#sheikage

[daylighter-gone]

GLOW: sender brushes a strand of hair from receiver’s face.

﹙ 𐊌 ﹚ valentines generator, entreaty from . . . @sheikage.

the hylian guard stands tough, a spear held across his chest as the duel lasts only a few short minutes. beneath the beating pulse of a sun that trails lazily everywhere his heel touches the ground, the summer days are hot and unforgiving. his heart thuds away beneath his milder armour compared to the stark tradition of the guard, who meets him squarely in the centre of a white circle drawn into the dirt by steady hands. ( with each movement, every shove and clash of metal, he can feel their eyes trekking him from where they watch, the things he has known before they met and the things he has learned after, by watching them or by learning the hard way in the dark. )  he wins by bullying the rod of his scythe with both hands against the guard's sword, until he shoves forward, and watches his opponent topple backwards out of the circle with a helmet rolling away.

in the minutes after where he returns to their side and collates his thoughts, and drinks water from the bottle they had left for him, they greet each other in an odd silence. his cheeks are flushed, a bit of sweat by the temple, hair curling by the brow — and just when he thinks to avoid their hard stare, their hand finds it, that loose and tousled curls of straw-gold around his golden eye and the thin scars around it. it turns his face completely towards them, their touch as they brush it away, scrambling his recall. ❛❛  i see you were watching today — what's that face for, do you have a complaint for me?  ❜❜  the corner of his mouth twitches a little, voice low. ordinarily he would grab for their wrist, or duck away fast. today he holds still, right where he is with their touch on him. ❛❛  go on, my shadow, let's hear what you think.  ❜❜

[vipier-a]

sometimes i think you must hate me .

TRISTAN STILLS MOMENTARILY FROM WHERE HE STANDS IN THE SMALL KITCHEN, ONLY STEPS FROM THE PALTRY COT UPON WHICH HIS COMPANION SITS. although he does not turn to look at @sheikage, his posture makes clear how deep in thought he is, dwelling in some dark corner of his own mind, ugly, furious, unwieldy without cause. he flexes the fingers of his hand as it threatens to tremble and betray him, then closes them around the neck of the open bottle before him to lift it to his lips. the liquor's burn feels cleansing, deceptively so, for still he is not cleansed. he draws from it longer than he should before placing it back down, replacing its cork, and finally turning toward them after so deliberately allowing them to wallow in silence. not that it would faze them. sheik, in all their infinite ages, the wisdom of hundreds or thousands of lives, memories clinging like burrs. tristan retains no memories of his own, beginning each new life frustratingly anew, leaning on them always to remind him when they manage to find one another.

he's killed them for it before, more than once. he might again, someday.

" sometimes I fucking do. " bitter, poisonous, with a hoarse hatred that turns in on himself more than outwards toward them. his lip curls into half a snarl, defiant and resistant to the truth they both know well. always starting from scratch, the comparative disadvantage, the helplessness of it turns his stomach. it is the very reason he has spelled the end of so many of sheik's lives, as though it could somehow even the score, as though it could somehow change the way this is written, allow him to remember. each time, the act tears his heart from his own chest ; each time, he furiously licks their blood from his fingers, as though the consumption of them might allow them to live again. but he can never resurrect them, not that way, and it ends with their blood on his mouth, his own blade carved into his gut.

as he approaches, quick and silent and stiff with fury, the flash in his eyes looks as though he wishes to repeat such a scene, the two of them drawing last breath while bleeding into each other like some twisted mirror of other hungry nights in cramped safe houses. but he does not draw blade or needle when he draws close, instead gritting his teeth as he buries his hands in their pale hair, tightening his grip ruthlessly to pull their hair back so he can meet their eyes. his own gaze refuses to yield, brutal, almost bruising in its intensity. that he is cursed to live this way tears at him. if only he could consume them, make their flesh one, force them both to live and die in the same agonizing breath ... but he hasn't such power, no matter how he's searched throughout the ages. there is only this, their eyes locked, sheik's throat exposed as though asking for either the cold bite of steel or the much warmer of tristan's teeth and mouth.

