#i need to start writing fanfiction again

[bongbubbles]

Post-Orin kisses in the Elfsong with the party's angel. Cyril did just get his wizard back, they both just died in the temple of Bhaal, got revived by Jergal, and he finally has all of his memories back of his time before Bhaal got inside his skull.

I hate that your romance partner can't actually get taken. I feel like for plot reasons they should have let that happen, but I understand why it would get in the way of their romance progressing and why people may have complained. Still though, if you keep them in your party it wouldn't be an issue... Let me do it for the plot! 😭

[silverskyeline]

me: why can't i write, i can't be burned out, why would i be burned out

also me: wrote 33k combined for promptobers last month

[femmeprincessjulia]

He's so butch lesbian coded.

[walkingstackofbooks]

For the ficlet prompt. What do you think their first lunch was like after the Dominion camp?

Julian is reeling from the ramifications of the changling that took his place, which everyone liked better. And maybe he's disappointed in Garak especially for not recognizing the imposter.

But also he learned the truth about Tain and watched Garak see his father die (and WHY did Garak do that??) and Julian probably wants to comfort his friend / situationship.

Garak meanwhile is reliving all the lunches that were actually the changling over the past few months. And his dad died and Julian SAW it (because he wanted Julian there). And he's worried about Julian who just got back from prison and probably has PTSD. And also why didn't he recognize the changling is he losing his edge as a spy?

And neither of them can say anything directly at lunch. So is it awkward? Are they both just so relieved to have the other there that it isn't awkward?

Do they talk about some book that acts as a perfect metaphor for what one (or maybe both) of them are going through??

Thanks to some assiduous Garak trickery over Halloween, I've finally got there! Thank you for your patience! (I know I never promised prompts would end up fulfilled, but still - half of this has been sitting in my drafts since July!)

I'm afraid this is not a happy fic, but I hope it answers a couple of your questions nonetheless! Thank you for the prompt - it was super interesting to think about!

--

The sound of the door chime startled him, and something dropped to the floor as he realised that his mind had drifted off again. It was now 12:38, which meant that he'd been out of it for some twenty-seven minutes - not the longest stretch by any means, but long enough. He looked down at the duster that had landed on his foot; apparently, he'd been cleaning? A glance around the quarters confirmed it: everything looked just that little bit neater, the books on the shelf were in a different order, and the sofa no longer bore the evidence that he had been sleeping on that instead of the bed.

Julian shivered. He had meant to tidy up, rearrange some things - but the purpose had been to make the quarters feel decidedly his again, and this... this didn't.

The door chimed again, and he hurried to shout 'Enter', knowing how easy it had been to concern his friends these past few days.

For some reason, it had not crossed his mind that it might be Garak to come through the door, armed with his usual pleasant smile. Maybe Julain had got too used to all the worried looks his other friends had been shooting him, but he wasn't sure whether to be relieved or apprehensive about the Cardassian's appearance. Everyone else had been understanding, at least, about the weird ways his trauma had been making itself known since he had got back – even if he had been embarrassed to have them see him like that, surely reinforcing how inferior the real Julian Bashir was to the pretend one. But Garak, well... who knew how he'd react?

"I see you weren't expecting me, Doctor," Garak said.

"Not exactly," responded Julian. "What are you doing here in—"

He hesitated, voice stuttering to a halt over the word "my quarters". It still didn't feel right. "What are you doing here?" he finished weakly instead.

"Well, I didn't want you to think I'd forgotten about our scheduled discussion," said Garak. "Although, of course, if you have other things to do…"

"No," broke in Julian, some part of him reaching out keenly for this time with Garak, no matter his anxieties. "No, I'm not doing anything. Please stay, Garak."

The Cardassian raised his eyebrows. "Stay, Doctor? But the replimat—"

Julian shook his head, looking away. "Unless it makes you uncomfortable..." he said, remembering too late that having conversation with Garak also meant eating lunch with Garak, and realising that he might trip over that very first hurdle. "I'm not, um— Food still isn't..."

He cringed at his own incoherence; he wasn't exactly making a convincing impression of a good lunch companion.

"I'm still adjusting to eating regular meals, and so the replicator here has been programmed to better accommodate my current needs."

And now he was sounding like a medical robot. Great job, Julian.

"I understand," said Garak. "Your recovery will be swift, I hope? But for now, there's little I would enjoy more than to accept your invitation. Where should I sit?"

"Oh, anywhere," replied Julian, gesturing at the sofas, grateful now for his unconscious burst of housekeeping. "Would you like something to drink?" he asked, just as much to put off answering Garak's first question as out of habitual politeness.

Garak replied that some rokassa juice would suit him well, thank you very much, and so Julian busied himself at the replicator, taking as much time as was believable over the task. He was rather out-of-practise at figuring out Elim Garak.

The trouble wasn't that Garak never meant what he said; most people didn't. But from most people, Julian would have assumed a question about his health was a simple pleasantry, and would have told them what they wanted to hear: yes, he was recovering well, and hoped to be totally back on his feet soon. With Garak, you had to listen out for what he didn't say, to know his meaning. 

Your recovery will be swift, I hope? It was barely even a question. And that meant Garak could be asking it simply because it was the normal thing to do (and maybe Julian really shouldn’t be obsessing so much over it). On the other hand, however, he could be showing great concern towards Julian, but because this was Garak, masking that he felt anything at all behind the banality. Or maybe he was even trying to indicate that he had just as little patience for sharing discussion without having lunch as he did for having lunch without any discussion, and he was only staying because he felt obliged to. Julian had noticed how Garak had said that there was “little” more he would enjoy, implying that there were other things he’d rather be doing...

Damn it all. Usually, Julian enjoyed running all the possibilities through his mind, relishing in the challenge of trying to give Garak the answer he wanted, but right now it already felt like there was too much in his brain, and Garak had barely even entered the room! Julian was certain that his mind had been quicker than this a month ago, that there hadn’t been this constant fog which he now had to wade through to get to the end of any thought, that his anxiety had been neither this loud, nor this overwhelming. 

The glass was in his hands, and he was handing it over to Garak; his feet had carried him back to the sofas without waiting for him to direct them. Julian sat down, mildly disturbed. The dissociation was nothing new, it had been following him since solitary – hence his earlier acceptance of the newly-clean room, rather than outright panic – but usually it had confined itself to times when he had been alone. He hoped this was just a blip, and not a development that was going to stay. 

“How have you been?” he asked. His fingers had started to tap against his leg, and he pulled his hands sharply together, clasping them tightly. Maybe he ought to have made himself a drink, too, just to give his hands something to hold.

