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corpsentry · 4 years ago

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fandom: botw rating: t  pairing: zelda/link  notes: post-canon, getting together, mild descriptions of injury. cooking. dancing. crying. and so on. “Let’s say you’ve been asleep for a hundred years and when you wake up you’ve lost all your memories, but you defeat the big bad monster like you’ve been told to, because a girl told you to, and because you were in love with her. And after defeating the big bad monster she comes back, only she’s not the person she was a hundred years ago. And you’re not the person you were a hundred years ago. And yet every time you look at her, your chest hurts so bad you think you might be dying.” He looks up from his breadstick. “Am I dying?” “No,” Beedle says. “I think you’re stupid.”

All roads lead to hateno.

“I ate the frog.” Is the first thing he says to her in a hundred years, because he can’t stop staring at her hands, and his head isn’t working properly because he can’t stop staring at her hands, and he doesn’t remember what he had been planning on saying before he walked into the castle and killed two versions of evil incarnate in a room with a domed ceiling and a field with a domed sky, but he’s pretty sure. He’s pretty sure it wasn’t this. “I’m sorry,” Zelda says. “You what?” “I, uh.” He takes a step back, and then a step forward. Hyrule castle looms like a corpse behind her, hulking and majestic and dead. It distracts him, though not as much as Zelda herself, pale as winter and glowing behind a halo of sun. “There was a frog you wanted me to eat.” A hundred years ago. “You said it would be for an experiment.” A hundred years ago you told me to eat a frog and that’s all that I remember. That’s what’s kept me going all this time. When things got hard, when the weight of the curse you had given me grew too great, I cooked a frog in a pot over a fire. She stares at him for a moment, her expression unreadable. “You’re more talkative than I remember.” He panics. “Should I stop talking?” “Oh no! No, just— how do I put it—” This probably isn’t what she had in mind for their reunion. He feels the sudden need to apologize. He should have tried harder to hold onto himself while he was sleeping off the blood on his back and the world retreated into a corner to lick at its wounds, but it was hard. He didn’t know what he was doing. He doesn’t remember, actually. He doesn’t remember going to sleep, and he doesn’t remember what he dreamed of. That’s two question marks in one head, and only one answer to go around. There were two shadows on the wall, though they belonged to the same boy. Zelda twists her hands together, almost as if in prayer. Her white dress billows heavily in the wind, covered in wounds from another century. “I’m sorry,” she says to his feet. “Please keep talking.” He nods, though she isn’t looking. After a moment, they make their way across the trampled, dead-looking field to his horse, who’s had half of her mane seared off and looks like she desperately wants a carrot. He hauls himself onto the saddle, then holds out a hand to Zelda, who stares at it like he’s just offered her the rest of his lifespan. Then she takes it, letting him pull her up behind him, and her hand is so warm, and the sky is so blue, and everything is so strange, he almost lets go. Of the girl. Of the reins. Of his grip on reality, this new, unexplored reality, the carcass of the castle slowly growing smaller in the distance. When he walked into the sanctum with a plan to kill Ganon he had been thinking about how the stalhorses on Tabantha Snowfield run faster than the horses near Kakariko, how a bokoblin will choose a freshly roasted chicken over the skin of your teeth, how stables are a metaphor for family. Now all he can think of is angels. She asks him where they’re going a little while later, and it’s only then that he realizes he doesn’t know. It’s a cool, starless night. No moon, no blood. His horse snickers at a boar by the side of the road, and Zelda tightens her grip on his waist. God, what have they been doing for the last hundred years? “Home,” he answers. “We’re going home.”

 The house in Hateno is a small and modest affair. This is probably the only reason Bolson and his construction company were willing to sell it to him at an equally modest price, with modest display stands for his modest weapons, and a modest bed beside which he hung a framed photograph of him and his dead friends. He’s fine with it, though. The only thing that really matters to him is the photograph, though there are now two living people in it instead of one and a half, and if Bolson had not graciously included a bedframe and mattress in his modest homemaker’s package, then Link would have slept on the floor. He says as much to Zelda, who blinks at him sleepily and throws a pillow at his face. “Please don’t do that,” he says. “Sleep in your own bed,” she replies. He peels the pillow off the floor and pats the dust away before replacing it carefully on the bed. “I promised your father I would take care of you.” And Daruk. And Mipha. And Urbosa, who would kill me if she found out I let the princess sleep on the carpet. Like a dog, she would probably say, her voice low, her eyes slanted. How could you treat her like a stray dog? This is the princess we’re talking about. She deserves better. He opens his mouth to say as much, but Zelda gets there first. “My father is dead,” she says, her voice unexpectedly raw. She seems surprised at herself despite her best efforts, and clears her throat in an attempt to hide it. He finds himself overwhelmed with the sudden urge to hug her or blast a hole through the roof with his sword, but can’t decide on one, and ends up wringing his hands together behind his back while Zelda sits on the side of the modest bed in the modest house in Hateno, and presses the folds of her dress into a clump. There should be more he can do for her. What is it? If only Urbosa were here to tell him what it means when Zelda takes your hand like a promise, when Zelda pinches the side of your waist, when Zelda announces that her father is dead, has been dead for a hundred years, died a long time ago. But Urbosa is dead too. The old world is gone, though its survivors have finally emerged from the twilit field. What now? Zelda rubs her eyes. He picks at a cuticle and holds his breath. Despite her best protests, she agrees to the bed-floor arrangement. Zelda will sleep on the bed, because he didn’t think that far when he walked into the castle and defeated evil incarnate, and she doesn’t seem to care. Meanwhile, he will sleep on the floor. Which floor? The first floor, he decides, but when he tries to go downstairs he almost throws up. His heart’s uneasy, of course, but he had underestimated the side-effects of meeting an angel. Over the past few months, he had gotten used to getting mauled by things to the point where it had become part of his daily routine: get up, have a minor crisis about the fact that everyone you know is dead, have a minor crisis about the beautiful voice in your head, get mauled by a bear. Get mauled by a bokoblin who stole your spear. Get mauled by Mount Lanayru, which has a thing for spitting giant snowballs at him when he’s trying to talk to the Koroks in the region, pleading with them through chattering teeth to stop giving him more tiny golden shits and start letting him talk about his feelings. Zelda is not daily routine. Zelda was the girl in the dream, then a face in a photograph, and now Zelda is sleeping in the house in Hateno with her hands pressed up to her cheek, breathing softly. He’s overcome with emotion, though if you asked him to tell it to you, he wouldn’t know how. And as for the matter of her hands, were they always this lovely? Impa didn’t tell him what to do after he saved the girl, though he knows she’ll want to hear about it from him and not the Sheikah warriors she has spread out throughout the kingdom, keeping an eye on their dying gods. Impa wanted him to look forward, which meant knives and teeth and forests full of bodies. She didn’t tell him what he could or couldn’t do in the presence of the sun, and he, having spent his whole life sitting in a dark room, didn’t think to ask. In retrospect, he should have. In retrospect, he should have asked Bolson to build two beds. But the thought didn’t occur to him, just as it didn’t occur to him that his heart might not be the dead thing the world told him it was, and so he never did.

 “I had a dream.” He flips the eggs. “About what?” “About a world where I made it in time.” Zelda peers over his shoulder. “Are they done yet?” “Almost, if you could please—” “—Ah, excuse me—” She dances out of the way of the big cast-iron pan, which he holds in one hand while he reaches for the plates with the other. In her haste to create space she walks into the counter and winces, bending over to touch the side of her foot. “Oh. I stubbed my toe.” She sighs. After breakfast he goes to look for Uma. He finds her sitting under the same old tree beside the bridge, cradling a cup of tea and humming along with the cicadas. Uma is the only person in Hateno who remembers the Calamity as a name with a face, and not a dream. She also had a daughter once, whom she lost in the years after the Calamity, when the rice fields had not yet begun to flourish, and the winters were long and cruel. He asks her quietly about the weather, which she tells him is her favorite kind. Spring’s never felt quite so lovely, she informs him, as she pries open an old dresser and leans forward to peer inside. He holds her cup of tea with both hands, the mellow sweetness of chrysanthemum tickling his nose and making him sneeze. After a moment, she returns with a set of clothes in the signature Hateno blend of oranges, blues, and warm, earthy browns. She places them carefully on his head and then retrieves her tea before he has the chance to drop the cup. “I hope your friend is taking well to Hateno,” she says warmly. I hope I have a friend, he thinks with his heart stuck halfway up his throat. He’s barely keeping himself together, in pretty much every sense of the word, but he thanks her all the same, and means it.

 He did, in fact, eat a frog. Several times. Once on the Great Plateau, after the spirit of the old king had left him to fend for himself with a pickaxe and half an apple, and again while he was in the Hebra mountain range, because it was too cold out to hunt and one had hopped into his pack while he wasn’t looking and died there. Then there was another time, at one of the stables up north, where he met a traveling salesman who offered him a stamina-boosting trick for ten rupees. The first time he obediently closed his eyes, and could only describe the texture in his mouth as ‘soft, with hints of viscosity’. He returned several weeks later, ran away on his horse immediately after making payment, and was mildly alarmed to discover that he had not in fact been presented with a breadstick, but rather a leg. A very long leg. With joints. And skin. And a big, webbed foot. Once, while sitting on a raft headed out to sea, he considered hurling himself into the water. It had been raining for several days by this point, which itself wasn’t a problem as he had come to quite like the sound of rain bashing on the outside of his tent with bloody fists, but this rain was relentless. Like a ghost which tries to kill you and fails, and, in a fit of bitter resentment, resolves to throw rocks at your window each night for the rest of your life, the water got into his boots and it got into his eyes and then it got into his pack, which spoiled all of his carefully-preserved meat and caused the stopper in his bottle of milk to rot. Under the present circumstances, all the game had either gone off to find shelter or been washed away by the floodwaters. There was nothing for him to hunt, and nothing for him to eat. His stomach growled faithlessly. While stumbling along some beach or another, he bumped into Kass, who told him about some treasure further out at sea. He looked blandly in the direction that the parrot pointed out for him, and found his eyes drawn to the island that lay beyond it. “I’m going to go there,” he said. “I hope you find good treasure,” said Kass. “Yeah,” he said. So he hauled himself onto a raft (he was too shy to ask the people in Lurelin for help, and too proud to talk about his circumstances) at the crack of dawn and began to blast a Korok leaf at the sail. And then he got tired. He sat down. He leaned over the edge of the raft. His reflection in the water was gray, because the sky was gray, and the sky was gray because it was raining. He had begun to shiver again, but he had spent most of the week shivering anyway and so didn’t pay it any attention. His hair was matted to his forehead, and there were bags under his eyes. One of his piercings was smarting; it must have gotten infected. “What if I just stopped trying,” he suggested to the sea, which ignored him. What was the point of it all, anyway? All of his friends were dead and the girl in the photograph was stuck in a castle in the sky. He didn’t remember a single thing about the first seventeen years of his life. Only the things that happened in the last three months, only the things that were deemed important, and even those he remembered in fragments. Like what if he had a sister. What if his father had been kind to him, or doting, or an alcoholic. What if he had been in love with someone, and what if he had had a heart, and what if he had cared. It was hard to discern the world’s sympathies for him when he spent most of his time alone. Sometimes, at night, he drew a face on the rock-wall and gave it a name. “I’m tired,” he said. “I’m tired, and I’m hungry, and I feel more dead than alive, even though I’m the only one still breathing.” But the sea continued to ignore him. The wind continued to ignore him. The rain continued to ignore him, pelting at his wet shoulders with wet hands and wet teeth, clawing at the skin on the back of his neck, telling him to go to sleep and stay there. Eventually the raft drifted of its own accord to the shore of the island he had spied in the distance, and then some thousand-year-old mummy stripped him of all his belongings anyway, so it no longer mattered that he had nothing in his pack or his head or his heart, as long as he was able to replace it with something new.

 A few weeks later she’s standing in the kitchen and staring at the vegetables in the pot, humming to herself, while Link rearranges the condiments on the table. She’s swaying from side to side, holding up the ladle like a sword. She seems happy. He leans back in his chair until he can just about see the top of her head. “What song is that?” he asks, casual as a house on fire. A pause. Something clatters to the floor. Picture two figures in a forest full of thorns and teeth. Picture the knight carving a path through the trees, the princess stumbling behind him, his clammy hand tight around her wrist, their feet bruised and dirty. It’s raining, of course, because it’s always raining in the dream. They’re being chased by mechanical monsters with knives for eyes. And they’re tired, both of them, so tired they could hurl themselves into a pond and drown there, but instead she walks into a tree. The bark scrapes the length of her forearm like a kiss, tearing at her skin and pouring blood down the back of her hand. Something clatters to the floor. Something breaks. Picture the old dream, the one he knows like a memory, the reason he’s less afraid of bears than people. He whirls the chair around to the sight of Zelda’s hand in the fire, her posture rigid, her face hidden by a curtain of hair. “I’m sorry,” she says, crestfallen. “It’s just—” He’s on his feet and halfway across the room before she can finish her sentence, pulling her away from the counter, reaching for the faucet with his other hand. “—It’s the first time you’ve asked me a question since you found me,” she says quietly. The skin on the back of her hand is bright red. If Urbosa were here, she would tie his arms and legs to four horses and then ask them to run in four different directions, and he would die in such a memorable way, it would eclipse even the deaths of all his old dead friends, who were trapped in machines with voices for a hundred years while their bodies turned into dust. If Urbosa were here then he likely wouldn’t be, would be in the next room, his ear pressed to the door, his heart pressed to the roof of his mouth. It’s a good thing, then, that she isn’t.

