The Heroes have finished their journeys; with the castle clear and Hyrule hopeful, they're content... until they see the Champions of Old in desperate need of aid. None of them hesitate.
The Calamity never rests, but neither do the Heroes.
aka: Age of Calamity, in the Accursed Heroes AU. What does that entail? Come find out!
READ ON AO3 HERE!
NOTICE: This fic was written by a real life flesh-and-blood human. Use of my work to train AI is prohibited. I hate generative AI and if you use it I hate you too. Got that? Good.
01 .. white feather fletching
A swift blur of white surges between her and the beast. “Not this time!”
Warnings: none, really. implied child neglect?
02 .. seeing red
What the heck is a fish doing on Death Mountain?
Warnings: none
03 .. golden girl
Goddesses above, he's just been saved by a little girl.
Warnings: none
04 .. sandstone
“Don’t you guys ever get sick of gettin’ your tails kicked?!"
Warnings: none
05 .. on the road
Robbie places a hand to a strange machine on the tabletop, flicking up his goggles to stare at Saki. “Now, you are an enigma."
Warnings: none
make The Character cough up blood from magical exhaustion but make them press their lips into a thin line and clap a hand or handkerchief over their mouth and grimace slightly and swallow down the blood on their tongue. and straighten from their slightly hunched position with hopefully no one the wiser
"I just wanted to live… Was that so wrong?" The stranger asks, and it's clear that they aren't talking to Grace and Rocky anymore. Maybe they never were. "They didn't even ask for my name. They killed me and they didn't even care about who I used to be."
Grace and Rocky find a ship on their way to Erid. Unfortunately, the strange man inside is barely coherent, and upon closer examination, he might not even be human.
Chapter 2
(Cross-posted to AO3, please go check it out here!)
Warnings for: Hopelessness, Lapses with Reality, Religious Trauma, Gore and Graphic Injury, Passive Suicidality. An extended tag list is featured on AO3, which has this chapter + an additional 4 chapters.
If you enjoy, please share and leave a comment/reblog! Chapter 1 here.
The ship rams into the beast, and something inside of him snaps in half.
Then, the light is tearing through the hull, and there is screaming.
The light is overwhelming, burning his retinas until he closes his eyes—and even that doesn't help, the thin layers of muscle and fat aren't enough to stop it. He's never associated light with this kind of pain before, and maybe that was a mistake on his part.
The agony does not cleanse him. The wickedness in him still exists, even as he screams and claws at his eyes and begs for mercy. There is not mercy enough in this world for him.
Then, all at once, the light is gone. He is weightless, and everything is quiet.
Simon opens his eyes and nothing changes. There's no light, or perhaps his vision has been cleansed. What use are eyes for a creature that belongs, now, to the depths?
He cannot see, but he can cry. He sobs, thick and heaving cries echoing through the tiny, metal tomb. The submarine that has become his eternal resting place—if only it would allow him to rest.
There's no light, but he can hear sounds. The longer he stays in the darkness, the more he is reminded that humanity is not meant for this. There is an animal instinct lodged somewhere deep in the back of his mind, and it cries out for the light with foolish aplomb. Perhaps it isn't instinct—perhaps that feeling arises from the darkest parts of him, the ones that yearn to be exposed to the light.
He eventually runs out of tears. After what feels like years, Simon curls into a ball and floats in the nothingness.
He thinks that he must be in Hell. This must be his punishment, to spend a twisted, nightmarish eternity in the dark—in the ship. He can feel his breathing reverberating off of cold metal walls, and he can still smell the blood.
His arm is still gone. It's almost a shock to feel the empty space as he tucks his limbs in against himself, burying his face down against his chest. His left arm is gone, starting halfway down the top of the limb. He's sure that if he checked, he'd be able to feel shards of bone and ruined, twisted muscles.
"…I wish you hadn't made me do this. I liked you, Simon. I loved you."
He curls into a tighter ball at the sound of the radio speaker. He faintly remembers reattaching the wire, but he doesn't bother to check. This is penance. This is their justice. 62 deaths to atone for—he will never be able to make up for his crimes.
"I'm sorry," Simon whispers. "I'm so sorry."
Men, women, and children. All gone in an instant, snuffed out like the dying stars around them. He'd done that.
"I wanted to see you. I wanted to know you. You would have killed me, given the chance. I had to kill you, first. Oh, but you wanted that, didn't you?"
Simon shakes his head vehemently, a fiery bolt of pain seizing up through his arm. He wheezes as it hits his spine, his entire body going still as it roils through him. "Ngh! Stop it, please… I didn't- I didn't wanna die."
"You wanted to atone first, didn't you? You thought that you could wipe the slate clean before you went?" Her voice sounds kind, and maybe it is. Maybe she was always kind, but he forced her hand. "You knew that you would die, but you couldn't resist being cruel one last time. You pressed that button—you killed three more people. Killing is all you know."
"I- I didn't know," Simon says, but it feels weak even as it falls past his numb lips. "It was a camera, I thought it was just a camera…"
She doesn't say anything, and that might be worse. He's left alone in the silence, fighting back tears as he relives that moment over and over again.
He remembers the cold metal against his fingers. He remembers the image—of course he remembers, it's practically burned into his retinas. Three people, all of whom would die a slow, agonizing death to radiation sickness.
For all that Simon is ignorant of the world outside of Eden, he was raised on a space station. He knows about radiation, about the slow sloughing of skin and the agony of spontaneous cell death. He has smelled the blight of corpse-rot on living people, sweet and bitter and spoiled. He has seen blood-slick bone reveal itself as muscle and tissue gradually falls aside.
He knows exactly what he has doomed those people to. Simon the Butcher, the Son of Eden, the Betrayer of Man.
He hopes that someone remembers that he was once a person. That's more than he would deserve.
"Why would they care that you were a person?" She asks. Her voice is still soft, gentle even while she disassembles him piece by piece. "You killed so many people, and you didn't even know their names. The victims of the Butcher, forgotten to history."
Simon absorbs that. Maybe atonement isn't possible—maybe some people are just destined to be monsters. God made man in His image, but Simon doubts that a loving God could make someone like him.
"Devil-sent, twice blessed—scourge of Man, laid to rest," she whispers in his ear. There is no static from the speakers.
"You're… you're not real," Simon realizes, and there's a soft laugh. It sounds like metal scraping against bone, cleaving apart rigid tendons. It is slaughter, gentle and quiet.
He recoils from it, but there's too much—there's hands along the back of his neck, there's a touch along the left side of his face, there's corpse-rot and decay in his nose, in his mouth, in his eyes—
There's blood in his mouth. He swallows, and it clings to his esophagus, thick and heavy. Iron tinges the back of his tongue, metallic and sweet. It's repulsive—it's sustenance.
Simon hasn't eaten in days. The taste of the blood ocean sings sweetly across his taste buds, and he decides that he won't accept this. He can't accept any of this.
"I know that I deserve this," Simon whispers, his throat sore. He can barely wrap his lips around the words—he feels like his entire reality is just one blink away from vanishing into the ether. "But I tried. I wasn't good, but I kept trying. Shouldn't that count for something?"
"You failed. You weren't good enough, and you failed. That was enough to condemn you."
"Stop it."
"You are a disgusting thing. You were cruel, and cruelty was given to you as a punishment, in turn. Didn't you deserve it? Did you really think that I'd let you die as a hero?" Her voice turns cruel, and Simon's heart starts sinking. It isn't all at once—he's a vessel taking on water, drop by drop.
Unbidden, his mind conjures up an image—a fly, caught in the web of a spider. Does the fly call the spider divine, or does it recognize the devil before it is bitten?
