#05. gloryseized

[balladetto]

cont. from here / @gloryseized

     You get to a point in any journey where the non-routine becomes a routine in and of itself. Aidan's gotten used to it enough that he can find a kind of pattern in everything, even the surprises. Sometimes, each day is the same general shape from the moment he opens his eyes to the second his breaths slow into sleep, and some other times— well. He hits the fucking jackpot.

     It's the loving labour of three extensive, exhausting nights that the client swings around in his ( deceptively powerful, what the heck ) hands. The sound the weapon makes as it strikes the ground — heavy and sturdy and satisfying — has Aidan barking a delighted laugh himself. He may be totally spent, he may be disgustingly overcooked, but damn him if he isn't going to pry success from the jaws of another challenge.

     He waves a hand dismissively at the thanks, wiping a towel across the last of the sweat lingering on his face with the other and grin stretched from ear to ear. "Said I'd fix it, didn't I!" Then, in the moment it takes for him to interpret the next signs, the smile shrinks into something more contemplative.

     It's an impressive facsimile of Goron City's Boulder Breaker, which he's only ever studied and fawned over from a distance in all his stays there. He'd floundered on where to begin at first, having claimed the job with more awed impulse than anything rational, but the sense caught up to him eventually. All weapons start somewhere. Broken down, it was just a really refined Cobble Crusher. Really, really refined. Like, Aidan had to dip into his scarce supply of diamonds refined.

     ...It's a very impressive facsimile. "Five-hundred sound good? Unless you have diamonds on you." Uncut ores, ideally. "Where'd you get this beauty, anyway?"

[flockrest]

     Link's tears are quiet.

     Through all the winters that Tulin's known him for, that sorta quiet has never really bothered him. It was just another part of Link to accept — even back when he was simply guy and not yet Link — the way the colour of his hair was or his cool tricks with the bow were. Tulin thinks he might've asked his dad 'bout it one time, out of curiosity more than anything, and found the answer so unimportant 'gainst Link's everything-else that he honestly can't even recall it.

     Now — as he holds Link up, as the droplets seep into his feathers, as he feels all the tiny quakes running through his friend like tattered threads unravelling or cracks in a vase spreading — he thinks 'bout how he wouldn't have woken if not for Link's hand.

     He thinks 'bout how Link could've— could've just laid there.

     He thinks, with something big and painful scrunched up in his throat, 'bout how easy it could've been to go on without knowing—

     Link's more than not okay, he's hurting.

     The thought, in its fullness, sits in his mind like some heavy stone sinking to the bottom of a lake. Growing, festering, 'til the ache's not only there in his throat: it's a faint tingling behind his eyes, too. He blinks rapidly, heart thumping the beat it does when he's gotta do something, when he's filled with the unbearable need to change something — different from the desperate frustration of trying and failing. But— Tulin doesn't know what to do, can't figure out what to do, 'cept maybe squeeze tighter.

     So he starts there.

     He pushes himself closer. Curls 'round Link even more, presses the side of his face into the bent nape of his neck. He can't pick out all the exact scents that greet him with how distracted he is, but Link's have always tasted like the first breezes brought by a sunrise. A memory surfaces, then, and the lump in Tulin's throat shrinks in the face of it — enough for him to whisper the words that always make him feel better whenever he needs a hug from Mum or Dad or Uncle Harth.

     "I'm— I'm here."

It's not fine--and Link knows what Tulin means by it even as the bitterness coils in the back of his throat. Link's not mad at Tulin, could never be mad at Tulin. This isn't Tulin's fault and it's not fair for Link to bring all of this on the young Rito. But if he tries to think about whose fault it might be, what sort of blame he could lever and who might be around to take it, he comes up blank. Could be blame Hylia? She's always been silent enough and yet he somehow finds himself in the middle of these messes anyway. Should he blame Ganon or Demise? The source of all the apparent suffering and cause of this most recent round in particular? It seems slightly reductive to do that.

Should he blame Zelda?

His throat tightens again at the thought and he forces a breath through, trying to keep his breathing as regular as possible. What would the blame do? What would being 'not fine' bring? He doesn't have time to rest, not when there's still work to be done. And even if there's someone to blame for the work, he still has to rise to meet it in the end. He has to. He's the only one who can.

So it's fine. He'll be fine.

Even as the heat continues to sear down his cheeks despite him wishing that the tears would stop. It's not helpful, it doesn't do any good.