 It’s spring, so the water from the faucet is cold enough to cut yourself on. The water from the faucet is cold, so it should sting on skin as red as this, but Zelda doesn’t say anything as he holds her hand under the stream of water, his thumbs resting on the curve of her wrist, his eyes searching her blank expression for. A sign? A reason? Why the ladle on the floor; why the hand in the fire? “It’s fine,” she finally says, brushing her hair behind her ear with her unhurt hand. “No,” he says before he can stop himself, bristling a little, feeling slightly outrageous. “It’s not.” Zelda looks somber for a moment. Then she hiccups a laugh. “We’ve had this conversation before, haven’t we?” Yeah, I remember when you [the path that leads to Hateno is wet and winding] and I [your hand on the back of my head was cold and dying], he wants to say. But he would be lying if he did, because he doesn’t remember. He doesn’t remember anything except the sixteen stories she left him, sixteen shards of a seventeen-year-old life. If she’s referring to something funny, then he’s missed an opportunity to make her laugh. If she’s referring to something important, then it’s no wonder he can’t seem to bridge the gap between the frog and the girl, no wonder his head hurts like someone stabbed it with a pitchfork and forgot to take it out, no wonder Hyrule still feels so far away, even as he milks the chickens and he chases the cows and he collects the eggs from the bears. He turns this thought over in his head as he goes for the medicine cabinet, which he had not asked for and Bolson had installed as a courtesy. Despite his best efforts, the blood on his back never quite washed away. She’s gone by the time he closes the cabinet, and he begins to feel that telltale sickness in his stomach, the sudden urge to throw up. He walks briskly out of the house in Hateno, salve and bandages tied to his wrist, his heartbeat ringing in his ears. The moon is a crescent tonight. Hateno rises and falls with each breath, pressing flowers into the palm of his hand. He folds each one unevenly in half. Zelda’s halfway up the ladder when he finds her. He waits for her to get onto the roof before he starts heading up, and is surprised all the same when he reaches the top of the ladder, and finds her face inches away from his. “I didn’t know you had a ladder,” she says pleasantly. “Why did you follow me up here?” She smells like Goron spice and sun. He is three seconds away from plummeting to his death. This is nothing he is used to, and a part of him thinks that if he knows what’s good for him then he will never get used to any of it. Not the silent, dead castle, not the long black shadow of the future, not the girl. She leans back after a moment. He breathes out. Half an inch of space will not keep either of them safe. Zelda watches him retie his ponytail expectantly. “So?” The ladder is from the Great Plateau. He found it at the back of the Temple of Time days after the old king asked him to climb to the top of the ruined structure and revealed to him that he was, yeah, the old king, and that all of his friends were dead, and that he would have to get the girl out of the castle before she could even think to save him, and by association, the rest of the world. At that point he was still naive enough to think defeating Ganon would take a stick and an apple and a really fast horse. He had also not yet learned of the myriad ways in which he had failed everyone he had ever cared for, and so spent his days wandering from place to place, pointing at bugs in the leaves and laughing. The ladder pissed him off. Who put it there? Why didn’t the old king tell him about its existence? What was the point of leaving a ladder behind the statue of Hylia when you could’ve put it in front, so stupid soulless people like him could use it to reach the end of the story faster? He returned to it much later, after he had purchased the house in Hateno, and yanked the whole thing down. Hacking it into four sections with a pickaxe he stole from a bokoblin (it had probably belonged to him first anyway), he piled all of them on his horse and then walked through Hyrule field, past Fort Hateno, all the way back to Bolson, who stared at him like he’d just asked him to kill a man. What do you mean you want me to fix this ladder, he asked. I mean I want you to fix this ladder, he replied. So Bolson did. Zelda laughs so hard she almost falls off the roof. She gets right up to the edge of it, leaning over the side with her face in her hands while he scrambles to keep her from toppling over. She only let him wrap up her arm because he was talking, because according to Zelda he never did much talking, but maybe he’s said too much. He’s embarrassed. Defeated, he lies down. There’s a star, just above the crown of trees at the other end of the village. He reaches out idly, trying to pinch it between his thumb and forefinger, but his fingers brush against skin instead of sky. Zelda, half-goddess, half-miracle, turns her face into the palm of his hand for the briefest of moments, like a butterfly alighting on the surface of a pond. The cicadas sing ballads. His breath stops in his lungs and dies there. “I like the ladder.” “Oh.” “Please keep it.” “Oh.” “You know,” she says, still leaning over him, close enough that if he gave her hand a tug, she might fall right out of heaven. Her head is tilted, her hair falling into her eyes, splaying across the tiles on the roof like a satiny strip of sun. “What?” he asks hoarsely. She smiles at him like a secret. “I—”

 He used to be in love with her. As each piece of his sixteen-part past was returned to him and the last day of his life emerged slowly into the light, it dawned on him like a horse falling out of the sky that he had been very lucky to be her knight, that he would have willingly given his life for her, and that he did. Only his final, heroic act of sacrifice failed to accomplish anything meaningful in spite of his best efforts. He had died with her hand cradling the back of his head, his tunic wet with blood and tears, believing that the ending could be salvaged still. Maybe this is what it takes to reach happiness, he thought dizzily. Maybe you have to be pushed to the end of the line, before you can start walking back towards the center. But when he opened his eyes, it was to a world which had not moved an inch from the precipice. His back was covered in scars, water streaming down his skin like blood, and his head was so light, he worried for a moment that if he stood up too fast it would float right off of his shoulders. The only thing that remained was old skin, the thin aftertaste of fear, and a bone-deep anxiety that wouldn’t come off no matter how many times he threw himself into the river. The only thing that remained was a voice in his head, calling his name through the dream, reminding him that there was still something that could be salvaged from the fire. He used to be in love with her, though it took him a while to admit it, because being in love with her meant admitting that he had failed not only on a prophetic level, but on a personal level that cut to the wound at the center of his chest. It was a matter of survival in those first few months. Him, or a kingdom. His selfish and worthless pride, or the world. Naturally, he chose the world.

 “Let’s say you’ve been asleep for a hundred years and when you wake up you’ve lost all your memories, but you chase after fairies and you dig up shrines and you defeat the big bad monster like you’ve been told to, because a girl told you to, and because you were in love with her. And after defeating the big bad monster she comes back, and you take her back to your house, and you fry eggs for her. But she’s not the person she was a hundred years ago, because she spent a hundred years in a dream. And you’re not the person you were a hundred years ago, because you forgot everything you could possibly forget, and then you got mauled by a bear. And yet when you look at her, every time you look at her, your chest hurts so bad you think you might be dying.” He looks up from his breadstick. “Am I dying?” “No,” Beedle says very seriously. “I think you’re stupid.” Beedle retrieves a string of petrified armored beetles from one of the pockets on his back, and holds it abruptly in his face. “You can fall in love with someone twice, you know.” Link wrinkles his nose. “How do you know?” Beedle sticks the lower half of a beetle in his mouth. “I’m five hundred years old.” He bites down. “I know things.” Chews thoughtfully. “I’ve eaten things, too. Things you’ve never even dreamed of. “Point is, Link, you’re being stupid. Get it together. The world’s not ending anymore.” “Oh,” says Link. He watches Beedle eat the rest of the beetles. There are five in total. He doesn’t have to chew very hard, which is weird. He turns Beedle’s words over in his head. Beedle has a point. The world isn’t ending anymore. The world isn’t hanging on by a thread, waiting for the boy in the story to haul it back up the side of the cliff. They hauled it back up, him and Zelda and their old dead friends. They hauled it out of the well. And now look at the flowers.

 Once, while sitting on a raft headed out to sea, he considered hurling himself into the water, but here’s the other half of the story. He had recently been into the castle again, up to the princess’ room, where he found, among other things, a moblin, a bow, and a single Silent Princess, growing at the end of the hallway. He also found a diary, which he really shouldn’t have read. He shouldn’t have read the diary. It’s common courtesy. It’s the mark of human decency, respect of personal privacy, respect for the dead, et cetera. But he did. So he hauled himself up to that tower in the sky, and he mistimed several guardian laser parries before finally getting one right and yelling in triumph and getting a beam to his ass for his efforts, and then he cried, standing over that tattered old book while a cold wind blew in through the man-sized hole in the wall. He had spent so long working towards the abstract idea of salvation, he had forgotten that salvation was also, inextricably, a person. A girl with the hands of Hylia, praying in a castle in the sky, stuck in a hundred year cycle from hell. She had thrown away everything so he would float back out of the water with his face to the sky, and he couldn’t even remember how to shoot a bear without getting his face clawed off. What had he ever done to deserve this? What had he done for her? The answer was he couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember anything. The conversation they had about skin-deep secrets, the day it was raining and she told him about the hypothetical nature of failure, the morning of her seventeenth birthday, as she slid the gold cuffs onto her wrists and strode grimly out of the castle, her shadow clinging to the wall like it could keep her from leaving if it did. Did he even say happy birthday? Did anyone bring her candles? Did she make a wish, and if so, for what? He felt suddenly angry, and disappointed, and lonely. The fireplace was full of rubble and the table was covered in dust. The bed frame had collapsed, probably at the very beginning of this whole mess, and the mattress was sunken in like a face with no flesh, the sheets torn, the gold trim reduced to tatters. This place used to be a sanctuary. Now it wanted him dead. He wiped his eyes furiously, though there was no one there to point at him and laugh. He wiped his eyes with the back of his clumsy, scarred hand, pulled the diary shut, and walked back out, into heaven’s line of fire.

 He takes her to the Kochi dye shop on her request, but Sayge gives them a name and an address and herds them out of his store, and so they find themselves in Tarrey Town again, exchanging nods with the people he tricked into leaving their old lives behind while Zelda describes her old outfit to Rhondson, who takes notes on her husband’s arm in erasable ink. Several days later, a new set of clothes arrives in Hateno by donkey. He helps her do her hair, by which he means he holds a mirror behind her back and she does her hair, occasionally instructing him to tilt it several degrees in one direction or another, but it’s the most useful he’s felt in weeks, and when she’s pulled on her gloves and done up the buckles on her boots, she stands up and does a little twirl. It’s a perfect replica. She’s glowing. Rhondson is god. “I feel like I could defeat Ganon,” Zelda tells him. I already did that, he thinks. He nods. “You probably could.”

 “So, are you going to do something?” Beedle retrieves a string of soft-shell crabs from his pack. “Do I have to?” Beedle waggles his finger at him disapprovingly. “The question is, do you want to?”

 He has a dream where she falls from Shatterback Point. He runs as fast as he can down the side of the mountain, cutting his palms on coral and bruising his knees on the wet rocky path, but when he gets to the bottom, no one’s there. You were too late, Muzu tells him, stroking his beard somberly. You tried to reach her, but you let go, and then you were too late. The water in the lake is bright as blood. The sky crackles silently above Muzu’s vacant eyes. A voice emerges from the lake. You let me die, the voice says. I saved the world for you, and you let me die. He wakes up sweating. He curls up on his side, bracing for the cold, hard floor against his cheek, but Zelda’s slipped one of her pillows under his head while he was sleeping. She’s murmuring in her sleep, something about fruit halves and grams of sugar, her hand dangling over the side of the bed clenching and unclenching itself earnestly, kneading imaginary dough, cutting imaginary apples. “Zelda?” Too soft. He won’t call again. He refuses to. In a moment of weakness, he reaches for the side of the bed, but stops just shy of her hand. Beedle’s bright, angular nose appears before him, carrying with it the wisdom of his ancestors. What do you want to do, Link, Beedle’s Nose asks him. What do you want? I want to pull her out of the burning house, he thinks. Is that too much to ask for? Moonlight trickles down her throat and vanishes under the collar of her tunic. His chest implodes and his heart bursts into a thousand tiny pieces, as he wonders how it is that planets were made before people. Beedle’s Nose is indifferent. What burning house, it asks. Where’s the smoke coming from? Look around you, Link. There’s smoke, and fire, and windows with broken glass. But who’s still inside?

