takes a few steps away from you and sits heavily on the grass, coughing from the smoke. You look back towards the burning building, the roof already partially collapsed as the trusses are destroyed by the flames.

Smoke billows out of the open door and you quickly turn to count that everyone is out. The queen, the blacksmith, his son, Loki's sentry... but not Loki.

"Loki!" you scream, scanning the field in front of you in the hopes that you somehow missed him. You rush to his sentry who is on his hands and knees coughing and gasping for fresh air. "Where is he!?" you demand.

He shakes his head and doesn't respond, you grab his arm and pull forcefully, making him look up at you. You can see the fearful tears in his eyes but his feelings are not your concern, not while Loki is still missing. "Private, where is the prince?!"

"I don't know," he cries. "I just- I just ran- I don't-" you let go of his arm and turn from him, unable to listen to his excuses.

You look back to the fully engulfed building and without a moments hesitation, you run through the open door.

"Loki!" you call for him, you cough painfully as you inhale the ash and smoke. You crouch and shield your eyes as the glass in one of the windows near you shatters. "Loki!" you scream as loud as your lungs will allow. You move forward, towards where he had been when you last saw him with his mother.

You cough harder as the flames surround you and you get low to crawl under the ever thickening smoke. "Loki!" you scream again, your heart racing as tears stream down your cheeks, making it harder to see.

"Y/N," you hear Loki faintly over the crackling of the fire and get up to run towards his voice.

Your heart pounds in your chest when you see him, trapped under part of a collapsed beam. He struggles to lift the large piece of wood, it's edges blackened by the flames growing closer. You grab the end of the beam nearest to Loki and lift while he pushes, it moves but not enough. Your grip slips and he screams in pain from the sudden movement. Your eyes fix on the blood that slowly starts to gather at the corners of his mouth, adjusting your grip you get ready to try again.

Before you and Loki can make a second attempt, a nearby section of the roof collapses. You instinctively use your own body as protection against the falling debris shielding his face and upper body, you hold back a cry as ash falls onto the exposed skin on the back of your neck.

"Y/N, please get out of here," he tells you, his voice hoarse when you sit up.

You shake your head no and tell him, "I won't leave without. Help me lift this."

Again, he pushes with what little strength he has left and you pull with every bit of strength you can gather. The beam moves enough that you can free him. You grab Loki under his arms and pull, he cries out every inch until he is fully clear of the beam. It devastates you to cause him pain but you have no choice. You wipe your tears on your arm and without letting go of him, you tell him you are sorry but you can't stop. You know if you do, neither of you will make it out.

You lay Loki on the grass behind the burning building, ignoring the sound of a wall giving way and kneel next to him. His fingers are dripping with blood as he reaches for you.

"Y/N," he says softly but you shake your head and avoid his gaze. You are too scared to look at him, you know he wants to tell you goodbye.

"I need to stop the bleeding," you say with as much determination and hope as you can force. You move to check his chest wounds and your heart shatters, your mind spins in shock and disbelief as you rip open the rest of his torn and bloody shirt. "No no no," you mumble to yourself in denial.

You move your hands to his chest in desperation, trying to cover the largest break in his skin but his fingers close softly around your wrist, keeping you from touching his wounds. Looking into his eyes, in a gentle tone he simply says, "Stop." His grip on your wrist loosens but you can't accept that there is nothing you can do for him.

You shake your head no again, "Please Loki..."

He tries his best to smile but the blood in his mouth makes him cough violently. You move so you can gently rest his head on your lap and you run your fingers through his hair damp. He raises his hand again to stroke your cheek and you close your eyes at his touch.

"Y/N," he says just above a whisper and you lean closer to hear him. "I knew you would come for me," he coughs and spits out a bit of blood. "You always followed me..." his voice trails off.

You smile through your tears and tell him, "I will follow you anywhere, I promised you that I would."

He continues to slowly stroke your cheek, wiping away your tears but leaving a light trail of his blood, "I'm sorry my love, but where I go now you cannot follow."

