Sparks of light on shattered glass - Part 1
Coming into this really late, because I didn't have the occasion to write earlier and I write slowly! I'm not sure how much I'll manage to get done before the end of the week, but I'm absolutely planning on continuing this past it.
This story is built around the overarching prompt "Mirrors" of LoZ Rareship Week, and as such there will be seven chapters, one for each prompt of the week. The first prompt was "Kiss/Dodge."
For bright that it shines, ruthless star in pools of icy sky, Skyloft's sun doesn't warm. Orville stands underneath it huddled in jackets and scarves, watching young men spar among the ruins of the training area.
He remembers the time when that sun had beaten down on them nearly as hard as the blades of their training swords, when the midday heat had been nigh unbearable.
He doesn't understand. Haven't they come closer to the blinding star? Shouldn't they feel its warm embrace more than they had on the surface, rather than be left shivering as if it had left them altogether? He can see it, but the touch of its light is distant, ethereal.
The sun is so much bigger than it used to be. It seems to be right there, next to him. If he holds out his arm he can nearly imagine he can grasp it. He thinks of plucking one of these sweet rays like incandescent honey in his palm, soft against his skin.
But it remains forever out of reach. Orville isn't sure he would dare attempt something so foolish, so doomed to failure.
That doesn't stop him from wondering what could happen, had he only a little more courage, were he a little less indecisive. Who knows after all when the sun could fall down, plunging them all in eternal night, so blinded by its absence, maybe, that they could barely see the stars?
The young men training aren't so prone to such melancholy. They're in the heat of action, laughing and shouting as they train, light-hearted in a way Orville has forgotten how to be even though he is barely older than them.
He thinks of a ruthlessly bright smile, of a laugh that used to carry all the way to the sun and the sky, and grieves, and regrets, and aches.
They were standing in the training grounds, the summer heat moist on their flushed and aching bodies.
Orville panted, mouth dry, sword in hand, watching Link in front of him like a hawk. Under a thin shirt, chiselled muscles were tensed for attack, his brow glistening in the light. Golden hair glowed on golden skin, slick and darkened with sweat. His lips, soft and pink, were slightly parted in exertion.
Orville should have watched his eyes, pools of ice he would gladly put on the nape of his neck to cool his burning skin. He should have watched there for a flash, for a mesmerising glance, anything betraying Link's intentions.
But he couldn't look away from those lips. They were barely open, showing but a hint of teeth, but their shape drew fanciful promises, and Orville shivered at the thin sound of breath escaping them.
Link leapt, graceful animal that he was, and Orville was caught unaware. His sword didn't rise in time; all his honed reflexes could do was jump out of the way.
Link stumbled forward, carried by his impetus, then he caught himself and faced Orville, grinning.
“Nice save,” he said. “But you should get your head out of the clouds.”
Orville carefully didn't answer. Sometimes he wished Link could read him a little less well. Sometimes a little better.
His laugh was contagious, though, and he shared it without even thinking, hoping his eyes didn't betray his thoughts, or maybe hoping they did.
This time he was ready for his friend's attack. His trembling sword caught Link's at the last moment.
His eyes caught on Link's smile, and for a fluttering heartbeat, he regretted dodging his blow.