#cw war mention

[liauditore]

day 9 of drawing bdubs everyday until secret life ends.

pls excuse the historical accuracy here lol. can't have ethubs without their headbands.

can't find the source of this ref but i thought i'd put it here just in case anyone recognizes it 👍

#my art #trafficshipping #hermitshipping #ethubs #ethdubs #military #military uniforms #ww2 uniforms #cw war mention #cw military #etho #bdubs

[some-teeth-in-a-trench-coat]

I've been getting a lot of new followers lately so here's a rent lowering gunshot to make sure nobody's coming here expecting boot licking

"don't use mental disorders as insults" includes "narcissist" and "psychopath" and "delusional"

"natives have a right to live in their ancestral land and practice their culture" includes Palestinians AND Jews (and war is bad can we please agree war is bad??)

"you are not immune to propaganda" includes you the person reading this and me the person typing and all types of propaganda and cultural biases it's not just a billboard saying "obey government" it includes growing up thinking that punishment is necessary for justice and the assumption that a modern-looking city isn't in Africa and that tumblr post you didn't think much about before reblogging

"everyone deserves human rights" includes even the worst person you can think of and the people you personally think shouldn't exist

#sfw #personal #ok to reblog #tw Palestine mention #cw Palestine mention #tw war mention #cw war mention #I need to delete my dni I prefer to let them stay and learn or leave on their own #politics

[wilbug]

headcannons for tommy perchance?

looks at u with my big audhd eyes /pos

- he loves gardening, and mud. he always plants alliums and other flowers everywhere

- he definitely paints. loved painting with techno. still paints, just not as often (he uses watercolors)

- aroace. im not projecting wym /s

- he still has braces because he never got the chance to get them removed, his mouth is kinda fucked up because of it

- has a lazy eye. again im totally not projecting haha /s

- he REALLY hates when people start counting down. reminds him of war, ghostburs death, exile, etc...

- hates being alone, however he self isolates himself as punishment (🙁)

- he keeps everything people gives him

- really bad hoarding issues (mainly due to exile)

#sunrise.headcanons #sunrise.asks #cw war mention #cw war #c!tommy

[thatweirdnoise]

sometimes i think about how q!Cellbit is canonically a war veteran

he is also cannibal by canon, which makes me have the hc that f!Cell became a cannibal because during the war he didn't have access to food, and as the bodies piled up everywhere (bringing rats, they needed to get rid of the bodies) the most desperate in his troop decided to eat the dead people

#tw cannibalism #just mention but to be sure yknow the drill #qsmp #cellbit #qsmp cellbit #phantom shenanigans #headcanon #cw war mention #???? #i think????????

[lmanburgseulogy]

When l’manburg started, c!wilbur told Tommy something along the lines of “you’ve been one of the faces of this nation, but you haven’t given up anything for it. You need to do more.” Then proceeded to force Tommy into giving up his home for the l’manburg embassy. And man he really must have taken that to heart.

if you skip ahead a little bit, Wilbur gives up and surrenders to dream after l’manburg is blown up for the first time. When his brother failed to give anymore, Tommy stepped up.

he gave it all. because that’s all he could do. his life and his discs, for a win that never seemed like one. independence was just a title after all. they knew deep down in their hearts, dream would never let them be free. no matter how many battles they won.

#c!tommy #l’manburg posting #aster goes insane part 84657 #cw death mention #cw war mention #dsmp #brynn posts #brynn rambles

[1-800-helltalia]

If it’s alright to ask can I know more about your OC?

OMG of course!

My OC is the personification of the Grand Duchy of Draostein, a fictional country I created just for the sole purpose of making a Hetalia OC.

Draostein is a small island nation a few miles off of Germany’s northern coast, near Denmark. I don’t have much else when it comes to the geography of the country yet, but I’m open for suggestions!

Anyway, Draostein’s human name is Remismund Bruns, formerly Beilschmidt— he informally changed his surname in the early 1950s.

