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red-doll-face · 2 days ago

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Snow Angel 11

Chapter 11: fevered Series Masterlist

low - medium honor Arthur Morgan x fem. Reader

Arthur has been living by himself, laying low (for real this time) somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. After the whole Pinkerton and Micah debacle, he has been hiding away, waiting for it all to blow over, occasionally getting letters from the people who still know that he’s alive. He’s been alone awhile and at first, he thought he could handle a little loneliness. He has been wrong before. Lucky for him, you look like the perfect thing to break up the monotony.

Warnings: dubious consent, arthur’s mental health is kind of not so good…VERY low honor Arthur, darkish fic, a bit of naive reader. Reader has dated and period typical ideals, not very good ideas about men and marriage… if you want reader to be strong and a fighter… this is not for you sorry. suggestive themes. Huge HUGe Voyeurism bit, arthur being a perv 🤨👀 huge weirdo energy LMAO small mention of wanting death, WC: 7780 Hello snow angels : ) here is chapter 11!!! this chapter will be from arthurs perspective so very exciting 😳 i had a ton of fun just getting nasty with him and writing his fucked up little thoughts 😈 arthur inner monologue was a bit weird at first but im sure ill get better at it by actually attempting to do it LMAO i hope you guys enjoy and pls let me know what you think!!! i wanna thank everyone who has left replies and asks about this series, all of you have been so supportive and amazing, couldnt do it without you guys 🥹🥹💖💖💖 also this ended up way too long so sorry Tags: lots of angst todayyy, no TB, weird but not that toxic relationship, Arthur being a menace.Arthur being rude as always just… low honor arthur as a warning lol - What does it matter if the man who saved your life is a little strange?

It must be dusk falling too soon. Slow deprivation of heat and light; does things to his head, as if that wasn’t half screwed off already. Arthur’s fingers clutch the dusty curtain in front of one of two main windows at the front of his cabin; his eyes swear they can see…something out in the treeline. At first he thought of Pinkertons; to collect that bounty they were on about. Why they would follow him to the ends of the earth for that would be beyond him but Arthur had been known to do stupid things for a big payout. And of course, he hadn’t lived this long without a healthy amount of paranoia. Or what he called caution. Or perhaps Charles should have left his ass at the nearest asylum.

But he can sense that he’s wrong when nothing comes of it. No gunshots, no desperate shoot out for his life. Just the quiet again. In a minute, he’ll look out the window and watch the figure disappear. And he’ll shake his head, rub his calloused fingers over his tired eyes. He drops the curtain, pouring another cup of coffee at the silver percolator in the kitchen. He is not losing his grip; he isn’t. He’d leave that to Dutch.

It’s gotten worse with the winter; those strange things he sees from time to time. They make him feel more out of place than he already does. As if there’s something wrong with him, wrong with this moment. The frost grows over the windows like mold.

The summer sun kept the darkness from slipping in and leaking into his vision. But that’s long gone, been gone for a month. Shit weather up here, long dragging winters. Summers that were too short for his liking and an autumn that was beautiful but also short lived. The winter is too heavy now to do much of anything but loop out to the stable and back. Not much sightseeing to do, the same shock white landscape to see everyday.

In spite of how beautiful the mountain is; with its sprawling forest, creeks like liquid glass, the fresh winter air… Arthur finds it arduous to see it. Closing himself inside his cabin is easier. He could go and hunt something, draw the scenery. But was that any better than the fireplace? The comfort and simultaneous unease of staying inside the confines of his new home drag him in opposite directions. And even if his paranoid visions are just residue from another time in his life; he knows there are people who could be still searching, who might remember his face. Bad things had a way of following Arthur wherever he went.

Even more loathsome is the lack of sunlight. The sun disappears around 4 or 5 and it feels like it was midnight by 6. The windows of his wooden cabin blacken like soot, leaving him tired and groggy.

Arthur tries to keep himself going with bitterness like always. Coffee, cigarettes, and alcohol. He thinks the lack of light plays with his head. It’s easy to mistake shadows for ghosts, trusting himself was hard as it was.

Damn snow, cuts to the bone.

The stunning silence surprises him still at these odd moments in the day. Arthur thought that maybe the peace would do him some good. But there was a need that scratched incessantly at the front of his skull. Over and over and over.

He spent a long time being needed by other people. Dutch made him feel needed at the very least. Like he was part of something that symbolized how free a man could be. And he had devoted every shred of himself to the vision that Dutch had for the world. It was all that mattered to Arthur. His fealty was really all he had to give and so he gave it.

God, had he felt the fool on the last day he saw him, when Dutch walked away, as if everything Arthur had ever done was nothing to him. Twenty goddamn years of his life. If he was being honest, he knew that his loyalty was wasted before that day but he had waited to see if the man he knew would emerge. If he could kill that gutless rat and show Dutch the truth but he refused, leaving Arthur with nothing to show for it. Helping John, Abigail and Jack to safety was barely a comfort when he thought of all that he wasted. All he did was hand another man a chance at the life that he wanted.

But it was too late. As always with Arthur. (Everything was always too little; too late) Providing for others was embedded deeply in his being. It was something he had done for years, especially when he decided to get his shit together. He might have dallied, thoroughly enjoying his youth. But he learned (through several extremely painful lessons) why it was important that he pick up the slack. Loyalty isn’t represented by inaction. He hadn’t been all too kind to people but he had kept his comfort that in some part, his work was what kept that camp running. And when that fell apart; he really did try to help the less fortunate.

Really, he was making up for his failures to the people he cared about most. Arthur questioned if he had cared enough. If he did, maybe things would have ended differently between him and the people he harmed by being selfish.

Maybe Dutch put some modicum of power in his hands and Arthur had wielded it badly, went around acting like the cesspool he felt like most of the time. But at the end of the day, the camp ate because of him, they had medicine because of him, hell, they even drank because it was him that brought back more money than anyone else.

There is no one who needs him now. Arthur scrubs his hand over his face then down to rub over his shoulders. Leans his head back. At first it was nice. The independence. No more debt collecting for Strauss, no more worrying if there’s enough food for Pearson, no more looking out for O’Driscolls. He thought he would like only having one person to worry about; he had been lying to himself. Although he still had other things missing from him. They’re like phantom limbs. He can feel where they were supposed to be but when he looks down they’re gone. Hosea’s guidance was missing from him. Even if he was terrible at following it. The sound of the girl’s giggling and gossiping. Even Uncle and Swanson ambling around, drunker than he thought was possible. Dutch looming, watching through his haze of maduro sweetened smoke. He keeps looking down but they’re gone.

The fire crackles and the wind howls; picks up the silence. Sometimes the wind from the flue sounds like the breeze over Flat Iron Lake. The fire doesn’t sound any different than it did when it crackled warmly around a circle of a mismatched band of criminals singing songs together, alongside the chatter and the drunken crooning. When it was the background noise to thick Irish blabbering. The poor kid. He was going places, as most of the younger ones were, he and Lenny would have run that gang when they got past their growing pains. He could have told them that when they were living, that sentiment would have meant something then.

It’s been a year or two, the days sort of connect like train cars and chug along, not because he wants them to but because that’s how life goes. It’s an endless drag, an endless struggle. He can’t see how this is much better than being dead. Arthur Morgan is one of the few people who knows how precious life can be, he spent a lifetime taking it away from people as he pleased.

He tries to savor this peace (as if he knows how to). Tries to remember what it was like, not having any time to himself, always at Dutch’s beck and call. Barely any time to take a piss, let alone really rest, really give himself room to be anything but what others wanted. How he loathes those memories. The years he spent dedicating himself to another man's dreams. Watched all those years slip away, ashes in a smoke stack, rising forever upwards until they’re forgotten.

Arthur refuses to recall how many things he gave up for that life; down to the simple pleasures. Love, privacy, a family. He convinced himself that anything else wasn’t living, that he couldn’t ever be tied down. That old life was just… what he had. There was nowhere else to go and when he was old enough to go his own way, there were kids like him with nothing left; nothing to return to, no one to look after them. He might not have been anyone to look up to. Maybe he was a shining example of what not to be. It was Arthur who was there to keep people in line, to show them how to be killers for Dutch’s aspirations. He’s sure he ruined lives more than he taught them anything useful.

Nothing about that life was rooted in anything real, substantial to the world. Pipe dreams. Vague imaginings of living free in the west or some such tropical paradise. What a waste. Just the thought of a secluded island with palm trees on it summons a bitter laugh.

He sits and watches the fire. Tries to ignore the shadow in the corner. It's thin and wavering. Today, it looks a bit too much like Hosea for his taste. Especially when the log on the hearth cracks, it sounds like that ominous cough that followed the graying conniver everywhere he went.

