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aegon-targaryen · 2 months ago

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So Many Eyes

Oneshot | 7.3K words | Pre-Calamity BOTW zelink | read on AO3

Like any good soldier, the first thing he sees is the blade.

He’s not sure what woke him—not even sure he is awake—but a silhouette looms over his bed, and a sliver of moonlight arcs toward his throat. Link rolls off the mattress and hears the strange sigh of steel piercing through his pillow.

Every night for the past five years, he’s gone to sleep within arm’s reach of the Master Sword. This is the first time his hand has closed over empty air instead of its hilt.

A shadow detaches itself from the corner. Link flinches away, right into a sharp jab to the back of his knee, which takes his legs out from under him. A heavy boot connects with his chest and slams him down hard enough to drive the breath from him.

Pain tears at his scalp as a gloved hand seizes his hair and traps his right wrist against the floor. He claws blindly with his left until someone restrains that arm too—that must mean a third assailant, because the first one’s boot is still pinning Link in place. Cold metal touches his throat. His gaze travels up the shining stretch of the blade.

The man towering over him wears the plumed helmet of a Hyrulean soldier.

For a moment, the silence is broken only by Link’s breath wheezing out of his stunned lungs. Then laughter fills the room, cruel and contemptuous, followed by a shiver of magic. Crimson leathers replace the familiar uniform, and three white masks leer down at him with the inverted eye of the Yiga Clan.

“So you aren’t fearless after all,” mocks the blademaster whose boot is crushing down on his ribs.

Link slams his jaw shut, emptying everything from his expression. He should have seen this coming. Safety is never to be taken for granted.

He strains against the hold on his arms and tries to kick at the blademaster, who merely leans into him with crippling weight. Link heaves for air. Black spots invade his peripheral vision, along with a soft glow he passes off as another symptom of suffocation until the silvery chime of his sword’s call reaches that place deep inside him. She’s right there against the wall, where his attackers must have moved her.

“Got any last words?” one of the Yiga sneers. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t.”

The iron grip drags on Link’s hair, pulling his head back to bare his throat. Swathes of darkness drift over him like clouds, obscuring and then revealing the white masks with their bloodred eyes. Terror sluices through his veins. The only word he can think is Zelda.

“Glory to Master Kohga,” the blademaster says, raising the Windcleaver over his head.

That’s his mistake; he can’t lift such a heavy weapon without shifting some weight onto his back foot. The lightened pressure allows Link to wrench himself sideways a split-second before the cleaver whistles past his ears and crashes into the floorboards.

One of the other Yiga locks an arm around his neck from behind. He sinks his teeth into cloth and meat, tasting a flood of copper before the man howls and lets go. Link tears his arms free and rolls to dodge another blow from the cleaver, scrambling over to the wall.

The Master Sword sings beneath his touch. He draws it faster than he ever has, the scabbard clanging to the floor as he rises to his knees and stabs the first Yiga through the chest.

The horror of the desert repeats itself. A warm spatter on his face, the sick slide of steel through flesh, the gasp of a life draining out.

Link whips the sword out to block his second foe’s sickle and takes him down with a slash across the neck, then pivots away from a swing of the Windcleaver, robbing the blademaster of his blade with a brutally quick parry. The floor erupts with a fissure he can hear more than see. He’s thrown back against the wall, legs crumpling beneath him. The blademaster’s huge hands close around Link’s throat, but a moment later, the Master Sword opens his windpipe.

The Yiga staggers back, clawing at his neck, and collapses into a small table by the window. A water pitcher plummets off the edge and shatters against the floor, louder than death. The man gasps and chokes and loses the battle, joining his comrades in silence.

Link presses himself to the wall, chest heaving for air, pulse pounding in his ears at a deafening volume—no, that’s the sound of someone pounding on his door. It slams open before his paralyzed mind can catch up. He scrambles to his feet with sword in hand.

Two knights rush through the doorway in their nightclothes. One holds a candle that spills soft orange light over the spreading pools of blood, the unmoving bodies, the white mask that fell from one of their faces.

Link’s gaze crawls over the blademaster’s prone form, finds a tuft of dark hair and a hooked nose, and skitters away instantly.

“Goddess above,” the first knight says, lifting the candle higher to illuminate Link, standing there with his sword dripping onto the floorboards. The second knight staggers out of the room to call for the captain.

Link lowers the sword but does not sheathe it. The Yiga came in disguise. Could their magic replicate a face as well as a soldier’s armor? Could they be impersonating this man? Link has known him for years, but that proves nothing. Zelda nearly lost her life to the Yiga’s deception.

Zelda.

Doors are opening up and down the hall as sleep-mussed people shuffle out to investigate the commotion. The second knight returns with the captain, and suddenly Link’s room is full of people, all of them talking over each other loudly enough to wake the rest of the barracks.

“Did they injure you?” asks one of the knights, an ordinarily hard-faced man who seemed incapable of smiling until the day Link saw him wandering the town market with a little girl on his shoulders. There’s something of that softness in his gaze right now, and it tightens Link’s throat until speech becomes unfathomable.

The captain turns away from the bodies, his slate-grey eyes scouring Link up and down. “What happened here?”

The air reeks of copper. His breathing sounds ridiculously loud in his ears and he’s trying to get it under control, trying to be who they need him to be, but all he can think is, If they got to me, they can get to Zelda.

“I asked you a question,” the captain growls.

Link turns on his heel and runs.

Shouts follow him out the door and past the gawking faces that line the hallway, but no one pursues. He races up the stairs, down another corridor, and out into the frigid night. The frozen ground sends vague jolts of pain from his bare feet to his calves, but Link charges ceaselessly for the two towers silhouetted against the stars.

His ribs and lungs are screaming by the time he reaches the top floor. The guards on either side of Zelda’s door take far too long to react to his presence. When they do, their jaws drop open. One even takes his spear in both hands before recognition dawns in his eyes. Link can’t really blame them; he’s rarely seen without his blue tunic and the tie that keeps his hair out of his face.

“Er…Champion?” one of them stammers. “You’re—you’re covered in blood?”

Oh, he thinks blankly, and does not allow himself to look down.

“What are you doing here?”

“You can’t expect to see the princess at this hour,” adds the other man. “Especially not…like that.”

A perfectly reasonable response, but Link has no time for this. He flounders around for the words that will get him into that room, hyperaware of the guards’ gazes and the slick blood between his fingers.

The door swings open all on its own. Zelda blinks owlishly in the torchlight, a messy braid spilling down the shoulder of her pale nightgown, sleepy and confused and alive, alive, alive. He can’t stop a shudder from rattling through his whole frame.

“Link?” she says blearily, her eyes focusing and widening. “You’re bleeding!”

He steps past her into the room. The guards sputter out apologies to Zelda, but she holds up a hand and watches Link scour the shadows behind her changing screen and under her bed. So many possible entrances: the balcony, the windows, the spiral staircase, the bridge connecting this tower to the next.

“What’s going on?” Zelda demands.

“I wish I knew, Princess,” mutters one of the guards.

Warm fingers catch Link’s sword arm. He would know them anywhere, even though touch is a rare and dangerous thing between them, yet he can’t stop himself from flinching violently. Zelda lets go. Of course she does; the blood is already drying on his skin.

“Out. That’s an order.” It’s been months since her voice cut so sharply. Link’s heart slams against his ribcage like a frightened horse kicking at the stall door. He hears the guards retreat and dreads having to follow before she adds quietly, “Not you.”

The door shuts behind them; that’s one entrance secure. All he can see through the windows is black night, interrupted here and there by the watchmen’s torches. Stalking to the balcony, Link flings open the door with his sword raised, checking the platform and the surrounding walls before he closes the door and drags over a small cabinet to act as a barricade.

“Is that your blood?” Zelda is blocking his path when he turns around, arms crossed against the chill he just allowed into the room. “Link. Is that your—”

He shakes his head, sliding around her and taking the stairs two at a time, only slowing when he realizes that she’s coming with him. That’s probably for the best; Link shouldn’t leave her alone right now, though he does hold out a hand to make her wait in the stairwell until he’s certain the second floor is clear.

She follows him across the bridge to check her dark study. There’s nothing here, nothing anywhere, but Link pauses halfway back to her room, listening intently for footsteps, for voices, for the scrape of grappling hooks on the tower walls. The only sounds breaching the deep night are flags snapping in the wind and Zelda shivering in front of him, her nightgown the same color as the quarter-moon that smudges the cloudy sky.

For the moment, they’re safe.

Winter’s bite sinks into him all of a sudden. The flagstones are ice under his feet, the Master Sword so cold it hurts his fingers. Zelda must be worse off without the madness of adrenaline fueling her.

They return to her room in silence. She brushes past him to light a candle on her nightstand. Link is contemplating how to barricade the staircase when she rounds on him, her arms tight around herself and her face half in shadow. “Tell me what happened.”

The old impatience tinges her voice, but it doesn’t hurt the way it used to; he understands now that Zelda’s helplessness always materializes as anger, just as his takes the form of silence. Some knight he is, being the cause of her fear. She’s staring at his clothes, and a vague needle of grief threads through him. He still doesn’t want to look down, but he has a feeling the oversized shirt that once belonged to his father is filthy beyond saving.