And now he's made Tulin worried too, which is even less helpful. Link doesn't want the young Rito worried about him. He doesn't need to be a burden to anyone else and Tulin already has a lot on his plate. But the weight of Tulin leaning on his arm and whispering his name grounds him again, bringing him back to the world instead of buried in his thoughts. Not that the world is the best place to be at the moment either.

The nightmare might be gone, but the Light Dragon still soars mindlessly through the sky.

Suddenly Tulin's presence isn't just resting on him, it's fully wrapped around him, the burst of the Rito's scent entering his nose. Link automatically identifies a few of the Rito's favorite cooking spices, the pleasant woody mixture of fabric threads, and the little smell that is all Tulin. It's a warmth and a comfort, and it's all that it takes for the tears to start flowing for certain as he buries his face underneath Tulin's wing. He'll have to explain this somehow. Link owes Tulin an explanation, but he doesn't have the strength to form words yet.

[missallanea-aa]

@stygicniron : sit down for a second and talk to me. ( Mimir from @gloryseized to Freya )

Distrust briefly flickers across the witch's features, a frown curving at her lips as she pulls her attention away from watching the horizon to turn in Mimir's direction. Talk? What did they have to talk about, truly? Still, stewing in her own thoughts is doing no one any good, and it's with a sharp exhale that she crosses from the window to the table where he sits.

"If you seek a better conversationalist than Kratos, then I'm afraid you've sought out the wrong person."

Still, she moves to sit, her gaze never quite meeting his own. Instead, she traces the knots and carefully carved lines of the table with her fingers. There had been so much she wished to say to him, once : curses she vowed to place upon his head should she ever gain the opportunity, pains she wished to inflict upon him. Odin had beaten her to all of that, as well.

And now? That anger remains, as does all of her pain... sharpened into a knife that she does not wield to one who has already been broken over, and over, and over. There was nothing to be gained.

"I have nothing to say to you."

can we talk about what happened prompts

[theroleplayingedda]

GAMES MINI LIST:

Apparently there IS a limit on how many mentions and links you can have per post so the list is being broken up a bit now.

AGAIN; I'm REALLY sorry for spamming your mentions!!!!!

>> LINK TO THE MAIN LIST <<

Assassin’s creed Valhalla:

@brknmnds Eivor @erobret Ciara & Eivor "Wolf-Kissed" Varinsdottir [MultiMuse] @jarlsson Vili Hemmingson @ofdcstinies Hytham, Sigurd Styrbjornsson & Vili Hemmingson [MultiMuse] @taleswritten Eivor [MultiMuse] @warpaiint Eivor Ravensdottir [MultiMuse] @wolfkcst Eivor Varinsdottir

Asgard's Wrath:

D:

God of War:

@boyofwar Atreus @cryptiique Angrboda, Atreus (Loki), Freyr & Heimdall [MultiMuse] @deficd Kratos [MultiMuse] @gloryseized Mimir [MultiMuse] @goddamnmuses Kratos [MultiMuse] @helreginn Hel [But AU because she don’t exist yet] @ladyseidr Atreus Kratosson [MultiMuse] @manigfeald Freyr & Heimdall [MultiMuse] @missallanea Freya & Sif [MultiMuse] @movemnt Atreus, Freya, Kratos & Mimir [MultiMuse] @ofluckandmagic Atreus/Loki, Calliope, Freya Njörðdottir & Sindri Huldra [MultiMuse] @savior-of-humanity Atreus, Kratos, Odin & Tyr [MultiMuse] @stardustedstories Atreus (Loki), Faye (Laufey), Freyr, Mimir, Odin, Thor & others [MultiMuse] @starwrittenfates Frey Njordsdottir & Calliope [MultiMuse] @stcrforged Mimir, Sindri & Tyr [MultiMuse] @storyhaven Kratos [MultiMuse] @torntruth Freya Njordsdottir [MultiMuse]

>> LINK TO THE MAIN LIST <<

Up to date as of 27/05/24

[flockrest]

     Link takes, all at once, entirely too long and not long enough to answer. He almost doesn't need to, really — not with how awful his breaths sound, like staccatos in a song where there should be tied notes; or with how he shakes as he grips Tulin's wing, like he's somehow, despite everything, not holding on tight enough.