Arthur lights another cigarette. He’s been making (quite frankly, just awful) attempts at rationing and this is his allotted second cigarette of the day. He’s two for five. He curses himself every time he forgets to take the drags and it crumbles to ash too quickly, landing on the rug beneath his boots. He hisses, a singe on his fingers snaps him back to the present moment. It burns his fingers when he forgets that he’s holding one entirely, too busy drilling holes in the walls with his eyes. He can’t stand it but he doesn’t have another choice. The silence has the mysterious property of making Arthur lose track of himself. He should have listened but he never learns.

This deep into winter, not too far from the base of Mt. Pàtu, he can’t just head out on the road and get more cigarettes. The nearest town is a six or seven hour ride and that isn’t happening, not in this weather. He might take Currant out for a light trot so he can get some exercise but he can tell something big is coming soon. The bellows of air from the west have him readying for storm weather. Best to get a move on now if he were to be going out.

It’s dinner now. He’s not sure where the time went but he doesn’t mind too much. He’s got coffee and he’s got hot food. Salt pork with potatoes, boiled in the salt water from soaking the corns of salt off the meat. He’s gotten better at cooking at least. Arthur scoffs at the thought of the slop he used to be eating. He takes a glass out and sets it on the counter, along with his fifth bottle of Kentucky bourbon. He’s allowed 6 bottles a month. By anyone else’s standards it might be a lot but where he spent most of his time; around other drunkards and degenerates, it’s not enough.

The storm hits full force now, there’s gonna be snow all the way up to the porch by tomorrow morning. But the air inside of his cabin is still and smoky. From the window, he checks the stable to see if the doors stay closed. It’s well insulated so Currant should be fine. The storm will have scared most of the game into hiding away, he contemplates when he’ll head back out for hunting. He takes a seat at his plain dining table, spends a while on the same glass of bourbon. The smell of cedar and salt is nice. So is the warmth of his cabin but it’s all lost to him. His sense for how fortunate he is to be here and not dead in a ditch is dull. Only he could be the man to crave chaos and blood and the sound of gunshots while sitting on his ass all day, sipping bourbon.

He thinks he’ll read a boring book or pretend to keep busy by stoking the fire. Arthur listens to the silence, waiting to hear something but the crackling and the draft from a small crack in the wall. But there’s nothing. He should have listened to Charles. But he insisted that he would be fine. He can’t go back on that now, he’s always been fine by himself. He’ll just wear the groove into his leather chair even further like the sorry bastard he is, trying to ignore how small and stiflingly warm the room feels.

The blizzard gets louder and louder. Dozing off on the sofa or in his chair sounds like as good a time as any. But he isn’t exhausted, just annoyingly groggy. Bouncing his knee does not count as activity. Neither does all the fidgeting he does, twitching his fingers, putting his legs up and bringing them back down. He tries to pace a little but wearing treads on the floorboards isn’t doing any good either. He puts his hands on his hips.

He grabs his journal but he doesn’t have much to write. What would he write about? Surely, the exciting things he experiences everyday. Waking up feeling like hot shit on a platter after having too much whiskey was not the kind of thing worth memorializing in his journal anymore. He’s a little past the shame now too, the embarrassment. He lets his fingers feel the blank page, the tooth of the paper.

He lets his hand form images of spring, the point of his pencil worn into a dull tip, recollected as best as possible. It’s nothing but a pale comparison.

There’s a pat on the door. It’s soft and weak. And just as softly, there’s a voice pleading for help, asking if anyone is inside. A light shining in through the cracks of his world.

He pushes himself up. He knows he hasn’t had that much to drink tonight. The worst possible outcomes play in his head. A ruse from bounty hunters, a local gang taking advantage (not a whole lot better than he would have done only 3 years ago), or another ghost from his past (the ones that play at the corner of his eye). His chest gets a little tight but he’s been good at keeping unease from holding him back. Arthur shakes his hand out, placing the book on the mantle of the fireplace.

“Who’s out there?” It’s an oddity. To hear another voice. One that isn’t his own. It’s a beautiful noise, a pleasing beckon. But he’s no fool. He doesn’t even particularly want to be here, why would anyone be here if they didn’t have to be? He grabs his revolver from the small table next to the entrance, one of the only loaded guns in the house. “Please, sir, I promise it’s just me,” and the earnestness in that voice, he has to believe that promise is true. He has to open the door. With a deep sigh, he stuffs the gun away after a second thought.

The figure is much too bundled up to gather any immediate details. She’s not very much, standing there out in the cold icy fluff. It isn’t until he nods his head to direct her does she realize she should probably come in. He peeks out at the tracks, just one long line of horse tracks in the process of getting blown over by the harsh wind and the lashing ice. Her struggle up to the porch marked in snow. Arthur scans the tree line for any of those dark silhouettes but they’ve blown away in the wind, they’re pushed from his mind when he turns back and closes the door shut behind the both of them.

He turns to her, he doesn’t mind the way she shrinks away from his body, skittish and slight. Such a small girl, alone in a snowstorm. He can’t think of a single good reason why she would be going it alone and what she could possibly need more than a night in. She should be warming her hands next to a fire. He could do it for her, could gather them and breathe on them. He tosses that behind him like an empty tin can. He has other things to focus on, mostly trying to get a better look at her and prying an answer out of her as to why she’s out here like this.

He’s more rude than he intended to be but a little rudeness is nothing new to him. “What the hell were you doin’ out there?” He has been described as coarse. Intentionally and unintentionally. He’s a little bit like a puffed up rooster when he catches her looking him over, marveling at the size of him. But he lets that fall away, surely she needed no old man assuming things on her part. He knows he ain’t much to look at. At his gruff tone, she has no response. The poor thing is so cold, her teeth chatter, whatever she mustered up to yell at him over the storm has run out. Arthur feels a little of his hard veneer chip away.

He thinks to take her coat, covered in frost and not nearly as insulated as he had hoped, it’s damp with melting ice now that she’s inside. But he feels like he’s dreaming again, peeling her coat off and hanging it on the rack, a faux gentleman. He doesn't know why he’s trying to impress but there’s a chance that she’d like a man like that. So he plays, pretends. He’s surely done that before.

When her coat is shed, all of those visions he’s been having must have caught up to him.

Jesus, Morgan. You’ve really lost it now.

This disease of loneliness he’s been given has surely destroyed the vestiges of his sanity. He must be imagining some young soft handed girl with warm bright eyes and vibrant, shiny hair. Face of an angel, looking hopeful; grateful. Her eyes on him burn like hellfire. He feels strange, watching much too close at how her tongue wets her lips; chapped from the cold. Beautiful; she must be someone’s girl, he hopes for a widow who had lost her husband to the winter frost. He’d gladly pick up where the fucker left off. Pry her from his cold hands. Could just be the loneliness talking. He can’t bring himself to care all that much about it.

Arthur can feel shame eating away at him, like ants at the corners of a scrap fallen off the table. He could have found himself sick to his stomach not too short a time ago. A girl as young as her and he, an old dog with even older tricks have no business together. He knows it too. But he was done with that crushing feeling of dread that ate away at his very soul some days. He had enough of his life to feel awful about. Blood on the floorboards, forgotten promises, disregarded words of affection. Just these moments, where he can hoard the vision that is this girl to himself after so long of giving pieces of himself away.

What has that shame ever done but made you worse?

If there isn’t the will to keep his eyes off the girl then there’s the give in him. Like a levy, it cracks a little, breaks into a million pieces of splintered wood for her. It’s been too long since he’s seen something so pretty. All flesh and blood. No graphite on paper; recollections of the women from his past, no Gem of Beauty cigarette card. She carries the smell of soap and perfumed cotton. He thinks it's geranium scented or another delicate flower crushed to pieces to make her smell like she came from heaven too. It’s a weakness he hadn’t culled.

This girl of his; she must be something quite real. His wishful daydream would have diverted to more intimate topics by now, and he’d probably imagine a woman he’s at least met before. Deciding if he’d prefer her to be real or a misty figment of his imagination; he can’t make heads nor tails of it. Arthur knows he’d probably end up disappointing a real person more than he could offend a figure cooked up in his mind. He sighs. He turns to the iron stove beside the dining table. There’s still coffee and he can distract himself from his ridiculous train of thought by clumsily pouring it out for her.

Hopeful bastard.

“You mute, girl? Asked you a question.” He knows she isn't but he wants to hear her talk some more. And maybe if she hears what a brute he makes himself out to be most of the time, she’ll turn her nose up at him the way she’s supposed to. Lots of women have, she wouldn’t be the first warned away by his attitude like a bad smell. He could almost let that temptation win. To change who he is at this moment. If only for the selfish purpose of luring her further into his home. However, he’s too impulsive and his tongue is too practiced at offending. He has words that are about as gentle as a fist to the nose.

He sets her cup down on the table. Arthur doesn’t wait for her to figure herself out, grabbing another cigarette, swiping them off of the coffee table in front of the fireplace. To hell with the rations. It was a special day after all, a goddamned holiday. He strikes the match on the table, lighting it as she tentatively steps forward. Nearly singes his finger on the match he forgot to put out, wincing and waving it out to put out the flame.

