#no febuwhump today

[hl-obsessed]

.

[adrift-in-thyme]

Febuwhump Day 10: Human Shield

Ao3

CW for blood and injury

————————————-

It is raining. A torrent of water cascades down from the sky, soaking Warriors and plastering his tunic to his skin. The fierce winds whip his hair into his eyes, washes the ground out from beneath his feet. Fighting in such conditions is…less than enjoyable to be certain.

But such is the way of heroism, he supposes. If you come across a heavily populated monster camp, you can’t very well just turn around and walk away. Even if it is raining bokos and keese.

“I’m gonna assume,” he remarks, as he drives his sword into a nearby moblin and almost slips in the mud, “that this isn’t your doing Sprite.”

He can’t see Time’s expression — the old man is busy slashing at the handful of beasts currently trying to cage him in — but he can tell that he’s grinning anyway.

“Not this time, no.” Time whirls in a spin attack, sending monsters and mud and water flying in all directions. “Believe me, if the Song of Storms had the power to end this downpour, then I wouldn’t hesitate to play it.”

Warriors chuckles. “And here I was thinking you liked the rain.”

“I do when I don’t have to fight an entire camp of monsters in it.”

Warriors laughs again, bringing his sword in a harsh, upward stroke. Black blood flies, splattering into the makeshift river sprouting into being beneath his feet. Quick as a flash, it is washed away.

The feeling of victory is short-lived. Several more monsters jog up to take their fallen companion’s place. Warriors steps back, shifting his feet to get a better grip on the ground. They come at him and he whirls in his own imitation of Time’s move mere seconds before.

“Well, if this is what it takes to get you back for all those times you drenched me for no reason besides your own gremlin joy…then I’ll deal.”

Time faces him from across the space that separates them. Raindrops drip from his hair and run in rivulets down his face. They wash away the blood dribbling sluggishly from a cut across his forehead. They can do little, however, for that which stains his trousers right above his boot. Nor can they rinse off the mud that sullies his usually spotless armor.

But he smiles as though none of that matters. And for a moment Warriors sees a mischievous little forest child, grinning up at him as he complains about his latest prank.

“Truly?” He cocks his head, brings his claymore down with hardly any effort, and sends ten monsters soaring. “You would endure this just to get back at me? And for something that I allegedly did years ago? I never took you for a petty person, captain.”

Warriors rolls his eyes. He is traveling even deeper into the camp now, cutting down the monsters that try to get in his way. There is a cluster of them in the middle of the encampment, gathered around a skeletal treasure chest. He’s willing to bet that killing them will make the largest impact.

“I’m not being petty, Sprite. I’m defending my honor.”

“Ah. My bad.”

Time’s voice has a lilting tone, mischievous and slightly mocking. It has been too long since Warriors heard it. Too long since he has seen the child hidden deep within the man trying to be the responsible one in their little group. The leader.

“Well, is your honor suitably — ”

He cuts off abruptly and Warriors cranes his neck in an attempt to ascertain the disturbance. It’s difficult to see over the many heads of his opponents, however, and even more so through the torrent of murky water.

In the end, he doesn’t have to see a thing to realize something is coming. Something large and metallic and decidedly different from the beasts they have battled thus far.

A fast, panicked tune sounds in Warriors’ ears, alarm bells jingling like the notes on a piano.

The monsters surrounding him skitter out of the way, shrieking in fear. In the space that they have left shines a blurry, crimson light. It emanates from a single eye of purest blue, situated in the cylinder-shaped head of a skulltula-like monstrosity.

And it is pointed straight at him.

The air itself begins to heat, turning cool rain lukewarm. Warriors’ eyes go wide.

There isn’t time to run, there isn’t room to run, but he needs to try anyway, he needs to get away…

Arms working without conscious effort, he lifts his shield and prays that it will be enough.

“Captain!”

Firm hands connect with his shoulder. Warriors stumbles sideways, slips, and splashes down into the mud. Heart in his throat, thoughts a jumbled mess of adrenaline and panic signals, he scrambles to all fours.

Only to collapse again mere seconds later when the world erupts.

Crimson light blinds him, molten heat smothers him. The air is thick with it, screaming with the agony of it.

Or maybe someone else is screaming. He can’t tell. All he knows is that he can’t breathe, can’t hear, can’t see anything save for the cries of destruction.

Again and again, the monstrosity fires. Again and again, heat batters at all sides, yet somehow doesn’t touch him.

And then, it’s over.

Warriors can only lie there for a moment, ears ringing, breath coming in ragged gasps. Slowly, painstakingly, the world crawls back into focus.

Carnage lies everywhere. Every monster has disappeared, either escaped into the forest or lying in the dirt. The gore that they have left behind peppers the area. Trees and bits of rock are strewn about, shedding leaves, branches, and pebbles into the rivers of mud. The towers that the beasts had stood upon are no longer the stalwart things they once were. Some are only half standing, others little more than shattered pieces of wood.

And in the midst of it all crouches the smoldering form of the mechanical skulltula that had borne down upon them so quickly. Beside it, lies another of the same build and same size. The lights on that one have just begun to flicker out.

Dazedly, Warriors stares at them from within a strange veil of blue. Then, slowly his gaze drifts to the hero that rises before them.

Time stands straight and tall amongst a river of mud and gore. In one hand he clutches his gilded sword in a white-knuckled grip; in the other his shield. Cracks snake along the pearly silver surface.

Water runs off of what is left of his armor, soaking into his tunic and trousers where the plates have been blown away. Blood oozes from a cluster of deep cuts speckling his upper back. More of the same type mar his left leg and hip.

His shoulders rise and fall with every haggard, gasping breath.

“Sprite?” Warriors croaks and Time turns to him.

He smiles, even as blood trickles from his nostrils and mouth and the gash on his cheek. Even as he wavers.

“Alright, captain?” He croaks, right before his legs give way beneath him.

Instantly, Warriors is on his feet. The haze of shimmering cerulean fades as he stumbles up, leaving behind remnants of an oddly familiar magic.

But he doesn’t have time to ponder that mystery.

He slides to his knees in the mud and pulls Time into his arms. The hero slumps against him. Quickly, Warriors looks over him, assessing the wounds that he can see.

The gashes he had seen before are claw marks, he realizes now, as though a giant beast had tried to pin him to the ground. And the burns searing his arm and side look disturbingly similar to Wild’s scars.

Warriors drags in a steadying breath. Time needs a potion at the very least. Preferably a fairy.

They have neither.

“Sprite.” His voice is oddly detached. To his ears, it sounds as though it is traveling from very far away. “What was that?”

