#''if my pain will stretch that far''

[razzle-zazzle]

Whumptober Day 05: Sunburn

Healing Salve + "If my pain will stretch that far"

2385 Words; Raised by Serpentine, sometime before "Can of Worms"

TW for mentions of past attempted indirect genocide (the serpentine entombment)

AO3 ver

“I wonder if we should go down to the lake later.” Lou mused.

Skalidor turned his attention to Lou, “You hate the lake.” It was true—the lake was a deep half-flooded underground cavern that seemed to stretch on forever, the other end unlit and unreachable. Lou did not consider himself a strong swimmer, and rarely went down there if he could help it.

Lou shrugged. “I was thinking we might have fish for dinner.” He stepped to the side as an overexcited hatchling barreled between them, a harried parent chasing after them.

Skalidor hmmed. “That does sound good. Perhapss Cole and I can go down there to surprisse you with one.” The tunnel they were in opened up as they reached the central chamber, torches and patches of growing moss illuminating a spiral up to the ceiling high above. Chanting filled the area—there was an active Slitherpit in progress towards the center.

“You and I can what?” Cole arrived before them, the same hatchling tucked under his arm and squirming furiously. He turned his attention to the hatchling—ah, Skalidor recognized this one. Little Pebbline, the youngest in the entire tomb. “You can’t just run around recklessly,” Cole was chiding, as Pebbline struggled valiantly to return to the ground. “You’re going to break your face on a wall.”

“Will not!” Pebbline protested, hanging upside-down in Cole’s arms at this point.

“Pebbline!” And there was Bytar, her father. “Thank you for catching her, Cole.” He smiled, taking Pebbline in his arms, and she hissed her displeasure before subsiding.

Cole grinned. “Of course!”

Bytar turned back into the tunnel, then, heading off with Pebbline in tow. Skalidor could faintly hear her begging to go back so she could see the Slitherpit.

“It’s a good thing you don’t run around like that anymore.” Lou commented, as Cole fell into step with them. “I could barely catch you back then, I wouldn’t want to imagine having to catch you now!”

Cole opened his mouth to respond—

A terrible grinding sound filled the central chamber, the sound of stone against stone harsh and loud. Screams broke out as everyone looked for the source of the noise, and Skalidor clutched his staff and pulled Lou against his side. Cole leapt forwards, arms outstretched as though he might prevent the inevitable cave-in—as though he was yet capable of moving more than small pebbles.

“It’s coming from above!” Someone shouted.

“The ceiling will crush usss!” Another voice realized.

“EVERYONE OUT OF THE CHAMBER!” Skalidor commanded, watching as Dweller and Constrictai alike dashed for the tunnel entrances lining the wall. He started to slither back, Lou still close at hand, once it seemed as though almost everyone was out—Cole!

“Cole, what are you—” Skalidor started, almost ready to go back in just to drag him out. This reckless boy—!

“It’s not caving in.” Cole’s arms had fallen to his sides, and he was gazing up into the shadows of the ceiling with an unreadable expression. “It’s—”

He stumbled back at the same time that the grinding stopped, arm raised above his head as he stared up towards the ceiling.

“Cole.” Skalidor hissed. The whole chamber was clearly unstable, after a noise like that—or worse, it had been one of the tunnels, and Skalidor’s order had seen several of his people buried—

“Skal,” Lou stepped forwards, pointing up towards the ceiling, “dear, look up.”

Skalidor looked up.

His staff clattered to the ground from a suddenly boneless hand—Skalidor ducked down to pick it up, keeping his eyes up on the ceiling—at the top of the stairs that wound around and up, a remnant of when their community had first been entombed generations ago—

Eyes locked on the bright circle of light where before there were shadows.

The light shooting down the stairs was brighter than any torchlight Skalidor had seen before, brighter than any glowing moss. It almost didn’t seem real—never, in all of his decades, had Skalidor conceived of the tomb being opened. But that was what the light had to be, right? Surely, it couldn’t mean anything else.

Faces were peeking into the central chamber from the tunnels scattered about, curious mutterings filling the air as everyone present took in the new development.

“Open?”

“That light!”

“Impossible! Nothing can break the barrier!”

“It’ss ssso bright…”

“How did it open?”

“A monster! A monster iss coming down to kill uss all!”

There was a shape casting a shadow upon the steps. Skalidor gripped his staff, and slithered forwards. Cole fell into step beside him, and Skalidor held his staff in front of the boy to stop him.

“Wh—lemme help!” Cole protested, voice close to a whisper.

“Sstay here.” Skalidor hissed. “I will invesstigate. You will protect.” Cole made a face, but backed off, standing beside Lou as Skalidor ascended the ancient steps.

That the stairs were completely out of use wasn’t actually true—though the tomb was magically sealed, the stairs allowed access to the upper walls of the central chamber—Skalidor passed by murals and carvings that had existed long before him without a second glance. He slowed down as he reached the top, squinting against the light.

The form that cast the shadow stood at the entrance, backlit by light so bright that Skalidor couldn’t make out any features. But their shape was vaguely serpentine—they would likely be strong, if it came to blows. They might even have some of the strange adaptations Skalidor had heard the supposed other tribes of Serpentine possessed.

“Who goesss there?” Skalidor asked, when the figure remained still. After a moment, they moved, slithering forwards and ducking their head. Their neck was very long—a potential handhold for grappling, then.

“Greetingss, my Constrictai cohort.” Their voice was smooth and even, and they moved to the side of Skalidor. They were scaled, just as he expected—but where Skalidor bore the blacks and oranges of a Constrictai, they were violet.

“An Anacondrai?” Skalidor asked. He’d heard the tales—they were the strongest of the Serpentine, the fastest and most resilient. They outmatched every other tribe, and lead the charge in the ancient war—but even they, too, had fallen, or so every tale assumed.

The Anacondrai nodded his head. “Oh, where are my manners?” They offered a hand, “Pythor P. Chumsworth, at your service.” He smiled, then, pleasant and disarming.

“How did you open the tomb?” Not even an Earth Master could break the barrier, nor could they tunnel around it—though there had been plenty of attempts. The tomb was meant to be permanent—a resting place, where those entombed were to die and never return.

“Curious, no?’ Pythor inclined his head towards the entrance. “Far as I can tell, for all the effort they put into making the tombs inescapable from within, that same effort wasn’t given to prevent them being opened from the outside.”

Skalidor balked. “That easy? But why?” There were no intentions to let the entombed out—or else they wouldn’t have been trapped down there for generations. Right?

Pythor shrugged. “Well, the rock was rather heavy. But yes, I could feel the magic breaking as I moved it. The seal didn’t wear off.”

Skalidor hissed. The light seemed to beckon him, and he tore forwards, needing to see for himself that the tomb has well and truly been breached—

Skalidor recoiled as the light from outside the tomb hit him in full. After a moment, he reopened his eyes, slowly enough that, though the light still burned, it did not sear quite as bright as before. His eyes adjusted, to a light level they had never experienced before—

Skalidor gasped.

Pythor slithered up beside him. “Well?” He prompted, staring out at the sights he had already seen.

“It’s…” Skalidor searched for the words. He had thought nothing could dwarf the underground lake in terms of sheer size—and yet. The light bearing down was hot, far hotter than any torchlight, and brighter as well. It reminded him of a festival years past when they had set up a bonfire in the central chamber. Back when Lilly… back when she had still been alive, standing at his side and making sure the smoke didn’t flood the caverns.

But not even the bonfire had anything on this. Skalidor turned his head towards the sky, eyes squinting against the light raining down. It was so bright. He could hardly see—and yet it was still better than when he had first emerged, and couldn’t see at all.

Pythor watched as Skalidor breathed in the outside air—it was hot, bone dry, so different from the caverns—patiently allowing the general to adjust. “Incredible, is it not?” He asked.

Skalidor breathed slowly, just trying to take in the enormity of the sky above him. Brilliant blue—he wasn’t sure he had seen blues so deep—cascading from horizon to horizon like the roof of a cavern—and yet the sky seemed to go on forever in a way that stone did not.

“It’ss something.” Skalidor breathed, dizzy from the magnitude of it. “I never imagined…”

Pythor chuckled. “I think we’ve all felt like this.” He swept an arm out, “I can’t believe this was kept from us—and for what?” his expression darkened. “Because of some trifle like a war that ended long before you and I were born? For generations, we’ve suffered beneath the surface, locked away from all of this world that they’re not even using—!” He paused, taking a breath. “My apologies,” He bowed his head. “I lost control of myself. But the knowledge of all that we’ve been denied—” He cut himself off with a hiss, shaking his head.

“No, I think I get it.” Skalidor spoke. “There’s just. Sso much.” From this perch atop—a mountain, was that the word? Skalidor had to think back to the stories of the surface passed down through generations—but from up so high, Skalidor could see so much. And yet he couldn’t make out anything living—that he recognized. All this space…

The tomb was never really cramped, in Skalidor’s memory—there simply weren’t enough Constrictai or Dwellers in it. Maybe it had been cramped when the original community had first been sealed away—but that had been long before Skalidor’s time. But he had heard the stories, of what could grow up here, of animals much bigger than cave newts. The vast distance laid out before him suddenly seemed so ideal—and yet he couldn’t spot a single surface human, nor any sign of their communities. He absently noticed his tail buzzing. He didn’t quite care to stop it.

“They have all this space that they’re not even ussing.” Skalidor hissed. “We have had to sscrape together what little we could find—”

“They don’t deserve this.” Pythor agreed, “Not one bit. Not after locking us away like vermin!”

Skalidor’s grip on his staff tightened.

“Skal, you ok—OWWW—” Skalidor turned around to see Cole poking his head out the entrance—well, no, the boy had stumbled back into the shadows of the entrance, what little of his face wasn’t hidden behind his arm scrunched against the light.

Skalidor chuckled. “Bright, isn’t it?” Beside him, Pythor’s eyes narrowed.

Cole tentatively reached his hand out into the light. “It feels like I’m sticking my hand in fire.” He muttered, before pulling back. Slowly, he lowered his arm, eyes blinking open—and immediately squinting against the light.

Pythor grimaced. “There are humans in your tomb?” He sounded put out by the very idea.

Skalidor regarded him curiously. “Sssurface humanss were willing to entomb their own kind.” He spat. “But now the dwellers are simply more of our kind—our community—” He looked at Cole with fondness— “Cole is our Elemental Master. Earth, in fact.” There was uncontained pride in his voice, for all that Cole had yet to fully inherit Lilly’s mantle and powers.

Pythor hmmed. “I had heard that a Master of Earth took up arms on the side of the Serpentine.” He stared at Cole curiously. “I had thought it just a tale to tell hatchlings, to give them false hope.”

“Well, I’m real.” Cole replied. He glared at Pythor for a moment more before schooling his expression. “Thanks for opening the tomb.” He said, in tones of quiet disbelief.

Skalidor could hardly believe it himself. “We can leave the tomb.” He murmured. “We wouldn’t be trapped anymore—what you’ve given us access to, I—I don’t know how we could ever repay you.”

Pythor waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, no no! I don’t need anything in return! I just abhorred the thought of any of my fellow Serpentine continuing to suffer in their tombs.” His mouth curled in distaste, “It really was cruel of the humans to entomb us all. They don’t deserve this pristine surface of theirs.” He hissed. “Not one bit.”

Skalidor nodded. “You have my agreement on that.”

Cole leaned against the side of the entrance, arms crossed. When Skalidor glanced back, he could see others had climbed up the stairs—even if most of the watching faces were sticking to the shadows, eyes squinted against the light.

Pythor’s head tilted as he regarded them all. “Well, while I did say that I didn’t need anything in return…” He mulled over his words before continuing, “I was hoping you might join me in my endeavor to reunite the Serpentine once again. It would be so wonderful to take the surface back from the humans, don’t you think?”

Skalidor wanted to. Just looking at the open space spilling out before him, and knowing that there was yet more that had been denied to his people by the sealing of the tomb—he wanted the surface humans to pay for their crimes. To deliver the grievances of hundreds of Constrictai and Dwellers from generations of suffering unto them, and make them pay.