“I am better, certainly, than the last time we talked,” Garak replied. “And you?”

Following Garak’s lead, Julian gave an equally non-committal reply. “I’ve been worse,” he shrugged.

“You’re still experiencing… difficulties, though?”

“Is it so obvious?” Julian chuckled, wincing and praying that it really was just the obvious that Garak had spotted.

“Well for one thing,” Garak started, “—and do forgive me for pointing this out, I feel a little rude… but I do not believe that this is Rokassa juice.”

“I—”

For a few seconds, Julian felt as though his brain had come to a complete halt. He sat there, staring at Garak stupidly, before leaning across the coffee table to reach out for Garak’s glass. Now he was thinking about it, he realised that Rokassa juice usually came in a mug.

And this, unmistakably, was tea. Tarkalean, not Cardassian.

“Heh, must have been on autopilot,” he said, trying to laugh it off. “I’m terribly sorry, Garak – let me get you another—”

“Allow me, my dear,” interrupted Garak, smoothly rising from the sofa and leaving Julian to wonder how on Earth he’d failed to notice the mix-up himself. He supposed that he really must be more behind on sleep than he’d thought.

The fact that Garak had seemed to return almost instantly added to that theory. Julian hadn’t even heard the beep of the replicator, and startled when Garak suddenly appeared by the sofas once more, mug in hand.

“Don’t worry, I’m just tired,” he said, in answer to Garak’s quizzical look. “I haven’t been sleeping much lately.”

He hadn’t meant for that to slip out, and hoped that his earlier supposition was true: that Garak was just being polite, and wasn’t really checking up on him. Julian didn’t need yet another friend inquiring about his nightmares.

He had no such luck, of course. Garak almost seemed to pounce on this opening.

“It is my understanding that humans recover best only when they are getting sufficient rest,” he said. “Indeed, I seem to remember several occasions upon which you, my dear, lamented your patients’ inability to follow the simple instruction of “Get some sleep”.”

Julian groaned, leaning back into the sofa, twisting the glass of rapidly-cooling tea in his hands. “It’s not that simple.”

“Do you expect it to be?”

The question brought Julian up short, grating in its sharp lack of sympathy.

“I—Not really, I suppose? Not after what we went through.”

The ‘we’ slipped out without thought, an unwitting lie despite its truth. But it was easier, somehow, to claim the shared ghastliness of the final few days. ‘I’ sounded dreadfully lonely.

An unfamiliar expression stole across Garak’s face, and Julian wished he could tell what the Cardassian was thinking. Whatever it was, it seemed that Garak had lost control of the conversation too, the both of them reaching out for something to say, and returning with nothing – nothing they could admit to, anyway.

“Did you read any books while I was away?” he asked, before he had to contend with any awkward silence.

“None that were worth discussing,” Garak replied dismissively, leaving Julian wracking his brains for what he’d recommended that was so objectionable – before the unpleasant realisation swept over him that anything Garak had read, he would have discussed with the changeling. His stomach curdled, and he took a quick mouthful of his tea to try and swallow down the bile rising in the back of his throat.

“Can I—Do you—?" He was just saying words now, hoping that he’d stumble upon a suitable question and coming up laughably blank.

His stomach came to the rescue, interrupting his stilted thoughts with a growl. A rather loud growl, in fact, which had him wondering if he’d actually eaten breakfast that morning.

“I should eat,” he said, standing up and trying for a smile. “Thank you, Garak – this has been… nice—”

A frown drifted across Garak's face. “Are you we not sharing lunch, Doctor?”, he asked, his eyes flicking to the clock. Julian followed his gaze, and was startled to realise less than ten minutes had passed since Garak had entered. Oh.

But eating was difficult enough without the shadow of the changeling’s lunches looming fresh in Julian’s mind.  “I can’t,” he replied. “I’m sorry, Garak, it’s just, I can’t—.” He broke off.

I can’t eat with you.

Why would Garak even want to stay for longer anyway? Surely he could see that there was no scintillating conversation to be found in these quarters today?

Unless Julian had been so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he hadn’t even realised what Garak had really come looking for.

“Garak…” he started hesitantly. “About Tain—”

“I’ll leave you to your lunch, Doctor,” Garak interrupted, speaking over Julian as though he hadn’t said a word. “I hope you have a pleasant meal.”

The Cardassian stood up, first putting his mug away in the replicator, and then crossing the room to the door. For once, Julian could see straight through him, the way that Garak was trying to disguise the fact that he was all but bolting from the room.

“At least I know I’m not okay!” he found himself shouting over the sound of the door’s opening swish.

Garak turned to look at him. “Is that a fact?” he asked – and then he was gone.

Julian sat down, aching in a way he could not name. His stomach hurt, and the quarters were not his, and he was once more alone.

[honkshoo-zzz]

i didn’t wanna draw more saxwell,,,.,, but the parasites wanted to draw more saxwell.,…,…….

anyways go read my saxwell fic Don’t Go on AO3 :)

[palmastrings]

Mephisto brain rot

To be born for someone else.

Mephistopheles knew his place in the world from a young age. Being part of nobility, no matter how privileged he was, didn't mean he ever had the freedom to choose what he wanted in life. It was only whatever reflected well on his family. The silver spoon in his mouth could never cure the emptiness in his soul nor the realization that he could never be what he was made for.

From the moment he learned to utter words, before he could recognize food, he knew Diavolo. The crown prince was born just a little earlier, the sole heir to the gilded throne of hell, fated to be alone following the sudden passing of his mother. The young prince was a mysterious face, even to the demons closest to the royal family. Mephisto was special though. He was conceived to be Diavolo's playmate. He could be the key to reconnecting the king and his son to the rest of the Devildom.

For many years he felt gratified. He grew up next to Diavolo, orbiting to his side at every opportunity. His purpose was destined to be fulfilled, a promise whispered to him. The pair grew powerful and hallowed. When the crowds sang Diavolo's praises, it was as if they praised him too. Mephisto was so content, he failed to miss the distant gaze in Diavolo's eyes, or the growing ambition in Diavolo's heart to do more in life than just this.