Time’s eyelid flutters, showing a slit of blue. Raindrops roll down his cheeks like tears.

“Nayru’s love,” he croaks, and a smile quirks his lips. “Takes an a-awful lot of damage.”

Warriors’ eyes widen slightly as it hits him.

A spell. That blue haze that had shielded him from the onslaught of fire was a spell. One that Time had cast on him and not himself.

“Someone had to kill them,” comes Time’s quiet voice, raspy with pain. “And I didn’t have enough magic to cover the both of us.”

Warriors looks back down at him and there is no remorse in his gaze. Only calm acceptance.

The captain wants nothing to do with it.

“Well, I’m not losing you,” he grits out. “You deserve to go out in a warm bed, in a warm house, when you’re ancient and insufferable. Not like this. Not here.”

Not because you sacrificed yourself for me.

Time’s hand finds his and squeezes. His fingers are frigid, wet with water and blood. But his touch is firm despite the weakness caging him in. Firm and reassuring.

“You s-sure you can handle me when I’m ancient and insufferable?” He murmurs and Warriors chokes out a chuckle.

“You can bet on it, Sprite.”

He drags himself up, slipping in the cursed sludge that the ground has become. But he manages to gain a steady enough footing. And when he drapes Time’s arm over his shoulders, he is able to take the older man’s weight without losing his balance.

“I’m going to get you back to camp,” he assures him, as Time lets out a low groan, eye slipping closed once more. “My medical supplies are there and I’ve got a few potions. Hyrule can heal you if we need him to, as well.”

Time nods. Warriors tightens his grip. And slowly, arduously, they begin their journey.

[hotcheetohatredwastaken]

Who Heals the Healer? Febuwhump Day 7--Suffering In Silence

Four passed out at last. That gaping wound in his stomach, scraped out and still lined at the edges with singed, blackened flesh, was finally cleared enough that Hyrule could lay his hands over it and touch living flesh. He worked his magic, knitting muscle and skin back together by feel alone, until his magic began to sputter and peter out and Legend pulled him away, already scolding him for overextending himself. Hyrule stumbled after him, his mind numb, as Legend pushed him down onto a log by the fire and ran a rag over his sweaty forehead, yelling for Wind to fetch him a drink and some sugary snack from Wild’s Slate. 

“Rulie, how many times have I told you not to exhaust your magic reserves like that?” Despite the harsh words, Legend’s voice was fond. It took Hyrule’s eyes a while to adjust to find his scowling face. “You’re going to hurt yourself like that one day, I should know.”

“...sorry…” Hyrule got out vaguely. He leaned into the cool palm pressing into his forehead. “Is he…?”

“He’s okay,” Legend answered. He pulled away with a frown, then took one of Hyrule’s hands in his own, rubbing it briskly between his own. Then he paused. “You’re… warm. You’re usually cold after you use too much magic.” He looked up at Hyrule, his eyebrows raising. “Have you been sick recently, Rulie?”

The words took a while to make their way through Hyrule’s exhausted mind. “No…? I don’t think so…” Suddenly, there were two Legend’s looking up at him. He blinked hard, and they solidified back into one. “I’m just tired… I think I might need to lie down for a bit.”

“Okay…” Legend said dubiously. “C’mon, give me your arm, I’ll help you over there.”

Hyrule found himself nearly slung over Legend’s shoulder. The walk to his bedroll seemed to be miles long. He stumbled, and Legend cursed, distantly calling out for Warrior to help him. He was there in an instant, supporting Hyrule’s other arm. Somewhere in the back of Hyrule’s mind, he realized that the outside of his right leg was burning, but he was much too tired to pay it any attention. He took one step towards his bedroll, then another.

“Rulie, this is more than magic exhaustion.” Legend’s voice warbled in from afar. “Are you sure that you’re okay?”

 “I mean, it… it could also be… be where that monster got me.” Hyrule panted out. All he had to do was get to his bedroll. One step. Another. “Didn’t really have time to… to deal with it, before Four was all hurt."

“Hyrule,” Legend said somewhere, his voice growing high. “What do you mean, where that monster got me?”

Hyrule, very helpfully, passed out in answer.

[skyward-floored]

Random febuwhump wip because I haven’t shared much of anything yet (reminder that this is Incredibles au :)

“Sky, calm down,” he tried as Sky continued to choke on air, and when that didn’t work, he grabbed his hands, squeezing them tight. “Sky, please, you’re gonna hurt yourself, you have to breathe.”

Sky only wheezed, and Warriors watched him with growing panic, already kicking himself for not expecting this.

He should’ve known it would all crash down on Sky at some point— he’d barely reacted after everything had happened, but his best friend had been kidnapped, and he’d nearly been killed by the same man who’d murdered his parents, and then he’d turned around and—

Sky gagged on a cough, and Warriors shot a panicked glance out into the hallway as quick footsteps came down it. Time appeared in the doorway, and immediately got to a knee beside Sky, his face creased with concern.

“Sky, what happened? What’s wrong?” he asked, putting his hands on his shoulders.

“I-I, I ki...” Sky wheezed, shaking like a leaf, “T-Time I was...”

He couldn’t get enough words out for Time to understand, and Time looked over at Warriors, confusion and worry on his face. Warriors made a helpless gesture, and Sky wheezed again and brought Time’s attention back to himself.

[chaotic-orphan]

Febuwhump day One: helpless

Oh yeah we’re doing another prompt calendar!! My favourites, I write things I never usually do because there’s a time limit and it’s fun. This prompt was hard, but I tried B)

CW: strained family relationships, dysfunctional family, kidnapping (implied)

*~*~*~*~*

Henchman escorted Villain up the opera-like staircase of the mansion, all marble floors and Greek style pillars to hold up the second floor. The first time Villain saw it they marvelled at the sheer class of it all. Now though, it was nothing more than a means to an end, Villain could be walking through the mud for all they cared, their mind was on other matters.

Henchman opened the door and Villain stepped in. The door closed behind them and Villain didn’t stop walking until they were at the chairs in front of the large mahogany desk.

Supervillain had his back half turned, looking out the window with a glass of whiskey in his hand.

“How nice to see you, Villain,” said Supervillain. He didn’t turn his head as he spoke, just continued to stare out the window into the world outside.

Villain clenched their jaw at his easy, blasé tone, but anger never got Villain anywhere, so they took a second to relax it before speaking.

“Hello Supervillain. Wonderful weather we’re having, isn’t it?”

Supervillain hummed in agreement.

“Harvest season is nearly upon us,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at Villain. “Have you been keeping your garden well?”