" I do hate you, fated one, " he continues in a hiss, lowering himself to straddle their lap, his knees sinking into the thin mattress on either side of their hips, his fingers flexing ever punishingly tighter in their hair. he is frozen in this strange, violent intimacy, resentment and hunger coiled dangerously within him, wishing as furiously that he had fangs to show that he does to feel their hands on his ribcage. " enough that I can nearly taste it. "

[vipier-a]

this is real ,  i’m real .  look at me .

TOO MANY LIVES LIVED HAVE INSTILLED WITHIN HIM SOME SORT OF MADNESS THAT HE CANNOT SHAKE. tristan cannot quite recall all the individuals he's been throughout his life, such that he's not sure he could ever determine which of them - if any - had ever truly been him. he will admit aloud to no one what horrors his nightmares hold, the terrors stitched permanently within him by years beneath the banner of a clan which had snatched from him an unjust number of years. ( or perhaps that's what he would think if he put much stock in the concept of justice at all. ) as such, he prefers to sleep in solitude, isolated from the world with his back to the wall and nobody near to witness his weakness - nor be subject to that madness.

somehow, the nightmares have quieted since he began traveling alongside sheik - or at least quiet enough to remain his secret, even alongside the undoubtedly keen warrior. occasionally he wakes in cold sweats, tension clutching the muscles in his shoulders, nails biting into his hands, but if sheik has noticed, they haven't said anything, haven't even acknowledged it through body language - often the pair's preferred form of communication. tristan should have known it was only a matter of time before the illusion shattered, before he came to this way, his sickle pressed dangerously along the curve of the sheikah's throat and free hand knotted in the front of their tunic, snarling as though he faced enemy rather than ally, foe rather than friend and lover.

his breath catches in his throat, ragged and scraping, and sweat shines upon his brow. it takes a moment for him to come to, for him to realize that it is not, in fact, a member of the clan come in the night to claim his life for the slight of leaving it. the face that looks at him is familiar, a trusted companion - or as trusted as any companion of his can be, considering his nature. tristan's chest heaves as, finally, he removes the blade from their throat, making every effort to steady his breathing rather than gasp for air, rather than accept the position of vulnerability in which he had just found himself. ❝ you should be more careful, ❞ he tries to snap, though his voice emerges in more of a weak, hoarse rasp, even as he practically bears his teeth in a renewed snarl. ❝ I could have killed you. ❞

DIRE SITUATIONS.

[tricourage]

this url is so delightful! 💚

My honest live reaction:

[lerecueil]

grabbing   the   back   of   their   shirt   to   stop   them. and a second for him bc this literally made me laugh

WERE THE SIKURZOI NOT AT LEAST SOMEONE CRUEL AND UNFORGIVING, THEN THEY WOULD HAVE BEEN FULLY CHARTED PRIOR EVEN TO JULES'S BIRTH. the squaller has no particularly preoccupation with being brave or even of the acclaim that accomplishing such a feat may provide, no matter if he hopes deep down it may improve the opinion much of his family has of him. and while there may be a thrill in doing what others haven't managed, that too has little to do with why he's here. to put it simply, he's here because he must be. there is no better explanation he can give even to himself. the ravkan contract he'd accepted to measure and map as much of the mountains as he can manage was merely a means to create for himself an official reason to be here, a defensible one, rather than undertaking a solo expedition here as little more than a wandering vagrant. not to mention it paid for his expenses, on top of a reasonable salary. given his brother's stinginess with the family funds – especially given jules's casual barb upon his last visit that he thought sebastian would be too distracted by bartering off their little sister to a king to care what he did, over which the eldest bardot has still not forgiven him – pay is regrettably important at the moment.

by now it's been weeks since he disappeared into the wild on his own, navigating between the peaks and crags and pits to nothing with a care and calm few who know him outside these places may believe. breathing comes more easily out here on his own. real isolation feels a warmer embrace than the isolation of home, whether his family estate or the little palace. out here, he and his squalling take on everything step by step, deliberately and with a connected focus he cannot find anywhere in his regular training. his grisha power helps him with everything from maintaining his oxygen levels to keeping warm, in various forms, and what is fairly mediocre in the yard with no real stakes becomes exacting out here.