There are far bigger concerns, though. His princess is waiting for an answer.

One word. One word to help her understand. As a kid, Link once dropped his wooden sword into the sink-mud bordering the wetlands. Reclaiming it from the thick murk required all his strength. Dredging up his voice feels much the same right now, and all that effort only delivers a thin whisper.

“Yiga.”

“In your bedroom?” Zelda gasps.

He nods.

“Was anyone hurt?”

Link drags in a slow breath through his nose, wishing it wouldn’t tremble so much on the exhale. “Just them.”

Her lips part, but it’s a long time before anything comes out. “You came here,” she manages breathlessly. “Your first thought was to come here.”

He stares at her, his voice drifting away like leaves down a river.

“I…sit down. I’ll be back in a moment.”

She opens the door to speak with the guards. Link stares at a sketch tacked to the wall above her desk, some Sheikah contraption surrounded by scribbly notes, and tries to stop smelling the blood. The sword hilt is sticky with it, but the scabbard is back in his room with the corpses. He should go back—the captain needs his report—but that would mean entrusting Zelda’s safety to that slack-jawed pair at the door when anyone and everyone could be the enemy in disguise.

The castle has never quite felt like somewhere he belongs, but at the very least, it’s always been secure. Now, he can practically feel the Calamity’s fangs at his throat.

“I asked them to check on my father,” Zelda says, stepping back inside and closing the door behind her. “Someone likely woke him with the news already, but I want to make certain he’s safe. Are you sure you’re not injured?”

Link nods.

“But you…are you okay?”

Even beginning to answer that question seems unfathomable. He’s vaguely aware of Zelda rummaging around in her dresser, but he can’t look at her, can’t ground himself, can’t figure out what a hero is supposed to do right now. Stay here? Return to the barracks? Report to the king?

“Here,” she says. Link glances sidelong at the shirt she’s holding out to him. She seems to be struggling to look at him too, her cheeks tinged red with the candle’s glow. “Something clean to wear. I’ve been meaning to return it to you.”

At the Spring of Power, Zelda shook and struggled and eventually clung to him as he drew her out of the dark water and gave her the first dry clothes he found in his pack—the standard-issue black tunic that goes beneath his royal guard uniform and a pair of trousers. Both were frayed and probably smelly, but at the time, Link’s embarrassment was secondary to getting her out of that sodden dress.

There is nothing wrong with you, he told her over and over again, and his voice didn’t tremble once, even with the Goddess’s stone silhouette looming over them.

The strength of that night feels far away. Link wants so badly to accept the shirt, both to free himself of the horrific smell of copper and to avoid snuffing out the hopeful light in Zelda’s eyes. But he has to shake his head.

Her brows knit together. “Why not?”

He glances at the door.

“People will talk?” she guesses, then scowls fearsomely at his nod. “I don’t care.”

Link holds her gaze long enough to see her waver. The rumors are easy to imagine. The swordsman entered the princess’s bedchamber in one shirt and came out in another, all before the bodies were even cold. What does that say about him? About her?

“I don’t care,” Zelda insists, though he can hear how much she does. At the very least, a scandal would infuriate the king, which is the last thing she needs right now.

And he cares desperately. Since he first knelt before the throne with the Master Sword on his back and so many eyes upon him, Link has understood that his strength is Hyrule’s strength. Ignoring his commanding officer and sprinting through the castle like a madman was bad enough. There can be no further cracks in his armor.

He wants to press the shirt back into Zelda’s hands and say, Thank you for trying. Keep it for as long as you want. Keep everything that’s in my power to give.

“I can’t just let you—” she starts, but a knock on the door interrupts her. “Yes?”

“All is well with the king, Your Highness,” one of the guards says through the door. “Sir Link is wanted back in the barracks, though.”

Her spine stiffens. With a swift glance at Link, she wraps a cloak around her shoulders and declares, “I’m coming with you. My authority still counts for something. If there are questions about why you left to come here, I’ll be there to answer them.”

She braces for an argument, her chin raised in that stubborn manner he recalls all too keenly from when they were bound by obligation instead of friendship. Link just shrugs. He’d rather keep her close in case more Yiga are around. Zelda gives him a self-satisfied hmmph as she steps into a pair of slippers.

“Can I at least offer you some shoes?” she asks.

Link looks down at his bare feet, reddened by the cold and starting to ache from the run over, and nods. He’s not expecting her to hand him the traveling boots that have borne her all over Hyrule. They’re a little tight, but wearing something of Zelda’s—feeling the imprints she’s left in the leather—makes him lightheaded for reasons he doesn’t want to examine too closely.

You’ve been a kindness to me, she told him once. And sometimes kindness can hurt.

Not for the first time, Link understands her perfectly.

The barracks are full of his bedraggled comrades, armoring for duty or chattering in low voices. Most fall silent as Link and Zelda pass by. The two soldiers guarding the hallway that leads to his room step aside without a word.

The Yiga lie where they fell—two piled between the bed and the wall, the third near the table. He catches a glimpse of the blademaster’s unmasked face and bites the inside of his cheek to keep from being sick.

“Finally,” the captain sighs when Link crosses the threshold. “Do you think that sword puts you above obeying orders? The next time you—”

“To whom is Link sworn?” Zelda asks mildly, stepping into the torchlight as every soldier in the room snaps to attention. Her gaze flickers over the bodies, and Link sees her swallow hard before she continues. “The duties my father assigned him as my knight supersede any other order. He left only to thwart any potential attempts on my life.”

“Of course, Princess.” The captain has turned red under his helmet. “My apologies. We were not expecting you.”

“Nor was I,” says King Rhoam. If the captain’s face was red before, it’s flaming now. The king fills the doorway, an imposing figure despite his simple robe and absent crown. Link goes down on one knee, along with all the other soldiers.

Through his messy bangs, he watches Zelda’s hands tighten into fists. “Father,” she greets carefully.

“Zelda. My quarters were quiet this evening. Were yours?”

“Yes.”

Such a veiled way to ask if she’s all right. Link has barely seen his family in years, but distance seems more bearable than what Zelda has—her mother cold in a grave, her father not much warmer.

“I had no wish for you to see this carnage,” Rhoam continues.

“An attack on my appointed knight is an attack on me,” Zelda replies. Link’s eyes sting. It’s been a long time since anyone stood at his side instead of expecting him to lead the charge. He wishes they were alone. He wishes he could uncurl her clenched fingers and press a kiss to her palm.

“Rise, all of you,” the king commands. His stony eyes are on Link the moment he straightens, flashing briefly to his borrowed boots before returning to his face. “Well done, sir knight. Both in stopping the Yiga and in ensuring my daughter’s safety.”

The hair on the back of Link’s neck rises as the compliment draws every gaze in the room to him—except for Zelda’s. If only the king would spare an ounce of this praise for his own daughter.

“Tell us what we need to know about this incident,” Rhoam orders him.

Link’s throat is bone-dry. Zelda’s worried eyes find him again, and he looks nowhere but her as he drags out the answer. “They were disguised as guards.”

“They don’t look like guards to me,” the captain mutters, eyeing the crimson-clad corpses. Nausea climbs up Link’s gullet.

“The Yiga can magically shed their disguises at the blink of an eye,” Zelda points out. “I saw them do just that outside Gerudo Town once.” She catches her father’s glance and adds, “Urbosa handled it.”

“Then the enemy may have infiltrated our ranks,” Rhoam says grimly. “We must interview every guard, search their belongings, review service records…the nobility could be compromised as well. Even the servants. Captain, assemble your people in the courtyard. I will issue orders from there.”

“I can help, Father.”

“You have other duties to attend.” He doesn’t watch her wilt, but his tired eyes return to Link. “I would have your knight remain with you until the castle is secure. Captain, find them a space that you are confident can be defended.”

The king sweeps away, his parting words the first indication that after the castle is out of danger, there will be hard questions about how the Yiga got as far as they did. Watching the captain wince is a little satisfying, even under the circumstances. It’s on his orders that Link receives a relentless number of assignments, on the grounds that the Master Sword grants him advantages everyone else lacks.

Zelda rails against his treatment with a passion he finds baffling, but the truth is, he never used to care. The work occupied his hands and his mind, and the captain was right about how badly his skills were needed. But then Zelda tore down the walls between them, and everything changed—because now there’s someone who seeshim, understands him, listens to what he can’t say. These days, when Link is killing things or sparring with soldiers who watch his sword with covetous eyes, all he thinks about is how much he’d rather be with Zelda.

Because of her, time is something to be craved rather than merely endured. So the king’s command is a relief. A gift, even.

The captain’s sour expression makes it clear he’d rather employ the Master Sword elsewhere, but he leads Link and Zelda out of the barracks and down the stone passage that cuts beneath the central castle. Guards flank them on all sides, bearing torches and steel and haggard expressions. Fear must be stalking their thoughts just as it does Link’s. Days will pass before any of his comrades can trust the person next to them again.

