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archerlullaby · 4 months

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Hello friends! It’s been a long while since I posted, but here’s a piece based off of @kikker-oma ‘s incredible whumptober art! Go check it out!

Sky is tired. So tired. Tired of walking, tired of how his lungs burn when the forest grows thick, tired of how his callouses tore after the fifth time he raised it in battle today. Tired of—

“Pick up your feet Sky. By what Wild says, we won’t make it to Necluda if we keep going at this pace.”

Warriors pats him on the back and moves ahead of him without even so much as a glance. Sky closes his eyes in agitation but sighs his annoyance away. You’re the peacemaker. The peacemaker is calm. The peacemaker smiles. You don’t get upset with your brothers, especially when they’re just trying to help. “Sky! What’d I tell you? Hurry it up!” Warriors’s voice breaks through his calming mantra and Sky grits his teeth.

“Yes! Coming!” He picks up his feet, catching up with the group with a wheeze he hides in his sleeve.

The sun grows hot, and though the surface world of Wild’s land is beautiful, it seems to have a personal vendetta against Sky’s lungs. Having spent most of his life up in the Skyloft where the airborne irritants are few, this forest full of different flowers, trees, and grasses is a far throw from what his lungs are used to. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t take long until he feels that oh-so familiar band tightening around his chest. He focuses his breaths, trying to ignore the urge to cough, to yawn, to do anything to get more air in his chest so that the group doesn’t catch on.

“If you’re having trouble breathing, Sky, you should loosen your sailcloth. It likely doesn’t help being tied around your neck like that,” Warriors says, shooting him a backwards glance as if to say “I can hear you choking on the very air you breathe, dumbass.” Sky smiles thinly and tugs at the knot, loosening it slightly. Obviously that wasn’t what he meant. Warriors is just trying to help, as always, Sky chides himself.

“Right as always, Captain. Thank you.”

“Hmmm,” Warriors replies, giving Sky a quick once-over with a raised brow before turning forward again. Sky grits his teeth, hanging back away from the group to gather his thoughts and squash the buzz of annoyance that has once again invaded his headspace.

Master, I detect a rise in blood pressure and slight emotional instability. I suggest you take a break.

Fi’s voice echoes in his head and, unlike the usual calming affect her voice has, it only serves to muddle his thoughts.

“Now’s not the time, Fi,” Sky mutters.

On the contrary, master. There is a high probability of both your physical and mental health deteriorating further if you do not rest soon.

Sky merely groans inwardly and puts his focus into making one foot go in front of the other, which would be a relatively easy task had Warriors not fallen back to walk astride him.

“Sky, I think we need to work a little on proper hand care. A warrior is only as effective with a blade as his hands are capable of holding it, and I can tell that yours are hurting,” Warriors chides gently. The buzzing in Sky’s head gets louder.

“I’ll keep that in mind, thanks,” he replies stiffly. Warriors huffs.

“You’re not taking me seriously.”

“Now is not a good time, Wars.”

“Well, forgive me for trying to help you!” Warriors throws his hands in the air dramatically. “Listen. I’m just worried about you. I can tell you’re in pain, and I have a lot of experience with—”

Sky stops in his tracks, allowing the group to move ahead, leaving him alone with the other man. The annoyance that has been simmering all day suddenly ignites into something hotter. “Oh, and I don’t have experience?” He says, his voice low. Warriors looks at him with surprise, then rolls his eyes.

“Goddesses, Sky, don’t be ridiculous, you know that’s not what I meant. What’s with you?”

“What’s with me? What’s with you?”

Warriors opens his mouth to retort but Time’s voice rings out from ahead.

“It’s a dangerous place to fall behind!” Time says, the warning clear. Warriors gives one last look at Sky before turning on his heel and stalking back towards the group. Sky knew it was foolish to get in a fight over something so meaningless, but he was just so damn exhausted. He put a shaky hand to his chest and took a too-shallow breath. Can’t think straight. Can’t breathe right. Apparently I can't even take care of myself, according to Mr. High and Mighty, Sky thinks bitterly.

When he finally gathers himself enough to continue walking, the group is far enough ahead to where he can’t discern who is talking. Unease shoots through him and he begins to jog to catch up, but doubles over in a fit of coughing in just a few measly steps. When it finally subsides, he wipes the spittle from the edges of his mouth with one hand, his other supporting himself on his knee. With a groan of exasperation, he tries to blink away the spots in his vision

Master, behind—

“SKY!”

Sky looks up blearily to see Wild sprinting at him with a familiar glint in his eye just in time for a spear to imbed itself into the ground less than six inches from his boot. He has the right sense to throw himself to the side just as a Lizalfos’s tail sweeps the air right where his legs were a moment ago. Still recovering from his coughing fit, he wheezes as his hand reaches for the Master Sword, easily pulling the blade from the sheathe but not without throwing him off balance as he backpeddles away from the long reach of the monster’s spear. He lands on his back on the forest floor, bringing the sword up to defend himself best he could as the Lizalfos jumps on top of him.

Before it could complete its attack, a blur of royal blue body slams the creature off of him, both figures tumbling to ground with a thud. Twilight is not far behind, pulling Wild up with a single hand as the duo faces off with the creature. A hand tugs Sky up to his feet.

“Are you injured?” Time’s steady voice cuts through the air. Sky merely shakes his head, turning to help Twilight and Wild, but finds that the two have already dealt the final blow. Wild flicks his sword expertly to clean his blade, a grin on his face as Twilight glowers at him.

“Seriously? You have almost every weapon in the books and yet you still choose to tackle it?” Twilight baps Wild upside the head before chuckling. “Black-blooded too? You’re a maniac.”

Sky shoots Wild a shaky smile.

“Thanks, champ. I was in a bad way,” he says quietly. Wild merely shrugs.

“Sure thing. Also, we should keep moving. Where there’s one, there’s more,” he replies, before pointing and walking back to the path. “We’re only about an hour out. We can get to a safe part of the woods before the sun sets.”

The group follows Wild and Sky falls into line, acutely aware of how Warriors has not said a single word through the entire ordeal. The adrenaline wears off, leaving Sky feeling worse than he was before.

Just as Wild promised, they reach a clearing just as the sun touches the horizon. With a groan, Wind drops his pack and flops onto the ground.

“Ughh! My feet are falling off!” Wind exclaims, voice muffled by the grass. Sky watches as Warriors approaches the youngest and laughs, squatting beside the boy and ruffling his hair.

“Oh, come on, sailor! You could’ve asked me to carry you! Or we could have slowed it down a bit!” Warriors grins down at Wind.

Outrage. Slowed down a bit? Anger shoots through Sky as he hears Warriors continue to talk to Wind. Where was that sympathy when I couldn’t breathe? When he knew I was struggling?

Master, your heart rate has jumped to 115 beats per minute, an increase of 64.23 percent from two minutes ago. Sitting down would be a logical course of action.

“Yes. Yep. Sitting down, thanks Fi,” Sky makes out through gritted teeth. Taking off his armor and setting the Master Sword aside, he does his best to breathe. Rolling up his sleeves, he basks in the cooling air. He sits with eyes closed, face towards the darkening forest, listening to the sounds of the coming night, the crickets chirping, the frogs croaking. All is well. All is well and you are calm. You are the peacemaker…

“—Do not believe he should take watch tonight. I am not confident in his line of thinking right now,” Warriors’s voice cut through Sky’s meditation. Sky’s eyes snap open as he tunes in to what was clearly supposed to be a private conversation. Not confident?