 Uma’s hundred-and-ninth birthday arrives on the coattails of fall. On her insistence, they keep the decorations sparse and the cake disarmingly large. Streamers are put up and butterflies corralled into glass menageries. A traveling band with a bit of a reputation further west is invited. There are three musicians with ocarinas and one with a cowbell, and all of them are wearing pink overalls and big yellow sun hats which hurt to look at for too long, unless you work for a construction company, in which case you want to look at them forever. After Bolson has finished taking down all of their contact information on his forearm (they prefer to be called for via messenger pigeon, but if you don’t have one then a snail is fine as well), Zelda drifts across the grass to stand in his place. She’s wearing a white dress, borrowed from Uma, who said it would complement her eyes. Uma was right. The dress is made from a thin, glittery fabric that billows around her ankles and makes her look like she’s floating. Like a fairy in a forest clearing. Like a cat perched at the top of a clocktower. Their conversation lasts for several minutes. She says something, and the others laugh. The guy with the cowbell pretends to look embarrassed. Everyone else at the party is dancing, including Uma, who is holding hands with a small child in a green frog-suit and swaying like a palm tree in the wind. While Zelda keeps the ocarina ensemble preoccupied, one of the adults in the village has gone and retrieved a guitar. He begins to play a warm, meandering tune that reminds Link, distantly, of grassy fields and white skies. “Are you not going to dance?” He looks down. Nebb tugs at the edge of his tunic with one hand, pulling him in the direction of the crowd. He squats down. “I don’t have anyone to dance with.” “You can dance with me. Duh.” “I don’t know how to dance.” Nebb looks at him like he’s stupid. “Then learn.” “What if I don’t want to?” “What if you meet someone who does, and you like them too much to say no?” He squints suspiciously at Nebb. Nebb’s atrocious bowl cut hasn’t grown any less atrocious with time, though it does have the effect of making him look far less menacing than he would be if he were bald or sporting a mohawk. The boy knows too much for someone so small. This cannot do. If this goes on, he will reveal a secret to the gods, and then they will kill him for his hubris. “Shhh,” Link says to him, holding a finger up to his lips. He digs around in his pockets until he finds a piece of honey candy, wrapped in a palm leaf and tied together with twine. “Take this, and go dance with someone else.” Nebb gives him the Stare of Judgment, but takes the candy. “You’re terrible, Link.” He sticks out his tongue. “Bye.” Then it’s back to demolishing the cake, which he’s still not convinced Uma didn’t order expressly so that he would have something to do with himself during the course of the evening, as the dancing progresses from cheerful to insane and a small group of guests begins to construct a spaceship out of empty wine glasses. No one else has gone for thirds, though a handful have gone for seconds. There’s a big fondant chicken perched on the highest layer. He sucks on his fork thoughtfully. He wants it. Last week they went up north, in search of forgiveness. Despite their best efforts and the gift of crabs and crocuses they brought along, their reception in Zora’s domain was cold and gray. It reminded him of the way they had received him when he first stepped out of the rain and into the blue glow of the domain’s hallways, armed with only the knowledge that he had been sent to prevent a tragedy that had already happened. He didn’t yet know that Mipha was dead. He thought he could still save her. They called him failure and fool and living reminder of Hyrule’s downfall, laughing at him in a language called mourning. He had thought they had forgiven the Hylians and their king for letting their Champion die, especially after he walked out of Vah Ruta with a black eye and a bloody nose to show for it, especially now that the evil had been defeated. Apparently the knight by himself was tolerable. The knight and the princess, together, made things too raw. Too immediate. “Mipha’s dead,” they said. It was a Tuesday. “I’m sorry,” Zelda replied. Tomorrow they’re headed for Goron City. He closes his eyes and wills away the taste of sweet cream and berries, tries to picture the winding path up Death Mountain, the grooves hammered into the ground, the rubies in their metal caskets. Flame-resistant armor is a given, so it’s a good thing he bought two sets on accident last winter. He wants to trap a few fire lizards in a bottle and bring them back for a friend. As for what he will say to Zelda before he hands her off to the city’s protectors, their hands half an inch apart but not touching, never touching, there isn’t much. Goron City will be better, he thinks. He licks the cream off his fork. It’s sweet. “What are you thinking?” He opens his eyes. Zelda looks at his plate, then the cake, then his plate again. She points at the chicken. He shrugs. “I was thinking that I hope Uma lives forever.” Someone has invited the dog onto the dance floor. He isn’t trying very hard to keep to the beat of the guitarist, who has been joined by two of the ocarina players with brown hair and blue eyes, but he doesn’t have to. Spinning very fast in a circle is actually the smartest dance move of them all. There’s no beginning, so there’s no end. Zelda plucks a berry from his plate. “It’s not very fun, to be honest,” she says, chewing thoughtfully. “Living for that long.” He watches the dog chase its own tail and she watches him watch the dog, though neither is aware this is happening. “Sorry, I didn’t know. I was asleep.” The dog is easily the best dancer in the crowd. He experiences neither shame nor hubris, and is thus freed from the stresses and seasonal anxieties of being known by others who might fear him or like him. He also runs very fast. Zelda punches his shoulder weakly, her hand lingering, her eyes soft. “That’s a terrible joke, Link.” He pinches the inside of his wrist. “I’m trying my best.” “So am I.” After a beat, the dog who has been invited to the party to spin in tight circles on the dance floor and be a nuisance to the other guests goes careening into the rotisserie chicken. In a wondrous, gravity-defying moment, the chicken sails not away from the dog, but towards him, flying in a swooping arc over his head at a height of several hundred feet above the ground. The plate clatters to the floor before the chicken can find its bearings and, awoken by its war cry, people scramble into action, evacuating themselves to the other side of the buffet table or under the veranda with their legs between their tails, until Uma is standing alone on the grass, still swaying to a song only she can hear, still smiling. The chicken reaches the highest point in the sky, pauses for a heartbeat, then pitches downwards. She catches it. The crowd goes wild. And then Zelda is tugging on his sleeve, like Negg, but not like Negg, because Zelda walked out of the mouth of the monster, because Zelda left her hand in the fire, because Zelda looked at the miserable, vulnerable world that he had yelled at until his voice was hoarse and dying and even the pigeons were something fiercer than him, that he had tended to with clumsy, scarred hands in spite of all the dead things on the ground, and decided to stay. “God,” she says, her eyes bright. “Link, look. In the sky.”

 Picture two figures in a forest full of night. Picture the princess carving a path through the trees, the knight stumbling after her, her hand tight around his wrist, their feet fast and flying. The sky is clear, of course, because someone pulled the mourning veil off its head and threw it in the river. They’re chasing after a column of light, poured by the hand of Hylia from the heavens. And they’re tired, both of them, so tired they could hurl themselves into bed and lie there, half an inch apart, watching each other in the dark with waiting on their tongues, but instead he trips on a branch and goes down, face-first, into the dirt. She doesn’t realize he’s let go until he lets go, but when she turns around he’s already pushed himself off the ground. Hands and knees and boots digging into the grass. The woods outside of Hateno are still teething. The princess gives him her hand, and he stares at it for a moment like she’s just offered him the rest of her lifespan, and then takes it. He’s fine; of course he is. It would take much more than this to kill him. It would take another hundred year cycle of pain. She points at the column of light. It’s still there. Still glowing. So they keep going, picking their way through the undergrowth, climbing over branches and pushing boulders out of harm’s way, doing what ghost children like them do best, which is pointing at something in the distance, and then chasing it. Chasing hope. Following it back to the center. And when they reach the place where the sky has spat out the blood in its mouth, the knight gets punched in the face with nostalgia. He caught a falling star once, when he was all alone and the world was grim and unknowable. Then he gave it to a fairy, in exchange for less blood on his tunic, in exchange for stronger teeth. He approached heaven from afar once, a solitary figure burning darkly against the pale yellow water, but there was no way for him to go home when all was said and done, so he pinched the inside of his wrist and kept walking.

 The thing is you can’t go from swinging a sword around and dreaming about dead people to waking up and frying eggs and searching for ways to heal the cracked earth beneath your feet. Not that fast. Not that goddamn fast. You can’t just flip a switch and not be scared anymore, not wake up sweating anymore, not wake up wanting to hold her hand. Fear is a country and you’ve lived in it all your life. There’s a reason kingdoms keep such a close eye on their borders. You’re either in, or you’re out. Make up your mind. Pick up your sword. Save yourself.

 The star fragment is stuck in a tree. Zelda wants to climb it and he wants her to stop; naturally, she wins. She hauls herself up the trunk while he circles the bottom like a hawk with an anxiety problem, waiting to catch the star, or the girl, or both. But neither comes pitching out of the sky. The dream stays just out of sight. “So that’s what star fragments look like,” she says later, her voice muffled by the sound of crickets. She turns it over in her hands, running her fingers along each point and indent. “They’re warm.” Smells it curiously, then wrinkles her nose. “No smell.” Tries to break off one especially thin-looking point with little success. “Sturdy.” She spends ten minutes staring at the star. He spends ten minutes staring at her. She gets bored, puts the fragment on the ground, and looks up. He looks away. “The party’s probably over now, huh.” He nods to his left. A sigh, very small, very lovely. Like a firefly under a bridge. “I didn’t get the chance to dance with anyone.” Beedle’s Nose is staring at him from a gap in the trees like the red eye of the devil. It’s singing a nursery rhyme he doesn’t remember learning. What do you want/what do you want/what do you want. Link! Link! Open your eyes! He has to break every bone in his body just to turn his head three inches to the right, but for the first time in this life, this new life, this second chance at everything, he gets it right. Zelda’s knees are drawn to her chest, her head pillowed on her arms, her gaze heavy on his face. He sucks in a breath. “Do you still want to?”

 Dancing without music sounds reasonable in theory, but generally requires one party to be exceptionally good at keeping count while the other has to be in possession of at least a rudimentary grasp of the steps. This is, of course, assuming that there are redeemable qualities to both parties. For example, if one is the knight from the fairy tale who has spent his whole life swinging sharp objects at people, and the other is the princess from the fairytale who has spent her whole life praying sharp objects find their way to the right people, then there may not in fact be anything redeemable between them. Her counting is off, his hands are clammy. Her voice is wavering, his feet are too slow. It’s disaster after disaster after disaster, first the champions in their divine beasts, then the castle, then the king on the Great Plateau, a knife through the heart, et cetera. Dancing without music sounds reasonable in theory unless you’ve spent the last three months of your life chasing angry moose down mountains, so it’s a good thing no one’s here to laugh at them. It’s a good thing they’re alone, surrounded by starlight, half an hour by foot from Hateno, village of lights and wonder. Spring has come and gone without them. The night is young and the air is cool and the forest is sweetly indifferent to his tendency to crash into inanimate objects. This would be embarrassing if he left himself think about it, but more importantly it’s unfair, how neither of them knows what they’re doing but Zelda can smile her way out of a clumsy turn, how he has to keep his hand on her waist but hers is doing an elaborate dance on his shoulder, how every time she leans in and her hair parts down her back, a sliver of neck peeks out and steals the lungs right out of his chest. He is going to die trying to keep his hands to himself or they are going to fall off the edge of the forest and into a ravine with no bottom. There is no option to walk away. “You’re a terrible dancer,” she says, smiling up at him from under her lashes. He chews on his lip. “I’m sorry.” “That’s fine.” He twirls her and her dress floats up past her ankles like a cloud of tiny stars. “I like you anyway.” He walks into a tree. Decides that’s not enough. Slaps himself generously across the face, hard enough to leave a mark. Decides that’s not enough. Kneels on the grass, letting go of her hand, to look for a stick that might help him end things faster. “Link?” It is too much and too little all at once, and therefore unbearable. He is going to fall off the edge of the forest right now. He tries to stand up just as she begins to bend down, reaching for his shoulder. They fall off the edge of the forest together. Oh god. Oh fuck. Oh no. They’ve fallen off the edge of the universe together. Her face is in the crook of his neck and her hair is stuck to his clothes. His skin is on fire and his butt is sore and he’s dying. Hylia, can you hear him? There’s a name for the place children go after they leave this world. He’d like to know what it’s called now. “Hey,” comes the small, muffled voice. Her arms are on either side of his waist, and they’re trembling. “Can you say something?” He looks up. Always up, always forward, towards knives and teeth and forests full of bodies. Always past the blurry face in the dream, to the nightmare that follows after. Someone will tell you when to breathe. Someone will tell you when to swing your sword. Someone will tell you when it’s all right to stop being scared of everything, and start looking for angels. Like right now. Like right-right-now. Your heartbeat fluttering in your throat. Your throat an ocean of knives. Eight weeks and three days after he walks into the castle and defeats two incarnations of evil, first in a room with a domed ceiling, then in a field with a domed sky, he steps out of the burning house, and finds himself face to face with the sun. He presses his cheek against her hair. “Do you want me to?” “Yes,” she sighs. “Yes, I do.”

 He tells her about the way the world looks from atop the back of a bear and the gray of the ocean from a raft and the conversation he had with her dead father about how cooked apples taste sweeter. He tells her about the first time he shot an arrow at a bomb barrel and the second time he shield-surfed down a hill and how Urbosa made him promise to take care of her, even in death, even after it. He tells her about being so lonely it hurt to breathe and being so bad at breathing he passed out in a river, and being so hurt he had to be saved by a stranger on the road, tied to the back of their donkey like a piece of merchandise and carried to the nearest stable to be burnt back to life. He tells her how no one believed he was the boy in the story, even when he pulled out the sword, even when he showed them the blood on his back. He tells her about how the stalhorses on Tabantha Snowfield run faster than the horses near Kakariko, how a bokoblin will choose a freshly roasted chicken over the skin of your teeth, how a sword is a metaphor for forgiveness. He tells her how a hundred years ago she told him to eat a frog, and he never forgot about it. Not once, not ever. Walking through the Breach of Demise, looking for Koroks in Fort Hateno, praying for her heart at the Spring of Wisdom, he never stopped thinking about the damn frog, and by extension, the girl. The first thing she says is why didn’t you tell me all of this earlier? The second thing she says is why the hell didn’t I ask? She presses a hand to his forehead, pushing his bangs out of his eyes and glaring at him. The third thing she says is that she really wants to see a stalhorse, and the fourth thing he says is he’ll take her there one day, and the fifth thing she does is cry. Big, heaving sobs. Arms tight around his shoulders, tears smearing the front of his shirt, while he pretends he isn’t half as insane, gives up, and resolves to hide his face in her hair forever. And it’s dramatic as hell, it’s an ancient tapestry on a wall in Kakariko, but hasn’t it always been that way? Haven’t they been through enough shit to justify the heartfelt reunion, the face full of tears? If the conversation they had in the field outside the castle was a blueprint for what it looks like to meet someone you wanted a hundred years ago, then this is the aftermath of that war. Do you remember me? Of course I do. Do you love me? Of course I do. Ask me a question, any question. Crack my chest open. “To make things very, very clear,” Zelda says, wiping her eyes furiously. She’s pushed him flat onto his back and the light’s not hitting her face so he can’t make out her expression, but he can imagine the pinched brow, the bitten lip. “I didn’t fall in love with you because you were conveniently there, like, I don’t know, an armchair when you’re tired, or a glass of water when you’re thirsty.” Her hands on his chest are very beautiful, even in the moon-lit dark. “I didn’t take one look at the prophecy and think to myself, well, if I’m going to tie my happiness to someone then it might as well be him.” Now he’s the one who’s embarrassed. He brings a hand up to cover his face but she tugs it away. Takes a deep breath. Counts to ten, probably, maybe fifteen, maybe a hundred. “I fell in love with you,” she says, softly, each word falling from her lips like a star, each star plucked from the highest point in the heavens. “I don’t even know why I fell in love with you.” She fists her hands loosely in his shirt. “It just happens, you know? One day you look at the boy with the stupid pretty hair, and you think to yourself, oh no.” His head is spinning so fast he feels like the dog at the party. Maybe he is the dog. Maybe he finished eating the cake and shoved the fondant chicken in his mouth and then he passed out, and had to be carried back to his house, and had to be laid gently on the unmade covers. He gathers his thoughts. “I’m not a very good person,” he says quietly. “But if you would have me, I would gladly give you my life.” “You’ve already done that once, Link,” Zelda says, laughing with the sun in her mouth. “Do something else.” What do you want, Link? Open your eyes. Save yourself. “Okay, then. Can I kiss you?”