But the person next to Link is Zelda, and—Goddess, how he longs to reach out and hold her hand.

The passage opens into the library, an ordinarily cozy space turned cavernously dark and dangerous by this impossibly long night. Link supposes the Yiga are less likely to come looking for him or Zelda here, but it’s so far from being easily defensible that his fingers tighten around the hilt of the sword.

Then the captain trails his hand along the bookshelves that line the western wall, pausing at a case with glass doors and waving over another man to help drag it aside. A narrow passage yawns between the shelves.

“Princess, do you recall where the other entrance is?” the captain asks.

“I do,” Zelda replies briskly. “Let us hope it sees no use tonight.”

“I will station a full unit here. Respond only to this knock.” He raps a four-note pattern against the wall. “Should you need anything, please use the same code.”

He holds out his torch. She lifts her chin without taking it, that stubbornness reemerging in the set of her shoulders, and says firmly, “See that you remember my knight has served your guard and this kingdom better than any other, Captain. He is not a spear to be thrown at the enemy or a shield for others to hide behind. At the very least, he deserves to be safe in his own bed.”

With that, she accepts the torch and slips into the black maw of the passageway between the bookshelves. The captain is turning red again. Link’s been at the receiving end of Zelda’s ire enough to find some sympathy this time, but more than that, her words stir up some unnamable feeling that tightens his throat and sends him scrambling into the darkness after her.

The bookcase slides back in place behind him. He follows Zelda up a short staircase and into a rugged cave of a room. She lights several sconces with her torch, brightening the place one piece at a time: the bunk bed crammed into one corner, the trunks and sealed barrels in another, the water trickling down the wall across from the stairs. Link assumes it’s leaking from the castle’s upper levels until he notices the fountain carved into the stone.

“It’s a safe room,” Zelda explains. “The guards are digging to connect it with the escape tunnels that lead out of the castle. The other side of the library has a passageway down to an underground dock.” She winces. “Royal secrets, technically, but…well, you’ve seen it now.”

The fountain is an ingenious touch. Assuming those barrels contain some kind of food, the royal family could hide here for weeks.

“We’ve used this room twice that I can recall. Once when a Yiga was discovered stealing bananas from the kitchen. And much earlier than that, when they made an attempt on my mother’s life.”

Link feels suddenly foolish for thinking that day in the desert was the first time she’s come under attack. Of course the Yiga have been hounding the princess destined to seal the Calamity for as long as she’s been alive.

He didn’t encounter them until he was fourteen, learning spearwork from an old friend of his father’s at Kara Kara Bazaar, the Master Sword always carefully wrapped to conceal its nature. Word got out somehow, though, because a pair of masked figures found him alone among the dunes one night, wandering to clear the thoughts that were only just beginning to take root back then, thoughts of what the world was asking of him and what it meant to answer.

Link got away mostly unscathed. So did the Yiga. Unlike tonight.

The throbbing pain in his ribs is growing harder to ignore. Zelda leaves her torch in one of the sconces and faces him again.

“Not many people know about this place,” she says quietly. “The guards are right outside; we’ll hear if anything goes wrong. So you can…”

She trails off, waiting for him to say or do something. Link pushes his messy hair out of his eyes in frustration. Maybe tying it back would help him pull himself together, but a glance down at the blue band around his wrist makes him clench his jaw until he hears it creak. For a moment there, he forgot about the blood caking the hairtie to his skin, drying in the lines that cross his palm, probably smearing his face where he just brushed his bangs away. Again, Link feels his blade glide smoothly through muscle and meat. Again, he hears the Yiga fight for their last breaths.

It’s all too much—the memories, the weight of the sword, everything that waits for him outside this room. He takes a step back from Zelda, who watches with wide eyes.

“Link,” she says in a voice that makes him want to flee and fall apart all at once.

He’s suddenly aware that he’s gasping for air, that he’s been shaking this whole time and can’t figure out how to stop. When Zelda’s hands land on his shoulders, Link jolts like a spooked horse. She withdraws, but only to lift the sword from his unresisting fingers. After she lowers it carefully to the floor, her palms come away red.

Never blind yourself to it, his mother told him once, her own hands stained with the deer she was teaching him to butcher. Never let it become easy.

Link wants to be blind so badly it hurts.

“Come here,” Zelda says, gathering him into her arms. He struggles half-heartedly, terrified of ruining her lovely nightgown, but she only strengthens her grip and commands, “Stop. Just stop. You’re allowed to be human for a moment.”

Is he? Three dead people on his floor, and the princess of Hyrule is pressing him close to her heart.

Nothing about this is proper. Zelda spent an awful night at his bedside in the infirmary, holding his hand while the surgeon coaxed an arrow from his flesh. Link carried her out of the Spring of Power when she was half-conscious with fever and despair. But those were emergencies. The rest of the time, touch is restricted to helping her mount her horse, offering his arm when they scramble up a rocky slope, sitting with his shoulder tantalizingly close to hers.

They’ve never held each other. Link can’t even return the embrace without worsening both the stains on her dress and the ache in his ribs. But he also can’t bring himself to pull away.

“I’m grateful that you’re safe,” Zelda says, fingers digging into the back of his shirt. “No matter what. Are you listening to me?”

Link nods against her shoulder. She’s so impossibly warm, and he clings to the sensation of her steady heartbeat, listening to his own pulse slow down from near-hysteria to something resembling normalcy.

“Zelda,” he whispers eventually.

“Yes?”

Even the court poet’s eloquent words would fail to capture what she’s just done for him. Link is starting to realize how much of her bare skin is touching his, and desperate hunger rears its head with the desire to tangle his hands in her hair and show her everything he’s struggling to voice.

Link clears his throat and pulls back. Zelda offers him a small, sad smile and leads him over to the fountain, bringing their joined hands beneath the cold flow of water. He occupies himself with speculating about the engineering. The pipes must be channeling the castle’s moat all the way through the earth to reach them here, and perhaps the grate empties out somewhere near these hidden docks beneath the library.

It’s easier than watching the water run red.

All the while, her hands are on his—turning them this way and that, rubbing carefully at the spots where the blood clings on more stubbornly, guiding his arms under the flow too. Link keeps his thoughts far away and his gaze on the little furrow that forms between Zelda’s brows when she’s concentrating, so it comes as a surprise when he looks down to find his skin nearly as clean as it was when he crawled into bed hours ago, not knowing what was about to happen.

“Almost done,” Zelda says, pushing his hair out of the way, just as she did when he came away from that fight in Eldin with two tiny scratches that still somehow made her worry. Her gentle fingers trail water over his forehead and cheeks, and Link shivers, remembering with foolish longing how her body felt against his.

Her lips part, but then she steps back, digging something out of the pocket of her cloak—the same black tunic she offered him earlier. “Please take it this time.”

This time, he reaches for the hem of his bloodied nightshirt without hesitation. Zelda releases a wordless squeak he finds incredibly endearing, whirling around with her hands over her eyes. Noble propriety will mystify him as long as he lives. Not so long ago, she stood in a room of corpses without turning away.

He pulls the shirt over his head and lets it slip from his fingers. Words follow, dangerous and unbidden. “I don’t mind.”

Zelda lowers her hands, though it’s another second before she turns to face him. At first her gaze warms him better than any fireplace could, but then it snags on his abdomen, noticing the angry splotches around his chest and ribs at the same time he does. She comes forward, lifting his arm to find red fingerprints from where the Yiga restrained him, and then circles around to his back, hissing at whatever evidence she finds there. He’ll be bruised by tomorrow, but it’s her featherlight touch making his legs feel week right now, not the pain.

“Those cowards,” she says in a small voice. “Always striking from the shadows. Always hiding behind masks.”

Link shrugs. “It’s what they do.”

Besides, he paid them back tenfold. Zelda shakes her head, grabbing her torch wordlessly and heading back down the stairs. He hears the knock pattern the captain taught her, hears the bookcase slide aside in response so she can talk to the guards. Too tired to be curious, Link pulls the clean black shirt over his head and uses the soiled one to clean the last of the blood from the Master Sword.

Zelda returns with a handkerchief full of icicles the guards must have gathered at her behest. She orders him to sit down on the bottom bunk and hands him the handkerchief to press to his ribs, then sits beside him to ask questions about his pain and his breathing that he answers as best he can.

“And how is your heart?” she says at the end.

“Seems to be working.”

“Link. You know what I mean.”

His gaze strays back to his bloodied nightshirt, puddled on the floor like a dead thing. His father gave it to him sometime during their travels. It’s not like training with every tribe and facing every threat the wild has to offer was easy, but Link took so many things for granted about those years—most of all, his father being there to make bad coffee over the campfire and give up his shirts to keep Link warm.

His father is stationed at Akkala Citadel now. It’s been a long time since Link went home to see his mother and sister. He sends perfunctory letters once a month so they know he’s alive, but he never really knows what to talk about, or how to bring back the boy they used to know.

“I don’t know,” Link says finally. “I don’t—have space to think about that.”