Draostein was a state of the German Empire up until the November Revolution; a year after, in 1919, he declared independence. Remi spent his early life living with Germany, who’s technically his father. In any case, though, he looked up to Ludwig a lot. He honestly put this man on a pedestal, so he was heartbroken after WW2. (Feel free to correct me if I have any historical inaccuracies here btw, I did my research but I’m not perfect)

This is the design I have for his flag, I’m not exactly a graphic designer so it’s just a recolored, slightly edited Wirmer flag:

Personality-wise, Remi’s an oujidere. On first impression, he’s a stuck-up, snooty asshole. On second impression… nothing really changes, actually. He’s impatient, rather childish, and will say anything to save face. This holier-than-thou attitude stems from the betrayal and heartbreak he felt back during WW2 and the subsequent development of a superiority complex. He looks down on the other nations (especially Germany), even though he doesn’t have the room to. The only exception to this is Luxembourg, whom he considers an equal due to his status as a grand duchy.

Remi is also… painfully out of touch with the world, despite being a younger nation. He considers himself to be "too good for the Internet” and is so unwilling to learn how to use technology that he's managed to lock himself out of his own cellphone for the next century. Outside of world meetings, the only ways other nations can contact him are via snail mail or telegram.

A few other things about him:

His birthday is October 13.

His favorite foods are schnitzel and chocolate. He also loves French fries, but only enjoys them in private, as he thinks potatoes are “peasant food.”

His favorite drink is seltzer water. Red flag.

He’s embarrassed himself during world meetings on multiple occasions, but refuses to admit it.

Physically, he’s 17-18 years old and 5’8”.

Aside from a concept design that I made in a dollmaker, I don’t have any colored art of him yet. I do have a few doodles of him though! (plus a bonus America and Iceland)

That’s all I got of him for now, thank you so much for asking anon!

#hetalia world stars #hetalia #hetalia axis powers #hetalia oc #hetalia original character #oc: grand duchy of draostein #he’s so *puts him in a cauldron and stirs him around* #guys he’s a real country i prommy :( #my scrimbly #cw war mention

[bellagrimfox]

Ukraine Pep meets Russia Pep

Inspired by seeing @sonyashnik's Ukraine Pizza Tower AU which made me remember @ali-borsch's Russian AU. Hope it's good.

CW: References to war

Люди скажут, что я ненавижу тебя, или люди скажут, что ты ненавидишь меня. (People will say I hate you or people will say you hate me.)

Но я не понимаю, как я могу ненавидеть кого-то за вещи, находящиеся вне нашего контроля.

(But I fail to understand how I could hate someone for things out of our control.)

История говорит нам, что мы ненавидим друг друга, конфликт говорит, что мы не можем жить в мире.

(History tells us we hate each other, conflict says we cannot live in peace.)

Но я говорю, что каждый человек есть человек. (But I say all man is man.)

Американец — мужчина, китаец — мужчина, араб — мужчина, а ты такой же мужчина, как и я.

(American man is man, China man is man, Arab man is man, and you are a man just like me.)

Итак, Парфений, не желаете ли выпить? (So, Parfenii, would you care for a drink?) Можливо, лише одна пляшка. (Maybe just one bottle.)

#cw war mention #pizza tower #pizza tower game #pizza tower au #pizza tower peppino #I'm worried about people possibly stereotyping Russian Peppino hating Ukraine Peppino or the other way around #probably won't happen hopefully #my post #my writing

[3mutantsinatrenchcoat]

It takes a village to raise a family part 8

Part 7 , part 9

This amazing au is made by the amazing @angelpuns

Cw/tw: off screen death, war mentions, and arguments

"what do you mean you are leaving.." I stepped into the room, the unease came full force, filling my gut and my head.

"I'm leaving to go fight in the war" Splinter stated bluntly. "The human one"

"what-? War??? What do you mean war?" I looked between the two before looking at him again.

"well, there is a war and I have to go back to help" he leaned against the counter.