“I’ve been a bit busy recently,” Villain replied, tone clipped. Far much harsher than they intended for it to come out.

Calm down Villain, they chastised. Clasping their hands behind their back to stop clenching them into fists. An obvious action, one Supervillain would no doubt see through, but it comforted Villain at least. They could pretend that they were hiding it from Supervillain.

Supervillain said, tilting their head down to look at their glass, swirling the honey coloured liquid inside gently, “yes, I’ve heard of your recent escapades. Not from you, of course.”

An obvious dig at Villain. Villain wanted to erupt then and there but they didn’t, they forced themselves to remain calm.

“You can’t seriously expect me to come visit anytime I have gossip,” Villain scoffed running a hand through their hair. “I mean, what with being searched and seized every time I come in here and escorted through the halls like some stranger! Only for you to not have the decency to even look at me when I speak to you.”

Supervillain stopped the motion, raising their head. The hairs on the back of Villain’s neck stood up at the easy movement and they realised they had gone too far too late.

Supervillain turned their body from the window to face Villain. Villain fought the urge to step back. Why should they? They said exactly what they thought, and it wasn’t their fault anyway. Supervillain was the one who brought it up, not them.

Villain’s hands tightened into fists behind their back.

“Sorry, Villain. You must understand, it is very hard for me to look at traitors.”

The word traitor hit them like a punch to the chest, winding them.

“What do you—”

“Don’t play stupid, Villain,” Supervillain said, tone even, as if he was still talking about the weather. “I raised you better than that.”

Villain clenched their jaw, locked their lips and turned their head away.

“You have been reckless, Villain. Running around the city, fraternising with Heroes. How do you think that makes me look? That my own child is blatantly disobeying me publicly?”

Villain didn’t reply.

Supervillain sighed. From the corner of their eye they could see Supervillain moving around their desk, the barrier between them, Villain’s safety net and coming to leaning on the front of it, arms folded over their chest.

“Can you blame me for having you searched when you come in? I don’t know where your loyalty lies anymore.”

“It—” Villain began in protest but that was all that fell from their lips. “I—” they tried again, but nothing. The truth was that Villain didn’t know anymore. They didn’t know something they used to be so sure of.

They were a Villain through and through three months ago. They were born to it, grew up in it, the heir to their father’s empire. They liked being a Villain, they liked scheming about how to subdue Heroes and intimidate juries and witnesses.

They were unequivocally a Villain three months ago.

Then Hero showed up and turned their entire world upside down.

These days Villain helped Hero with their problems and understanding the inner workings of Villains to properly subdue them.

Other Villains.

Never their father’s.

Never.

They weren’t a traitor.

Burning eyes met their father’s cool gaze. “I’m not a traitor,” they said, voice thick with emotion.

Supervillain pushed off the table and stood in front of Villain.

“I don’t know that, Villain. I only know what I’m told, by people I trust.”

“What right hand?!” Villain demanded, throwing their hand out in a wide gesture, so close to completely losing it.

“Why do you want me to trust you Villain, hmm? Is that it?” Supervillain demanded, fury resting just under the surface of their skin below the calm expression. Villain let out a soft tch before turning their head away again.

Supervillain said, “Villain look at me,” and so Villain did. Supervillain raised their fist and placed it over Villain’s chest. The shrewdness of his age shining sympathetic in his eyes.

“How can I trust you when you are so clearly at war with yourself, Villain?” Supervillain asked, voice soft. It nearly broke Villain.

Very nearly.

The soft voice almost felt familiar, like how Supervillain used to speak with them when Villain had failed something and was punishing themselves for it. If they got less than 90 in a test, if there was someone annoying them, when they failed a mission. More usually when they were late in the night, pouring over every plan, every minute detail, every possible scenario and cursing themselves because why didn’t they see it before?

The times when Supervillain would find them with a cup of tea and a soft, sympathetic smile much like their expression now, coaxing them to go back to bed. That they were being too hard on themselves.

Villain would protest. They would say that they refused to be caught unaware again, to be in a situation where they were stuck. So completely helpless.

They didn’t need to rely on anyone, they shouldn’t have to.

“I will always be here,” Supervillain would say. Then when Villain would stare back at their work, Supervillain would take the seat next to them and sit with them while they worked through the problem.

Sometimes Supervillain would be silent.

Other times he would vocalise the issues he saw with the plan in hindsight that couldn’t have been known before the day.

Villain would wake up in their chair. Supervillain snoring beside them, head resting on their chest.

Villain’s fingers clenched into fists, then unclenched and clenched again. They didn’t know what they should do… what side were they on?

“Let’s make it easier, Villain,” said Supervillain stepping back, dropping all contact from Villain. He slid his hands into the pockets of his tailored trousers, tilting his head at Villain. “Why did you come and see me today?”

“Because—” Villain said without thinking then stopped short.

Supervillain blinked. “Because?”

Because Hero’s missing, Villain didn’t say. And I’m worried you took them.

Supervillain was waiting patiently, though their eyes told Villain everything they needed to know. Business Supervillain was talking to them now, not their father. Which means…

Villain schooled their expression and said, “because you took Hero, and I’m here to get them back.”

The corner of Supervillain’s lips quirked up into a half smirk.

“So bold to assume, Villain.”

“I’m right though, aren’t I?” Villain challenged, taking a step forward. “If you’ve done somethi—”

Supervillain held up a hand to silence them, and Villain hated the way they cut themselves off. Supervillain lowered his hand to the button on his desk that Villain knew went straight to Right Hand.

The door opened not a moment later and Villain didn’t have to turn to know Right Hand was at the door. The snivelling little runt.

“Right Hand, could you show Villain to our guest, please?” Supervillain asked, not breaking eye contact with Villain. “And if they try anything, throw them in beside them.”

“Of course, sir,” Right Hand replied, a smile in his voice. “With pleasure.”

Villain glared at their father who smiled in return.

“Why?”

Supervillain shrugged. “I wanted to meet the Hero who turned my own flesh and blood against me.”

“You met them, now let them go,” Villain said, taking another step closer.

Supervillain tilted his head. “Are you asking or demanding?”

“Whichever gets Hero free faster,” Villain replied.

Supervillain said nothing for a beat. Instead his eyes just searched Villain’s face, for what Villain didn’t know. Answers?

“If you behave, we can discuss Hero’s release over dinner.”

Villain wanted to protest. They wanted to scream and shout, and shove Right Hand down the stairs just because, but they couldn’t. They couldn’t do anything because their stupid gun and knife were taken off them when they arrived and were sitting safely out of their hands.

