Hi! From your prompt list how about “Everything might not be perfect, but it will be better", with Sky and whoever else you want?
Hello! A pleasure to write a thinglet for you. I... kinda failed as a starter, but still.
Ooooh a Sky prompt. Challenge mode time. Usually I go Hyrule but hmm... Oh I know. Have him and some Legend. I'm scribbling this straight into tumblr so... have fun I hope!
Warnings: Nope (maybe some shoddy timeline and characterisation I’m using this to destress not be accurate <3)
Relationships: Legend & Sky, Sky & Fi
Summary: Some years before the hero of Legend's birth, the Chain makes camp into the sacred grove.
Largely based on one page from Divine Dark Reflections 7, with Legend mentally comparing how he and Twilight found the sword.
Legend led the group through the forest and to a clearing. He claimed this place as similar to his own time, though this deep in the forest he could not tell. The clearing, however, he swore would still be safe; so long as the forest looked familiar it would be.
And then in the clearing Legend laid eyes on a sword, set in a pedestal and covered in vines. He froze and shuddered a moment, before nodding to himself, “we’re before my time, but close. Twenty years or so, looking at the vine growth?”
A flutter of interest went around the group; as soon as they established that the sword in the pedestal was, in fact, the Master Sword, they fluttered a bit, before returning to the chores of making camp.
Sky however... Sky could not ignore it, no matter how much he tried. He laid out his bedroll and helped Twilight pull over fallen logs to use as seating, refilled his waterskin with water Wild had boiled for them all to use, and still it was there, lingering in his mind.
The Master Sword - Fi - lingering just behind him, covered in vines and alone.
In the end he could not take it any more; his fellow heroes settled in to chatter as Wild cooked, and he slipped away.
Not far, of course; just a few steps away, really. He could still see his brothers and they see him, but now he stood beside the sword...
Reaching out, Sky hovered his hand over the crumbling pedestal. Vines grew thickly up and around, choking the master sword in their grip. His other hand instinctively sought his own version of the sacred weapon out, reassuring himself with the gentle presence of the dormant Fi still there.
Her presence came from the sword before him, too, but ancient and mournful and just as decrepit as the base she stood in.
The glade did not look so beautiful any more; darkness seemed to taint everything, a wickedness and corruption deep in the very earth itself.
Something was wrong here. Something was very, very, very wrong.
Warring instincts tore him in two. Half of him wanted to step forward, to tear the vines and dreadful thorns from the sacred blade, half of him wished to grab his brothers and flee this place, while a half he did not know existed was arguing that he should cry.
Sky did none of these things, remaining frozen and hesitating and his fingers an inch from the vines.
He remained that way as laughter sounded from the settling camp behind him, his brothers ready for the night. Did they not hear? Did they not taste it in the air? Did they not realise how very dangerous this seeming sanctuary was?
A hand clamped around Sky's own, forceful grip pulling him away from the sword. He startled for a moment, feeling the cold metal before managing to parse it into rings.
Legend.
He, too, was looking at the sword, but with a very different emotion in his eyes. Eventually, he turned to look at Sky instead.
"Leave her."
"What?" Sky turned back to look at the Master Sword, suffocating beneath vines and the choking darkness. "I can't just leave her here, not like this."
"Why not? It's how I found her."
Legend's words sounded flippant, but years of experience had Sky tasting the pain beneath them. Sky twisted his hand over, squeezing Legend’s where it still held him away from his hurting friend.
“You found her like this?” Sky felt almost sick thinking it; mostly about the state of her, but also the idea of one of his brothers being left to defend himself with such a fragile weapon.
“So you can’t touch her,” Legend sounded almost upset about that. “Because... In just a couple of decades - maybe just years - I’ll come and find her here. We... Shouldn’t meddle in that.”
Sky wanted to meddle, he desperately did, but he understood. Legend hesitated for a second, before yelling something about taking Sky to get firewood over his shoulder. Moments after an acknowledging reply, he grabbed Sky’s shoulder, and pulled him a little way into the woods.