"what? Help with what!" I couldn't help how my voice raised, my throat felt dry and burnt with each word.

"well..it's.. I don't really know what we are fighting for-" he admitted "but it's unpredictable, but I think we have a good chance-"

"YOU DONT EVEN KNOW WHAT YOU ARE FIGHTING FOR AND YOU ARE LEAVING YOUR SONS!?" I could feel my fur standing on end, ears pressed back.

"hun- the boys, lower your voice" my husband spoke softly, taking a step closer.

"kido haru! do not step near me!"

My husband, Haru looked down right terrified by the use of his name. It has been years since the last time I spoke that name, well besides the healers.

"you both knew didn't you-" I looked to haru who looked away. Splinter didn't.

"yes, that's why he rejoined the guards, because of it. " Splinter admits.

"you what!? I thought it was people who got sick!" I turned to my husband. I couldn't stay mad at him, but uh..yeah I was pretty mad.

I turned back to Splinter after I got no answer. "Do the boys know about this? What about them? Who will take care of them?"

"the village, and of course you two. " He looked between the two of us.

"of course we would! But we shouldn't have to!" I could feel the fire burning in my chest, in my bones.

"why do you care so much?" Splinter stood up from leaning. "I understand for the boys but-"

"because a war wiLL TAKE MY SON AWAY!!" I didn't mean to shout, I didn't mean to shout so loud my voice felt like it was burning. It was quiet after, but only for a few seconds before Splinter spoke up.

"...I'm not your son. You don't even know my name." Splinter spoke, each word felt like a deeper wound. Maybe I misread the situation, maybe he didn't feel the same. But to me, he was family.

It was then I realized the tears, and the shame, and the guilt...the embarrassment.

I don't remember leaving the house. I don't remember walking into the river and traveling through it, I went upbank. I screamed to the moon for only it listened to my mourning anger.

The boys would loose their father, who left to fight for a reason that wasn't his. One he didn't even know. One I couldn't talk him out of. And not only that, I lost a son.

Justified in his own reason I don't blame him, I don't have anger towards him. Only to myself, for I let myself fall down this path.

The villagers told me, trusting him was no good, that I'd get hurt. I do not care for their words, I never did. I let myself care for him more than I should have. My own kids are out of the house, having family of their own. They are too busy to come home. But the boys and Splinter...or not Splinter. They came home, I came to theirs.

I was a fool.

I don't remember when my husband got there. For the longest time it was just me and the moon. Me and the water.

"Flint, darling?.." he walked like he was approaching a scared animal. But I had no fight left to give, I am only an old man after all. I turned to face him, no more tears left to give, no more voice left to shout.

"... he's still family..."

"I know."

I don't remember the walk back, it seems like such a minor thing to think about. To dwell on. Especially with what came next.

I woke up early in the morning, the air in the house foggy and smelled burnt. It was still dark out at the knocking. My bed empty of my husband. I figured he had gotten up to answer the door.

After the third time of a knock I got up, shuffling through the house. My body exhausted from the grief. As I walked through the house in the distance out the window, was an orange light, smoke rising from it. I heard the knocking again.

I turned to the door and at that instant my legs went numb, forcing myself to the door. I opened it to the captain of the guard and two other guards. The looks on their face made my gut spin before I looked down at the tattered, burnt and dirty cape I had made for my husband only hours earlier.

And as the sun rose over the trees I realized something..

That day, I lost my husband...and my son.

#rise au #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #threewrites #rottmnt rural au #rural au #ruralau #grandpa flint #tw talk of death #tw death #tw fighting #cw death #cw war mention #tw war mention #it takes a village to raise a family

[sadgirlbadpoems]

"In order for me to write poetry that isn't political,

I must listen to the birds

And in order to hear the birds, the warplanes must be silent.

-Marwan Makhoul

When the only red you know is the blood of your people, it's hard to imagine roses.