There was one problem, though. “We barely number two hundred.” Skalidor pointed out. “And many of our number are not built for war.” There were the elderly, the young, the sick and those disinclined to fight. Nobody was at full strength—especially not with the current blight. “How will we ever defeat the surface humans, when our ancestors could not?”

Pythor chuckled. “Oh, my practical friend, I have just the plan for that!” He looked to Cole, and then to the cautious faces peeking out of the tomb’s entrance, and spoke.

“Have any of you heard of the legend of the Great Devourer?”

[susiequaz12]

Whumptober 5- "If My Pain Will Stretch That Far"

CW: Bruises, blood, whipping.

-

"Come on now, you can take more." 

He rolled over onto his side, his body littered with cuts and bruises. Pulling his arms underneath him, he managed to make it onto his hands and knees this time before the whip crashed back down over his skin. 

"Yeah, I- I doubt that." He panted through the pain. 

"You will take as much as I say you will take." 

"Yeah, if my pain will stretch that far." He gasped, falling back onto his chest with a sob. 

A splash of blood crashed over him as the whip came down and he choked out a mangled scream. 

"Haven't I had enough?" He pleaded, curling back into his side. 

The man holding the whip knelt down next to his face, locking a hand around his throat. 

"You will never have enough." He spat. "You will only have enough once you are so broken, that the only words you can speak are 'yes sir.' Once you are so beaten down that you will do anything I ask without a second of hesitation. If I tell you to lick my boot, you do so like it's Thanksgiving Dinner. Until that day, you will take every beating I give you. You will stretch your pain so far like a balloon ready to pop, and then I will take it farther. Do you understand?" 

When the man at his feet remained silent, choking on his air, he let him go and stood up, crashing the whip against the ground.

"I said, do you understand!" He cried.

The man responded with a light cough, his hands coming to rub at his throat as he stared out at the empty room. He didn't respond, didn't utter a single word. Just a light groan torn out of him when the whip crashed over his skin once more.

-

[oxideblack]

[psychologeek]

Whumptober #5: TimKlone bb

No. 5: SUNBURN | Healing Salve | Heatstroke | "If my pain will stretch that far." (Lottery Winners, Burning House)

"So," Kon says. "What's her name?"

And it's not supposed to be such a hard question. Such a terrible, heartburning issue. 

(But it is. Because that's who they are. Because there are other Robin and Superboy and none of them willingly handed over their names. Because they both had to name and rename themselves, to curve out that place in the world one should be handed freely. Because Kon-El and Konner and Conner and Kon. Because Timothy and Jackson and Timmy (and everything he was named before). Because Drake and Wayne and Kent and El. Because of legacies and families and how permanent it is.

Because names are words to describe a future. And they are important.)

It's supposed to be a light question. But just like the sun, every light can burn.

"I still call her baby," Tim says, softly, looking at the miracle in another miracle's arms. "I thought... I had a name planned. When she was born. I wasn't in a good place, then. I… I'm still working on it. I thought about naming her Dani-el, which means ‘god has judged me’. Because I was, you know? It felt like that. It felt like a sentence. A punishment because I was so greedy and couldn't let go. You were gone, and I kept messing around, and - and that was what I deserved.”

From the corner of his eye, he can see Kon's face. 

(There's pain, and it hurts in ways nothing else can.)

“I still consider Emunah, for her middle name,” he tries to lighten up the conversation. “Which means... well, I guess you can translate it to something like faith, or belief. Something irrational, if you like." He sums it up.

The sun beams at them, and the baby is happy. Kon's presence is a supernova by his side.

"But then she was born," he says. "Then she was born and real and there. And she wasn't a punishment or irrational or a gift or a curse. She was just. A baby. Someone that needs things and for some unbelievable reason, it was on me to care for her. And it felt. I don't know. Selfish to name her about me. About my choices or feelings or thoughts. Because she isn't - she's her own person, and she has so much to grow into."

“Daniel Emunah,” Kon says, trying the name. 

“That's what I wrote on her papers,” Tim agrees. “I just… couldn't send them.”

“Judgment and irrationality,” Kon says softly to the baby. “No, you don't look like Judgment, do you? You aren't a punishment. Not only judgment or irrationality. Your family has definitely got THAT part already covered."

Kon blow a kiss on her stomach, and the baby laughs. And it's sweet and pure and new.

(It's warm. Nothing like cold looks and loneliness in the old manor. Nothing like judgment.)

“Yeah, irrational, sure,” he looks at the teen by his side. “Some might even say crazy, or obsessed. But also fierce. Strong. Keep going against all odds. It's trying and growing and-” Kon tries to find the right words. To explain the difference between a winter's hearth and a summer’s wildfire. 

“Hope,” the word strikes him. “It's hope. People keep going because they have hope.”

And he smiles. And this makes Tim feel warm and something inside of him loosen. Like this acceptance, this unapologetic way Kon handles things, is a salve to a wound he never let himself notice.

“Hope Emunah,” Tim tries, and can't help but snort. "Hop Emunah. Sounds a little like a leap of faith.”

Kon considers that for a moment and shrugs.

“Well, if the shoe fits-".

~

(Like it? I have more mini-fics Whumptober index | And full size fics on ao3. )

[acidic-eye]

Whumptober day 5: Spread Your wings (and hold me tightly my love)

Whumptober day 5 Prompt: Healing Salve| "If my pain will stretch that far." -

“Hm.” he felt a hand grace over his back, tracing what he assumed to be the scars that dragged down his back, “What are these from?” 

“The wendigo?” Taishen tried, his voice coming out rather squeaky for his liking, “you saw the attack no?” 

“Not the wendigo wounds. These along your shoulder blades.” He placed a large hand on the scarred flesh that had haunted Taishen for years now, “I don't recall this in the lights' memories.”

“Ah! They aren't important, why don't we focus on the wounds so we can help the others��” He coughed violently, doubling over as he attempted to steady himself once more, “They from long ago, I didn't feel the need to mention them during the lights.”

“Hm,” Jornir seemed to examine them further before gently applying a salve along his back, one that was warm along his scales, warming the spots now coated in blood, “are you light headed?”

“A little, why ask Jornir?”

“You have lost a lot of blood,” he replied simply, “have you lost this much blood before Taishen?” 

- or: Taishen once had wings, Jornir wants to know why he doesnt anymore

[mrmustachious]

If My Pain Will Stretch That Far

He thought he could go on a little longer, but he went too far.

Day 5: "If my pain will stretch that far."

The pain hit when he was still fifty metres away from Thunderbird Four.

He was glad his comms weren’t open so his brothers didn’t hear his cry when the lightning shot up through his back and down his legs.

He had to freeze his movements as the pain took over. His teeth were clenched and so were his fists as all his thoughts were quickly taken over by the agony that consumed his body.

Read on AO3

[jamiesfootball]

Whumptober Day 5

Prompt: "If my pain will stretch that far."

He’s glaring daggers at the man bun in the front row when he feels his leg twinge.

At first he tries to ignore it. With Roy’s sadistic yet effective new training regiment, Jamie’s been feeling the pain more often than not during workouts. It’ll pass; it’s just an adjustment period as his body gets used to the new demands being asked of it. In the meantime, he’s gotten used to carrying around a dull ache in his muscles, and the way that stretching trades the ache into a dull burn.

But when he tries to extend his foot while bending over his knee, something sharp pings through his calf muscle. Instinctively he pulls his knee back up. The pressure recedes, and in its absence a strange tingling sensation dances underneath his skin.

He’s wiggling his toes, trying to get the odd numbness to go away, when he feels his own personal gargoyle take his spot behind his shoulder.

Jamie already showed up late to training (he’d nodded off in the shower, his sweaty forehead pressed against the glass as he tried to work up the energy to rinse his hair), already fell asleep during meditation (apparently the shower nap wasn’t enough), and now he's got Roy Kent standing over him making a low, rumbly growl like one of those metres that detects toxic radiation. It’s all the warning Jamie needs.

Ignoring his own better judgement, not to mention every safety speech he’s sat through starting from the U10s on up, Jamie sucks in a sharp breath and stretches his leg back out in front of him. He leans forward, lowering his chest towards his knee. His muscles spasm as his leg refuses to extend all the way. The twinge is back, sharp and insistent, as Jamie grabs his ankle and pushes down on his thigh above his knee.

He grits his teeth, ignores the angry man behind him and, throwing his weight into it, forces his leg to stretch.

Pop.

The whole back row hears it.

For the blink of an instant, there’s confusion. Roy whips his head from side to side, scanning the room for what sounded like a champagne cork popping off, but all he meets are the confused faces of the back row, most of them still half-stretched out – with the sole exception of Dani Rojas, whose eyes are wide with distress as he looks between his teammates.

Then Jamie makes one little hiccup of pain and curls over his leg, his fingers digging into his calf as a strained noise leaks out of the back of his throat. He’s completely frozen still, his leg outstretched in a painful clenching rictus, muscles and tendons in sharp contrast as his foot remains flexed forward and visibly shaking.

With alarm bells ringing in his head, Roy steps forward and steadies him by the shoulder. "Jamie?"

Jamie slaps his hand away with an audible smack, only to crumple back over himself with a sharp keening noise that gets the whole room's attention and sends the hair on the back of Roy's neck to standing.

Someone runs to get the physios. Roy grits his teeth and tries again, attempting to pry Jamie's hand off his leg and take a look.

Jamie attempts to curl over himself tighter.

Whatever remaining fragment was holding things together snaps. Abruptly, the tension in his leg gives out. He lurches backwards with a sharp gasp. A loud sob bursts out of his chest, and then he's choking, his lungs struggle to breathe around the sheer agony. It feels like someone's grabbed a fistful of his nervous system and twisted. He rocks back and forth, broken gasps punctuating the movement like a drum being stabbed to death

Roy's crouched next to him, one hand on his thigh to keep him from thrashing around and the other holding onto the back of his neck as he twists around in pain. Someone's shushing him, and even through the pain Jamie's pretty sure it isn't Roy because it sounds too gentle. "Woah, easy. Easy, lad, just hang in there. The physios will be here any minute, take a deep breath for me, that's it."

The physios arrive with a stretcher. Roy spares half a second to wonder that Zava was the one who ran to fetch them, and then the world descends into chaos.

[blackseafoam]

These Wells Are Dried

Part 1 of 2

Next

The Red Lantern is a story I rolled up with The Broken Cask self-guided rpg book. It’s about an inn on the edge of a barren wilderness, owned by a "grumpy on the outside, soft on the inside" half-elf (Nicco) and run by his staff (Arturo, a human ranger and Elleh, a gnome bard). I highly recommend the book! It is so fun, and it got my confidence way up for DMing and creative writing.

The setting is based on the high desert and shrubsteppe of Eastern Washington and Oregon, a very special place.

whumptober 2024. Day 04. sunburn l healing salve l heatstroke l "if my pain will stretch that far"

WC: 2445

SFW no warnings really just peril, bad decisions, and someone almost dies

The high plain’s summer race was brutally hot this year. So bad that many participants had scratched before the starting gun even sounded, despite having trained years for this moment.

Nicco knew his horse could handle it. Cataldo was made for this weather, and the two of them had braved worse together. If anything, the severe heat wave would give them a competitive edge. 

Each year, the Red Lantern Inn hosted the race as one of the checkpoints as well as the first aid headquarters. The famous location had been run by Nicco’s family for generations. The rustic wood paneled operation was self-sustaining, being this far out in the shrubsteppe wilderness. Despite the remote location, travelers came from all over for the experience. Not only was it a place to see riders coming and going, it boasted famously delectable dishes, had quaint lodging, and a haunting bottomless spring in the cellar with healing properties.

The spring had always been open to the public, until five years ago. Nicco had boarded up the cellar and magically sealed the door with no explanation. Since then the inn had lost a good chunk of business, making the High Plains Horse Derby a crucial opportunity to catch up on profits. 

The starting line was twenty miles east of the Red Lantern. Where the tall ponderosa pines on the edge of the nearest mountain range offered the last shelter any of the riders would see for days. From this spot the high desert stretched out below, rolling hills stretching out until they became flat plains far beyond.