Mephisto knew his place in the world from a young age. Nobility was above common demons and were expected to affirm that authority when they saw something out of line. Mephisto thought he knew Diavolo's place too. The next king of Hell, to rule with an iron fist and affirm the power of the Devildom to any adversaries foolish enough to question the power of demons. There was always an imaginary script Mephisto felt the world followed, nobody had taught him differently. So, imagine his utter disbelief when, out of the blue, Diavolo confided to him that he'd had a diplomatic meeting with the Morning Star himself, and it went FABULOUSLY? Watching Diavolo ramble on and on about the world outside of the Devildom, about peace and understanding, almost sent Mephisto into cardiac arrest on the spot. Where had this come from all of a sudden? He knew Diavolo like the back of his hand. He knew what he did and didn't eat, he knew his routine from morning until night, he knew what made him smile in approval. So how could he have missed it? His purpose is to be Diavolo's right hand, his support and advisor, his best friend.

Nothing could hide the growing swell of resentment and pain in his heart.

Mephistopheles though he knew his place in the world. He was confused, confused how quickly Diavolo turned his back on him to sing the praises of those damned angels. How Diavolo could only spare a polite smile at him whenever Mephistopheles brought news of the good work he had done to keep order in the rising chaos of Diavolo's new rule, or of the growing wealth of their class? Be that as it may, Mephistopheles chased to be in Diavolo's space anyways. He observed from as close as he could. He felt a growing twinge of disgust as the crown prince resigned himself to keeping the traitorous rebels comfortable.

Which now brought him to them. Seven shooting stars, seven enemies of the realm. Seven freshly banished doves stripped of their pristine feathers, come to mingle with the prince. Mephistopheles kept his chin up high, just as he was raised to do. They weren't worth a sparse glance, not from someone like him. The more sadistic part of him reveled in how frightened they were. Those brothers, who bathed in the warmth of the sunlight and the sweet breeze of the Celestial Realm's winds, now found themselves enveloped by the predatory night of the Devildom. Their steps were cautious, afraid to step into the awaiting teeth of Hell's denizens and monsters. A fish out of water indeed.

His glee was short-lived when they quickly climbed the ranks of the long-established hierarchy of demons. They swallowed their fear, pushed it down their throats into their stomachs. Mephistopheles made the mistake of believing they would just be content with being seen as meek fallen angels, unable to crawl out of Diavolo's fenced yard. But they were rebels after all, intolerant to mistreatment. They struck fear into the hearts of demons everywhere, a sinful song they sang that sent everyone reeling back into their homes. Even as high-ranking as Mephisto was, he couldn't look down on them anymore. Finally, the day would come when they would outrank even him.

The path carved out for him was now trampled. No longer was Mephistopheles revered, but mocked. Every attempt he took to fall into Diavolo's circle was in vain. He became even more desperate when his own family wouldn't spare a glance his way either. His one purpose in life was to be of service to Diavolo, and he failed. Every prestigious family was now more distant from the crown prince than ever, replaced now with seven fresh faces, and Mephistopheles was to blame.

He starved for purpose. Longed for validation. He stood alone now. Of course, he is respected for his title, but he was missing the closeness of family, no- friendship.

To be more.

------------------------------------------------------------------

Mephisto held the little hand close to him. Nothing in any of the three realms could ever tarnish a moment like this. His little brother. A few fires alight in the palm of his hand. Suddenly nothing in the world mattered anymore, every problem melted away. When he looked in his big eyes, Mephisto saw a piece of his own soul peer back at him. Nothing could ever truly take away from the inner turmoil he felt inside himself, not forever at least. But in the meantime, he could promise one thing. He'll do his brother right.

[killerandhealerqueen]

Can I bitch for a second? Like, I just want to understand why, in the past few years, comments and reblogs on fics have gone the fuck down. Like why? What fucking changed?

In 2020 and 2021, I used to get comments all the time on almost all my fics and now it's like...I'm lucky to get any. I also know that I write for small fandoms so like, that's a contributing factor, but still. Even with my latest multichapter fic, there are no subscriptions. Like, everything has just gone down.

And while I realize that the pandemic happened in 2020-2021, the decline has been happening for a while, especially here on tumblr. Comments and reblogs and asks about fics are just...not really a thing anymore.

And people wonder why writers don't wanna continue. Yeah, yeah, that whole thing of write for yourself, we all write for ourselves, lets be honest. We do. But we also want to share our creations with you because that's the whole fucking point of art. You want to share it with others and have them appreciate the work and time you put into it. And we'd like to hear feedback! It's literally not a bad thing to want comments. And people need to stop making writers feel bad for saying they want comments. And reblogs. Likes and kudos are great but they don't do anything. They just tell us that you liked the fic/work. But they don't tell us what you thought, what moved you, what rewired your brain, what made your heart thump or flutter or clench. That's what comments tell us. That's why we want comments. We want to see our fics through your eyes.

Writers shouldn't have to beg for interactions, so please. Reblog and leave comments on fics. Please. It's really the least you could do

[the-kipsabian]

wrestling fic writers!!

i have decided to be the change i wanna see, so lets do a nice little thing for each other, as a community full of incredible and talented writers. yes this is writer specific only, but thats cause thats where the main problem of people not interacting with creative works lies in this fandom as far as i can tell and have seen people talking about it especially in the last couple of months

if you read this, please add links to your written works. it can be just a single fic youre really proud of, your writing blog, your writing tag, your ao3 account, anything where your works can be found

and if you leave your link here, PLEASE check out someone else that has left their works, and interact with them. leave them a comment, even just a kudos, REBLOG their fic, etc. interacting is the keyword i want to emphasize here, along with building a sort of a masterpost of where to find people writing in this fandom

and if you are not a writer, youre still highly encouraged to interact with this post and share it and show love to the writers in this fandom, obviously!! i think that should go without saying, but adding it in anyways

a bit more about my vision and resources and such under the read more, but thats the gist of it. happy linking and please be kind and supportive to each other!! 💜

nobody is too big or too small to add their things on this list. if you write and post anything in this fandom whatsoever, be it fics or drabbles or headcanons, any companies or any kind of ships or reader inserts or any content whatsoever no matter how 'dead dove dont eat' or hell even if its just meta, we welcome all here and nobody can say that one thing is less valid than another. just please tag your content accordingly, especially if theres content warnings, and feel free to mention what you write, who you write, any info you wish to leave that would help people before they click on your links. but even so, that should not and hopefully will not deter people from interacting, no matter what it is. someones trash is another ones treasure, i promise you

and unless the amount gets really overwhelming, im personally going to be checking out everyone that leaves something here. unless it squeaks me out, but even then, i'll spread the word. and i just wish as many people as possible will do the same, and not just use this as a potential board to only get eyes on their stuff. ofc thats also the point, but you should give as much, if not more, than you get. we need to be kind and supportive of one another (besides, from personal experience, if you show love to someone else, they are more likely to do it back than without you taking the first step, so... pay it forward)

as for resources, heres a few links that should be helpful in leaving comments and feedback. of course everyone does their own thing and no comment is too big or too small to leave, but for those who need them. if you have anything you'd like added to this list, dont hesitate to get in touch or drop it in the post yourself!!