“Can you check on him?”

“Time, I don’t think that’s a good idea. He clearly wants to be alone, and to be honest, I don’t feel like holding a conversation with him right now.”

“Warriors—”

“Don’t, Time. He’s been off all day, and there are already tensions between us. And with that stunt he pulled earlier? I already told him once to catch up. His lackadaisical actions could’ve gotten people hurt, or worse. Something has to change. I’m trying to figure out what to do with him.”

Sky heard Time say something in return, but the anger that had clouded his mind blocked it out. He rose slowly, turning towards the two with rage written across his face. Time notices him first and places a hand on Warriors’s shoulder.

“What to do with me?” He hisses, stalking towards Warriors.

“Sky—” Warriors starts, tugging out of Time’s grasp.

“What to do with me?” Sky stops nearly chest-to-chest with the other man. “What am I? A child?”

“No, Sky, that’s not—”

“Or maybe I’m one of your soldiers that you can command? Is that it, Captain?”

Warriors’s gaze darkens. “Well then, maybe, if it would help you get your head out of the clouds, perhaps it would be best to start thinking like the knight you are, Skyloftian,” he replies.

Sky was breathing hard, his wheezing starting to come back. Fi chimes from where he left her, but he ignores her warning. “You have been on my ass all day! There is no doing anything right with you is there? Because you’re always so perfect!”

“I’ve been helping you all day, because you clearly need it! Maybe you should use that head of yours to listen!”

“I don’t need your help!” Sky’s voice has risen, drawing attention from the others. Time merely stands aside with crossed arms, electing to let the two men settle their differences. “I don’t need you to tell me how fast to walk, I don’t need you to tell me how to take care of myself, I don’t need your two-sense on if I am capable of standing watch or not!”

“Is that so? Then explain to me how you got yourself trapped under the spear of a Lizalfos if not for you and your lack of ability to think for yourself?” Warriors spits.

Rage makes Sky’s mind go blank. He shoves the other man before gathering his tunic in his fist, pulling Warriors towards him, their faces mere inches apart. Sky could feel angry tears burning his eyes, and he was angry, so angry, and so, so tired.

“I’m getting real tired of you treating me like the village idiot, Captain!” Sky snarls.

Warriors’s hand wraps easily around Sky’s wrists, pressing bruises into the skin as he leans forward, his face red with anger. “You are way out of line, Chosen,” he snarls and yanks on Sky’s arm, which doesn’t budge. “You need to step back before I make you.”

Chosen? I’ll show you chosen, is Sky’s last conscious thought before he raises his lips in a snarl.

“Make me.”

M-STR…N-ED…TO…CA-M…DOWN!

Fi’s voice rings and reverberates in his head, but he chooses to ignore it as the hair on his neck and arm rise, the buzzing in his head deafening. He fails to see how Warriors’s eyes change from anger to fear, or how he tries to pry Sky’s fist from his tunic. He is aware of yelling, and then Warriors is ripped from his grip and a strong pair of arms is encompassing his chest. A sharp pop fills the air, then silence, and the next thing he knows he’s gazing up at a sky full of stars, something hard at his back. There is an odd energy in the air, and it smells of ozone. Ozone? Oh…oh no. Oh no, no, no, what have I done?

“Ow.”

A voice in his ear snaps Sky out of his panic. “Time?”

“That’s me,” Time’s voice replies.

Sky scrambles off of him and turns, his hands ghosting over the other man.

“Did…did I burn you anywhere? Does your head feel okay? Oh, I’m so, so sorry!” Sky exclaims, tears springing to his eyes. Time merely chuckles from where he lays on the ground.

“I’m fine Sky. But maybe I won’t wear my armor next time you call electricity forth from your person,” he says with a wince as he sits up.

“I’m sorry!”

“It’s okay.”

“No, I really—”

“Sky.” Time stands and grabs him by the shoulders. “Don’t apologize to me. Gather yourself, and when you’re ready, go to Warriors. I believe a calm conversation would do you good. As adults.” Sky nods. Time looks at him skeptically. “And I reiterate, as adults,” he says again, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, I understand,” Sky murmurs, “Thank you.” Times nods and moves away, gesturing at the others to go about their business. Warriors is nowhere to be seen.

Sky makes his way over to his space, laying out his sleeping roll, gently refusing the food Wild brings to him (until Wild shoves it in his face with an unsettling glare), and apologizes to Fi for not heeding her warning. She chimes quietly in response, never one to hold a grudge. After several hours into the night, Sky still can’t sleep despite Fi’s gentle plea to get some rest, so he stands and searches the camp for Warriors. Legend, who is on watch, glances at Sky then simply juts his chin towards the edge of the camp, towards a large stump at the woodline. Sky smiles his thanks.

Gathering his courage, Sky walks towards the stump. On the other side, he can see the top of a blond head and a familiar blue scarf. Sky pauses just before reaching the stump.

“May I…join you?” Sky asks softly. Warriors merely gestures a spot next to him on the grass. Sky settles next to him, and they sit in silence for a while until Wars breaks it.

“So. Lightning,” he says. Sky winces inwardly.

“Oh…yeah. It’s a long story,” he replies, “And not a very happy one, unfortunately,” he adds quietly. Warriors nods understandingly. Silence again.

“Warriors—”

“It’s okay Sky.”

“No—”

“I should be the one apologizing to you,” Wars finally turns and faces him, regret in his eyes. “I was insensitive. Uncaring. I knew that you were being hurt by my words and I didn’t stop.”

Sky shook his head. “I was too lost in my own emotions to see that I was losing control. I almost hurt you out of anger. I hurt Time,” he sighs, resting his head in his hands. “You’re right. Sometimes I am too undisciplined to call myself a knight.”

Warriors shoves his shoulder. “None of that. We all have our moments. Yours wouldn’t have happened had I not been such a moblin-headed idiot,” he declares. “But truly. I am so very sorry, Sky. I was on edge already from traveling in Wild’s world and I took it out on you.”

Sky nods. “Thank you. And I’m sorry as well. For almost, you know…”

“Electrocuting me?”

Sky nods again.

“Eh. I deserved it,” Warriors chuckles. A smile pulls at the edges of Sky’s mouth and they fall into a comfortable silence. Warrior’s arm falls across Sky’s shoulders and he pulls him into a hug.

“You’re still my brother. You know that?” Wars mumbles into Sky’s hair.

“And you’re mine,” Sky replies softly, melting into the embrace as tears prick at his eyes for the third time that day. “I love all of you to death,” he adds.

“Yeah, we’re pretty great, huh?” The other laughs quietly, Sky chuckling in return.

They stay like that for a long while. The night grows colder and the moon is high in the cloudless sky, the stars dancing far above the canopy of trees below. Sky feels his eyelids grow heavy, the warm embrace lulling him into sleep until Warriors nudges him to sit up.

“You should go back to your bedroll and get some real sleep. I know you’re exhausted,” he tells Sky.

“Dn wnna mve,” Sky mumbles in response.

“Huh?”

“Try to move me again and I will strike you with lightning,” He says, cracking an eye open and glaring halfheartedly at Warriors, who laughs in response.

“Alright, alright! Sleep well, Sky,” he whispers. A beat. “And for what it’s worth, I love you too. You lot are the best family I could ever ask for.”