She’s a pearl, surrounded by the ugly oyster that is the less than stellar home he keeps. Carefully, she steps into his space. Suddenly, he’s hyper aware of every thing she could find awful or garish; his hunting trophies or the weapons or the wall. Or the mess of papers on the desk in the corner. It has him gripping his cigarette a bit too tight. Her face hardly moves in any particular reaction, as if used to him already. A simple neutrality is what takes her as she looks at some of the things over the mantle, then her eyes track over the small hallway, leading to the bedroom and some storage. She’s quick to bring her attention back to him, a soft smile that stuns him graces her face, kicking up some long buried hope of his.

If there was a woman who should be a lady, it’s her. She sets herself down on the sofa, neatly keeping her hands to herself, reaching for the cup he set out for her. But first checking to see if it wasn’t for him with a nervous flick of her eyes up to his own. He can hardly ignore how it pulls at him. She holds the blue speckled cup on her thigh.

“No, I…was getting something for my granny…” She explains she couldn’t make it to the doctor in the almost fatal weather outside. He has a humorless laugh. How could anyone send her out for the sake of some old hag; already knocking on death's door? Selfless girl but stupid. Defenseless. Her own mother, too. He supposes he can relate. The man he regarded as his father had been the one to let him down the most.

It’s always the ones you trust.

He makes his opinion known to her, maybe he can talk some sense into her.

“I can imagine. What kinda mother sends a pretty thing like you on a fool's errand? You really thought you was gonna bring your ol’ granny a doctor in this?” He reprimands her, she might need it.

Little girl gone out by herself. Needs you, don’t she?

What she probably needs is someone to keep her from doing things that risk her life for nothing at all. Doesn’t have to be him but he won’t turn the thought away. Breaking her open on her marriage bed. Such a pretty thing, a distracted smile into her cup of coffee. Lost in a snow drift because no one cared enough to keep her inside.

And she does nip back. Trying to give a rebuttal but he won’t have it. He knows he’s right, giving his idea of a light hearted joke, his particular brand of poking humor. Heavy handed as always.

“Your granny probably already kicked the bucket while you were out here, damn near gettin’ yourself killed.”

Perhaps insinuating her grandmother was already dead wasn’t the best attempt at familiarizing her with himself, her face tinges with an expression he’s used to seeing. Dutch said he had a sharper tongue than people thought. Hosea said it was too blunt.

“And if it weren’t for me, well…” she’d be dead. Forgotten somewhere in the snow with a dead horse for company. Such an image should hopefully be sobering for her. It’s a harsh reality but one he would prevent from happening. His hand comes up to scratch at his brambly jaw. She probably thought his slightly overgrown beard was ugly and unkempt. His fingers raise the delicate rolled cigarette to his lips. A nice calming drag helps his nerves calm down, they quit jumping under his skin every time her eyes pull over him, over his scarred face and his crooked nose and his gnarled hands. She looks like she holds something back. Her tongue, he thinks. He wished she would have just come out and said it.

But she’s a polite little thing, stifling herself with another drink of the coffee. The satisfaction on her face and the small droop in her shoulders now that she’s warm makes him smile.

She speaks up with a tremor stuck to her words. “I’m sorry mister,” her nose scrunches a little, doesn’t even know how darling he finds it. “but I don’t think you gave me your name…”

In a well practiced motion, he leans and ashes his cigarette. It took him a while to remember that he can’t just ash them on the ground anymore. He had floors and a permanent roof now. He tends to get the hang of things at some point. He kicks his legs up on the table, gently so as to not frighten the girl on his sofa, warming herself by his fire, and drinking his coffee. The thoughts tickle that provider’s instinct so deeply embedded in his being. His name, he almost forgets all about that, looking into her pretty eyes, blinking curiously. Right.

“Arthur. You married?” He never liked small talk too much. Never one for the surface level bullshit people put on. He watches each of her features form into something like a smile but not. Too nerve-y, falls into something else when she presses her lips together, her brows twitch as they pull together and her fingers scrunch in her gloves.

As if she’d marry you, ain’t exactly the pick of the litter, are ya?

His fingers twitch, squeeze his short nails into the give of his palm. Then why does she call him? So enticing, then, looking at him with soft eyes, her legs pressed together and slanted. A real proper girl. Cute thing. Naive enough not to recognize someone like him at first glance. He’s something to be avoided. He wishes he could see a ring glittering on her finger, to ward away the seething heat in his head and his gut. Like a prayer muttered in the presence of evil but he doubted it’d be strong enough.

“No, I’m afraid not,” her voice is like velvet, the rub of a rose petal between his fingers. Her eyes flick away and her teeth press gently into her bottom lip, sweet looking. No man to look after her besides her worthless father, left her out here to freeze. Alone, really. Or she might as well be. The world has been known to be cruel to women. To his mother, to a woman whose life he had ruined, to Mary even, to Susan and Molly. Well, most every woman he knew. It wasn’t fair but many things in their lives were disparagingly slanted away from them, scales always uneven.

“Young lady like you, unwed and caring for your Ma, Pa, all by yourself?” Arthur scoffs, even as he points out her tragedy. “Now that’s just sad, is what it is,” His fingers push his cigarette into the ash tray a bit too hard, twisting it. And he looks at her blouse, drawing the outline of her with his eyes. He’d put it to paper later. She has a small nod for him. A shining opportunity. But he has to introduce his own dingy reality. The one where he was probably old enough to have been able to hold her when she had just been born.

“You are… a sight, for an old ugly bastard like me is all,” Honest words slip from him, too loose for him to keep them behind his teeth. The bashful look crosses over her face makes his lip curl up just a little. She deserved to have someone tell her how pretty she is, who wouldn’t ever let her forget for a second how lovely she looked. Where all of these sappy things come from is beyond him. They ooze into his mind anyway.

Delicately, she sets the cup down on the table littered with other cups he had forgotten to put away and empty packages of cigarettes. He rolls his eyes at himself, of course he doesn’t clean up the day he has company.

“I left my horse in the stable out front, I hope you don’t mind,” her hands pet at her thighs, he can see where the fabric is damp. Immediately, his mind clicks into place, thinking on how he can fix it. That’s what the fairer sex truly craved, wasn’t it? Not some puffed up egomaniac. A fixer. A solution. His hands itch to move. To pick up the pieces of her problems and push them back into the shape of something whole. “Ain’t no trouble,” the relieved sag in her shoulders tells him that she actually worried about it.

So Arthur does, he’s nothing if not a man of action. “Why don’t I get you somethin’ dry to wear? Should be turnin’ in soon. Gettin’ late.” He’s up before he can hear a protest. But she doesn’t give much of one. In his bedroom, his hands swipe his hair backwards. The small mirror he usually keeps around strictly for shaving catches the light of the small oil lamp.

God, his best years are way behind him. So say the lines at the corners of his eyes, the gouges of his age on his forehead and the delicate webbing of wrinkles under his eyes. All of the evidence of his lifestyle glares back at him. There’s a ruddiness over the higher planes of his cheekbones from burning them under the sun. Some of the fist and knife fights from his youth have left permanent evidence of his misgivings on his face. Mostly in the form of scars and his odd nose.

You disgust her, don’t go kidding yourself.

If he ever told her the truth of himself, he’s sure a girl like her would go running, suddenly not minding the cold. He never was good at keeping beautiful things by his side. They rotted or wilted, or blew away with the wind. His rough fingers rub at the back of his neck. He stares deep into his own eyes. Trying to force some normalcy, some sense into himself but it’s all in vain. He grunts, paying mind to other things.

He opens his cabinet, all of the simple clothes he keeps. Something new and not so weathered, or dirty, something clean. Like her. Some nice cotton knit union suit, something he bought when he was preparing for winter. He grips them tight and hesitates at the door.

Just go n’ give it to her, and try not to be an idiot; for god’s sake.

And the sweet smile he sees knocks whatever sense he had gathered out of him, he can hardly form a word. He just holds the fabric out to her like an oaf. And she rises, as to keep things comfortable, good at reading his brutish signaling, taking them gently and skirting around him. And then she’s in his bedroom. With a mental cuss, he realizes that he forgot to clean the room before he left.

Ah, she’ll find out how pathetic you are at some point. Just a matter a’ when…

All those empty bottles and habits he’s formed from living alone. Dirty clothes piled somewhere and sheets that probably smelled a bit too much like sweat. Christ. He sighs, pinching his nose. He’s not sure why he’s putting so much thought into this. He doesn’t care. Not a care at all. Right…sure.

At first, he distracts himself with preparing food, his leftovers, hopefully enough for her. Doing this is an action which is perhaps a bit selfish. He wants to make it clear that he can give her things she needs. He could figure out wants later.. Typically, he hadn’t thought too much of what women wanted but with her he makes lists, takes out the fine brandy. Sometimes he took after Dutch more than he would like to admit, the man was all too good at forgetting about a woman’s wants and needs.