"No, Loki please," you cry, "I love you."

"I will always love you Y/N, more than anything in the nine realms," he says softly as his breath grows still and shallow.

"Stay with me," you plead, taking his hand in yours. "You're all I have left. Please stay with me," you beg him. "I love you. Please don't go, Loki, please."

His fingers slip from yours and you look down at his lifeless body, your chest tightens as you struggle to breath. You feel as if your heart is physically breaking, the pain is unbearable and consuming. "I'm so sorry Loki," you apologize over and over. "I was supposed to protect you, I should have protected you. I'm sorry, please."

"Loki! Loki!" the queen's voice rips through your grief and guilt as the rest of the building collapses, the fire still raging. You look up and see Frigga running towards her son, her eyes full of fear which turns to anguish as they met yours.

Getting up, you walk slowly backwards, your body on autopilot as you distance yourself from mother and son. She let's out an agonizing scream, a sound you will never forget, as she falls to her knees next to her youngest son. She cradles him in her arms and kisses his forehead, whispering to him as she rocks slowly.

You stand motionless a few feet from Loki's body and his mother, your breathing becoming more ragged as your chest tightens. You barely register the dozen or so workers who struggle to keep the fire from spreading across the field or the soldiers running with Thor.

"Mother! Loki!" Thor calls as he sprints around what is left of the building, desperately searching for his family. He gets closer and stops suddenly when he sees his younger brother laying in his mother's arms.

Frigga looks over her shoulder and Thor begins to slowly walk towards her, you can do nothing but watch his expression change as the reality of what he is seeing hits him. As he gets closer, she looks back down at Loki, wiping away some of the blood from his face gently. Thor kneels besides her, his hand on her back and she quietly says, "Loki is gone."

Your knees buckle at her words and you collapse onto the grass. You cover your face with your hands as your body shakes violently from the force of your sobs.

Loki is gone, your thoughts echo the queen's words. Loki is gone and it is your fault, your guilt adds. Loki is gone and you couldn't save him. Loki is gone but he shouldn't be. Loki is gone but you were supposed to give your life for his. Loki is gone.

You stand at attention in the center of the throne room in front of the royal family, the council and every high ranking officer from the royal guard. You keep your eyes straight ahead, focusing on a small detail on the wall beyond Odin as he speaks. You are too afraid to look anywhere else but slowly your focus drifts to the queen and where Loki used to stand.

She holds Thor's arm for support, her gaze fixed to the marble floor beneath her. Your chest aches at the sight of the queen in her black mourning gown and you hate yourself for wishing you could wear one as well.

This morning, every soldier in the royal guard was given a thin black piece of fabric to tie around their arm in memory of the lost prince. For five minutes, you struggled to tie it properly before a fellow sentry finally offered to help you. The members of your unit and palace staff no longer made mocking comments about the favoritism Loki showed for you but they would never understand the depth of your grief.

As a sentry, it was against protocol for you to show any emotion while on duty and that was especially true in your case. As far as the king and council were concerned, you meant nothing to Loki and it was made clear to you yesterday that you were not to mourn for him publicly. A part of you didn't care, what could they do to punish you that was worse then the hell you were currently living in. You didn't have the strength to disobey the king, however, it took every ounce of strength you had to simply get out of bed each morning. So here you stand, surrounded by nearly a hundred people, trying with all your might to keep from falling completely and utterly apart.

Frigga slowly looks up and your breath catches when you see the tears in her eyes. She doesn't seem to see you though, it is almost as if she is looking through you, her mind unfocused on the ceremony taking place.

You force yourself to pay attention to Odin as he continues his speech about what is being called "a tragic accident". The phrase sounds like nails scrapped across metal to you and you brace yourself so as not to shiver every time you hear it.

You were still not sure what exactly caused the fire to burn uncontrollably but it was quickly determined that the boy meant no one harm. He and his father had been cleared by the council of any wrong doing and were granted a small sum to rebuild their forge. You wish the boy well and hope he isn't being plagued by nightmares as you are.