Nicco trotted Cataldo in the nearby clearing, a race veterinarian standing by to assess the beast’s gait. A horn rang out. Ten minutes till start. The half elf secured his long black hair into a ponytail and checked his pack one last time. Water was a concern, but he knew this land well, probably better than any of the other racers. Several springs along the way should be his saving grace, so he skimped on water. His gaze drifted up to the other riders heading for the starting line, heavy water skins bouncing with every stride. Nicco would make do with just two. He knew this land, it had always cared for him, and he for it. It was a risk, but calculated. 

Riders stood abreast at the line drawn in the dirt at their feet. The fresh scent of pine needles crunching under hoof perfumed the air along with the excitement and adrenaline of three dozen horses and three dozen riders. Nico patted Cataldo’s already sweating neck, a confident smirk gracing his face as he made eye contact with the rider next to him, who was ogling at Nicco’s lack of waterskins. 

The chatter grew more quiet as the three minute flag holder ran across the field.

The race marshall began the count down.

“TEN, NINE, EIGHT…”

Nicco ground the balls of his feet into the stirrups, heels down.

“...SEVEN, SIX, FIVE…”

He choked up on the reins and flexed his elbows.

“...FOUR, THREE…”

He shook a stray hair out of his face.

“TWO”

Breathe in.

“ONE”

Breathe out.

BANG. The starting gun went and so did thirty six horses. In an instant, Nicco positioned himself up in the saddle, taking his rear off the leather. As everyone around him whipped and kicked, he simply gave Cataldo the space to do what he did best. 

Run.

-

“He’s here!” Arturo leaned out the window as he watched the telltale dust cloud of a group of riders nearing. They were just dark shapes, peeking in and out of view as they traversed the low hills and short sage bushes. Elleh put down the dish she was cleaning and ran to the door. The two of them jogged to the checkpoint station to cheer for their boss. As they neared they saw his waterskins were shriveled, completely empty, his face was flushed red. 

“Nicco are you okay?” Elleh was immediately concerned. 

“Quite fine, Elleh.” He dismounted as the race volunteer signed him in. He leaned closer to her and Arturo “First spring was dry, but it was the smaller of the three.” He said in a hoarse whisper, his lips were severely cracked already. “The next one will have water."

Arturo hummed doubtfully “We have extra water bladders, Ni–”

“NO.” Nicco cut him off. “If you help me I’ll be disqualified, remember? I’ll just refill here, and the next spring is 10 miles away.” He stormed off, leading Cataldo to a cooling off station. Arturo cast Elleh a worried glance, she shrugged and went back inside. When Nicco was cranky AND set on an idea, there would be no convincing him otherwise. 

-

The next spring was dry. 

Nicco tried digging into the cracked earth but it was no use, the deep-rooted plants bordering the basin had already begun to whither and drop their seeds. He bit his thumbnail as he decided what to do next, he looked over at Cataldo. The horse was absolutely drenched in sweat, and they still had a long way to go. He weighed his remaining water in his hands. Surely the next spring, the largest one will have water. With a decisive nod he lowered his hand and mounted again. 

The heat had become even more unbearable as the day wore on. It made Nicco feel like he were fermenting from the inside, sticky sweat clinging to every inch of his skin, nausea creeping up with every stride of his mount.

-

Seven miles further, with 25 more to go. Nicco left the marked trail once more, to find his secret spring. He followed a small gravel line to a low spot behind a hill, anxiously leaning forward to see what awaited. 

A basin of dust. 

Panic immediately rose in the half-elf’s throat. He most certainly was not going to make it to the finish line, that much he could decide right then and there. He had gambled and lost, but what was worse is that Cataldo was an equal in these consequences. He dismounted, wringing his hands and looking at his steed. Taldo probably looked better off than he did. Being a thin-blooded desert horse, he could withstand the lack of water if Nicco was careful. 

He had already given all of his water to the horse on the way here, with a pinch of salt for electrolytes, but Nicco hadn’t had anything to drink but one sip on his way to the second spring. He scratched at his beard nervously one last time, still looking around at the ground as if water would spontaneously erupt out of the earth. There was only one thing to do, head back as efficiently as possible. The rider undid his top wrap. He would share his sun protection with his horse to hopefully save on sweating. Upon remounting, he tucked one end of the fabric into the browband of the bridle, between Taldo’s freckled ears. Then he took the rest of the fabric and tucked it into his belt, creating something of an umbrella for the nag’s neck. It wasn’t much, but it was the best he could do. 

Nicco chirped and squeezed his legs ever so slightly, sending Cataldo into a trot, the most energy efficient way home. Immediately, he could feel the heat of the early afternoon sun begin to prickle his exposed chest, shoulders, and back.

-

A cowbell rang on the west corner of the inn, the cooling station volunteer had been instructed to ring it upon anyone returning to the checkpoint, alerting the staff and medics to prepare for something to potentially be wrong. 

Elleh and Arturo, in the middle of serving food, hurried to the windows along with most of the guests. The cowbell hardly ever went off, but this was the third time they had heard it today, two other riders had scratched out of caution for the heat just an hour ago.

“Can you see the rider?” short-statured Elleh couldn’t see past the crowd, and began to make for the door.

Arturo squinted and craned his neck, “It’s Nicco.” He looked back at her with wide worried eyes. Elleh burst out the door.

Elleh was concerned by Nicco’s sun-baked face before, now she was horrified. Nicco swayed on the saddle as he came in, eyes half-lidded and red, red like the rest of his blistering skin. His black hair was plastered to his forehead, neck, and shoulders with sweat. He swayed harder as he slowed Cataldo to a walk, leaning forward and gripping the front of the saddle, his wrap top that had been protecting the horse’s neck fluttered to the ground. The tiny gnome rushed toward the pair “NICCO!” Arturo was right behind her. The station medic was already on the way as well, and the three of them helped Nicco down. 

“All dry.” Nicco huffed as Arturo supported him, the half-elf’s hand still gripping the saddle. His skin looked an awful lot like the rotisseried pheasants they served in the winter time, blistered and charred deep red.

“Damn it Nicco…” Arturo began to pull him away. 

“No… Can’t leave… Dissqualiff’d” Nicco slurred as he gripped the saddle harder. 

“Boss, your race is over.” Arturo said gently. “We have to go inside, now.” The burly man could feel heat radiating off Nicco’s body like a cast iron pan. He reached out and broke Nicco’s grasp on the saddle. He muttered and protested the whole way to the aid tent as Elleh hurried the horse to the shaded stables.

The race medics had already been prepared for dehydration, heatstroke, and sunburn as the number one concern of the day, but did not expect to see a case this bad. Nicco had been sick, twice, in the short walk to the tent, in between incoherent complainings. Arturo was basically dragging him by the time they got him to a cot, and deposited his lanky figure onto the frame like a dead fish. 

-

Nicco’s blank mind didn’t even try to figure out where he was when his eyes squinted open at the gently rustling canvas ceiling of the tent. He had been drugged by an angry customer once, and that was the first thing his mind went to as he felt like his whole body was made of fog. Like how he imagined performing “misty step” would feel, if he knew any magic. He heard a gentle scratching sound above his head, he tried looking up to see, the cold rag on his neck sliding off. A tiny arm caught it before it tumbled off the cot, and placed it back in its place. Elleh’s rosy-cheeked face came in to view, tight with worry, she set her sketchbook on the stool she’d been sitting on and kneeled next to her boss. Her friend. His eyes started to close again.

“Nicco.” She whispered, she would shake his shoulder, but it was the worst burnt part of him and covered in a strange mint green salve. Instead she reached for his hand and squeezed it. “Nicco.” She said a bit louder. 

His eyes opened a little wider now. Some of the fog had lifted and he could comprehend more of the space now. The little gnome was grabbing his hand, it felt nice. He squeezed it back weakly. He took stock of his surroundings, he was on a hammock-like cot, with naught covering him but his underpants and a few cold wet rags draped over him strategically. Several potions and a canteen sat on an empty stool by his feet. 

“It’s bad Nicco.” Elleh frowned. She was never this serious, something was very wrong. “You almost died.” She barely choked out the words while her eyes went glassy. Nicco was still confused, why was she so upset? He hadn’t seen her cry since the first day he’d met her. Elleh was supposed to be the uplifting one. 

“Cataldo…” Were Nicco’s only muttered words in response. 

A flash of frustration heated Elleh’s sorrowful expression. “Your horse is fine Nicco, you gave him all of your water!” She shook her head, then got serious again. 

She hesitated. “Nicco… you have to unlock the cellar. The medics… they said you could have permanent internal damage.” 

His eyes shot up at her with that all too familiar stubborn look. He shook his head as much as he could before he was too dizzy after two shakes. 

“Whatever… whatever it is, Nicco. Whatever it is you won’t talk about. It isn’t worth this. Please, you’re not thinking clearly. Just tell me how to open it. You could die.” She was begging now, having pulled his hand to her chest and squeezing it even tighter. “Just this one time, then we can lo–” She stopped talking when his dark eyes locked with hers, his cracked lips parted to speak. Nicco rolled over and was sick on the ground at the bard’s feet. Elleh released his hand to grab a nearby bucket, patting her boss on the back as the only secrets he let out were what he had for breakfast that morning. 

-

Nicco fought the severe burns and inflammation for days after, the main medic stayed long overdue her contract to tend to him. Arturo offered to call in someone else so she could get home, but she declined, she had to see the job through. A cleric happened to be passing through the second day and treated the innkeeper to the best of his abilities. Nicco fully woke up the next day, to his caring employees again begging him to open the cellar so he could use the healing waters. He simply shook his head, voice too hoarse to respond. 

Once the boss was semi-ambulatory, the medic left, and he sulked around the inn like a lost ghost. Elleh and Arturo constantly fussed over him to stop moving around. He insisted at least to sit in the kitchen to oversee things, but never lasted long. It was only when he was snoring like a bugbear in his seat that Arturo would force him to go to bed. Nicco was unusually quiet for weeks after, clearly hiding his pain from his doting employees, who were also his closest friends. He laid in bed and tears ran down his blistered cheeks once he was alone. They cared so much for him, care he in no way deserved. He could feel his body not working like it should, the horrifyingly abstract wrongness of it. The magical healing of the cellar pool could help immensely… NO. He buried the idea as quickly as it sprouted. No one could go down there ever again. He wasn’t even sure if he could remember how to break the magical seal anyway. He would take his suffering as long as he could, would he die for his secret? Undecided. He drifted off to sleep. 

--

Author's Note:

I've been so excited to share this! I was struggling to come up with an actual story for these characters until I started writing for this prompt. The second part will show up later for whumptober :)

I just gave it a final edit and I'm so glad I wrote this when it was actually hot out because I would never have thought of some of the descriptions otherwise. I've never actually gotten heatstroke but came close when I went to Pompeii in August a few years ago, that place is like a huge brick oven that is also a maze (but also full of really cool stuff). I fell asleep in the taxi home and woke up on the Airbnb couch, whoops! Stay hydrated, gamers.

[rewrittenwrongs]

Whumptober day 5: Sunburn / “if my pain will stretch that far”

Read on Ao3 (registered users only) | day 4 | day 6 coming soon | Whumptober masterpost

TW: nothing, I think. Unless chronic pain counts?

The sunburns are actually pretty minor, but I just HAD to include them in some capacity. The duality of the source of Kon’s powers and energy being able to hurt his loved ones… yeah, I’m a fan.

Tim and Kon’s relationship can be interpreted as both platonic or romantic.

Kon was concerned about Tim.

Honestly, it shouldn’t be surprising at this point. He gets concerned for him a lot. But the reason for his concern was certainly surprising. You see, despite the entirety of Young Justice being present at base, Robin was the only one who hadn’t shown up to training today.

Now, if you know anything about Robin’s, you know they take training seriously. They never let injuries, short of something truly obscene like a dozen broken bones and three gunshot wounds, keep them from doing at very least some stretches and/or cardio. And yet. Kon has been hanging around the training rooms almost all day, and has seen literally every other member of their team at least in passing, except Robin.

Kon knew Tim liked to get his workouts done in the morning. He’d have a protein bar, sling a towel over his shoulder, and lock himself in the gym or training room for at least an hour, usually closer to two. If he was injured or tired from an exhausting mission he might stick to cardio, or cut his session short, but he never skipped all together. And yet, when Kon checked the time after the dozenth repetition of a move Robin was supposed to be teaching him, he found it was already 5 PM.