The food hasn’t gone too cold. His hands look for things to do, stirring unnecessarily. Fumbling the dish he places it on. However, the little comfort he gains from activity fades. He can only grip the counter like a vice while staring out the window above his sink for so long. The shades of brown and orange that make up his cabin blur into nothing, the wood grain isn’t as grounding as he wants it to be.

But then his legs drift in the opposite direction, He can hear a soft sigh and the rustle of clothing behind the door. He wets his dry throat. Arthur shouldn’t salivate. He does anyway.

You’re a creep. Something in his head laughs at him.

Been too long since you had a woman this close to your bed and she ain’t even in it with ya…c’mon. C’mon, just open the damn door.

His heart is about to pound his ribs into dust. He’s among the worst of the worst but this… pushes boundaries. Lines drawn in the sand. Peeping on women wasn’t something he was raised to do. And if he saw something he wasn’t supposed to see, it was an accident.

You ain’t that bad.

He’s used to letting the tide wash those out so he can draw new ones. And here is a new one. When his fingers push at the door and he can see the sliver where she bares her own flesh. Rubs her hands up her thighs, stepping out of her clothes. His throat goes dry, his teeth bite bluntly at the tip of his tongue as his jaw gets tense.

His eyes follow the natural plush curve of her body, pale yellow lamp light glancing off of her. He’d kill a man to touch her and he’d kill a man for touching her. Devouring every inch, his eyes soak it all up, dedicating her to memory.

And then she’s stepping into the creamy cotton of his clothes. Doing up the buttons at her front. Unbidden by him, his cock fills out, half hard, pressing uncomfortably at just the sight of her. The perfection of her hips, her hair brushing over her back.

The guilt is chewing a hole in his conscience. It’s like there are termites gnawing away at the foundation of whatever restraint he had. He’s felt less disgusting after killing a man, making him choke on his own blood as it fills his lungs. But the reward had never been so delightful. A sweet girl, so trusting, putting her hand to her chest and smiling as she realizes he’s there. It doesn’t feel good at all, the realization that he’s drooling over her like a mutt. All she has given him is reluctance, nervous glances. She doesn’t touch him or leave her hand to linger. A sweet-as-cream smile is all he has, enough to tide him over. He wants her anyway, needs her to stay. Letting her walk out after this will be next to impossible.

“You scared me, Mister…” Mister. So polite, an angel delivered unto him. He can feel how his body is tense, tight like a spring. How she doesn’t notice the evidence of his wrongdoing, pressing at the front of his pants is luck or her naivety. His expression must be dazed, a foolish look because all he can do is stare, unable to stop himself. Observing the way his clothes drape over her, exaggerating how much smaller she is in comparison. How stunning she’d look, sprawled over his bed sheets. Precious girl; struggling not to cry when she gets all stretched out on something wholly too big for her. In his mind's eye, she mouths his name, looks at him like all she wants is him inside of her. Right. His name again.

He dips back into his own ease in which he controls all of himself with. He is self assured and well handled. And he certainly doesn’t curl in on himself. Lets her see how big he is, slips back into old habits with the ease that comes with capability. “Morgan, Arthur Morgan,” his real name, no Kilgore’s or Calahan’s. She should know it anyhow, if he has any real intention in giving it to her.

It’s dangerous and it’s like she can feel it, somewhere in her body is that base instinct. One she was born with to protect herself from people with bad intentions. But she has another instinct, bares her neck to him. Arthur has always been good at suppressing his hunger, desire for soft pretty things. Settling like sediment on them was the control he had, buried them and buried them and buried them. She's a rainstorm, flooding his mind, washing out his carefully maintained resistance. Leaves his want raw and exposed and actionable. He wants her too much, wants her more than he has any right to.

He feels what little control he has over his urges begin to slip with that thought. Usually, he let them take over. Let whatever pain and anguish in him manifest into pure rage, cold and unadulterated. At first, it revolted him, his actions. And the reputation he built to go along with them. But they began to grow over him like a second skin until they encased whatever hope he had for a better life completely. His self induced hatred hid whatever pieces of him weren't supposed to be his to have and to share. The things he had to hide from himself even to feel like a whole person at any given moment. And he let himself be that awful thing people thought he was. Arthur Morgan. A force of nature.

But he deserved it, didn't he? Everyone should keep their distance anyway. He has a habit of making things worse than when he found them. But all he wanted was for her to be close. Sure, he could play the vulnerable man who could pine after his sweetheart, go out riding after her, guide her home where she would forget all about him. Just a kind man out to help the world.

That's not what he wanted. He wanted her to stay here. Can’t bear the thought of being a good man, sending her away when the storm blows over. In sickness and in health, til’ death do us part. That’s what he sees when he closes his eyes. She’s standing in the kitchen, turning the spoils of his hunts into dinner. With that easy smile. His too empty house just wouldn’t feel like a home without her in it. He’s sick, he knows; but he’s sure she can cure him.

Arthur Morgan has always wanted more than he could have. He chews on the thought like tobacco. Bitter but eventually he begins to need the taste, to crave it.

“Put somethin’ on the stove for ya, man can’t leave no woman hungry…” God, his tongue feels too thick in his mouth and his jaw aches from gritting his teeth too hard. And of course, he lays all his cards on the table. Man can’t leave his woman hungry.

Every little gesture she makes, wrapping her arms shyly around herself, the gentle tilt of her head and the small affirmative gesture she makes is in no way unordinary. But they’re all dripping with her appeal. How can she smile at him like he doesn't look the way he does? Like he hasn't made the world worse just by existing in it?

He soils her just by laying greedy eyes on her neck, on her nipples which he can make out through the fabric of his union suit. And when she opens her mouth, he knows he’ll end up calling her what she is. Sweet and syrupy, soothing on his throat.

“Thank you, Mr. Morgan. I really appreciate your kindness,” Arthur is convinced he heard her wrong. But her honesty is in those radiant eyes, in her easy posture. It must be meant to be, it’s not every day a woman talked to him like that. Or talked to him at all. He was perhaps too busy making sure they knew what they would be getting into; dealing with him.

It may just be the respectful manners instilled in her. He supposed her parents had given her that; mannerisms that made her quite the catch. Utter perfection. But really, even that was a disservice. They damned her to him. Makes him see glimpses of a life he could have. Hundreds of conversations, every iteration of the precious babe they'd have together with his hair and her eyes, a son or a daughter. Two of each perhaps. Hours and hours of her gentle, refined voice taking up the empty room. He bows his head as if he can keep his disbelief and joy under the brim of his hat, currently hanging by his front door.

She comes nearer. He can smell her cotton scent, can see the way the light casts around her hair, feathering over her, turning it into gold. His body moves to make the smallest space for her. Hoping she’ll nudge against him. He doesn’t even realize the way he’s formed himself to keep her here for just a moment. So close, Arthur nearly loses track of what he was supposed to be doing.

“Been a long time since somebody called me a kind man, usually it was the opposite,” apprehension floods her body, her features. Her eyes focus on him, waiting for something terrible to happen. Arthur sees how she bristles. He only meant to be honest but she’s already read between his lines. Smart girl.

He shows her just what he means. Even when he knows better, even if he’s never been this far. It’s like he has to touch though. No where uncomfortable, just to be sure she isn’t a sign that he’s truly gone from this world.

“Please, I-”

Her plea goes down his spine. It rakes its teeth over the parts of him that are wrong. That weren’t formed with gentleness, aren’t intricate. Just instinct that he’s indulged.

He may not be a good man. But he can behave well enough to keep her. Now that he has the room for her. He doesn’t live in a drafty tent. He’s not a dog chained to the hand that fed him too many years ago. He would never treat her like an object to display or a mistake made in a drunken night of pleasure. He wouldn’t throw this away, this one chance at having something real. Wouldn’t lay waste to this opportunity to fill a hole in him that yawned empty for what felt like eternity. She’d be his wife and he; her man. A husband. Mister and Missus Arthur Morgan. A crock of shit, he would have said a month ago.

That ain’t the hand you been dealt and you know it. You’ve made a mess of things enough.

But now… it's a dreamy reality. It hasn’t quite taken shape but he can get it there. Determination starts to crystallize over the idea. She’s something good; doesn’t need him. He could try to make something better too, could make the best of a situation, try to show her the best in him. But he knows it’d never be enough for her. He always throws these good things away, always ruins it somehow. But he grips and shakes like a mutt at this idea, gnaws it until it's raw. He can just take what he wants. Done that before, hasn’t he?

Just leave’er alone. God, you never learn, goddamned fool…

His fingers graze over the skin on her neck, uncovered by the collar of the union suit he lent her. Here in the dark of the small hallway, he can swear there’s something in the way she breathes, shudders. “I think you need a man to take care of you, honey, need a man to keep you inside- wouldn’t let you go out alone like this if you was my woman… Lemme show you how a man looks after a girl like you,” He’s aware that he sounds like a right bastard but he’s only telling the truth. His hand settles at her back, like it’s supposed to be there. They’re meant to be, all he has to do is show her.

ok yall how we feeling LMAO i think his perspective was interesting and fun for me to write but idk if its any good, but i hope with practice ill get more confident 🥹🥹 bro is a freak sooo yeah it was fun to write him as a freak he is very conflicted about everything and he is super weird but also sexy sooo😳 i hope you guys enjoyed this lil backstory on why arthur is a weirdo 😊😊😭😭 lmk what you guys think !!