“I think pain is there whether we think about it or not. Even I was convinced I was holding it together until you showed up and saw right through me.” Zelda smiles at him wearily. “I’ve never excelled at hiding what I feel from anyone, but with you…it was impossible from the start, and it took me a long time to be okay with that. So believe me, I understand how hard it is to look inwards. But you’ve helped me. So let me help you.”

He shifts the ice to the other side of his ribcage, watching shadows dance across the rock walls of their shelter.

“Link, please. I can’t just let you bury yourself.”

Hasn’t Link thought the same thing countless times, watching her shiver in the sacred springs, leave behind the research she loves, hold her head high past the whispers that follow them through every town? He looks down at Zelda’s white-knuckled grip on the edge of the mattress, and he knows that if he buries himself, there will be no one left to dig her out.

“I guess I…” he starts slowly. “I think the enemy gets stronger every day. I think things are going to get worse from here on out.”

“Oh,” Zelda breathes, and her fingers clasp together in a compulsive, familiar gesture that breaks his heart. She’s praying, perhaps subconsciously—for her power to awaken, for his words to be untrue, for them both to have the time that fate has denied them. Regretting his words instantly, Link sets the ice down and pulls her hands into his lap.

“I don’t doubt that we’ll win,” he says, though in his heart of hearts, he carries more doubt than he’ll ever admit.

“But you’re afraid of something.”

If only Link could refute that. His chest aches with every word. “I’ve changed. I don’t—at the end of this, I don’t know if I’ll…if my family will…”

Zelda squeezes his hands like they’re something precious, despite the rust-red stains under his nails. Link bites the inside of his cheek. He’s spent years killing his own voice and past and future without hesitation until she reminded him that life is worth living. Silencing others forever has a different weight. One Yiga in the desert, three in his bedroom, more monsters than he can even begin to count—where does it end? How long can he keep going?

“It doesn’t frighten me,” she says softly. “I won’t pretend to understand how it feels to do what you did tonight, but if the cost of your life is that of our enemies, then Hylia forgive me, I’ll pay it. Do you think that’s wrong?”

“No,” he admits slowly. Any other answer would be a lie. Link has never been so quick to deal out death as he was that day in the desert, with that Vicious Sickle seconds away from cutting the sun from the sky.

“Nor do I. The Yiga hunt us sheerly because of who we were born to be. For the same reason, the whole world has demanded that we change. You aren’t to blame for who you’ve needed to become since you drew the sword. I think everyone else who loves you would say the same thing.”

Everyone else who—

Heat spreads from his neck to the tips of his ears. A sheepish smile crosses Zelda’s face as she absorbs her words. Link has none of his own to offer, so he just pulls her close. She twines her arms around his neck, more careful now that she knows about his damaged ribs, and he closes his eyes to breathe in the smell of nectar and ink. Sometime after entering this quiet sanctuary with her, he finally stopped shaking, and he’s only just realized it.

“I thought of you,” he breathes into her shoulder. “When the Yiga almost—I thought of you.”

“Link,” she says raggedly, and there’s more hope in that one word than any prayer she’s given to the Goddess.

She fits so perfectly against him that it’s hard to believe he’s gone a lifetime without feeling her breath against his neck. He knows with perfect clarity that he would do it all over again if it brought him here into her arms. They don’t cry—they never cry—but they hold each other until she’s heavy with sleep, and even then, Link is reluctant to lay her down on the bunk.

He stays there at the edge of the mattress, alone in the flickering firelight, and allows himself to think of home for the first time in what feels like eons. Insects singing in the summer grass. Sunlight on water. His mother behind him on the back of a horse, her graceful hands showing his small ones how to hold the reins. His father coming home with a worn smile, helmet tucked under his arm. His little sister, all yellow pigtails and muddy legs, running up to give Link a handful of wildflowers and a gap-toothed smile.

Time is impossible to keep track of down here. After some of it trickles by, one of the guards knocks on the door to bring him more ice. There’s something strange in the way he doesn’t make eye contact, something almost ashamed. Link puzzles over that for a while longer, glancing down every so often to watch dreams drift across Zelda’s eyelids. She starts to stir at the second knock, and he trots downstairs just in time for the shelf to slide away, allowing a shaft of near-blinding sun to reach through the gap.

“The castle’s secure,” the captain informs him tiredly. “To an extent, that is. Persons of interest will remain under heavy guard, but the princess can return to her quarters.”

Link nods, surprised he came to deliver the news himself; he’s got bags under his eyes and surely a thousand things to do.

“Sir Link,” the captain says before he can walk back upstairs, and Link freezes, unable to recall a time when the captain used his name. “They’ve moved your things to a spare bunk in the main barracks, the door to which will be guarded at all times. You’re on leave for two weeks unless you receive orders higher than mine.”

Only years of practice keep Link’s jaw from dropping. Two weeks? He’s never gotten more than a few days. Sudden paranoia sparks through him at the memory of the Yiga looming over him in Hyrulean uniforms. At least this time his sword is right in his hand, but—

“The princess had a point,” the captain says impatiently. “We all owe you better. Now go and fetch her, unless you’re planning to ignore orders again.”

This can’t be an imposter; the Yiga wouldn’t know about his insubordinate track record. Link searches the captain’s face for some sign that his sudden generosity is a joke, or somehow a punishment, but the man just holds his gaze impassively. Not wanting to test his luck, Link floats back up the stairs as though in a dream. Two weeks.

Zelda is up and splashing water on her face when Link returns. “Good,” she says when he relays the captain’s decision. “He’s finally come to his senses.”

Link shrugs, still mystified as they emerge blinking against the sunlight to meet her guard escort. For a moment of strange panic, he doesn’t want to watch her go, as though everything he told her and everything she told him will fade with the light of day.

“Get some rest, sir knight,” she orders him. They can’t touch each other again with such an audience, but the fondness is all in her voice and the curl of her lips.

Link nods solemnly, turning in the other direction, then pauses and glances back at her. “Princess?”

Everyone but Zelda twitches at the sound of his voice. She raises her eyebrows in a silent question, and Link nods in response. He’s all right. But without her, that wouldn’t be the case. His life since drawing the sword has made it clear that he can survive anything. But Zelda is the reason an impossible bud of hope still pushes up through the soil at every sunrise.

“Thank you,” Link says, the words clear as a mountain lake, “for lending me your boots.”

The guards all look at his feet in disbelief—him borrowing something from the princess is gossip by itself—but he’s focused on watching the tips of Zelda’s ears grow pink. Link worries that he’s done something wrong until she breathes out a laugh.

“Anytime,” she promises, holding his gaze for one more second before she finally turns away.

He drifts back to the main barracks. A few lower-ranking soldiers are snoring among the rows of bunk beds, but most of the force is out there securing the castle. Link finds his belongings laid out in the quiet corner where he’ll be staying until his room is no longer a crime scene, though the idea of ever sleeping there again is not a welcome one. He slides the Master Sword back into its scabbard, crawls into bed, and closes his aching eyes.

Two weeks, he thinks in amazement, and again his mind fills with the warm memory of home.

Maybe it’s finally time he paid a visit.

#pre-calamity #botw zelink #loz #botw #zelink #my writing #loz fanfiction #zelink fanfiction

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sylviesoothsayer22 · 4 months ago

Text

Lured Deep Beneath The Waves (Complete)

He Xuan x Wei Ying

In order to save their worthless lives, Wei Ying's village offered Jiang Yanli up on a silver platter to a beast, only for her little brother to step in and oh so nobly take her place. Forcefully whisked away from his -ahem- not so peaceful living situation, he now finds himself in a queer place, looking like the spoiled wife of a dotting lord, wondering what he ought to do with his new circumstances.

That sounds like one of those questionable novels I'd catch jiejie reading. Also, I didn’t exactly ‘step in’ of my own accord.

At least the clucking hens back at the village now have new writing material to work with.

Author's Note:

The idea for this work came to me when I had a mental health retreat by the sea a few months back. Told some discord friends about it and it sorta snowballed to this. Also, I was accused of having a Hua Cheng-bias and needed to clear my name. *shrug*

This fic may or may not have some Deadpool & Wolverine humour here and there. Oops.

Anyways! This whole premise will eventually turn into a series of instalments that deal with HeXian's marital life. Now, onto the first fic!

He would’ve done it had she just asked. Madame Yu really didn’t need to go through all the trouble.

Wei Wuxian had been kneeling for so long that his legs had already gone numb. The cliff he was on faced the roiling, blackened sea, stretching out as far as the eye could perceive, so much so that he was unable to differentiate between the darkened waters and sky. He could taste the bitter salt in the air, the sea-spray clinging to his clothes, the chilling breeze, which forced his body into sporadic shivers. Not a single gull dared to caw, no fishermen hollering at each other to go home before curfew or paddles splashing against the water’s pull. Aside from his own breathing, the only other sound Wei Wuxian’s ears knew were the roarous crashing of waves smashing into the rocks of the cliff that he was chained to.

It was already nighttime, a smattering of stars splashed across the sky, the crescent moon hung high like an arced axe about to fall on his head at any moment, its subtle glow barely providing him any light for his surroundings. Not that Wei Ying could see much through the stupid veil.