101 comment starters

ao3 floating comment box

kudos html

dont know how to comment? easy solutions

a quick hot guide to commenting (by yours truly)

an overall guide to appreciating fanfic writers

and just in general.. leave people comments. leave them asks about their projects. just go over and gush about their work. i know it sounds embarrassing but writers love nothing more than to hear that someone likes what they are doing. if you find a fic that hasnt been updated in forever, comment on it. it might just be the spark the author needs to continue. while kudos and likes are nice, and just as valuable to some, its definitely in the words the people leave for them that matter the most. im not saying this to put pressure on anyone, its just how it is, and i feel like unless people are writers themselves, and even then sometimes, thats just hard to grasp, especially if the writer is a smaller and less popular one who doesnt get a lot of traffic in the first place

i think thats all. just be nice and considered to everyone, reblog peoples works, this post with others add ons and so forth. and if i find anyone talking shit here or at other writers for something they share, you'll be blocked and im probably taking your kneecaps. be fucking nice. we are all struggling here and we need to stick together

happy sharing and commenting 💜💜

[lskamil27]

January / December Progress Wrap-up on [ Patreon] !!

[corellianhounds]

Amidala the Resilient

Media: Revenge of the Sith

Rating: T

Word Count: 3,942

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, pregnancy, Force-choking, blood and injuries, traumatic labor and delivery, death in childbirth, no happy ending.

Art Credit: Iain McCaig, The Art of Star Wars, Episode III: Revenge of the Sith

Summary: In a universe where Anakin gradually descended into the Dark side of his own volition from the beginning— where his ambition and love were genuine and admirable, but the temptation of power too much— his turn is something much more destructive and purposeful. Amidala’s plan for retaliation is just as much so.

Padmé Amidala can feel tension twinging in her back and thighs. The pit in her stomach has coalesced into a tight knot as she steels herself for what she must do, bringing a mattock and salt to the ground where pruning shears should have been used long ago.

Anakin had been too far gone for a long time, and the fault lay in her and everyone in his life willingly turning a blind eye too often to his myriad of faults. In the past two hours she has seen actions the result of which came from an upbringing where his temper, jealousy, and ambition were allowed to slide because those who thought him destined for some great cosmic good were willing to overlook occasional— and often objectively justified— acts of wrath and ruthlessness. He had always been so good at justifying his reasons and putting his actions in a more favorable light, showing enough willingness for correction over the years people thought he was receptive to guidance and change.

What she’d come to realize with dawning horror was that the seeds of destruction had been sown long ago, and though the vines had borne occasional good fruit, they had always grown with selfish intent, inevitably choking out everything around them in an effort to keep his own desires hidden behind the barrier of thorns.

In the next hour, she will come face to face with the monster of a man he’s become.

The Jedi master doesn’t know. Kenobi knows she has some plan but wrongfully assumes it is to appeal to whatever mistaken shred of humanity might remain in Anakin. Obi-Wan— even now, even after what they saw— cares for him as a brother and would sooner cut off his own hand than see Anakin completely lost to the Dark. Padmé however has finally seen clarity of purpose.

For Anakin to be stopped, he must be killed.

The ship arrives on Mustafar. Padmé wrenches herself away from the viewport as Obi-Wan lands and she gingerly lowers herself to the cargo hold, donning a cloak. Obi-Wan hurriedly finishes the landing cycle, calling her name as she gathers her strength, but she’s hardly listening to him at this point and she knows she must conceal herself from him so he has no chance of stopping her.

A hand on her shoulder makes her flinch, and the Jedi lets go almost in surprise. “Padmé, you don’t have to do this. I will talk to him.”

“No,” she says, keeping her left hand secured across her waist beneath the voluminous sleeve as she cleared a path to the lowering gangway. “He’s made it very clear he’s past the point of reasoning with the Jedi. I will speak with him, and if I cannot convince him to come with us calmly, or I cannot ascertain his next move, I expect you to do what’s necessary to end this treason. That is an order.”

It was all false diplomacy, of course, for his sake. Padmé had no intention of believing Anakin was anywhere close to the realm of negotiation. They were far past that.

But she needed assurance that she could get close enough to Anakin to act decisively. She couldn’t have Kenobi interfering, not at this juncture.

Oppressive heat surrounded her as she swept down the ramp to the barren ground. Magma roiled and churned, flames flickering at the edge of the peninsula as Padmé approached the figure so cloaked in darkness an aura of blackened energy almost seemed to emanate from his form. The grip of the hidden dagger dug into her hand, grounding her as she approached.

Padmé’s eyes burned with a ferocity to match her husband’s. It was time for this to end.

When Obi-Wan had seen her determination in the hold of the ship he had never for a moment anticipated what it would lead to.

Padmé steadily approached Anakin, cloak and hood protecting her from the blaze. He could see her speaking forcefully with him, her face hidden from view but Anakin’s darkening by the moment in response. His right hand, devoid of glove, clenched the hilt of an already ignited saber, the bloodshine blade standing in stark contrast to his own cloak. Its presence alone was alarming, but Obi-Wan had been subject to so many tragedies that night already, he merely assumed Anakin had readied it in the expectation of facing himself.

What Obi-Wan hadn’t known was what Padmé concealed until she tried to close the distance between them, her own blade in hand. What followed happened in the span of a heartbeat.

Anakin’s saber blocked it on instinct, easily halting the approach of Padmé’s dagger, his eyes widening in surprise. In the following moment his left hand raised and with it, so did Padmé.

Obi-Wan’s astonishment lasted only a fraction of a second as he yelled “NO!” Padmé’s feet left the ground as an invisible force clutched her neck in a crushing, intangible grip, and in the breadth of time Padmé scrabbled at her throat, Obi-Wan acted.

Anakin stumbled back from the force of the bolt hitting his shoulder, releasing his hold on Padmé. Padmé crumpled to the ground in a heap, and Anakin’s sights zeroed in on Kenobi, standing at the mouth of the ship with both blaster and lightsaber in hand. Snarling, Anakin stalked towards his old master and brought his lightsaber down, red clashing against blue.

Padmé Amidala, heartbroken and dying, drags herself bleeding to the communication console.