They hated to admit it, but without them… Right Hand could probably beat them in a fight. Maybe not a battle of wits, but a physical scuffle… Villain was well and truly helpless.

Villain didn’t reply. They turned on their heel and shoulder checked Right Hand on the way out the door, walking towards the cells themself. They didn’t need Right Hand to escort them, they never did before.

This was their fucking house.

All they needed to do was descend to the cells to find Hero — their home.

[forgotten-daydreamer]

Three fics in a day?? For a total of about 5.5k words?? Someone calls the cops, I was replaced by a productive clone and didn't notice.

[nancyheart11]

Day 5 rope burns (Hyrule)

He watched as Warriors was dragged, by his hair, to the raised stone platform. Hyrule continued working on his rope restraints, ignoring the irritation already building from the continued friction against his wrists, bare of their guards for once.  It should be him up there. The thought burned more than the ropes, but Hyrule knew it was true. Warriors was coated in blood from helping bandage Hyrule’s previously impaled shoulder. At the time he hadn’t known what Era they were in and had gone about changing and getting blood out of his ripped tunic without another thought. The monsters were getting ready to sacrifice Warriors, because he was covered in Hyrule’s blood and he couldn’t let that happen. He finally managed to slip free of the ropes, though the slickness of his wrists told him he had broken skin doing so. Immediately the nearest monsters turned to face him once the scent hit their noses. He had no sword, no armor, and a brother to save. Bring it on.

I thought this was perfect when my random generator pulled up Hyrule for today!

[sezja]

Febuwhump Day 12: Semi-Conscious Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV, Alternate Universe Characters/Ship: Sanson Smyth/Guydelot Thildonnet (pre-relationship), Coeli Qoet Triggers/Content warnings: n/a

In the cramped confines of the airship's engine room, he waits.

When should he leave, Guydelot wonders - now? He'd heard Sanson and Mogta talking only a moment ago, drifting away. Where are they, even? Somewhere in the Sea of Clouds, Moglin said; vague as all hells. It'd taken a miracle to get back to Gridania and sneak on board the Adders' airship; if the bloke guarding it hadn't owed Guydelot a favor or five, he never would've managed. It'd taken some quick thinking and even quicker talking: he was a member of this mission, after all; that's on record, and he knew Sanson'd be along shortly with the orders.

For all that, now that he's here...

What do I even say?

Sweat rolls down the back of his neck, and he doesn't think it's just the heat of the engine. It's not like him, this hesitation. Not like him, either, to linger like he had in Tailfeather. Normally, when he decides he's damned well done with a situation, he takes his leave - and he stays gone. He'd stormed away from Sanson fully intending to head back to Gridania and wash his hands of the whole mess; let the prissy little prig chase his Ballad of Oblivion to the ends of the world for all he cares.

Or so he'd thought. But he'd lingered, he'd hesitated, coming up with every reason to give it another day...

So what're you gonna say, then, he asks himself, hands curling into fists in frustration at his own hesitation. What is he waiting for? The perfect words? He's a bard; he knows damn well the right words aren't gonna just fall into his lap. And they sure as hells aren't gonna come to him here, are they?

He clambers outside at last, sucking in a breath at the frigid skybound air, a bracing contrast to the engine room. No need to wonder where Sanson'd gone: there's only one path. Guydelot walks slowly, thoughts still churning through his mind. What would Sanson say when he came strolling up?

Does he even dare hope Sanson is just as tormented over all of this as he is? Coeli sure seemed to think so, and then there's the journal burning a hole in Guydelot's satchel... notes on song, sure. And notes, pages of them, of all the things... all the things he wanted to tell Guydelot about, when they meet again.

And isn't that something?

Isn't that-

Fighting, he realizes, his archer's instincts finally winning out over his heart's twisting and turning. He's hearing the sounds of battle.

He's left it too late, he's waited too long.

Damn it all, and damn me, too, he thinks, drawing and stringing his bow; if he hurries, he can still be of some use against... against whatever it is they've found here; whatever beast guards Sanson's Ballad.

It's not a long run, but it's long enough.

He gets there in time to watch Coeli put a last desperate arrow into the red-feathered siren, before the viera crumples to the ground in exhaustion. The siren herself gets out one last ear-searing shriek before she bursts into a seething cloud of aether... which is then drawn back into an innocuous-looking stone monument, evidently from whence it came. Guydelot stands helpless, useless, bow in hand, observing the carnage.

Coeli's wounds don't look bad: she's simply been sapped of all energy by the siren's... song. She opens her blue eyes long enough to notice him, but lacks even the stamina to look surprised - if indeed she is. Her gaze leaves him, traveling toward something lying in the tall grass: something yellow. Something yellow and very, very red.

The bow falls from Guydelot's hands as he runs, unthinking.

Sanson.

He'd taken the brunt of the battle himself; of course he had. His lance is red with the creature's blood, but for every blow he landed, it seems he must've taken three - Sanson Smyth is a mess, and no mistake. Guydelot sinks to the ground beside him, fearing the worst. Part of him flinches away from the idea of even checking for a pulse - if he leaves now, if he runs away again, he can tell himself pretty lies about how the last time he'd seen Sanson, the man had been alive and well...

And maybe if I'd been fast enough, he still would be.

Gritting his teeth, he yanks off a glove and rests his hand on Sanson's throat.

Only for the man himself to flinch under Guydelot's touch.

"G..." Those too-blue eyes flutter open. Barely. Confusion mingles with pain. "Guydelot...? What are you...?"

It goes through him like a knife, and all Guydelot can think about is the thousand times his commanders have reprimanded him as a good-for-nothing, a layabout; a sorry waste of a talented archer. All talent, no discipline; that's Guydelot the Spent! Never where he needed to be! Always had somewhere better to be; always had something better to be doing than following godsdamned orders! And now here he was, the perfect chance to prove to himself - to Sanson - that he was worth a damn, and-

"You... you came," Sanson breathes, wonderment in his eyes, teetering on the edge of consciousness. "I... th-thought.."

He forces himself to speak. He's got nothing better to do. "Too late. I'm sorry, Sanson; I thought I'd..." What? Help? He hadn't known what he meant to say or do. He still doesn't.

He watches Sanson drift. There's a rustle in the grass: Coeli, inching closer. She's learned some healing tricks; thank the Matron for small miracles.

An absence occurs to him. "Mogta?"

She glances at him as she works, weaving aether into mending Sanson's many wounds. "Sanson tried to send us both away," she says, quietly. "Mogta is flying to the encampment of the Vanu Vanu, to seek aid."

