Archive of Our Own ^beta

Warriors is a healthy amount of paranoid, okay.

It was hard not to be when half his allies in the War of Eras were just enemies in disguise, both in the very literal way and the turncoat way. If he hadn't been paranoid during that period of his life, he'd have been killed a few dozen times over. And, considering that the war had gone on six long years, and that those six long years had made up most of Warriors's developmental period -

The paranoia made sense. Everyone - every psychologist he saw, that was - took into account his mistrust of all his allies, how he was constantly on edge and looking for some kind of slip, how he'd tackled Zelda twice without prompting because she'd said something out of character. No one took into account the fact that that mistrust had saved his ass many, many times. Sure, he'd tackled Zelda twice and been mistaken, but he'd been right more than thrice over. Sure, keeping rigorous notes on how to defeat his allies was a bit much, but he'd had to fight dark reflections of Impa - the strongest person Warriors knew - multiple times, and either defeat her or survive long enough for backup. It was far, far harder than it sounded.

So yeah. It’s a healthy amount, and he stands by it. But this… this is getting a bit much.

He stares at the flower in his hand. It's a red rose, delicate and unbruised. Each petal feels like velvet on his fingertips. He'd picked it up without much thought, and his lack of forethought makes him cringe now, mere moments later - innocuous objects, even signs of affection, were an easy way to eliminate a target. Hell, he'd fallen for it a handful of times, back in his younger years. Still, his hand feels fine, and there's no swelling anywhere yet, so either there's nothing suspicious or it's relatively weak. 

Beautiful job killing that Darknut, the paper attached to the stem declares cheerfully. It's written in delicate print, cursive and neat, and it's making Warriors feel utterly insane. 

He looks around again. They've made camp around a stream, and most of the others are crouching over the thin flow of water and washing their clothes, talking carefree. The area surrounding them is a forest, with tall alpine trees and barren dirt under their feet. There's not much obscuring Warriors's line of vision other than the tall, thin tree trunks; all the actual needles are high up.

…he should be able to tell if someone is near. And no one is. 

In fact, they haven't seen civilized life in over a day. The forest isn't particularly dense, but it is vast, and that means that they've been trekking for a long time following the river - usually a surefire way to find civilization. And no one but the Chain had been present when Warriors had utterly annihilated a Darknut on his own. The others had been distracted, Time and Twilight injured, and the Darknut had almost managed to land a fatal blow on Wild while he'd been sniping from behind. And no one had been there to see Warriors take it down.

…maybe it's one of the Chain. Warriors wrinkles his nose. It's possible, he supposes. Wild, in particular, constantly plucked and saved every flower he came across in his slate, where they remained fresh until he removed them. But Wild didn't know cursive - in fact, most of them had absolutely awful handwriting. And this was in Warriors's Hylian.

"Hey, vet," he calls out anyways, and Legend looks up from where he's steadily scrubbing blood out from one of Wild's tunics. Legend was one of the more hygienic ones, which meant he was burdened with caring about blood stains, one of the things Wild did not do much of. They tended to exchange chores for that fact. "D'you know cursive?"

"Course I know cursive," Legend says, and various Links around him shoot him dubious glances. Legend throws his arms up, sending splatters of water everywhere. "What, did you guys not learn cursive?"

There's noises of dissent around camp. Hyrule doesn't know how to read, and reiterates that fact. "I was raised by a tree," Time says, and - yeah, well, that's a solid enough reason.

Legend rolls his eyes. "Why are you asking?"

"Can you, uh." Warriors rubs the back of his neck, slipping the rose into the waistband of his trousers and tugging his tunic over it. "Can I see? I want to check something."

"Real specific." Still, Legend nods towards one of his satchels, sat neatly where the teenager's laid out his multitude of items for organization. "Red leather notebook."

It takes Warriors a moment to find it, but it's just as fine and cared for as all of Legend's other belongings, if more worn. He flips through the pages. He can't understand most of it- as he'd noted, all of them have different variants of Hylian, and he only knew a bit of this one - but the cursive handwriting itself is also entirely different. It's neat and tidy as well, but… a whole different ballpark.

He lifts up the rose again, turning away from the Chain. Who… and, more importantly, how?

—

By the time they arrive at his own Hyrule, he's amassed a collection. He's also very, very paranoid.