And while Kon hasn’t actually been in the gym or training room the entire day, he’s spent most of the day nearby, or in areas between the gym and the bedrooms. He hasn’t heard Tim’s bedroom door open once all day. He didn’t even see him at breakfast or lunch.

Frowning at the clock on the wall, he spared Cassie a wave before leaving the training room. He put back on his shoes at the door—his balance was better without the soles of his boots in the way, and he liked feeling the texture of the mats. He walked at a brisk pace rather than flying or running like he was tempted to. Tim must be seriously injured or drowning in casework if he didn’t have time for exercise. Kon didn’t recall seeing him get hit in yesterday’s mission. They’d spent the entire day in the sun and he was looking a bit red by the end of it, but sunburns weren’t enough to keep Robin bed-bound. Even if he had horrific tan lines around his eyes.

Kon knocked on the door to Robin’s room, listening closely for a response. Most of the rooms were soundproofed, but there was little that could hold up to a kryptonian up close.

He heard a muffled groan from inside. He knocked again, calling, “Rob?”

A tense moment of silent deliberation, before Tim said, “Come in,” sounding strained and quite miserable.

Kon tapped the touchpad and the door slid open obediently, lock either disabled or not up to begin with. Inside the only light source was a nightlight that threw pale star silhouettes against the walls. Tim was lying shirtless face down on his bed, blanket draped over his legs and waist.

Kon walked over, door shutting behind him. “Hey, bud, I haven’t seen you in the gym today. Or at lunch. You feeling good?” He reached the bed and sat on the edge of it. He heard in sharp relief the cut off whimper Tim made as the bed dipped, and the strain of fabric as his fist tightened around his pillow.

Kon went very still and scanned Tim for injuries. “Tim?” Save for some nasty sunburns on his neck, biceps and forearms, where his suit didn’t cover, he only had a few pale bruises on his hands. They were pressing against the pillow but Tim would just move them if they actually hurt. Kon eyed the sunburns distrustfully—the thought of the same thing that literally gave him his powers being able to hurt his friends still made him queasy, but he doubted they were the cause of this pain.

Tim groaned into his pillow. He sounded miserable.

“Tim?” Okay, Kon’s worry was increasing. Had he been hit with a curse? Yesterday’s mission was uneventful compared their usual, a pretty standard search and rescue after an earthquake. Minimal casualties, none of the team were hurt, there were no major aftershocks. Tim was in earshot the entire time. What was happening? Was he sick?

Tim made another pained sound, a whimper, and he shifted his head to the side so Kon could see some of his face. The sunburn there wasn’t nearly as bad as he expected, but there was water welling in his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Kon tried not to panic. Tim and Red Tornado always told him panicking in high stakes situations would lead to mistakes. But this time a little hysteria was justified—Tim never cried! The only time Kon’s ever seen him cry was the time he took a bullet between his ribs and his lungs briefly collapsed. Did someone die? Did Kon miss an injury? What kind of illness could make Robin cry? What was happening!?

Tim’s jaw flexed, shaking, and he squinted shut his eyes. A tear trailed over the bridge of his nose and fell onto the pillow. “Hurts.”

“What hurts? Where are you injured?” Kon moved to rest a hand on his shoulder, but his palm hovered indecisively over it instead. “Are you sick?”

“No,” Tim whimpered, eyelashes fluttering. “No injured. Or sick. Just pain.”

“Just… pain?” Kon wracked his brain. If there was nothing specific causing it… Tim had brought up this mysterious pain without a source before, when he first witnessed one of Kon’s migraines a few months back. He’d been explaining to Kon that there were tools he could use to avoid or lessen his headaches, especially if outside sources were effecting/causing them. He listed doing stretches the day after a workout as an example, and briefly mentioned how sometimes the pain wouldn’t go away, no matter how long he held positions worthy of a contortionist. He said that holding still helped, and hot water bottles, ice packs, massages.

“Chronic,” Tim mumbled, another tear falling.

“Chronic,” Kon repeated quietly. He didn’t recognise the word. “How can I help?”

Tim whimpered.

“You said massages helped, didn’t you?” Kon checked, shifting his position to have easier access to Tim’s back, using his TTK to stop the bed from shifting.

“Mm-hmm.” Tim blinked open his eyes and looked at him. He opened his mouth—

“Don’t even think about telling me I don’t have to. I know, I want to.” Kon eyed the dresser. “Do you have any lotion? Or aloe?”

“…Lotion’s in the bathroom.”

Kon lifted off the bed, using his TTK to make the bed adjust slowly to the lack of weight rather than spring back immediately. Tim didn’t make any further noises of pain. Kon floated to the en suite bathroom and opened the cabinet beneath the sink, grabbing a bottle of lavender scented lotion. He was a little surprised by the amount of skincare products, but he supposed gluing fabric to your face for hours each day wasn’t conducive to clear skin.

Kon closed the bathroom door behind him as he reentered. “Where’s the pain?” he asked quietly. There was a furrow between Tim’s brow, the one he always got when he was injured.

“Everywhere.”

Kon winced. “Where is it worst? I’ll start there.”

“…Shoulders. Back.”

Kon set down the bottle of lotion, TTK curling the blanket beneath it so it would stay upright, and lowered himself slowly onto the bed, a leg either side of Tim’s hips. He stayed on his knees so there wasn’t any contact. Tim made a little choked whine as the bed slowly dipped. Kon dispensed some lotion onto his hands and rubbed them together.

“Heat and cold help too, yeah?” Kon asked, settling his hands in the centre of Tim’s trapezius’s, gently digging in the heels of his palms. He heard Tim’s breathing stutter, his heart rate speeding up as a muffled whimper left his lips. “I’ll grab some ice packs later…”

Kon was pretty sure his massage was just making things worse. It wasn’t the first time he massaged Tim or any of his teammates after a mission, but it was the first time Tim was so vocal about the discomfort. He knew Tim would normally rather bite his tongue off than make people concerned for his health or think he’s in pain. Yet this time, Kon’s almost every action caused a pained whimper or groan, a new tear glistened in Tim’s lashes every few moments, and the reactions weren’t shifting to contentment and pleasure the way they usually did.

Kon swallowed. Usually, if he took his time and was thorough enough, he could work out all of the aches and pains and exhaustion. But this time even his TTK couldn’t find any cramps, only a couple knots—there was no specific source for his discomfort. There was no helpful trail leading him to the final bosses. There was just… pain.

Kon slowly worked his hands across Tim’s back, occasionally collecting more lotion, carefully attacking each of his muscles in turn until they were loose and relaxed. He especially took his time massaging Tim’s shoulders. Tim had buried his face in the pillow at some point, muffling the worst of his whines. Occasionally he’d go tense all over for a second, only to cry out like someone set him on fire.

Kon asked regularly if he should stop. Tim replied no every time. Kon was seriously starting to wonder if he was a masochist.

At some point he started talking. Rambling, really, about anything and everything that came to mind. He cracked jokes and shared fun facts and teased their other teammates and recounted stories. Sometimes he’d prompt Tim to join in or share his opinion, and Tim would either force out some incoherent mumble or spend the next few minutes slowly stringing together words, past the tears and the pain. Kon was fairly sure his distraction was helping.

Once Kon had well and truly massaged the entire expanse of Tim’s back, shoulders included, he moved on to the arms, kneading and working each muscle attentively, one arm at a time. Tim’s pained noises, while still frequent, had slowly lost their volume, though they raised again each time he started a new area.

Kon finished with his hands, digging his thumbs into Tim’s callouses and working his palms. He rubbed over his fingers, his wrists, the back of his hands, his thumbs, all the while trying to ignore how significantly Tim’s pained noises had increased in both volume and occurrence. He sounded like he was being tortured. At one point he actually sobbed.

Kon froze instinctually upon hearing that. <i>He</i> caused that noise, those tears, that pain. He was hurting his best friend. Why hadn’t he stopped earlier?

Tim shifted his head so he could blearily open an eye at Kon. “Keep going,” he implored, muffled into his pillow. Tears were shining in his eyes and staining his cheek. He looked… resigned.

Kon took a deep breath, steeled his nerves, and kept working the joints and tendons in Tim’s hands.

Gradually, ever so slowly, the noises quieted. Shifted from muffled groans and high pitched whines to short whimpers and miserable sniffles. Kon spent maybe fifteen minutes on his hands alone. Finally, he allowed himself to stop, and pulled back, sitting beside Tim. He no longer made a sound when the mattress dipped.

Without much thought, Kon reached out and stroked Tim’s hair. It was longer than usual, in need of a cut. Kon hoped he’d wait another few weeks before trimming it. “Are you okay?”

Tim hummed tonelessly. Not a confirmation or a denial.

“Want me to get some ice packs now?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Kon went and got some ice packs. They had quite a few in stock, for recovery after missions or workouts. Kon grabbed two smalls ones and a larger one. He returned swiftly, knocking on the door before entering, and presented his haul to Tim. “Where do you want them?”

Tim stared at him, seemingly gathering his thoughts. He didn’t spare the ice packs a glance. “…C’mere.”

“Sorry?”

“Come here.” Wincing like it took a great effort, he forced his torso to twist like he was trying to turn on his side. “Cuddles.”

Kon stared. Tim had participated in cuddle piles plenty of times, but he’d never asked for or initiated one. It took him months to be comfortable even joining in. Trying not to look giddy, Kon toed off his boots and slid under the blanket beside Tim, thankful he was wearing loose workout clothes rather than all the straps and bits of his costume.

There was some fiddling, and pain on Tim’s part, while they arranged themselves into a comfortable position. Kon ended up on his back with Tim on top of him, head resting on his collarbone, the larger ice pack spread over his shoulders and the smaller ones pressing against each hand. The blanket was pulled up around his back and Kon let himself card through Tim’s hair, once he was sure it wasn’t causing pain. Tim seemed more tired than Kon had ever seen him, which was really saying something.

Tim fell asleep quickly, heartbeat slow and breaths even. He’d tucked his head beneath Kon’s chin, snuggling up against him like he was the comfiest bed in the world.

Kon stayed awake for longer, thinking. He was glad Tim had let him stay and try to help. Even thought he wasn’t sure his massage had done any good. He was thankful, honoured, almost. He felt… undeserving, of Tim’s trust. Of seeing him so vulnerable. To see his walls fall so blatantly was a little overwhelming.

Kon, absently pressing a kiss to Tim’s head, made a silent vow that he would never do something that would get that trust taken away.

He fell asleep trying to think up new ways to help Tim with his pain.

[killjoyconstruct]

Whumptober Day 5: If My Pain Will Stretch That Far

Yael operated on a lot of child soldiers during the war. She often wondered if the pain she felt for them would be enough to save them.

It wasn't. Not always.

[ahmoseinarus]

Day 5

Sunburn | Healing Salve | Heatstroke | "If my pain will stretch that far." 

[theoneeyedgoldenwolf]

Pain tolerance

Whumptober 2024, number 5: Healing Salve, "If my pain will stretch that far."

Summary: Time takes the brunt of a Lynel attack to save one of his boys. He’s lucky he got something that can save his life.

CW: Cursing, deep wounds, blood

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

“FUCKING HELL, WARS! CAN’T YOU BE BIT MORE GENTLER?!”

“I am being as gentle as I can.” Warriors replied while trying to play it through mischievousness while his heart was breaking. His little brother had been reckless. Or maybe it had been just very bad luck. He wasn’t certain. Nonetheless, these were the situations he hated the most. “I doubt you’ll stay conscious through this all, though.” He warned while trying to hold back his seriousness and fear.

“If my pain will stretch that far.” Time mumbled while hissing and growling as his wounds were being worked with. He wanted to scream but he held it back.

“Oh, I bet it will.” The Captain told firmly. “I’m not anywhere near of being even halfway through with these.” He explained and slightly grinned at the one eyed male’s miserable whine. “I’m trying to do things as fast as I can while still being as precise with my work.” He continued and his little brother just nodded in understanding.