#❄️ snow angel #red writes #arthur morgan x reader #rdr2 x reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan #low honor arthur morgan x reader #red dead redemption 2 x reader #tw dark content #tw dark fic #tw dubcon #red dead redemption 2 #red dead fandom #red dead redemption two #red dead redemption #arthur morgan x female reader #low honor arthur morgan

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skyloftian-nutcase · 10 months ago

Text

Breath of the Sky Ch 14 (SS meets BotW)

Summary: When Princess Zelda goes to the Spring of Courage to pray, accompanied by her appointed knight, a giant magical cog spitting out a goddess is the last thing she expects, but it is what she gets. Meanwhile, the Spirit Maiden Zelda is trying to figure out what the heck is happening and where her missing chosen hero is.

AO3 link

Chapter 14: A Set Path

The sunlight was being hidden away by the clouds, reminding him strikingly of his days on the Surface a few months ago. It was still warm, almost too warm, but he shivered nonetheless.

Link and Zelda had been given some privacy as they’d walked away from the picnic site, instead standing on a hill overlooking a good portion of the field. In the distance there were many structures, some stone and some wood, some with people and some with strange animals.

“I didn’t think we’d be stuck doing this again,” Link finally commented, feeling Zelda’s fingers interlace with his own.

Zelda sighed solemnly, staring out at the vastness of the land alongside him. “I… didn’t either.”

There was no going home at this point. They both knew it.

“You sure this wasn’t part of your plan?” he asked, glancing at her. Given his earlier accusation, he felt like dirt even asking, but he had to at least have something to cling to.

“I wish it was,” Zelda muttered bitterly. “At least then I’d know what to do.”

Link felt… hopelessly lost. The words of assurance from the captain echoed in his mind, but what good were those assurances when Hylia’s own plan fell through?

Well. It wasn’t like Hylia had been perfect, he thought with maybe a touch too much resentment. He squeezed Zelda’s hand all the more, trying to push that out of his mind. As much as he tried to separate the two, there was no separating them. As much as Zelda insisted she was still the person he knew, that didn’t change the fact that her past was intermingled with something far beyond his comprehension.

That didn’t mean she still hadn’t used him.

What difference does that make? It was for a good reason.

A reason which had failed. But he knew that was his own doing, not Hylia’s.

Link’s gaze drifted back towards the stone pillars, towards the area in the center of the field where the other two sat. His successor and his descendant. The pair were eating quietly, one more eagerly than the other, but both seemed to occasionally remember Link and Zelda were there and would glance in their direction.

He supposed there was no avoiding them now. Not that he minded being near Zellie all that much, but goddesses above sometimes it was just too much hearing about all of it. As for his successor…

“Link, I…” Zelda started to say, her words lost in the wind for a moment. Link looked back at her, heart clenching at the torn look on her face. “I’m sorry. For all of this.”

“Don’t apologize,” he immediately replied. “This isn’t your fault, it’s mine.”

“But it all started with me,” Zelda noted quietly. “It all started with Hylia.”

Link bit his lip. He’d be a hypocrite to argue against her at this point, at least after all he’d said earlier. Goddesses he wished he’d kept silent. He tried a different tactic. “Whoever started it, I’m the one who—”

“Oh, just stop,” Zelda cut in tiredly, releasing his hand and hugging herself. “Please, just—I just—”

“I just wish it wasn’t like this,” Link finished for her, slowly wrapping his arms around her and letting her melt into the reassuring embrace.

They were in the future. The future. They were beholding the fruits of their efforts. Why couldn’t this just be a happy occasion? At least for Zelda – for Link it would’ve been beyond his comprehension, really, overwhelming and amazing and wild and wonderful, but… anything would’ve been better than this sinking realization.

It’s over. It’s finally over.

Zelda’s words, mixed with tears and choking on relief and joy, echoed in his mind. They’d thought it was over.

“What are we going to do?” he asked her.

Zelda shuddered in his hold, burying her face in his chest. “I don’t know. They… they don’t even know if the Triforce still exists.”

Link blanched, pulling away. “What? That was the entire crux of our plan!”

“I know,” Zelda cried. “I know! I don’t understand how—what—they said something about beasts, about those guardian things and the sword—”

“Fi? How’s Fi going to fix this?” Link asked. “Can she—is she even awake? Can she talk?”

He didn’t think she could, honestly – not based on her reaction when he’d held her at the festival. She’d sung, yes, but he should’ve heard her voice. Fi had said she’d go into an eternal slumber for the sole purpose of keeping Demise sealed away.

Maybe that was where they could start, then. Maybe something had happened to Fi.

“We need to talk to them,” Link said firmly, looking back at the pair again. His resolve faltered at the thought of speaking to his successor, as he didn’t really even deserve to, but Zelda’s tears motivated him well enough. If his beloved was floundering, he’d find a solution, because he would never leave her in such a helpless state.

Link’s resolve faded the closer they got to the pair, but it was too late by then. Zellie and the new Hero noticed their approach, watching them. As Link’s steps faltered from shame over his failure, Zelda took the lead, guiding him forward with a gentle hand. When the pair sat across from the other two, the Hero carefully pushed food towards Link.

Everyone stared at each other awkwardly.

“So,” Zelda said, finally taking the lead. “You mentioned guardians and divine beasts would help you fight De—Calamity Ganon. And then… you two would fight him? Right?”

Zellie looked at her Hero and then back at Zelda before nodding.

Link opened his mouth to ask about Fi and then found his voice not cooperating. He looked down, hands balling up his tunic and releasing it in anxious movements.

“And you need help with your powers,” Zelda continued.

The princess visibly wilted, looking down.

Link blinked. “What powers?”

Zellie and the new Hero’s eyes immediately went to him, widened as if he’d spoken some kind of heresy.

“I think she’s supposed to have the magic to seal him away,” Zelda answered hesitantly. “That’s what I’ve gathered, at least?”

The pair switched their horrified gazes to Zelda now. Well… at least Link wasn’t melting under their stares anymore. But why the faces?

“You—you think?” Zellie repeated. “But I—my prayers—”

“Look,” Zelda interrupted. “Let’s get this straight. Whatever prayers you’re saying, or anyone is saying—I’m not hearing them. I’m not—I don’t have that kind of power, to read people’s minds and stuff. And—and whoever you’re praying to, you’re doing it in this era, you know? I’m—we’re from the past.”

“W-well, yes,” Zellie acknowledged a little uncomfortably. But it seemed curiosity got the better of her, her eyes shining. “But—how—what is it like, where you are? Can you sense—I mean, you got here somehow, and—”

“I got here because of Link,” Zelda interrupted before hastily adding, “B-but obviously we were destined to be here, too. I mean—what else are the odds that we learn of the demon king’s survival just as you’re preparing for him? But I—this wasn’t my planning. I don’t know what’s happening. We’re trying to piece it together.”

Link’s gaze drifted towards the Master Sword, and he found himself making eye contact with the Hero wielding it. He quickly looked back at Zellie, who seemed simultaneously worried and fascinated.

“All my life, I’ve… I’ve had to try and teach myself this power,” Zellie said softly, her expression growing despairing, frustrated, before she looked hopefully at Zelda. “If you can… if Your Grace would be so kind as to help me… I…”

“I already promised you I would,” Zelda assured her with a smile. “Knight’s honor.”

Zellie blinked. “Knight’s… honor?”

“Oh. Sorry. Expression,” Zelda chuckled nervously, rubbing her hands together.

“Zelda’s a knight,” Link immediately said. “Not a goddess.”

Well. She was his goddess, but that was beside the point. The point was he knew how much this Your Grace nonsense was bothering her. He’d seen her tolerate it fine with Impa, but that was during her rediscovery of her past. She’d been trying to reconcile it since then, and Farore knew this wasn’t helping.

Zelda sighed at the bemused expressions they were receiving. “I… I am the goddess Hylia reborn. But I… look. I’m just… I was born a human like everyone else. I can barely remember my life as Hylia. I…”

“Why?” the princess asked before catching herself.

Zelda quickly waved off her apology that she was about to splutter. “Because I—Hylia, I mean—was killed. I—Hylia sacrificed herself to seal the calamity away until I could come back to defeat him with Link.”

Here she paused, looking at Link, eyes alight with love, face glowing with pride. Despite his own guilt and shame, Link couldn’t help melting a little at the gaze, smiling at her in return.

“Fascinating,” Zellie whispered.

Zelda and Link lost the girl’s wonder in their own attention to each other before his beloved finally smiled back at the other two. “If we’re going to figure out how to stop the demon king, we’ll need to see everything involved in this plan of yours. And as for your powers… my memories were awakened at the sacred springs. Maybe we could start there?”