“Look, Sky,” Legend’s face pulled a complicated set of expressions, none of which were terribly reassuring. “ She just needs a bit of care, and she’ll be right as rain. But we have to leave her be.”
“She’s so...” Sky struggled to find the word he wanted, eventually settling on a simple “tired.”
Legend gave a humourless laugh; Sky narrowed his eyes on him.
“Aren’t we all?” was all the explanation that Legend gave.
Sky considered it for a moment, before sighing, “I... suppose so. I just wasn’t expecting to see her like that.”
Legend’s sound of acknowledgement was intensely uncomfortable. In the awkward silence following, they both collected a little of the wood they came to uncover.
And then Legend removed his sword from its sheaf, offering it to Sky.
Not wishing to question in, Sky gently took it from him.
And very nearly dropped her.
“Fi?” he whispered at the tempered blade.
Beneath his fingers was the familiar sensation of his dear friend; still hibernating, still ancient, still grieving, but now very much at peace. She welcomed his touch like the old friend he must have seemed to her, just the lightest of brushes against his fingers. Familiar, comforting, ancient.
“Did my best to fix her up,” Legend quietly shrugged. “Got the blacksmiths to help me.”
Sky thought of the pain of the blade in the stone, and compared it to the calm acceptance of the one now in his hand.
“You did well.”
He truly meant those words; even just to find someone willing and able to care for a blade so decrepit and so old, let alone reforge it without damaging the spirit inside would truly have been a task.
“Eh,” Legend shrugged non-committaly. “But... Everything might not be perfect, but it will be better. This world’s just waiting for its hero; I can’t fix every problem in this forsaken place, but I can damn well try.”
“... And the dark taint?” Sky dreaded to ask, but he had to.
“Oh that,” it seemed almost a non-issue to Legend, reassuring and terrifying for different reasons. “Turns out locking Ganon in the Sacred Realm with the full triforce is a terrible idea. At least it’s weaker here; only managed to corrupt one realm.”
Sky somewhat wanted to faint. Instead he took a very deep breath, and clutched his pile of wood to his chest, “... corrupted sacred realm?”
“I fixed it when I got the triforce,” Legend promised. “As much as I could, at least. Its a bit battered, but fine.”
Sky looked at the tempered sword, at Legend, then at the blade again. He took a deep breath and nodded, “I see... We... are safe here, right?”
“As safe as anywhere. A little safer than most places.”
It was not very reassuring.
Sky looked at the tempered sword again; the master sword reforged, lovingly recrafted at Legend’s demand. A corrupted sacred realm, a fallen hero, and Legend standing between it all.
Shuffling around his wood Sky reached out, gently pressing his hand against Legend’s once again.
“Let’s be getting back, before they send a search party.”
Before we both fall too far into out heads is what Sky meant, but it meant much the same; Legend muttered something under his breath, but picked up his wood as well.
Together they returned, and settled in.
And late that night, on watch with everyone else asleep, Sky crept back up to the forgotten blade. He was careful not to touch any vines as he wormed his fingers through the thorns, pressing the one finger he could get around them to her hilt.
There was a little recognition in the blade, waking only ever so slightly under his touch, screaming in pain for her master.
“It’s okay,” Sky whispered. “I can’t take you, I can’t save you, but... Your new master will be here soon. And he’s going to be so very good to you, I promise. So just... Hold on.”
Fi did not respond, but he did not really expect her to. Not when so long had passed, not when she slept still. Instead he sat beside her, and gazed out into the Lost Woods until a waning sun rose.
As someone expected to be the king’s best guard one day, Yeong trained in several different areas, including extensive special ops work. A lot of what’s taught is spoken of only vaguely and Yeong never mentions that some of his scars aren’t from missions or childhood foibles but from cold, dank classrooms that require passwords and a biometric screening to enter.