 His name is Link, and he died once when he was seventeen. It was pretty traumatizing. He got slashed several times across the back with some very sharp weapons, and then he got mauled by a forest full of screaming metal, and then he collapsed, right in front of the person he was supposed to protect, who ended up protecting his dead body by the skin of her teeth. Because he died. Somewhere between the laser on his chest and her hand pressed against the seal of the sky, his body made one last stand against the stark inequalities of the world, and he died. The only reason he knew his name was Link when he woke up was because it was the first word she said to him. “Link,” she said. “Wake up.” He concluded through logical reasoning that “he” must be “Link” and that “Link” had to “wake up”. So he did. He went traipsing around Hyrule with a ladle and a pot lid, seeking out places from a photograph and trying to find ways to bring every four-legged animal in the land to a stable, but he never really felt like “Link”. He felt like a corpse that had received a very shiny, very thick coat of paint. Half-here, half-there. Half-me, half-something-else. What else? A bird, maybe. A horse. One day Link got bored and decided that he was going to defeat all the forces of evil. He fought his way into the castle, where the guardians shot lasers at his earrings, and he fought his way past the lynels, who hissed fire and called him rude words, and he fought his way into the sanctum, where he met the asshole who had put him through all this shit in the first place. And he kicked his ass. And he kicked his other ass. And the asshole died. His name was Ganon. Ganon dying brought Zelda back to life, because the law of equivalent exchange governs half of the children in this world, while the devil gets the rest. The devil got to him: his life will always carry the weight of hundreds of thousands, he will always feel like lead for the first three seconds after he wakes up. But it didn’t get to Zelda. Zelda got the other bargain, the one where your dead father dies but you get your knight back. One or the other, left or right. In the end, you always have to choose. And he’s still pretty traumatized. And dying at the age of seventeen with a sword still stuck in your hand is pretty traumatizing. And the Zora are still mourning and the Gorons are still eating rocks and the Gerudo still think he’s just a really short girl, which he can live with, which he doesn’t particularly mind, but the trauma has a place on the shelf now. And the shelf is in his house. And the house is a modest one, with modest display stands for his modest weapons, and a modest bed beside which he’s hung a framed photograph of his friends. But some things are different, even if the foundations stay the same. No more rafts on gray seas. No more sleeping on the floor. No more standing in the burning building, and wondering why the shadows aren’t moving. No more shrines full of dead monks. No more monsters full of dead bodies. No more waiting for someone to tell you when to breathe, when to stop, when to get mauled by a bear. Pick up your sword, boy. Now put it down. Now pick it up. Now put it down. You’re going to be doing this until the day that you die. Are you all right with that? Are you all right with your god? [Thank you for helping my sister.][They say the leviathans died thousands of years ago.][Get me a horse. A big, strong horse. Any horse.][BROTHER. THE ROCKS ARE READY.][Find me someone whose name ends with ‘-son’.][I’ll sell you rushrooms for diamonds. Fifty-five for one.][Have you heard of the story of the bird on the mountain?][Do you already have someone special in your heart?][They say if two people visit this pond, they’ll be together forever.][Do you believe in miracles?][Do you believe in magic?][Do you believe in me?] [I believed I would see you again.]

It’s a cruel, unforgiving world. People die and don’t come back. But you did. Now get up. Someone’s waiting for you.

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wyrmzone · 3 years ago

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Ask game: taz all seasons, gemshim inpact, all zelda games (monsters absolutely count)

i couldnt remember the characters from other taz seasons sorry so its just amnesty and balance

taz amnesty:

blorbo: i love duck a lot hes so good

the scrunkly: Dr Harris Bonkers PhD!!!

scrimblo bimblo: i really like pigeon i wish she had a little more "screentime"

glup shitto: vincent isnt really obscure but i love him

poor little meow meow: ned "meow meow" chicane

horse plinko: probably ned again

eeby deeby: none of them deserve eeby deeby except maybe some of the orchestrators of the interplanetary wars

taz balance:

blorbo: i cant choose between magnus and lup tbh theyre both so good

the scrunkly: fisher and angus, i dont want to smoosh angus but i would attempt to smoosh fisher they r very shaped i bet

scrimblo bimblo: upsy, your lifting friend - MY lifting friend. why is it wet in there. i love it

glup shitto: kind of a deep cut but i really like randall from the big bass minigame from that one liveshow idk why i just have this super clear image in my head of a gray-bearded man in a yellow coat with 1 tooth

poor little meow meow: john hunger honestly i love the one ship where merle is secretly dating him while the others think johns dead. also jenkins

horse plinko: boyland i cant explain it i just think it would be really funny

eeby deeby: maybe team wonderland though im pretty sure theyre already in eeby deeby

zelda:

blorbo: link <3 absolute gender legend hes a horse girl hes a sword kid hes trans in 4D

the scrunkly: the spider boss from twilight princess with the tarantula wizard song, midna, all koroks, botw fox, boko baba from wind waker, and the kikwi from skyward sword

scrimblo bimblo: this might not count but the great fairies from wind waker are the superior great fairies theyre so much cooler

glup shitto: i was looking at a list of zelda characters and it turns out theres a character named Roscoe whos literally. a shrine orb. and if you unlock his shrine he just dies. anyway spinch and spinch (the spinches) for sure. also medli and the fat fuck pig from wind waker and botw rainbow pigeon

poor little meow meow: helmaroc king hes just a funny bird and also kilton bc like. same

horse plinko: beedle for some reason he just has a very plinko-worthy vibe

eeby deeby: tingle

gemshim impact:

blorbo: albedo (chief alchemist, searching for the meaning of life, painter and illustrator, figuring out the intricacies of human interaction), childe (in the 99.5th percentile of "number of people murdered")

the scrunkly: pufferfish bc their little faces ... and slimbes... and one of klee's attacks makes a bunch of little guys appear theyre literally so cute and they blow up (klee is the little arsonist elf girl)

scrimblo bimblo: razor (wolf boy) bc i love him he deserves to be appreciated

glup shitto: baishi (lesbian secretary whos absolutely into her boss)

poor little meow meow: childe does not have a great track record but he makes swords out of water and he can actually throw an arrow harder than he can shoot one with a bow which is very funny. xiao (edgy) has sinned but hes not problematic bc hes spent like hundreds of years atoning by suffering physical karmic pains. itto (himbo oni) got in trouble but is not problematic bc it was for good reasons

horse plinko: kaeya a little bit bc i cant just write childe for every field (kaeya is eyepatch man)

eeby deeby: hu tao (funeral parlor director) bc you cant just threaten to bury the zombie girl

scrunklies gallery:

eating him + tiny bombs + slimpe

SHAPE.

#ask game #tysm for send ask it took a while to answer #genshin impact #zelda #taz

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gentlyouttatime · 3 years ago

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ask game: Zelda!

blorbo: link of course!!! blorbo from my games :)

scrunkly: sidon botw... he believes in link and is so kind (🥺)

scrimblo bimblo: something something minish cap deserves more love. entire minish cap cast my beloveds

glup shitto: i did not mean for this to be all about botw but i think spinch should become a recurring npc

poor little meow meow: listen... he's probably not unpopular but a link between worlds was my first zelda and i would never forgive myself if my answer wasn't ravio

horse plinko: beedle but like... not in a mean way

eeby deeby: yuga, only because of how i hated fighting him as a 15 year old with terrible reaction time

#acepunks #replies outta time

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lonelyyinchicago · 3 years ago

Text

giving sirius the childhood he deserves part 7

“come on you” james said, scooping his little bundle up from the sofa. “time for bed.”

harry pursed his lips as he shook his head. james raised his eyebrows as harry giggled, reaching out towards the cat who was asleep on the sofa. james put harry back down with a sigh, but was instantly made to regret it as lily arrived in the lounge.

“why’s harry still up?”

“he didn’t want to go to bed yet.”

“and you just listened to him?”

“well” james began sheepishly, “yes?”

lily exhaled and sat down next to her son. a couple of slender fingers wedged themselves under harry’s armpit as she released giggles from him. james watched from the kitchen as he boiled the kettle.

“tea, kannu?”

lily nodded as she balanced harry on her knee, gently bobbing him up and down, extracting more smiles. as soon as she’d finished her mug, lily carried harry upstairs. laying him down on his small mattress, he sat back up to demand a bedtime story.

pulling the work copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard, james sat behind lily, his legs surrounding her. she leant back contentedly opposite the cot, ready to perform the various character voices to match james’ narration.

harry’s eyes began to droop almost before the first page was finished. reaching up for the light switch, james and lily closed the door softly. turning around in the hallway, the couple jumped as sirius appeared in front of them.

“that looked easy - i’ll be fine on friday.”

lily raised an eyebrow sceptically.

“don’t call me when you realise that there’s something you don’t know.”

“i won’t need to evans” sirius retorted with a wink. “we’ll be fine.”

—

after leaving harry with his godfather, lily and james left for their anniversary dinner.

“so” sirius began, plopping harry in remus’ armchair, “what do you want to do?”

harry shuffled to the edge of the chair and dropped off onto the floor before making his way to the toy box. sirius watched amusedly as harry emptied the the entire box before sitting in it. he couldn’t help but laugh as harry looked so proud of himself. harry grinned up at sirius as sirius laughed.

kneeling in front of the box and holding in another laugh, sirius whispered something tempting about ice cream and chocolate sauce. in his attempts to get out of the box, harry toppled over onto the large colourful plastic bricks.

he stayed still on the floor defeatedly until sirius helped him up. sirius pushed a small bowl of chocolate ice cream across the table and by the time he returned with a spoon, harry’s fingers were already covered in chocolate.

running one finger across the table, harry drew a small cat face with the sauce.

“remus is going to kill us you know” sirius said, sitting down on the chair next to harry.

“why would he do that?” a voice asked from behind sirius. “oh.”

sirius got up hurriedly.

“it was all harry to be fair.”

remus reached across the table and picked him up.

“so you’re the one who made this mess hmmm?”

harry giggled as remus wiped a tissue across his cheeks.

“if that was me, you would’ve hit me” sirius pointed out.

“you are a grown adult so yes, i think it would a little ridiculous for you to be drawing in your food.”

sirius presented remus with his middle finger before realising his mistake and putting his spare hand over harry’s eyes. remus shook his head as he took harry upstairs to the spare room dedicated entirely to him.

sirius followed close behind and stood in the doorway as remus sat down next to the small bed.

“what are you doing?”

“what does it look like love?”

remus opened the collection of muggle fairytales and began to read. sirius moved further into the room and placed harry in his lap, playfully prodding his stomach.

by the time remus closed the book, harry’s head had fallen into the crook of sirius’ elbow.

he smirked: “what are you going to do now?”

“i’m going to stay here despite my pins and needles because harry is comfortable.”

remus raised his eyebrow as he replaced the book on the shelf.

“okay sleep well.”

“if he doesn’t i will be mad.”

“well his bed is right there.”

sirius pulled harry further into his chest defiantly, moving the stray strands of hair.

“suit yourself” remus said, leaving the small room with the door slightly ajar.

sirius smiled as he looked down at the bundle in his arms. moving slowly to relieve some of the cramp, he paused as harry snuffled, determined not to ruin his godsons’s peace in any way. pulling the small knitted blanket over the both of them, sirius leant back against the wall, content.

#harry potter #james potter #lily potter #lily evans #sirius black #remus lupin #jily #wolfstar

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fanficflaneuse · 4 years ago

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One Day - Part 10

A/N: Dear magical tumblr friends, we’ve reached part 10. I’m sorry if it’s not that good. I was really excited to write it, but today I had to do a bunch of things for my graduate applications and it was just hectic. Still, it is Draco Malfoy’s birthday and I didn’t want to let the day pass without uploading a big, nice chapter. I hope you like it either way.

Also, before we start, I feel the need to express my utter love for Theo Nott and Astoria Greengrass lol. I don’t hate them. In fact, if anyone wants to recommend some Theo Nott fanfiction, I’m all for it.

Let’s do this!

Draco x reader (she/her pronouns) Word count: 1921 Summary: One day AU. Post-war. Since The Battle of Hogwarts, Draco and y/n meet one day a year.

Masterlist

Enjoy!

3 May, 2009

“What is this?” Draco asked in awe, motioning to (Y/N)’s hair.

“It’s my take on the French bob,” she answered playfully.

Every time he saw her, Draco found (Y/N) more beautiful than before. This time, though, he swore she was actually glowing. She had gotten a haircut and now her locks framed her face differently. She dressed so…French now, which he found adorable and incredibly sexy. And her smile was bigger and brighter than he had seen in years. In general, this version of his best friend made him feel like a teenager again.