It was interesting watching the princess’ reactions to Zelda’s words. She was delighted at first, and ashamed at the end. Clearly, her powers were a point of contention for her.

Link could sympathize. Goddess… he hoped she didn’t feel as he did, but he had a sinking suspicion that was indeed the case. How could she possibly feel such a way? It wasn’t as if her lack of abilities had caused harm yet, right? It couldn’t be any more catastrophic than his own failures – despite the obvious one, he’d also nearly let Zelda die at the hands of Ghirahim. Were it not for Impa in the Earth Temple, all would have been lost due to Link’s ineptitude.

And in the end, what difference did it make?

Link shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. Stop. This isn’t helping.

He looked ahead again and saw the knight staring at him. Abruptly, he felt his cheeks flush and he looked down at his uneaten food. He hesitantly pushed it back towards the knight.

The pair stared at each other again before their gaze drifted to the plate. The knight hesitantly took the food back, eating it.

“Well, if you want to see guardians, I can show you some at the castle,” Zellie said eagerly, rising to her feet. “But the divine beasts reside in their champions’ domains. I can arrange for all of us to travel across Hyrule! It will—we can stop at the springs as well, but—you’ll see all that we have built, all we have prepared for the coming calamity.”

Link and Zelda looked at each other, surprised, before looking back at the princess. “There’s… more to Hyrule?”

Zellie practically glowed with pride. “Why yes, of course! Come, we must hurry, I’ll prepare everything!”

Well… at least they had a plan. Link rose at the same time as the knight, and the two nearly bumped shoulders, making Link stumbled towards Zelda. He was pretty certain he’d fumbled enough conversations today, so perhaps he’d save asking about Fi for later. But as the four walked, it was immediately apparent he was stuck lingering with his successor while Zellie babbled excitedly in the front of the group, nearly holding Zelda hostage with her conversation. Link found that he couldn’t help but stare at the blade, aching for its warmth, for Fi’s voice to echo in his mind and heart.

He felt so incredibly alone seeing her on someone else’s back.

Zelda stopped abruptly. “Oh! I almost forgot. We have to have nicknames, or this is going to get way too confusing. We have a few already – Dove, you’ll go by Cloud, and he’ll go by Champion. Now we just need to figure out me and the princess.”

Cloud? Link tilted his head to the side, raising an eyebrow at his wife, curious where that nickname had come from. He’d accept it, of course… did this have to do with the cloud barrier? Skyloft? Or was it a joke based on that story at the festival?

He felt a smile pull at his lips. As much as he’d shot down the ideas the princess had brought up about his existence, it was beginning to grow on him. He could at least garner some entertainment from the absolute ignorance surrounding his identity. Besides, he’d promised himself he’d buy into it the next time someone brought it up. It was too funny not to.

Helpfully, he added, “The princess said she’s okay with going by Zellie.”

The knight, Champion, stared at the princess a moment, and though his face was placid as ever, Link could sense some kind of underlying question hidden in it.

“I guess that just leaves me,” Zelda muttered thoughtfully.

“Your Grace… wants a nickname?” Zellie questioned.

“Of course I do!” Zelda answered sincerely. “I mean… we’re going to be friends! I don’t want you addressing me like some distant deity and the like. I may be the spirit maiden, but… I want us to be friends. This isn’t… this isn’t my…”

Zelda faltered, stumbling on words and thoughts, and Link watched her reluctantly. He wasn’t exactly eager to back her up in this instance – she’d spent their entire venture discovering her identity as someone else, and she had been struggling to retain her own self as Zelda since then. He wasn’t going to encourage her taking on a new persona, even if it was just a nickname.

“We’ll figure it out,” he finally cut in quietly just to move the conversation away from it.

Zelda sighed, shrugging, and the princess continued to lead them back to the castle. Link kept up this time, though, so as to avoid looking at Fi any longer. It seemed Champion always remained two steps behind his princess, anyway.

Noticing how the Champion lagged behind, Zelda smiled welcomingly and fell back so she could be in step with him, leaving Zellie and Link in the front. As Link looked around, he found other things to focus on. Like how distinctly open and alive this place felt while simultaneously… lacking something. The more he stared at the world around him, the strangely more apparent it became, and he wasn’t sure why he’d only just noticed it now, or what it meant.

This land of Hyrule was beautiful and vast, stunning beyond all comprehension. But the Surface that Link knew was brimming with something else in the air, the very fabric of the life woven through the land was teeming with magic and energy. Here, it simply… wasn’t. He wasn’t sure what to make of that. It felt like something had been lost while so much had been gained, and it suddenly made him pause. Perhaps this was what was lost when there was no trace of the Triforce, no guidance from Fi, with magic steadily draining from this land.

Link felt all the lonelier for it.

“Hero? Um… C-Cloud?”

Cloud? Oh, yes. That was him. Link looked somewhat reluctantly at the princess, waiting for her to continue. They’d talked so easily earlier, but he’d left that conversation rather abruptly. He hoped he hadn’t seemed too rude. Not that his conversation with Zelda had gone any better, though at least…

Wait. Wait. Had those two… had they been there? If that captain had heard his argument…

Oh goddess.

Despite his own feelings on the matter, the princess’ eyes showed only pity. That solidified his dreaded suspicion, though it simultaneously confused him – given how horribly he’d talked to Zelda, he’d expect disgust or disdain, not whatever it was Zellie was currently conveying.

Despite seeming to be practically overflowing with words to say, the princess faltered in her approach. Instead, she looked down at her clasped hands, wringing them nervously. Link wished he could say something instead, wished that he could maybe figure out if she truly did feel like she was failing because of whatever issue she was having with her powers, but… he could hardly hold on to any kind of assurances for himself; there was little way he could find a way to comfort her.

But Link hated to see her like this. He hated to see anyone he cared about hurting. And by the goddesses, he could see Zelda in every feature of this girl, in her blonde hair, in her intelligent eyes, in her love and pride in her people.

And he could see himself. He could see his sensitivity in her, he could see how the responsibility on her shoulders was crushing her just as his journey had crushed him.

Instinctively, Link reached out, letting his hand rest on her shoulder. Zellie jumped a little, startled, and looked back at him as he smiled at her. Perhaps he didn’t have the words to cheer her up at the moment, but he could at least offer support in other ways.

Zellie let out a soft sigh and smiled. “I can’t wait for you to see Hyrule.”

The words settled in Link’s heart, and he smiled in return. Despite his catastrophic failure, this land had not only survived but grown far beyond his ability to even fathom. And that… that had to mean something, didn’t it? If time and time again Demise had tried to destroy the land, and it had still somehow managed to turn into this, then…

Then maybe it wasn’t such a failure, after all.

XXX

The beauty of the castle gardens was terrifyingly diminished with the howls of anguish and anger coming from the royal horticulturalist as Mipha awkwardly sidled away from the newly tainted silent princess flower bed. She had escorted the Hero of Myth to the others before excusing herself, as she was not at all capable or important enough to be near a goddess, and had sought peace near the fountains in the castle grounds. Given the drama unfolding with other royal attendants trying to calm the woman, Mipha decided it was best to patrol the area.

Seeing Hyrule Castle was always an incredible sight, but the longer she lingered here, the more she ached for home. She missed her baby brother Sidon, she missed her father, she missed the flowing rivers and waterfalls, the diving places and beautiful scenery and mountains. Zora’s Domain was a sprawling city in its own right, but it somehow was far more homely than Castle Town, and it was less stifling than the royal halls. Perhaps it was the open architecture of her home, or perhaps it was the looming responsibility that hung heavily in the air here, a constant reminder of an evil that was coming.

It was no wonder Link had grown to be so quiet and stressed. Mipha would too if she were constantly living here.

The Zora princess leaned against a stone wall, hiding in the shade so she could enjoy the cool a little bit. She would be returning to the Domain tomorrow with her entourage, which was a relief. She would miss Link, but… well… duty came first. For all of them.

Her heart a little heavier, she tried to cheer herself up by finding her guards and attendants, when she instead nearly walked into the path of the goddess Hylia herself, and Mipha bit back a startled yelp as she dove for the nearest bush to hide in. She landed highly unceremoniously, feet in the air as she was caught in branches, hissing as twigs rubbed against her scales, though thankfully they could not cut through them. Mipha wiggled helplessly, at least tucking her feet in as best she could, before she heard gravel crunch and footsteps stop in front of her newfound prison.

When silence prevailed, Mipha turned her gaze as best she could, catching sight of familiar boots. She hesitantly whispered, “L-Link?”

Hands rested around her waist, making her heart speed up far more than it really should have (and oh why did that have to be the case, when they used to be able to laugh and play and push each other and fight as children and never was it so strange or awkward or different), and she was gently lifted out of the bush and placed on the ground. Link’s hold stayed on her as he stared at her, face calm but eyes soft, one cheek sucked in like he was trying desperately not to laugh. Mipha’s eyes looked frantically around them, and she was relieved to see that the rest of the party must have moved forward without him.