Yeong’s in his second year at the Naval Academy when he starts a special course. While the moniker gifted to him might have earned him a spot on its own, this course is by invitation only. The top officers of the academy hand pick a few cadets each year; the echelons of military administration select prospective candidates– including those who might one day be a member of the King’s Guard– whom they expect to do well in such work.
Yeong has prepared as best he can. He’s read all the material on how to stop himself from spilling state secrets. He’s read POW testimony so he has some idea of what to expect when the beatings start. Still, it’s just his luck that Gon decides to visit that weekend, not knowing that Yeong’s latest tribulation is interrogation and torture, another layer of iron being forged into the fire that will make Yeong the unbreakable sword he swore to become.
Gon, for his part, desperately needs a break from the palace and his royal duties. He hasn’t seen Yeong since the Prime Minister’s election weeks and weeks ago. Gon can admit he misses having his best friend close by or at least available– now that Yeong’s started his second year, he’s often unreachable, busy with whatever training unbreakable swords are put through.
For the thousandth time, Gon can’t wait until Yeong finally joins the Royal Guard. Having Yeong by his side most of his day sounds almost too good to be true.
He won’t admit it, but he has a calendar on his desk, marking down the days until Yeong graduates the Academy and fulfills his service term.
He’s never been so tempted to use his king’s authority to grant an exemption. To his chagrin, however, Yeong had flat out refused to shirk his duties– both to the country and to his king.
But Pyeha, Yeong had grumbled, How can I protect you adequately if I’ve never seen active duty?
Gon hadn’t had a good enough answer fast enough for Yeong. And so Gon knows that he has approximately three years until Yeong can join his service.
But for now, Gon has cleared his schedule for two whole days.
His plans consist of nothing but teasing Yeong about his crush-- surely a pretty cadet in one of his classes has caught his eye-- and letting Yeong lead him around and give him a tour like he wasn’t in the academy just a few years prior.
Mostly though, he just wants to catch up with his oldest and best friend.
When Gon arrives at the Naval Academy, he immediately asks after Yeong. To his surprise and ire, he’s told that Cadet Jo is unavailable and will be until further notice.
Gon doesn’t like that, not at all.
His voice remains cool as it picks up the haughty undertone that makes Commander Chu realize exactly who he’s talking to with such a dismissive tone.
Gon’s then told that Yeong is in the middle of an assignment that can’t be interrupted.
Suddenly a tendril of foreboding curls up Gon’s spine at the way none of the officers manage to look him in the eye as he’s told.
He orders the men to take him to Yeong. Thankfully, they acquiescence without further protest, though the uneasy looks they throw each other do nothing to soothe the pit of mealworms in Gon’s gut.
The room Yeong’s in is in the bowels of one of the academy’s oldest buildings. Three walls are impenetrable cinder block while the fourth is a two way mirror. When Gon walks into the observation room, it takes everything he has to choke down the command to release him, the order to behead every single person responsible for the sight before him.
Keeping still, wrenching his implacable mask into place, is the hardest thing he’s had to do in fifteen years.
Because there’s his best friend, his Yeong, but he’s barely recognizable. He’s sitting in a chair in the middle of the room, head hanging low to rest against his sternum. His hair, sweaty and limp, hangs over his forehead in a way that thirteen year old Yeong had declared too unprofessional for the future Captain of the Royal Guard. Gon is studying him so closely that he sees a drop of sweat slide down the edge of his jaw, trailing onto his chest.
Gon bites his lip viciously enough to taste blood. The sight of Yeong’s chest makes Gon’s own ache in tandem.
Yeong is shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of boxer briefs. His abdomen is covered in bruising purple. There are angry welts over his heart, lacerations down his sides.
His feet are bare on the concrete floor, tendons standing out starkly. His hands are tied together behind the back of the chair, the cut of his triceps almost obscene in the fluorescent light.
From here, Gon’s eyes trace the way Yeong’s breathing. It looks painful, each inhale a rattling labor of need.
Each exhale forfeited like it’s all he has left to give.