It's hard not to be. The flowers seem to appear entirely out of nowhere, and, for the life of him, Warriors can't figure out where they're from. They're nice, too, is the problem; complimenting him on how he took down a monster, or how he helped a civilian, or just how nice he looked in general. Strangely personal. The writer seemed… omnipresent. It made Warriors's skin prickle, and the feeling of being watched had become constant.

He'd told Time, Sky and Twilight about the matter, not wanting to worry any of the younger members of the Chain. It was concerning, but there wasn't much you could do in terms of confronting someone - or something - you couldn't see. It did mean that there were three extra pairs - two pairs, more accurately - of eyes on anything Warriors missed. 

He'd ended up falling back into his old habits from the war. There was really nothing like someone constantly watching you to whip you back into the perfect soldier and mascot boy; he'd let his guard slip with the Chain, stopped grooming himself as immaculately as he usually did when in the eye of the public, but the little letters had pushed him back into to his mold. The others seemed concerned, but it was the norm for him. Civilians didn't like to know they'd been thrown into a war for someone less than perfect, and so perfection was what he tried to achieve.

…he'd regretted it, a bit, when the notes mentioned how well he cleaned up. 

"That's weird," Twilight says, which is an understatement. He looks out of place in the carriage, which is just as royal and pompous as Warriors has gotten used to. Twilight's country-boy aesthetic is an entertaining contrast. "I don't like this."

"I don't think it's someone invisible," Time says. He's flipping through the notes, a pile of them spread out over his plate armor. "I've been using the Lens of Truth to keep an eye out. No one."

"I can see invisible things sometimes," Twilight says. He doesn't elaborate. Warriors takes it as confirmation. 

The carriage slows down as they approach Cia and Lana's residence; Cia had, formerly, resided at the Valley of Souls, but the area had been abandoned once the war had ended, as had most locations of major wars. Which was fine by Warriors's standards. He'd be content never seeing that creepy-ass place again. The fields surrounding the Valley of Souls were… incredibly unsettling, and that was even disregarding the interior. 

He'd also be content never seeing Cia again, but he had duties as a servant to the throne. They included visiting the Guardians of Time every so often to keep them satiated - Cia more so than Lana. They'd tried, but there was no way to merge them back into the one being they'd formerly been; and so that meant that Cia was as unbalanced over him as she'd been over the war. After all, Ganon hadn't conjured her desire for him out of nowhere - it had only been exemplified. 

Artemis had apologized over his occasional visits. They'd gotten close over the course of the war, and she knew just how affected he'd been by Cia. It was fine, though. He'd gotten used to putting aside his issues for the greater good. It's nice having Time and Twilight presence for support, though, even though he'd insisted against them coming. Cia was attracted to the Hero's Spirit, after all.

The thought brings back long-forgotten anxiety, sitting heavy in his gut. It's the same feeling he'd felt when he'd initially learned that Mask had the Hero's Spirit; Artemis had known immediately, and avoided telling him in order to keep his priorities straight. She'd been at least a bit correct, at least; it had hindered him, during fights, knowing that Mask was out there and vulnerable and exposed every moment that Link wasn't at his side. 

His stomach churns as he looks at Time; now a man, decades older than him. At least he'd grown, and the trauma from the war seemingly hadn't affected him much, the way it had Warriors. At least he could protect himself now. 

He's the first to get off the carriage when it comes to a halt, smooth and practiced in his movements as he makes his way towards the gates without preamble. Both are waiting there, having been informed beforehand of their visit. Warriors's skin prickles upon seeing Cia, but he remains composed. 

"Ladies," he greets. "I've come to get your report."

"Link!" Lana, clearly done with decorum, launches herself at him and wraps her arms around his waist. He laughs, greeting Cia with a nod and a handshake. 

The reports are real, and usually the main reason Wars made check-ins. Two birds with one stone, Artemis had said, which just meant Wars had finally become a glorified mailman (without the outfit, for better or for worse). If only mailmanhood didn't come with having to stare Cia in the face. 

It's a little unfair to her, he thinks distantly, no matter how much he dislikes her. She hadn't chosen to be the half of their one being that got the lust and desire; it had just happened. Lana, in comparison, was in love with him - but it was more respectful and shy, the more innocent part of love. Both made him uncomfortable. Sometimes he felt bad for it. 

"We've missed you! How are you enjoying time-hopping?" Lana questions, and starts to drag him back to the house. Cia moves to lead, and he can feel her eyes on him. "Who are your friends?"

She knows who they are. She's just saying that to be polite.