“O-oh, I’m—that was so incredibly—I’m very sorry, Link,” Mipha stammered, growing ever more frantic the longer the two of them stood so close to each other. Link’s hands slid off her waist at that, and he took a step back. Mipha cleared her throat and also mirrored the move, giving both of them more breathing room. “W-well. I. Yes. Thank you.”

Link watched her for a while longer, all earlier frazzled energy long gone. He was back to the stoic knight he always seemed to be, or at least most of the time. His eyes caught sight of something, and he reached forward to pluck a leaf out of her jewelry on her head.

Mipha felt herself blush in embarrassment at the reminder of her silly maneuver and even sillier predicament, and she ran her fingers across all her jewelry to ensure she was presentable. Trying to push the matter aside, she asked, “D-did… did everything go well with the goddess?”

Her friend nodded.

“Well, that’s good,” Mipha said with a smile. Then she shifted a little, heart growing heavy once more. “Link, I… I’m going to be leaving tomorrow. I… it was truly wonderful to see you again. I hope, perhaps, we can see each other again soon.”

Another nod was the acknowledgement. Mipha bit back a sigh. She understood, truly. But… well…

There was a way for him to ease up a little. But he had to agree to it.

“I was wondering… before I left… if—if, well…” oh goodness, this shouldn’t be so hard to ask! They used to swim together all the time! “I was going to go for a swim in the moat tonight. Would… would you like to join me?”

Link watched her a moment, and Mipha felt like she could melt into a puddle as he deliberated it. But then he nodded again, and her heart fluttered as a genuine smile pulled at her lips. She gave him a place where they could meet up, and he nodded, continuing along the path where the others had gone.

XXX

To say that he felt sure of anything in his life anymore was little more than a joke. Ever since his wife’s death and the prophecy, King Rhoam had felt like his life had spiraled entirely out of control. He had been an outsider to the royals, marrying into the family, purely there for support of his wife as she ruled the kingdom and served as a religious symbol and leader to their people. Yet her untimely death left him in charge, a man who had not been raised for such a rule, a man who had to do everything in his power to be the steady leader the people looked up to him to be, and to somehow raise his daughter to be just as wise and powerful as her mother.

He was failing, of course. As was Zelda. But Rhoam had continued to persevere, and if pushing his daughter to the breaking point was the way to protect her and help her grow, he’d be the subject of her ire. Despite it all, she had to prevail, even if he was failing.

But by the ancient goddesses, he had never in his life felt so utterly useless and lost. The franticness and demands that Her Grace Hylia had spouted during their conversation rang in his mind like a bell. Words of a mystical Triforce, something that was only remembered through symbolism and threadbare stories, made him feel far more incapable than he thought possible. How could he have failed Hyrule so? The prophecy had spoken of the solution to the Calamity being found under the ground, and the ancient Sheikah tech had been discovered buried in the earth. It had seemed heaven-sent solution, alongside the appearance of the Hero. Rhoam had just needed to get Zelda ready and it would have been fine. But what of the Triforce, then? The goddess seemed downright frantic at his lack of knowledge on the matter, and though she had promised to help Zelda, giving him hope, he still felt like he’d failed catastrophically.

He had to figure this out. A trip to the royal library was in order. To his surprise, the king found his daughter there as well. “Zelda?”

His dearest yelped as she whirled around. “Father! I was just doing some research and preparation. Her Grace, the goddess Hylia, and her Sacred Hero will be accompanying me as I show them the Divine Beasts and—”

The Divine Beasts?! What did that have to do with her training? Feeling his cheeks grow hot, the king interrupted, “You should be focusing on your duty, Zelda, not that of the Champions. Do not waste such prestigious guests’ time. I prayed to Her Grace for your sake.”

Zelda stiffened. “Y-yes, I—I know, Father, I just—they wanted to see them too.”

Oh. Well, then. The king found himself incapable of backtracking after snapping at her, and he felt all the worse for it. “When will you leave?”

“The sooner the better,” his daughter answered, regaining some of her excitement, though it was far more muted. Rhoam truly prayed that Hylia could help his child – the sooner she could discover her powers, the sooner she could be safe, the kingdom could be safe, and maybe… maybe he could attempt to rebuild his relationship with her. “I was thinking tomorrow, perhaps? But I wanted to plan the trip a little first.”

Rhoam agreed that the sooner his daughter could embark on her training the better, but he also felt his heart beat a little faster at the thought of such a quick departure. It wasn’t just his daughter with her appointed knight, a pair who could travel fairly indiscriminately and not attract too much attention outside of towns and villages. The two were safe together. But to include the goddess and her Hero… it felt nearly inappropriate to rush such a journey with them involved. Perhaps he should get the captain of the royal guard and arrange for some kind of escort?

The king left his daughter in peace to prepare, catching movement out of the corner of his eye, but when he looked there was no one there. Filling with anxious energy, he set out to summon the captain and then he could return to his own studies. Perhaps he should save researching about the Triforce for tomorrow… but no. He had to focus on his own duties as much as he pushed Zelda to focus on hers.

The captain of the royal guard came promptly when called for, and he knelt immediately upon entering the sanctum.

“Rise,” Rhoam ordered. “My daughter will be setting out with her knight tomorrow, and Her Grace, the Goddess Hylia, will be accompanying them alongside the Hero of Myth. I want to ensure their security is of paramount importance.”

Captain Abel watched the king a moment, stoic demeanor the spitting image of his son. The boy had come from a fine lineage of knights, and his father was no different. The captain was reliable, and Rhoam waited patiently as the man thought through the process.

“Your Majesty,” he started. “With all due respect, Princess Zelda and Her Grace Hylia are protected by the best Hylian knight in the land and the Hero of Myth and Legend, a warrior created by the goddess for the sole purpose of defeating Ganon. It would be a misuse of resources to send the royal guard, or even a battalion of knights, to go with them. We must stay here and protect you and the royal scientists, as well as their important work on the guardians.”

Ah, and this was where father differed from son. Link was a silent knight, obeying every command given to him. While his father’s loyalty was unquestionable, the man did what he believed was best for Hyrule, and though he would also inevitably follow any command ordered of him, he might offer a rebuttal first. Rhoam appreciated it, as his advice was usually sound.

Such as now. But the king couldn’t help but worry. “Surely we can afford to send at least a few knights, Captain.”

“I will do as Your Majesty commands if you wish it so,” the captain answered with a bow. “Where will they be going?”

“They will be visiting the Divine Beasts, as well as the sacred springs,” Rhoam replied.

Captain Abel remained quiet a moment, considering, and then suggested, “Perhaps we could request the Champions to accompany them? I can think of no finer protection.”

Ah, yes, of course! Although Rhoam had little authority to command certain Champions to act as guards for his daughter, they would be obliged to accompany Hylia, particularly if going to their own domains. Rhoam smiled at the captain. “That is a perfect idea, Captain. Please, summon the Champions to the sanctum. I will make my request to them.”

The royal knight bowed deeply before exiting the sanctum, leaving Rhoam to his thoughts. With the added protection of the Champions, the goddess would be both safe and honored properly. Perhaps it would help his daughter focus a little better too, as she often lost her way when left in charge of an expedition. Nevertheless, Zelda was the commander of the Champions, and it was good for her to travel a bit more with them anyway. Rhoam prayed it was enough. He would research tirelessly on other ways to help, however minimal it might be.

It would be enough. It had to be.

XXX

The sun hung heavily on the horizon as Link and Zelda sat side by side on stone that helped support the highest tower in the castle. After the fairly awkward picnic lunch, the group had gone their separate ways, Champion disappearing entirely upon reentering the castle grounds while Zellie eagerly said she’d plan out their trip and vanished around a corner. Link and Zelda had remained quiet for most of the afternoon, piecing together their resolve while still drawing strength from each other. They had silently grown tired of the confinement of the stone walls and climbed to the highest point of the castle. The air was a touch chillier here, though not nearly clear and relieving enough, but it was still better than being trapped inside.

And Zelda would be lying if she said it wasn’t beautiful.

The scale of the castle was all the more apparent up here, rivaling Skyloft in size, and Castle Town was nearly as large. Beyond the large protective walls of the town was the sprawling green beauty of greater Hyrule, and settlements speckled the area, promising of more to see and more to explore. Zelda could hardly believe it.

Link’s fingers settled over hers as he shifted his hand closer. Zelda glanced over at him, seeing the sunlight sparkle in his eyes as he gazed out in wonder.

This felt like all the times they’d sit together at the edge of Skyloft, having played themselves into exhaustion and silence. Link had always been a quiet one, and Zelda had never had an issue with it, sometimes enjoying the tenderness such silence could bring. She especially appreciated it on days that Groose was particularly loud and annoying.

But looking at her beloved husband right now reminded her of their earlier fight, of his words and the princess’ fears and the king’s request and her own anxieties. She again found herself wondering how she was going to juggle all this, how she could help the princess fight Demise, how they could even defeat him this time. At least with a trip to look at these divine beast things, there was a plan in place. Zelda could work with a plan.