All this over some moronic ritual that should’ve died out in a bygone era.

It all began with a rumour. Black Water Demon Xuan was looking for someone, a woman, with hair like shadow, a face as fair as snow and eyes so bright they reflected the night sky. Said rumour trickled its way into the tiny fishing villages located near the South Sea, where the fabled Black Water Demon Lair resides. This led many to believe that he was looking for a wife, a concubine or perhaps just a bed-slave. As you can imagine, it resulted in numerous families offering up their daughters to the Water Demon, praying that it would spare their village from the Calamity’s dismay.

The act of ‘offering’ one’s daughter to Black Water had become so common among the five villages that, throughout the centuries, it warped and spiralled into a ritualistic sacrifice where, every ten years, one fishing village out of the five, Lianhua, Huīshuǐ, Lántiān, Rìluò and Jinyǔmáo, had to place a fair maiden, dressed in the most elaborate bridal robes each village could afford, upon the Weeping Cliff, named after the silently weeping brides who would be carried there. The most hysterical bride would find themselves chained to the cliff in order to prevent them from escaping or even finding a way out of the marriage by plunging themselves into the watery depths below.

Each village has their own method of choosing a bride, ensuring that it was random to make it ‘fair’. For Lianhua village, it was through a single pearl. As soon as it was Lianhua’s turn to sacrifice one of their own, the unmarried women of their village would gather at the main square, there they would find a bucket filled with perfectly round white stones and an opalescent pearl hidden among the identical rocks. Upon the ringing of a bell, each maid was forced to step up and dig deep into the bucket, as it was forbidden to pick anything from the surface, until one woman was saddled with the unlucky pearl. This year’s chosen maid was unfortunately none other than his jiejie, Jiang Yanli.

Well, she wasn’t Wei Wuxian’s actual sister, as the lovely Madame Yu was keen on reminding him every damn day.

Wei Ying’s parents were wandering cultivators that got killed on one of their hunts while he was very young. By some miracle, Wei Ying managed to find his way back to Lianhua where village head Jiang Fengmian recognized the lost little boy as the son whom his parents helped the people of Lianhua deal with some pesky water ghouls a few months back and so, decided to take Wei Ying in as a way to pay his debt to the boy’s parents.

Of course, the Dear Madame Yu didn’t like how her husband seemingly favoured Wei Ying over their son, Jiang Cheng. Going out of her way to belittle every single achievement Wei Ying ever made while growing up. Oh, Wei Ying far exceeded Jiang Cheng in their studies? Madame Yu would give Jiang Cheng a scolding so severe that Wei Ying started deliberately underperforming just so that there would be less friction between mother and son. Wei Ying tied fishing nets faster than Jiang Cheng? Any praise given to him by Jiang Fengmain would be met with an equal amount of derision from his lovely wife. Wei Ying caught more fish than Jiang Cheng? He would wake up the next day and find his fishing tools tampered with to which Wei Ying chose to keep his mouth shut and carry on with his day.

Wei Ying can easily forgive and forget all these little transgressions. After all, he was just an interloper, an orphan who was saved from a life on the streets thanks to the Jiang family’s pity. The least he could do was keep his head down and not offset the delicate balance among his hosts.

However, Wei Ying drew the line at Madame Yu’s ill treatment of Cangse Sanren and Wei Changze’s memory. The woman would go out of her way to stamp out Wei Ying’s tendency to emulate his parents, as in whenever he tries practising the cultivation techniques that the two wandering cultivators taught him. The same techniques that helped Wei Ying survive on his own until he managed to find his way back to Lianhua. Even going as far as to disparage any attempted meetings between Wei Ying and rogue cultivators that found their way into the fishing village. All Wei Ying wanted was to follow in his parents’ footsteps, but the mere idea of him being better than the blood-son in anything was enough to set Madame Yu off a bunch.

Needless to say, once he was old enough Wei Ying spent most of his days out of the Jiang household. Only ever using the residence as a place to sleep or shelter from harsh weather. Wei Ying only hoped that he could make it until he found a wife and finally moved out of that dreary house.

Perhaps if Wei Ying was around more often, he wouldn’t be in this mess or at least spare his jiejie some grief.

I could’ve convinced her to hide out in one of the neighbouring villages until the ritual was over. Her idiot betrothed would’ve certainly helped. Or tamper with the selection process. Or or-

Aiyah, he was overthinking again. Now, where was he?

Ah, yes. His current predicament.

To Madame Yu, it was bad enough that her husband barely paid attention to their son, but finding out that she’ll lose her only daughter to a Calamity of all beings, was the last straw. She secretly hired the Wen Gang to capture Wei Wuxian-Really, Madame? Really?! Of all the scum you could’ve hired to do your dirty work, you chose the bullies notoriously known for encroaching on the villages’ fishing territories and beating up the weak?! Come on, Madame Yu! Have some class!

Anyways, the hired help managed to sneak up on him (Wei Ying blamed it on the wine he drank to drown out his sorrows), knocked him out by a swift log to the head, dressed him up as the bride and chained him to the damn cliff.

Shackled to this lonely rock while bedecked head-to-toe in wedding garb, Wei Wuxian resembled a royal bride shipped off to an ill-fated marriage. He wore scarlet robes with a long gradient train, the colour blending from crimson to sunset red, his shoulders padded and decorated with dangling golden chains, teardrop shaped lapis lazuli dripping at the tailends of the delicate metalwork. Water dragons stitched with silver thread, serpentine jaws open in defiance, their long bodies coiling around his front and waist. Each dragon sporting eyes embroidered with golden thread, glinting eerily. His hair was held up by two golden criss-crossing hair pins. The metal of the pins twisting and bending like roots, the stems cradling shining red flowers nestled within raven tresses. Were one to look more closely at the pins, they’d see that the ‘petals’ were in fact seashells painted in red lacquer, carefully arranged to look like blooming flowers. Hanging off his pale arms were long, billowing sleeves made of satin with a silk, semi-transparent outer layer, offering a ripple effect akin to low tide. The bridal veil had a similar, wave-like pattern at the edges. Underneath it, his ears sported red-pearl earrings with arced silver fishtails attached at the bottom end. Each fin studded with tiny diamonds. His fair face had a light layer of makeup. Bow-shaped lips coated a deep red, golden eyeliner emphasising the silver in his eyes and a soft pink blush dusting his cheeks, completed with the huadian of a lotus flower in full bloom, its soft petals unfurling, beguiling in its simplicity.

For all their atrocious behaviour, Wei Ying had to give it to the Wen Gang. They knew how to dress up a bride. Top marks for their efforts. Truly.

The Madame spared no expense, he was almost flattered! Wei Ying knew he could never afford a single piece of jewellery on this accursed outfit were he to start saving up until he was ninety.

Except for one, miniscule flaw in this elaborate plan:

Wei Wuxian wasn’t a woman!

Sure, he looked like a bride befitting an emperor, but no amount of polish will turn a rock into a diamond! For the past -who knows how many- centuries, all of the sacrifices have been women . What’s stopping Black Water’s displeasure at finding a trussed up male dressed in wedding robes as opposed to a beautiful maiden? What’s stopping him from showing that displeasure to Lianhua village and -potentially- the other villages as well? Would he curse the village heads and all their future descendants? Would he stop providing them with fresh fish and clear waters, have the villages slowly starve to death as they lose their primary food source? Or would he simply drown them all in a fit of rage?

Outcome after outcome flashed through his mind, each one worse than the last. The wound on his temple, where the idiots smashed it with a log, throbbed painfully. Wei Ying was about to slam the back of his head on the rock behind him to stop his spiralling thoughts before remembering the hair pins. Deciding it wasn’t worth stabbing into his scalp, Wei Ying lowered his chin in defeat and sighed.

With his luck, maybe the Water Demon won’t even bother showing up and leave Wei Ying chained here until he dies from thirst, turning the expensive wedding robes into his funeral shroud. Or maybe Black Water will take a liking to him and turn Wei Ying into a trophy wife. Forbidden from leaving the Calamity’s side until he was old and wrinkled, a used-up, shrivelled thing tossed into the sea like trash once his natural good looks fade with age.

By the heavens, if this backfires, he’ll haunt Madame Yu for the rest of her miserable life.

Look on the bright side, he thought glumly, at least you finally got away from that house. Potentially forever.

Wei Ying just hoped that jiejie was alright.

Ignoring the pins and needles running up and down his legs, Wei Ying shifted into a more comfortable position and decided to pass the time by squinting through the veil, counting the stars.

He was on star number thirteen when it suddenly disappeared, like a candle flame swiftly blown out. One by one, the stars winked out of existence, the shadows shaping the moon into a crescent drew back like soundless curtains, until it resembled a great, lone pearl stitched upon endless black cloth. The crashing waves slowly fell into a murmur and Wei Ying was left with his own blood pounding into his eardrums.

SPLAT!

He startled. Back going ramrod straight.

SPLAT! SPLAT! SPLAT!