He nods, subdued but relieved; he'd feared, for a moment, that his reluctance had cost the moogle bard his life.

It may yet cost Sanson his.

He tried to send them both away, he thinks, heart sinking like a stone: fighting the creature alone would've been suicide, and Sanson's seasoned enough to know it. Why? Why throw away his life on a futile battle, when there was nothing to be gained by-

"It... it never existed."

Sanson's voice again, hazy. Barely conscious at all, speaking as though in a dream. On an impulse he doesn't want to examine too closely, Guydelot takes one of the man's hands. Sanson's eyelids flutter, and his fingers twitch in Guydelot's.

"It was all just... some story, mistold or mis... misremembered," Sanson mumbles, despair in his voice. "An entire tribe... of moogles... she... and the Ballad..."

"Sanson," Guydelot says, uncertain. "You ought to rest. Let Coeli patch you up. We can talk later."

"No," Sanson says, abruptly, squeezing his hand. "No. I need... I was wrong, Guydelot, I was wrong about... about everything-"

"Well, you can be as wrong as you like after you're healed up-"

"I was wrong about you-"

Gods, I can't do this now, Sanson; don't do this to me now! "You're full of holes and barely awake, Sanson the Stiff," he snaps. "There's not a thing you can say now that won't keep for a bell or two. It's waited this long."

Whether the rebuke exhausts him or his wounds claim him, it serves to drop Sanson fully into unconsciousness, which Guydelot's willing to count as a miracle and a reprieve. He takes a shuddering breath, and with only one or two false starts, manages to begin singing a song to augment Coeli's healing: Sanson needs all the help he can get.

He pretends not to feel Coeli's too-knowing gaze on him as he sings.

[bokettochild]

Still not over Legend and Wind's argument in Sunset, or the suspicion from the Chain towards Twilight in recent ones

If JoJo ain't going to play with it, y'all know I will >:)

[secret-bug-pain-blog]

@febuwhump Day 11 - ALT PROMPT - Last Man Standing

Hello. Another alt prompt. A lot of them didn't really hit the spot, whump-wise, so we're sort of budgeting our replacements here - don't worry about the delay on the last two days, we were travelling and watching small children and not particularly available. This one's Fun Leif Activities!

Leif can't remember how long he's been here.

He stands over his teammates, tense and ready. There are monsters in these woods, beasts who will rip them asunder- beasts that have already done all too much after them. His wings are flared in a display of threat, his muzzle frozen over with icy fangs, his fur a bristling array of needles.

He can't remember what it was he was fighting. He can't remember why. It doesn't matter. His bones and his guts twist to suit his need. He bares his teeth at those he only knows as enemy, and he flares his wings, and he bites and scratches and shreds at those who get too close.

If they get to his teammates, then they're dead. If he loses, then they're dead. There is no room for error. There is no room for rest. There is no room for mercy.

(There's something wrong with his hands. There's something wrong with his eyes. There's something wrong with his antenna.)

Leif turns on his heel, baring fangs at yet another enemy. The warning he speaks is in a language he cannot comprehend. He has a program for it, somewhere, but he cannot run it now- too much space, too much processing. He has a duty, he must perform it well, he must perform it without error or falter or-

(He maintains the ice over their bodies. Preservation. Cryogenics. The brain doesn't begin to rot until the heart's been stopped for four to six minutes.)

Daggers of ice stop most enemies in their tracks. Yowled curses and slashing blows make up for the rest. His shell grates up against itself as he lunges, twisted at angles it was never meant to go. The discomfort doesn't matter.

He has to protect them. Or they will die.

(Brain activity fully ceases after ten minutes. The person is considered brain dead. To restart a heart, there must be some electrical activity remaining.)

He has to protect them. Or they will die.

(A bee's muscles will lock up in environments under 55° farenheight, preventing it from flying. When below freezing temperatures, a bee's body will slowly cease to function. Eventually, it will shut down entirely as its bodily fluids freeze.)

He has to protect them. Or they will die.

(A northern scarab beetle can persist in temperatures below zero for up to six hours at a time due to the minor warm-blooded adaptations present in the north and the high degree of insulation offered by their unique shell structure. Despite this, the species still relies on hibernation to survive the winter, much like its unawakened kin. Deprived of a burrow or shelter, they will still eventually die of exposure.)

He has to protect them. Or they. Will. Die.

ZM-28 bares its teeth at an enemy, barking out a warning in a language that it doesn't speak. The enemy does not heed it. Their chitin crunches beneath its ice, its claws, its teeth. They flee with nothing more inflicted than a handful of daggers, shoved into its shell. An acceptable margin of injury. A fix to be completed later. No significant detriment. The half-eaten ganglia severed are nonvital enough that they may not even need to be recombined.

Old programs whir in the back of its head. This place is wrong. It is not where it was meant to defend. Frozen moss crunches beneath its feet, rather than frosted tile. The subroutines imbedded in it tell it that it is at the wrong place. The core of its programming protests that it doesn't matter.

It is not a lab guardian. Something in it rejects the idea of being in a lab at all. It has a quarry, and that quarry must be defended. Its paws twist awkwardly under it as it moves to check on its quarries, touching up the ice that contains them.

It was not meant to die. It was not meant to be killable. It was built with immortality in mind, to fuel the continued survival of its creators. Its subroutines are carried to serve those creators once they succeed.

Its creators are gone, and its colony is dead and dying, and all that matters is to protect.

It flings an icicle at an enemy.

All that matters is to protect.

[shih-coulda-had-it]

FEBUWHUMP DAY ELEVEN | FEVER | wc: 100

“What do you mean, you haven’t had a booster shot in fifteen years?”

Yoichi peers at the blurred face staring down at him, suspicious of the dark shadow hovering around the eye area. His older brother had found that intimidating power only a month ago, and he wore it constantly, even around family. What color are the eyes? he asks himself, but before he can determine that, he sees the feathery pale blue strands of Sanjuro’s ponytail.

“Hey,” says Sanjuro. “Are you even vaccinated?”

He plays dumb. “What are those?”

The right-hand man of the rebellion heaves a huge sigh.

[hl-obsessed]

Not ready for a war, i saw that i was lost

Febuwhump | ao3 | 1/29 | 434 words

Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Zayn Malik/Liam Payne

Pain is all he can remember, all he can feel. And he can't– he can't take it anymore.

He knows he doesn't deserve mercy, not in this life, not after all he's done – but he begs for it anyway.