"You're not real," Simon whispers. "You didn't like hearing that, but it's true. You're not real, and I'm not dead. Maybe I'll be dead soon, but… We're not at the bottom of the ocean, not anymore."
Of course they're not at the bottom of the ocean. There's no gravity here, that's why he's floating—that's why there's blood in his mouth, it's everywhere in the ship. Somehow, the submarine is off-planet.
She is quiet. He tries to think about what she is, but he isn't sure what he's been talking to. He'd thought that she spoke for God, a vessel of divinity, but it's clear that isn't the case. She must be a remnant of the blood ocean.
"Are you the blood, or are you the monster?" Simon asks softly, finally opening his eyes. To his surprise, he can faintly see the inside of the cabin—it's a deep, terrible red, but he can see it. He doesn't think that he should be able to do that.
She doesn't answer him, and he thinks he knows the answer.
He moves his neck slightly, to get a better view of the speaker. The wires are still connected, but he hasn't heard any static from her voice for a while. She's the monster, or whatever remains of her.
He doesn't understand much about the blood ocean. He remembers an eye staring down at him, and an endless ocean of blood consuming him. He remembers becoming that ocean, feeling every part of his body as he struggled to breathe. His memories are sharp and jagged, and occasionally they're painful, but he knows that the blood never hated him.
The blood is sweet as wine, staining his lips and chin crimson. It is communion, tender and gentle.
He is far away from bone-white teeth and hollow, sunken skulls when his eyes finally roll into the back of his head. He sees red and then, he's gone.
Consciousness swims somewhere beyond his reach.
Simon winces, the taste of blood and bile at the back of his throat. He keeps his eyes closed, but he can faintly hear something.
It's melodic, gentle steps up and down. It's beautiful.
Music. Somehow, there's music in this place.
He groans quietly as his eyes flutter open. He knows that there isn't any light in the submarine, but he can see everything perfectly fine. His vision is tinged red, but it's clear.
"Is that… music…?" He asks slowly, still waking up. He half expects to hear that horrible, twisted laugh again, but there's nothing of the sort.
There's a sharp, high-pitched note, and a gasp.
"Hello! Yes, sorry- um, this is Dr. Ryland Grace of the Hail Mary! I'm here with- my ship's engineer, Rocky. Oh my god, you're- can you speak again? Please?" A sharp voice rings out over the speaker, fuzzy through the layers of static. Simon winces at the sound, instinctively reaching up to cover his ears—ah.
His arm burns as the exposed muscles pull and twitch. He groans, shuddering with the force of the pain as his vision goes white for a beat—
The music pulls him back to reality as the pain begins to subside. He feels tears stinging at the backs of his eyes, but when he blinks, they don't fall.
"Mmm…" He tries to compose himself, but the pain seeps through every pore on his body. He is a bundle of exposed nerves and gasping agony. "Wha…? Why are you…"
He wants to ask why there's music, but it's all too much. He barely manages to get the words out before he's doubling over in pain again.
Pain is, very often, a feedback loop. He remembers the differences between negative and positive feedback loops—for some reason, when he's in this much pain, he can only think about engineering. He misses being useful, earning his meals.
Where was he? Right, right. Feedback loops achieve regulation by rerouting outputs back into inputs, so when he feels pain, he tenses—tension flares up damaged nerves, which signals the pain receptors, which sends a signal to the brain to recoil, which sends the signal back and causes tension. The cycle repeats ad infinitum, until the muscles begin to fatigue or some other form of entrophy strikes.
He's still thinking about feedback loops when they speak again.
"Are you okay? We're near your ship, we've been trying to contact you for a few minutes now. Do you need supplies?" They sound worried, nearly frantic. It's flattering for a second, before he realizes that he's being tricked yet again.
Wouldn't it be perfect, he thinks, for someone to offer to help him? He can't fall for it. For all that he's angry, he's more confused than anything else. Why try to trick him?
"What do you want from me…?" Simon asks, earnestly confused. "I- don't have anything left. Why are you doing this?"
It's not fair. He's not allowed even a moment of reprieve, is he? No, he has to suffer for the crime of survival. It makes sense.
"No, I'm- I'm just trying to see if you're alright!" The voice is so painfully kind. He wonders when someone last showed him this sort of kindness—maybe his mother, so long ago. "And just- wow, meeting another human out here is amazing, you know? It's been a while since I've seen anyone."
Their tone is kind, but he's familiar with this game. The monster will toy with him again if she gets the chance, and he's just… tired.
He's so tired of fighting. He's exhausted, and he just wants to cry. He wants his mom—why can't he be with his mom again?
"Stop, stop it," Simon begs, because what else can he do? "I can't do this… It was s'pposed to be over. You left me here, and now you're back to… to what? To torture me…?"
He wants to say that it won't work. He wants to scream, to throw things, to hit someone and feel bones crunch under his fists. He can't do any of those things.
He's been fighting for so long. Maybe it's alright to give it up, just for a while.
The music starts playing again, soft as a whisper but so, so warm. It's gentle with him, as if it can feel his harsh edges and longs to smooth them.
Simon is a beast of longing. His skin aches for warmth, for touch. He longs for tenderness, for something soft to see him.
"I just wanted to live… Was that so wrong?" Simon asks quietly. He doesn't care if it's a trick. It feels nice to just speak into the void. "They didn't even ask for my name. They killed me and they didn't even care about who I used to be."
For all that he is alive and breathing, Simon is a ghost. He is the ghost of a son, once loved and tended, kisses fallen upon a crown of messy, dark hair—he is the ghost of a brother, once bonded, beloved, and harshly betrayed—he is the ghost of a man, floating without purpose, without momentum.
He is an asteroid in search of a gravitational pull, hurtling through space until he crumbles to dust.
He is a sinner in search of—
The music plays again, soft chimes and strange, reverberating tones. It's faster, now, but no less pleasant to listen to. He's tempted to close his eyes and fall asleep again. If he's lucky, that will be the last of it.
"Music again…" Simon muses, a faint smile tugging along the edge of his mouth. He still tastes the blood. "I've never heard… music like this…"
"We're going to come get you," the voice says, sounding more determined now. They seem upset. "It's going to be okay. You're not alone out here. What's your name?"
Oh, he's heard that one before. Simon holds back a bitter laugh, and it sours in the pit of his stomach.
Who is he kidding, anymore?
"You know my name. Don't play games."
He doesn't mean to sound so angry, but it slips out, unbidden. He's been lied to so many times—he's sick of the politics, sick of dissecting every pause to search for meaning in the silence.
"I promise, I'm not trying to trick you or anything. I just want to help."
"You're not real. I know you're not real, so it would be great if you could shut the fuck up and let me die in peace," Simon says sharply, his stomach dropping uncomfortably as he speaks. His entire body tenses as if expecting a blow, an instinct that he'd never quite managed to shake.
There's no pain. Nobody hits him, nobody yells at him. This is usually the point when the voices stop messing with him—once he says that they aren't real, they usually devolve into cruelty. He braces himself for it.
"I just want you to live, I swear to God. Can you help me make that happen?"
Simon's eyes widen at that. He turns and looks at the speaker, his stomach dropping out from under him. The voice is so, so kind, warm and soft even as it swears to help him. It can't be real. There can't be a person who wants him to live, he almost can't believe it.
He licks his lips, his breath shuddering.
"…Who is God, to you?"
"I'm not really religious. I mean, I was raised Methodist, but I'm a scientist at heart. God isn't a person, for me, but… The idea of divinity, it's all around us. It's the stars, it's gravity, it's life," the voice is softer, hushed and stuttering as they try to explain themselves. It's so terribly, horribly human that Simon almost starts crying again.