There’s an officer standing to the side, wearing a pair of black latex gloves with a face mask to match. The dull sheen of fresh blood on his knuckles catches the harsh light from above. His voice is detached, dispassionate as he asks, “Where’s his Majesty? All I need is a street address, anything.” His tone turns cajoling. “Come on, boy, the sooner you talk, the sooner the pain will stop.”
The tableau stills for a brief moment and Gon holds his breath. He has no idea how long this has been going on-- hours? days?-- and in that moment, half of him just wants Yeong to give up, to break.
The other half always knew that wouldn’t happen, though.
Yeong’s back is a languid slouch in the chair. Slowly, he raises his head and Gon’s breath catches for the second time in as many minutes.
There’s a cut high on Yeong’s cheekbone, one of his eyes bruised almost black. His lip is split, a smear of rusted blood just under where Gon knows a dimple peeks out whenever his best friend deigns laugh at one of his terrible jokes.
It happens almost in slow motion and Gon’s eyes eagerly study Yeong’s mouth-- the way the smile tilts up at the corner, scornful in its daring. Gon’s gaze catches, rapturous, on the way the corner of Yeong’s eyes crinkle just the faintest bit, more impression than anything else.
Even from here, the look in his eye would stay lesser men.
Yeong raises his eyes to meet the professor cum interrogator. His smile widens just enough to antagonize. “Fuck you.”
It’s the voice that stills Gon even further. It’s hoarse, a rough edge to it like he’s never heard before. The words seem wrenched from some deep cavern in his chest, behind his ribs, somewhere no one’s been allowed before.
Most of Gon is appalled. Still. He won’t ever admit it but he also finds it undeniably attractive and it makes something ugly in him preen-- the insouciance, the sincerity, the sheer strength his best friend possesses.
Before the last syllable falls to the floor between them, the officer’s hauling his fist back for one hell of a right hook. The shock of it reverberates up Gon’s own vertebrae, one by one and this time, it’s darkness coming up to wrap around his lungs to squeeze hard.
He known for years that Yeong will suffer for him, because of him-- but to see anyone hurt his best friend, his Yeong, makes a piece of Gon absolutely wild with fury, with the need to retaliate, swift and sure.
Head snapping to the side with the force of the punch, everything’s silent for a moment, everyone waiting to see what Yeong will do next.
For his part, Yeong just takes his time facing forward again. He looks down and if Gon didn’t know better he might just label his posture defeated. Pride surges though him, though, because he knows Yeong better than anyone else in the world.
Yeong’s mouth drops open. Gon’s eyes don’t catch on the fullness of his lower lip, bloodied and bitten raw-- don’t linger on the dull shine of his teeth, the way Yeong’s tongue darts out and doesn’t flinch at what must be the taste of sharp copper.
Instead, he watches calmly with the other officers as Yeong suddenly breathes in harshly through clenched teeth before spitting right between his interrogator’s boots. It’s more blood than saliva.
The officer wrenches Yeong’s head back with a hand fisted in sweat-soaked locks.
Yeong is calm as his eyes meet the officer’s. There’s nothing amused about his expression now.
So quiet that Gon catches himself leaning closer to hear, Yeong says, “I’m going to kill you.”
The officer raises a brow but doesn’t get a chance to speak before Yeong continues, still deadly calm, “And I swear to God, you’ll kill me before you touch a hair on His Majesty’s fucking head.”
In the observation room, all of the witnessing officer’s breath a quiet sigh of relief. The interrogator, for his part, just sarcastically pats Yeong’s cheek a few times hard enough to sting. “We’ll see about that, won’t we?”
The interrogator leaves the room without a backwards glance.
Gon studies Yeong, now that he’s alone in the stark room. There’s something beautiful about the sight before him but Gon knows he can’t let himself tread those waters, not right now and maybe not ever.
The interrogating officer steps into the observation room a few moments later, taking his mask off to reveal a proud smile. “Jo sure is exceeding our expectations, isn’t he?”