It's a story in pieces. Loosely kinda Divergent AU.

written with @febuwhump prompts

[adrift-in-thyme]

Febuwhump Day 7: Suffering in Silence

Ao3

CW for PTSD, referenced injury, and unresolved interpersonal conflict

--------------------------------------

He needs sleep. 

Warriors stares into the water-speckled restroom mirror and sees nothing. Blurred shapes are all that are there, forms and colors he knows make up his visage. But his sandpaper eyes have turned them all indistinct. 

He is borderless now, as shifting and immaterial as he feels. Brush against him and he will simply float away.

Or sink into the depths that call him. 

Taking a deep breath, he scoops a palmful of water onto his face. Its icy frigidity does little to awaken him. He is too far gone for that now. 

Movement. Thought. They are nearly impossible. Have been all day.

Perhaps, that is why he had lost it earlier. Perhaps, that is why, the infallible, optimistic captain had simply…snapped.

His breath hitches unexpectedly. Trembling legs give way, depositing him on the tiled floor. Warriors brings his hands up and digs his palms into his eyes, fighting against the searing bite of oncoming tears. 

Damn it. Keep it together, captain. You already fell apart once, don’t do it again…

His hands curl into fists. Fingernails dig mercilessly into calloused flesh.

Wild’s words still echo in his mind, a terrible weight he is almost certain he lacks the strength to shoulder. 

Even a spirit of courage isn’t mighty enough for things like this.

Hurl him into hoards of squealing beasts. Send him hurtling through time and space. Drop him in the midst of situations he struggles to even comprehend. Take those he loves to a place he cannot go himself. Tear his body apart until there is nothing left. 

He can handle all that. He was built to handle all of that. 

But to strive so hard, so long only to hear that cursed shout…

“I hate you!”

The deathly chill that has gripped him since the fight (the one that had closed him off from the hero shouting in his face, that had turned his gaze dull, his expression stony, filled his mind with cotton so he could neither think nor feel…and had ignited Wild’s ire further) cracks and shatters into one million pieces. Pain cleaves through the exhausted numbness. A sob rips through his throat.

He’s heard worse. Far greater accusations, far worse insults have been spewed at him with fury and revulsion. Screamed at him as fists and feet connected with bone and muscle; shouted as blades ate away at flesh and cloth.

His own men had called him a traitor to Hyrule. The people he fought to protect had dubbed him a murderer. 

It hadn’t hurt as badly as this.

Warriors lets his head fall back against the wall. Hot tears glide down his cheeks, streaming down his neck to skitter beneath his collar. 

He hadn’t meant for any of this to happen. He hadn’t meant to break. But the sleepless nights had only continued since Twilight’s brush with death. The tasks hadn’t stopped piling up. The troubles hadn’t stopped parading through.

(The memories had kept coming, hounding at his every step, haunting his dreams, stealing the breath from his lungs. Memories of death and loss. Of betrayal and heartbreak.)

The latest battle had just been too much. Especially, when Wild had disobeyed orders yet again, hoping to catch the Shadow before he could streak through another gateway. 

Normally, Warriors would have held his tongue until he found the best wording for a rebuke. Normally, he would’ve dealt with the situation calmly, firmly…kindly.

But he had been so, so tired. 

Even now, he longs to fall into the plush embrace of a heap of blankets. But sleep was impossible out there where he could feel their eyes on him, hear their murmured conversations. He couldn’t-couldn’t see their faces a moment longer.

Warriors hadn’t even allowed himself to dwell on their expressions. Sorrow, shock, judgement, pity — he had identified them all in the split seconds he’d had to look over his friends.

His brothers.

The lump in his throat burns. Warriors swallows against it. 

He will have to come out soon, stone-faced and determined. He will have to face the repercussions of everything that has happened with a brave front.

He will have to force down the emotions churning within him, the hurt boiling up. 

He has suffered in silence for a close to a week now. And it’s not as though he isn’t skilled at the art of constructing facades by now. At times, the mask feels realer than his true face.

So, really, what’s a little longer for the sake of tentative peace?

Though, what kind of peace can be struck when one person despises the other?

He chuckles, harsh and wet. The sound is hardly audible over the never-ending rush of the water that cascades from the faucet.

Shut it off, the soldier within him shouts. Resources must be preserved.

Warriors doesn’t budge from his place on the floor. 

If he had obeyed his instincts, however, he might have heard the sound of a hand on the doorknob, a pick in the lock. 

Wind shimmies into the bathroom with shocking stealth. At the sound of the door clicking closed, Warriors startles. Instantly, his hand flies to his boot, seeking the dagger nestled against his leg. But then, his gaze lands on the sailor, standing mere feet from him, expression screwed up in worry. And he lets his hand drop to the floor.

“Goddesses, sailor,” he breathes, “you almost gave me a heartattack. Trying to put me in an early grave?”

Wind slips down beside him, shoulder pressed to the captain’s.

“Sorry! I just…” He looks down at his hands, clasped atop his lap. “...I didn’t think you were actually taking a bath in here. That would’ve been a really long one if you were.”

Warriors chokes out a chuckle. “Wouldn’t be out of character for me though, would it?”

Wind shrugs. “People don’t go bathe after a fight. I know I never do when Aryll and me argue.” 

The ceiling smears further into combined shades of emerald-blue. Warriors clears his throat. The suffocating tightness doesn’t lessen.

“‘M sorry you had to hear all that, sailor,” he croaks. “I shouldn't have snapped.”

Wind is quiet for a long thread of moments. When he speaks again, his voice is small. His words, however, are firm, confident. 

“Wild didn’t mean what he said, you know.”

The ache in Warriors’ chest pierces deeper and spreads like a blot of ink on silken cloth. 

Right when he thought this day couldn’t get any worse, now the sailor is trying to comfort him.

…as he mopes on the bathroom floor.

How far can you fall in one day?

Pretty far, it seems.

He shakes his head, hoping the sound of his hair brushing the wall behind him will cloak that of his shuddering breaths.

“Wind, you don’t have to — ”

Wind scoots closer and wraps his two arms around Warriors’ one.

“It’s true! Wild said some really bad stuff but…he was just angry at the Shadow. And…scared.” Large orbs the color of the Great Sea gaze into Warriors’. “Like you.” 

The captain is quiet, allowing that a moment to sink in. Or, perhaps, to merely settle on the tower of wavering feelings stacked within him.

He’s so tired. (How many times has he thought that now?) If he closes his eyes, the weight hovering atop him will plummet, dragging him down with it.

More tracks of salty water scurry down his cheeks, bringing warmth to his chilled flesh. 