Loki's sentry, however, is to be sentenced this afternoon. The day after the fire, he was brought up on numerous charges and subsequently dishonorably discharged from the royal guard. You had stood as a witness at his hearing, forced to recount every detail of that horrific day.

You hear Odin droning on but your mind can't seem to absorb what he is saying. You continue to watch him though, knowing it's almost time for you to play the part of the noble hero.

He gestures for you to step forward and you follow his command, kneeling when you are just a few steps from him. He walks towards you and says, "Lieutenant Y/L/N, you are being awarded the Medal of Royal Protection for your actions during the tragic accident three days ago. This honor is bestowed upon sentries who have risked their lives to save, and attempt to save, a member of the royal family. Thanks to your bravery, my wife, Asgard's queen was escorted to safety."

He pauses, his eyes finding Frigga before he turns back to the crowd of soldiers and council members gathered around you. "We are all heartbroken over the loss of Prince Loki. My son's life was woefully cut short... far too short," his voice trails off for a moment and you think he may let his emotions show but he clears his throatand continues. "But that does not overshadow your extraordinary act of heroism. You risked your life by going into a burning building and in doing so, you have given us the chance to say goodbye to Prince Loki properly, which is what he deserves."

Your throat feels like it is closing, your eyes sting as you fight desperately to keep the gathering tears from slipping free. Your head pounds as you prepare to receive a medal for saving the queen but not saving Loki.

"Lieutenant Y/L/N," he motions for you to stand. He takes a round golden medal with a red ribbon from a council member and pins it to your dress uniform. "Asgard and I thank you for your continued commitment to protecting and serving the royal family," he says and you feel nauseated by the applause that spreads through the throne room.

This is the song that inspired me, if you listen to the end you will see why. Again... I'm sorry to everyone who reads this that I hurt you but I just needed to get this story out of my head. If you want the happy ending version please read the original part 3 (linked at the top) 💙💙

If you did like this, please like, comment and share! Thanks! 💚💚

@siconetribal @soubi001 @lulubelle814 @newtomofgods

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bokettochild · 27 days

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Febuwhump Day 25: (alt) "I Love You"

What's this? Day 25 when I haven't even posted previous days? Yes. Warriors was giving me brainrot and this thing sort of just spit itself out last night after a pot of coffee and rotting on my couch for hours.

Heads up, this story is set in the TBBU universe, so yes, we have an original character here: Sablya. My apologies if you hate OCs, she's actually pretty prominent in this story and yes, in a relationship with a Link, so DLDR if that bothers you at all <3

Rating: Teen

Wordcount: 4,626

Summary: Hit with a dark curse, the boys must seek out a user of shadow magic in order to help them. Luckily for them, Warriors knows someone. Unluckily for him, it's his ex-wife.

There's a particular brand of hurt that comes from words.

Simple words, words that once meant something precious, can turn into a knife that wrenches at the heart, and even when they’re meant with love, with care, with every amount of innocence, they still have the ability to plunge deep and strike a vein, severing sanity in their wake.

Warriors knows this, has known this. Since his mother’s first “I’m proud of the man you’ve become” had sounded, the very day when he most dreaded speaking to her to admit what he’d done; what he’d done for her and the girls; he’s known that words full of love can cause pain.

Words spoken in ire, somehow, cause less.

Given the choice between the two, the captain doesn’t know what he wants to receive when he enters the house. With his brothers behind him, in need, struggling under the burden of a dark curse that’s wound its way, tight, about them, he knows the need to hurry, to not linger. There’s only person in all Hyrule who can assist them at this moment, but that doesn’t make facing her any easier than all the other times he’s dared to try and do so.

The very concept of courage, when he stands at the doors of his own house, is a dart of pain to his pride, given how he, the hero, lacks it so just to walk through a door.

Does he want the screams, the pain and tears, the agonized look in warm amber eyes, or does he want something warm that will pierce and burn at a heart still in pieces from when last he faced her? He’s not sure. He’s not sure which would hurt more. He’s not sure which would be easier to survive.