“The boys?” The Chain’s leader inquired while trying to move to see the others.

“HEY! Stay put!” The war Hero snapped and flinched as he had to force the older male back down. “They’re fine. You’re the one who took the hit, remember?” He tried to get the other one to cooperate but not really managing. “They’re keeping eye on the surroundings. Making sure the beasts won’t take us off guard.” He told while knowing it wasn’t as comforting reply as he wished he could’ve given.

“A-are they…?” The one eyed male repeated while desperately wanting to see the others. He knew he had lost consciousness after that fire attack. The pain had brought him back awake. Right now he really just wanted to see for himself that the others were all right.

“Sprite.” Warriors called while noticing the panic rising within his leader. “Sprite! Look at me!” He commanded and Time turned his worried gaze into him. “They’re all right. I promise you, little brother, the boys are fine. I wouldn’t lie to you.” He stated out as firmly as he could and bit calmed down when the wounded male before him nodded.

“Walk me through the situation, Sprite. I need you to stay conscious for a while longer.” The older brother whom currently was about a decade younger spoke firmly but still gently.

Time nodded and did his best to concentrate into the Captain. Yet he soon frowned as he noticed the salve that was being used. “Is that…?” He half queried while feeling tad uncertain. “That’s mine. I created that. You shouldn’t… It’s not supposed to be used like this.”

“I know. Hyrule approved.” The war Hero told and bit shrugged. “He said the healing salve, Fairy Salve,  was actually meant for fairies but he’s certain it’ll work for you too since your magic is fairy based and you overdid your fire magic. According to Hyrule it should ease the imbalance with your magic and redirect it into healing.”

The Old Man was silent for a while as the information slowly sank in. “I wasn’t aware of such.” He finally whispered bit awed.

“Well, you learn something new every day.” Warriors grinned and bit shrugged. “And it does seem to work as your shoulder area is already healing amazingly.” He commented while glancing at the said wound. “Now, talk to me, little brother. What the hell went through your head when you went between a Lynel and Hyrule?”

The Chain’s leader fell silent while still feeling the hellish burning the healing salve caused as it worked his overheating into fixing his body. He held back from flinching at each turn more of the just barely liquid form salve was put into the cruel wound.  “Nothing.” He eventually replied bit sorrowfully. “I didn’t think, Wars. I just acted.”

“Walk me through it.” The Captain almost commanded while hating the amount of blood that had gathered beneath his little brother. Wind was going to need a new bedroll after this since this much of blood wasn’t going to be washed off easily. Even though it was way too short it still was enough to keep most of the tallest Link off the actual ground and bit soften the place he was laying at.

Time sighed but he finally nodded. The pain he was feeling was keeping him conscious. He knew he was suffering from blood loss and his time was running short. He knew he was breathing shakily and heavily but at least he was still alive. Slowly he began to go through the things that had led him into laying on the ground with few cruel and deep wounds that were going to claim his life while figuring the whole situation out for himself too.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Things had been going well all the way until the monsters showed up. The Chain of nine Heroes had been calm and relaxed. The walking pace was slow and keeping everyone perfectly along. They all were chatting and laughing while bit fooling around. Time himself had been enjoying of the forest they were in and the happiness of his boys.

The one eyed male had nearly missed the warning signs the forest gave him.

The Chain’s leader had just stopped abruptly and nearly had Warriors crash into his armor because of it. “INCOMING!” He screamed out just second or two before the beasts charged at them. There just barely was enough of time to draw out weapons and shields until the slashes and arrows were already aimed at them.

The oldest of the Heroes, being in the front, took most of those attacks into his armor while trying to keep majority of the beasts away from his boys. He drew out his Gilded Sword while growling as the arrows slashed at his arms and clanged into his armor. Before he would’ve taken worse damage, Warriors had already drawn his sword and shield and come between. The rest of the Chain followed within second or two from there.

Time sighed in relief and gave a swift check around to know who was where and against what beasts. After that he drew out his Mirror Shield too and dashed into the battle. Wild quickly dealt with the archers. Twilight and Sky were dealing with Lizalfos. Wind and Four took on the Miniblin. Legend and Hyrule fought against Bokoblins. That left the Iron Knuckle for him and Warriors to take down.

The battle was going well. The Chain aided each other as much as they could while shouting out warnings whenever needed. The Old Man had changed his weapons into the Biggoron Sword to deal as much of damage as he could to take down the armored creature swiftly enough. That was when, tuned more into the forest’s warnings, he saw the Lynel charging in.

Time didn’t think. He had been meaning to slash at the Iron Knuckle into the back with Back Slice but instead he rammed the sword through the beast and pinned it to the ground. “Finish it!” He commanded while leaving his Biggoron Sword to its place and dashed towards the half-fairy. “Rules! Watch out!” He screamed while knowing that the others were too far to help. His boy had nowhere to go while being surrounded by monsters and having one running right at him.

Time didn’t think. He just grabbed the youngster and flung him behind him out of the harm’s way. The action got him turn his back to the swarm of Bokoblins and facing the Lynel. He had ran out of time to do anything as the three headed spear struck through his side from front. He gasped while having felt it come through from back. The other beasts behind him didn’t attack. He could feel their gazes in him, though.

The strange hoofed beast smirked as its opponent raised his gaze up into it. Luckily the other two tips of the spear hadn’t struck into the one eyed male. Yet, that didn’t matter. The overly strong creature slashed cruelly and tore its weapon out of the Hero of Time while shattering the armor that was on the strike’s way. The other one of the tips of the spear screeched on the front armor with the tip of the weapon cutting a deep wound into the monster’s target.

The Chain’s leader screamed before sagging to his knees when the weapon was out of him. The Bokoblins had scattered and attacked the other Links to keep them away from getting to help. Wild kept shooting arrows at the beast but the creature didn’t seem to care of the sharp projectiles sinking into its neck and back.

The Lynel adjusted its attack and struck the middle tip of the weapon into the part of its opponent’s shoulder that wasn’t covered by the armor. The oldest Link grit his teeth while the strike hit into its target. He gasped as he was slammed into the ground by the stab’s force. The monster smirked as it pushed the weapon even deeper into the wound. The one eyed male growled and tried to shoot a rough glare at the creature. Yet, he soon screamed again as the beast slashed the weapon out and leaving hellishly gaping and heavily bleeding wound in its wake once again. The other tip of the weapon shattered more of the armor while cutting a deep wound into his flesh.

Time didn’t think. He knew the beast was going to go for killing blow next so he did the only thing he could. The monster had struck at his right shoulder so his main arm was still working. He forced himself to move and grab a hold of the weapon but he never had a chance to act fast enough.

The deadly monster had already leaned down before its opponent could really react. The powerful hand closed around the one eyed male’s throat and squeezed while pulling him up. The creature smirked while watching the Hero gasp and fight for air. The kicks and scratches didn’t seem to bother the beast as it choked the Chain’s leader.

Time didn’t think. He glared at the beast and called out his fire magic. He grabbed the Lynel’s arm and screamed while bringing Din’s Fire into life. He struck with all he got and made sure not to let go of his opponent. He ignored the flames that tried to burn him too even though he was the one in control of them. Yet, the creature’s hand was around his throat, right at his skin, so it was no surprise his own magic ended up burning him too.

The monster’s hold was still tight around the Old Man’s throat which still cut his air supply. He fought to hold the inferno strong enough to take down the Lynel even though he was losing consciousness. It had been just matter of second or few that he would’ve failed to take down the battlefield’s hardest enemy. He fell unconscious just when the beast exploded into black smoke.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

“I don’t know what happened after that until I woke up.” Time finished until gritting his teeth at the increasing feeling of burning. He hated to admit it but he started to fear that Warriors was right. The pain started to be unbearable.

“Then it’s good I can give you the answer.” Warriors replied while uncorking a red potion. “Yet, before I start to explain, you need to drink this.” He told firmly while very gently pulling his little brother upwards and supporting him as he got him to take the potion. After that he laid the older male back down and continued with the healing salve to aid fix the deepest and cruelest wounds in Time’s arms as they were quite well littered with both smaller and bigger as well as shallower and deeper wounds.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The Chain had been freaked out when the monsters attacked. None of them had been prepared for the battle even one bit. It was shocking to see Time take the brunt of the first wave. Yet, seeing him get struck by all kinds of weapons got the eight to be extremely swift in drawing out their weapons. Even thought Wind was the quickest, Warriors was the closest.

The eight Heroes dashed past their leader and attacked with a scream of rage. They forced the beast away from their oldest brother while giving a swift check on him. Luckily the armor defended him beautifully and the only wounds he had was in his arms but those were shallow as this enemy group’s archers weren’t too good with their aim.

Things evened out when Time joined into the battle. He first aided wherever it was needed the most until he and Warriors took on the Iron Knuckle. Everything was going well all the way to the point of Lynel appearing.

Six Heroes turned their notions into the beast but none of them were capable of getting through the enemies they were facing. Twilight and Sky defended the tree Wild had climbed into as he began to shoot arrows into the powerful monsters. The others did their best to get through the mob in all possible ways.

The seven Links were freaked out when Time threw Hyrule out of the harm’s way. None of them really knew if it was well thought out or just pure luck as the Traveler flew through the air right into Legend’s hold. Yet, if they had to answer into that question, they would’ve told it was unconscious decision and action.

The Champion wished he could’ve used Bomb Arrows but he feared he would’ve hurt Time more than the Lynel. And so, he kept using the normal ones even though those didn’t seem to have any effect. He had already ran out of elemental arrows so he wasn’t able to throw in some unique ones to cause more damage or hindrance to the monster.

The Chain’s panic, fear and rage grew the more the Lynel hurt their oldest brother and the more harder they fought to get through the monsters. When the flames appeared, those took the monsters off guard too. Yet, the eight Heroes took the given chance and struck hard and cruelly. That moment of averting their notion cost the lives of most of the monsters.

Sadly, once the Lynel was gone, the remaining monsters turned their notion into the unconscious one eyed male as he was extremely easy target. The only reason the beasts failed to deliver a deathblow was simply the sheer number of them. They were on each other’s way and failing to strike well enough to cause as much of damage as they wished. Yet, as both the enemies and the Heroes were aware, sometimes one didn’t need one strike to end their target. Sometimes enough of smaller cuts would bring the death just by the sheer amount and the damage they cause together.

Twilight transformed and dashed into there much quicker than the others. He just forced his way right to Time and struck a Spin Attack to force the beast away. He stood over the unconscious and heavily bleeding body of his mentor while striking the Spin Attack again and again to keep the beasts at bay.

The rest of the Chain attacked from behind and left the monsters between the attacks. With the joined attacks of raged Heroes, the battle was soon won. Hyrule didn’t waste a second as he already initiated his magic and struck it roughly into his oldest brother. Yet, he nearly instantly pulled away and quit his work.

The Chain’s leader reacted badly into the action. He began to cough and gag without waking up. “Fuck! He overdid his magic!” Warriors almost exclaimed while feeling the heat radiate from his little brother. “We need ice magic! Anyone got something for that?” He requested before both Wild and Legend already drew out their Ice Rods.

“Time’s not able to use his magic and I can’t get in touch with it without causing more damage than good.” The Traveler warned before jerking a bit. “Fairy Salve!” He half shouted before already going through Time’s pockets.

“The what?” Wind queried curiously. The others were equally interested of what Hyrule was searching for but they all were more worried for the one eyed male’s wellbeing than of anything else.

“Fairy Salve. It’s to heal fairies.” The half-fairy told. “Time used it once to fix my wing.” He explained with a shrug. “Yet, it’s not just that. There’s more to it which Time might not be aware of.” He continued before giving a small triumphant sound as he retrieved the bottle. “It can calm the turmoil of one’s magic might have and turn it into healing.” He told before placing the bottle to the ground. “I can’t use it as I’m a half-fairy. My magic might make things wrong so someone else has to spread it into the wounds.” He explained while backing away so the excessive magic pouring out of him wouldn’t contaminate the Chain’s leader’s creation.

“I’ll do it.” Warriors stated out straight off while already starting to take Time’s armor off. Twilight swiftly aided him and Wild stored the broken protection into his Slate. He’d give it to Four for checking and fixing at later time once everything would be safe and sound.