Sky smiles, pulling the soft fabric of the scarf over his shoulder, and falling into a dreamless sleep.

#sky linked universe #warriors linked universe #angst?#angst with a happy ending #they’re brothers your honor #all of them #Sky can call forth lightning #i don’t make the rules #wars has ptsd #give him a break #fanfic #lu warriors #lu sky

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silvantransthranduiltrash · 7 months

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Imagine a feanorian or a nolofinwean etc traveling back in time to the years of the trees-

And finwe, of all elves, clocks onto something being wrong before anyone else, bc he grew up in a time where it was killed or be killed and he wants to know why his grandkid(s) went from an elf who has never seen a day of strife in their life, to a hardened warrior with ptsd seemingly overnight.

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blakysart · 2 years

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As someone who suffers from ptsd, I really relate to Feathertail

On Instagram

#warrior cats #wc #warrior cat designs #feathertail #wc leopardstar #stonefur #ptsd #riverclan

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adrift-in-thyme · 3 months

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Febuwhump Day 7: Suffering in Silence

Ao3

CW for PTSD, referenced injury, and unresolved interpersonal conflict

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He needs sleep.

Warriors stares into the water-speckled restroom mirror and sees nothing. Blurred shapes are all that are there, forms and colors he knows make up his visage. But his sandpaper eyes have turned them all indistinct.

He is borderless now, as shifting and immaterial as he feels. Brush against him and he will simply float away.

Or sink into the depths that call him.

Taking a deep breath, he scoops a palmful of water onto his face. Its icy frigidity does little to awaken him. He is too far gone for that now.

Movement. Thought. They are nearly impossible. Have been all day.

Perhaps, that is why he had lost it earlier. Perhaps, that is why, the infallible, optimistic captain had simply…snapped.

His breath hitches unexpectedly. Trembling legs give way, depositing him on the tiled floor. Warriors brings his hands up and digs his palms into his eyes, fighting against the searing bite of oncoming tears.

Damn it. Keep it together, captain. You already fell apart once, don’t do it again…

His hands curl into fists. Fingernails dig mercilessly into calloused flesh.

Wild’s words still echo in his mind, a terrible weight he is almost certain he lacks the strength to shoulder.

Even a spirit of courage isn’t mighty enough for things like this.

Hurl him into hoards of squealing beasts. Send him hurtling through time and space. Drop him in the midst of situations he struggles to even comprehend. Take those he loves to a place he cannot go himself. Tear his body apart until there is nothing left.

He can handle all that. He was built to handle all of that.

But to strive so hard, so long only to hear that cursed shout…

“I hate you!”

The deathly chill that has gripped him since the fight (the one that had closed him off from the hero shouting in his face, that had turned his gaze dull, his expression stony, filled his mind with cotton so he could neither think nor feel…and had ignited Wild’s ire further) cracks and shatters into one million pieces. Pain cleaves through the exhausted numbness. A sob rips through his throat.

He’s heard worse. Far greater accusations, far worse insults have been spewed at him with fury and revulsion. Screamed at him as fists and feet connected with bone and muscle; shouted as blades ate away at flesh and cloth.

His own men had called him a traitor to Hyrule. The people he fought to protect had dubbed him a murderer.

It hadn’t hurt as badly as this.

Warriors lets his head fall back against the wall. Hot tears glide down his cheeks, streaming down his neck to skitter beneath his collar.

He hadn’t meant for any of this to happen. He hadn’t meant to break. But the sleepless nights had only continued since Twilight’s brush with death. The tasks hadn’t stopped piling up. The troubles hadn’t stopped parading through.

(The memories had kept coming, hounding at his every step, haunting his dreams, stealing the breath from his lungs. Memories of death and loss. Of betrayal and heartbreak.)

The latest battle had just been too much. Especially, when Wild had disobeyed orders yet again, hoping to catch the Shadow before he could streak through another gateway.

Normally, Warriors would have held his tongue until he found the best wording for a rebuke. Normally, he would’ve dealt with the situation calmly, firmly…kindly.

But he had been so, so tired.

Even now, he longs to fall into the plush embrace of a heap of blankets. But sleep was impossible out there where he could feel their eyes on him, hear their murmured conversations. He couldn’t-couldn’t see their faces a moment longer.

Warriors hadn’t even allowed himself to dwell on their expressions. Sorrow, shock, judgement, pity — he had identified them all in the split seconds he’d had to look over his friends.

His brothers.

The lump in his throat burns. Warriors swallows against it.

He will have to come out soon, stone-faced and determined. He will have to face the repercussions of everything that has happened with a brave front.

He will have to force down the emotions churning within him, the hurt boiling up.

He has suffered in silence for a close to a week now. And it’s not as though he isn’t skilled at the art of constructing facades by now. At times, the mask feels realer than his true face.

So, really, what’s a little longer for the sake of tentative peace?

Though, what kind of peace can be struck when one person despises the other?

He chuckles, harsh and wet. The sound is hardly audible over the never-ending rush of the water that cascades from the faucet.

Shut it off, the soldier within him shouts. Resources must be preserved.

Warriors doesn’t budge from his place on the floor.

If he had obeyed his instincts, however, he might have heard the sound of a hand on the doorknob, a pick in the lock.

Wind shimmies into the bathroom with shocking stealth. At the sound of the door clicking closed, Warriors startles. Instantly, his hand flies to his boot, seeking the dagger nestled against his leg. But then, his gaze lands on the sailor, standing mere feet from him, expression screwed up in worry. And he lets his hand drop to the floor.

“Goddesses, sailor,” he breathes, “you almost gave me a heartattack. Trying to put me in an early grave?”

Wind slips down beside him, shoulder pressed to the captain’s.

“Sorry! I just…” He looks down at his hands, clasped atop his lap. “...I didn’t think you were actually taking a bath in here. That would’ve been a really long one if you were.”

Warriors chokes out a chuckle. “Wouldn’t be out of character for me though, would it?”

Wind shrugs. “People don’t go bathe after a fight. I know I never do when Aryll and me argue.”

The ceiling smears further into combined shades of emerald-blue. Warriors clears his throat. The suffocating tightness doesn’t lessen.

“‘M sorry you had to hear all that, sailor,” he croaks. “I shouldn't have snapped.”

Wind is quiet for a long thread of moments. When he speaks again, his voice is small. His words, however, are firm, confident.

“Wild didn’t mean what he said, you know.”

The ache in Warriors’ chest pierces deeper and spreads like a blot of ink on silken cloth.

Right when he thought this day couldn’t get any worse, now the sailor is trying to comfort him.

…as he mopes on the bathroom floor.

How far can you fall in one day?

Pretty far, it seems.

He shakes his head, hoping the sound of his hair brushing the wall behind him will cloak that of his shuddering breaths.

“Wind, you don’t have to — ”

Wind scoots closer and wraps his two arms around Warriors’ one.

“It’s true! Wild said some really bad stuff but…he was just angry at the Shadow. And…scared.” Large orbs the color of the Great Sea gaze into Warriors’. “Like you.”

The captain is quiet, allowing that a moment to sink in. Or, perhaps, to merely settle on the tower of wavering feelings stacked within him.

He’s so tired. (How many times has he thought that now?) If he closes his eyes, the weight hovering atop him will plummet, dragging him down with it.

More tracks of salty water scurry down his cheeks, bringing warmth to his chilled flesh.