     "Yes," Link says, with his hand and his head and a heaviness that hurts to look at. Tulin hopes this is yes to something happening and not Link trying to outright lie to him.

     'Cause it's pretty clear that Link isn't okay. He watches as his friend collects himself, motion to motion, piece by piece, and it's— it's like that swooping feeling Tulin used to get every time he dove, before he really knew how to: that split heartbeat of dread and alarm and something a little scared coiled up in his stomach. Only he's suspended in it, the moment stretched tense and thin — the way Link pulls himself taut to look him in the eyes and apologise for not being okay.

     "It's fine," he says, instinctively. Stupidly. He winces, swooping feeling digging a deeper pit in his gut, and hurries to clarify, "I mean— you don't gotta say...say sorry or anything."

     Tulin gets bad dreams too, sometimes. He reaches out, preparing to admit this, bending further down from his perch for the hand Link took away, but— something cuts a trail down Link's face. In the dark of a late night, he might not have noticed it.

     In the faint light of their campfire, he can't miss it.

     Tulin feels the fall now, 'cept it's not the thrill-rush-excitement of carving through the Windlines and having 'em catch you anyway. It's seeing your uncle burned, unable to fly or even walk straight with how badly he's hurt. It's turning over in half-sleep to find your mum trying her best to be quiet with her upset, wondering if your dad'll make it back from being a hero.

     ( It's being a kid, and learning that the untouchable grownups you've known your whole life aren't actually so untouchable. )

     He's not a kid anymore. But the dismay that has him floundering outta his hammock in panicked urgency is very much a child's.

     "Link," he whispers, strained, pressing a wing 'gainst his friend's arm. He doesn't catch what Link says, too busy looking for the right words to make this better — or, at least, not make it worse. He's trying, but nothing's coming, nothing's spilling outta his beak 'sides stupid air, and Link's not even looking at him anymore! C'mon, Tulin, c'mon!

     In a burst of frustration-wrought impulse, he lunges forward. He wraps his wings 'round as much of his friend as he can reach and hopes, with everything in him, that this'll be helpful where his silence definitely isn't.

The feeling of Tulin's feathers rubbing between his fingers brings him back to the present. He's shivering now. When did that start? It must have been from the sweat cooling in the night air and he knows he should go back to his mat and let Tulin sleep, but he doesn't move. His breath is still too ragged, mind still spinning. That staring eye.

Nodding weakly as he registers Tulin's question, Link's fisted hand bobs in a nod as well. << Yes. >> His fingers feel clumsy and he takes a moment before trying to sign anything more complicated.

Squeezing his eyes shut for a beat, he holds his breath for a moment, resetting his breathing with one deep breath in and out. Grimace darts across his face as he opens his eyes, swallowing thickly. He made a mistake, this was a mistake, he realizes, looking into the worried eyes of the young Rito. Why had the dream gotten to him so? It's not like he never had nightmares before.

Fisted hand makes a circle in front of his chest. << Sorry. >> he says, finally releasing Tulin's feathers to sit back slightly. Tapping at his chin, he sweeps his hand away before he taps his left pointer finger to his temple, bringing his finger again away from his body as it crooks down. << Nightmares. >> he adds in way of explanation. Nightmares he dares not speak about. He--he barely knows what it means, nor what he can do about it. And he doesn't need to share that pain, even as another line of heat sears down his cheek again.

Turning away, he looks back at the fire, trying to mask his expression. Left hand turns upside-down, palm up as he curls his fingers in, leaving his pointer and middle fingers out. Then, his right hand covers his left almost like a blanket. << Go back to sleep. >>

[flockrest]

     Link had come with the Master Sword. Not that Tulin had immediately recognised it — its sheathed lustre was a vague memory among the scores of cooler, funner, more unforgettable ones — but Dad had, and Master Kaneli had, and there were cheers all 'round for the recovery of the Sword that Seals the Darkness!

     Link had also come with an odd beat in his usual rhythm.

     It was something Tulin could see, sorta, like the thin film of a third lid sliding over an eye for a snap of a second — but not something he could really pin down or put into any words he knew. Off, maybe. Link, but tilted-very-so-tinily-to-the-left or something. Then Link told him he needed him for a mission, and that was that on that.

     In retrospect, a later Tulin will think, that should not have been that on that.