Kenobi can hear her movement in the bay and yells her name, telling her not to move, that he’ll come to help her as soon as the ship breaches the atmosphere, and she stalwartly ignores him, cradling the underside of her belly with one hand and using the other to support herself on the railing around the sparse artillery deck. Her broken ankle protests at every movement, sending lightning arcing up the leg where she puts her unsteady weight. The cramps in her abdomen spread like bone-coral, sharp and hot and agonizing in her pelvis, sides, back— Every tendon and muscle in her body screams at its owner to relent, to succumb to the creeping darkness pressing around her vision, but she cannot allow herself peace until she finishes what she started.

Padmé staggers at the ship’s turbulent acceleration, her forearm slamming out against the bulkhead as the lights flicker, and she curses the unsteady pilot she thought was her friend. Perhaps if she’d been accompanied by someone more decisive, someone whose fatal flaw wasn’t a love too great for a brother that no longer existed, Anakin would have been dealt with and she’d have the wherewithal to fight against the added pain of a labor she was sure would tear her in two.

Sweat pours from her brow and forces her already shaking, slippery hands to scrabble for purchase on the blasted polished finery of a spoiled noble’s ship. Her muscles spasm and she gasps in abject terror as she feels something inside her snap; the membrane within her had ruptured.

Gravity pulls on her bones as her muscles betray her, and she collapses against the bench. Fingernails scrape vinyl and she chokes out a guttural, rending cry of pain in the effort it takes to haul herself upward into the seat.

Obi-Wan is yelling again. Traitorous coward.

Padmé punches in the covert frequency on the transmitter. Her other hand rests on her stomach, her infants moving restlessly under her touch. She forces the hot flashes of pain back, shoving down every instinctive response to curl in on herself.

“Sabé—,” she says into the comm, gritting her teeth and tasting blood once more; the contractions were stronger and with a strangled grunt she yanks the comm closer, ignoring the frantic waves of worry rolling off of the useless Jedi in the pilot’s seat.

“Sabé, if you find the man who was my husband,” she chokes, the creeping black at the edges of her vision beginning to overtake her.

“Kill him.”

Obi-Wan sat listlessly on a bench in the hold, what bloodied clothing he still wore sticking to him like a second skin. His hand rested on the makeshift bassinet, a gun locker repurposed into a cradle.

He could only imagine what directive she’d felt necessary enough to strain herself to get across the sublight waves; he could only imagine because the message was encrypted and the recipient unknown, and her mind had been shielded from his probing. He didn’t know whether to blame his failed use of the Force on the heartbroken, distracted nature of his psyche being pulled in a thousand directions as he’d manually flown from Mustafar’s orbital pull in order to make the jump to lightspeed, or to blame some unknown energy stalwartly blocking him from Padmé’s mind. Reaching out to her had felt like hitting a steel wall.

The tumult of their departure had preoccupied him until he was sure he’d escaped whatever enemy fighters Anakin’s new master had sent after them, the maneuvering less of a dogfight and more of a half-cocked evasive prayer for the hull to remain intact long enough for them to break atmo. Klaxons blared and the astronav’s interface barked orders, warning him of too many systems he already knew were damaged enough that if they took even one more hit to the hull they would be obliterated; shields were failing, exterior panelling being shorn off, the pursuing fighters gaining on them— Until by some stroke of luck he’d found a slip in space to pull through and immediately jump to lightspeed.

Lightspeed jumps themselves were already hazardous to expecting parents’ health. He was terrified of the condition she had been in when he’d finally gotten her onboard, and the fact he could sense her moving with purpose somewhere below decks while he tried to shake the fighters had sent his heart rate skyrocketing.

Piloting had never been his forte. As soon as they’d hit hyperspace he’d slammed a hand against the autopilot controls and bolted from the dash, scrambling down to the hold below.

He swore under his breath, calling her name and skidding to a halt beside her. Her face twisted in agony, her hands clutching the underside of her abdomen. Obi-Wan knelt beside her, hesitant to move her and instead ran a quick check over her vitals, astonished at what he found.

Broken bones in her leg, fractured ribs, internal bleeding, damaged trachea— how had she even moved?! By all rights she should be dead and yet something had propped her up long enough for her to drag herself to the terminal and send a message.

And now she was in labor.

“Kenobi—” she spat derisively, grabbing his tunic. “Get— up—”

“Padmé, hold still, let me—”

He was cut off as a violent shudder wracked her body, her limbs curling in on herself with a gurgling cry. Panicked desperation lanced through him as he reached out and grasped tendrils of the Force, gingerly cradling her neck and attempting to delicately, swiftly mend ligaments he couldn’t see. If he was even a millimeter incorrect, she would die.

A misaligned vertebrae shifted back into place, and Padmé screamed.

Obi-Wan bit back a sob, carefully tracing his fingers on either side of the back of her neck with as much force as he dared in an attempt to still her and provide what pain relief he could as his own energy was leached from him. Padmé gasped, her eyes flying open, her expression stricken as she looked up at the ceiling. Her iron grip loosened as the tension dissipated, if only in one area. She gulped air as if coming up from the bottom of a lake, and Obi-Wan settled as he felt his strength wane. A concrete task was better than guesswork at unknown variables.

The reprieve didn’t last long; Padmé grunted in pain, convulsing as a contraction rippled through her torso again. Further assessment revealed her leggings and the floor beneath her to be drenched, and Obi-Wan’s panic flared again.

“I have to get you up—”

“If you move me I will kill you,” she spat harshly. She trembled despite the ferocity of her glare, her hand still twisted in his robe. “There is no time— Here and now, Kenobi. Make do.”

“Padmé—”

“Look around you,” she seethed. “There’s no level surface in this blasted ship big enough to work. There are no other choices. There is no one else to help. Sleeves up. Now.”

Kenobi’s brow remained twisted as he stripped off his outer tunic, knowing it was laden with silicate and volcanic dust. Padmé propped herself up on her elbows as he raced to scour his hands and forearms, coming back to remove her boots so he could work her outer garments free. Whether the blood seeping between her teeth was due to the injuries she’d sustained or because she was gritting them hard enough one had cracked, he didn’t know.

Padmé gasped again as the fracture in her shin shifted— He wanted to settle her, to fix this, but the contractions were coming more quickly and closer together. They were running out of time.

He finally seated himself before her, kneeling and shaking in just his undershirt and trousers, feeling acutely unprepared for what was to come. Battlefield triage and casualty care were the extent of his healing knowledge, and though he was adept at relieving or numbing acute nociceptive responses, it was usually with soldiers whose minds were open for him to assess areas of injury. A commander with a blaster burn would be focused on the point where his plastoid hadn’t covered. A civilian’s attention after suffering a fall would be turned to the joints and bones that took the brunt of the effects of gravity.