“You’re gonna have to talk to him, you know,” the sailor continues, voice just audible over the continued downpour. “Wild can be an idiot sometimes, especially when he feels bad. He’s gonna wanna talk about what happened but…he probably thinks you hate him now.”

That hardly makes him feel warm and fuzzy inside. But Warriors knows he’s got a point.

Some people reach outward when regret has them by the throat. Wild has already lashed out. Now, his only option is to go in.

And when that happens, even the rancher can hardly drag him out.

Good to know luck is on my side, snarks the spiral of self-pity.

Warriors drags in a breath and swallows a mouthful of tears.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he hums. He coaxes his arm out of Wind’s grasp and wraps it around his slight shoulders, pulling him close. “You’re a smart kid, you know that?”

Wind giggles, softly. “Yeah, I know.” He pauses. “And I know you and Wild are gonna be okay. You’re brothers! Siblings always make up, trust me!”

“You’ve got a lot of optimism, sailor,” Warriors whispers.

Silence glides in on the tail of his words. It settles, heavy and hyptonizing over the small space. Warriors allows it to reign for a while.

The days of stress and exhaustion have fully caught up to him now. Frazzled, devastated thoughts slow, bumping lazily against one another. He stares ahead of him and lets everything disappear behind a film of sorrow and fatigue.

“Hey, Wars?” Wind’s voice is a bit louder now, but hesitant. Gentle. “I love you.”

Warriors’ eyes slide closed of their own accord. He doesn’t bother to drag them open again.

“Love you too, sailor,” he murmurs and every word is laborious to utter. “Love you too.”

#febuwhump 2024 #febuwhump day 7 #referenced injury #ptsd #linked universe #linkeduniverse fic #lu warriors #lu wind #trin writes #angst #hurt/comfort #i had another fic planned for today originally #but then lu updated and i got the idea for this one instead #what can i say?#i never pass up an oppurtunity to angst wars >:)#he and wild will be ok though #they just need time to calm down

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elevatortheory · 1 month

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if he wasnt a misogynist i would like him so so much

#rio art #warrior cats #ashfur #he has so many fun shapes and i love his not at all realistic marbled tabby + pointed markings. hes so fun #i should just turn my brain version of ashfur into an oc because i know my interpretation is off since .#i dont remember reading the books involving him ? i think i did but it mightve been during my ptsd years so i have no memories of it #i got my interpretation of him off wc maps and moonkitti..

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crps-chronicpain-ptsd · 8 months

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Chronic pain problems •

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bokettochild · 11 months

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Memorial

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

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

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

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

So! Without further ago!

The fic!

It's cold.

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

He can't.

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

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

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

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

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

They don't know.

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

Time is watching him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Death is stronger tonight.

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

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

He tries not to look at it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn't like them.

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

Warmth, soft and sweet, floods over him.

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

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

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

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

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

Legend doesn't say anything.

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't like fireworks."

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

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

Silence greets his words.

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

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

Men who'd not died quickly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His throat is tight.

"I killed them."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And then I became the hero.”

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

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

He needs to cut it. It’s not uniform.

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

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

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

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

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

“Wars-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s silent for a moment.

Well, very nearly.

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

#lu warriors #memorial day #linkeduniverse #linked universe #lu legend #lu time #warriors has ptsd #and a host of other issues #time and legend are veterans too #a fic for our veteran boys #may they find peace #linked universe fanfic

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eclectic-ways · 9 months

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“ Y̲̅o̲̅u̲̅ k̲̅n̲̅o̲̅w̲̅ w̲̅h̲̅a̲̅t̲̅’s̲̅ w̲̅e̲̅i̲̅r̲̅d̲̅? I̲̅’v̲̅e̲̅ b̲̅e̲̅e̲̅n̲̅ d̲̅o̲̅w̲̅n̲̅ h̲̅e̲̅r̲̅e̲̅ s̲̅o̲̅ l̲̅o̲̅n̅��g̲̅, i̲̅t̲̅ s̲̅t̲̅a̲̅r̲̅t̲̅e̲̅d̲̅ f̲̅e̲̅e̲̅l̲̅i̲̅n̲̅g̲̅ l̲̅i̲̅k̲̅e̲̅ h̲̅o̲̅m̲̅e̲̅: I̲̅’v̲̅e̲̅ f̲̅o̲̅u̲̅n̲̅d̲̅ b̲̅e̲̅a̲̅u̲̅t̲̅y̲̅ i̲̅n̲̅ t̲̅h̲̅e̲̅ t̲̅h̲̅o̲̅r̲̅n̲̅s̲̅ a̲̅n̲̅d̲̅ c̲̅o̲̅m̲̅f̲̅o̲̅r̲̅t̲̅ i̲̅n̲̅ t̲̅h̲̅e̲̅ p̲̅a̲̅i̲̅n̲̅. ”

— Momentary Existentialism

Original Image Credit: Pips Corpse

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artistmugdh · 3 months

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Hola, A Soundous New Year 🥳🥳 To Everyone.. A many many heartfelt thanks 🤩 to the 🌈 Family and 🌈 gatherings. Much love ❤️ to all the 🌈 brothers and 🌈 sisters, amazing travellers, & beautiful souls 🥰🤗 I really wish for every light 🌟 among the colours of rainbow & world 🗺️ alike, to keep shining like a star 💫 that we all are. As the new moon of this new year rises, with your blessings 🙏 , wishes🧞‍♂️, for our collective happiness 🙃 and joy 😂 and as a mark in the history of our physical world, i start my journey to show the world “What 🌈 is ?” Before diving into this life-travel-living photography-art project; my hearful thanks to 🌈 Brother Dimeth for the invitation into the family. Love you bro 👊🫶😘 for that Im still experiencing, understanding and living in the RAINBOW energy. While being in the process of building my own essence of existence with the life itself; i share the photographs and the serene inspirations that came along exploring the extents of my natural instinctive clicks 📸. Trusting my hands, my own creativity, feeling you, them & myself & us and the art itself as such. Here is the trust put in me by the beautiful 😻 🌟lights : .

My Friend Shurya 🌞 😘🥰✨🌈🥳🌞 See you in 5! —Okasy zhok Hakuna Matata 😀 Soul : Mohit Ichko Artist : mugDh 🌈 Mug Ps. This photography-art project is also an answer to how rainbow gatherings happens. Its with people. And through my stories behind each wonderful rainbow feature; sharing the moments we shared in marking each click as a split in time where our consciousness ceased to oblivion of how it may be perceived. PERFECTION!

ps- ps- “Go and experience a rainbow gathering which happens from new moon to new moon. Travelers from all over the world go there. You will see the life there.” That's the way i was introduced to 🌈

Direct artist support here: https://paypal.com/paypalme/mugdh

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possibilistfanfiction · 1 year

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Avatrice + unfinished business

ps - sorry you’re having a crappy day, pal

[forgive me distant wars (for bringing flowers home) - ao3]

to unravel a torment you must begin somewhere

— louise bourgeois

‘hey,’ you say, sitting back down in the seat next to bea. the last battle has been won; the war is over. to you, at least right now, it feels like the happiest thing you could ever imagine: getting to leave the ruins behind, getting to spend the rest of your life — hopefully a long and mundane one — growing old with this person you love so deeply. lilith was helping deal with some residuals in spain, and so it was just easier to take a flight instead of teleporting, even though you have to fly across the atlantic and then a whole continent. it feels normal; it feels like something people who have never seen a demon, or come back from the dead, or fought in a holy war, or worn a crown of thorns, or watched someone they love die — it feels like something normal people do.