     He wakes slowly, in ripples of half-focus and half-rest, eyes fluttering like they're in flight and mind foggy with unstrung thoughts. There's something touching his wing — holding it, he realises way too many moments later, and he almost pulls away but— it's warm. Not just whatever's touching him: these Windlines are too warm and taste too heavy for his home. Where—?

     Oh, right, Link.

     ...

     Oh—! Right, Link!

     "Link?" Tulin calls, voice thick with sleep even as he lifts his head and moves to lean over the edge of his hammock. The tightness of the grip on his feathers is starting to sink in enough to wake him further — if he didn't know any better, he might've thought this feels, worryingly, like he's being clung to. "Something 'appen? You okay?"

flockrest asked:

breathe - muse a holds muse b closely to help them wind down after a stressful day/event ( from tulin for link! whichever way works best )

Meme Tag -- @flockrest

An eye-- blue as the sky but completely bloodshot. Surrounded by purple lashes and tears, unblinking, ever-staring. A mind gone. The pieces had all connected in one horrible moment and Link ran to find her, to see her again, heart thudding a horrible staccato in his chest. And he pulled the sword with a horrible yell, plummeting back to the earth, wind whistling in his ears as the ground approached dangerously fast. All the while the eye stared wordlessly back--

He awoke with a start, thin sheen of sweat covering his skin, breath coming ragged from between his lips. A dream, just a dream. But no, it was a nightmare, a memory, and the Sword that Seals the Darkness sat by his sleeping mat, gleaming coldly in the moonlight. For a moment, Link thought he might be sick, forcing his breathing into a more regular pattern as the world listed uncomfortably sideways.

A cricket chirped in the bushes nearby and Link focused on that sound, coupling that with the rhythm of his breathing. It was fine, he was fine. No, it wasn't fine. Nothing about this was fine. It would be fine. He would make it fine. His cheeks felt hot, a bitter salty taste in his mouth that mingled with his ragged breathing. Link hadn't felt so small in a long time.

Looking up, he spotted Tulin's gently sleeping form nearby, swinging side to side in his hammock. Link visited the Rito village to get the young Sage for a mission not long after claiming the sword, hoping to get the others shortly after, but plans didn't matter now. A sudden desperation seized his chest. He needed someone. He couldn't be alone. The ache for touch made the yawning of the nightmare all the worse, and before he even realized what he was doing, he scooted around the campsite, fingers twining through some of Tulin's feather, eyes squeezing shut as his lips pressed together, focusing on the feeling on the Rito's feathers against his fingers.

[missallanea-aa]

"Mm." The irony in her uninvested response is not lost on her; it seems as if travelling alongside Kratos was having an effect on her own conversational skills, or lack thereof. 

Try as she might, she cannot know what is going through Mimir's head, what he seeks to gain from this attempt at companionship. She does not believe he desires to be her friend : no, she would rather more think he should want nothing less than to be far from her. After all, she is one of the people across the realms who most would love to see him suffer.

She could strike first, of course. It would be perfectly reasonable, and she knows that the God Killer would not fault her for it... and yet, Freya makes no move to show Mimir any of her disdain in anything more than a few sharp remarks.

"Oh, you've heard that, have you?"

Slowly, Thrungva is removed from its sheath at her back, the blade set heavily onto the table in order for the goddess to retrieve a small whetstone from the pouch at her hip. If she was to suffer through an unwanted conversation, she should at least get something productive from it. "He has, yes. Though if you're seeking for me to divulge his secrets to you... then you really have learned nothing from your hundred and nine winters."

It's a risky move, having a conversation with Freya, which is true in the best of times, but especially true now. Any lesser man might have just held their peace, but Mimir likes to consider himself the smartest man alive, which means that at least in his regard, he is not a lesser man. Even if he is just a head.

So he throws caution to the wind, and speaks, golden eyes shimmering as he watches her face. Very possibly, he could become less of a head in mere seconds, blasted from this particular plane and most likely all others if she took his words wrong. But mercifully, she does not.

"To be fair, it'd be rather impressive to be a worst conversationalist than Kratos. A renowned warrior he may be, but a stimulating speaker he is not." Keen gaze on the witch as she sits down, knowing very well that she could simple pick him up and transport him somewhere else if she didn't want to talk. That or throw him some place particularly nasty. "We're lucky to have the lad with us in our bachelordom, otherwise they would be long, quiet winter nights."

A pause then. "I hear the lad has been talking to you?" he tries cautiously.