Labor and delivery were far too different from his experience in the medical field.

And Padmé was still blocking him out.

Her knuckles gripped bone-white to a ridge of floor plating, one knee bent and her foot planted flat. The other lay weakly to the side, and Obi-Wan grit his teeth as he raised it up to rest over his thigh despite the lancing pain he felt radiating from her, tucking a blanket beneath her and readying his hands for whatever instruction he prayed she could give. With him gathering his wits and her gathering her strength, they set to work.

The whole ordeal couldn’t have lasted longer than ten minutes, and it was the longest and most arduous process of their lives. Between her strangled cries, his intuition, and the muscle spasms that told him everything about this was wrong, Kenobi’s concern grew with the pool of blood beneath her, and she forced him to focus on the children, refusing to allow him any modicum of time spent healing her injuries between her screams. Untended bone cracked further as she thrashed, her screams echoing back in the cargo hold.

By the time Kenobi had swaddled the two squalling— living!— infants in what sterile dressing he could find from the field kit, Padmé had gone a sickly pale. Her skin was waxy under the recessed halogen lighting, her hair sticking to her forehead. Dark circles rimmed her eyes and different muscle groups continued twitching of their own accord as if sparked by electricity. Obi-Wan was torn between ensuring the infants had been properly cared for, and wanting to drag Padmé to the captain’s berth to fully assess her wounds and heal her: Padmé kept stubbornly shoving him away, tears tracking unnoticed down her face as she continued to choke out instructions for the care and keeping of her children.

He’d finally been forced to stop when that iron grip returned in full force— Padmé grabbed his arm and yanked him down to where she had propped herself up against the wall. Kenobi lurched forward, her ashen face now level with his. She forced her voice to obey despite the strain in her throat, rasping the words she needed to say.

“Keep them away from him.” The venom in her tone was undeniable. “You keep them safe, Kenobi, get— get them as far away as you can—”

Kenobi grunted, refusing to let her continue her orders. He pressed a palm to her chest, willing those wisps of energy to sustain her just a few moments longer as he tried to haul her up into his lap, coax her arm around him so he could lift her— If he could just get her somewhere comfortable, somewhere clean, if he could focus—

Padmé shrieked in pain, clawing at his chest and arms, and the sum of their separate fights came crashing down on him as the Force dissipated from his mind’s grasp. His knees gave out, his strength sapped from the energy he had poured into her, and they lay heavily back against the terminal yet again. The children cried distantly behind them.

“Padmé, please…” Obi-Wan pleaded, tears streaking down his face, but she shook her head yet again.

“Keep them safe,” she coughed, begging for the first time. “Get them away f-from—”

“He’s gone, Padmé, Anakin is gone—”

She shook her head fiercely, squeezing her eyes shut. “No. He’s there. I can feel him.”

“Listen to me— Anakin is dead, I saw him—”

“You’re wrong,” Padmé said. Her breath rattled. Tears dripped from her chin. “If— If you won’t k-kill him then t-take care o-of them. Wh-Whatever it takes.”

Her chest hitched as she gasped around the liquid filling her lungs. Her bloody hand trembled against his neck. She hiccuped, her eyes went glassy, and her hand fell away.

And in the stillness of hyperspace, Padmé Amidala Naberrie passed from one life to the next.

It had been an hour since then. Only an hour since Obi-Wan had had to keep himself from buckling under the weight of his grief, an hour since he’d sobbed on the floor of a ship as one of his oldest and dearest friends died in his arms. The former queen of Naboo, dying in the bloody cargo hold of a stolen ship, her own life stolen from her by the one person the two of them had trusted beyond measure while her infant children cried out for comfort he felt wholly incapable of providing. Obi-Wan wept alongside them, digging his fingers into the cold, unfeeling floor, wanting to scream as the agony of heartbreak threatened to overwhelm him.

So many dead, or lost. There was no solace even in the Force.

But as Obi-Wan Kenobi found himself doing so often in his life, he shoved his feelings down into the furthest recesses of his broken heart, let go of another loved one returned to the Force, and turned himself back to the task at hand.

The infants were asleep now. He’d shakily scrubbed at his face and arms with cold water and spared only enough time under the sanisteam to ensure he was clean enough to handle them before finding a spare undershirt for himself. He fed them, cleaned them up, and held both of them together against his chest as they squirmed, dissatisfied at their situation before accepting their present accommodations and falling asleep. By the ship’s chrono he had roughly two standard hours before the ship was due to drop out of hyperspace.

He sat unseeing in the captain’s berth with the ad hoc bassinet nearby. Padmé was still in the hold; he couldn’t be two places at once, and he couldn’t stay down there with the children.

Something bothered him about the infants in his arms, though. Once the girl had passed from Padmé’s body, it almost seemed like the barrier keeping him from sensing Padmé’s thoughts had broken. He was too drained and scattered to dwell on it as his last moments with her had been focused on her well-being, but despite his utter exhaustion he had a suspicion that had already begun to crystallize under the sheer openness of the twins’ young presences within hyperspace.

It troubled him.

Whatever message she’d sent was evidently received by the people she’d needed it to. Bail Organa met him at the hastily assembled but covert rendezvous, his ensuing shock and horror upon entering the ship’s docking ramp turning to commanding resolve as he followed the trail of destruction to Kenobi’s station. Organa had to shake him from his stupor before Obi-Wan could tell him of Mustafar, of the newly appointed Sith and Padmé’s scheme, and of Padmé’s last words. The senator’s brow furrowed. He knelt next to the Jedi, looking over the sleeping children.

“What of Anakin?”

Obi-Wan shook his head tiredly. “I cannot sense him. I don’t believe Anakin is alive.”

“… Who else did she contact?” Bail asked.

Tears dripped onto Obi-Wan’s shirt. “I don’t know.”

Bail sighed, bringing one hand up to rest on his shoulder. “I am truly sorry, Obi-Wan. For everything.”

Obi-Wan couldn’t respond.

Bail’s team, handpicked and vetted by the senator himself, worked below decks as the men weighed their options. The aftermath of the despotic coup was rippling out and changing by the minute; the Jedi had been slaughtered and scattered, the clones had broken all communication, and the Senate had reached a fever pitch of chaos. Anything that needed to be done had to be done now.

The feeling of loss that bordered on consuming him was one he’d rarely felt in his lifetime as acutely as he did now. The comfort he found in the Force was absent. He’d felt like a ship unmoored when his master was killed. Now it was as though he’d been dropped into the middle of a hurricane.