“Are we almost there?” The desperation that colors words that should be annoyed, should be spoken with that signature put upon tone that’s nearly permanent from their vet, only further drives how his own hesitation is itself causing harm. The boys are all dragging, all pained, but to add the pain of their newly acquired curse to pain that already made function a struggle- he needs to get the help, and soon.

“Just a bit further, vet, I promise.” He tries to sound confident, assuring, warm, but he falls short.

Castletown really does bring out the worst in him, doesn’t it? He can’t even manage to be a comfort to the others while they’re here.

Eyes follow their weary forms curiously, although some skirt away, wary of the eaten down men and boys, armed to the teeth and clearly desperate, although for what, it’s doubtful the townsfolk know. It's a sharp contrast to their usual warmth towards him in the wake of the war, but then again, his scarf is absent.

The blue fabric hangs from Twilight’s shoulders, supporting the weight of their smithy who, for reasons none can name, has been affected the most, and thus is worst off of all of them. In the wake of the wizzrobes attack, what must have been a week ago now, the smithy has been listless, fevered, and in enough agony that walking seems entirely outside of his ability for the moment.

They need only last a bit longer though. They wander the streets at his tail, the boys leaning on each other heavily. Some had taken worse to the dark spell, others are still coping, and some, like the vet, are pushing their every limit to keep going. Goddesses, he can’t afford to hesitate, not with the like this.

Still, when the door looms ahead of him, his feet stutter and falter all the same, and though likely, he could excuse it as the curse, he knows the reason his mouth goes dry and stomach lurches has nothing to do with magic at all.

“Cap?” Sky’s looking back at him, past the blonde head resting on his shoulder, the sailor likewise struggling to keep pace having resulted in the skyloftian offering aid. Concern shines in crystal eyes, and it takes more effort than he’s got in him to try to smile back.

“I’m fine.”

He doesn’t even care that they all clearly don’t believe him. None of them have it in them to call him out though, and honestly, he’s a little thankful for that as he forces his feet to move again.

“We’re here.”

His hand stalls at the door.

Hyrule knocks, dark eyes dim as they turn up to him, worry the only thing still shining in them.

Goddesses, he needs to get over himself. These boys need him, need him to pull himself up by his bootstraps and ask his wife for help. For them. For their sakes.

The door opens with a familiar creaking, and despite his every attempt to steal himself for it, the sight of her still makes his breath catch in his throat.

Sablya is not so afflicted, and for a terrible moment, he half thinks the door will fly shut in his face, only...

Only, Hyrule’s hand has caught onto him for support. Only, Four and Wind are hanging from their older brothers’ shoulders. Only, Legend is swaying on his feet, even with the support of a cane to keep him upright. Cold though she’s turned to him, Sablya’s always had a bleeding heart, and whatever hurts he’s caused won’t stop her from seeing kids in need of help.

“What do you want?”

“Help. Please.” It’s a struggle to meet her eyes, to hold her gaze knowing full well what he’ll find. For them though, he manages. “They’re cursed, it’s-”

“Dark magic,” the words roll, accented and thick, like a cold wave over him. The door creaks again, just like it did the last time he made it inside; has she not had it fixed? “Come. Enter.”

With what strength he can muster, he scoops the traveler up and into the house, passing her by even as she darts towards the rest, offering a weak smile and steady hands to guide the rest inside. He doesn’t watch, even though he wants to, wants to see her warmth, even if it’s not turned on him. He doesn’t though, he pushes down the narrow hall and into the main room, and there he stops.

It’s almost like he never left.

There are no toys scattered on the floor, but the box still remains, tucked in one corner. Pictures, books, all the same, have only moved as much as needed for cleaning. The furniture is still in its place and muscle memory urges him to wind around it to his own chair before the fire.

He doesn’t. He settles Hyrule down on the couch, soothing curly hair absently, thoughtlessly, before dragging his aching body back towards the door. He passes her on the way, Wild curled in her arms. They don’t exchange even a look, but his heart still stutters at the ease she carries the younger hero, the familiar worried crease between her brows.