"Holders of the Hero's Spirit," Cia says, finally, proving Warriors right. Her voice is low, almost - but not quite - sultry. "Welcome."

Twilight shuffles. Warriors can see him blatantly trying not to stare. "Um. Thanks."

Time bites back a wry smile at Twilight's awkwardness, although Warriors can see the slight strain in his face at Cia's presence. "Hero of Time."

"Good to see you again!" Lana lets go of Warriors to give them both enthusiastic handshakes. Something cold sinks into Warriors's gut. "Come on in. We'll explain these to you, Link, so you can pass them on to Zelda and Impa."

Warriors nods, straightening and turning towards the doorway -

—

- and empties his stomach on the ground. 

"Wars?!" 

His head feels woozy, as though he'd been drugged again, but he knows it's something more akin to shock. Still, he can feel his body starting to straighten out automatically, hand reaching for his sword even through the retching. One moment of weakness was all it took to be stabbed in the back - he'd learnt that lesson multiple times. 

"You're okay," the voice says, and Warriors stumbles and retches again, steadying his weak grip on his unsheathed sword. "Wars, it's me, Twilight. Breathe."

A hand touches his shoulder, careful and burning, and Warriors chokes, hands shaking too badly to rip it off like he wants to. The message is conveyed, though, and the hand is gone, and Warriors steadies his sword and his knees give and he crumples.

"It was her," he gets out, strangled. The blade feels too heavy, and he stabs it into the dirt for support. "It was her, for so - fucking, goddamn long, and I didn't even s - su-"

His throat closes up, the way it had so often during the war. Suddenly, violently, he misses Proxi - she'd been there when he'd been a dumb seventeen-year-old rushing into a battle he had no part in, to twenty-three, exhausted and older but victorious. He doesn't feel victorious now. He feels seventeen again, helpless and desired, only now there's no end in sight. 

How was he supposed to stop it? Cia was a half of the Guardian of Time, she was - she was goddamn omnipresent, immortal. He couldn't stop her. He hadn't stopped her, the last few months, and she'd just been watching him, she'd been watching him the whole time -

—

"That's bullshit," Legend says. Warriors drops his head on the table, grappling for another shot. "That's utter bullshit!"

"'s my life, I guess," Warriors slurs, and lifts his head just long enough to down it. "'n - and 'm so paranoid all th' time, and I - I can' even stoppp… 'cus she's watchin' me all the time now. She's pr - prob'ly watch'n right now." He swears, and Legend's hand gently squeezes his bicep. A flinch, and the hand retreats, and then Warriors pushes himself upright into an unsteady standing position. "FUCK YOU, CIA! 'S THIS - IS IT FUN T' WATCH?"

"Warriors!" Legend hisses, and woah that's a lot of people looking at him. It's fine. Cia watches him all the time so more people watching him is fine. Hell, they might as well try to kill him like others did, because at least he'd be out of Cia's gaze then. Legend tugs at his arm, and it only takes that much for Warriors to trip over the stool legs back onto the seat. "Wars, buddy, I know things are really bad for you but if you want more alcohol you need to not yell."

"God, I need more alcohol, y're right," Warriors says, and is subsequently passed another shot by the disgruntled bartender. "I'm…"

He drops his head down to the table again with a thud. His scars from the war feel like they're itching. Worse, the places where Cia had touched him during their confrontations - his cheek, his neck, his arms, so much of his body - they burn. He scratches at his neck. He can feel her hand there. He can feel her eyes on him, burning through his clothes. 

He scratches a bit harder, feeling the area start to get hot and angry. Legend reaches over to pull his hand down with a ginger pinch-hold. Warriors appreciates the impersonality of the gesture.

"I'm going to kill her when we next reach your Hyrule," Legend mutters. A glass of water is shoved in Warriors's hands. "Drink that."

"Ugh," Warriors says, and then downs the entire cup in one go. He chokes. Legend's hand thumping his back feels like fire. "Wasn' vodka."

"My bad. They look the same."

"Ass." He sighs, rubbing at his neck again. He'd scratch the shit out of any part of his body if it got the feeling of her delicate nails trailing down them. The bartender pours out another shot at his behest, and he downs it. "I don' know how 'm gonna keep this up, Ledge."

Legend's mouth twists sourly, but Warriors gets the feeling he's not the one he's upset at. "You'll get through it."

"I can' get her eyes off me, man." He gestures to his neck. "Or her hands."