#writeblr #original poem #poetry #marwan makhoul #palestine #cw blood #cw war mention

[whirlybotart]

Earthspark Radio and Thunderstrike! Two bots doing their best to survive in a very hostile and struggling world <3

Cautious, clever and charming, it's no wonder Thunderstrike has survived in this harsh world as long as he has. His ability to outsmart the bots around him and carefully gauge the risk of all attempts to get fuel make him quite the survivor. A known neutral who used to make speeches of how such a horrible unnecessary war would tear apart their home, when the war got violent and casualties starting piling up Thunderstrike found himself caught in the chaos of a home now covered in blood and the dead frames of his loved ones. He was in the middle of it all and his mind did not come out unscathed, despite his talents Thunderstrike still doesn't know why it had to be Him to come out alive, why he deserved life more than the others around him... The obvious answer is he really didn't... But he can't trouble himself with those thoughts too often now, he now had a daughter to take care of. While he never intended to suddenly find himself a father Thunderstrike does the best he can to make sure she doesn't end up like the others.

She can't end up like the others, she just can't...

Radio is a young excitable and very curious Terran! With wide eyes and even wider ears this little bat is ready to take to the skies and learn to fly... Only for Thunderstrike to tell her it's far too dangerous to. Yes Radio feels like most young girls her age do, ready to see the world, to see adventure, she's not wanting to leave the nest, just get her first chance to truly fly, but at every turn she is faced with Thunderstrike shaking his head and pleading with her to go back to the safety of their home. She listens of course, she loves her father and trusts him on that sort of thing, but it's frustrating, is this truly the way all kids her age are meant to live? And if the war is over why does it weigh on Thunderstrike's mind so heavily?

Why can't everyone just move on and forget such a horrible thing? Can't they all just get along...

#transformers earthspark #earthspark #tf earthspark #earthspark oc #earthspark ocs #tfe #tfe thunderstrike #thunderstrike #tfe radiowave #radiowave #radio #cw war mention #cw implied ptsd #cw survivors guilt #not sure how to tag this but I think its important to try bc Thunderstrike has fucking seen the horrors in this universe #sorry for taking so long to post them here KJHSDFKJGHDFGHSD #maccadam #maccadams #transformers #transformers fanart #transformers ocs #tf oc #transformers art

[aeshnalacrymosa]

Lorenzo in Pre-War Manila

Ten years before he ever set foot in the Encanto, Lorenzo Takayama lived in Manila, which was a slightly more ethnically diverse place in 1940. Descended from the Japanese Christians that came to the city in 1615 to escape persecution in their home country, the Takayama family were restaurateurs in Manila. Little Lorenzo looked forward to joining the family business. The background is a real photograph of the Tokyo Bazaar in Manila, shot one week before the Japanese invasion of Manila and the Pearl Harbor attack.

I have more to share for @encanto-extended-edition in the coming days.

#digital art #encanto oc #encanto original character #encanto oc appreciation #encanto extended edition #aeshna's art #medibangpaint #medibang art #medibang paint #cw war #cw war mention #encanto oc event #encanto oc art

[wilbug]

headcanon that tommy gets triggered by counting. you jokingly start counting down from three and suddenly hes at war or ghostbur is about to die or hes in exile or

#burs headcanons #c!tommy #''im gonna count from three'' and then bro collapses #cw death mention #cw war mention

[daniel-bruehl]

the way it's rumored that there will be a bullseye v punisher fight in born again- will be rooting hard for dex of course. dex supremacy always! and it helps to root against frank since jon bernthal is a loser zionist (compared to wilson who has tweeted support of palestine before)

ohh I haven’t heard of that before but thinking of it it makes sense for them to meet (in a non friendly way) considering dex (still?) being a potential threat to Karen 👀 my body is ready for whatever happens!!

about the second part, I honestly do not follow Jon on any social media or have kept up with what he’s vocal about or not, neither in the past nor right now. And while I fully agree that it’s very weak of ANYONE, celebrity or not, to stay silent about what’s being done to Palestine right now, I want to be careful about declaring someone a zionist based on whether they tweet about it or not, when I can’t know for sure where they stand. But that’s just me.