“We’ll keep the surroundings safe and sound.” Sky said while pulling Twilight along. “Just.. Save him, okay?” He almost begged and the war Hero nodded firmly. After that the seven Heroes scattered around to cover as much of the area as they could to keep their brothers safe from possible monster attacks.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

“After that you woke up with a half a scream, half a growl as I applied the salve into your wound.” Warriors ended his explanation before giving a weak, lopsided grin. “I’m actually surprised you’re still conscious.”

Time gave out a short chuckle. “I got high pain tolerance.” He told and resisted the urge to shrug. He wasn’t certain how well his right shoulder and arm would work after the strike they had gained. “Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t feel the pain, though.” He explained at the raised eyebrow from his older brother. “It only means that I can stay conscious and functioning through more than what people normally could.”

Warriors sighed bit sorrowfully and nodded in understanding. He turned his gaze back into his work until moving to the one eyed male’s other side to fix the left arm. “I just can’t even imagine what could have given you something like this.” He whispered quietly while not meaning the slash and stab wounds he was treating.

“Not something I want to talk about.” The Chain’s leader answered while turning his gaze away from the war Hero. Yet, he soon returned it to him just to get a check on how much of the Fairy Salve was left. “Seems like I gotta make more that much sooner than I had thought to.”

“Sorry.” The Captain half whispered while glancing at the amount left. He slumped a bit when he realized that the bottle was almost empty already. “Just let me know if I can help you in any of way in creating this.”

The one eyed male nodded with a small smile. “I will. And don’t worry. Better to save a life than worry about something running out due to the action.” He told before raising an eyebrow as Warriors finished his work. “Done?” He half inquired while slightly tilting his head.

“On the worst, yes.” The Chain’s leader’s second-in-command replied while checking his work through just to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. Yet, he wasn’t certain if it was the potion’s work or if the healing salve was working on the easier cuts too. Either way, all of the wounds were slowly healing and that eased some of his worries.

“Then I’m taking a nap.” Time stated out and closed his eye. “I might be able to withstand the burning feeling but I’d rather not.” He told before bit grinning. “Just call the boys back. The area’s safe. Or, at least the forest is telling that.” He half requested while opening his eye again.

The war Hero nodded and gave the whistle call. Soon the seven Heroes returned while feeling tad uncertain of leaving their posts. “Time’s saying the area’s safe.” Warriors explained and with that the Chain had very swiftly surrounded their leader. The one eyed male smiled and calmed down as he was capable of knowing that everyone was there and by him again. He also made very swift check on everyone to know they were in as good condition as they could be. “Just get some rest, Sprite. You need it.” The Captain half whispered as he noticed the sleep caused by pain threatening to overtake the Chain’s leader. Time just nodded and closed his eye while relaxing. His worry over the boys had been eased for now so he was capable of calming down.

The Fairy Salve worked surprisingly fast and the deadly wounds had been healed within few hours. Still, the Chain spend a while longer at the area just to make sure the Old Man was fully healed. And even when they finally left the battle area, they only searched out a place to camp for the night. At then it was just simple and easy eating before creating a Hero Pile of Support and Comfort around the one eyed male.

Few days later they stopped by a meadow for few days. Time, with Hyrule’s help, taught about the Fairy Salve. The half-fairy provided the information of what it was used for while the oldest Link gave the way of how to make it.

“All you really need is few days and a Fairy Meadow.” The Old Man told while carefully moving around and gathering the needed things. “Morning dew, nectar and petals of flowers. Depending on the flowers, the healing might be bit different each time. Very, very slight bit of birch bark and couple of drops of sap. Heat it up and keep stirring it until it changes color. After that just wait for it cool down and it’s ready.”

“Do the fairies create these?” Four inquired while being quite fascinated of the new potion of sorts.

Time glanced at the half-fairy and bit sighed while shaking his head. “No, they don’t. There’s already Fairy Magic in the creation due the place where the ingredients are taken. If the fairies did these, it would overflow the magic and it would become useless.

“We can teach it but we can’t create it.” The Traveler told sorrowfully. “It’s the same reason we can’t use them either. Hence we can only be healed either by someone else using the Fairy Salve or then by the Great Fairies.” The Chain nodded in understanding.

Once everyone except Hyrule had the Fairy Salve, they continued forward. It was good to know they all had something new in their usage should similar rough situation come forth. It also gave them the chance to aid any fairy they would meet on their travels.

Time stretched and smiled while feeling fully grateful of having taught something new and useful to his boys. He glance behind and smiled fondly as the Chain was slowly calming down and relaxing again. They all were safe and sound and together. And they all were now one more item richer in keeping each other alive, safe and well.

[wisheduponastar]

*･༓˚✧ ❝(𝐃𝐨𝐧'𝐭) 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐞❞ ‧͙⁺˚༓˚✧ « Whumptober Day 5 & 6 »

Wordcount : 3.2k / Read on Ao3

Sunburn | healing salve | heatstroke | “if my pain will stretch that far” (Day 5)  & �� Not realising their injured | unhealthy coping mechanisms | healed wrong | “don’t worry, it’s not my blood” (Day 6)

Summary : In which Faramir was set on fire for slightly longer. This changes nothing for the world, and almost everything for him. The pain that now wracks his body where his scars as, how little he can walk before everything hurts. But Faramir stays with how the world is.

Unchanging. Even when he should help himself.

TWs : Chronic pain, nerve damage, internalised ableism

It has been long enough that the news of the Steward being burnt has spread around all of Minas Tirith. A fact that Faramir still doesn’t know how to address. He does not like it when people only look at him with pity in their eyes, when whispers begin to follow him. Of how horrible it is - of whom could possibly do that to their cities Steward? People seem much more willing to talk openly about you if they feel they are being sympathetic.

But some part of Faramir is glad that people know about it. That when they see the burn scars, they react with horror and only a little shock. People can be prepared when they see him, for what is about to happen. Although they seem to be more confident about looking at his burn scars; as though because people are aware of his condition he is inviting people to look. That even though they’ve probably been told what his burns look like they still view them as unprecedented. But not shocking anymore, at the very least.

It hasn’t been long enough for Faramir to share all the details.

He will never say what actually happened on the night he got his burns. That has stayed between very few people, and will remain like that for the rest of his days. He also does not share the details of what his burns are like, still. Not even to the people he has otherwise trusted.

Faramir would never look down on someone for needing something to help them, and he hopes that that kindness would be extended to him. The logical subconscious of himself says that people would accept whatever he tells them. But the larger, emotional part of him says that he will be shunned for it. That he is weak. That he will bring shame. He is not as worthy as- Sometimes the voices take a tone that is not only him, and he tries to ignore it. But he still listens to it.

The people closest to him know about the start of the damage he sustained from the fire. How the touch and feeling of objects he used to have now seems far away from him, at least on his right side. His left side can still mainly touch - although a veil still lies on the finer part of his senses - but his right side only has memories of it. But his right side has not forgotten pain. Not by any means has it forgotten pain. There is remarkable accuracy in how much it feels like the original burning, when he puts too much pressure on it.

And of course, this pain does not just extend to his arm. It is all of his body that has burnt, and fortunately his right side has garnered the most consequences. But his right side refers to his leg as well. A leg that now hurts, when he tries to put pressure on it. That does not feel correctly - struggles to distinguish from his own touch and the pressing of a wall, or blunt dagger - and also he cannot truly stand on. Faramir had never appreciated how hard it was to simply balance, until one of his legs cannot feel properly. Until he spends time standing in front of a full length mirror - simply standing - to get his posture presentable enough to stand next to the king.

Faramir cannot even manage to stand right. After only ten minutes his leg begins to hurt, after twenty it feels like he is on fire again. The flames do not gnaw at all of him but the parts that are being damaged are excruciating. In front of the mirror Faramir practises covering up the grimaces he makes and shutting down the whimpers. In total, Faramir feels he is able to stand and walk for maybe five hours of his day. If he pushes himself. Which, when Gondor is on the line, of course he does.

The design of Minas Tirith does not help either - although the city will forever have his heart. A lot of the floor already feels like he is walking on marbles, or as though a part of him is bobbing on a river, and stairs do not help with that. Try as he might, he also struggles to gauge how high he needs to lift his leg. If he miscalculates badly enough then the pain of his shin colliding with the step will correct him. If not, the small lurch before he is able to steady himself lets him know. Faramir has tried to adapt by walking closer to the wall - so that he can steady himself if he needs to. The only helping hand he will accept is his own.

A hand that steadies himself for as long as he isn’t suspicious, before he keeps walking. Faramir is glad to have spent so much of his life treading the same steps, knowing every path he can take to get to every location. Before the injury he’d be able to give you an estimate of how long it would take to walk, although it would inevitably vary. Now he can tell you practically to the minute. Not only is everything planned, to make sure he can walk through his day without needing to collapse, but there is almost no variation in his walking speed. The benefit that isn’t truly a benefit, but is one of the only positives that Faramir can find (that he is desperately searching for).

Like always Faramir’s day is planned - meticulously, and to an unusual amount. Or unusual for other people. The small scrap of parchment he now always has - and always tries to hide - is securely in his pocket. The inked words on it detail his plans for the day, where he is going and how long it will take to walk here. What route he should take - sometimes a few options. When it will be quicker to take stairs, but he will have to take stairs. Today is a harder day for him. There is walking for around four and a half hours. A fact that worries him enough to have breakfast brought to him. So he does not have to spare the steps.

Hidden in the deepest alcoves of his room is Faramir’s cane. If it can be called that. It is a branch he has carved to be the correct height for him. He always gets the nagging feeling that something about it is wrong, and he’s certain something is, but he doesn’t use it enough to try. On days like this the cane begs him to use it. He will still have half an hour to walk once the day is over. He is not so weak as to need it.

Looking down at the list, Faramir can feel his relief as he looks down at the meeting. It is a smaller one, with the king and members of the Stonemasons guild. He can feel his legs burning, but they have been doing this for long enough that he is used to it. He will survive, surely. He can at least focus on simple conversation for less than an hour. Like always, Faramir is the only one in the room. There’s always been an enjoyable aspect of getting to meetings earlier, of pouring over notes and getting everything right, but now Faramir does it so people will not see him struggle. Will not see the relief that, if he fails to hide it, appears on his face when he sits down. And, of course, less people will watch him walk. It always gets worse as he is about to sit down - as though his right leg recognises he is about to be able to give up. Not that the pain goes away, leaving it always unsatisfying. He’s been at the table just enough for him to read over his notes three times, and for his leg to exchange the burning to a throbbing, when the doors are opened again to let his king in.

Faramir never knew how grateful he would be that his king did not enforce fully formal bows. But now, as he simply dips his head as a form of respect, he silently thanks the king. For such a small decision. But one that has helped so much. Aragorn smiles at his steward, entirely unsurprised, and goes to sit at his place at the table. There’s a moment of silence before Aragorn speaks again, “Is there any news of today I should be aware of?”

Thinking for a second, Faramir glances at his notes. “Nothing from what I have attended, although some news may still come. Any news from you?”

“Today has been a good day.” A slightly more serious look enters Aragorn’s eyes, “It would almost seem as though the steward is busier than the king.”

“Perhaps Gondor only had more mundane tasks.” The dance of words they do, Aragorn worrying about him while Faramir reassures there is no burden, is not a new one. Both parties know almost all the steps, exactly how it should play out, and what lines the other will say. Today Aragorn seems in a slightly better mood, and some part of Faramir thinks perhaps he will win. And then the door opens, and the Stonemasons enter the room. This time Faramir does rise - thankful his hands are already on the table to steady himself, and that there are few of them. Enough for his bow to be short, and for him to slip back into his seat. Around forty minutes left, something in the back of his mind whispers.

“The weather is fair today, my lords.” There is truly no better conversation starter, and it is a predictable one. And then the stonemason continues, “There is good sunlight, perhaps we could have this discussion outside? The gardens are lovely, after your restoration. And our proposed building is easily viewable.”