Wei Ying felt his body break out in cold sweat. Adam’s apple bobbing painfully as he swallowed.

Someone or some thing was climbing up the cliff.

Wei Ying slammed his eyes shut and started doing what he hadn’t done in years. Pray.

Who should he be praying to?! The Flower Crowned Martial God? No. That doesn’t make any sense. He could hardly call himself a cultivator let alone a warrior.

Should he pray to Crimson Rain for luck? Best not. The Ghost King was pretty finicky and he might end up displeasing Black Water if he started praying to a rival Calamity.

Water Master Shi Wudu? Oh, now Wei Ying was asking for eternal torture. It’s no secret that Water Master and Demon Xuan had a rivalry as tumultuous as a ship caught in a malstrom.

Which of the thousands of negligent, apathetic gods is more likely to show Wei Ying a shred of pity? Maybe-

An overwhelming coldness washed over Wei Ying, as if he had just been doused with seawater, the wetness seeping into his skin. Whatever breath he had in his lungs was viciously expelled.

He didn’t need to open his eyes to know that the figure had stopped just a foot away from him.

Wei Ying felt more than saw the hand slowly reaching out towards his face, long fingers grasping at the sheer red veil, carefully moving it out of the way.

The flimsy barrier between bride and groom disappeared. Wei Ying blocked out the feeling of goosebumps rioting all over his skin. With one final prayer for strength, he cracked his eyes open.

What stared back at him had his heart hammering against his chest cavity, ready to burst.

Yellow eyes as bright as molten gold, ever-changing and malleable, reminding Wei Ying of the precious metal’s capacity to shift into whatever form or role the owner fancies. There was a cool temperance behind that hooded gaze, it bespoke of someone who witnessed centuries-worth of depravities, followed by the painstaking build of calculated viciousness to counterattack, of hard-won strength carried with ease, lurking just beneath the surface of faux-boredom. It made Wei Ying think of the sea during sunrise, when the yellow rays have barely touched the darkened waters, still and inviting. Teasing onlookers to take one little dip, since it looked so relaxing, so easy , only to stray too far and get struck by a sudden riptide, dragging down the ignorant into a watery grave.

It was terrifying, it was beautiful . Doubly so when those eyes were all that Wei Ying could see.

He couldn’t make out the being’s face nor his figure. Not when it was enveloped by a mist so dark that the only form of light capable of piercing through were those golden eyes. It wasn’t too dissimilar to squid-ink, now that Wei Ying thought about it. Plumes of blackish-blue clouds engulfing any unsuspecting swimmers, knocking them off course, unable to tell which way was up or down, to move forward or back.

Wei Ying subconsciously leaned forward, a helpless moth in the face of an inviting flame, so enthralled was he by the sight, that he did not pay any heed to the brief flash of recognition, of disbelief, in those golden depths. Did not pay any mind to the smooth, pale hand faintly brushing against his cheek, achingly familiar. Long fingers traced the path of dried blood running down the side of Wei Ying’s head, until they were softly tapping at the wound on his temple.

Wei Ying had been staring into the abyss for so long, he failed to register those two points of light blinking back into the shadows.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o

It took a while for his mind to crawl back to consciousness. Wei Ying fully expected for there to be a godsforsaken ache equivalent to a pickaxe slammed into his skull or a gnawing, persistent throbbing in his temples demanding attention the moment one opens their eyes.

Instead, when Wei Ying’s moonstone eyes cracked open, he woke up feeling rejuvenated and fully alert. Like long-awaited rain washing over a cracked and withering field.

It was easily the best sleep of Wei Ying’s life.

Feeling that both his hands were now free, wary fingers prodded at the bump on his temple, checking for any damage.

Only to be met with smooth, unbroken skin.

Wei Ying shot up, pupils blown wide. Head veering left and right, wildly taking in his new surroundings.

He was sitting on a bed covered with pitch black sheets made of satin, the canopy drawn, but Wei Ying could still see through the azure, silken sheets.

It was a windowless bedchamber, five times the size of his pitiful, dingy room back at the Jiang household, with muted grey walls and flooring, seemingly made out of stone.

The closets, nightstand, chairs and low table looked as if they were also made out of this mystifying grey stone, protruding from the walls and floors, completely carved from the material. The bronze mirror appeared to be the only piece of furniture not made out of stone.

Looking down at himself, Wei Ying finally registered that he was no longer wearing those suffocating wedding garments along with another peculiar observation.

To be fair, he didn’t put up much of a struggle, but his movements while chained did result in his wrists to turn raw and swollen, yet Wei Ying could only see unblemished, milky-white skin.

Did… he heal me? He wondered, lightly stroking his fingers against the no-longer-tender skin. Why? To earn my favour? Ensure that I warmed up to him quicker?

Then again, if he was powerful enough to change the sky, healing a few bumps and bruises would be childsplay.

Maybe Black Water just didn’t want any defects on his new merchandise. Wei Ying thought, distantly. Caught between incredulity and exasperation. Now realising that he was put into yet another fancy outfit.

Tentatively drawing back the curtains, feet now on the ground, Wei Ying crossed the cold, rugless floor to the bronze mirror, gauging his current appearance.

Ocean blue outer robes with hints of seafoam green and inner robes the colour of midnight starting from the top, turning into lighter, daytime shades as it reaches the bottom. Leaping fish made of silver and dark blue thread were stitched on the outer robes’ wide sleeves and shoulders, some fish holding what looked like seaweed in their mouths, while the ends of the robe had more seaweed embroidery, appearing as if they were swaying with the water’s currents. He had on a bright blue belt with silver accents and…a fish’s spine overlaying the sash, the bones of its caudal fin curled around the start of the spine like a claw. Blue and grey tassels with white and black pearls dangling off the belt.

Carefully running his hands upon the spinal segments, Wei Ying felt a strange-yet-pleasant shock zap through his skin. As if he had just brushed against a metal pole whilst a thunderstorm was churning above him.

Attempting to move past how off-kilter he felt, Wei Ying looked back at the bronze mirror.

Still gawking, Wei Ying gingerly grazed his fingers against the new accessories cradling his ears. Pearlescent ear cuffs in the shape of fish with long curtain-like fins, the ones that only emperors and nobles would keep as decorations in their private ponds. Their billowing tails delicately wrapped around the shell of his ears, the fins resting beneath his lobes. Lightly turning his head to the side, Wei Ying noticed that his hair was mostly let down, only timidly gathered at the base of his neck, a seaweed-shaped hair clip practically draped across his nape.

At least it’s comfortable. Wei Ying thought, perturbed and somewhat annoyed. To think that he was dressed up like a doll while unconscious, twice in one day.

Is this to be his life now? Dress in whatever manner that pleased his new husband with no sayso? Hanging off his arm like a kept-woman, a walking art piece with no thoughts or opinions of his own, that wasn’t expected to do more other than breathe and warm his bed?

Husband…. His mind numbly echoed. Wei Ying tightly gripped the mirror’s frame to prevent himself from swaying on his feet.

Oh gods. He was married. And to a temperamental water demon at that.

In order to protect their worthless hides, Lianhua village offered Jiang Yanli up on a silver platter to a beast, only for her little brother to step in and nobly take her place. Now whisked off from his -ahem- not so peaceful living situation, finding himself in a queer place, looking like the spoiled wife of a dotting lord, wondering what he ought to do with his new circumstances.

That sounds like one of those questionable novels Liu Mingyan would lend out to jiejie. Also, I didn’t exactly ‘step in’ of my own accord.

At least Mingming now has new writing material to work with.

His thoughts were taking such a leap to the absurd, Wei Ying felt the unbidden laugh sputter past his lips before quickly slapping a hand on his mouth.

Silver eyes darted towards the only entrance to the room, almost waiting for some kind of demonic servant to knock on the stone doors to deliver Wei Ying to its master, like some prized cargo.

Isn’t that how those stories go? Wait until your newest guest wakes up before sending them off to the host with no warning?

Okay. Stop….

One breath….

Two…

..three….

By the time he reached a hundred, Wei Ying’s white-knuckled grip around the mirror’s frame loosened. By a hundred and two, his body started uncoiling bit-by-bit.

No knock ever came. That didn’t mean he was going to drop his guard, though.

Worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, Wei Ying started pacing around the room. There was quite a lot of ground to cover. How generous of Demon Xuan.

Could…could it be possible that he was just…forgotten? Merely tossed into a spare, impersonal room, while his new husband had some pretty little concubine to keep him entertained?

Did he already displease his husband before he even had the chance to greet him properly?

No. He wouldn’t have bothered healing me or letting me sleep if that was the case. Wei Ying thought, mind still racing. Not to mention the attire….

Wei Ying let out a long sigh, which echoed back to him in this grand chamber. Shoulders drooping, he leaned his forehead against the bed frame, its solidity grounding Wei Ying.

He didn’t ask for this! What he wouldn’t give to be back at the village, sitting on the beach with jiejie and her giggling gaggle of friends by her side, a pot of lotus pork soup simmering above a fire.

Maybe if I earn husband-dearest’s ‘affections’, he’ll let me visit her….