Twilight and Sky are the least effected so far, and they follow behind his wife, bringing the smallest two after. Time though is struggling, and while the weight of him is different from only a year ago, it still feels natural somehow to loop an arm over his shoulders and whisper encouragement to the man as they follow Legend’s limping figure into the house.

“Armor off,” is the order once they’ve made it in, door shut and the group of them gathered in the family room. It’s cramped, for ten people, but at least with the furniture as it is, but it doesn’t matter. “Tell me what happened.”

She’s already looking over Wind, dark hands cradling his ashen face like she used to with their son when he’d fallen and give himself a bloody nose or some other such injury.

“A curse,” Legend explains. “It was a wizzrobe. Don’t know what kind.” His breath is short, even as he’s crumpled down to sit at Hyrule’s feet, head leant against the couch arm. “None of our magic is any good and it’s- it’s affecting us physically as well.”

Amber eyes fall to stare at the lad, brows kitting together again. “How so?”

“Shortness of breath-” as though it wasn’t apparent “-pain-”

“Where?”

A shudder. “Everywhere.”

Her skirts rustle as she sinks down to be level with the scholar, hand lifted. “Where is it worst?”

Pink hair flies. “It’s not like that.”

“Explain then.” Her tone is soft, but firm.

Legend explains. He explains with words Warriors has seen in books on magic, but which he doesn’t know for himself. Sablya understands though, despite her hylian apparently still not being strong, and with prompting and feedback from the vet, she seems to get an idea of what it is that’s plaguing them. In the meantime, he leans at the couch’s back, hands mindlessly sinking to stroke curly heads and assure, as best he can, his little brothers.

“I think I understand,” the words have relief flooding over them, some of the boys even shedding a tear or two at the sound, “may I try something?”

“Go nuts.” Legend answers through a weary, pained smile.

It startles them, he supposes, to see the way darkness coalesces at her command, but when her hand rests against the vet’s chest, her voice low with the command to match his breath to her own, he sees tension bleed from the lad’s shoulders, resulting in something like a soft sob.

“Got it.” She moves to Wind next, although she orders, again, for the rest to remove their armor. “I cannot help you if there is a barrier. Take off the armor, I will help the children.”

It’s a struggle, in their weakened state, to get it off. Getting it on had been the same, but the risk of going without was too high considering the condition they’ve been in. It takes them all helping, or at least, those who wear it help each other, the vet’s hands joining after he sees to catch a breath.

Wind sags in relief when dark hands lift from him, and the vet moves to his side, gathering the younger up and waiting until Sablya has finished with Hyrule as well before pullng the traveler close as well. Both lads sink into him, nestling together, no longer in pain but fully drained from it’s effects.

Four is next, and then, because it is Twilight beside him, she quickly attends the rancher, although it’s only a second before she’s done. For reasons they can’t be certain of, but which the scholar had speculated might be in relation to magic exposure, the ranch hand had been least affected. While there’s still a sag to his shoulders as the hands of the captain’s wife lift from him, it’s not so much as to stop him pulling Four close with a soft hum, supporting the weight of the slumbering hero while their savior moves on to Wild next.

He tries not to watch, he does. He can’t help it though. He's missed her, even if thoughts of returning here have left him ill at ease and fumbling for ages. He can almost pretend, as he watches her drift between his brothers, that nothing happened. He’s home, she’s there, and save the lacking presence of a small child running about at their feet or tucked onto a hip or against a chest, it’s almost like nothing ever happened.

When all eight of the other heroes have been tended, she pauses. He sees her eyes drift to him, has to drop his gaze when it does, but she doesn’t step his way with that brisk step, with the determination that was turned on the rest. No, she lingers a moment.

“There are rooms upstairs. You are welcome to rest there.”

“Are you sure?” Twilight’s the only one with it left in him to speak, but the wide eyed stares of the rest convey their doubt and wariness.

Red hair swings free with her nod, drifting from where she’d hurriedly tucked it back while tending them. “You are guests, and you need rest. The children need to sleep, you all do, if you want to recover.”