So there is a reason for them to move. To go outside. One that would make his king’s job easier, and one that Faramir should accept if he is a good steward. He keeps silent, instead looking to Aragorn. The king seems mainly convinced, his grey eyes staring to where they would be walking, and Faramir swallows before taking it upon himself to speak. “If our king finds it an appropriate meeting place, I see no reason why not. The Astor gardens are beautiful at this time of year.”

With consent from his steward Aragorn is quick to accept the proposal, and so it is agreed that they shall all go to the gardens. Together. Gardens that will be… he’s never gone to the gardens from the king’s chambers - it’s an impractical use of his time. Maybe ten minutes, he estimates. Less if they use the stairs. Which of course the group does - it is the practical option. Faramir goes to the back of the group, next to the wall, and is thankful that the masons keep talking even when they are travelling. It distracts from his fumble down the steps, almost imperceptible but now certainly unnoticeable. It means that when Faramir makes his suggestions they are short, not long pieces of prose to fill the time - and therefore his voice does not get more clipped as more pain seeps in. The group makes it with half an hour to spare, and then he sees the stonemason go up to the wall to gaze out at it. Because if you are going to look over a wall, of course you should be standing up. Why on earth would you not? Why would you assume one of the men beside you cannot even go to a meeting without sitting down?

All of these thoughts flash in Faramir’s mind - although he takes care not to show them on his face, or voice them out loud. He talks and listens and gives advice as if this was any other meeting, ignoring the fact his right leg feels more and more as though it is standing on rocks. Or perhaps slowly heating coals. Thankfully, the meeting goes quickly. Their demands are more reasonable than either prepared for, and as such Aragorn is quick to agree. A murmur goes around that a second meeting should be arranged, to finalise and smooth out details that the stonemasons currently lack, but mercifully they do not plan dates at this time. He watches the representatives leave, a tiny part of weight off his chest. And his mind helpfully supplies him with five minutes. He has made it to them going.

He cannot make it further than that.

At some point Faramir has lent on the wall - pretending to gaze into the city of Minas Tirith and imagine what stonework could be crafted there. Now it will be a struggle to even push himself off it. Looking around, his gaze falls to the nearby bench and he goes to it, surprised he doesn’t trip over his feet. The marbles the floor usually feels like it is made out of now feel like hot coals, and Faramir can feel the pain shooting up through most of his body. But it is better now than with the pressure on it. A sigh, from this partial form of relief, just escapes his lips before he realises that his king is still next to him.

Or at least close by, turning when he hears Faramir. Is it a turn because of pain, or simply of convenience? Eyes falling to his steward, Aragorn asks, “May I join you?”

“Of course, my king.” Faramir can never quite shake off the conventions of royalty, especially so soon after a meeting, although he knows the annoyance it causes. “Ah, my apologies.”

“You never fail to apologise.” Sitting down beside him, Aragorn takes in more of the scenery. “And yet you never fail to give me formal address.”

“Old habits?” Faramir suggests, a small smile on his face. Not that he has ever addressed a king before now. And even Lord Denethor he would mostly address as father.

Aragorn gives a non-committal hum, “You seemed preoccupied, towards the last stretch of our meeting.”

Faramir knows that much, although he hoped it wouldn’t be picked up on. “Then I must apologise again. I hope I did not say anything too damaging.”

“You were sound in your service, Faramir; that much, it seems, is a fact (although I know not why you insist on this level of perfection). I simply want to make sure that you are well.”

“Simply tired, my lord.” It’s technically the truth, and as such Faramir can bear to say it to his king.

“Only tiredness?” 

“You were the one to comment on the length of my duties.” He makes his tone lighter, and is rewarded by Aragorn’s face looking slightly less serious.

“The steward finally admitting to the excess of his workload. Some may think this day would not have come.”

Faramir wants to interpret this as simply jest, a way to lighten the mood - as he knows Aragorn does. But there is something deeper in his king’s statement, something more probing and questioning. Something Faramir does not acknowledge, merely given a shamed laugh slightly too late.

A silence settles in, itself becoming awkward and turning the summer air around them into more of a chill. Faramir is uncomfortably aware of his king, and how close he is to certain truths; the right side of the steward is still acting up, making its displeasure known. He conceals his pain well enough, nothing showing on his face - instead manifesting in a slightly tighter grip of the bench. Aragorn seems to be searching for something in his steward’s eyes, and Faramir feels he can guess what it is. 

“Something is troubling you beyond a lack of sleep.” The statement is said gently but strongly, with no room for Faramir to argue against.

Still, he opens his mouth to protest. “I assure you-” “Faramir.” The interruption is just as gentle, and this time Aragorn seeks his steward’s eyes. “I should not have turned a blind eye to everything that has happened, should not have assumed the fire left you with only the visible scars it has.

I seek to remedy that, to atone for myself letting you struggle alone, and I implore you to let me.”

There is no judgement in Aragorn’s tone, only the promise of protection - the allure of safety. Something so soft and wanted after everything Faramir has been too that his heart aches for it. When he speaks his voice is shaky, but he will not allow himself to cry. “I do not wish to burden you, my king. The service you have done for our city is remarkable and your duty is first to…”

Surprisingly Aragorn does not interrupt, and lets Faramir begin to baselessly ramble about what Aragorn has so greatly done; the benefits his king has already provided and that he does not need more. But he wants more. He so desperately wants more. And, as Aragorn still does not interrupt, Faramir finds himself being able to say less and less. To deny himself less and less. In that moment Faramir realises that what he wants is to say ‘yes’. But he cannot, and instead lets himself weep.

There is no judgement as the king gathers him closer, his breathing calm - steady and comforting against Faramir’s rapid heartbeat. The hold is protective in a way that Faramir little experiences, and he dimly notices the king does not hold his right side. The only pain from them is what is already there, and as he sobs he focuses on it less.

Minutes go by, and eventually Faramir begins to straighten. To realise what he has done in the presence of his king.

“I will not have you be ashamed to weep, Faramir.” The words seem to gaze into Faramir’s mind. “Nor will I have you be ashamed of needing help, help that will always be offered freely. Now, what is it you need?”

“I-” Faramir allows himself to think, to slow down and try to realise. To see if he wants to answer the question as a whole, an overarching theory of his life, or what would help right now. “In current times or overall?”

“Whatever you are comfortable with.”

“I think… I shall need a cane.” The admission, once he has said it, seems so small. And the weight that has been removed from him is so much larger, even more buoyed when Aragorn simply nods. “As of right now, I am not sure. I must get from my chambers to here somehow.”

“Can you walk?” Aragorn’s question is concerned, but non-judgemental. A fact he is grateful for.

Until now, Faramir would have replied that he needs to - and that would be as far as it went. Now he takes longer to consider, to feel the burning pains. But he still does need to move. “May you… may you help me?”

Standing, the king offers his arm to his steward - careful his guidance is not painful, and that the two of them will make it. Together.

A/N : My mind seems to be enjoying focusing on chronic pain!Faramir, and hopefully it's nice to read? If we get to three maybe I'll make a collection. I'll be honest and say this turned out less gay than I thought it was going too, but I'm fine with that. On that topic - how do people feel about ships? I'm considering including some Aragorn/Faramir but I'm on the fence...

« Day 4 »

[the-sand-guardian]

Whumptober Day 5: “If my pain will stretch that far” (Lottery Winners, Burning House) 

(A continuation of day 3)

Nobody ever prepares you for the death of a spouse. Roier had learned this the hard way. Cellbit had been dead for almost a year by now, and the days still bled together like wet ink. He knew grief, of course. He’d become close friends with it after his son died only a year or two before Cellbit. However, the two had begun to grow further apart as he’d gotten better at coping with Bobby’s absence. Then, as grief so often does, it came through and swept Roier right off his feet just as love had done on Cellbit and Roier’s meeting. Roier couldn’t help but feel like the two were intermingled in some way. 

He wanted to blame himself, and he really tried to as well, but he couldn’t fully shake the knowledge that there was a line of separation between himself and the Wolf. If Cellbit had only waited those few minutes- or maybe if Roier had told him to ignore his cries of pain? Roier could have begun pulling out his hair if he thought about it for too long. All he could find to think was ‘If only things had been different.’ 

Telling the kids had almost made him sick. When he’d lost Bobby, Jaiden already knew what had happened, so there wasn’t anyone to tell. At least back then he’d had someone to share the despair with, but now his anchor was lost. 

When it came down to Bobby’s death, he was left with those little reminders that haunted him. That dull ache in his chest as he picked up Pepito and Richas from school, knowing that there should be another with them. Or during holidays, when he’d be picking up gifts and have to stop and remember he was only shopping for two children. And, of course, the same happened around Bobby’s birthday. Roier always visited on his birthday, and his family went along with him most years as well. 

This year, he went alone. For the first time in two years, he wept over his son’s grave and began to explain that he’d accidentally sent up his step-father to keep an eye on him. He hoped Bobby would have understood. 

He resigned himself to their- now only his- bedroom every now and again. Sometimes, he’d lay there on his side and imagine his lover’s quiet snores filling the room once again and bringing the air back to life. He ached for Cellbit’s arms to be around him again, even if only for a minute. He even found it next to impossible to sleep anymore without the familiar weight of his lover next to him, or their late-night conversations to lull him into comfort. 

He often looked into the pictures hung up all over the castle, just to keep some memory of Cellbit alive. He’d even gone through his camera roll to find a photo for his wallet, to keep one with him. Each time he saw his lover’s smiling face, he yearned for the day he’d get to see it again, whether he come back by some miracle, or in death. It didn’t matter to Roier so long as they were together again.

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Thank you for reading! I've also posted this to Ao3, where I'll be cataloguing all of my works for this month! I also have 3 other WIP fics, so if you enjoy my works please go show some love over there or feel free to shoot me an ask!

[sushimango]

Day 05 of Whumptober!

Steve if very prone for getting bad sunburns and the like since he got albinism

[blancheludis]

Whumptober 2024 Day 5: "If my pain will stretch that far"

Fandom: Star Wars Characters: Cody, Obi-Wan Kenobi Tags: Minor Character Death, War, Grief, Building Trust

Summary:

Cody finds quickly that no training or simulation could have ever really prepared him for the realities of war. After a battle, he walks the field, walks amongst his fallen brothers, certain he will never get used to the grief.

He is only mildly surprised to find General Kenobi out here, doing his own rounds.

"What are you doing?" he asks when Kenobi kneels down at a dying man's side.

"Taking their pain," Kenobi answers, as if that is supposed to make sense. As if there is nothing strange about a natborn caring whether or not a clone dies in pain.

- Cody, Obi-Wan, and slowly beginning to trust each other.

Real war is different than the simulations. Cody knew that. He knew it before they shipped out from Kamino and has experienced it often enough since then. But he will never get used to it. To the earth going muddy with blood, caking to his boots. To bodies littering his surroundings to the horizon and beyond. To calling out to brothers and never getting an answer back.

Perhaps worse than the dying, however, is the aftermath for the brothers still alive. The reluctance to accept this reality. The pain. The grief.

As Commander, Cody has a thousand things to do. Reports to write and review. Supplies to organize. People to command. Yet, he finds himself walking over the battlefield, stepping carefully between droid parts and bodies too similar to his own. He does not even know all their names. He hopes all of them already had one.

He is tired. Not just the exhaustion that comes from fighting day and night, but something that sits deeper, rattling his bones with every breath he takes. This war has just begun and he is already done with it. Done with the very reason he exists. There will be nothing beyond this for the clones. Privately, Cody thinks that might be all right. This cannot be a good purpose to create life.

"Cody, my dear." a voice rips him out of his dark musings.

General Kenobi appears out of nowhere in the middle of the battlefield. He has not changed his robes, has probably not even sat down since the fighting ended. Of course, Cody has not either.

"General."

Cody's body slips into a salute automatically. He is thankful for these ingrained instincts. General Kenobi has not yet given any sign that he demands strict adherence to protocol at all times, but Cody knows better than to test him. Some natborns have shown their real colours immediately, their disdain for clones and the war palpable in every single interaction. The general, as most Jedi, truly, has not been anything but kind, but that does not mean he will remain so. They are all tired.

Kenobi walks towards him, steady and calm, not untouched by the battlefield around them but moving on anyway. He is, Cody has learned, very good at compartmentalizing. 