Draco had been postponing this trip for weeks now. They had not addressed the issue yet, (when had they ever?) but everyone knew that the moment one of them reached out for the other, things would finally be settled. Their friends were tired of seeing them clumsily stumble through their feelings. That’s why Astoria took Scorpius to the Nott’s chalet on the Swiss Alps and practically forced him onto a train to Paris.

Astoria and Draco were not exactly the closest friends, but they had a son together and for his sake they maintained a more than civil relationship. She had settled down with Theo Nott, marrying him just after the divorce was finalized. They were happy together and she wanted his son’s father to move on as well. She was not only moved by a sense of guilt; deep down, Astoria had always known that the connection Draco and (Y/N) had was deeper than she would ever comprehend.

Whatever the case, the feeling of elation that washed over him as they held each other at Gare du Nord made him grateful for being alive again. He had butterflies in his stomach and a tingling all around. As if their bodies were connected, (Y/N) could also feel something electrifying. They hugged for the longest time, as if they weren’t in a crowded station with people rushing around.

(Y/N) and Draco walked arm in arm to her apartment in Montmartre. He still had a lot of questions about muggles, so she enjoyed pointing things out for him as they strolled. He had been to Paris countless times in his childhood and even once with Astoria, but this felt different. Walking with (Y/N), listening as she told him about the things she did every day, the places she frequented and the muggle history behind them felt like a dream come true. (Y/N) was very excited about taking him to a bunch of places and she numbered cheerfully all of the activities she had planned for them. Draco wished he could live in this moment forever.

“So, you’ve been consistently on the Prophet’s Best Seller list for almost a year and now you’ve won the Beedle the Bard literary prize. Don’t you dare to forget about your commoner friends, (Y/L/N),” he teased.

“You’re hardly a commoner, Healer Malefoy,” she taunted back, using the French translation of his last name.

Draco rolled his eyes playfully. “But really, you’re conquering the world one book at a time and I cannot be prouder…of myself for still having your original poetry saved somewhere at home.”

(Y/N) snickered. “I guess magical readers like the flavour of muggle literature. ‘That Kafka fellow? An absolute genius’,” as she quoted him playfully, Draco’s heart flipped.

When they reached the apartment, Draco observed everything in astonishment. Each little detail around the house embodied her. From the towers of books that flooded the flat to the position of the sofa by the fireplace, the rickety spiral staircase leading to the second floor, the creamy colours of the walls, the muggle paintings – she would later call them ‘impressionist’ –, the huge windowpanes and the mismatched yet harmonious furniture, it was all her. Draco had never seen a place represent a person so well. Even more surprising was the feeling that invaded him as soon as he set foot inside; he sensed that he had finally arrived home. He was Odysseus returning to his beloved Ithaca and he never wanted to set sail again.

They goofed around for a while, talking nonsense as they drank some very expensive wine. They danced around the room, enjoying the different layers to muggle music. Lately, (Y/N) had got then both hooked on muggle jazz. Draco relished greatly how the music seemed to pierce through them as they swayed around the room.

As the sunset painted the sky with colourful swirls, Draco stood by the window, observing the rooftops, the quaint streets and the Eiffel tower at a distance. (Y/N) took in his form. He looked much better. He stood taller; his shoulders no longer sagged forward in defeat. The bags under his eyes were practically gone. She could tell he was eating more. And he seemed generally happier. It made her smile.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go anywhere tonight?” she asked softly, walking towards him.

He turned to face her and nodded vehemently. He knew what he wanted to do. But it was only about an hour later, when they were cuddling in her bed, that he delved slowly into the much-awaited conversation.

Draco’s head laid on (Y/N)’s stomach. He was facing her way, eyes closed as her fingers worked their magic on his scalp. He was thinking about the right way to say it. And it all started off clumsily.

“So, Olivier Flamel, huh?”

“Yes,” she sighed.

For a while, (Y/N) had dated Olivier Flamel, a descendant of the one and only Nicholas Flamel, who, not coincidentally at all, was also a big-shot alchemist. It had ended like most of her relationships and flings in the last few years: casually, easily, no real pain for either part involved because they hadn’t been really that involved.

“Do I have to hex him?” Draco asked seriously.

(Y/N) snorted. “Ron asked me just the same,” she explained when he shot her an amused look, “And of course not, Dray. Olivier is an amazing guy. There was a lot of chemistry between us and we had a very passionate affair. But ultimately, we were just so different.”

Draco was invaded by a horrible feeling of envy when she talked about their amazing chemistry, but he did his best not to show it, to be rational and kind.

“How are you holding up?” he asked, even though he already knew. He needed the confirmation that still didn’t have feelings for him.

“You know it’s fine,” she shrugged, “I guess I’m just shook. For a while there I was half of the ‘it’ couple of the French wizarding jet set. It was a wild ride. Way too much to handle”.

Her cheeky smile then turned into a more concerned gesture. “How are you holding up?”

To say that (Y/N) had been surprised by Draco and Astoria’s divorce was the understatement of the century. The only thing she was certain of was that she didn’t want to see Draco suffer like that ever again. It had made her physically sick, to see him in so broken. She had been there through every stage of his grief. She helped him move back to Malfoy Manor. She took care of Scorpius on the days in which he couldn’t get out of bed. She cried with him. She got drunk with him. She was the big spoon. And through it all, (Y/N) only real target was to help Draco’s heart heal.

“I’m alright now. In hindsight I guess I am not surprised, you know? Our relationship was doomed since the beginning. The most important thing to me is Scorpius and I believe we’re handling it well, the share custody and all. He’s a happy boy.”

(Y/N) kept caressing Draco’s hair. There was a painfully long silence. The feeling of repressed words and feelings clouded the air. They had kissed a couple of times before. Once they had a very heated make out session that almost leads to them shagging. But they hadn’t talked about it. Every time it happened, they would just ignore it and carry on, as if they were not both elated by it. (Y/N) had spent countless nights telling herself that she wouldn’t kiss him again; she didn’t want to be Draco’s rebound.

“We totally suck at this love thing, don’t we?” (Y/N) finally said.

Draco’s heart was beating hard on his chest. It was now or never. “I don’t think we suck at this ‘love thing’,” he pointed out, raising up to face her, “I think we have ignored the right person to do the love thing with”.

(Y/N) regarded him seriously for a second. This is really not how she thought the infamous conversation would go. She was braising herself for yet another disappointment. And now here he was, saying the things she had wanted for so long. A lot of mixed messages were bouncing in her mind.

“You mean us? Together?” (Y/N) sat up, “Dray, don’t you think that boat sailed about a decade ago?”

Draco’s smile fell. He was certainly not expecting that. All of a sudden, he felt an emptiness in his stomach and an urgent need to cry. “D-do you really think so?”

“The timing is never right,” she breathed out.

“Look at us now, love. The timing is perfect,” he said before kissing both of her cheeks.

(Y/N)’s eyes welled with tears. “I don’t want to be your rebound, Dray,” she softly.

Draco looked at her, his expression softening. “I’ve been in love with you for the longest time, (Y/N). I pushed you away, convinced that I was doing the ultimate sacrifice for you. I wanted to save you from, well, me. You deserved better. You still do”, he heard her scoff, “But I guess that doesn’t matter anymore.”

They looked at each other intently. “Now,” he said dramatically, “I’ve come all this way to confess my undying love for you…”

“Idiot,” she muttered playfully, the widest and most genuine smile plastered on her face. He inched forward and kissed her face again: her forehead, her cheeks, her jaw, her neck. (Y/N) felt like she was floating on a cloud.

“I want to be yours, (Y/N). I want you to be mine,” he whispered in her ear, before kissing her on that soft spot he knew made her breathing hitch.

“Draco, I swear if you hurt me, if you use me as a rebound, I swear to Circe I’m going to hex you and never talk to –“

He shook his head. “I will never hurt you, (Y/N/N). I am in love with you.”

“I’ve always been yours, Dray,” she said, softly.

“As I’ve always been yours,” he answered.

They looked at each other then, eyes full of adoration. He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. His eyes quickly set on her lips before meeting her gaze again. (Y/N) pressed her lips to his. It was, by no means, the first time Draco and (Y/N) kissed. It was, though, the best one they had shared to date. It started sweet and loving, but its intensity raised as the minutes went by. Their feelings let loose, pressing themselves unfiltered with each caress.

“I love you, Draco,” she said breathlessly.

He pressed (Y/N) to his chest, kissing the top of her head multiple times.

“Say that you love me again,” he almost pleaded, his voice small and a bit ashamed. Draco couldn’t believe his ears and he wanted every confirmation he could possibly get.

“I love you, Dray,” she said, pecking his lips, “I love you.”

tags: @fandomscombine @okaydraco @naomi02hook @iliketoast23 @winnsmills @oldfashionedlovergirlsblog @happycomb @xtrashmouthxtozierx @animelover09556 @hopplessdreamer

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nearlymanaged · 5 years ago

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9. James The Owl

It was one of those nights; the ones that mocked Sirius with the sounds of deep, steady breathing of his sleeping roommates. He had been lying in bed for hours, not a trace of sleep in his own tired eyes. Instead, he was left with bad memories that kept replaying over and over again in his head. He thought about how much had changed and wondered about how much was yet to come.

He’d always found it easy to give and receive affection - in spite of being deprived of both growing up - but on a night like this, his mind had wandered to a dark place, deep beneath his usual facade of careless charm and mischievous lovability. He wondered if he was truly capable of ever experiencing genuine love. He wondered if he deserved it, if he was too much of a Black for it.

But his train of thought came to a sudden halt, his heart nearly leaping out of his throat, when the gentle quiet of the night was shattered by a loud gasp. He sat up, fumbling with the red curtains of his bed, until he saw Remus propping himself up on his elbows.

“What’s the matter?” Sirius whispered.

“I-I hurt someone…” Moony panted, glancing around and blinking fiercely. “Is it full moon again?...”

Without thinking, Sirius pulled himself up and plopped down on the edge of Remus’ bed. This wasn’t the first night that had been interrupted by werewolf nightmares.

“We’ve still got a week left until the last full moon of this year, my love…” Sirius froze momentarily, realising what he’d just said and how effortlessly it had tumbled out of his mouth; Remus, however, didn’t seem to have noticed it. “It was just a dream.”

“It was…”

“Yes. You’ve never hurt anyone in your life,” Sirius murmured.

“Bloody hell…” Remus’ breathing was frantic still, as if he’d been running. “It seemed so real…”

As Sirius squinted at him in the dark, he could just make out his horror-stricken face. “Are you alright? Do you want some tea or something? Hot cocoa?”

“N-no, I’m fine. I just need to…” He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “I think I just need to take a little walk.”

“Where are you going to walk to?” Sirius couldn’t keep the note of mirth out of his voice.

“To er… Maybe just down to the common room, I suppose. I just need to stretch my legs…” And with that, Moony got up and quietly walked over to the door. Before it swung shut though, Sirius grabbed his wand and followed him out.

“Are you sure you don’t need anything?” He asked again, a little louder now since they were out of their sleeping friends’ earshot.

“No… Thanks, Sirius.” Remus started pacing around the old sofas and armchairs. “Sorry I woke you up. You can go back to sleep, you know. I won’t drop dead or anything.”

“Eh, sleep’s overrated anyway.” Sirius pointed his wand at the fireplace and mumbled Incendio.

“I feel so childish,” Remus breathed out after a few minutes filled with the cozy crackling of the flames; he’d stopped in front of the fireplace, his back turned on Sirius who was now sitting on a sofa. “Having night terrors…”

“Childish? Moony, you’re quite possibly the single bravest person I know.”

“Kind of you to humour me,” he turned around. “You know many sixth years who can’t fall asleep after a nightmare?”

“You know many sixth years who turn into a werewolf every month and yet somehow remain to be the loveliest people that anyone could ever hope to know in their lives?”

Remus shuffled from one bare foot to another for a moment, his expression turning into an embarrassed smile that was threatening to melt Sirius’ heart into a puddle. Then, the black haired boy patted the seat beside him and Remus walked over and sat down, hugging his knees to his chest, while Sirius pointed his wand at a stack of folded blankets in the corner of the room and summoned one.

He watched Moony lie down on his side, resting his head on the opposite end of the sofa, then threw the blanket over him. They stayed like that for a while, quietly, without talking. Some ten minutes later, Sirius leaned over to take a look at Remus’ face.

“Are you asleep?” He breathed weakly.

“No, it’s too quiet,” Remus answered without opening his eyes.

“I can read for you.” Sirius summoned a copy of Witch Weekly that someone had left in the common room.

“You never told me you can read, Sirius!” Remus mumbled.

“Oh yes, I know all the letters. You see, I had to learn them since my parents wouldn’t read The Tales of Beedle the Bard to me.”

There was a pause filled with stifled laughter. “You just had to go there…”

“I had to,” Sirius smiled down at Remus, then opened the magazine. “Here we go: ‘How to Bewitch that special Wizard this Yuletide’!”

“Oh dear…”

“Yule Season is a mystical time of the year, blah blah blah… Hm… Okay... Offer him a mince pie with Amortentia (or a cheaper alternative) infused filling or slip a couple of drops in his egg-nog if--”

“Are you serious?” Remus sat up to peek at the magazine.

“Yes. And you’re Remus,” Sirius answered, unable to stop himself, causing the other boy to smile involuntarily and shake his head.

“That should be illegal.”

“Okay, let’s move on. Ah! Those of you who have older living relatives, ask your grandmother or your great auntie to teach you some fun, old-fashioned tricks. Once having reached an unprecedented peak of popularity in the 1900s, the Entrancing Enchantments are making a comeback. Just don’t forget to make sure the spell doesn’t wear off halfway through your date--”

“Unbelievable!”