it’s your first time on a plane, and camila had, kindly, gotten you first class tickets, mostly because beatrice’s arm is broken and tender and in a new cast, tucked away in a sling across her chest. it’s not the time to be excited, you get it, but you’re flying on an airplane and you guess bea has flown a million times but the safety speech and takeoff and little peanuts and glass of champagne the flight attendant offers you, the little travel pillow and the fact that you can watch ocean’s 8 on your own personal little tv is… pretty fucking cool.

beatrice hasn’t talked much; there are dark circles under her eyes and she hadn’t protested when you’d handed her a warm, comfortable cotton sweater and a pair of loose pants, soft socks and birkenstocks, some of her favorites from california, to wear on the flight back — home, you think, for as long as beatrice wants to stay there, getting to be in the sun and laughing with friends she’d made. she hadn’t bothered to put on a bra, mostly, you think, because of the painful, deep bruises along her ribs: she doesn’t have the halo, and she’s deadly and skilled, but still. for as much as you got hit — and walked through fucking fire, swear to god — she’s human, and she needs time to heal.

‘hi ava,’ she says, eventually, rough and quiet, forcing a smile. you’re not quite sure what’s going on, probably mostly that she’s tired and sore, but you have time to figure it out. you know she has nightmares, all kinds, and that she has no plan, so far, to reconcile with her parents; you’re not sure, not anymore, where she stands with her faith. you remember waking up from dying, the first time, alone in a morgue and absolutely terrified, and you think maybe she feels a little like that: confused, and lost, and overwhelmed with a wonder that sits in her hands with nowhere, quite yet, to go.

‘you doing okay? did you eat? are you cold? do you need more ibuprofen?’

her smile turns real, and soft, a little sad, and she brings her fingers to trace the newly stitched skin on your face: someone with a divinium knife, a lucky strike through your brow and across the bridge of your nose. in your opinion, it’s pretty badass and, honestly, you don’t mind emerging from a holy war with a scar. it’s a reminder, that you were strong, that you’re still human, in the ways that matter at least: you need to breathe and you can bleed and be hurt and heal; you can love and care. ‘no, thank you,’ she says, then rubs your cheekbone gently with her thumb before putting her hand back in her lap. ‘i’m doing fine.’

you definitely don’t believe her: beatrice, when she’s really fine, smiles and laughs quietly at horrible reality tv, and gets up at the ass crack of dawn to surf before coming back inside and going right back to sleep until noon. she goes to trivia nights at the outdoor foodcourt near your house with extreme, unwavering intensity, and she touches you whenever she wants. ‘okay.’ you adjust the blanket over her lap, just to have something to do, and she leans into you a little bit. ‘when’s the last time you slept?’

‘i’m fine, darling. really.’

‘you know that i know you, right?’

she sighs. ‘i just — i want to be back at the house.’

you don’t miss her reluctance to call it home: residual fear, or a little bit of shame, you’re not sure, but it makes you ache for her. ‘ugh, i miss our bed. and our kitchen, even if what i mostly do is heat up leftovers.’

‘we do have an impressive microwave.’

you smile, and you lace your fingers with hers. ‘we can talk about this later, but — do you want to stay? have you thought about it at all?’

she waits a beat, swallows. ‘i do, want to stay.’ i built myself a life; i built a life where there was room for you in it, immediately; i built us��a life, you know she means, but can’t quite speak it aloud. ‘maybe we can look at houses to buy, in a few weeks. i’d like to stay on the water.’

‘well, i, for one, think that the pope should definitely comp a really beautiful beach house for us.’

she laughs quietly, tired, but with humor nonetheless. ‘either the pope or my trust fund.’

‘delightful either way, in my opinion.’

she smiles.

‘hey, i was gonna say, you can sleep, if you want. there’s a few hours before we land, i’ll stay awake.’

‘no, that’s okay.’ she sits up straighter and rubs her eyes. ‘you can nap.’

sometimes you want to shake her, or yell at her, or pick a fight: let me take care of you, you want to say, until she lets you the way she deserves. it scares you, now, the exhausted lilt to her shoulders, the slump in her spine. before, when you had just come back, she was quiet and reserved, still, in ways you think she probably always will be, part of her nature — but she let you order way too much food, and she happily slept in, and let her hair grow long and light and tangle in the salt air. she rested, and she laughed, and there was a looming threat on the horizon but she was so present, so very real. it scares you because the war is over but there’s a weight to her, a vigilance and a sadness, a grief — even though she kisses you with joy and tenderness and the sure promise of forever; she had called you, easily, your life partner at an airport cafe earlier — like her brain hasn’t quite caught up with the fact that she’s safe. there is no more unfinished business: you both made it out alive.

‘maybe we can watch a movie together? or a show, whatever you want.’

‘well,’ she says, ‘i am behind on all of my housewives.’

‘perfect.’ you find it on the little screen in front of you and hand her one her your ear buds. ‘what are lisa and heather fighting about now?’

ray, one of bea’s best friends and, now, one of your good friends too, has been watching the house for you, and you had texted her before you’d left out of paris that you’d both had a few injuries but nothing major, and not to worry when you get back. she knows, vaguely, about your pasts and your job, as much as you could really explain without putting her into danger. but, still, she grimaces when she comes outside to help you take your bags in once your uber drops you off from lax.

she gives you a tight hug, which you welcome — this is a life, separate from angels and demons and violence in the form of dying; violence in the form of resurrection. bea hesitates for a moment but then lets ray wrap her up in her arms, as tightly as she can without hurting her, right in your driveway. the air smells like the sea and the sage planted in the yard, and it’s cool as the sun goes down.

‘i’m glad you’re back,’ she says. you’re grateful for her, and all the friends bea had made while you were gone — ray means i love you but sometimes bea needs a minute to catch up, and you love that people know her well enough to understand. ‘come on, let’s get you inside. ava, do you want to help me make dinner?’

‘i can help,’ bea offers.

ray shakes her head. ‘nope. you can shower and lie down, and ava can come get you when we’re done.’

bea frowns. ‘you’re sure?’

‘yes.’ ray gets bea’s suitcase and starts to walk inside. ‘you can come relax on the couch if you want, but i know you haven’t slept well in a long time, and you’re hurt.’ bea bites her bottom lip, like she wants to argue but knows she won’t win. ‘plus, ava needs to learn how to make my abuelita’s guacamole for you.’

‘okay,’ beatrice says, running a gentle hand along the picture in the frame on your entryway table, next to a small, misshapen bowl that you’d made in a pottery class that holds your keys. there’s no dust on anything, and there’s a profound sense of grace: you know that ray had cleaned, had kept fresh food in the fridge, had opened the doors every day to let the ocean air in. ‘okay.’

beatrice pads down the stairs just as you’re crying from cutting an onion, laughing from it, garlic and peppers roasting on the stove. you’d helped her up to your room before, and you think she almost started crying when she’d sat down on your bed to take her socks off. you’d kissed her forehead. now, she’s in an old pair of her running shorts, her favorite hoodie, comfortable socks; her hair is in a damp bun and, even though she doesn’t look less exhausted, she does look like herself.

you smile at her and she waves, kind of dorky, and then settles down on the couch. you’d put a gentle record on before you’d started cooking, and you don’t need to walk around the couch to know exactly how she’s curling up, careful of her wrist in its cast and sling, how, if you’re lucky, she’s let her eyes fall closed.