Only one way to find out.

Squaring his shoulders, Wei Ying marched towards the wide stone doors, hand poised to push them open, halting just a hair's breadth away at the last second.

Wei Ying instinctively knew that he stood at the edge of a precipice. That the moment he opens the door, he will be sent careening straight into uncharted territory.

A part of him wanted to stay. To keep floating in this pool of uncertainty, at least here, it seems as if he won’t have to keep swimming into the unknown.

But Wei Ying was no coward.

He layed both hands flat on the cold stone, ready to push the double doors with all his might -the stone looked incredibly dense, it would’ve taken at least ten men to make it budge!

Yet, as soon as his hands touched the lifeless grey surface, there was a faint grinding sound as the doors smoothly slid against the hinges. As though this unfamiliar stone recognised Wei Ying as its master. That the lightest of touches was more than enough to make it obey him.

The double doors gradually split open and what met his gaze beyond it seemed so vast and unfathomable that it took Wei Ying a moment to process what he was seeing.

A sprawling hallway lined with numerous stone doors not too dissimilar to the main entrance of the bedchamber he was in.

The hallways were lit by large crystal formations growing out of the hall’s ceiling and floor, the shape and size reminding Wei Ying of some of the underwater caves he was reckless enough to explore, of stalactites and stalagmites, except unlike them, these crystals didn’t have a rippling limestone appearance, but bear more of a resemblance to frosted glass that contained their own soft, eerie light. Bright enough to illuminate his path, but dull enough to leave the high-ceiling and distant halls in shadow.

It made Wei Ying compare these crystals to the ones he saw during one lonely winter night. After an argument he had with Jiang Cheng, what was the fight about, he can’t even bother to remember, all he knew was that he stormed out of the Jiang household to cool off and was met with a world of pure white. The entire ground was covered in soft powder akin to crushed diamonds, deep blue icicles dripping off the edges of every roof, the light of the full moon shining down and reflecting off the ice.

Yet, unlike that night, where the subtle white light brought him peace of mind, these crystals gave off a more distant, melancholic feel. Of providing you with the false assurance of knowing where you’re going, but were in fact, wholly lost and directionless.

The more Wei Ying walked, the more it felt like he was treading a perpetual lane with the same doors, the same walls, the same crystals. Still , he was able to catch a few, minute differences that assured him he wasn’t going in circles. Each door was the size of a palace gate, likely the same width too, all with their own intricate carvings etched into the smooth grey surface. Ships caught in storms with waves as high as mountains aggressively crashing into them from all sides, giant sea serpents locked in territorial fights as they catch each other hunting the same prey, haunting imagery of the seafloor with decaying sunken ships, their wooden skeletons slowly overtaken by seaweed, corals and other forms of aquatic flora, nature gradually staking its claim on those lost vessels, providing a new hub for smaller, more vulnerable creatures.

He took a left, then a right, then another left, climbed ten flights of stairs, turned one more corrido- and I swear to all the gods twiddling their thumbs up in Heaven, if I find any more stairs I’ll tear all my hair out! Then Demon Xuan will have a bald bride to deal with! Does this hallway even have an end?! Should I just take my chances and go through the next door I see?

Why does Demon Xuan even need all this space?!

After walking for what felt like hours, Wei Ying finally found a passageway that wasn’t lined with gargantuan doors. The left side of the hall was a smooth, dull grey wall like any other, whilst the right appeared to be made of glass, from floor to ceiling, segmented by oddly-made pillars with strange patterns.

They seem familiar…. Wei Ying thought, running his fingers into the etches and groves of these pillars, images of stalactites and stalagmites flooding his mind once more. Of how the two halves would grow, one from the ceiling, the other from the ground, both simultaneously dragged downwards and reaching up, eventually meeting in the middle till they entwined as one immovable column.

Only what was beneath his fingertips, what was meant to be dripping water, meant to show signs of steady growth, of life , felt cold, still and dead. Forever petrified where it stands, no longer able to evolve into something more.

Unnerved by where his thoughts were heading, Wei Ying decided to shift his focus on the glass from which these odd pillars were attached to. The more he looked, the more Wei Ying felt disheartened. Keen eyes attempted to parse through the darkness. There were no signs of a faint moon glow or even the glimmer of a single star.

No wonder this place seems so melancholic. If my mere existence would result in the sky blotting itself out, I would feel pretty gloomy, too.

Now wondering what time of day it was -perhaps he slept through the night- something…unnerving caught his gaze. It was bizarre, completely alien, so utterly outside the realm of possibility for an orphaned fisherman like him to see outside of exaggerated illustrations, yet there it was.

A long, skeletal fish about the size of a cottage, slithered past the window. Its head was the ugliest thing Wei Ying had ever seen. Broad, pushed back and slanted with what appeared to be a highly flexible jaw, giving it the ability to swallow prey as big as a horse with one gulp, its teeth were narrow and sharp with large gaps in between, allowing it to slice tender meat between their lips to bits. The creature’s entire body emitted a sinister radiance, its hollow eyes housing twin spectral lights. The behemoth was followed by a school of smaller bonefish similar in appearance, presumably its brood.

It was the cold press of grey stone onto his spine that snapped Wei Ying back to the present. Realising that he’d been backing away from the window that whole time, the reality of his situation finally sunk in.

I'm not looking at a veiled sky. Wei Ying thought numbly. I’m at the bottom of the sea.

The chasm between all that he knew and where he was at now was only getting wider, to the point that Wei Ying wondered if he’ll still be able to leap back. If he would ever be permitted to.

Just as when it seemed like he was about to slip into another panic-induced spiral, something cool and slippery licked the back of his hand.

Wei Ying could’ve sworn that his very soul jumped out of his skin and crumpled up like wet paper. He probably lost ten years of his life from how startled he was.

Praying that this wasn’t something that was sampling him, beads of sweat trickling down his brow, Wei Ying creakingly twisted his head to the thing’s direction, trying to make sense of what his eyes were telling his mind for what felt like the nth time in this bizarre place.

A glowing, iridescent, bell-shaped body, resembling water droplets capturing all the colours produced by the sun’s light, shrinking and expanding like the beatings of a heart at ease, curly tendrils as long as a man’s legs swaying just beneath its body.

For the second time that night, Wei Ying felt a slight, hysterical laugh squeeze past his lips.

A jellyfish… floating in the air.

Sure. Why not? This place is chock-full of eccentricities. Best that I get used to it, since this seems to be my life now.

There have been far too many surprises for him to even care that it just brushed its potentially poisonous coils against his bare hand.

Maybe Wei Ying should just call it a night and slink back to his new room. Crawl into that comfy bed and, with luck, he might be able to convince himself that this was all a dream.

The jellyfish was observing him (Wei Ying wasn’t sure how he knew that, it’s not like he can see the thing’s eyes ). It started floating around him in slow, languid circles. A part of him felt like he should still be on guard, but the way the creature was acting seemed guileless, dare he say almost child-like.

As it made its turns, the gelatinous surface glowed brighter, one dominant color sprouted from its head in misshapen splotches, spreading all over the creature’s body until it was coated in varying shades of blue.

It stopped right in front of Wei Ying, wiggling its body back-and-forth, tendrils swishing in the air with every sway, as if it were showing off.

Is it…trying to say we match?

“Uhh…It looks good on you..?” Wei Ying mumbled, feeling ridiculous after saying that. Maybe he should get his head checked. Who knows if this thing even understands human-speech.

The jellyfish-thing-spirit(?) trembled excitedly, its bell-shaped body inflating the way a child would proudly puff out their chest after winning a silly game.

Its odd behavior felt somewhat endearing that Wei Ying couldn’t help the breathless chuckle from coming out. The tension between his shoulders easing.

Finally, a moment of sweetness in the midst of all the muffled bitterness and uncertainty that threatened to swallow him whole.

The jellyfish drifted closer, gingerly wrapping itself around his arm, having learnt its lesson on not to startle him.

It started tugging him away from the windows, Wei Ying let it guide him to a different hallway. Adding its own bright light among the dim crystals’ glow decorating their path.

Must’ve taken too long. Black Water probably sent this thing to come find me. He thought, studying the spirit. Whilst its body seemed wet and cool, none of that dampness seeped into his new robes and it seemed much more approachable compared to the other sea creatures under his new husband’s command.

Hopefully those bonefish weren’t also air-swimmers like his companion here. Wei Ying would rather have meters’ thick glass between him and them whenever they choose to grace him with their fleshless presence, thank you very much.

“You know…out of all the grotesqueries I’ve seen in this place, you are by far the most friendly-looking. Maybe I can convince my lord husband to let me keep you.” Wei Ying mused out loud, mostly to fill in the silence.

The creature appeared to approve of the idea, judging by how it eagerly squeezed itself around his arm, practically hugging the limb.

They eventually stopped at a set of doors that were easily double the size of the previous ones Wei Ying had seen. He took a moment to study the iconography, an emperor, his wife and what looked like their two daughters, in the midst of a grand feast. Oddly enough, the seat meant for the heir was left empty.

The dining hall.

He’s in there.