"Are you making your rounds?"

"Yes, sir." If that is what the General wants to call his grieved wandering, Cody will take it. "I'll be back in the command centre in a few minutes."

"No need." Kenobi shakes his head, offering a smile that is distinctly sad around the edges. "The battle is won. The stronghold is secured. We can go back to strategizing tomorrow." Softer, he adds, "You should get some sleep."

No matter how short they have been at this, Cody has found out quickly that General Kenobi is a hypocrite. He constantly tells the men to take breaks, to eat, to sleep, yet he never seems to do so himself. He is up at all hours, pouring over datapads in his office, haunting the training rooms, spending hours in calls with the Council or other generals, even mingling with the troops. A few times, Cody has found him meditating, only to jump immediately back into action if he is needed. He spends little time in his quarters and Cory can only hope that he, at least, rests there. The rings under Kenobi's eyes only seem to get darker with every day, and the Jedi robes might hide the rest of his body, but his progressively gaunt cheek are very much visible for anyone with eyes to see. Cody sees.

With anyone else, Cody would command them to go to the mess and then to bed. Everyone else does not hold his life and that of his men in their hands, though.

"Are you going to take a break, too, sir?" he still asks. They were made for the Jedi. Surely that means more than that they are supposed to die for them.

"Don't worry about me, dear," Kenobi replies as expected. "I'll be finishing my round out here and then I'll go to the medics tent."

The tension that has been slowly bleeding out of Cody at finding his General unharmed and exuding calm is back with a vengeance.

"Are you hurt?" he asks, eyes roaming over Kenobi's form. Blood sticks to the robe in a number of places but he holds himself upright and does not look hurt. That does not mean anything, of course. Nobody would know better than Cody, who will always uphold his duty to his men first before taking care of his own pesky needs.

"No," Kenobi reassures him, although, in this matter, his word do not count for much. "I'm going to see if I can help out with the men."

A completely different tension creeps into Cody's muscles at that. "I didn't know you also trained as a healer," Cody says, just barely swallowing his scepticism. Belatedly, he adds, "Sir."

From what he has heard from the other commanders, the Jedi might have ordered an army to fight this war, but have also neglected to train their own people accordingly. A number of the Jedi are fighters and truly an asset to have on the battlefield. But few have more than passing or historical knowledge of warfare. Of troop movements. Of supply needs. Of strategic manoeuvres. The 212th is lucky to have Kenobi who, after a brief adjusting period, has shown himself to have a keen mind - and is willing to listen to Cody, who knows his men and their capabilities much better than any outsider ever could. Other battalions do not fare so well. So, he has come to trust the general's instincts and knowledge when talking strategy and when dealing with the more political side of the war. But this?

"Oh, nothing beyond the basics," the general says, nonchalant as if the admission does not set Cody's heart racing.

No matter how nice it is that General Kenobi wants to be involved with the men, Cody is not sure how to tell him that it would be better to leave the healing to trained professionals. Helping can quickly slide into making things worse when one does not know what they are doing.

Carefully forming each word, like he is navigating a minefield, Cody says, "I don't think the medics are so overwhelmed that you need to sacrifice your rest to help."

"It is not much of a sacrifice," Kenobi says with a smile, making things worse.

"Let me accompany you on your rounds, then, sir," Cody decides more than offers. If he is with Kenobi, then he can try to steer him past the medics when they return. It will not be hard to find some pressing matter they need to discuss. Neither of their desks is ever empty. And with them having been occupied with this battle, the flimsi will have stacked up exponentially.

That, of course, gives Kenobi halt. "Have you rested?"

"I will, after," Cody says and keeps his tone polite, even though his eyes are piercing into the general. Hypocrite, he thinks loudly, still not sure whether the Jedi can read thoughts or not. He definitely deserves to read this one.

Kenobi raises a single eyebrow at him, which could mean anything, really. But then he inclines his head. "Very well."

They walk in silence. Cody looks at every dead brother they pass, takes in the details on their armour. Mentally, he checks them against the casualty report he demanded as soon as they were all back in camp. He does not yet know all their names, but he will. It is the least he can do.

It is a terrible thing, to walk amongst so much death. The sun is beginning to set and the sky is slowly turning blood red, a fitting accompaniment to this tragedy.

The camp is long out of sight, when Kenobi suddenly hastens his steps. He hurries to where a few bodies are thrown over each other. Almost carelessly, he pushes the two upper bodies to the side. Cody's hands ball into fist of their own volition and his mouth opens, chain of command be damned, to stop Kenobi. Never before has he shown such callousness when dealing with the troops, but -

There is a whimper. Low and choked, but undeniably there. Cody's feet are moving before he has fully grasped the implication. Together they unearth a trooper, still clinging to life amongst so many that have already marched on.

He will not make it. Cody can see that immediately. One of his legs is mangled, almost ripped off, and it is still bleeding but only sluggishly. Blaster bolts riddle his torso. And now that he is free, his hands are coming up weakly, grasping for something only he can see.

"It's all right, dear," General Kenobi says, kneeling down in the bloody dirt without a second thought. Everything about him is gentle; voice, face, hands. He mutters quiet reassurances as he makes to unlatch the bucket.

That is what gets Cody moving, having frozen in place at the sight before. Several squads have already gone over the battlefield to recover the hurt and help the dying. It should not surprise him that they have not found everybody. The field is a mess of dead men and broken droids, and everybody is tired. He is choking at the mere thought of dying out here alone, his brothers carried away, only empty bodies remaining, nobody to wait for him for the march ahead.

The bucket comes off, revealing more blood underneath and glassy eyes, tracing invisible things. His lips move, forming words he does not have the strength to actually say.

Kenobi cups the man's jaw with one hand while the other settles down on the mangled remains of his leg. He closes his eyes and suddenly looks peaceful. Cody can only watch, helpless, pouring all his energy into swallowing down the scream building in his chest. All he wants, right now, is to bundle up his brothers and leave for the Wild Space, anywhere that is not here.

Whatever Kenobi is doing, the trooper calms. The whimpers die down, his breathing evens out, his eyes actually settle on the General.

"There, my dear," Kenobi says, voice hoarse but still so very gentle. "That's better."

Cody does not know what is happening, but he uses the chance to take the trooper’s hand. "What's your name?" he asks, feeling inadequate, but he needs to know. Nobody should be left behind.

The trooper looks at Cody, almost certainly does not recognize him. "CT-5-"

"No," Cody interrupts him softly, squeezing his hand. "Your name."

"Tumble," he says, barely a whisper. Then he closes his eyes. "'m tired."

"I know, Tumble." Cody wants to cry but keeps his tone light. "It's all right. You can rest now."

"The fighting -" Tumble asks, cut off by a coughing fit that wracks his entire body. "'s done?"

"Yes," Cody says and can do nothing against the way his eyes burn. "You did good."

Command classes in Kamino prepared Cody for a large-scale war. For directing a vast number of men where they need to go to win the most battles. It prepared him for managing losses from a logistical and strategical standpoint. It did not prepare him for kneeling in the middle of a battlefield, holding the hand of a dying brother.

No clone is a stranger to death, to losing some of their own. There were clean deaths, brothers being called in for meetings with Nala Se and never returning afterwards. And there were less clean deaths. Training accidents, punishments. Priest's battle circle. The clones are a product, made to be used. Made to be expendable. Yet, for all their clinical training and theoretically optimized procedures, the Kaminoans did not manage to breed feelings out of the clones. Right now, Cody almost wishes they had.

They sit there, together, Marshal Commander and General, holding a dying man, waiting until the breathing stops and the eyes go unseeing again. Cody wonders, briefly, whether he should offer to end it. But whatever the General is doing, Tumble does not seem to be in any pain anymore.

"Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum, Tumble" Cody says, quietly, as he closes Tumble's eyes. Since being deployed, the words stopped sounding clumsy on his tongue. Just another terrible thing they are getting used to.

They remain sitting there for a moment longer, exhaustion sinking even deeper into Cody's bones.

"I'm sorry, Commander." General Kenobi then says, voice breaking halfway through.

Cody's head snaps up, staring at Kenobi. What would he apologize for?

"You found him, sir," he says, still haunted by the very thought of suffocating underneath his brothers' dead bodies. "I'm grateful he didn't have to die alone."

But Kenobi shakes his head. "I'm sorry he had to die in the first place," he corrects, none of the sharp edges in his tone directed at Cody. "It is cruel to create an entire people only to send them to war."

Unsure what to say, Cody drops his eyes to Tumble, to any of the bodies around them. He does not want to offer platitudes. Kenobi is a Jedi and the Jedi ordered them. Reality often looks different than dreams or simulations but, as a natborn, Kenobi should know that much better than Cody. During training, the clones did not have time for dreams, nor, really, any comprehension of what those are. There were classes and training and scores. There was survival or decommissioning.

With a small sigh, Kenobi gets to his feet. He does not seem as steady as he did before, but when Cody jumps up and offers an arm, he waves him off with a smile.

Silently, they continue their round. Kenobi finds two more brothers that are barely alive and beyond saving. For each, he kneels down, calms them. For each, Cody asks their name and commits them to memory.

After, Kenobi looks progressively worse. The rings under his eyes seems to get darker, his shoulders are hunched and now he is limping, if only slightly.

"What are you doing to them, sir?" Cody asks, less meant as an accusation but more with growing concern. Kenobi obviously cares about the men, but a well-placed vibroblade will help them just as much and might not injure their singular, very much not expendable Jedi General.

"I'm taking some of their pain," Kenobi says as if that is supposed to make sense. "I am not a healer, but I can do that for them, at least."

As glad as Cody has learned to be for the Force, he still cannot even begin to grasp what it is capable of.

"Take their pain?" he questions, brow furrowed. "As in muffling it?"

Cocking his head to the side, Kenobi looks at him. "More like siphoning it out. Taking it for myself."

That is not - "Sir," Cody protests, entirely out of his depths. "You can't -"

"It's all right, Cody," Kenobi cuts him off, still calm, like he has not just dropped a conversational bomb on Cody. "It's not harming me. It's just a little bit of pain. With a bit of rest, I'll be as good as new."

If he ever allowed himself to lie down and properly rest, perhaps.

Cody cannot help but stare. The very thought that a natborn would willingly take on pain just to ease a clone's death is overwhelming, even with how long he has known Kenobi now. Even with how many of his expectations Kenobi has defied. 

"The medics could take care of them," Cody offers, pushing the words out around the sudden block in his throat.

"They are busy caring for those that can be saved."

This is worse. This is General Kenobi admitting that he actively decided to search for and help the men that will die, no matter what they do. He is sacrificing himself for dead men.

"I'm grateful that you found them, but next time, let me or one of the troops end their suffering." Nausea rolls in Cody's stomach at thinking about a next time. Likely, Cody's entire life will be made up of next times, right up until it is his turn to die. That is what he was made for.

"No, my dear Cody," Kenobi argues with all the stubbornness of a natborn. "You are already doing so much. This is a burden I can take from you. And I see them as my men just like they are yours." Quieter, he adds, "It is the least I can do."

As if he is not doing enough. As if he is not fighting for them in every call with politicians and officials. As if he does not learn the name of every soldier he comes across. As if he does not have a kind word or deed for everybody.

"We need you more than we need them," Cody says, trying to ignore how much these words taste of ash and bile. It is what is demanded of him as commander, however.

"No," Kenobi counters, just like that. "Every life is sacred. Everybody deserves as much comfort and dignity as we can give them, living or dying. Jedi exist to serve life. Already, this is so far from where I expected to end up when I was a child. Let me do my part, Commander."

There is nothing Cody can say to that. He is grateful, even knowing that he should not be, that he should tell Kenobi to stop wasting energy on them. But then Kenobi touches him, just lightly, on the arm, a feeling of serenity layering over his skin that is definitely not his own but needed nonetheless.

"I'll be going to the medics, now," Kenobi says, half an offer, half a dare. "See whether they need a hand."

"Thank you, sir," Cody blurts out.

And, with a smile, Kenobi answers, "Always."

Together, they walk back to camp. Together, they see to the suffering of Cody's people. And, perhaps, he is beginning to believe that General Kenobi truly sees them as his people, too.