“Alright, this is clearly not working. If only I had a copy of A History of Magic…” Sirius threw the magazine onto an armchair. “Or something you couldn’t argue with…”

“Oh, I could easily argue with A History of Magic. Don’t even get me started on The Werewolf Code of Conduct of 1637!”

“Right. I forget how much of a huge swot you are… How about I...talk about something in French, so you actually can’t argue with it?”

Silence followed the suggestion as Remus stared at him with a kind of bemusement etched in his face. Sirius felt the strongest urge to either look away from Moony’s impossibly green eyes or to kiss him. Instead, he cleared his throat. “I mean, I don’t have to…”

“No, no, that sounds nice. I forget you speak French…” Remus looked away and lied down on his side again; this time, the top of his head was no more than a couple of inches away from Sirius’ thigh, his hair brushing against it.

“D’accord, très bien. De quoi devrais-je parler?” He gazed down at the side of Moony’s face. “Je ne pense pas du tout que tu es enfantin. Je pense que tu es très fort. Je sais que ça doit être dur, je sais que ça fait mal ... Je t'ai vu passer par la transformation plusieurs fois, et ça me fait aussi mal. Mais tu voilà, si fort et si beau... J'aimerais avoir le cran de le dire en anglais. Je suis tellement attiré par toi. Pourquoi tu ne vois pas ça? Je veux vraiment t'embrasser. Merde...tu entends mon cœur battre? Il vaut peut-être mieux ne pas t'embrasser. Je pense que mon cœur pourrait exploser...”

As it turned out, Sirius found it really easy to come up with things to say. He thought he could have spent the whole night telling Remus things in French that he wished he could have said in English. But he fell silent eventually, when Remus’ breathing slowed and deepened. Sirius got himself another blanket, put his feet up on a red velvet pouffe, and slowly dozed off too; thinking about how glad he was that he could be there for Remus, how nice it was to love.

* * *

“Prongs, can you do me a favour?”

“Always.”

“Can you ask Remus if he likes me?”

“Of course. I doubt he’ll tell me though.”

“How so?”

“He won’t think I’m serious.” There was a pause, the two boys staring squarely at each other. “No pun intended.”

“None taken.” At this, they both burst out laughing.

“You know, you’d think you’d be able to figure this out on your own, seeing as he practically slept in your lap last night.”

“If only…”

“Alright. I’ll try my best, but know this - I don’t like this. I still think, if you’re going to pine and moan about it that much, you need to talk to him yourself.”

“Yes…” Sirius screwed up his face in mock gravitas. “Perhaps I should start yelling ‘go out with me’ at him all throughout the day, in the most random places all around the castle?”

“How dare you!”

It took James a few days to find the right moment to bring it up. With the approaching full moon and end of term, there always seemed to be a hundred little things to do and to worry about. He finally found himself alone with Remus after their Herbology lesson; the boy stayed back to finish pruning his Venomous Tentacula after everyone had gathered their things and left. James hung around to wait for his friend, thinking that he was unlikely to get a better opportunity to have a go at it in the next few weeks. But his luck didn’t end there - just as he was racking his brain, trying to think of what the best way to start the conversation was, Remus opened his mouth.

“Are you still hung up on Evans?”

“Ehm… S’pose you could say that. Why? Did she say anything?” He momentarily forgot that he was on a mission, excitement kindling in his stomach.

“Not to me. I don’t know, I was just wondering.

“Anyway, what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Do you fancy...anyone?” James was pacing around, mindlessly running his fingers over leaves of plants and dusty pots.

“Well that is neither here, nor there.”

“So it’s a ‘yes’?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“So a ‘no’?” James stopped and smirked at his friend; he was obviously evading the question.

“You really should stop pushing the cotton bud in when you feel resistance, James,” Remus drawled, finally finishing up with the plant and sweeping all the bits of leaves and dirt off the table.

“You have shared your biggest secret with me and you said it yourself - you told me that never for a single second did you ever feel like I started looking at you differently. So why are you so embarassed to tell me who you fancy, mate?”

“A-ha. Trick question,” Remus tapped the side of his nose, carrying a terracotta pot in his other hand. “I never said I fancy anyone at all.”

“So you don’t?”

“I don’t know, maybe that’s my biggest secret?”

“Fine. What if I told you that I know that someone fancies you?”

“I would gasp dramatically and wait for the punchline.”

“How do people think I’m an insufferable smartass?” James frowned, pouting a little.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to ask stupid questions?”

“Nah, I’m free until after lunch,” James pulled his mouth in a smug smirk.

“Perfect. It’s almost lunchtime,” Remus grabbed his bag and walked past James, tapping him on the back with a big grin. “You coming?” He glanced around at the door leading out of the greenhouse.

When James came back to the Gryffindor tower after the Quidditch practice that evening, he beckoned Sirius on his way up the stairs to their dormitory. This was the first time they could get some privacy since James had spoken to Remus, and he was eager to put a stop to Sirius unrelenting questioning as soon as possible.

“You can stop pestering me. I asked him.”

“And?” Sirius leaned towards him, his whole body eager with anticipation.

“I couldn’t figure it out,” James shrugged, pulling his shoes off.

“What do you mean? What did he say?”

“Not much at all, now that I think about it… I reckon he might be hiding something though. He didn’t give me a straight answer.”

Sirius fell backwards onto his bead, draping his wrist over his forehead and sighing dramatically. “I wonder if Evans knows something. He’s always whispering and giggling with her. Although, on second thought, I haven’t seen them together in a little bit… Hm.”

“You don’t think…” James spoke quietly now, a faint frown distorting his face. “You don’t think he likes Lily?”

“Well shit. I hope not. Ah, you’re jealous!” Sirius sat up, goggling at James gleefully once he noticed his friend’s sour expression.

“No, I’m not.”

“Maybe you should try going out with someone else. Maybe she’d even find it in herself to feel jealous then?”

“But I don’t want to go out with anyone else! I like Lily!” James explained a tad too shrilly than he meant to and Sirius wasted no time in mimicking him and making himself chuckle.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh at your misery…” He wiped his eye with a single finger. “It’s just that desperation looks hilarious on you--”

“Fuck you, Pads,” James mumbled as a mischievious smile returned to his face. “Do you think Moony likes me? Do you think he’ll want to get married? Do you think he’ll notice if I steal his clothes and sniff them at night?” Now it was his turn to tease his friend with accompanying gestures of clutching his face and fanning himself.

“It was one time! I put his T-shirt on once, by accident!” Sirius bellowed pointing a comically threatening finger at James. “I’ve seen you pick up single red hairs off furniture and rugs in the common room!”

At this, James gasped dramatically and pulled his wand out. “Don’t you dare drag sweet, beautiful Lily into this!”

“Or what, Potter?” Sirius drew his own wand out of the pocket of his jeans and flashed a devilish grin.

“Levicorpus!” James yelled at the same time as the dormitory door flung open and Remus walked in.

Everyone froze - James, with his wand held high, pointing at Sirius who now hung upside down, letting his arms dangle and his shirt bunch up around his shoulders and neck, and Remus, still in the doorway, eyeing his friends with palpable curiosity mixed with relish. The latter then became animated again, looking down at Sirius’ face as he strode over to his bedside table to grab a bottle of ink.

“Sirius, if I were you, I’d use this distraction to your advantage,�� he uttered on his way out and before James could do anything, he felt himself being dragged through the air and turned upside down, his ankles held by invisible forces; both him and Sirius howling with laughter.

* * *

Remus was ready to dart out of the classroom as soon as the bell rang, but the moment he stood up, he realised both of his shoelaces had gotten untied. He bent over, mumbling to himself in mild confusion. A moment later he stood back up to find the room empty, but for the teacher. He was pleased to see that Lily wasn’t lingering around, trying to talk to him this time, but his vague smile faded when he walked out into the hallway - there she was, leaning against the wall, obviously waiting for him.

“Oh, it’s you,” he blurted and kept walking.

“What’s the matter with you?”

He didn’t bother offering a better answer than a small shrug of his shoulders. However, before he reached the end of the empty corridor, his legs zipped together out of the blue, making him topple over and hit his shoulder against the wall.

“Ouch!”

“If you won’t talk to me voluntarily then you leave me no choice.” Lily walked up to him, her wand still clutched in her hand.

Remus couldn’t help but be impressed with her for a brief moment, for she always seemed so sweet and innocent and absolutely not the type to jinx people in the hallways. Then he scowled at her. “Leg Locking Spell? Very mature.”

“Why have you been avoiding me?” Lily demanded, folding her arms over her chest.

“I haven’t.”

“Do I really look that stupid?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?”

“I thought we were friends? Did I do anything to you?”

“Hm, let me think…” Remus finally managed to regain his balance and push himself off the wall. He rapped his fingers against his chin in mock contemplation, but in all honesty, he didn’t know how to express his frustration without sounding over-dramatic and desperate. “If we’re friends, then how come you told Price to go chat Sirius up?”

Whatever the sensible way to bring it up was, this wasn’t it, he knew immediately. But at least, he could tell, Lily knew exactly what he was talking about. Her lips parted, her eyes full of surprise, but then her auburn eyebrows dipped low in a frown.

“First of all, if you must know, Marlene is not interested in Black in the least bit,” she shot him a stern look that Remus’ own mother would have been jealous of, he was sure. “She’s into girls.”

“What…” Remus gaped at her as if he had just been Confunded. “What are you talking about?”

“I would have explained to you what I’m talking about ages ago but seeing as you refused to so much as look at me for weeks, that hasn’t been exactly easy.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well… I had some suspicions and I reckoned, if I did a little test to confirm that Sirius really wasn’t interested in someone else coming onto him very strongly…”

“What?”

“I’ve heard things… And I wondered, too... And that day when you were at the hospital wing, before you both realised that I was there…” Lily continued to utter disconnected phrases as though she couldn’t see Remus’ confused face right in front of her. “But even before that… I started paying more attention and I started seeing all these little things… And I wanted to see for myself... Sirius really cares for you a lot, have you noticed?”

“Er… We’re friends, we’ve been friends for a little while, I would hope that he cares.” Remus couldn’t deny having noticed how attentive and accommodating Sirius had been acting but, surely, that was nothing out of the ordinary when you had been friends with someone for years.

“He couldn’t keep his eyes off you at the surprise party, the whole night.”

“Uh-huh…” Remus squinted at her now, wondering whether Lily was trying to play a prank on him or if someone had actually Confunded her.

“Well, he played dumb when Marlene approached him, he wouldn’t even acknowledge that she was openly flirting with him! And when has Sirius Black turned down a pretty girl asking him out?”

“Well regardless,” Remus rolled his eyes, “poor planning on your behalf, if you will allow me to be so blatant. I know for a fact that Sirius fancies someone. Do you mind?” He motioned at his legs, still glued together, and Lily waved her wand impatiently, freeing him.

“How so?” She looked as though she’d just been smacked across the face.

“I heard him talking about it to James and Peter. He even told me himself when I asked.”

“Who is then?!” She demanded, her voice going up.

“Dunno.”

“But… I really thought he fancied you…”

Remus couldn’t stop himself from emitting a bitter laugh. “Me? Where'd’you get that from?”

“Well,” Lily started slowly. “There’s rumours going around about how Sirius downright rejected three or four people that asked him out this year. Four or five, if you count Marlene… So now some people think that he must have his eye on someone specific. And, well, I thought - since he hasn’t been seen with anyone - it must be someone that he’s reluctant to make a move on...because maybe that someone is an old friend…” She trailed off, looking embarrassed now.

Remus stared at her blankly as his brain worked to process what she had just said. “Sorry, what?”

“Well… Don’t you agree that that would make sense?”

“I would, but then we’d both be wrong. This theory of yours makes Divination seem like an exact science.”

The thought of someone seriously considering this to be a plausible scenario took Remus by such surprise that he didn’t know how to react to it. It sounded as though Lily was getting carried away with it all, perhaps not considering his feelings too much. What made it worse was that there was this prickling, nagging thought in the back of his mind sometimes; a thought that maybe Sirius suspected that Remus fancied him and found it humorous. That maybe, whenever he did or said something unexpectedly flirtatious, it was meant to poke fun at him. Like that night a little while ago, when Sirius had called him ‘my love’ so casually, like a perfectly delivered punchline to a joke.

And Remus felt secretly gratified to see Lily’s abashed face. If she’d come to him with her ludicrous plan first, he’d have made her swear she wasn’t going to actually do anything. He wasn’t exactly delighted at the idea of playing these absurd games with Sirius. And, on top of that, getting someone else involved in the whole thing. But he still felt a little twinge of affection in his chest - after all, Lily seemed to have acted this way out of kindness and with good intentions.

“I thought if I…” She muttered. “I suppose I can sort of see now how this was a er, flawed plan of action…”

“Forget it. It’s fine, you interfering trout,” Remus mumbled, allowing a warm smile to stretch across his lips and Lily matched it with a significantly more guilty looking one. “I’m flattered - by the looks of it, you seem to really have believed this laughable idea of yours.”

“Honestly! I simply don’t understand why you’re so adamant that you’re categorically unlovable. You’re funny and kind and smart and attractive - yes, I said what I said - and yet, you cling to this persona of a weird outcast of a monster.”

Remus stared down at her with an amused expression; if she knew what he was, she would understand how comically accurate the last part of her statement was. “You’re only saying that because you feel bad now.” He tugged at her arm and started walking down the hallway; they were going to be late for Care of Magical Creatures.

“Oh, you’re impossible!”

“You know what, James will be overjoyed when I tell him you jinxed me.”

“Don’t you dare!”

“You’re not that different from that delinquent Potter boy after all,” Remus smirked sideways.

“This was different and you know it!”