“Thank you.”

“It is nothing.” Her smile is tight. “Please, make yourselves at home.”

Eyes turn to him, but he nods. He motions them along and, while the weight of magic still hangs from his shoulders, wrapping tight and making everything a pain, he just motions towards the doorway. “Stairs are at the end of the hall. Take any room that isn’t the first one on the right.”

The rancher’s brows raise, and the stares of the rest turn confused, but neither he nor his wife give answer. No, instead, she scoops Wind into her arms and, with a warning look nobody would dare disobey, not even Mask, she orders the rest of the younger boys to stay put.

“No straining yourself. I will get you.”

Such orders are not turned to Twilight and Sky, and the two men follow her out of the room, Four and Hyrule in their arms to be settled down. Usually, he’d demand they eat something before turning in for the night, but between the nausea and the exhaustion, he sees no reason to even try and suggest it. They need their sleep. They can eat when they don’t feel near ready to drop.

His wife is back a minute or so later, sweeping past him to gather Legend, only to be redirected to their champion. “I can last,” the teen vet assures, “get him first.”

She tuts at that, but listens. She doesn’t fight it, likely because she’s learned through experience with him that it’s pointless. It's only a short while later though that she’s back for the vet, and by then Time has mustered the strength to stand and follow.

Briefly, on his way out, their leader’s good eye falls on him, silent question hanging heavy, but he just grips the shoulder of the other in assurance. “I’ll be fine, just go rest.”

“Who is-”

“Someone we can trust,” and they are words that, from him at least, the others have all learned are never spoken lightly, can themselves be trusted. “Just go, sap. She and I need to talk anyway.”

There’s lingering curiosity there, but Time obeys. The man is too worn down, too tired from the last week, to likely even last through the long mess that would be answering all his questions. Time heads from the room, and while the house is a sturdy one, steps are heard overhead soon enough, signifying the motions of the boys to the rooms kept ready, at least while this house was still his home, for the presence of sisters, friends, and visiting family.

It leaves him alone.

Alone in a familiar room that’s his, but which feels wrong to linger in. The urge to wander, to stare, to take in the husk of the past, battles with the intense guilt of intrusion that he feels, even in his own home. Does he stay, waiting about for her to return? Does he wander freely, go where he will? He’s not been back since his first day returned from the war, and even then, he never made it past the hall. Is he okay to go to the kitchen and brew some tea for what will, no doubt, end up being a very tense night? Is he even allowed upstairs into their bedroom? Is he sleeping down here? With one of the boys?

He drags a hand through his hair and, for lack of anything better to do with himself, sits on the couch. Here, he’s least likely to cross the boundaries he can’t see, and here is where she’s most likely to look for him once she’s satisfied that young heroes are safely abed and no longer suffering.

Briefly, he hears steps pass. Briefly, he hears the familiar clatter in the kitchen. For a moment, the steps creak, skirts swishing up them with the brisque pace she always sets when worried or tense. It’s a moment later when the same sounds return again, getting louder as she returns to the main floor. She’s stalling, he thinks. Tending her guests by providing medicine for pain, blankets for warmth, and no doubt water for drinking and washing both. He’s glad the boys will have it, but every time her feet pass by the door, he finds himself tensing, panicking for a moment that now is the time he has to face her, and now he won’t have them here to act as a distraction for either of them. She just heads back up though, and he’s breathing in relief only to sigh it all out again in frustration with himself.

He needs to man up. She’s his wife for the love of Hylia! Yet even so, facing her is as daunting as walking up to face Cia, although his reasons are different. Against Cia, he was afraid for himself, afraid of her. Against Sablya, he’s afraid to shatter further what’s already so broken, afraid that somehow, he will cross the line of no return. It's not about failing with her, it’s the fact that he already has, and the question of how much worse he’ll make it.

“Your breath is bad enough, do not make it worse with a panic.”

Despite her words, his breath catches in his throat at the sound of her voice.