Obviously I would very much welcome it if everyone would use their voice to publicly stand up for Palestine now and always! So another reason to love Wilson 🫶🏼

#answered #anon ask #cw war mention #free palestine #daredevil born again #daredevil spoilers #benjamin poindexter #frank castle

[pluralcultureis]

Tw: war

Plural culture is having a few war based fictives form because of a game you recently gained a special interest of (fuga: melodies of steel), with the worst timing ever, and now one of them is teasing you about there being a world war three, knowing you’re deadly terrified that it could happen ~💌

.

#endos dni #osdd #pdid #did #did system #pdid system #osddid #actually did #traumagenic #actually dissociative #plural culture is #cw war #tw war #tw war mention #cw war mention

[loathsome-little-creature]

The image of that kid in Rafah is beyond my ability to describe. I have seen a lot of injuries and a fair amount of death but this is worse by far than anything else I’ve seen. How can anybody justify this? What could possess a human being to do this? Even in war, this brutality is unmatched.

#i/p conflict #palestine #cw war mention #cw death

[revelisms]

All Gilded and Golden

I've been getting back into Zelda a bunch recently, so I've thought about sharing this fic here. It's an oldie and a big prosey braindump on Zelda/Link and gender identity, but it's become a bit of a personal favorite of mine :-)

Full story below and cross-posted on AO3.

Rating: M | WC: 2.9k | Zelda POV | Oneshot Even a lifetime of constructs can still find ways to be freed. Or: Zelda and Link, as the night sees them. CW: Mentions of war, blood and violence, themes around gender identity and sex, implied sexual context

The boisterousness of men had long dissuaded her: a vile, sordid thing; each galumphing footfall and splatting hand caking the walls with blood-thirst and sweat—but the coffins of seams and satin fared no better, a confine equally damning. On this night, one of countless predicated on ceremony, she is trapped between both.

Throughout the hall's great arches swelters the sweet of mulled wines and meads, roast hog and wild hare, holly glimmering gold with the light of a thousand pyres. She, the Head of their kingdom's exuberance, sits with a chained elegance: a witch burned for her beauty: a dismal observer to a joy numbly felt.

Boots on tile, shields, swords; metal gleamed and glistening. The banquet roars with the fires of a war freshly won. Blood still stains the silver of her soldiers' armor. The stench of it is suffocating. It spears the air like a tainted stream, and she—queen-becoming, highness of wisdom-born, yes—she is meant to take it in with grace; chew on its rotted flesh and sip down the wine of its poisoned fruit, gleefully.

(She will not—and, were it not for her namesake, the ritual itself would never be demanded. But the fates of ones birthright are ineludible. To tear away the vines of their becoming would be as foolish as attempting to split steal with bare hand alone.

She is not the first in this long line of magic, jeweled crowns smothering, to resent the title she was born with. She will not be the last.)

The thought is a dismissed one, spit into the moon-red of her wine and swallowed down. She has too many hours more to go to slip into such loathing already. But it will pass—it will always pass.

(Come star-rise, the men will scatter: to boast the tall tales of their kills, to drown their sorrows, to fuck—and she will retreat to the night; strip down the shackles of her womanhood: a crumpled, silken corpse, discarded upon the stones; be reborn, rebound, in steel and linen, if for a moment.)

That time is yet to come. She cannot think properly of it, now.

"My lords." Her voice carries clear; her posture lifted, with poise. The long wings of her dress unspool from her seat in a glistening tide. "My ladies." A smile blossoms, demure. "We have, yet again, struck down the forces of our enemy." Cheers, stamping, ripples of applause. "We are richer." A scepter drums raucously. "We are stronger." A chorus of agreement. "We are Hyrule, again."

Such pretty little words, for such blood-hungered hounds. Even the guise of nobility could do little to hide their banquet's unashamed victory.