‘i recorded some matches from the open,’ ray says, ‘if you want to turn one on.’

bea lifts her good arm with a dorky thumbs up, which you love, and then you hear the little click of the remote as she navigates through your apps and opens the right one to stream. everything smells so good, and you can hear the ocean outside, and beatrice loves to watch tennis; if it’s on, she often does while you’re making dinner as the day winds down. ray teaches you how to smash avocado properly and you add in the chiles and garlic and lime juice, when you squeeze it, gets in a little hangnail you have and stings, just for a moment, and you put your finger in your mouth and wait for the halo to soothe it. beatrice is fast asleep on the couch, you see when you walk over; you take a soft blanket, neatly folded, off the back, and drape it over her gently. bea curls up when she sleeps, small and contained, on her side, her hands tucked neatly under her chin.

you love her, and the war is over; you won.

when you wake her a few minutes later, she flinches away from your hand.

when you wake up the next morning, early, beatrice is already gone. the sheets are cold when you reach out and touch them, but it doesn’t terrifying or even surprise you: she’d eaten dinner quietly and then gone up to bed; she had been under the duvet and asleep by the time you finished cleaning up and had a beer with ray. now, after you put on a thick sweater and a beanie and make coffee in two to-go mugs, she’s right where you thought she would be. her back is a little hunched and she’s just in a t-shirt, even though it’s freezing cold before the sun has washed over the coast with its warmth.

you’re definitely not a stealthy person to begin with, which is fine, especially now, but you make sure to be as loud as possible before you sit down beside her. she smiles at you, looking even more tired than she did yesterday, you wonder if she really slept at all last night. but, still, she kisses you softly when you hand her her mug.

‘you’re not wearing your sling.’

‘good morning to you too, ava.’

you roll your eyes. ‘hi, love of my life. you’re not wearing your sling.’

she shrugs, trains her gaze back on the water, the incoming set and her friends on their boards in the distance. ‘wasn’t feeling as sore.’

‘you know i don’t believe you.’

she takes a sip of her coffee, hums quietly: you know you got the oat milk ratio right, and you know she had missed it.

‘are you… unhappy?’

‘no,’ she says, more intense than you had anticipated, looking more alive than you had seen her in days, weeks maybe. she turns toward you and seriously cups your face in her palm. ‘no, ava, i — i am so happy. all i want is this life with you, to build our home.’ her eyes fill with tears and her lower lip starts to tremble. ‘i just — i’m so tired, and i feel so overwhelmed.’

’okay.’ you soothe your fingers over her collarbone, take note of how cold her skin is to the touch. ‘that’s okay. i’m here for it all, you know that, right?’

she swallows. ‘i do, yes. thank you.’

‘no need to thank me.’ you kiss the tip of her nose and her smile, for a flash, turns real. ‘i love you. and, honestly, when i got back, i was really surprised how well-adjusted you were. you have to feel overwhelmed and weird at some point.’ you pair it with a cheeky grin, one you know will soften the blow; one you know will help her feel good, and loved, and cared for: nothing about her is a flaw.

‘i suppose.’

‘it’s okay, how you feel. we’ll figure it out.’

she nods. ‘okay.’

‘for now —‘ you stand and then offer your hand to help her up — ‘let’s get you inside, or at least into a hoodie. you’ve gotta be freezing.’

it seems to occur to her, all of a sudden, that she’s in shorts and a t-shirt. ‘oh.’

you make a big show of brushing sand off your butt, which makes her smile, genuinely, and then she eagerly laces your fingers together.

‘wanna get breakfast burritos? oh, or donuts. beatrice, both?’

she pauses to kiss you, gently. ‘we can get everything you want, darling.’

you let out a whoop, probably far too loud for this early, but it makes her laugh, and you really don’t care about anything else.

‘what… are you doing?’

beatrice finishes knotting her obi with one sure hand, the other clumsy in her cast. it’s been two days and, mostly, you’ve gotten her to nap with you a few times; you’ve ordered in your favorite foods and she’s done your laundry — you were banned from helping ages ago — and gone to her favorite bookstore, her favorite coffee shop, your bar where they were thrilled to see you back and already tried to get you back on the schedule. it’s been two days and you’re home and safe but you’re starting to think that, in some ways, at least, beatrice can’t quite believe that she is: she hasn’t touched you since the night before the final battle. she hasn’t let you touch her.

‘going to the dojo,’ she says, like this is an obvious, logical thing for her to do right now.

‘beatrice.’ you walk toward her, standing still in the middle of your big closet. ‘you’re hurt.’

‘i’ve had worse,’ she tells you, clipped and annoyed and maybe, maybe, a little scared.

‘baby.’

she shakes her head and moves away from you; you’d seen her ribs, just this morning, the big bruise that runs their length still purpling, green around the edges, spreading all along her side. it’s been four days since she broke her arm — in three places, dr. salvius had said when she put the x-ray up on the screen: the tender marrowbones, the wrist, ulna and radius, rendered in black and white, the cracks plain to see, others more faded, healed reluctantly in their wake.

‘ava,’ she says sharply. ‘i’m fine. i’m just going to run through some kata. it’ll help me feel less stiff.’

you somehow don’t believe her, but, ‘okay, i guess. but, promise to be gentle to yourself?’

she smiles, not reaching her eyes. ‘sure.’

‘will keiko be there?’

‘yes.’

‘okay, he’s my favorite. i trust him to not let you get even more hurt.’

‘i really am just stiff.’ you know that’s not true; she’s taken advil ever six hours since you’d been back, precise and necessary. keiko is her preferred sparring partner, and a good friend, so you figure you can text him if you have to.

‘let me pick you up afterward? we can grab lunch.’

she agrees easily with a nod, and then steps toward you and runs a hand through your hair tenderly before she kisses you.

‘i just — i just want you to be okay.’

‘i will be, she says. ‘i always am.’

‘so, beatrice,’ keiko says, smiling happily now that the two of you are back, relaxed at a table at your favorite cafe by the water, ‘what’s your favorite thing about ava?’

‘my boobs, definitely,’ you say immediately. you’re extremely confident in your answer.

beatrice, instead of laughing, only looks down at her lap with a frown. ‘i was going to say your joy.’ it’s quiet, and way too sincere for the moment, really. you take her hand gently and kiss her knuckles, littered with white scars.

‘that’s very gay,’ keiko says, his perfect smile on display, although when he glances at you, you can tell that he’s worried too. ‘both of your answers, honestly.’

you laugh but bea hasn’t looked up from her lap.

‘i’m gonna go to the bathroom, or maybe go flirt with our server; he’s yummy,’ keiko says, and you squeeze his in thanks as he leave.

you crowd into beatrice’s space, duck so you can rest your forehead against hers. ‘hey, bea.’

she sniffles in response and your heart aches for her.

‘i’m sorry i made a stupid joke about my boobs, but — what’s going on?’ keiko had told you, while you’d sent bea to get a table, that she had asked to train with him, even with her cast. he hadn’t known about her ribs, but he’s trained with beatrice for a while, so he knows enough of her movements, and her responsibilities and past, that you’re sure he was able to tell.