The jellyfish gently detached itself from him, hovering by his side now. Beads of sweat ran their cold fingers down his back.

It wasn’t the journey that made Wei Ying’s heart constrict, but what lay waiting for him at the end. He took a deep breath and was about to knock on the door, to wait for the inevitable clipped voice to tell him to ‘enter’.

His new companion stopped him, softly nudging away his raised fist. The creature brushed one of its coils against the grey surface, taking cues from Wei Ying as if it were his own personal servant, wanting to open the door for him.

(You need not stand on ceremony nor feel like a stranger in your own home. His lord husband would eventually remark to Wei Ying later on in their marriage, a harsh edge lurking beneath whispered-tones. You are this Manor’s master just as much as me. Act like it.)

The colossal doors let out a low yawn as they split down the middle and Wei Ying was bombarded by an assortment of scents.

The savoury aroma of smoked fish and chicken roasted on a spit, coupled with whiffs of enriching herbs and seasonings, their distinct citrus notes lively and invigorating, titillating Wei Ying’s vacant stomach. Traces of floral scents interwoven with the striking, yet delectable smell of freshly baked cakes that he could almost feel their honeyed flavours dance across the surface of his tongue. The heady fragrance of various wines, their familiar woodsy undertones tickling his nostrils.

Wei Ying’s mouth started watering. Very much aware of the fact that hadn’t eaten in hours.

He clenched his hands, digging his fingernails into his palms to get himself back to focus.

A great, pillarless chamber capable of hosting a great army while also leaving plenty of room for servants to scurry around at their beck and call. Yet, there was only one Western-style long table as opposed to the standard low dining tables arranged in neat rows.

And a lone occupant sitting at the helm.

Their eyes locked as his host stood and Wei Ying felt all mental faculties screech to a grinding halt.

Wei Ying needed a moment to simply take in this Calamity, this man, this husband of his…..

He had thought those molten pools of gold for eyes would be the most bewitching feature, he couldn’t be more wrong. Flawless ivory-white skin that would enrage even the most regal of princesses, a deceptively wiry frame that reminded Wei Ying of a fragile willow branch, but knew he should never take it at face value. A smooth mouth and brow with no laugh lines or forehead wrinkles to be found, perfectly straight nose, pointed ears and sharp angular features, as if he were an impeccable bust cut and carved from the purest of jades, straight ink-black hair that flowed downwards to the small of his back.

The top of those dark locks were encircled by a golden dragon-shaped guan, holding a gleaming pearl between its jaws. The dragon looked as if it were swallowing the moon. A groom’s wedding robes that were mostly red, embroidered in golden thread were majestic phoenixes, their bright wings spread in triumph, a stark contrast to the vermillion outer robes, whereas the inner robe seemed to be made of a different material all-together, of small, rigid plates seamlessly overlapping each other, reminding Wei Ying of finely crafted chain-mail or fish scales. The top of the inner robe seemed to be a red that matched the outer, yet as it flowed downwards, the shade changed from vermillion to ruby, to mahogany until the slitted edges appeared as if they were dipped in ink. Completed with a pure black belt studded with squared-golden plates that had water dragon motifs engraved into the precious metal, red and white pearls artfully looped around the belt, their tail ends dangling from it like chains.

The surface of Wei Ying’s tongue had suddenly gone dry, breath shuddering, struggling to swallow around the lump in his throat.

What the hell was that back at the cliff?! There…..there’s no way that this is what he actually looks like, right?!

Yes! Yes! That’s right! Ghosts and demons can be such vain creatures….only shifting into forms that suit their own self-absorbed tastes….

So caught up in his new groom’s appearance, he almost didn’t register the other man glide his way towards him till there was only a foot of space between them. Golden eyes meticulously studied his form.

Black Water started speaking.

His mouth is moving! He’s talking to you! Snap out of it, Wei Wuxian!

“-any discomfort?”

Wei Ying blinked owlishly and in his infinite wisdom decided to reply back to the clear question with a:

“Huh…?”

That smooth brow furrowed in what looked like slight concern, but Wei Ying was sure it was annoyance. Their first exchange and he was already making a fool of himself.

Wonderful.

Maybe he needs to start laying it on thick? Does he have to make himself look pitiful to this Ghost King and beg his forgiveness for not paying attention? Should he put on a coquettish mask? Start cooing and twittering like a brainless little bird?

Many men never tire from listening to songs that boast of how great and merciful they are. Was Black Water one of those men?

The older male stepped right into his space, close to the point that they were almost nose-to-nose. Wei Ying stiffened, biting his tongue so he wouldn’t dig himself a deeper grave.

He shut his eyes.

Might as well get it over with….

Fully expecting Black Water to steal a kiss -along with whatever else that was demanded of him- Wei Ying instead felt a slim finger delicately stroke his now-healed temple in what almost felt like a lover’s caress.

Moonstone eyes fluttered open, confused.

Black Water wasn’t even looking at him. Too occupied in assessing whatever damage was left to meet his new bride’s perplexed gaze.

“I was asking if your injuries are still causing you any discomfort? Healing has never exactly been my specialty.” He answered Wei Ying’s poorly phrased question. His words quiet and rich with a touch of gruffness, the deep bass almost caused his skin to vibrate from how close both their faces were.

Wei Ying’s breath hitched, goosebumps breaking out for a different reason now.

Frowning at Wei Ying’s lack of response, Black Water started reaching for his wrists to inspect them.

“No need for that!” He blurted, stuffing his hands inside the wide sleeves of his robes, like frightened snails ducking back into their shells. He rocked backwards, balancing his weight on his heels, hoping Black Water wouldn’t notice his ‘subtle’ attempt at giving himself more space.

Doing what he does best, Wei Ying plasters on his winning smile and starts blathering:

“Lao Gong is so proficient! More than capable of erasing every scrap and bruise on this delicate wife!”

“.........”

The longer the silence went on, the more Wei Ying could feel his very soul start wilting, like a plucked flower that was left to dry out in the sun for too long.

The elder’s brow furrowed deeper as a complicated look crossed his face, but Wei Ying couldn’t possibly discern if Black Water was pleased with the compliment or not. He might have better luck deciphering the symbolic meaning behind every carving that he walked past in his nerve-wracking journey to get here.

Their sudden muteness could have gone on indefinitely were it not for the abrupt break in tension.

A mortifying gurgle rumbled through the lofty chamber, its echoes reverberating back to Wei Ying’s burning ears.

Wei Ying slapped a hand on his hollowed stomach, as if that would silence its cries for food. He started praying for the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

Oh. Just put me out of my misery already…!

“Pfff-!” Black Water just barely managed to stop his laughter from escaping. Covering his mouth and giving an utterly convincing performance of ‘Oh, dear! It seems I’ve suddenly got the coughs!’.

Laugh it up now , you bully! Wei Ying mentally whined. What kind of host stuffs his gullet while leaving his guest, his new wife , to wander around his home without at least feeding them first?!

If Wei Ying weren’t keeping himself in check, he would’ve thrown a fit and cussed out Black Water straight to his face. So focused was he on not vocalising his wounded pride, that Wei Ying couldn’t stop his lips from pouting slightly.

Noticing his new bride’s upset, He Xuan promptly wiped away any traces of humour on his face and cleared his throat.

“What a relief. It seems I’m not the only one with a voracious appetite.” He gestures to the awaiting feast. “After you, Lao Po. ”

End of Part I.

Worldbuilding Notes for this AU:

1. WWX DOES indeed have some cultivation training, but it's half-assed and incomplete. Essentially a hodgepodge between some techniques his parents taught him, tips that he got from some generous rogue cultivators and what he learned on his own. He barely has any knowledge of ghosts, demons and anything spiritual-beast related. Good thing he married a scholar!

2. The five fishing villages are a direct homage to the five clans in MDZS:

Lianhua = Lotus Flower/Jiang Clan

Huīshuǐ = Grey Water/Nie Clan

Lántiān = Blue Skies/Lan Clan

Rìluò = Sunset/Wen Clan

Jinyǔmáo = Gold Feather/Jin Clan

3. Before ya'll got on my case and ask how the hell did HX acquire all those expensive jewellery/robes, etc. The sea IS his domain. I can totally see him ordering his Bonefish to gather all the oysters and mussels they could find for the pearls. The rest have an in-universe explanation and/or HX just increased his debt to HC tenfold.

4. Lao Gong = Husband / Lao Po = Wife

My justifications for the jellyfish-spirit...? WWX needs a friend. Ya'll want him to wander around Nether Water Manor all by his lonesome while hubby's out..? Even XL can just go talk to Yin Yu and/or Ghost City residents whenever HC's not around!!

WWX is confused. WWX is panicking. He be asking: "Should I be wary of this man or jump his bones...?" Who knows?

Now. This whole thing was mainly setup, but there ARE plot-related reasons as to WHY there's a ritual and why HX seems completely okay with his marriage to WWX specifically. If ya managed to catch some of the hints, congrats. If not, stick around for the next instalment.

Hope you enjoyed! If ya did, please leave a like/comment! Many thanks~

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