And yet—one wolf in the pack does not cheer. In a sea of rubied armor, he stands, still as a slab of valley rock: blue-fire in his eyes, blood on his cheek. His mouth does not turn at the graze of her stare.

(He, alone, is the very reason for their triumph; he, whose holy blade had cleaved the filthen head of a demon embodied from the loom of its shoulders: plunged into the cursed light of veins throbbing still, any final shreds of beating life stripped red in a feral slurry.

He had torn into their enemy like a mauling bear, and slipped away like a fox to the shadows. None had chorused his name for celebration. None would. He preferred it, that way.)

Her eyes skip across the mud-streaked wheat of his hair, a knot in her throat. She swallows it down. "Now," she presses on, and raises her hands in a bright flourish, "we celebrate!" The hall erupts to a violent symphony, gauntleted fists pounding glinting steel, great cups filled and cheered. A bard strikes up a rousing jig. The shimmer of a fiddle strings starlight through the laughter's glimmering.

She sinks back to her seat, to the rattle of her chains, and lets the smile fall, gently. It is caught, tender as a fallen bloom, by a single voyeur—as it always is.

(It is improper, for him to keep his eyes on her so. But the wildness of them is like a wash of ocean foam to a blistered wound.)

She dares to let her attention lift, if only for a moment. The bow of his head stirs a quiet warmth beneath the twist of her palms. 

He turns in a flush of dark velvet, gold sweeping about the steel at his shoulders, and is swallowed by the crowd.

⚘

Behind the castle walls, she is royal-born; within them, he is a pawn of war. There are expectations for what can and can't be—consequences, explicitly penned, for any lines one may dare to cross in the presence of those whose forgiveness could not be earned, with even a lifetime spent atoning.

But beyond these cursed stones, she is infinite—and he, well...

Outside of the armor, she's never quite sure what to make of him.

He carries himself as though identity itself had failed to settle cleanly about him; as though any christening could not dream of capturing the soul strained against it; as though the wilds of the Green-Valley River and mountain hearths alone knew which name to speak, by the light of the blood moon.

He is the binding of a chain in a great line of prophecy. He is tethered to her. In these moments alone, that is all the clarity she demands.

The night strips their titles to frayed fragmentations; buries their divinity beneath the eaves of the palace's outer gates. He approaches her, always, with the stars held on his back: lays a kiss at the bend of her knuckles, the silk of his hair warm at her hand: leads her, with silent, knowing strides, about the forests' brush, to the great unknown of the world beyond.

There is something comforting, strange though it comes, about the grand insignificance of one's life, when faced with the beauty of it all—miles upon miles of wilderness untamed: the eyes of the great mountains and endless reach of the wide-glittered sea the only ones privy to a history time could not dare to contain.

It should be a damning weight, to a typical mind. But, for her, it is freeing, in a way nothing could have prepared her for.

In the dark, rough earth bruising against her legs, she can breathe—heaving lungfuls of damp, mist-chilled air, eyes closed to the night. Can let her hair fall, rain-wet about the cave of her shoulders, without the burden of its inherent femininity. Can drag muddied fingers about the firm, battle-hardened heat of his own, to be lifted upon the stones' rugged slopes, canopied beneath the valley pine and blessed unquestioning.

(Sometimes, fingers slipping free about the cracks of her shell, she will find herself sobbing; and sometimes, shivering with the cold of the lake's shallows, she will lay a pale hand about the water-beaded slope of his waist and find herself envious; and sometimes, she will pull the heat of his tunic upon her, and hold it to the flat of her sternum with an ache she cannot (will not) name—not yet.)

Most times, they find points of conversation in the quiet. But he is one of few words—and she is one of too many—and the lull that bubbles between the scrape of their heels on dark earth and the claiming of a space wholly theirs, for a time, drifts through touch as much as it is spoken.

Tasting his spirit is enough, in any of its forms. It is the one thing that grounds her, these days.

⚘

"Were you always sure this is what you wanted?" she murmurs, against the tide of his breath.