“Different goals, perhaps. Same means of reaching them…” As they rounded the corner, Lily’s protesting squeals and Remus’ hearty laughter echoed off the stone walls.

#wolfstar #wolfstar fanfiction #remus lupin #sirius black #james potter #lily evans #marauders #hogwarts #fanfic

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askroahmmythril · 4 years ago

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New Hyrule Warriors Characters I’d Love to See

So for stress relief lately, I’ve been going back to Hyrule Warriors Definitive, unlocking all the weapons and working on finishing the adventure maps. So of course, this put it in my head to think of other characters I’d like to see if a theoretical HW2 happened, like, keep the cast and add on to it as most Warriors games tend to do. So here are some I’d love to see.

Groose

C’mon, he needs to be in. Myself, I’ve never played Skyward Sword (rumors of it getting a Switch port make me hopeful), so I don’t know TOO much about him other than his hair’s amazing. Kit suggested he have a portable Groosinator for his weapon, a cannon he carries under his arm, and for sweeping attacks could swing it outward by its fuse.

Dampe

He’s been in a few games now, and there’s a fitting common LoZ item he could use for his weapon that hasn’t been referenced at all in HW : the Shovel. Obviously he could swing it around, swipe it through the air for attacks, but over on my Twitter, it was suggested we could reference his “gravekeeper” job by having him dig up undead type enemies for support, like Stalfos, Poes, and Redeads.

Mipha

One has to figure a HW2 would add some BotW content, and for starters, I’d love to see the four champions. I mean, hey, HW is all about time and dimension bending shenanigans, so I’m sure we can excuse having them around and alive. I could see Mipha actually having more of a “support” type special attack. They’ve done things like this in Dynasty Warriors before. Like, she’d have a spear based moveset for her weapon based on her trident (BUT GANONDORF ALREADY HAS A TRIDENT, eh, some warriors have similar weapons with different movesets, so I think we can get away with it). But I could see her special attack doing some damage, but also healing allies around herself.

Revali

Yep, continuing on. Thing is, while the Bow is an item, and does show up in a few other movesets here and there (Zelda’s special attack, part of Ravio’s combos), we don’t have anyone that SPECIALIZES in just using a bow, so he could fill that niche nicely. I’m sure there’s some way to work his Revali’s Gale power into the moveset, likely his special.

Daruk

The trick would be making him different enough from Darunia, but he does have a totally different weapon in that sort of “club sword” he carries, forget exactly what it was named in game. He too could probably use his power in a support way, granting a defense buff to allies in the area where he uses it.

Urbosa

I could see her having a nice, fluid attack string with her scimitar, elegant and dance-like. Naturally her special would have her snap her fingers and call down lightning.

Kass

.......What? Warriors games are no stranger to silly “joke” characters, and honestly I love the idea of running across the battlefield as a large bird and clobbering enemies with an accordion.

Beedle

He’s been in enough of the games to where I feel like he deserves to get in. I’m admittedly not quite sure what he’d do though. I mean, we have Ravio, showing the idea of a fighting merchant can work, but Beedle’s stock doesn’t really have much in the way of weapons or such, does it?

Linebeck

I honestly thought we were going to get him in the Phantom Hourglass / Spirit Tracks DLC pack. He just seems like someone who should be there, you know? I’d guess his weapon would be his spyglass, though as to how it would work, I’m at a loss there.

Shad

The Resistance from Twilight Princess struck me as having some interesting characters, and Shad was my personal favorite. He does have that book with a dagger in it, I could see him using the book to put buffs on himself for his dagger attacks or something.

Ashei

I also really liked Ashei’s style, again we have the “similar weapons” deal, but her focused nature I think could lend itself to a different form of rapier fighting.

Vaati

Obviously we could also use more villains, and I feel like Vaati’s probably a major enough one to get a nod. Admittedly I haven’t played many of the games where he featured, so I don’t remember that much about him, but he’s just one of those that feels like he should be there.

Twinrova

One of the rare instances where there’s a boss that’s probably humanoid enough to work as a warrior, I could see her having fire and ice attacks as different charges in her attack string.

The Lady

Because hey, the villain side could use a joke character too. I feel like The Lady from Tri Force Heroes would fit the bill here, rapid jabs with her closed parasol, lines mocking the lack of style of her opponents, possibly even moves referencing the powers of some of the costumes from the game.

Also, two new weapons I’d like to see for existing characters :

Sheikah Slate for Sheik

One could make the case that it would be more fitting for Link or Zelda to use it, but, eh. they already both have multiple weapons. Sheik just has her harp. And I mean, technically Sheik IS Zelda, sooooo.... I think it would be fun for her to have attack strings casting runes from the slate, using Magnesis to pull out metal cubes and sweep them around for attacks, Stasis for her special, Bombs of course, I feel like there’s a lot they could do with it.

Four Sword for Toon Link

Really I just like the idea of controlling a mob of four Toon Links running around in different formations. Perhaps a neutral charge would change their formation a bit. Either that or the clones would just jump in during parts of attack strings or something.

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darkesthogwartsgazette · 4 years ago

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The Hogwarts Gazette

I crown myself Queen of the Halloween party, a worthy win considering none of you peasants even made it close to what I achieved. Now, the runners up, or the Queen’s court if you will, are as follows.

Leighton Avery swayed her hips into the hall with a ‘B’ necklace that could have stood for ‘Bitches beware’ instead of ‘Boleyn’. The girl turned many heads with her short skirt and low-cut bodice. My Mother personally taught me the phrase ‘chest OR legs’ but clearly Leighton’s mother taught her the altered ‘Chest AND legs’. Either way, the girl made an impression, and just like the great lady herself Anne Boleyn, many of the male’s heads did indeed roll (across the room watching her).

Pandora Fortescue, or should I say Lady Selene looked like she was dripping with stars. She captured the elegance of the moon perfectly with a full-length tulle gown that almost had constellations sewn into it. The look was finished with sparkly shoes and makeup and a head piece shaped like a moon, so even the most dim-witted Hufflepuff knew what she was. If anyone came up to you with the annoying question of “so what are you supposed to be” I hope you smacked them over the face with your moon hat.

The next in line for my appraisal is one Mary Conrad. She came as the Lioness of Brittany, not that you should need reminding, the tight black corset and shiny red lips should haunt a lot of your dreams. She looked drop dead gorgeous in her outfit, plus, points for historical accuracy, some of you could take notes on how to do a historical figure correctly from Mary, you know who you are. The only thing that could have improved her look would be a grand entrance upon a ship, but she already knows that.

My next selection may cause a bit of controversy, but who am I to shy away from drama. Madeline Maestro looked like molten silver in her evening gown and diamond accessories, real diamonds, not costumes ones, please take note. Her depiction of a Veela was perfection, an already stunning girl made herself almost too desirable with the dewy makeup and alluring red lip. And yes, I am aware that she doesn’t actually attend Hogwarts, but for those that may have an issue with it, please take it up with yourself and your lacking costume rather than spamming my owlery.

The last female on my list is Astraea Burke. The younger Slytherin entered the Great hall and stole almost as much attention as I did. Her costume left us all in shock, a far cry from her couple’s costume of Babbity Rabbity and her cackling stump that she did with her brother the year before. She was covered in head to toe gold and she has never looked so good. The dress was a work of art, and her shoes, where did you get them? It was all topped off with a pair of golden wings, a girl after my own heart it would seem.

And now for the male population, Benjy Fenwick put almost as much effort into his costume as I did, and it really showed. He walked through the hallways, making the first and second years scream with fear, the mark of a truly scary Halloween costume. The all black suit and face mask paired with the hat and purposefully worn doctors bag made it known to everyone what he came as. Another perfectly executed historical costume, I applaud thee, half for the costume, and half for the scaring of little kids.

Elliott Borgin and Richard Wilkes came as a pair. They are seen almost everywhere together; it would seem even the cells of Azkaban. The pair of runaway convicts looked exceptional, going all out with fake tattoos and prison numbers. They looked the perfect mix of hot teenaged boy and ruffled bad guy that would make the lesser females swoon. I must say however, if they need a place to hide from the law, they could always use my bedroom.

It would seem the Burke siblings made the right choice to not come as a couple once again. Although he stuck to his favourite book of ‘The Tales of Beedle the Bard’ Tristram Burke went solo this year and it worked ever so in his favour. Coming as the Warlock from the ever-loved fable ‘The Warlock’s Hairy Heart’ he looked the epitome of a true gentleman. His clearly custom-made outfit reeked of wealth and looks, luring in the entire female population of Hogwarts. The dedication he had to his look impressed me, any boy that carries around a hairy heart all evening deserves to be mentioned.

My final mention is one Landon Boot. Although the boy clearly likes drama (See Rita’s article for more) his costume was simple, dignified and executed perfectly. To the untrained eye, which is most of you, he was just a boy covered in blood, but to those superior beings, like myself it was more. The charms it took to create that never-ending stream of blood was well beyond the talents of most of you, and a pair of perfectly tailored trousers never goes amiss. The boy chose his look and did it well.

I would also like to give a special thanks to all those boys that came topless. Thank you for giving us a distraction from all those that came in a less fortunate costumes, some were truly a sight for sore eyes.

To conclude, I’m going to offer you some much needed advice, a word of caution even. To the rest of you uncultured swine’s, who clearly can’t put two items of clothing together without help, no one enjoys asking the question ‘so who are you meant to be’. Save your vague muggle references and half-arsed concepts for family gatherings, the Hogwarts Halloween party deserves better than that, come on people, we’re not at Beauxbatons, DO BETTER!

@queenlcigh @dorafxrtescue @maryconrad @madelinemaestro @astraeaburke @thatkidbenjy @borgins @richdickwilkes @violentdelighxt @landonboot

#Unstitched #HogwartsGazette

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remedialpotions · 5 years ago

Note

For Ron/Hermione prompt: #8 apricity - the warmth of the sun in the winter, maybe about them having a lazy day at home together. (I love the way you write Ron/Hermione!)

Thank you so much! I... went a different direction with this, hope that’s okay 💕

***

apricity - the warmth of the sun in the winter

Hermione’s boots crunched through the snow, leaving muddy imprints in her wake. She hadn’t a clue where they were on the island of Britain - Ron had decided where to Apparate them all that morning, since she was exhausted from constant decision-making and Harry couldn’t be arsed to care - but wherever they had ended up, the frost was easing somewhat, and little tufts of green grass poked shyly out among the blanket of dingy white coating the forest floor. She suspected that they were inland, because unlike the frigid January night that they had spent up near Aberdeen, there was no icy wind off the coast. The stillness in the air was soothing, like a little glimmer of hope that they might actually end up surviving all of this.

That still seemed quite a lot to hope for; things had been at a standstill for months. They had the sword of Gryffindor, but no Horcruxes to use it on, and no fresh ideas for locating one. Most days, just waking up in the morning was its own little victory.

She unbuttoned her coat. It couldn’t have been more than four or five degrees out, but it was such a marked difference from the frigid subzero temperatures they had endured for months on end that this little hint of warmth felt downright tropical. It was a welcome little reprieve from the unrelenting stress and pain and exhaustion that had defined the past six months.

Scanning the forest before her, she saw nothing but patchy snow and limp, dirty leaves. But Ron had said he was heading this direction to find more firewood as he left the tent, and given the sodden state of things, he would likely have a bit of a search on his hands. Still, he wouldn’t have gone too far: none of them liked straying much from the wards when they didn’t have to.

There came a small cracking sound like the snapping of twigs from somewhere nearby, and she whirled around, left then right, searching for the source with her heart thundering wildly behind her ribs. As much as they were all going stir-crazy in the tent, and as much as they had to be in a particularly remote part of the country - there was no sign of any settlement, Muggle or magical - she still thought it best to remain within the relative safety of the wards. Ron had already been picked up by Snatchers once, and she didn’t quite fancy it happening again to any of them.

Shifting her cargo from her left hand to her right, Hermione pressed on. The trees were thinning now, and the sun now shone boldly through the bare branches. And now, the snapping noise seemed to be coming from ahead of her, and she spotted another set of muddy footprints in the slushy snow, these ones much larger than her own, the strides separating them much longer. Her heart gave a little leap, and she quickened her pace until she reached a small clearing.

Were it not for his bright red hair, he might have blended in entirely, with his olive-green coat and tan trousers. He had crouched down beside one of the trees and, as Hermione grew closer, she saw that he was using his wand to fire a jet of hot air at a small stack of branches.

“Ron?” Hermione called, just loudly enough to be heard.

He jumped up, eyes wide, and then relaxed, a smile stretching over his face at the sight of her. He was always so happy to see her, despite the fact that she had spent the evening of his return pummeling him with her fists and slinging insults she had later regretted, despite the fact that she had kept her distance and her guard up in the weeks following. Despite it all, he was still genuinely pleased just to be around her.

“Hey,” he greeted her as she approached. Like her, he had also left his jacket open. “So you’ve left Harry unsupervised?”

“I think he’ll behave himself,” she replied. “He was looking through my Beedle the Bard translations when I left, so he’ll be occupied for a while.”

“Right,” nodded Ron, sobering a bit. “Well, I think I’ve found enough firewood for the night, at least, as long as it’s dry enough - I was trying to dry it off, but I don’t know if it’s working, really.”

“It should do,” said Hermione, “it’s not as cold today. Erm, but…” She cleared her throat, shifting her weight from side to side. “I’ve brought you something.”

She held up the item in her right hand.

“The wireless?” asked Ron, skeptical but plainly trying not to show it.