Her feet tap on the floor as she walks, but there’s a certain hesitance to each step. There's not the usual confidence in her pace, even if she crosses the room at the same speed as she would any other time, as she did just moments before when tending their guests. He risks a glance when the steps stop, and she’s standing in the middle of the room, facing him. He can’t manage to meet her eyes though.

“Armor off, I said. How do I fix the curse if you have it on?” She clucks her tongue, hands settling on her hips and, no doubt, golden eyes are staring down at him. He can feel their weight, but he can’t meet them. “Tch, come now, will you make this hard?”

The urge to remind her that the phrase in Hylian is “being difficult” rises in his mind, but he doesn’t say it. If anything, her attempts at the language are still endearing, even if her tongue is sharp as she says them.

He shifts, moving to shed the offensive attire. He’d forgotten, in the midst of aiding Time with removing his plate, that the mail he wears like a second skin these days was still on him. It’s heavy, yes, but it’s also familiar and grounding after so long wearing it for every waking moment. It’s almost a part of him these days, and shedding it is strange.

It’s strange to be without.

It’s strange having her eyes on him while he does so, even despite the fact that they’re married, that she’s seen him with much, much less. It’s different now though. They’re different. They haven’t been the young, happy couple- the one that stares back from pictures around the room; that smiles, arms around each other- in a very long time. Not since the war started.

He fumbles. Between the uncertainty and the curse that still lingers over him, his hands struggle with the buckles, the straps, never mind getting at the chain mail beneath it all. His hands tremble worse than normal, and even when he stops to master his breath, to try and calm himself, it only makes it worse.

Sablya clucks her tongue at him, and he can hear her hair swish over her shoulders with the shaking of her head, even as her feet tap across the distance between them. She’s moving closer, but that doesn’t change the fact that when she reaches out, hands brushing his arm, he still surges back.

She’s not Cia, she’s not, she’s nothing like. Still, he didn’t expect the contact, the hands, and all over again he must fight to re-steady his breath.

“You will not do this. You are weak; struggling.” He needs help, he hears, and his heart bleeds for it. Despite all, this woman will still stand there and offer aid, after everything he’s put her through, made her lose, all the hurt he’s brought to her life. “Let me.” She sighs.

So, he does. He drops his hands and only moves as she tells him, lifting his arm to let her get at the buckles beneath. In the back of his mind, a memory of her strapping those buckles herself, helping him gird himself for departure, for the war, plays in his head. Then, as now, her eyes had held a certain determination, one mixing with a sadness she refused to speak aloud.

“How you do these things to yourself, I do not know.” She murmurs. It’s not addressed to him specifically as far as he can tell, but he can’t help wincing at it anyway.

Does he answer? Apologize? Does he laugh it off as he might once have done to try and earn one of those wry smiles she would turn on him when they were young? Gods, he speaks like a man long aged, but the years spent courting, teasing, laughing and cheerful, they seem a lifetime ago.

Her hands are steady as they work the buckles, pulling belts free and finally lifting his pauldron away. He doesn’t need the help with his vambraces as badly, but she still moves on to them; his arm rested on her knees as she settles beside him, knee brushing his own and skirts folding over to drape over his legs as well as her own. She doesn’t move, he’s not sure if she notices, but he does. He can’t help but notice.

“Thank you.” He still can’t meet her eyes, and he doubts they will lift from where they work at leather straps. His own linger on her hands, moving deftly through their work. “For helping them.”

“It is the right thing.” She states simply, pulling free the vambrace and reaching for his other hand. She catches him by the wrist, grip fleeting, gone the moment he is where she wants him. “They do not deserve to suffer.”

He, who still sits with the curse heavy on him, perhaps does.

“They are heroes?”

He nods. She would know. He’s not sure how, but this woman isn’t the sort he could hide anything from, not ever. “Across time, yes.”

A nod, sharp. Her eyes remain lowered, but long hair falls over them. The urge to push it back, tuck it behind her ear, wells up within, but he stomps it down again. Chances are, she would welcome his touch as freely as he had hers just moments before, and the risk of it, of her potential rejection... he’s too much a coward to face it.