Bail’s hands were clasped loosely together against his forehead, elbows resting on his knees as he bowed his head in thought. Kenobi could have been a corpse for how still and gaunt he was.

“Obi-Wan…” Bail began. “Are you certain Skywalker is dead?”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan said. “I cannot sense him at all.”

Bail was quiet for a moment before he spoke again. “… But you, of all people, couldn’t sense what must have been growing within him. Is it at all possible the body of Anakin remains, but the reason you cannot find him is because the man we knew is entirely lost to the Dark?”

A chilling fissure of clarity cut through Obi-Wan’s senses. His reaction told Bail everything he needed to know.

Even if it was only a suspicion, they could not afford to waste time figuring out the emperor’s next move. Anything that could be used to motivate Vader had to be hidden from public knowledge. They couldn’t leave a trace of his past behind.

Bail mulled over his thoughts, then stood, gesturing for Kenobi as his resolve hardened to steel. “Come. We have work to do. We will mourn when we are done.”

Sabé trembled with the effort it took to control her breathing. She stowed her bag behind the seat of the starship and brought the engine to life, moving with purpose as tears streamed unbidden down her face.

The ship rose, coordinates locked in place to meet the others of her gathering retinue. These weren’t the orders of former nobility, of a governing senator— This was the last request of a dying friend, someone whose very existence was woven into her bones. Padmé Amidala’s death would not be in vain.

Sabé looked out beyond the stars, her breathing finding stasis despite the ocean of grief beneath it.

“My hands are yours, Padmé,” she said to herself. “For as long duty compels them.”

She wasn’t going to kill Anakin. Not until he felt every bit of the pain and suffering he deserved.

Notes:

The line “clarity of purpose” comes from Saw Gerrera in the Andor TV show

I wrote Sabé’s line before seeing that one similar was used in one of the books. Good to know I was on the right track with a character I know very little about lol

[juuheizou]

whoops did I accidentally get two chapters into my (eventually) kinky suzumutsu ice skating au without posting anything on here? that just won't do...

[clarajohnson]

to nobody's surprise i have once again developed an unhealthy relationship with the thing i love the most because i sought external validation

[thetenamongstthesethrees]

GUYS I FINALLY GOT AN AO3 ACC!!! WHAT SHOULD BE THE FIRST FANFIC I POST? I ALREADY HAVE A FEW IN THE DRAFTS!! AAAAAAAA IM SO FLUCKING HAPPY<3333

[number1abbasupporter]

i need to start writing again 😭

[confetti-cat]

For some reason I often forget to share with Tumblr that I do, in fact, write things more frequently than I post them here, so here's a piece I still like! A oneshot for Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild (and some of the rest of the LoZ series).

time immemorial, remembered - (2k)

If he is a hero of anything, it's of a grown-over wild, a land where grasses spring up in fallen garrisons and every breath of wind carries the scent of old rains and new flowers and ancient wisps of forgotten memories.

He doesn't want to remember others. He doesn't want to recall lives that aren't his own.

(It's strange, when he remembers the wrong things.)

Set post-BotW - feat. friendly adventuring, a little bit of Link/Zelda fluff, and Link just wishing he could remember the pieces to his own puzzle. Written before TotK, so no spoilers for it. Enjoy!

AO3 link here!

—

It's strange, when he remembers the wrong things.

He knows he doesn't remember everything. He knows that, Zelda knows that (unfortunately—he tried, he's still trying; she deserves a knight who truly remembers her), Impa and Purah and Robbie know that, and the spirits of the King and Champions know that. He's working hard to regain his memories, and they all know that's the most he can do.

Still, it's hard not to wish his mind would do more when his sense of déjà vu doesn't always work correctly.

They're at the curl of the beach where Akkala overlooks the ocean, and while Zelda is gushing about her Sheikah Slate picture of a new rhino beetle, he's looking at the sand. Something stirs in his head, as he looks at the waves and the palm trees and thinks—you've been here.

The feeling is bittersweet but painful, like a memory of an odd dream. Yet it was clear—he'd woken up on the beach once and cleared caves for kind people and had walked a strange black dog on a chain. A big dog with big teeth.

"When did I shipwreck at sea?" he asks Zelda, because it doesn't quite fit with what he knows of his life in the past. Perhaps his father had taught him to sail—perhaps he'd gotten a small boat himself. Zelda has a clearer picture of his life than he does at this point.

Yet, she stares at him uncertainly, blinking once or twice.

"When did you... pardon?"

A wave of embarrassment rushes over him, because Zelda usually understands him perfectly, and—sheesh, maybe he hadn't spoken clearly. His voice catches in his throat sometimes. He tries not to look so ashamed as he restates his question. "...Didn't I shipwreck at sea, once?"

Zelda blinks at him, thoughts whirring through her eyes, and then she looks out at the beach and the palm trees and the ocean.

"...Not that I'm aware of," she says carefully, and Link reminds himself that they hadn't truly known each other until they were sixteen. "Perhaps it happened when you were young?"

He doesn't know. Something about it doesn't feel quite right, like it doesn't fit. It's a puzzle piece to the wrong puzzle.

So he shrugs and dismisses it, at least for now, though the images don't leave his mind.

It happens again when they're up at Shatterback Point, just in time for the sunset. The Zora reservoir glistens like molten sapphire below, and the mountain peaks all around them have a golden-purple sheen in the late afternoon light.

It's not that, though—it's the way it feels to have the world so far below, and to see wing feathers as eagles make lofty circles in the sky, and he has the silly thought of how maybe this is Hyrule, and everything else so far below is really just Lorule.

It doesn't really hit him until Zelda has found an excuse to poke fun at him, in a playful, friendly way that ends with her smirking at him and his back to the open air, stuck in the few inches between a princess and a freefall that would last ages.

He can't lean forward for balance because she's right there, and he certainly is not leaning backward, so there's really no other option than to cling to balance and try to stand rigidly.

His heart skips a beat, because he suddenly remembers this—staring nervously into the face of a blonde princess who has far too much fun spending time with him, and he knows what will happen. She's going to push him off, like she did when they were in the sky kingdom and he liked wearing tan and she looked a bit different.

But she doesn't push him. Zelda shrinks back a little and laughs in embarrassment at her actions—she was more sure of herself a hundred years ago in the sky, wasn't she? Or was it a hundred thousand?—and allows him to step away from the edge and toward the danger: high dive at your own risk! sign a safer distance from the open air.

(He thinks—and this is really him, the normal him—that if it didn't take so long to get back up here from the water far below, he would show her a swan dive.)