He wonders about it. He thinks about the death of the stars, about the death of God. What would such a thing look like? Maybe he's already been living through it.
Maybe the blood ocean is all that remains of Him. Maybe that's why it kept him alive for so long, recirculating his oxygen for days.
Maybe that's why the blood tastes sweet. Ichor.
"The stars… God is dying, then. Maybe that explains the blood ocean," Simon says. "Maybe you're actually real."
"We're real!" The voice says quickly. "We're here. We see you and we just want to help, I promise. I don't really know how to prove that, but it's true."
Simon swallows back the fear. Faith isn't about proving anything, it's about belief without proof. It's about loving beyond reason, beyond logic—he doesn't need proof. He wants—he wants.
He closes his eyes and breathes in again, slow and deep. It's grounding.
"Tell me something about you."
There's silence again, but he doesn't think it's the voices in his head formulating a new response. He recognizes it, now, as a person who just doesn't know what to say. He almost wants to apologize for putting them on the spot.
"I'm a microbiologist," they say slowly. "I used to be a teacher, before… All this. I'm sorry, I haven't been around other humans for a while. I mean, it feels like a while. What about you?"
It feels like someone has punched him in the stomach. He can faintly remember a lab of microscopes and centrifuges, machines that he couldn't even name, when he'd visited his mom's workstation. She'd laughed as he tried on an oversized lab coat, pulling the sleeves back over small, chubby hands.
Of course they're a microbiologist. Of course, this dying universe is so, so loving—it has sent him something familiar.
His chest is warm, even against the frigid air around him.
It's a leap of faith, but he is more sure now than ever. This person is his prayers incarnate. He wonders what they look like.
He wonders if this is an angel.
"I…" Simon starts, only to hesitate. He recalls more beyond the slaughter. He remembers his work, how he'd once fallen in love with it. Maybe they'll understand. "I was an engineer. I fixed things. I think I was good at it."
There's music again, high-pitched chords ringing out sweetly across the void. It's beautiful, he wants to sink into the feeling.
"Well, we could always use another engineer!" They sound pleased. He feels his heart jolt, because yes, he can be useful—they'll let him be useful. He wants, he wants, he wants. He'll do anything.
This is his second chance. This is the light of forgiveness, of humility—this is Heaven's mercy.
He may be a sinner, but he can atone. He can change. He will start with this.
"You said your names earlier. I forgot them," Simon admits, wincing slightly. In his defense, he'd been in the midst of a minor mental breakdown. It's been a hard week.
"My name is Dr. Ryland Grace, I'm here with my crewmate, Engineer Rocky," they say. Grace, of course. "What's your name?"
"…Simon."
He can be useful again. He can be loved. He can live, if only he is reverent. Is this not divinity? Is this not mercy?
"Simon, we're going to get you out of there, okay?" Grace says, his tone reassuring. He is insistent, almost desperate. "Just hang tight."
"Don't- please, don't leave me here," Simon says, suddenly overwhelmed with fear, sharp and cold. It clings to him, heavy as a noose around his throat and tightening by the second. "Throw me in a cell, toss me out the airlock, I just- I can't die in here. It's not fair, it's not fair-"
"Hey, hey, it's okay!" Grace says quickly, and honestly, he sounds like he's talking to a child. It helps, and Simon is crying all over again. "We're going to bring you onto our ship, just- let us figure out the logistics, okay? It might take a few minutes."
Simon shakes with the force of his grief. His shoulders shudder as he sobs, his red-tinted vision blurring with the tears. "I don't want to die," he says with a wounded, agonized keen. "Not anymore."
"Then you won't," Grace says firmly. "We've got you."
The first order of business is setting up a tunnel and airlock.
"Rocky make tunnel for new human friend!" Rocky says, his voice squeaking with joy. He puts the radio down on the floor of the tunnel and starts skittering down to the dormitory.
"Wait, how are we going to make the tunnel? Rocky!" Grace calls down after him, but the Eridian just makes a chord that he's come to associate with 'not now.' He rolls his eyes.
He assumes that Rocky will make the tunnel in xenonite panels and he'll have to go out in the Orlan EVA suit to weld them together. All things considered, it shouldn't take long—but he's not sure if Simon has that much time.
"Simon," Grace says loudly, leaning down towards the radio receiver. "How much oxygen do you have? I know that your ship isn't built for space, we- I mean, we can tell from looking at it. No offense."
He isn't sure if it's offensive to say that. It's an obvious thing, sure, but people take offense to obvious statements all the time—that's one of the most common problems with human communication. Grace has fallen for that trap way too many times, to such an extent that he'd once learned to talk much less.
Needless to say, he's been around Rocky too long, because he's forgotten his learned manners. He's forgotten to make himself smaller, more acceptable to other humans. Oh, but he wants to see another human—to feel the presence of another person like him.
He can't have Earth, but he can have this. He's so excited. He's also very, very nervous.
"I don't know. I should've run out of oxygen a while ago, but I'm still alive," Simon says, sounding a bit too calm about a genuinely worrying issue. "I'm trying not to think about it."
Well, that explains why he's so calm about the oxygen issue--compartmentalizing is a heck of a drug. Grace isn't really sure what to say, but thankfully, Simon doesn't give him time to think about it.
"Can you keep talking…? Please? It's just- it's been so quiet," Simon's voice is barely a whisper, hushed like a prayer.
Oh. Grace swallows back a strangled sound, his chest aching. Something is deeply sad about this man, and he is so genuine that it hurts.
"Yeah! Sure, I can do that," Grace says, unable to help the smile that pulls at his lips. Despite everything happening, it's nice that someone actually wants to hear him talk. "You probably shouldn't say much, you don't want to waste whatever oxygen you have left."
He pauses, waiting for a response that doesn't come for a while. At last, Simon says, "Okay. I'll be quiet."
"Okay, um… You probably want to hear about something nice," Grace says, starting to ramble. "So, I'll tell you about how Rocky and I met. It's a long story, but it was really cool, and I already gave the rest of humanity the story. They won't see it for a while, but I'm sure they'll be excited."
The other side of the radio is quiet. Good, Simon is preserving his air. That's the most important thing right now, but it feels weird to just talk at somebody.
"When I got to Tau Ceti, he saw me from his ship. I didn't have a lot of time to look around the system before his ship pulled up alongside mine, and just… Stayed there. I flashed my engines a few times, he flashed his," Grace says with a small smile. He can still recall how incredible he'd felt to see a true, genuinely alien ship. "He sent me a gift, a little model of the Petrova line surrounding Tau Ceti. That was when I figured that we were on the same side. Enemy of my enemy, right?"
"Right…?" Simon sounds confused, but he doesn't say anything else. At this point, Grace suddenly realizes that something is confusing.
He's been so excited about the presence of another human that he hasn't really asked any questions. Why would there be another human out here? How did Simon get here?
He wants to ask, but he doesn't dare. He won't risk Simon suffocating, not when he's this close to rescue. Instead, he makes an assumption and rolls with it.
"The Petrova line is made of IR light readings that radiate from something called Astrophage," Grace explains, and he hears a sound of understanding on the other side of the static. So, this is news to Simon. "It's a microorganism that absorbs energy, multiplies, and absorbs more energy. Tau Ceti is a star, the only star within a reasonable distance that isn't affected by Astrophage."
"Astrophage… Star-something?"
"Star-eater, basically," Grace says, and he heard a sharp inhale on the other side. He doesn't give Simon time to say anything, still worried for the man's oxygen levels. "So, Rocky and I started sending things back and forth between our ships. Eventually, he sent me a model of our ships with a little tunnel connecting them."