Silence hangs heavy between them as she removes the vambrace, setting it aside before moving, without stuttering, for his belt. It makes him pause, but he allows it. Lets her work the buckle of the baldric, his great belt, pulling them free and lying them aside. She’s methodic as she moves to aid him with his over tunic, and he lets her pull it free, shifting as he must to accommodate.

The mail is so much harder. He has to stand for that, and she follows after, both working to lift it free in an awkward tangle that would, at one time, have made them laugh together, at each other, at themselves. He would, maybe, have joked something, he can’t remember what, but he can’t. Words catch in his throat with her standing oh so close, determined stare fixed on him, on getting him free from the heavy shirt, and despite all else changing, the way she makes him breathless has not. At last though, it is free, and he’s standing there, defenseless, unarmed, unguarded, before piercing eyes that linger for a moment, hands that, by habit, smooth the shoulders of his shirt before starting away.

He wants to say something. Wants a word to come to him, to pierce the silence that hangs heavy between them. Nothing comes to mind though, only the urge to apologize, again, and again after, for everything. For himself, for his failures, for...until she tells him to stop.

“Sit.” She huffs, pushing back against him with the hand not holding his shed armor. “I will put it away.”

He obeys, sinking back onto the couch, now without the weight the mail brings to weigh him down. Somehow, he feels heavier without it.

She doesn’t take long with the armor. Really, it’s a matter of moving across the room to set it down beside everyone else’s; a mess for the morning once they’ve got the energy and strength to tackle it, or, more likely, do it again to depart and return to their work. He can’t imagine them being welcome past what’s necessary for them to recover, and his house or no, it’s hers as well. He doesn’t want her stuck with them just because they need somewhere to rest, not when the castle isn’t far at all, and he has rooms there already.

Her steps are slow this time as she returns, motions more hesitant as she reclaims the seat at his side. She’s more conscious, he thinks, of how she settles herself, and there is no brushing against each other save as is necessary; only her hand settling over his chest. Her breath is slow, controlled, but it trembles slightly. “Match me.”

It’s hard. It’s so hard. She’s leaning so close, all dark eyes and long lashes and fine features he could look at for an eternity. The slope of her nose, her cheeks, the way red hair curls so softly at the ends to caress dappled skin, the spots of pale flesh interspersed over the dark, it’s got his full focus, and his breath catches repeatedly for it.

“Focus.” She hisses, wincing the words, hand lifting for a moment from where it presses, warm, against his chest.

He tries.

Her chest swells, shoulders tensing, and he draws breath in. Her hair flutters, drawn lines loosening, and he exhales. In and out, matching to her and feeling the familiar weight of her magic ease around him, slipping beneath the curse’s bonds and lifting free, like a small blade cutting away awry stitching, working slowly, pulling, lifting and prying until the weight of it is gone and he’s left sagging back into the cushions, breath heavy despite no effort being required on his part.

Her hands slips away, dragging slightly over fabric.

He should say something.

“You are fixed. Rest now.” She doesn’t say his name. She won’t, he thinks, and golden eyes dart away as she stands, brushing hands down her skirt and moving for the stairs.

He should say something.

“Goodnight.” She says to the darkness in the hall, tone clipped, yet hesitant before she slips away.

His gaze is trapped on the walls, unable to turn to follow her. He needs to answer.

Her feet tap away.

“I love you.”

A stumble, a hitching of breath and then- the creak of the steps, the swish of a skirt, hands that fall heavy on the banister and then a shutting door.

Blonde hair hits the old couch, worn hands dragging through. The weight of the curse was almost better than that of the silence that answers his treacherous words. Words hurt, those that love, but silence pierces ever sharper in answer to them, and devested of his armor, he is but a man before it’s blow.

#sablya #lu warriors #linked universe #linkeduniverse #febuwhump 2024 #febuwhump #don't come for me #writing this was a fever dream #they are in control #i cannot control the warriors #or apparently sablya #link x oc

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