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silvercaptain24 · 2 years ago

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OW I WAS NOT EXPECTING YOU TO BRING BACK GASSUN

Memorial

Hey everyone! Happy Memorial Day! (what's left of it)

As many of you may know, Memorial Day is a day to remember our fallen soldiers and those who served, and, well, I just couldn't resist making a little something for it.

Not all soldiers see this day with pride. Not all heroes and veterans make it to a time they can enjoy the celebrations of their victory, and some never enjoy the celebration.

As the daughter of a soldier, I've seen some things; hiding indoors at the sound/sight of fireworks, not handling loud noise well, being worried easily for those they care about, There's a lot our armed forces suffer, so please be sure to give them your respect, regardless of the day, and support them in any way you can, even if it's just by setting off your fireworks away from where they live so the sounds don't trigger them.

So! Without further ago!

The fic!

It's cold.

Warriors shivers as a breeze whispers past but he doesn't move from where he sits.

He can't.

Rather, he won't. His soul screams to stay still and though its sound is nearly lost amidst every other scream that floods his ears, he still hears it well enough to know to stay.

It's not like they'll let him leave anyway.

His brothers hadn't known, when they came across the ruins and open field, that this has been a place of battle. Twilight, suggesting that they make camp here, couldn't feel the latent energy of not yet departed souls. None of them could.

He’d tested, asked in his own roundabout way to try and divulge the truth from the others; could they see spirits? Not just gibdoes and wraiths and the like; all heroes could see those to an extent, it came with the job. Spirits though? The souls of the dead but not departed? It would seem he and he alone had been cursed with such sight.

And what a curse. Even now it howls in his ears. Cool, cold, freezing fingers brush and snatch at him, unable to truly grasp, too dead and too weak to cause physical pain, but they hardly need to do so when their presence is enough to make his soul howl in agony.

They don't know.

His brothers sleep on. Sky and Hyrule and Four are all on one side of camp not yet close enough to be considered cuddling but certainly nearing that point should one or another shift in their sleep, and they all will. Wind usually sleeps at the captain's back but tonight has dozed off in the veteran's shoulder and now lies close to the elder hero, who, while not asleep, doesn't seem to be quite awake either. As for their wolf trio, Twilight and Wild are curled up in each other as usual, and Time…

Time is watching him.

Reasonably speaking, he should be watching in disapproval. It's been hours and the captain hasn't lain down to go to sleep at all. His watch shift ended hours ago, Time taking over just when he was certain that he'd actually go mad from sitting alone in what others would perceive as silence but which for the captain was as good as his own personal hell.

His soldiers. His men. His own dear friends and brothers in arms. Dead.

Their souls gnash at his own, and while his body may not be touched by hands untouchable, his soul is, and while no damage can be done in their weak state, that does nothing for the screaming and the pain of his heart as he watches them. And he can't not watch them.

He owes it to them, in a way. His blade had taken their lives, his own two hands snapped the chords of their fate and extinguished their flames to leave them nothing but husks of what they once were, still too full of fury to pass on past the veil and find solace in whatever might lay in the beyond. He is the cause of their suffering, and despite how others may claim that it was Ganon, or Cia, or some other power that drive fate to be how it was and took the choice- took so many choices from so many people- it does not change the fact that it was he, and he alone, who ended so many of the lives that still linger here.

So, he owes it to them to let them air their hate, just as he owes it to their families to let them simmer in theirs. He took. He killed, and be it for the right cause or not, death is death and a killing is a killing, and soldier though he may be, he hates to stare at his hands and see the blood of these innocent victims dripping from his fingers.

That, and the screaming, keeps him from sleep and under Time's stare, but the judgment of the elder is nothing to be compared with the fury and agony of restless souls, even with the uncanny magic that wafts off the man.

Death is stronger tonight.

The captain shifts in his seat. He's chosen the remains of an old wall as his perch, to watch from up high and not in the midst of the spirits is the one kindness he grants himself. The wind bites at him, tearing at his hair and scarf as it tries to pierce the wool of his clothes and iron of his mail. It's late, they're safe here and he has no reason to still be dressed for war, but it feels wrong to be anything but as he watches his soldiers wander below.