Simon stays quiet, maybe thinking. His reaction to Astrophage is interesting—somehow, Simon has managed to avoid all mentions of Astrophage. How does a person do that? Does he live under a rock? Something isn't quite right.
Unbidden, he suddenly has the mental image of an anglerfish lowering its lure into the darkness. He shivers.
No, Simon is human. He speaks English, he… Well, that's all of Grace's evidence, but it definitely feels compelling.
"What happened next…?" Simon's gravely voice rings out, just as Grace realizes that he's been quiet for too long.
"Right, sorry! Got lost in thought," Grace apologizes hurriedly. He can't quite shake off the anxiety, because now that he thinks about it, something really isn't right. "After that, he made a tunnel between our ships. There was an airlock and everything, and he used this material- xenonite, I've been calling it- to seal off our atmospheres from one another."
"After that, we just… Learned about each other. His species, Eridians, communicate through singing, basically, so I had to make a dictionary between his words and ours," Grace explains, and the anxiety bleeds away a bit as he really gets into it. "His biology is fascinating, by the way- his atmosphere is incredibly dense, about 29 atmospheres of ammonia gas! His home planet, Erid, has double the gravity of Earth. It's some really cool stuff!"
"How does he survive on your ship?" Simon asks, sounding worried. That's surprisingly sweet.
"He set up a bunch of hamster tunnels, basically. His atmosphere is sealed behind a layer of xenonite, so he can breathe!" Grace tells him enthusiastically. "Since his atmosphere is so dense, it also has to be pretty hot for the ammonia to be breathable, so he's got a few heaters in there, too."
Thankfully for both of them, xenonite is an incredibly efficient insulator, so they don't have to worry about either life support system needing to work overtime to maintain regular temperatures. It's still a bit annoying to pass things back and forth between the two atmospheres, though, since basically everything on Grace's side of the barrier melts in Rocky's atmosphere.
"So, his speech is the music I've been hearing. It's beautiful."
Grace smiles. "Yeah, it really is. He's a cool guy, you two will get along- plus, you're both engineers! That's some common ground!"
"I'm an engineer from a crumbling space station, he's a literal alien with advanced materials," Simon says, and there's a strange sound—a snort. He's laughing. "Not sure we'll have much in common."
"Well, when we get to Erid, maybe you can learn about their engineering!" Grace says. "I'm already in line to talk to their microbiologists, so you might have to wait for your turn there."
Wait... Crumbling space station. What? What does that even mean? Is CO2 building up in the cabin? That's actually a very real possibility, now that Grace considers it. They need to hurry.
"Erid is… what, Rocky's planet?" Simon asks. He sounds genuinely confused, but not in a normal way. He says it like Grace has told him that the sky is green or that gravity has reversed—like a fundamental rule of the universe has been violated. "It's still there??"
Grace blinks. "What…? I mean, yeah, it's still there. What are you talking-"
"Grace!" Rocky shouts from downstairs, and he's jolted out of his stupor. "Grace assemble tunnel now!"
"Okay, okay!" Grace shouts back, but he quickly turns his attention back to the radio. "Simon, listen- I have to go outside of the ship and connect the tunnel, alright? I just need to know which part of your ship is the entrance."
"…There's no entrance. I'm welded in, there's no way out."
His voice is quiet, almost ashamed. It's meeker than he's been the entire time they've been speaking.
Grace's brows furrow. He blinks. "Uh… Huh. Well, that's... not great."
"Don't leave me here, I'm begging you- I'll do anything, please-"
"Woah, hold on-"
"Don't let me die here, please! Ryland, Ryland, please, don't kill me-"
"Simon!" Grace snaps sharply, and the begging stops. Cheese and crackers, that isn't what he meant. His stomach drops. "I'm sorry, I just meant- we're not leaving you. It's more complicated, but that's okay. We'll get you out, you're going to be okay. Just breathe, okay?"
And suddenly, he doesn't care about how weird this situation is. Simon is a person, and he's scared half to death. Grace can't just ignore that, that isn't who he is.
He's a coward, but he's not cruel.
There's a soft sound, like Simon's breath has just hitched—caught between a gasp and a sob, something small and frightened. "I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you, I'll earn it. I'll be better."
What has happened to this man? He's apologizing for existing, like being alive is a crime.
He's at a loss for words for a long moment. Finally, Grace says gently, "You're okay, Simon. Take a breath, okay? Nobody's mad, it's okay. I'm going to put Rocky on the radio, now. You'll hear that music again."
A quiet, soft sniffle. Then, "Alright, yeah, that- that's okay."
Grace manages a smile. "I'll see you soon, Simon."
With that, he pushes away from the xenonite tunnel and towards the ladder. He's got a mission.
Before they seperate, though... well, the others are apparently also in the past. And Teba only knows one Zora crazy/stupid enough to climb the volcano.
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Teba and Mipha— covered in flammable feathers and a fish, respectively— both seem well and truly miserable. The two of them have a supply of elixirs seperate from the others’, made with the stronger smotherwing butterflies; they don’t seem to be helping much.
Great Daruk, leader of the Gorons, waves at them as they enter the City. He’s almost double Zelda’s height, looking down a considerable distance to make eye contact. He could probably crush her underfoot.
Impa gestures to her with a flourish. “Princess Zelda of Hyrule,” she announces, as she likes to do.
Thankfully, Daruk doesn’t seem interested in shaking hands. He beams down at all of them. “I’m Daruk, but I guess you knew that. Nice to meet’cha!”
Trying not to look nervous, she bows. “I am honored to make your acquaintance,” she manages politely. Link nods in greeting beside her; Mipha waves, forcing a smile. Teba tilts his head in what might be a nod, but his resting face is… unkind, and Zelda can’t tell how nice he’s trying to be.
When Daruk sees Mipha, he furrows his big eyebrows at her. “Huh, that’s gotta be some kinda record! Never gettin’ any Zora travelers, and then two in the same week!”
“There’s… another Zora here?” Mipha tilts her head. She glances around, but doesn’t seem to find anything.
“Yup! He’s up checkin’ out ol’ Rudania. Speakin’ of…”
“Right!” Zelda steps forward, folding her arms behind her and trying to appear regal. “My Father, King Rhoam…” she hesitates for just a moment, steeling herself, “would like to ask you to become pilot of the Divine Beast Vah Rudania.”
Daruk blinks at her. “Me?” He breaks into a smile, laughing. He trots forward, looking at them over his shoulder. “What you’ll learn about me is that I never refuse a sincere request,” he tells them. Despite his formidible size and rough appearance, so far, Zelda’s learning that he’s sort of like a marshmallow. “So of course I’m on board!
“There’s just one problem.” He turns back toward the volcano, tutting. Zelda hums at him, confused. “Well, it’s just Vah Rudania’s in a difficult spot right now.” He shrugs. “The Divine Beast was found pretty high up on Death Mountain. A lot of monsters have been crawling around lately, so even gettin’ close to ol’ Rudania is a big pain.”
“Only the bravest go up there now,” he notes, only seeming sad for a moment before breaking into a grin. “That’s why it’s a good thing it’s gonna be us!”
Zelda steps forward, smiling despite herself. “Oh, um, of course!” She isn’t thrilled by the idea of climbing the mountain, but his courage has bolstered her somewhat.
“Come on, Death Mountain won’t climb itself!”
…
Now, Teba would climb the mountain if they asked him to, but he can’t say he’s unhappy when the princess pulls Mipha and him aside. They’re asked to stay in the city; it’ll only get hotter as the kids go climbing, and nobody really wanted to risk the two of them overheating.
Before they seperate, though... well, the others are apparently also in the past. And Teba only knows one Zora crazy/stupid enough to climb the volcano.