The eyes watching him flicker with concern and a question. Warriors doesn't respond to it, instead dropping his arms back against the counter and leaning his chin on them.

"She can' be ec - executed 'cause she's the Guardian of Time, or - wha'ver." He sighs. Another shot, and then Legend reaches over to carefully slide all the empty shot glasses away and pushes water into his hands. "Maybe 'm better off dead."

—

When he comes to, his head is throbbing. 

"Good morning." Someone's thin hands ghost over Warriors's shoulders carefully, and he shudders as he's pulled upright. "I was told you took quite a hit."

"Feel like it," he manages. His head spins, and he starts to tilt the moment he's let go of. He ends up collapsing back against an elbow. "You're not one of my group."

"Doctor Borville," the man says.

"Good to meet you." With effort, Wars pries his eyes open. The light streaming in through the windows burn, and he can see the figure of a hunched old man at the dresser. Damn. A lot of strength for someone who looked so frail. "What…"

"Mild concussion, handful of lacerations, some worse than others," Dr. Borville says promptly, and turns around to pass Warriors a potion. Wars takes it with shaking hands, giving it a sniff when the other man turns. It smells like Twilight's healing potions. Nothing suspicious, or, at least, nothing strong enough for Warriors to detect. Besides, the man could've killed him thrice over already; he downs it. "Your, ah… country friend Link forced me to come here. I would've preferred to do this in my own clinic, but at least he's not bringing me a Zora to treat this time."

Warriors raises a silent eyebrow as he's passed another vial. A racist doctor was… interesting, but he seemed professional enough in practice. They must be in Twilight's era.

He sniffs the vial. Simple painkiller. Downs it. "It's appreciated."

"Hm." A glass of water is placed at his bedside, alongside a lump of compressed green mush. "Your friend will be back with food for you soon. Eat this after. You'll throw up if you eat it on an empty stomach."

Warriors nods, keeping his eyes trained on the small figure hobbling around his room. He arranges more vials and bottles neatly on the dresser, moving some to his bag, and then casts one more glance at him before leaving. 

Odd guy, Warriors thinks, stretching out a bit before observing his state. He's been stripped down to his boxers, clothes folded neatly by the bed, and there's bandages littered across his body - one wrapped around his thigh, one on his shin, one around his bicep and one, of course, around his head. When he reaches up, he can feel the wet sensation of a healing injury, where his face had been smashed into a rock by the impact at the back of his head. 

Slowly, he gets to his feet and hobbles to the mirror near the corner of the room. His body throbs with each and every step, and he can feel his heartbeat where the injuries are particularly bad. They'd run out of potions a while before the fight, and the longer injuries were left, the longer it took them to heal. That was probably why he still felt like he'd been run over and stomped on by Epona. 

Ooh, hope that doesn't scar, he thinks as he pokes gingerly at the giant scrape across his cheek. It's slathered in liberal amounts of ointment and wet with fluid, and it's also in a very obvious spot. Anyone would be able to notice that one. He'd have to keep an eye on it. 

Wars didn't mind scars, but other people did. It contrasted with their constant neediness for a strong, headstrong hero. He wishes they would choose. It would be easier to be one over the other, although logically he knows that he can't exactly go back from being a decorated war hero, or… The Hero.

It would be nice to not care about what he looked like for a bit, though. He was generally a vain person; he enjoyed grooming himself and took pride in his appearance. Despite this, the pressure to appear perfect was… a bit much. 

With a sigh, and one final prod at the scrape, Wars turns back to the bed and - freezes. 

There's a bouquet of flowers on it, where he'd been laying. Red roses as always; a note, delicate script, attached to the stems.

He'd already been nauseous, but now he's about ready to hurl. He'd - he'd forgotten about her, about her eyes - 

How had he forgotten? How had he relaxed?

Slowly, as though approaching a frightened animal, he inches towards the card and picks it up gingerly. He must look insane, treating a card as though it's a bomb ready to blow, but he feels like it is. Or, more accurately, he's the bomb and he's about to explode. He can feel it. 

The scars will heal; you look beautiful, despite them.

The words are kind. Warriors stumbles, throws the note to the floor, and just manages to get to the wastebin before puking. 

He can feel her hands under his skin, unnatural and invasive, as though they're actually there again; trailing down from his neck, to his bicep, his torso, and down. It itches, desperately, and Warriors retches and scratches at his neck and torso and everywhere he can reach where she'd gotten her hands on him. 