One surges up to him, weightless now in death, eyes empty and cold, just as they had been as his blade had been pulled a third time from their chest and they had finally fallen. Hands grasp and screams, wordless and sharp, rip from non-existent lungs. Such vestments of humanity were stripped by buzzards, and all that lies in remains is the skeleton that lies against the wall at his feet.

He tries not to look at it.

The man's name was once Conlee, he was a blacksmith's son with a sweetheart back in Ordon Town and plans to start a farm there, living the quiet life. He was one of the first to become corrupted and thus be killed. His infant son is only five months old.

The captain winces, not because of the screams or the chill of a spirit's touch, but at the thought of Magda, Conlee's sweetheart, standing there with her newborn and receiving the news. He'd delivered word to them himself and it killed part of him. Artemis forbade him from doing it again after that, but that didn't stop him from seeing the fallout when others took the task.

Conlee eventually ceases his assault, returning to wandering the field beside his fellow slain soldiers, and Warriors' eyes follow them. That it, they do until a thunderous explosion has him and every spirit jumping to attention. His hand flies to his blade in an instant but when he turns to face the noise, all that can be seen are shimmering blue and crimson sparks dancing across the sky.

Another such explosion of color lasts across the sky, ripping at ears and making those sleeping stir, even as the captain shudders.

Time watches the fireworks placidly, gaze straying to Warriors now and again.

The captain doesn't notice. His eyes are fixed on dancing sparks, even as he forces himself back down to seated.

They're celebrating, over in Castle Town. Why, he can't fathom. Today was a day of victory, a year ago in the war, but not one worth anything. Too many men dead. Too many lives lost. Too much needless death on both sides had made their victory a pyrrhic one. He can't imagine celebrating this or any other battle save those which ended in Cia and Hanon's defeat. Certainly nothing warrants the sparks and screams in the air as flame and smoke lick across the sky from the city ahead.

He doesn't like them.

They're loud. The sound… it startles and shakes him like not even the screams of the dead do. It's like canon fire all over again. Lead raining down from the battlements, crushing foe beneath as allies and friends steered clear lest they be struck. The walls are crumbling and the troops roar beneath, too locked battle and too deafened by the blasts they hear the shifting of stones. The weight of the cannons is pushing, the wall is giving way, the enemy is darting close and Mask is atop the wall, shouting, screaming, voice unheard but face white and afraid and- the stones give way and the child stumbles and….!

Warmth, soft and sweet, floods over him.

The captain blinks his eyes and looks over the long-ruined battlefield. The moldering stone walls and barely standing remains of the keep are still there. The cannons are long buried under the rubble. Mask- no, Time sits by the arch of the gate, staring out at the burst of stars rippling up from where Castle Town lies.

All is well, all is at peace, and when he turns back, he finds Legend perched on the wall beside him, tired eyes fixed on him and waiting, soft golden magic seeping from him to brush against the captain's own, soothing and sweet like warm cider "Vet?" He's a bit startled to see the other up, and his gaze immediately darts down to where Wind has been left.

The sailor now has his face pressed between Twilight's shoulders, snoring softly and soundly.

When he turns back, violet eyes are studying him quietly, golden light brushing gently over in a near unseeable whisp where unfelt hands had grasped and struck. He's being examined. Legend's not nearly as good at it as Hyrule, but he's a quick learner and the younger man seems to have a handle on this most simple of medical magics.

Warriors lets it be, sitting still and letting his eyes wander back to the roaming spirits below. When warmth brushes against his side, silent but pointed, he breathes.

Legend doesn't say anything.

Warriors isn't sure he can either in this moment.

Instead, he shifts, lifting an arm and end of his scarf and curling both around the smaller form of his brother as Legend settles beside him.

Somehow the action feels different than when Wind would do it. More akin to Mask actually. The vet is similar in many ways, and paramount in those is his refusal to seek out contact save in order to offer comfort to others. Warriors takes it though. The warmth and weight against his side on the old and ruined wall helps to ground him, and when the next burst goes up, he's able to breathe the slightest bit easier. By habit borne of Mask and Wind, his hand lifts to mused strawberry hair, running through slowly so that his breaths match every lift and fall of his hand.

The vet shifts, but he doesn't complain, so the battle-worn hands remain as gnarled and boney ones pull the scarf a bit closer.

Legend doesn't say anything to him, doesn't even glance up at him. For all intents and purposes, the veteran has settled here to provide comfort of the physical sort, but even so, the steady presence and newfound ability to breathe again have the words tumbling out.