“The Zora who came up here earlier,” he starts, looking up at the Great Daruk, “Was he about your height? Same color as Mipha? Might’a had a feather—” he gestures to his head— “here-ish?”
“Sounds like him!” Daruk beams. “You know each other?”
“He’s a friend of mine,” Teba hums. He can’t help the little glance to Mipha— oh, man, that’s gonna be rough. Hm. There’s not a lot he can do about it, though, except be there for the kid when he gets down here.
To Impa and the Princess, he says lowly, “That’s Sidon. Will you, uh… tell him we’re here?”
“We will,” Zelda nods, glancing toward the volcano. She takes a few little steps toward it, reconnecting with Daruk. “We should go before it gets much later.”
“Right,” Teba nods, raising a wing to wave them off. “Be good.”
…
He peers down into the caldera once more, at the dull Divine Beast. How, exactly, it had ended up in the lava is beyond him— it had been excavated, hadn’t it? If it had been buried down there, how in Hylia’s name had they gotten it out? If it hadn’t been, how in Hylia’s name had it gotten in?!
Well. It doesn’t matter now— the Beast was in the lava, and that was that. Sidon could certainly jump down there, but without Daruk, he couldn’t exactly do anything. And then he would have to put on his Flamebreaker armor, and he couldn’t exactly explain how he’d gotten that.
No, he probably shouldn’t go down there. But he won’t deny that he’s tempted.
Most of the researchers had cleared out in response to a letter from the Royal Ancient Lab; Princess Zelda was scheduled to arrive soon, and it would be too dangerous to be around once she’d found the pilot. A much smaller team had taken over in darting to-and-fro with notepads and ancient screws. (They seemed to be mostly pretending to look busy.)
The others had gotten used to him and his occasional advice, but these newer faces keep giving him odd looks. Well, he supposes that’s understandable. It’s not common to see Zora beyond the Domain at all, let alone on top of Death Mountain. And then to stay atop Death Mountain— well, no wonder they were confused.
Sidon’s hand rests on his Sheikah Slate, thumbing at the handle out of habit. He should probably head back to the City soon; he’d like to explain himself to the princess. She might know more about whatever brought him here, and beyond that he would like to be able to help her.
“Look at what he’s got,” he hears, hissed from somewhere behind him. He tenses, fins twitching, but he does not turn around. “Another one of those freaks? Master Kohga was displeased enough about the rock.” Sidon curses under his breath. He’s on Death Mountain’s peak with Yiga. Somehow he hadn’t seen them. Damn it all.
The thing he calls The Beast snuffles about in his chest, making him suddenly very aware of everything going on. Many of them whisper about him. Footsteps crunch on the rock below. He can feel it, now that he’s paying attention— the magic of Yiga disguise. Tens of them. There wasn’t a single real Sheikah here, was there?
He turns as casually as he can. Perhaps he can slip away before they catch on.
They’re all staring at him, at the Slate on his hip.
He curses lowly. “I don’t suppose,” he starts, unamused, “you’re willing to just call this even and move along.”
“This is hardly even,” one of them says, low and rough. A blademaster, probably. “You’re outnumbered, twenty to one. You’ll be dead before you draw a sword.”
“Outnumbered, yes. Outmatched…” Sidon pauses, considering. The Yiga of his time were not exactly known for their competence. Perhaps they were smarter now… but he wouldn’t count on it. “I wouldn’t say that.” Blue streaks draw a claymore into his hand from the Slate. (Notably not dead, even though he drew his sword. Shows what they know.)
He’s almost excited, in a weird way; he hasn’t had a real fight in forever. “Well?”
The blademaster lunges forward.
…
“So, he’s from… the future?” Daruk cocks his head, glancing down at the little princess. Sidon had been sort of weird and evasive about a lot of things, but time travel is… a stretch, even for Daruk.
“As far as we know, yes,” Zelda manages. She stammers a few times, trying to explain, before eventually just gesture to the little thing that’s been following them around. It beep-beeps. “The little one brought them here from… from a time after the Calamity. They’re here to help.”
“He did help me out a lot.” Daruk hums, rubbing his chin. “And I guess that’s why he knows about the Divine Beasts.” He glances up toward the volcano’s peak. “Huh. Wonder why he didn’t say anythin’.”
By the time they reach the peak, the little guys are all scraped up. The heat’s been making them sorta snappy with each other; Daruk’s been trying to ease the tension. He even gave the little knight Link a rock roast!
“Rudania was in the lava, last I checked,” Daruk tells them. He walks into the clearing smiling at them over his shoulder. “I’ll have to head down there and bring ‘em up before you guys can…” The others are staring beyond him, with various levels of concern. Daruk blinks. “…get in there?” Finally turning, he makes eye contact with Sidon. The little egg thing charges off to run in circles around him, though he looks unfazed.
“Hello, Great Daruk!” The little fish waves casually, like he isn’t standing over a little fella and threatening him with a sword. “Hello, Princess and company!”
“There are Yiga here too?!” the princess cries, drawing her metal thing. Link and Impa are both armed too, even though it’s quiet around them. Daruk glances around and sees nothing of note, except a few blades and one of those hats that the researchers wear.
Sidon steps off of the guy— the white mask is indeed a Yiga one, though Daruk hasn’t seen one in person— and gestures with his blade. “Go on. Run home.”
The Yiga disappears with a poof.
“Not anymore,” Sidon tells them, smiling brightly at Impa. “Do forgive me. I intended to make my way down to meet you, but I was, ah, interrupted.”
“You’re Sidon, then,” Zelda hums, nodding. “It is nice to meet you.”
The Zora looks really confused, but he keeps smiling. “You know me?”
“Teba told us to expect you.” Impa folds her arms, still scanning all the weapons. She shifts her weight. “He’s waiting in the city with Lady Mipha.”
“I… see,” Sidon says, like he really doesn’t see at all. His weapon vanishes and he folds his hands behind his back, half-stepping toward the volcano. “Rudania is… still down there.”
Daruk, of course, runs right over to see it. “Ooh. Seeing it again, it’s even bigger than I remembered!” He laughs, looking down at the Beast. It’s a long way down— his tail wags excitedly. “Let’s get right to it then! I can’t wait!”
And then he dives in.
…
The twilight is soft, but it’s not any cooler. Sidon pauses briefly by the enterance to town, staring at Teba.
He’s different. It’s hard to explain— the Teba that Sidon knows is aloof, too. But it’s just— different. His eyes are tired. When he shifts his feathers, scars shine beneath them; scars that he didn’t have back home. And then there’s the matter of the Sheikah Slate glowing on his hip. Sidon blinks at him.
“Hello there,” he finally says, wavering.
Teba quirks an eyebrow at him. Evidently, he’s noticed the same things. “Hey.”
The little Guardian beeps at them.
In the corner of his eye, Sidon sees Daruk look between them, visibly confused. In the interest of not dealing with that right now, Sidon turns to follow him into town.
A red blur charges into the Hylian knight as they walk. “Link!”
Sidon’s heart stops, ice in his chest. Oh, he would rather be having an awkward conversation with Teba right now.
“Lady Mipha,” Zelda interjects. Mipha doesn’t move further than a step from the knight, still giggling. Oh. Sidon feels— sick, maybe. Mipha finally looks at him.
“It is a pleasure to meet you,” she tells him, smiling like the sun. There’s a twitch in her mouth, though. Something that might be recognition in her eyes.
Sidon takes a moment to stare dumbly, because he’s apparently no better than a hatchling, before he remembers his manners. She is a princess. He is not a prince right now. As such, he bows. “Lady Mipha. I am honored!”