“You’re gonna have to talk to him, you know,” the sailor continues, voice just audible over the continued downpour. “Wild can be an idiot sometimes, especially when he feels bad. He’s gonna wanna talk about what happened but…he probably thinks you hate him now.”

That hardly makes him feel warm and fuzzy inside. But Warriors knows he’s got a point. 

Some people reach outward when regret has them by the throat. Wild has already lashed out. Now, his only option is to go in.

And when that happens, even the rancher can hardly drag him out.

Good to know luck is on my side, snarks the spiral of self-pity. 

Warriors drags in a breath and swallows a mouthful of tears.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he hums. He coaxes his arm out of Wind’s grasp and wraps it around his slight shoulders, pulling him close. “You’re a smart kid, you know that?”

Wind giggles, softly. “Yeah, I know.” He pauses. “And I know you and Wild are gonna be okay. You’re brothers! Siblings always make up, trust me!”

“You’ve got a lot of optimism, sailor,” Warriors whispers. 

Silence glides in on the tail of his words. It settles, heavy and hyptonizing over the small space. Warriors allows it to reign for a while. 

The days of stress and exhaustion have fully caught up to him now. Frazzled, devastated thoughts slow, bumping lazily against one another. He stares ahead of him and lets everything disappear behind a film of sorrow and fatigue. 

“Hey, Wars?” Wind’s voice is a bit louder now, but hesitant. Gentle. “I love you.”

Warriors’ eyes slide closed of their own accord. He doesn’t bother to drag them open again.

“Love you too, sailor,” he murmurs and every word is laborious to utter. “Love you too.”

[hotcheetohatredwastaken]

Wild’s Wolf: Febuwhump Day 4 -- Obedience (Modern AU)

“Tell me about him,” Time said as he walked down the dim research facility’s hallway, flipping through the binder in his hands. He’d already scanned through its pages at the dinner table that morning over his coffee, and again as Malon, his lovely wife, drove him to work for this impromptu… assignment. The boy’s picture sat taped in the back of the binder. He glared up at the taker of the picture viciously, his too-sharp teeth bared in a snarl and those odd long ears of his pinned back against his head. His blue eyes were pale, his skin nearly translucent against the white wall behind him. “He doesn’t look very happy with you people.”

A dry laugh. “He’s not. Appears to be male, approximately twelve years old, assuming that his species ages similarly to humans,” said the researcher walking alongside him. “Has blond hair, blue eyes, and heavy scarring along his left side. Hasn’t spoken a word we could understand since we caught him out near the city a few days ago. He’s been obstinate, aggressive—”

“I’ve read all of that in the reports you’ve given me. I want to hear your impression of him.”

They thought for a while. They stopped in the hallway, then led him into a room. Many other researchers in lab coats sat at computers or peered through the window taking up the far wall of the room. Beyond it was the room in which they held the… subject. It appeared to be empty.

“... he’s just a scared kid, I think,” they said at last. Time furrowed his brow, opening his mouth to ask just where he was, but they pointed towards the bed in the corner of the room. The covers of the single bed had been dragged down to form a sort of wall around the bed frame, but Time thought he saw glinting eyes in the shadow behind it. “He’s in there, hiding. Has been since the first day we got him. We had to drag him out kicking and screaming to run his labs yesterday, it wasn't pretty. Hasn’t eaten or drunk a thing we haven’t given him through an IV, so far.”

Time sighed, thumbing back through the folder. “And you have me here for the linguistic issue?” he confirmed, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes. He’s shouted at some of us a few times, but his language is unlike any we’ve ever heard. Figured that we’d give you a call since you’re the great professor, see if you could figure out what we’re dealing with.”

“Of course, of course.” Time dropped his hand to his pocket, checking whether the pouch that held his jabbernuts was still there. Magic made it surprisingly easy to make a living as a linguistics professor with a knack for quickly learning any language he encountered. It wasn’t like he was expected to teach anyways, and captive audiences were the best ones, after all. Of course, if anyone found out about that magic… he was already cutting it too close, having government agencies contacting him for his abilities. Time returned his attention to the room across from the glass. “What are your plans for… him?”

“Confidential information, I’m afraid,” they replied smoothly. “All we need from you today is a confirmation of whether or not he speaks a human language. We may bring you back if we need to set up a mode of communication with him, but for now we’re just wondering about his capabilities for communication at all—level of intelligence and all that.”

“I understand,” Time answered, gazing through the window. “What… what is he? He’s not human, I believe you insinuated?”

“Will you be needing anything else?” they asked brightly, stepping between him and the pane of glass. “We’d like to get this done quickly, if at all possible.”

Time knew by their tone that it was time to stop asking questions. “No, no, I don’t need anything but an hour or two with him.” He swallowed thickly. “Thank you. Show me to him, please?”

“Gladly. Follow me.” They led him out into the hallway, then to an adjacent door. “Just be careful, he’s a biter. But I’m sure you’ll be fine.” They tapped at the keypad, then spoke into the little microphone mounted to the wall. “Open the door!”

It swung open with an eerie creak. Time took a deep breath, then stepped into the room.

First Chapter >> Next Chapter

[occasionallyprosie]

"Guardians"

Chapter 1: "Trust"

A battle gone south results in the heroes struggling to hold off their attackers and keeping their wounded alive. A portal comes to bail them out… but things go from bad to worse when a monster experienced in killing heroes arrives. The only ones left behind were Wind and Legend, who had been holding the horde off as the others escaped through the portal.

Febuwhump 2024 | Prompt 27: Left For Dead

Next>>

Event Masterlist

Read On AO3 Warnings: None ----

The battle had started bad and ended awfully.

It started with Hyrule getting hit by an arrow through his shoulder blade and going down immediately. It continued with Time taking a huge mace to the chest and slamming into a rocky outcropping, Warriors going to his aid, Twilight taking a blade for Wild and Sky diving forward to defend the both of them as Wild begged Twilight to hold on.

As far as Legend could tell at the time, him and Wind stepping to the front and pulling out a lot of the tricks in their respective books to draw attention and control the crowd, it was going bad. Wind was controlling his namesake to send monsters away from the others, Legend was almost juggling four different weapons at once, switching with, burning, freezing, and cutting down monsters flagrantly.

He was never good at crowd control, but he was really good at massacres.

It was a massacre on all sides.

"PORTAL!" Someone yelled.

Legend switched with a monster near Wind and dove back to their little line they'd been struggling to hold.

"Get the wounded through!" Warriors ordered.

Legend called back. "Captain, Chosen, get them out of here! Sailor and I'll hold them off!"