"I don't like fireworks."

There is silence beside him, the only sign of life the slight tilt inward of the vet's head, closer against his chest.

"They sound like canons." He whispers, cautious of those sleeping below and behind them. "It… I don't like it."

Silence greets his words.

Not cold silence, no, there is something heavy about it. Heavy and still, but while not quite expectant, it feels open. It's an odd thing to try and describe, even to himself, but there is no other way. It's an openness he feels the distinctive need to fill, so his words and thoughts tumble out, tired, worn and pained like he rarely allows himself be.

"It's bad enough camping here, but the canons- fireworks… The battle here ended horribly, the walls collapsed and all the canons crushed those below. Most of them were our men."

Men who'd not died quickly.

Men whose bodies were half buried, the other half left writhing and most times screaming for help.

It makes him shiver again, but the body beside his own remains still. A part of him knows Legend's listening, but the other half, still shattered and shaken, has his hand dropping to the crook of the other man's neck all the same, seeking a pulse and holding when he finds it.

Legend doesn't shake him off, only shifts some to accommodate.

Warriors takes that as permission to leave his hand where it lies.

He breathes once more, tuning his own to the easy puffs from the other man. " I don't like this place."

Another shift, this time so that star-flecked eyes can fix on him.

He winces. Doesn't tremble, but it's a near thing as he looks into the sea of faces only he can see. "They all died," it's more whisper than word, his eyes tracking the countless eyes fixed on himself and now Legend.

Boney fingers gently settle over top his own. They're warm.

"Nothing was in our favor. Our own men were turned against us. The cannons we mounted on the walls were too heavy for the stone to support while firing them so often." He looks to the ground beneath where the most of the scattered armor and bone peek through fallen masonry. "The walls fell. The enemy took over the fort and half our men were either killed or corrupted." A shuddered breath. "I don't know how many lives I took that day." But he'd been drenched in blood, hair and hands stained for days after.

Legend blinks. Gaze like endless twilight skies, unreadable but so much easier to watch than the ones filled with scorn around them. Still, easier though it may be, there's something impossible about looking a brother in the eyes as he speaks his next. "I considered them brothers."

His throat is tight.

"I killed them."

Something heavy settles on his knee, startling him, and when the captain looks it's to see Time standing against the wall. The man leans back against the stone, arms settled over the top by where they sit, but one heavy hand resting on Warriors' leg; a silent comfort.

The single blue eye is pained as it turns to him. Expression familiar as the one he likely wears himself.

Time was there too. Time had almost died with them.

Only Midna's quick thinking had been his saving, a portal opening breath him in midair before he could be buried with the others in the rubble. He'd emerged again in a twin pool of shadow instants later, thoroughly startled and considerably less Hylian, but they'd never worried much on it in the moment. What mattered was that he had been safe, and if Warriors’ first action once the battle was over was to fall to his knees and pull both younger heroes in close, breathing in the scent of life and sweaty little brothers and trying to assure himself that they, at least, had made it out alive.

Midna never even teased him for it. She’d stood watch and settled her hand on his shoulders much like how Legend and Time do now, and sat in silence while he’d mustered his courage to raise his head again and face the destruction he’d helped to cause.

“We started together,” the words rasp, gaze trailing across the field. Five or six spirits watch him, some with hooded eyes and others with visible pain. “We joined the army hoping for better. We promised to look out for each other, watch each other’s backs.”

The hands on his tighten their hold minutely; not constricting, but ever present and holding tight enough it feels as though they think it will ground him back to reality. He hopes- or rather… does he want it to work?

“We stuck together through basic. Helped each other with our forms. I think one of my mates even bribed the commanding officer to get us all deployed to the same garrison.” They had. They’d all scraped together funds as a group and the oldest one of them had gone to present the ‘offering’ to their commander. “I saw them as brothers,” he repeats again,” we roamed the streets together as tykes, the roads as young men, and when the war came, we thought we’d stay together then too.”

He has to muster a breath as one of them turns their back.

Legend’s thumb grazed the back of his hand gently, moving back in forth in a subtle but assuring motion.

“And then I became the hero.”