encountering anybody out this far in the peaks hadn't been in the plan at all, and at first, he wondered if the strange person who appeared seemingly from nowhere ( @sheikage ) was merely a trick of the thin air, no matter how good of a handle jules believed he had on providing himself oxygen rich breathing material. another may think it fortuitous, considering he knows he's running a bit low on supplies after an unexpected weather delay, but he's always been too suspicious a man to make such an innocent assumption. it's with caution that he feigns to pardon himself, dipping his head once, though only truly to allow himself a glance at a possible quick escape. he must go, he insists to the stranger, turning on his heels and hearing the stone scratch softly beneath the soles of his boots. what he doesn't hear is another set of footsteps – but as he takes a step forward, he feels his body jerked abruptly backwards by what he realizes after a moment is ... a hand clenched on the back of his shirt. " what the fuck are you doing?! unhand me at once! "

[lerecueil]

cupping   their   jaw   while   patching   them   up. for jules ... godspeed brother

JULES DOESN'T EVEN WANT TO ASK HOW LONG IT TOOK HIM TO PROPERLY COME TO AGAIN. he remembers very little about what happened in that period of time and some instinct tells him he's better off that way. alone on the peak of mt. lanayru, he knows he had miscalculated his time, pushed his luck a bit too much, and failed to make it down the peak before the sudden fury of a snowstorm descended. unable to see even a couple feet before his face, he managed to find shelter in a shallow cave just below the summit – protecting him from the elements, to some extent, but not from the thinness of the air so far up. drowning on his own lungs as they filled with fluid, delusional with oxygen deprivation, he'd thought @sheikage's appearance little more than a hallucination. waking to find them there, in the flesh, proved a confusing shock. even now that he's recovered enough of his bearings to form some sort of awareness, he remains confused enough to feel suspicion creeping in.

from the little cot in which he reclines, propped on a pillow, jules eyes them with that dulled suspicion in the flickering light of the fireplace in a small cabin in one of the valleys between lanayru's peaks. between his hands, he holds a steaming cup of tea that he sips slowly, allowing it to warm his frigid veins little by little. to focus on sheik at least helps him take his mind off his aching fingers – and whether he'll lose any of them to this ill fated venture. it also distracts him from the bitter embarrassment that's gathered in the back of his throat. he would have chosen anybody else to discover him – or perhaps he would have chosen the great beyond – instead of the monk who seems already to think him a fool. he glances away the moment they look back at them, though he can feel their gaze linger, a familiar sort of examination, as though they can see right through anyone. his fingers tighten against the cup until a pang runs through a nerve and he winces, just barely.

they notice, though. of course they do.

determinedly, he continues to look away from them as they reach for his hands, silent even though their intention to check his bandages is clear anyway. he grunts in protest, cheating his shoulder away from them, turning his lean figure this way and that to stubbornly avoid their attempted attentions. he doesn't expect their swift fingers to snatch his jaw and turn it toward them, forcing his eyes to theirs with a lifted brow. for his part, jules furiously wrinkles his nose, his brow, and squares his slanted jaw – yet even so, his physical protests cease, as though he were suddenly rendered immobile. for a few moments, as sheik peels one of jules's hand carefully away from his cup to unwrap the bandages there, the only sounds in the whole of the cabin become the crackling of the fire and the gentle wheeze from jules's recovering lungs. despite himself, once forced to look, he cannot again look away, and he watches with frozen fascination as they examine his frostbitten fingers. one might have called him transfixed.

blessedly, his ailing body comes to his defense as his breath stumbles over itself, feeble as it remains, and he turns his head to direct a sudden fit of coughing into his shoulder. the stubbornness falters, giving way briefly to the shadow of pain that falls over his features before he manages to shake it away. carefully and unobtrusively, he flexes the fingers held by his companion, though perhaps surprisingly, he does not pull them away. and when he glances at them again, it is only out of the corner of his eye, returning to his caution and uncertainty without hesitation.