Wind nodded sharply. Legend was well aware that the "kid" was the second most experienced in the group, currently claiming to have three adventures under his belt and Warriors told Legend one late night that in a couple years, he'd encounter his fourth. Unlike the heroes who began this whole thing as adults or close to, Legend was fully aware of Wind's capabilities.

"No. Sky, help the vet--"

"He may be a better swordsman but not so much better that you can replace his strength and size with the Sailor!" Legend snapped back. "Get the wounded out of here, Captain!"

No offense to their Sailor, he was strong, but currently they needed the wounded moved out fast more than they needed their best two fighters at the front. Sky could carry the others better than Wind could.

Legend threw himself back into the slaughter. Wind held the line while Legend thinned the herd dramatically.

He heard the portal activate once, twice--Warriors yelled for them to come back--three times. That left him and Wind.

"Let's go!" Wind called.

Legend fell back, he shot his switch hook and landed a bit closer toward Wind.

The ground shook.

Breaking through trees to enter the clearing was a multi-legged robot monster that had a blinking blue and pink eye and a laser that landed on Wind's chest.

That was one of Wild's guardians.

"SAILOR GO!" Legend screamed. He and Wild have talked far too often about contingency plans and what to if they encountered guardians came up once or twice.

Run if you can, aim for the eye if you can't.

"But--"

The beeping and blinking grew faster. Legend cut down a moblin as an arrow sank into his arm.

"I SAID RUN, SAILOR! NOW!"

Wind must've understood that time, and thank the goddesses he did. As the guardian's beam shot toward Wind, but instead of going through the portal like Legend had wanted him to, he dove the opposite direction and whipped out his boomerang.

The beam continued to target onto the Sailor.

Legend cursed. "USE A SPIN ATTACK!"

As usual, he didn't hesitate and Legend switched with Wind that time. Wind managed to reorient himself fast enough and the guardian's sights were on Legend.

"Vet!"

"Get through the portal! Now!"

He switched his rods for his mirror shield and bashed the nearby goriya in the head. As the guardian's beam locked onto him and shot, he twisted just out of its way. The heat blazed past him and exploded a boko just behind him.

The blood and guts exploded everywhere, black as midnight.

Ohhh, it can one-hit black bloods. It will not be great if it hits him.

Wind was fighting his way over. The portal was losing power faster.

He had to get the Sailor through. They maintained momentum when they switched but he had the guardian to worry about as well as the huge horde.

"I can't make it, Vet!" Wind cried and he sounded scared.

Legend looked over and Wind indeed was too overwhelmed to get past the monsters.

He got distracted.

Wind screamed.

Blinding pain coursed through Legend, the guardian blast catching his side and going straight through him. It still threw him toward the portal.

"APPLE! APPLE NO!" Wind screamed.

Legend gasped, holding his side and forcing himself up. He staggered.

Monsters pressed in, but somehow the guardian had some kind authority because they held back just enough for the guardian to loom over Legend.

Wind was just within his vision.

Okay. If Wind jumped...

He took a deep breath. "LEAP RIGHT!"

Wind hesitated a second but he did a side leap just as Legend's switch hook shot through the monsters and hit his arm.

Legend fell to his knees just as a blade flew over his head. Wind fell through the portal cursing.

Sorry, Ocean, Legend thought as he forced his body to dodge the next swinging blade and attack in return. I know I said I'd never treat you like the others do, but I'm never leaving you to die when I'm right here to do it myself.

The portal collapsed in on itself. He could feel it shut down.

He let out a shaky breath as the monsters converged and that blinking light landed on his chest.

One other thought flickered through his head. Mom's going to be so pissed.

Wind trusted Legend. He trusted him more than any other hero present, and that was saying something considering both Twilight and Time were in the mix.

The key difference between them was, first of all, he didn't even know Time. Time was just... he was the Hero of Time! His predecessor and personal hero! But that didn't mean he trusted him. Twilight, he should've been able to trust Twilight, but then he realized that he didn't even recognize Legend and even if their kid brother was older and a bit rougher around the edges, Wind was of the mind that Twilight had no right to treat him that way.

Wind trusted Legend because the two of them, and Twilight, had saved Hytopia together, and because Legend actually trusted him in return.

Their communication was top notch, Wind didn't fail to follow callouts from his brother and he knew Legend didn't either, it caused plenty of shenanigans between them but never to the point of injury.

So when Legend yelled for him to jump to the side even if all of his own information said bad idea, he did it.

Then something hit his arm and then he was falling through the portal, seeing Legend with that hole in his side struggle to stand back up and fight.

He hit the ground hard, air thrown from his lungs. His sea legs apparently also gave him magic-portal legs, but even so the nausea was bad.

"There you are! Where's--"

Wind gasped for air as he shoved himself up and tried to dive back through the portal.

It shuddered shut before he could even fully stand, and was gone in time for him to slam to the ground a second time.

"Sailor! Where--What happened?" Warriors demanded, his voice betraying the worry, fear, and shock.

Wind stumbled to his feet. "I-I..."

"Sailor?" Someone questioned.

"Let him breathe!" Twilight dove in. He moved carefully, his chest bandaged and Wind assumed he'd taken a potion. He caught Wind's shoulders, dropping down to one knee. "Ocean, where's the kid?"

Wind inhaled shakily, meeting Twilight's eyes. "W-We couldn't get to the gate and--and this thing showed up. It was made of stone or something, and it beep and had some magic like... laser that exploded--"

"A guardian?" Wild blurted, clearly stricken. He fumbled with his slate as he moved away from Time and Hyrule's sides to show Wind some image of that thing.

"Yes! That's the thing--It appeared out of the woods and the Vet screamed at me to run but I couldn't leave him. So I ran the other way and then he-he teleported with me so we switched places. He got hit by it-- but he got back up! He got back up!"

Wild looked terrified, everyone looked a bit shaken.

Wind wasn't sure if Legend got back up later. "But--Then--The portal was closing and we knew it and I knew I wouldn't make it and he was right by it but--He told me to jump and I did and then I was falling through the portal! He did the teleport thing again and he was alone there!"

His legs gave out, a shaky sob bubbling in his throat. He couldn't cry, he couldn't--he was a hero, he wasn't a weak kid.

"I'm sorry! I left him! There was so many and he was badly injured." Wind covered his mouth to try and hold back a sob. "I left him to die!"

Next>>

[skyward-floored]

Are you still doing the wip ask game? If so how about growl?

If people still want to send them then I’ll answer them! Here’s one for growl(ed):

“Well it’s fortunate that this will be the last time we’ll ever meet, then,” the Shadow growled, and Sky let out a raspy chuckle.