“Forgive me,” she says, like she has done anything wrong, ever, in her entire life. Which she hasn’t, by the way. Every time she had ever been in trouble had been almost entirely Sidon’s fault. “I cannot place you. Surely you are older than a century..?”
He had not been expecting her to recognize him— he repeats this to himself adamantly— but he cannot ignore the hole in his chest when she has to ask. She maybe almost sort of knows him— she keeps blinking at different parts of his face like she’s seen him before— but. Well, he looks very different now.
“Um,” he finally manages. Oh, yeah, he’s doing great.
Teba nudges him with a wing. “This is Prince Poseidon,” he announces. Sidon is going to kill him but is also going to thank him, because Hylia knows he’d have never gotten the words out himself. Mipha stares up at him. Link stares up at him. Even Zelda and Impa both tilt their heads.
He forces another awkward wave. He might throw up. He probably shouldn’t do that in front of two princesses and two champions. His throat protests, but he speaks around the lump; “Please, call me Sidon.”
Mipha steps forward, almost cautious. “Come down here,” she starts, “please.”
Sidon, of course, obliges; he drops to a knee, and even then he’s still taller than her. She has to reach up to cup his face, holding him like she had when he was a hatchling, and—
He does what he does best: shoves his emotions down and smiles. She laughs, shocked, and throws her arms around him. “My baby brother! Look at how you’ve grown!”
He reaches down to hug her back. He’s— hugging her. It’s Mipha, there, in his arms. He can’t help it; he laughs, too.
…
Impa’s mad at him. Teba folds his wings, raising an eyebrow.
“You didn’t think it was important to mention that your friend was Mipha’s little brother?”
“I knew it was important,” Teba responds, gruff but level. He wants to say “you try helping your friend meet his dead sister,” but instead he decides on,“I wasn’t sure what the kid was gonna say.”
“He’s older than you.” She gestures at him with a kodachi. It would probably be threatening to anyone else. “You were gonna, what, lie if he asked you to?”
Teba has only known the other three ‘new Champions’ for about two years, and yet he can say with total confidence: yes. Same with Riju or Yunobo— he will, if they want him to. In the interest of not upsetting Impa, however, he shrugs. “It’s not my place.” He works his beak, considering. “What’s it matter if it’s him or if it’s King Dorephan himself? The egg brought him here. That’s what matters.”
(Said egg beeps indignantly from Zelda’s lap.)
Impa sighs heavily. “We’re harboring a runaway prince.”
“A runaway prince from the future, kid.”
“Future or not, if anything happens to him—”
“Which it won’t,” Teba interrupts, pinching the bridge of his beak. “You said it yourself; he fought twenty-whatever Yiga up there, and that was on his own. Now he’s with us, and he’s fine.”
She places her head in her hands, huffing. “We’re going to have to explain all of this to King Dorephan.”
“Father,” Mipha interjects gently, beaming, “will be thrilled.”
Well. He can’t exactly just fly down there and introduce himself.
The princess is unmistakably the princess. Teba soars a broad circle around them, chirping to himself. He recognizes Link from the weird memory magic stuff he’d dealt with. The Sheikah with them… it’s gotta be Impa, right? She looks like Paya.
Golden Goddesses. How the hell is he gonna start this conversation?
He clicks his beak and flies ahead. Most monsters had turned tail when him and Mipha had slain the lynel, but a stubborn few were trying to set up camps. Some of them were dangerously close to the path— they probably wouldn’t be much trouble for the kids, but he might as well try and clear the way. That is why he’s out and about in the first place.
Teba lands at the largest one he finds, gathering up loose tails. None of the weapons are really worth taking (he’s got a couple longswords he’d like to get rid of first anyway). Really, there’s no loot better than the handful of shock arrows… oh well. Something is better than—
A Guardian beeps behind him.
He doesn’t have a shield.
There’s a second between sound and shot— he flings himself to the side, frantic— a ragged squawk escapes him— his bow slips in shaking talons— fuck, fuck, fuck—
What the fuck is that—?
Feathers fluffed, heart thundering in his ears, he stares down— an egg?
His breath comes in a struggling gasp. There’s ice in his veins. There’s no target, no laser. It’s a fucking egg.
He’s looking at an egg. Teba hisses thinly. Hylia above. Damned Guardians.
“Get back here!” A distant voice yells, accompanied by the sounds of someone charging through the brush.
Teba stares at the stupid thing. It whistles at him like it thinks it’s cute.
The Sheikah woman— Impa— emerges from the leaves. “You little—!” She sees him and stops, heaving with another harsh breath. Noticing his panic, she spins to scan the empty encampment; finding nothing, she barks, “You!”
He stares at her for an embarassingly long moment. “Me,” he finally croaks. His ribcage still feels like it’s stuck in a vice. He resettles his feathers, swaying when he stands. Goddesses above. It’s been a while since he’s had a straight shot of Guardian adrenaline. It chirps up at him innocently; he shudders.
The one who must be Impa folds her arms at him, eyes intense. “You’re Teba, right?”
“Uh,” he says, eloquent as ever. He figured he would be the one inexplicably knowing them, not the other way around. “If you don’t mind me asking,” he starts slowly, “how do you know that?” She marches off back the way she came, gesturing for him to follow; confused, he obliges.
“Your wife told us.”
“My wife?!” Teba lurches forward, feathers fluffing. He looks around like Saki might suddenly appear— which, to be fair, that does seem to be happening a lot— and of course finds nothing. He hadn’t seen her during any of his flyovers. Struggling to keep his voice even, he repeats, “My wife. Is she with you?”
Impa shakes her head. “She’s at the Ancient Tech Lab with the royal scientists,” she explains, “Your kid is there as well.”
Saki and Tulin are also a century in the past with no idea what the hell is going on. Teba blinks. He can’t decide if that’s better or worse than being alone. “Okay,” he manages.
When they clear the brush and get back to the path, there’s people waiting for them. Impa gestures to one of them, looking pointedly at Teba. “Princess Zelda of Hyrule.”
Teba bows. “Highness,” he greets. He pauses, looking at Mipha, and amends, “Highnesses.” She smiles at him, even as he raises an eyebrow. “I thought your father said not to come down here.”
Mipha’s smile freezes on her face— still looking pleasant and polite but suddenly much less genuine. Before she can explain herself, he shakes his head.
Tired but fond, Teba says, “You’re just like your brother.” He folds his wings affectionately. “Well, there shouldn’t be any trouble between here and the Domain. No sense sending you back now.”
“Thank you, Teba,” Mipha murmurs, sheepish. She seems to fall into step with Link, trotting happily back to the Domain.
Trying not to think of the armor gathering dust in a chest somewhere, Teba asks, “How exactly did you run into Saki?”
“She saved us,” Zelda explains, looking at him over her shoulder. “I imagine it is similar to what happened to you— we were in danger, and she seemingly appeared from nowhere to come to our aid.” She fidgets with the Sheikah Slate in her hands; Teba’s wing drifts to his out of habit. The buzz of the ancient tech is a comfort. “There are others as well; we expect to meet them when we meet the others.”
“From what we’ve gathered,” Impa interjects gently, glancing to the princess for permission, “you’ve all been brought here by the little one.” She nudges the little Guardian with a foot, making a face.
“The egg brought us here?” Teba, too, makes a face. Damn Guardians. Damn magical ancient tech. He sighs softly; he’s got a good guess of who the others are, if there’s one for each pilot. “Mixed us up,” he notes lowly. Hopefully Sidon hadn’t been sent to the desert— then he would have to figure out how to scold a Guardian.