‘i really love you. i’m really happy, i am. i want —‘ she sniffles — ‘i want to feel it, i want to touch you. i just — it’s like someone moved all the furniture two inches; i feel off. like nothing is… real.’

it doesn’t quite make sense to you, but that doesn’t really matter: beatrice is hurting, and confused, and, she’s your partner. you will be there for her; you will help her as best you can; you will love her, steadfastly, like she’s always loved you. ‘we can make sure you’re safe, and we’ll figure it out, okay?’

she swallows and wipes her tears, then nods. ‘yeah, okay.’

‘i love you. i’m in it with you.’

‘i love you too.’

you squeeze her hand. ‘so, do you want me to feign an emergency or do you want to finish lunch with keiko? you know i have a flair for the dramatic.’

it gets her to laugh, which settles your nerves: she’s the person you want to spend your life with, the one you know the best. ‘you don’t say.’

‘whatever. so?’

‘let’s finish lunch. then i need to nap, with some advil. to be honest, i should not have done all i did today.’

‘you don’t say.’

she rolls her eyes, but then she smooths her thumb over your cheek. ‘thank you, ava.’

‘dude. always.’

‘dude?’

‘whatever.’

things get better, of course they do: beatrice is gentle and wonderful, as she always has been. sometimes she wakes up early to watch the sunrise and say hi to her friends surfing; sometimes she sleeps late like she prefers. she makes dinner with you, and you convince her to go shopping even though she insists that you have more than enough clothes. you go to see a sparks game with a few of your friends, court side because you can, because you get to live your life now; you get to eat cotton candy and tell bea which players you think are the hottest and watch her laugh, watch her light up, watch her get dressed carefully in soft clothes and hold your hand at dinner, on top of the table. sometimes it feels like nothing can touch you, not anymore. you fall asleep on the couch one night playing with her hair, and when you wake up later, in bed, she’s awake, looking at you softly.

‘you carried me up here?’

she nods, like there was no other option. beatrice has loved you grandly before; beatrice has fought her way through men who wanted to kill her, just to hold you for a few minutes, just to say goodbye. she’s always been quiet but there had been, during the war, a devotion and reverence that made you want to press her up against a wall and kiss her until she forgot the blood and the burn and there was only the moon through the gossamer curtains, until there was only your mouths and the histories hidden in them. sometimes, when she makes you coffee when she gets in from the beach, or settles between your legs while you’re lounging on the balcony, kisses your collarbone and then situates herself, opens a book and rests a gentle hand on your knee — sometimes you think this is the way she was meant to love. this is the way she was meant to love you: in the mundanity and the laughter. she was meant to love you in the light.

you drift away from beatrice in the whole foods by your house, mostly so you can pick out a bunch of chocolate without her grumbling, and also so you can watch her carefully inspect plums, holding them gently in her palm and smiling a little when she thinks she’s found the best one. she’s in a hoodie and shorts, her long hair braided neatly, soft and sleepy and so beautiful. you wait for a few moments and let yourself yearn for her, let yourself feel her absence, just for a second, just so you can return to it in all its warmth.

she’s moved on to inspecting peaches when you walk up behind her and hug her, and then, all of a sudden, you’re slammed onto your back, plums everywhere around you. it takes your brain a second to catch up, but then there’s bea’s horrified face above you and a few people looking on in concern.

‘ava,’ she says, her eyes filling with tears; she brings a shaking hand to your cheek but then snatches it away, ashamed. ‘ava, i’m so, so sorry — i —‘

‘hey, it’s okay, i’m fine.’ you sit up and then stand; you help her pick up the few plums that have fallen and then tug on her hand, get her to abandon the basket even though she tries to argue, and you walk out into the sun. she’s breathing hard, her chest heaving, and you hurry to your car, where you take the keys from her pocket and then get her into the passenger seat. ‘breathe, bea.’ she shakes her head and she’s crying now; you don’t know exactly what’s happening, but she’s hyperventilating and you gently push her head forward, between her knees, and run your hand along her spine. sometimes, after nightmares, you feel panicked, so you know at least a few things to try to help her calm down. ‘bea, what noises do you hear right now? can you tell me five?’

there’s a few ragged breaths but then she says, ‘a car alarm,’ and you know that she can do it. she gets through sound and smell before she sits up and then you get in the driver’s seat but you still hold her hand as she tells you five things she sees, her breathing returning to normal. you open a bottle of water and hand it to her, and she takes a few sips before turning to you.

‘are you okay?’

‘yeah,’ you say, ‘i’m fine, truly. not a scratch or a bruise. you’re losing your touch.’

‘ava.’ her lip trembles. ‘i — i don’t know what’s happening.’

‘well, we fought a war,’ you say, and you put your hand on her cheek and run your thumb under her eyes. ‘and you were fighting for a long time before that. so now, maybe you’re just having a hard time catching up to it being over.’

‘but —‘ she clenches her jaw — ‘it is over, and i know that.’

‘yeah, i know you do. but you know that bodies and brains aren’t like that, all the time. i know you know that.’

‘i just — this isn’t who i am. this isn’t what i’m like. i should be feeling happy, and grateful, and just planning the future with you, and for myself, but then —‘ she looks out the window, away from you — ‘then i don’t know what’s real, or i’m so scared.’

‘beatrice.’ you wait for her to meet your gaze. ‘we’ll figure it out. i have my stuff too, and you know that. and i know that you don’t love me any less for it.’

‘i would never.’

‘yeah, so — i love you. no matter what. i love you.’

‘i’m really, really sorry.’

‘it’s okay.’ she takes another sip of the water and slumps in the seat, drained. ‘also, i stole that, so now i’ve officially shoplifted something. bucket list item completed.’

bea snorts a laugh. ’that was not on your bucket list.’

‘how do you know? it totally was.’

‘should we… go pay for it?’

there’s a hint of a smile still on her face, a real one that you delight in. ‘nah,’ you say. ‘let’s go home.’ she opens her mouth but you beat her to it: ‘we can order groceries, bea.’

‘okay.’ she lets out a big breath. ‘let’s go home.’

bea had already been seeing a therapist, you know, since before you even came back; she’d told you, one day, when it was foggy and you’d driven out to malibu, that she talked a lot about her sexuality, and her expression, and her parents, and her faith. you don’t think, the entire time, that she had talked about the things that make her hands tremble now; you don’t think she had talked about the absent way she’ll stare out the window while she washes the pan you’d made eggs in for breakfast, how she flinches away when you move too quickly. maybe she hadn’t noticed; maybe she had gotten to love you in a way that sat in her chest and never quite made it out while you were gone: her friends all know about you, that you were ‘sick,’ that beatrice ached for you. but they don’t know she’s saved the world. they don’t know that she’s saved you.

you wait for her, after therapy, with all the windows open in the house so it smells like the ocean and always a little like the smog that sits inland; you light candles and get the softest blankets out for the couch. you order her favorite birria and make sure there’s cold seltzer — one of her favorite small indulgences — in the fridge. when she gets home, her shoulders slumped, she looks exhausted, but the little divinium chain camila had given her glows a pale blue when you’re near, and it’s not perfect, but it does help her feel calmer sometimes. now, she smiles gently at you and kisses you. there’s a steadfastness there that you recognize from before: you are hers and she will protect you. there’s no battles, no wars, but there are things to be protected from: bad drivers and rip currents and the bad sushi you had one time in santa monica. life is rich, and abundant, more than you ever, ever dreamed it could be, in this realm or any others.

you eat your tacos on the couch, wrapping bea up in blankets while she laughs and pretends to resist. you kiss her and kiss her and kiss her; she tugs on the bottom of your shirt and it’s warm, the air, and her skin is hot. it’s been weeks being back — extraordinary weeks; confusing and difficult weeks — but she lies beneath you and tells you that you’re her favorite person; that you’re a blessing; that you save her life, even now, and then she laughs and says you taste like guacamole and you love her, so much. and then she smiles and takes your hand and places it on her waistband.