Besides… maybe the springs could hold something for her as well. Maybe… maybe in the past… when she’d been Hylia… surely she’d seen this coming, right?

Right?

Zelda didn’t know what to do. She had no guide. She missed Impa so much it hurt.

At least I have Link with me this time, she thought, though there was a touch of bitterness to it. Of course he was with her this time – it wasn’t like he could escape this wretched fate, either. But honestly… she couldn’t imagine dealing with this with anyone else. As much as she wished Impa was here, she was forever grateful that Link was. If only both of them could accompany her. If only things could make sense.

But never mind that. There was a whole new world to explore. The Surface had been amazingly new and beautiful, and her restored memories had not lessened that. She couldn’t wait to see what the Surface had become now.

She tried to focus on that, tried to reorient her mind to recognizing that this wasn’t just a terrifying preparation for the war to begin anew. It was an adventure, and she would make sure it ended well.

But wait. Someone else had been on their adventure.

Zelda found herself thinking of her own people, of her friends and her father and the other settlers. She hoped and prayed they were alright.

And that they wouldn’t get near the Gate. Surely… surely they wouldn’t. There was no way they could. Groose was injured (Golden Three, she hoped he was doing okay), and no one else dared enter the Sealed Temple.

She hoped the guards she asked for would keep the place safe.

Zelda leaned over, letting her head rest on Link’s shoulder, and her husband settled his head atop hers. Tomorrow was going to be the start of something entirely new, and she was glad they would face it together.

“I love you,” she whispered.

Link turned his head to nuzzle into her hair a little more, and his arm moved to wrap around her. “I love you too.”

XXX

Hyrule Castle hummed with anticipation as the last rays of sunlight seeped out of the sky. Champions genuflected to the king, spoke with their guards and servants, and prepared themselves for the honor of accompanying a deity. The princess of Hyrule sprawled out on her bed, maps and books all over the covers, though they did little benefit as the girl’s head slowly plopped directly on to a book about the history of the Temple of Time, soft snores escaping her. The royal guards protecting the goddess’ quarters grew anxious as no goddess appeared, while two teenagers snuggled high up above the castle, enjoying the clear night sky. The captain of the guard prayed quietly in his quarters, dinner forgotten, as he thought about the trip the next day. The king moved restlessly through the royal library as he tried to find any clues of the Triforce.

Meanwhile, the princess’ appointed knight snuck around the castle walls, looking around the docks before finding a suitable place to strip off his shirt as the Zora princess waved at him.

The water was cold, and Link felt himself involuntarily gasp as he dipped his bare feet into it. Grabbing hold of his resolve, he leapt into the water, knowing the best way to adjust to the temperature was to just take the plunge. He let it invigorate him, startling all the worries of the day out of his mind as he just focused on swimming. Somehow, just floating in the water helped carry his worries away. He always enjoyed it.

Mipha giggled, catching his attention, and he swam over to her, smiling. They hadn’t done this in what felt like years—maybe it actually had been that long. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it until just now.

“Oh Link,” Mipha said happily. “I’m so glad you could join me!”

Link’s smile grew, and the princess took that as a cue to continue.

“King Rhoam asked for me,” she noted, catching his attention. “Alongside all the other Champions. He asked us to accompany you and the princess as she took the goddess Hylia around Hyrule. I could hardly say no to such a request, but—oh, Link, how can I even get near such a being? Surely I’m not worthy of that. Do you think she’ll go in a carriage or something? At least that way she’ll never see me.”

Link stared at her a moment, letting the words flow through him like the water. The king wished the Champions to go with them? That wasn’t unreasonable, but it certainly changed things a little. Mostly for the better, honestly.

Except for Revali. Ugh. Great.

But having Mipha around would be nice. And Princess Zelda would appreciate Chief Urbosa’s company. Not to mention Daruk’s company would be nice. Though… Link wasn’t sure how Hylia or her Hero would take it.

But Mipha’s concerns registered in his mind, and he shook his head. In the solitude of the castle waters, he didn’t have to hide himself, though the paranoia persisted despite being with his friend. He pushed himself to speak freely. “She’s… not what I expected. I don’t think she’ll dislike you, Mipha.”

“Perhaps,” his friend agreed uncertainly, eyes looking at the moonlight dancing on the water.

“Nobody could dislike you,” Link reassured her, swimming a little closer and sinking into the water so he ended up in her line of sight. Mipha giggled at him as the only part of him that was visible above water was from his nose to the top of his head. She dove abruptly, and Link followed suit, the pair smiling at each other as they swam in circles. It almost felt like they were kids again, playing in Zora’s Domain while Link’s father was assigned there. It almost made him forget everything that was happening.

Almost.

Though, now that he had stepped away from the others, now that he was allowed to just have some simple fun and be with a friend, his mind felt much clearer. The usual immense weight on his shoulders felt a little less heavy, even just momentarily. While Hylia herself was still quite the mystery, her Hero was less so. And while Link still felt a little intimidated approaching him or Her Grace, he could at least draw courage from the fact that neither of them hated him.

He hoped the trip would be fruitful for Zelda. He truly did. The poor princess deserved it.

But what else would this trip bring? What could Link possibly contribute to it? Nothing, he supposed, except for his protection, as always. He supposed that was enough.

As Link and Mipha breached the water’s surface, he glanced back at the castle, wondering what this journey would bring. The playful moment was gone, Mipha stilled beside him, and then she said quietly, “The Calamity draws ever nearer… but Link… we have so much going for us. It must all end well, right?”

I don’t know. He truly didn’t. But… he nodded nonetheless. Because Mipha didn’t need to worry, and honestly, Link would do everything in his power to ensure that Calamity Ganon would be defeated. That had always been enough.

“I pray it will,” Mipha continued, before smiling gently at him. “I will strive to improve my fighting abilities in the meantime. I hope Her Grace and the Hero enjoy seeing the Domain—oh! Oh, I must send word to my father! We can’t be unprepared over such a visit!”

And just like that, his friend was in a frenzy, fretting about divine visitors and speaking about how Zora’s Domain should be ready. Link followed her back to the shore, somewhat amused—he was pretty certain there was nothing she could do to alert her father at the moment, but he was no stranger to worrying over everything and nothing in the middle of the night—and the pair snuck back into the castle. Link tried to hide his shivers as he crept along, listening to water drip off them both on the cobblestone.

“Oh, you’re freezing!” Mipha fretted, immediately grabbing him and holding him close. Link felt his heart skip a beat and by the goddesses he wished he didn’t—they’d done this as children; all the Zora had huddled together for warmth when exiting frigid waters. As children they weren’t quite adept and regulating their temperature, and they knew that Link himself was not capable. But it felt—now it was—

Link swallowed, feeling his cheeks warm up far faster than the rest of him, and Mipha froze. The two locked eyes for a moment, and the Zora princess immediately spluttered and stumbled back so quickly she nearly fell into yet another plant. Link reached out automatically, catching her by the wrist, and she hastily said, “I m-must go, I’m so very sorry, Link, good night!”

The young knight watched his friend practically flee indoors, and he felt… he didn’t know. Guilty? Sad? Embarrassed? All three?

He sighed as his gaze drifted upward along the castle. The worries from a moment ago bled out of him easily as anxieties over tomorrow filled the void. He didn’t think he would be sleeping much tonight. But the focus was back on Princess Zelda, where it belonged. He was there to fulfill a duty as well, but it didn’t require attention or scrutiny. He could guard and watch. He could do that.

He found himself wondering if the Hero of Legend would do that as well. He found himself wondering what he was even supposed to do with that Hero.

He didn’t know what he was supposed to do anymore, honestly. And while he no longer held any worry that his predecessor hated him, he certainly had little idea of how to help him. Assuming he even needed help.

It was all just… confusing. If this trip was fruitful in any way, he hoped it would at least make things less confusing.

I suppose I’ll find out, he thought as he followed Mipha’s wet footprints inside the castle, slipping back into the façade of the perfect soldier.

#writing #breath of the wild #skyward sword #legend of zelda #breath of the wild link #botw link #breath of the wild zelda #botw zelda #skyward sword link #ss link #skyward sword zelda #ss zelda #zelink #miphlink #mipha and link are anxious little beans in love #and too dumb to figure it out #everyone needs an adult and a hug #even the adults lol #Abel deserves a pay raise #Rhoam needs some counseling on how to be a good dad #he's got the right spirit but DUDE #the royal guards assigned to protect Hylia and the Mythical Hero when they realize they're missing again: YOU GOT TO BE KIDDING ME #nobody knows the lovebirds are sitting on the top of the castle #Abel is gonna get a frantic messenger again and sigh heavily #Zellie is planning a great National Geographic Tour of Hyrule and is super excited about it #WHO'S READY FOR A ROAD TRIP #breath of the sky #skye time travels through the queue

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