It occurs to him distantly that he probably looks senile. Less distantly, he realizes he doesn't have his clothes on, and scrambles to pull them onto his body with the coordination of a drunk toddler. He'd given up on privacy long ago, there was nothing he could do to stop Cia from watching him while he was taking a shit or whatever, but his head feels so scrambled that the clothes feel like a good defense against her watchful gaze.

By the time his tunic's on, he's crying, almost hysterical like he'd been back at seventeen, feeling freshly violated by her carnal desire. His stomach is rolling, and the throbbing in his head and body has gotten significantly worse. The concussion seems to be hitting multiple times harder.

God, he feels so vulnerable all over again, he hates feeling vulnerable - he hates having her eyes on him, he hates being beautiful, the way she thought he was, how she'd described him while trailing delicate nails down his chest, still young and frozen with fear -

He pauses. Slowly, his hand trails up to his face, where serous fluid and ointment ooze from inflamed skin. Slowly, through the panicked haze in his brain, he thinks about how scars aren't beautiful, how he's been carefully warding them away for the last decade. 

He just needs - he needs something particularly ugly, anything to make him look worse -

There's a dagger in his hand, one of the many he usually kept strapped to his body that had been carefully stripped off and stashed in his scarf. There's a shuddering in his chest, a roaring feeling of this is wrong, stop, STOP, his hand moving with his heart but against his brain, and -

Warm blood drips down his face. There's a sharp stinging feeling from his forehead to his left cheek, and the dagger is covered in blood. He lowers it, slowly. One thin, long cut.

Not bad enough, he thinks, he'd just had his face smashed into a rock, a thin, long scar wasn't going to make a difference. He needs something worse, a burn of some kind. Something hideous, lasting, something that no one would be able to love - not even Cia. 

He looks at his left arm, at the copious burn scars marring it. He'd cried once he'd realized the extent of the damage, back at the beginning of the War - he'd been seventeen, thrust suddenly into the position of Captain from a lowly trainee, and his sword-arm was partially numb with a war looming over the horizon. A war he was expected to lead. It had been, admittedly, overwhelming at the time, and the constant reminder of the pink, fleshy scarring on his arm never really helped. 

In his twenties, when the war had ended, he'd come to be proud of it - it was the worst scar he had, and evidence of how he'd managed to grapple the sudden thrusting of the Hero title and come out on top. But - importantly - it was still… hideous. 

Cia had called it a pity, once, when his bracers had gotten decimated during a fight and he'd had to take them off. Her hawk-like gaze had shifted from lust to something else, and some part of Warriors had sighed with relief. 

A pity, huh?

He turns the lantern over and sticks his left arm over the small, spreading fire. He wonders if she's watching. He wonders if it brings her pain to see him like this. She'd never responded to any of his other pleas for her to stop watching him, to give him privacy, to let him live -

I'll show you goddamn pity. 

It burns. He doesn't know what he'd expected. It feels like Volga again, but now there's vindication of his own; he's winning. He's in control. He's the one whose skin is boiling, grotesque open wounds forming, fluid starting to build and bubble and -

"No, no, Wars - no!"

He's tackled, and his head hits the hardwood with a jolt. Someone's on top of him, and it takes Warriors a moment to realize that it's Sky, and that he's pinned thoroughly underneath his companion. Hands sit him up roughly and examine his arm, and he flinches at the contact.

He feels out of his head. He knows, logically, that he's acting absolutely insane, that no normal person would burn their already scarred hand further, over an open flame. But somehow, he can't bring himself to care. Hell, there's satisfaction, faint and utterly fucked up, somewhere in the fog of his brain. 

Someone else is putting out the fire. He squints at them as Sky frantically looks over his arm, and Time's plate armor reflects the window light back at him. He's holding something red - the bouquet, the bouquet, Mask -

He throws up. Sky jolts back, and his shocked expression is close enough for Warriors to recognize, but then there's a hand rubbing his back comfortingly and another carefully continuing its thorough examination of the burn. Despite how absolutely out of it Warriors is, he can feel the tension in the air, thick and burgeoning.

"Get," Warriors manages, throat thick with bile - he coughs - "Get Mask out."

"I'm right here," Time says, and Warriors flinches back as Time's face seems to appear from near nowhere. His gauntlets grip Warriors's shoulders, tight and painful, and somewhere in there he can see flickers of his baby brother again. Fierce and protective.

"What the fuck did she do to you?"