The night air is cool with a storm across the way. His fingers shift the drape of his cloak about her shoulder. "Hard to say," he says, after a long moment. The cluster of weeds that thistle and sigh about the cliff's edge are frowned upon, thoughtfully. Beyond them, valley settlements lost to the pitch flicker with fireflies of flamelight. "I'm not sure I ever had a choice."

She twists her fingers about the heavy cloth wrapped upon them. "Why do you say that?" She glances up to find the soft angle of his jaw, the sharp line of his nose: golden lashes turned blue to the night: the deep of his eyes—sodalite, in the sun—now a blackish sea: swallowing, and moonbeamed.

He lifts one brow, with an absent sort of smile. The crook of it dimples his cheek. "Well." The smirk loosens, and his stare shifts to steel: hardened, unforgiving, where it wanders through the valley's shadows. "I had to keep going." It is not spoken like an explanation. It is a living fact: present, as much as past. "You take whatever hand you're dealt."

Her eyes slip away, far beyond, steady on the roughened peaks of the cliff's edge. She forces liquid down her throat. Lets her lashes fall. "Did you ever regret it?"

His lungs fill beneath her cheek. "Living?" he breathes out. He turns his eyes to the stars. His fingers burn against her shoulder. "No."

⚘

They are not caught (wine-red eyes ensure of it, though she has yet to be made privy to the silent promise her shadow has made to her)—but wandering eyes stir suspicion, nonetheless.

(The court elders may presume, at the simplest of grievances, that she has found an unsuitable lover—and that, perhaps, could be contested. She will not be so brazen as to display her affections in plain sight. But the palace's inner walls knew the shivers of her pleasure: knew she cradled a carefully-wrapped memory of the taste of his mouth, with every instance the touch of his lips had been given.

That scandal, in itself, is such a simple one. There are far greater grievances to be held by men drunk off priest-magick and blood-rites—but those, she takes care to never shine a light towards, at all.)

In the moments closed off from the prowling of their palace's royals, he shares worn tunics with her, unasked; shows her how to thread shut their daggered weaves with a surgeon's stitch, in place of embroidery. His fingers are gentle, so gentle, through the strands of her hair: the long coils of it plaited and smooth. In a mirror that glistens with the flicker of a single flame, she stares at the bared hollows of her cheeks through her fringe, and fights to put a name to the soul she sees.

(She will not keep those beautiful fabrics, no matter how her heart longs to pull them close. Their evidence would be incriminating to scavenging elders yearning for proof of a sentence yet to be made.

Still—there are things she can keep hold of, in her own ways. She gathers them into the empty space of her palms, locks them away in the small boxes of her being, with as much affection she can muster; tries, fiercely as she can, to not let the gleam of their treasure dim with resentment.)

When he leaves, the scent of him lingers—oiled leather, and sweet hay, and the damp green of a forest path before the light.

She drags her fingers about the bared slope of her shoulder, and aches for that hollow warmth to be her own.

⚘

"Ride away with me." The offer is laid into her hair with utmost reverence: one fully aware of its futility. It is no different than asking a long-lost spirit to return to mortal land, once more.

She twists the pale petals of a gardenia within her fingers. "I can't," she whispers, after two breaths. "You know I can't."

He does—and the crease that slides within the sun-kissed hollow of his cheek is accepting of it. His eyes take her soul by the hand and lead it into the shallows of possibility, no matter. They are the sea's green and the blue of dusk wrapped into one: enchanting, and fierce, and quiet.

"You can't, forever," he affirms. He tilts his head, the line of his weight an easy shift upon his palms, pressed to the marble at the empty space beside her. The garden whistles with the tune of a roving nightingale. A breeze sweeps the dark honey of his hair about his cheek. "But—" (Always, this—and, always, she waits: dreading, longing, for where his reason will get the better of her) "—I don't think an hour or two will hurt you that much."

Damn him. "You're determined, again, aren't you?" she sighs.

The flash of his teeth is sly, and lovely.