’i want you to touch me.’

she kicks the blankets to her feet and is hungry when she kisses you, arches into you when you run your fingers through her wetness and rub a circle around her clit. you kiss her pulse point, scrape your teeth along her collarbone, reach under her sweater — she’s not wearing a bra — and tweak a dusky, hard nipple softly. she says your name and it’s heaven, to watch her fall apart beneath you. the halo glows as the sun sets and she sighs your name.

Ava🍊 (10:02 am)

hey babe no worries but can u be allergic to pineapple lol

bea 💓💫🏄🏻‍♀️😎👭🥋📿 (10:03 am)

Are you feeling like you can’t breathe or are really itchy? I’m not sure what the halo would do in this situation. I’ll be home as soon as I can.

Ava🍊 (10:03 am)

no no it’s okay my mouth is just a little fuzzy it’s kinda fun not really but kind of

bea 💓💫🏄🏻‍♀️😎👭🥋📿 (10:04 am)

I’ll come home

Ava🍊 (10:04 am)

you don’t have to, it’s okay bea i really am fine

Ava🍊 (10:05 am)

how about if i come to you? that way you don’t miss out on dojo time

bea 💓💫🏄🏻‍♀️😎👭🥋📿 (10:06 am)

Is that a hassle for you?

Ava🍊 (10:06 am)

nah i'll just bring my ipad and email from there i always get all hot and bothered when i get to watch you anyway even tho you better not be doing anything that’s gonna hurt your wrist 👀

bea 💓💫🏄🏻‍♀️😎👭🥋📿 (10:07 am)

I’m not, I promise

bea 💓💫🏄🏻‍♀️😎👭🥋📿 (10:08 am)

Are you sure you’re okay to come?

Ava🍊 (10:08 am)

yes my love i’ll be there in 10 mins flex extra hard when i come in

bea ��💫🏄🏻‍♀️😎👭🥋📿 (10:09 am)

Ava. I’m in my gi

Ava🍊 (10:09 am)

hmm still hot for one secondly can i watch you shower later then? please

bea 💓💫🏄🏻‍♀️😎👭🥋📿 (10:10 am)

I’ll see you soon. And maybe. If you’re good.

Ava🍊 (10:11 am)

wow yes ok see you in 5 minutes if i run fast can’t wait

she has bad days, where she doesn’t want to get out of bed, or where she looks at you, hazy, in the morning, and her hands shake while she drinks her coffee, like she’s not quite sure what’s real. one time, when you’re watching some stupid action movie on tv, her whole body starts trembling and you have to take her hands and go stand, your pants rolled up to your knees, in the freezing cold surf until it seems like she comes back to you, with a sob and a tight hug and then a small, quiet request for ice cream. and it’s okay: she does grounding exercises in a workbook her therapist has given her, and, eventually, she gets her cast off, the skin underneath pale and flakey but the first time she gets to run through forms with her bo, just in your yard in the afternoon sun, in her hakama and a sports bra, there’s a peace that fills her then, tangible and visible, the set of her shoulders and the sureness of her hips.

one morning, as time floats on as it’s bound to do, at least here, she’s still in bed when you wake up, even though she had planned to go surfing. you’re worried for a moment, that something had happened, or that she’d had a bad nightmare, but she smiles gently when she sees you’re awake and smooths hair off your face. are you okay; how can i love you better you want to ask, but then her eyes are calm and her fingers don’t shake at all.

‘i just have bad cramps,’ she explains.

‘aw, baby.’

‘it’s okay. i took some ibuprofen a few minutes ago.’

‘let me get you the heating pad.’

‘i’m fine.’

‘beatrice.’ you kiss her forehead and then rest yours against it; you let your easy breaths and her soft skin fill the space for a moment. ‘let me take care of you. please.’

she’s still, but then she scoots a little so her head is tucked into your neck. ‘okay.’

‘yeah?’

she smiles up at you, so fucking pretty you don’t even know what to do with yourself. ‘yes, ava. the heating pad would be nice.’

beatrice settles: she buys pants she loves and gets a few more tattoos; she surfs in the mornings and teaches aikido and tells you all about all the podcasts she likes to listen to on her runs, or when she’s making dinner; she goes down on you one morning until you come so many times you forget everything but her. you go to a winery in ojai and you sit with her in the hotsprings and she kisses the scar through your brow a little clumsily after a few glasses of chardonnay. you drive to a farm on your way back to the city, one with regenerative practices that move beatrice to tears when the guide happily answers her quiet, precise questions on the tour. you cry about a pig and a rooster who are best friends, but, like, who can blame you, really?

she throws you a big party with all of your friends the weekend before your birthday, and then quietly takes you to joshua tree, which seems like another planet and you’re in awe, all over again, of everything you get to see in this world. everything smells like sage after it rains, a flash storm, and you hike to an oasis and sit and share a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with beatrice, who is sunkissed and golden and so goddamn beautiful in a t-shirt with a hole in the sleeve, with jelly smudged on the corner of her mouth that you kiss away. she brings binoculars and shows you quail, shows you small wrens in cacti. that night you eat burgers and fries and she somehow has managed to sneak an entire cake into your air bnb without you noticing — which she should probably tease you about, but she’s too sweet to do it right now, not when she’s putting candles into the frosting with a very exacting expression, not when she sings to you softly, and then tells you to make a wish.

she’s left her divinium chain on the nightstand at your house on the beach, and she’s looking at you like she understands it all: the stars are so bright overhead and you can see for miles, and miles, and miles. it makes you feel invincible; it makes you feel like a god; it makes you feel like a girl: someone loves you, and you get to love her back. later, you’ll eat edibles together and sit outside wrapped in blankets as the desert air turns freezing, and she’ll tell you how she learned to ride a bike, and the name of her childhood cat, and about the horrible hangover she got from homemade vodka in krakow. things will feel soft, and she won’t be able to stop smiling while she kisses you, and she’ll push the beanie off of your hair and touch you beneath the infinite sky. you’ll live like this, you think: folding the laundry and haircuts and hangovers and broken wrists and books you read to her in the middle of the night when things are hard and sleeping is scarier than staying away. you’ll live in it all, in the fucking joy.

for now she laughs into your mouth and everything smells like the faint smoke from birthday candles and the petrichor in the distance.

‘there’s not a lot for me to wish for, anymore.’

she shrugs. ‘wish anyway.’

you do: abundance. it’s easy, to long for it, because you hold it in the palms of your hands every day. you settle into bed with her later and you thank her and she tells you, 'i feel so safe, with you, where we are in this world,' as you hold her. with your eyes, you trace the weft lines of a tapestry hanging on the wall. the way you love her feels the same: intricate and infinite, spring and the color orange and a brave, disappearing horizon line, blue in the dark. she falls asleep, soft, in your arms; the sun rises in the morning and paints the horizon gold.

#wn #warrior nun fanfic #avatrice #avatrice fic #girls against god au #there are no major descriptions of ptsd here but it is kind of about bea struggling #so yknow just take care of yourselves if u start to feel funky #love u love them it's v soft

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