#or apparently sablya

[bokettochild]

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

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

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

Rating: Teen

Wordcount: 4,626

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

-

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

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

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

Words spoken in ire, somehow, cause less. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m fine.”  

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

“We’re here.” 

His hand stalls at the door. 

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you want?” 

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

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

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

It’s almost like he never left. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where?” 

A shudder. “Everywhere.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you.” 

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

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

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

“No straining yourself. I will get you.” 

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

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

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

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

“Who is-” 

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

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

It leaves him alone. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s strange to be without. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They are heroes?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He tries. 

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

Her hands slips away, dragging slightly over fabric. 

He should say something. 

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

He should say something. 

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

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

Her feet tap away. 

 “I love you.”  

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

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

[desertbuilt]

its more of a saber than a dagger in my pocket ,)

@sablya who apparently has quite a bit of length.

“as big as a saber, huh?” jesse quips, brow raised.  he crosses his arms over his chest as he leans against the column: the picture of languid confidence.  his eyes pointedly drop below the mercenary’s waistband.  to hell with subtlety.  jesse smirks, eyes comfortable where they are, before he licks parted lips, finally dragging his gaze upwards to meet saber’s eye once more.  honestly?  not bad at all.

“still, y’know what they say about us ruffians,” jesse sighs like it’s all such a shame.  he steps forward, slowly closing the distance between the two until he’s close enough to feel the body heat radiating off of the other.  “can’t trust a damn word we say,” he purrs, voice honey-thick as he drags a lazy finger across saber’s belt.  jesse only smiles.  

“and, of course, seeing is believing.”

[bokettochild]

Plagued with Marin and Legend reunion thoughts again, but with thee mirror of Warriors/Sablya and I honestly need to be in bed right now because tired brain is not brain I should listen to but hello whumptober day 26 I guess? Apparently I now have ideas? Again?

(Someone hit the off switch in my brain pls, I need to be in bed T-T)

[bokettochild]

ok so i think the song congratulations (from the ham musical but it was cut??) would be a v nEAT song for legend and time. aka, when legend find out who everyone is and who time is (the fallen hero) idk but i kinda want your opinion in this?? not sure if you do fic prompts from songs, but could you do a fic where legend has feels and time is getting in the way because hoarder man is cranky ;D -🥑

How did someone literally hand me Legend angst and I turned it into Wars angst?

I was already planning on writing a Legend and Time confrontation for the Face of My Father, or at the very least having Legend talk with Sky about stuff, but when I went back to listen to the song (love the musical btw and totally up for song prompts) I ended up with Wars angst?

I might try writing a fic just for this later (I'll repost it if so) but it might be too similar to what I've already got planned so I'm not sure.

Thank you for the request!

(War's angst below the cut)

So, in the Feathered AU, some people noticed that when the others found out about Wars' wedding ring and asked about his marriage, he didn't seem too happy with it. There was immediate questions about Sablya and Wars from you guys, despite the fact that I never mentioned Sablya or even indicated that she would be in the Feathered AU fic verse (which, cool, there's a standard now apparently in my fics ;P (not a bad thing)).

Anyways, after listening to this, all I can think of is her and Wars and their relationship and all the hurdles they've faced. After losing their son there was a lot of tension and as of right now in the AU Wars hasn't seen her since about midway through the war when she left to go back to her parents.

With that in mind I'm seconds away from writing a Wars centric fic, even though I don't really like him! I'm literal key-clicks away from writing his and Sablya's love story, totally not at all inspired by the whole gosh-darn Hamilton Musical, but entirely too full of fluff and angst and- *sighs* this is probably gonna happen even if I fight it....