(Maybe they could both—no, no. It isn't called Shatterback Point for nothing. He somehow doubts that she shares his ideas of entertainment out here, anyway.)

"I apologize," this Zelda says in embarrassment, looking away so that he can only see the tips of her ears turning pink. "I don't know what came over me."

His brain is too bewildered by all the déjà vu to mind. He tells her it's fine, because it is—some part of him thinks it feels nice to recognize that they have something friendly and familiar. Even if it is a bit teasing, and even if it does make adrenaline shoot through his veins and his heart pump hard enough to ready him for a freefall.

It happens again at twilight, late after a long day in Hyrule Field. The sky is tinted purple, and flecks of grass and dust float by in the strong breeze.

A wolf is there, in a place Link doesn't usually see any. It's on the next hillside, and it stares at him, eyes reflecting yellow in the dim light of the receding day.

Link's limbs twitch as it turns and leaves, as if reenacting the gait of the wolf—as if feeling the sensation of controlling a wolf's movement, with four limbs pacing and a head turning to and fro. With a sturdy gait and mind set fast on a goal.

When Zelda mutters something nearly irritable at the cooking pot, he half expects to turn his head and see someone who's not Zelda.

It is Zelda, though; of course. He doesn't think he knows anyone else who talks half to him, half to herself. She looks quite frustrated with whatever she's trying to do to improve their meal, and by her muttering, you'd think she was trying to blame him for what he'd put in as the necessary base ingredients.

Well, excuuuse me, Princess, he almost teases to throw her sarcasm back at her, but his mind is suddenly giving him a wildly different case of déjà vu and he vows never to think of saying that again.

They're at a stable, and one of the travelers who loiter by the cooking-fire pulls a little round instrument out of his pack and begins to play a flutelike tune. Something in Link's chest jolts a bit, as if he's only just awoken suddenly, even though the melody doesn't quite feel right. Is it strange that the sound of the little wind instrument feels as though it sends him back to another time?

He tries to ignore the fact that all these nagging lapses in memories ever occur—but they happen again, and again, and again. Always with something strange, something he feels connected to, something he's sure he's never seen before.

He sees things like the Hyrule Forest—a towering, vast area of woods that he knows, even though he's barely been there before. He knows it well enough, at least, to sense that the path isn't the same anymore. Right, left, right, left, forward, left, right—

(He sees the view of Saria's Lake from a patch of grey land hidden deep in a dark forest, shrouded with mist and drained of all color. The lack of pleasant sound here seems stark and wrong to him, and amidst the gaping maws of dying trees, he wonders what's missing from the hollow space that's suddenly prominent in his own chest.)

He sees Zelda sitting cross-legged next to Impa, learning from her, and thinks about how this mentorship feels like something that's been in place for a long time.

He looks at the massive skeleton of a creature called leviathan, and his mind says Jabú-Jabú and Wind Fish and wait—did they die?

He loves the Zora people. He only remembers so much, but it's enough to know he grew up thinking of them like a second family—with King Dorephan as almost a non-Hylian grandfather, and all the young ones as his cousins and friends.

Yet still, when those same Zoras pop out of the river with wide grins to surprise him, there's moments where his heart skips a beat and he's drawn his sword and shield, ready to deflect their attacks.

Enemies! his instincts shout at him—and it hurts, because his heart and mind say friends.

Koroks are strange to him, somehow, and not because they're little plant creatures who can vanish into the wind with ease. He just really feels like one of them should have a fiddle. Hestu's maracas don't quite carry the same emotion in their tune. He finds himself looking twice at the smaller, rounder ones, but none of them quite look right.

(He finds himself standing on a tiny lump of land his slate calls Mekar Island, staring at the piles of bones and the lone dead tree in the middle and wondering why it gives him a vague sense of dread.)

He half expects Beedle to set up shop on a boat in Laurelin, for some reason. Melody comes to mind in Rito Village, when Kass's daughters all come together to sing. (Except melody doesn't sound quite right. Perhaps he's trying to think of something similar?) When he's helping Zelda organize the old library, he can't help but get an odd mental picture when he rereads the chancellor's recipe for monster cake—of a tiny castle official with two horns like a monster. (But how would he hide them while working at the castle? By wearing two hats? Wouldn't that look too silly?)

Except when Zelda is there to study, he avoids the castle's archives like a plague, somehow wary of what he might find there if he gives in and looks for answers to his blurry memories. Perhaps the old rumors of the heroes being the first one reincarnate are true. Or perhaps the physical rigor of fighting through so much malice has messed with his mind. He isn't sure which would be worse.

His memories are... muddled, still; at least where they're not as clear as daylight or so fuzzy they feel nonexistent. The Princess knows this. She tries to help jog his mind, holding the same hope he does that perhaps some of these things will be like a well-placed kick to Robbie's machinery, jostling something back into place that will return it to working order.

But she's left it to him, lately, seeming to perceive that the things returning to him are leaving him uncertain and unsettled. Or at least, she's tried to. Her inquisitive nature seems to eat at her for a week before she finally gives in, looking to him in clear interest.

"Have you remembered much more?" Zelda asks, the curiosity in her bright eyes shadowed only by a faint hint of apology.

Are her eyes blue? Or brown? Were they ever blue or brown? Her emerald-green gaze is making him hesitate, because no, of course they were never another color. The idea is absurd, and he doesn't like that it lingers in his mind for so long.

He doesn't want a wrong sense of déjà vu with her. This is Zelda, the Zelda of now, the princess of a broken Hyrule and the survivor of a calamity. This is a Zelda long removed from the days of Hylia and the first hero. If he is a hero of anything, it's of a grown-over wild, a land where grasses spring up in fallen garrisons and every breath of wind carries the scent of old rains and new flowers and ancient wisps of forgotten memories.

He doesn't want to remember others. He doesn't want to recall lives that aren't his own. The Zelda here is her own, and he is his own—their world may be old, but to them it is something new, and he wants desperately to see it through the eyes of someone who has never lived before.

He can't really answer her question. So he gives her a thin smile, and hopes she can see the look in his eyes and understand.

Perhaps he's clinging too fast to hope, but she seems to.

When he hands her the cooking ladle and the long-awaited meal he's prepared after a long and hungry day, a funny little smile crosses her face, like she's remembering something, too.

"Thanks, Link," she says, and her voice is only a little bit teasing. His heart tugs oddly in his chest, but somehow, he can tell that she feels it too. "You are the hero of Hyrule."

[zombolouge]

not even 9am and I've already made myself cry writing a flashback scene. I'm so extremely normal about everything.