Mipha giggles, unaware of the possible danger her future-brother was in. Teba grimaces. This whole thing is going to get confusing. She laughs, “It does sort of look like an egg, doesn’t it?”
The Guardian whistles indignantly, smacking at Teba’s legs with a tiny hand. “You look like an egg, that’s not my fault,” he tells it. It smacks at him some more. He ignores it. “So, you… know about the time travel thing.”
“To an extent, yes,” Zelda hums. Link looks at him for just a moment, saying nothing.
Impa casts Teba a glance over her shoulder. “I imagine the scientists will still want to pick your brains, though.”
“Figures,” he sighs. He finally aknowledge’s Mipha’s incredulous look, half-shrugging under her scrutiny. “Sorry. Kind of a hard thing to explain.”
“I… suppose I wouldn’t have believed you anyway,” Mipha manages, reigning in her expression somewhat. “You’re from…”
“The future.” Impa folds her arms. (The little Guardian finally gives up on trying to trip Teba and darts back to the princess, chirping.) “A century into the future, ish.”
“Ah. I suppose that explains your strange looks,” Mipha hums, still hesitant, “You must have been expecting me to be much older.”
Oh. Something in Teba’s chest twists. He tries not to grimace. “Something like that.” He steps on to the Great Zora Bridge, clearing his throat. “I, uh, figure the rest of this conversation can wait until we’re outta the Domain again? No offense,” he manages, shifting from spur to talon, “but I feel like this sorta thing is… not… something to be vocal about.”
“Probably not,” Impa hums. She looks to Zelda, who nods her agreement.
About halfway down the bridge, Mipha’s strides falter.
“Princess,” she starts, pausing thickly. She closes her eyes and takes a breath. “Father will not let me pilot the Divine Beast.” Mipha’s eyes are sharp and steely; she looks at Zelda with an unshakeable certainty. “I will. Whatever happens, Princess— I am with you.”
Zelda stares at her, maybe awed, maybe concerned. She nods. “And I am with you.”
…
“Mipha… pilot the Divine Beast?” King Dorephan tilts his head, considering.
Mipha folds her hands behind her back and doesn’t say anything. Poseidon stands to her left, not paying any attention; at her right is Teba, who seems to be very intentionally not looking at anyone.
“Yes,” Zelda nods, half-stepping forward. “My father, King Rhoam, has faith she will do her utmost… with your permission, of course.”
“Hm. This will be a dangerous mission, piloting the divine beast against the darkness.” He sits back in his throne, words carefully measured. “And I understand that the knight who will seal the darkness has not yet appeared.”
Zelda reluctantly nods. “That is true.”
“I must refuse. I cannot send my daughter into such peril.”
“Your Majesty!” A soldier charges into the room, out of breath. Mipha can’t place him— she internally reprimands herself for not knowing one of her own. “I bring news!” The king nods at him; Zelda steps out of the way. Teba’s wing goes to his bow. “It regards the princess—” he nocks an arrow; Mipha blinks at him, silently asking him not to shoot one of her men— “and her impending doom!”
There’s a great poof, red papers scattering everywhere. Teba is in the air loosing arrows before anybody knows what’s going on; when the smoke clears, there’s Yiga. Not just the false solider, but dozens. Mipha curses, drawing her trident; she darts forward with the others, glancing behind her to confirm somebody stays with Poseidon.
Zelda’s strange Sheikah Slate lights up in her hand; shards of ice lurch from it, knocking into Yiga masks and sticking out from their uniform. “They must have followed us here,” she hisses; guilt burns like fire in her eyes.
“Well, then let’s make ‘em regret it!” Teba calls. He shoots ahead of Mipha, clearing a path for her to get to the actual Zora; unspoken, he watches her back as she carves them a path out of the frey.
Link remains with Zelda; he cuts a circle around her as she lobs attacks into the distant crowd. Impa flashes in blue streaks across the plaza, shoving foes into the water when she can’t cut them down.
They repel their foes from the Domain itself only to find more waiting for them. Those with bows nock shock arrows; Mipha sees a few thunderspears flitting in the night. She curses.
Teba lands next to her, his Sheikah Slate glowing at his hip. “How do you feel about a Divine Beast crash course?”
“What— right now?!”
He shoves her to the side, a shock arrow whizzing past them. Their attacker recieves several ice arrows in reply. “Electric weapons, kid! Bein’ on Ruta will get you outta the way—” she glowers at him, and he quickly continues, “—and give us the advantage!”
Mipha stabs a blademaster between the ribs, leaving him bleeding. Teba’s herding her toward the Reservoir. “You know where Ruta is?”
“Same place she always is!” Teba lands in front of her, 0ffering a wing for her to— climb… on? “It’s faster if we fly. Let’s move!”
Left with no room to protest, she’s forced to hold on for dear life as Teba surges through the air. Over the East Reservoir, he glides a circle; something blue shimmers below the surface.
He whistles, long and loud, a sharp set of notes that Mipha must have heard before but can’t place her finger on. He hovers for a moment, watching what must be lights in the water. Lowly, he murmurs, “Rise and shine, Ruta.”
And then he folds his wings in and drops.
Mipha cries out, scrambling to hold on tighter. Her heart pounds in her ears louder than the whistling wind. Usually, when she jumps like this, she’s expecting it— she’s freefalling, unable to dive because of her grasp on Teba—
The great beast erupts from the water.
At once they’re soaring again, though it takes the pounding in her chest a while to catch up with that; she’s gasping, head practically buried in Teba’s feathers. “Was that— really neccessary?!”
“Sorry, kid!” Teba calls to her, not sounding very sorry at all. They glide in an arc around the beast, its eyes turning, water pouring from its trunk. It’s beautiful, in a strange, frightening way. The fear and the awe leave her breathless.
Teba, with a soft reverence in his eyes, casts her a glance. “Ready?”
“Ready for what?!” Beauty forgotten, Mipha grabs on to him again, preparing for a drop. He laughs as they descend— much slower now— toward the beast.
…
The others remain around the Domain, all but oblivious to the flight and the pilot. They’re backed by Zora soldiers, now, even though they’re skittish around the electric attacks. King Dorephan himself marches forward to hold the line. His greatsword leaves divots in the earth when it does not cleave Yiga; their blood is swept from his blade by the falling rain.
A blademaster surges forward with his thunderblade. The king prepares to clash swords— only to be knocked back by a great light.
He is unharmed, only stunned; the Yiga, however, is simply gone. Shards of ice the size of a lynel slice through the air, weaving somehow past every Zora and finding marks in every Yiga.
Defending them, scattering the inverted eye, is the Divine Beast. He cannot see her, but he knows who drives it— his daughter.
Within moments, the enemy is fleeing.
…
“This attack proves your point,” the king murmurs, “We are woefully unprepared to defend against the Calamity.” He surveys the room with careful eyes, lingering on the young Poseidon. “The Zora will face this peril head-on. We must consider the future.”
Mipha casts a look to Teba. He looks to Poseidon as well; she follows his gaze.
“We all share this land of Hyrule, so all of us must do our part.” King Dorephan closes his eyes for a moment, taking a breath. “Mipha. Attend.”
She tries not to look too eager as she steps forward. “Yes, Father.”
“You will become the pilot of the Divine Beast Vah Ruta.” He nods at her. She recognizes the fear in his eyes, despite his regal posturing. “On one condition… you must promise to come back safely.”
Teba returns to pointedly not looking at anyone. In the corner of her eye, she sees Impa and the princess share a look.
Kohga idly kicks his feet, sideways on his chair. “Well, if he hadn’t interrupted us,” he grumbles. Sooga stands at his side. “You didn’t exactly warn us about the freaky rock guy.”