" if you think I'll have to lose any of them, " is the first thing he says after waking, hoarse and strained, as one might expect, " I'd prefer you chop them sooner rather than later. "

[sachingja]

❛  here, you look like you're freezing.  ❜

it was always worse in the mountains, the winter clinging to the evergreen trees and rocky terrain with claws, snow and frost covering the entire world in a sheet of white, in a slippery slope made of glass. kōji had never paid much attention to it unless his father took him to the temple outside of his hometown, where the hike was long and bothersome and he learned how much he could complain before he learned how to just shut his mouth and endure; it made more sense now, the journeys up the mountain, his father bowed over in front of the statue of some saint or other, mumbling incoherently, incantations and whatnot; prayers, probably.

he had seen what his son was and he did not appreciate it, did not know what else to do about it, but it had worked. the determination of one singular man strong enough to contain the spirit that had dug itself into kōji, much like the claws of the cool season digging into the land, never quite letting go this deep into the year; only temporarily suspended. it had taken a strong influence to uncover it, alcohol would have not been enough, though kōji suspected in hindsight that his colleagues might have been unsettled by whatever happened whenever he got drunk at their company's semi-regular mixers; perhaps it was what made it so difficult for people to be around him, what made him so adverse to be around anyone but satō, or his close friends. they sensed something afoot within himself, something treacherous.

the temple was lit warmly from within but on the outside, it was freezing, cool enough to purple the tips of kōji's fingers curled around his cigarette, making him wonder if he should have ever come here in the first place, but impa and link both had pushed him to accept the invitation, which felt more like an obligation or an order, but he had kept those thoughts to himself. kōji was not stupid and he did not truly dislike hayato; he had meant what he had said to impa, that he simply thought that they were both perhaps too similar in ways that made it almost impossible to ever really get along with someone. who liked getting along with themselves? kōji could never get along with anyone, besides a few people that he had carefully selected by hand, which were so unlike him it was comforting to be in their presence. he loved satō so much for how different they were, how undisturbed he was by kōji's general demeanor, how he cherished him despite all his faults and flaws, the most glaring currently what had led him here. after that rainy night he had wondered endlessly, had laid awake staring at his boyfriend in the dark, pondering what they were and what he was in the context of their relationship. perhaps he was less treacherous to the other man, certainly more faithful. maybe satō would never see any of the downsides that being with something like him brought; maybe kōji was enough despite of it. who knew?

" oh, hey, shit, sorry, " he cursed as the sliding door behind him opened and the priest offered something that looked like a thick, quilted blanket, and kōji threw his cigarette into the snow before he could get ash anywhere near them, wincing as he watched it disappear in the indistinguishable white. " i didn't mean to - oh, thank you, " he said and accepted the blanket, wrapping it around his shoulders before he sat down on the porch beneath the awning of the temple, staring out into the hillside, the city a tiny speck of gray from this far above. " sorry, i'm kind of stressed. i don't even know what i'm doing here. impa said i should come, so i came, but i feel like i won't be of much use like this. " he wondered if there was anything hayato saw, like the tail impa had mentioned or the ears, but kōji felt insanely silly just considering that one could see such a thing. how ludicrous; he had never felt different, had never been anything but himself, just a man.

[daylighter-gone]

[ 3. ] sender presses their forehead to receiver's, voice breaking as they murmur, "i don't know how to fix this, but i'm not leaving."

flickers of crystalline memories flickered where he could see them behind his eyelids, like pockets of a different world unfurling like a clenched fist. his first real instinct, despite the infected puncture wound against his neck, is not to think of where the magician had succeeded in his petty and obsessive revenge, or his contempt for any joy the prince might attain, but rather what sheik would think of it. did they know, in those books they wrote for eternity, ever-being with a sword that doubled as a pen, that once the prince of hyrule had betrayed the very person they had spent their life protecting? would they see, if they knew, the same prince who had slighted the magician and cursed his sister with a name in him?

the shards of light that had driven the magician away in a fury dissipated, and the threat of sheik’s weapons had landed a blow the menace wouldn’t easily return from. where he sat against the trunk of a lightroot, his hands brushed against his throat and came away a strange red. something was not right.

something had gone awfully wrong and he felt it like a final blow, a fever that would erase him slowly but surely. he knew that as readily as he recognised sheik’s hands on his shoulders and his face. their voice, ordinarily so steely, breaking as they spoke verified this immediately. ❛  sheik? ❜   they must know something he didn’t. their words were unlike them. his brows furrowed and he looked up at them, their heads nearly brushing, searching for an answer he wasn’t sure would be hopeful. all that he had done to seal a bargain for freedom, only to walk right back into the terrain that cycled his demise. and if he succumbed to this contagion, would he forget all that was there between them? would they forget him too, if he rose again if at all? ❛  is there no way out now? ❜