The cursed hero. The title’s done nothing but bring trouble to himself and Hyrule both since he’d discovered the truth, and there’s been many a day he’d wished that he’d just stayed home and spent the rest of his life as a tailor like his father. No Triforce would have shown itself then. No hero would have been forged and no war would have been started for his soul. Life would be so much better, on so many counts, if he never had become a soldier.

“I wish I’d stayed home. I wish- gods, there’s so many things I wish. I wish I hadn’t joined. I wish I hadn’t left my post that first day we were attacked. I wish I’d had the good sense to follow the advice of my men and watch my damned ego! If I’d just kept myself in check, been content!” Both hands lift to drag through too-long hair.

He needs to cut it. It’s not uniform.

He hates the thought nearly as much as he hates the uniform that goes with it.

“My brothers fought for honor,” he whispers to the sky, “I was just fighting for the money.”

“A man fights for what he doesn’t have.”

Legend’s words make him start. First at the sound, the other two have been silent thus far and he’d expected- he’s not sure what he expected. Legend smirking up at him, violet skies flashing softly with something playful, makes him ease, drop his hands again and take the one that offers itself to him. If his first action is to seek the pulse point, neither Time nor Legend says anything of it.

“Still, if I’d stayed home. We’d never be here.” Another scream, unheard by the others, rips through the air. “I’d never have killed them.”

“Wars-”

“I know I had to.” it’s out of his mouth in a moment. “I know there wasn’t a choice. They were corrupted, they were traitors. There wasn’t anything else I could do, and by doing what I did I brought us one fraction of a step closer to defeating Ganon. I know what I did had to be done. I know I had to do it, but…” his grip tightens, “that doesn't change the fact that I had to kill; that I killed my own men. A death is a death, no matter who causes it, and no matter what anyone says about the war not being my fault, I was the one who made the decision to end the lives that I did. Regardless of the fact that there were no options, I still am the one who did it.”

Heavy hands and boney ones grip a bit tighter, one blue and two violet eyes staring up at him even as his own turn to the field, a sort of bitter emptiness lingering in him at finally speaking the words.

He’s heard every assurance, he thinks every excuse has been uttered on his behalf, but while he knows, in a way, that the deaths weren’t something he could change, the fact that they came by his hands sits uneasy in his mind.

So much death. So much caused by himself. So little gained. So much lost. He can’t help but wonder sometimes if it was even worth it in the end.

Other times though, he looks at Hyrule, growing again, thriving, he sees his little brothers grown or growing. He sees a glimmer of a future in the champion, a promise that there is something worth fighting for. There’s people, endless souls and homes and lands to protect. There’s still a reason.

That doesn’t make what he had to do easier to bear though.

What he appreciates though is that neither brother attempts to assure him on that point. In fact, Time’s head nods just the slightest, eyes glinting with pain as they turn to what, to him, is an empty field scattered with bones. Beside him, Legend’s gaze falls, and though he can’t see, he can sense the burden that settles over the other’s soul.

They get it. They don’t say as much and make no attempt to share anecdotes about their own sufferings. There are no words spoken at all for a moment, the only motioning being Time’s restless feet shifting and Legend’s hands working over the joints and bone of his own, shifting in a silent study as his mind focused on some other place, thing or occurrence.

It’s silent for a moment.

Well, very nearly.

Shards of light still explode across the heavens and the spirits still come and go below, but there is no more action from them as many linger by their forlorn corpses or others by hastily dug mass graves. He’s not sure if they can see each other or not, but it would seem they can sense his brothers; between Time’s twisted, sickening magical aura and Legend’s holy one, nothing strays close anymore, and he’s left in some sick semblance of peace as he’s forced to watch them regardless, even with his brother’s close by.

“Tell us about them?” Legend’s voice is softer than most days. It’s neither sleep nor pain, but something almost dreamy in his tone, something distant.

Right now, he hasn’t the energy to wonder why, but he notes to himself to ask later, when he has enough in him to care. For now, he’ll be selfish.

“Why?”

“Because they deserve to be remembered,” endless violet latch onto his face, “they shouldn’t go forgotten.”

“What did they like to do?” Time chimes in, “what did you do in your free time? What were their families like?”

And it hurts to even think about it. An ache settles deep within at the mere thought, but still, when his eyes fall on Gassun’s face amidst the forest of the fallen, he can’t help what slips from his lips. “My best friend was our next-door neighbor. He used to tease me about becoming my sister’s sweetheart. They wanted a fall wedding.”

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