When there’s not an immediate response, he looks over just to pale at the sight of Gon.
Gon doesn’t have to clear his throat but it’s a near thing when he finally breaks the tense silence in the observation room. “How long has this been going on?”
The officer next to him– Lieutenant Jung– keeps a measured voice as he replies, “Jo is on day four. For the first trial, we allow up to seven days. If Jo is still in play by the end of one week, we end the exercise and he’s moved into recovery.”
A second officer clears his throat before adding, “First timers usually last less than three days. Cadet Jo is one of the toughest men I’ve had the honor of training, Your Majesty.”
There’s a lot of things that Gon wants to say to that. How dare you tops the list. A close second is by King’s order, end this at once. A distant third is I knew Yeong would make me proud.
All he asks instead is, “How long is recovery?”
The interrogator rocks back on his heels in an uncharacteristic display of unease. “It looks like Jo might make it the full seven days. With that amount of dehydration, malnutrition, and wound infliction we estimate three weeks, Your Majesty.”
Bringing his hands behind his back, Gon squeezes them into fists so tight his palms sting. He feels the ache of it in his wrists.
He nods once. “I’ll leave it to you, then.”
His voice remains level. After all, this is what he signed Yeong up for all those years ago, Gon thinks with vicious self disgust.
It’s terrifying realizing just how a child’s promise has become a man’s burden. It’s exhilarating knowing that he made the best decision back then. The only decision, really. Yeong’s never let him down and Gon knows there’s not a single universe in existence where that’s even possible.
It’s humbling to see with his own eyes, in such a visceral way, that Yeong has not only stood by his choice from all those years ago but has gone on to renew that oath every day, every minute he suffers for the sake of a mere mortal.
For him. Not the king but Lee Gon, the man behind the kingdom.
That kind of devotion is awe inspiring. Gon promises himself to never take it for granted, to never forget for a moment the breadth of trust and fealty that Yeong carries for him.
It takes every ounce of strength not to call a halt to the exercise, not to sweep into the room and take Yeong into his arms and carry him to the nearest physician. There’s a part of Gon that’s surprised he manages to stop himself.
In the way that an eight year old knew how to calm a child, however, a king knows when to step back.
When the one thing he wants is– and will remain– out of his reach.
With a child’s negligence, he placed Yeong on this path. With a king’s stratagem, he resigns them both to shouldering yet one more weight in the name of their friendship, for the sake of the crown.
Gon affords himself one last look through the glass, at a Yeong who looks beaten but not broken.
A man, stark in his devotion, overwhelming in his fortitude.
Gon ignores the others in the room. He raises a hand to the mirrored glass, feels the echo of warmth along his palm.
Allowing himself just a moment, Gon turns to the door quicker than he’d like. Hand on the knob, he hesitates before opening it. His voice is soft as he says, “I trust in your discretion, gentlemen.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. Gon leaves the room without a backwards glance. He strides down the corridor, back to his motorcade– all without a single word. His guards stay silent, knowing what their king just witnessed.
Three weeks and three days later, the palace gets a call.
The messenger is patched through to Gon’s personal line. Gon doesn’t say anything when he picks up and the voice on the other end doesn’t wait for him to start.
“Jo is out of recovery. Minimal scarring expected and preliminary psychological evaluation passed. Next trial will be twenty-one days. It is scheduled for just after Chuseok.”
Gone hangs up first. He never says a word to Yeong about it.
Years later– once Yeong has left his position as Captain of the Royal Guard in favor of a promotion, as Gon likes to tease– Gon will finally take the opportunity to kiss the delicate arch of a scar along Yeong’s cheekbone, will press lips honeyed with veneration over a jagged line along his husband’s thigh.
The price of reverence is a king’s ransom. Gon happily spends his days with the knowledge that he’ll never be able to clear himself of this most profound debt. Still, he promises himself for the thousandth time, kneeling before Yeong, that he’ll make sure they both enjoy him trying.