The good-for-nothing seer strides across the room, toward the Malice-lit little Guardian. “A rock?” He tilts his head, peering at them sideways past his hood. “Hm. As low as my expectations of you were, I was overly optimistic.”
“What?!” Loud and indignant, Kohga lurches to his feet. Sooga reaches for his blade out of habit. “He just showed up in our hideout with a club as tall as me! You try fighting a guy that big— he almost peeled Sooga and I like bananas!”
Astor pauses, eyes narrowing. “You left the entrances unguarded?”
“No!” Kohga throws his arms up. “We didn’t!”
“Blademasters were standing guard,” Sooga snarls lowly, “six of them on either side. He didn’t pass them. He simply appeared.” He steps toward Astor, a challenge; Astor doesn’t seem riled up at all. “We followed your instructions, seer.”
He sighs, long and begruding. “Fine. Tell me about this rock.”
…
Much, much later, Astor sits on his own. The Yiga were foolish, dense; he doubted the plan failed due to anything but their own incompetence… but he cannot shake this troubling feeling that the Goron is important. A regular Goron could not have beaten Sooga back to the village, halfway across the desert, nor could he have taken on the Yiga’s army alone.
Perhaps most concerning of all was that Astor hadn’t seen him coming.
“My Harbinger,” he murmurs, “who is he?” He reaches forward with the Core, letting it cast constellations across the walls. “Tell me of the one who defies you.”
Light weaves together like a Sheikah tapestry, abstract yet recognizable. The castle, shrouded in the Calamity’s dark magic, forms in front of him. The future. Astor sighs; it is a sight for sore eyes.
The threads of fate spread out beside him into four figures. A Goron with a shield of burning orange; a Zora with solid water and fluid spears; a Gerudo with Urbosa’s lightning; and a Rito with no power at all. In each of their hands (and wing) is a strange creation with the Sheikah’s eye emblazoned upon it.
All of them draw their blades— they each wield the Sword that Seals the Darkness. The pink light of Malice is cast away.
Astor stares at the Harbinger long after the vision is gone, mouth a thin line. He dares not doubt the voice of the Calamity itself, but he is… confused. The Sword that Seals the Darkness rests in the Lost Woods; surely the Goron did not have it, or else the Yiga would have told him. And how could these tapestries wield four of them?
He rises, bowing reverently to the Harbinger, thanking it for his sight. It would seem as though their strategy would have to change.
…
“Do this, do that,” Kohga mocks lowly, watching another squadron set off for who-knows-where. He and Sooga would have to leave soon themselves; heading back to Gerudo Town to get their asses kicked by the sorry rock again. “Doesn’t he ever have any work to do?”
“The Calamity speaks to him, Master Kohga,” Sooga, ever-sensible Sooga, stands at his side and keeps him from doing anything stupid. “We must only put up with him for as long as it thinks he’s useful.”
“I know.” Kohga scowls, bouncing from heel to toe. “I just wish puttin’ up with him left a few less bruises.”
“You needn’t worry about that this time. I am with you.” Sooga folds his arms, voice even; Kohga knows there’s a soft face underneath. “The little rock will not know what hit him.”
The plan had evolved from “let’s kill the princess” to “let’s kill the princess and also not let anyone into the forest and also we gotta kill this weirdo and also we should keep an eye on these other guys”. This new, infinitely more-complicated plan involved them spreading their men too thin for Kohga’s liking. A group to keep an eye on each of the four corners of Hyrule, and Astor himself going to watch over the Master Sword.
So what if the stupid princess and her stupid friends got into the forest? It wasn’t like they’d even found the all-important Knight yet. And the freakishly strong weirdo, though freakishly strong, wasn’t exactly hero material. Or a knight, for that matter. He was just a weirdo.
“He isn’t telling us everything,” Sooga murmurs, as though reading his mind.
“He turned from mockin’ us about ‘the rock’—” Kohga makes pointed air quotes— “to being worried about him pretty damn quick. And now he’s sendin’ us to the sharks.” He sighs, leaning against the blademaster and folding his arms. “Havin’ us keep an eye on the Divine Beasts is weird, too. Nothin’ matters if we kill the princess, ‘cause she’s the one with the power.”
Sooga hums a low agreement. “I must admit,” he murmurs, “there are still questions unanswered about the rock. Perhaps Lord Ganon told him more.”
“You think he’d’a told us,” Kohga grumbles, folding his arms. He turns, staring into Karusa Valley. “Should be enough guys here to hold down the fort while we’re gone, now that Urbosa knows where we’re at. And Ganon forbid the rock show up again.”
In the interest of still having a hideout to come back to, he hopes that nobody tries to cause trouble here. Moving so suddenly would be tedious and really just not what anybody wants at all. Except maybe Urbosa and the rock. But who cares about them?
Kohga turns to address his squadron. It’s the usual travel rules; they split up into parties of three or four and stagger their entries. Disguises go up at first light. Nobody goes anywhere alone. And, most importantly, protect Master Kohga!
The Yiga salute him and set off into the night. Kohga stretches before reaching out to take Sooga’s hand. “Alright,” he sighs, “time to go.”
Frames for a wheelchair push cycle if it's a helpful reference for anyone
(Please note, a wheelchair push cycle is trickier to have as a single cycle, compared to a walk cycle, as there are at least 4 ways I know of for the propel segment, that being different ways to contact-release when pushing. Also, there's different levels of core strength, some people may not move their torso forward at all when propelling, some have stronger pushes so speed is different dependent on the power in their push, many people have one stronger arm that may take up more of the load, some people start further back or forward on the wheel in the beginning of the cycle, there is so much to consider but this is at lease A roll cycle. I deadass couldn't find any anywhere)
Been thinking of a magical whumpee who's been taken to be used as a living battery.
Being drained of their magic constantly, only stopping as to not kill them. They're given IV fluids and nutrients because they can't eat from the nausea but they're needed alive.
And lets not forget the loss of identity and betting reduced to a thing.
Tumblr has eaten this ask like three or four times every time I’ve tried to post it with an addition so I’m posting it like this for now.
I absolutely love team dynamics in whump.
I also love it when Whumpee takes the blame. Leader’s back was turned, it was just them in the room, they’re up and over by their teammate in silent seconds, so that when Leader turns around, they’re apologizing, saying it slipped, braced to take the hit. Both Leader and Teammate are confused, Leader could tell it wasn’t Whumpee who had done it, but neither knew why they would lie?
I've been thinking about young whumpees a lot recently. Young whumpee who tries so hard to be big and brave and handle the scary things on their own, but at the end of the day they're still a kid who keeps the hall light on and keeps the closet shut so monsters can't get in and worries a little that there could be sharks in the bathtub
Zora May PSA 🐬 still running but no new prompt list
I have very limited spoons (see my tags) and probably will for awhile, so this year will still run but won't have an official prompt list ;;;
🔵 This is how it’ll run: Either pick some past prompts from previous years 2025 | 2024 | 2023 | 2020-2021 | 2019 | 2018 (esp some you haven’t done yet), or make your own prompt for an entry! No need for a prompt either as long the entry is zora-related~
🔵 Same guidelines apply!: Not an every day challenge, just pick some prompts you like! Tag as #Zora May. It’s for both canon zora and zora ocs, in any art medium (sfw, NO Al). Early/belated entries are welcome~ I’ll rb entries!
This year is low-key casual on a scale I can manage. I may also be a bit slow getting to each entry. So sorry for any disappointment this news brings, I hope you can understand ;v;
this is your sign to go write. i'm not talking about making a cute pinterest board or playlist, thats for the procrastinators. OPEN YOUR DOCUMENT AND WRITE THAT THANG