“It’s what’s on the wireless.” She took a step toward him, close enough that she could see the copper stubble poking through on his chin. As he watched - and it was like his blue eyes, warm and kind as they were, were piercing right through her - she fiddled with the volume knob, which had always been faulty. “I was seeing if I could find Potterwatch - and I was thinking, what if the password is something completely obscure? I know you said it’s usually something relating to the Order, but what if they’ve changed that bit of it, to make it harder to find-“

“So what’s on the wireless?” Ron chuckled as Hermione swatted him on the arm in affected annoyance.

“I’m not even sure if you deserve it anymore,” she sniffed, but at the look on his face - that one of guilt and shame and self-loathing, because he seemed lately to think that he was defined by one mistake that he had made - she gave him a friendly nudge and pressed on. “But anyway, I think I found something you’ll like.”

She turned the volume knob again, and the connection had gone a bit fuzzy, but the sounds of commentators and supporters in a stadium was unmistakable.

“Gorgovitch takes possession of the Quaffle again,” came an excited voice, “passes to Wemberly - oh! What a shame, that’s the third drop for the Cannons already today…”

Ron’s mouth hung open. “Quidditch,” he breathed, relishing the word. “Merlin… I haven’t even thought about Quidditch in ages.”

“And Tutshill are now leading Chudley ninety to twenty as the Cannons call for another time-out. That’s their last one allotted for this match, I do hope they’re using them wisely…”

“I just thought you might want to listen,” said Hermione, unsuccessfully biting back laughter at the dismayed look on Ron’s face. “Was I wrong?”

“No, not at all,” he said fervently. “But if this is the Tornadoes match, then that means - it must be my birthday.”

He let out a sheepish little laugh, face pinkening at the preposterousness of having only just realized it.

“First of March, last I checked.”

“I haven’t really kept track of the days, but I coulda sworn it was still February.” He shook his head in amazement. “Thank you for bringing this to me. I mean, they’re gonna lose, but still. Best birthday gift ever.”

There was an intensity in his eyes that she had only seen a few times before - dancing at Bill and Fleur’s wedding, or that time at Grimmauld Place when he had offered to teach her his family tree - and for one wild second she thought about just doing it, rising on tiptoe and tugging his face down to hers and kissing him, kissing him and never stopping.

“Happy eighteenth, then,” she settled on saying, hating how inadequate it sounded.

“Thanks. Erm, would you…” Ron’s face was still flushing red. “I know we probably should check on Harry soon, but would you maybe want to listen to it with me? Just for a minute or two.”

“Of course.”

“Brilliant.” Ron shrugged out of his jacket and laid it out on the ground before gesturing grandly to it. “Have a seat, then.”

Already, mud and half-melted snow were soaking into the fabric. “Really?”

“Yeah, I’ll just clean it later, it doesn’t matter. Might not even really need it anymore, it’s getting warm out.” Ron dropped down onto the jacket and patted the space next to him. “Sit.”

She did, more eagerly than she was ready to let on, setting the wireless on one of the sleeves.

“It’s Flores with the Quaffle now,” came the rapid, excited voice of the commentator, only the faintest crackling of static behind it, “heading toward the goal - and he scores! Chudley now trail Tutshill thirty to ninety.”

“Maybe they can turn it around,” said Hermione, watching in amusement as Ron raised a fist in triumph.

“Yeah,” said Ron with a little smile. “Maybe.”

***

#romione #ron weasley #hermione granger #rhr #obscure word prompts #my writing #I wasnt going to write dh missing moments for these bc of reasons #but I think those reasons mightve been put on hold so yeah

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myssamyss · 5 years ago

Text

Everything Stays, Part 4 of 6

Featuring Jojo’s comic, “Malink past” Part 4: When You Turn It Around

The next morning, Link woke before the sun, readied his gear, and crept out the door. He made his way to the stable as dim light began to color the ranch. A mercifully cool wind swept in from the fields; the heat had finally broken. Link reached the large stable door and pulled at the latch, only to haul the door open and freeze in surprise.

Malon stood in the middle of the stable, running a coarse brush through a spotted mare’s mane.

She turned and gave him an accusing glare that made his limbs turn ice-cold. They stood there, still and staring, neither speaking. Link swallowed in the back of his throat, but he didn’t back down. Malon broke the silence first.

“You’re up early,” she told him dryly.

“So are you.”

Malon gave him a strange look and he sucked in a breath, but then she turned back to the mare and continued brushing. The stable was quiet but for the slow, rhythmic rustling of brush against mane.

Taking her silence as understanding, Link exhaled and strode into the stable. Straw crunched beneath his boots, and the sound of Malon’s brushstrokes was drowned out by his swift steps. He began readying Epona’s tack.

“So you’re just leaving?” she asked him after several long minutes. A half-hidden hurt laced her words.

He turned back to her. Her hands gently stroked the mare’s muzzle, but her blue-eyed gaze was sharper than any sword.

“I’m not ‘just leaving’,” he replied, taken aback.

She shook her head and her bangs went flying. “Really? Because it seems to me that you were fixing to leave here before we had a chance to talk.”

Link felt stunned. He’d been trying his best to do right by her. At least, he thought he was.

“We did talk. And I even stayed for dinner. I came here to give a proper goodbye, like you deserve.” And I didn’t have to, Link thought to himself bitterly as he mounted Epona. Maybe coming to the ranch had been a mistake. Maybe this was the problem with long goodbyes and explanations. Maybe they only made things worse. Just leave, he told himself.

Her voice rose. “Why though? Why are you leaving now? I thought we were finally getting, well... close.” She glanced away with her last word.

“I don’t get close to people,” he said sharply. She winced.

“But if there’s anything I’ve learned,” he continued, “it’s that there’s always a parting. Nothing ever lasts.”

Malon stared past him to the open stable door with a silent frown. Link nudged Epona’s side with the heel of his boot, spurring the horse to a walk.

“You’re right.” Malon’s quiet voice cut through the air. “We’ve been friends since childhood, yet there’s very little I know about you, or even the world. What does a dumb farm girl know?”

What? He pulled back on Epona’s reigns and turned back to Malon, shocked. “Malon, no, I-I didn’t mean…”

Her face softened and her voice grew sincere. “But I’d like to,” she said with a small, hopeful smile. “I’d like to know... Ever since that day you played my mother’s song, I’ve wondered.”

She stared at him with deep blue eyes full of such care and longing. His resolve melted away. Because anything was worth this—the way she was staring at him now, shoulders squared with passionate hope and her bottom lip held half-open in plea. His chest ached at the few meters of distance already between them. Maybe... he could turn back. Maybe he could explain things and let her in. Her honest, fierce need for him was worth abandoning his self-imposed rules.

He nodded to her slowly and her face brightened with joy, encouraging him. He swung a leg over Epona and dismounted. The aching in his chest faded, and an intoxicating warmth rose to take its place.

“I’m not sure where to begin,” he admitted. He sat down on a nearby hay bale.

Malon waited a few quiet moments, then she came to sit by his side. She smoothed her long purple skirt over her knees, tucked her red bangs behind a delicately pointed ear, then met Link’s eyes with a disarming stare.

“Why does nothing ever last?” she asked simply.

“Well…everyone leaves...even you…” he murmured.

Malon’s brows drew together in confusion.

“Well, not you,” he backtracked. “Another you. And I suppose I’m the one who left then... I’m sorry. I’ve never really tried to explain it all before, to someone on the outside.”

She placed her hand against his arm just beneath the sleeve of his green tunic. Link started. He knew she was trying to comfort him, but her gentle touch felt like an electric shock. Though unlike real-life electrocution (which Link was too familiar with), the feeling was admittedly pleasant, and the memory of danger primed his mind, emboldening him. He looked down at the straw-covered floor and gathered his thoughts.

“You remember the first time we met? I was going to the castle?” he asked.

She nodded, enthralled.

“Well,” he began. “I broke into the castle, and there was this prophecy…”

***

Wild trailed behind the other heroes as they walked along a wooded path. He didn’t often take up the rear, as he was well-accustomed to walking long distances (unlike poor Wind). But today he craved the familiar comfort of solitude.

He kept a handful of pleasant memories in relief to fall back on when he felt overwhelmed, a collection built before the Calamity’s defeat when thoughts of failure and Zelda’s long-suffering threatened to overwhelm him. As he walked, he shuffled through the series of memories, imagining himself darting after little Cottla through cool grass above the hills near Kakariko, trading iridescent insects with a wide-eyed Beedle in a warm stable, or standing in the golden Tarry Town sunshine during Hudson and Rhondson’s wedding. He enjoyed escaping to these moments when he’d been nothing more than himself, without expectation or prophecy.

Wild’s thoughts were interrupted as he noticed Time falling back in their group’s walking order. It wasn’t unusual for him to double back to chat with Twilight, but Time didn’t pause beside the fur-clad hero now. Instead, he kept his pace suspiciously slow, until he was nearly even with Wild. His armor clanked with each step.

Wild fixed his eyes just above Wind’s crop of bright blonde hair ahead of them.

“Wild,” Time began, his voice quiet. He slowed his pace even further, widening the gap between Wind and the two of them. Wild matched him, but said nothing.

“I wanted to apologize,” Time said. He sounded sincere. Wild turned his head to show he was listening.

“I’m sorry for coming down on you at the pond, over the kid. I was just…worried. Lately you’ve been…” Time searched for a word, but seemed to think better of it. “Anyways. I know you can handle yourself. And if you want to talk, about anything...” Time shrugged.

Wild nodded. He wasn’t angry with Time. The man just made him uneasy, and Wild wanted to be left alone. Still, he appreciated Time’s willingness to humbly apologize, even if it took clear effort. Wild pushed back against his own annoyance and resolved to make an effort, too. Besides, Wild thought, if he couldn’t be alone, then maybe he ought to face his simmering unease head-on instead. He was good at throwing himself into the thick of things.

“Why’d you get married?” Wild blurted, hurling himself into the very subject he felt so keen on avoiding. He didn’t dare look over at Time. But the older man surprised him by taking the seemingly random question in stride. From the corner of Wild’s eye, he saw Time cocking his head and considering his answer carefully.

“Hm,” Time mused. He gave a small, uncharacteristic smile. “I guess… I got married… to share trust with someone.” He paused. “It wasn’t easy, at first. I mean, none of us are big on talking.” Time threw a glance toward the rest of their party. “Well, maybe Legend. But never about anything real.”

Wild nodded, listening guardedly.

“But having someone to listen? It keeps you sane.”

He heard a bite in Time’s voice. Wild’s gaze flicked to the red and blue marks that flanked the ruined eye.

Time caught the quick glance. “She knows about all of it.”

Wild let his head fall down toward the ground in minor embarrassment. He of all people knew the discomfort of a curious gaze. He resisted the urge to scratch at his scarred ear.

He kicked a rock instead and thought about Time’s answer. True openness sounded very difficult to put into practice. Wild might have once shared that kind of trust, that kind of love with another. ‘Might’ being the key word, as he could never be completely sure. A vision of Mipha’s delicate face swam in his mind. They might have been planning a life together...

Hard to share my honest thoughts when I can’t even remember them, Wild thought coldly.

“It wasn’t easy,” Time added softly, breaking the silence. Wild had barely noticed the long pause between them. Damn, still rusty at carrying on a conversation. Monologuing in his mind certainly didn’t help. He focused in on Time’s words.

“And there were bumps, she isn’t perfect. And I’m not either. I wasn’t sure it would last,” Time said. “But she hasn’t left yet.”

Wild nodded. “Thank you,” he told the older man.

Time clapped him on the shoulder, then began humming a vaguely familiar song as he picked up his pace and made his way to the front of the group, leaving a relieved Wild behind. The older man respected solitude, and seemed to understand Wild’s own need for it.

***

Malon knocked twice on the door to Link’s room, but there was no answer. Maybe he was sleeping again? He’d been taking on more than his fair share of ranch chores lately, she figured he was bound to be exhausted. Didn’t he know that his work ethic already far outstripped her father’s expectations without any of the added effort? She knew her father was already impressed. Link didn’t need to prove himself further. He was easily their best ranch hand, and he fit well in their little family. Besides, Talon had apparently already given Link his blessing years ago. Link needn’t be nervous now.

She pushed the door open quietly, but was met with an empty, neatly made bed. No sign of her Link.

Her eyes fell to something lying on the bedside table, an item that she had only seen a handful of times before: the ocarina. The ocarina whose notes had first sown the seeds of adoration deep in Malon’s heart as Link had impossibly played Malon’s most treasured song. For years she’d believed that Link’s unexplainable knowledge of the song was a sign from above, perhaps even from her own mother, that she and Link had a future together. Now she knew his true past, and the instrument had taken on an entirely different legendary nature in her mind. She crossed the room and ran her fingers across its glazed surface without thinking. It was smooth and cool to the touch. She gathered it in her hands—

“What are you doing?”

She spun around to see Link standing in the doorway. For the first time in many months, his face was a closed door. A painful lump caught in Malon’s throat as she realized her grave mistake. She carefully returned the ocarina to the bedside table with a small clink and stepped away as hot embarrassment rose in her chest.

“Link, I’m sorry...” she began. Link crossed the room to place himself between her and the ocarina. She glanced up into his eyes and found deep pain staring back. The few inches of space separating their chests felt like a vast distance.

“Please go,” he told her quietly. She nodded solemnly and left his room, easing the door shut behind her. As the latch clicked, despair welled up inside her heart. She had repaid his trust with unchecked curiosity, and all the sorries in the world wouldn’t take back her trespass. --------------------------------- Author’s Note: thanks as always to @clumsydarknut for beta-reading.

#Linked Universe #linkeduniverse #LU #Time #Wild #Malon #MaLink #Breath of the Wild #Ocarina of Time #Majora's Mask #Legend of Zelda #LoZ #Hero of Time #Hero of the Wild #Everything Stays

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