⚘

Slowly, she begins to resent the dawn.

The sun's glow spiders a scalding hand about the twist of her sheets: snares about the linen that puddles upon her bones, speckled with long-faded stains of bloodspots and grime. It draws him away, like the tipping night pulls the constellations down with it.

Drowsily, she will let the heat of his clothes be reclaimed: sway into the roughened care of his touch, the kiss of his breath upon her breast.

He will dress with the morning light simmering through the fibers, golden through the long frays of his hair. His touch will haunt her: knuckles pressed warm to the back of her shoulder, brow brushed upon the loose curls of her plait.

The birds will chitter through the open window, long after he is gone. Sitting up in a bare, chilled slump, she will lift a weary hand: begin the slow process of unweaving the ties of her hair, a ripple of moon-yellow about the slope of her back. 

Across the room, costumes of royalty will catch the sun's glimmer with lace-clotted teeth.

⚘

Eventually, Impa, reddish eyes downcast, reveals her actions to keep them hidden from prying councilmen—shared simply upon the steps of their chambers, a bottle of mead set between them—and there is little she can do, to wrap her heart around the countless things this woman has always been to her, whether bound by blood or not.

(Most of all, it is her shadow's very being—her strength, her rage, her power; it is beautiful, and it is unforgiving, and it is warmer than any flame.

It eases out confessions long sheltered from the daylight, like a poison drawn from a wound: small, shivering, horrid things. Once she has started, she can't find the will to stop.)

"I wish it wasn't like this." Her heart feels heavy—so heavy. "I wish another life could have some to me. That I wasn't spending—spending so much time, trapped between words—"

Impa's mouth is thin. Her eyes are kind. "Why?"

"Because I don't—" The words shake: incredulous, enraged. "I don't know why I feel like this—"

"Highness." And surely Impa, herself, knows—for she wears her authenticity upon her sleeve; carries her presence without any possibility of burying it. "I understand. I do." The bottle hangs over the great slope of her knee. "But you do not have to crawl through the pages of a life you were not present in, to a find a reason for why you feel the way you do."

If only it were that simple—oh, if only—

"Your story has not been predefined—Crown, or not," Impa continues firmly. It crumbles any scraps of denial to measly things, forgotten. "We are living; oral histories and songs—our existence transcends language." Vermillion eyes turn with gentle focus down a strong shoulder. "Our tales do not have to fit into the words of men."

⚘

Perhaps, indefinability in itself is the answer to it all—and what a freeing, terrifying thought that is.

It is what he has embraced. It is what she has yearned for. 

(But it is not an explanation enough—and she is searching, searching still.)

⚘

The banquets arrive and depart in grand flourish, one after another after another, harkening the seasons like a vile overture.

They will never end, so long as a kingdom is here to lay claim to them. She is not so foolish as to forget that. Battles will still be fought, and lost, and won: blood will still be shed in her name: and, contained within the clamor of their noblefolk, they will appear in their assigned roles—allow their eyes to find each other, as they always do; one affirmation of countless unspoken others, no matter the wilds that surround them—and carry out their respective duties, in silence.

It is a routine time will not abandon; one she is unable to avoid.

But it will pass. It will always pass. That, she has not forgotten, either.

⚘

Dusk blooms violet and pink across a blue-blackened streak of rolling hills, her breath sharp and cool between the galloping—and for this moment alone: eyes sinking closed, pressed to his back, to the warm furs of his steed: they are flying.

She tightens her hands about the curve of his waist. Turns her eyes to the sky's settling dark, far beyond the horizon.

He turns over his shoulder, hair fluttering against her cheek. "Where to?"

It is an endless host of possibility—the chance to run across the farthest edges of the world and dip down to the lowest rocky points of the southern shoals—and she could let him ask her, for a lifetime. A smile curls across her mouth, absently, where she tips her chin into his shoulder.

"As far as you want to go," she murmurs. A grin creases through his cheek.

In this moment, she is winged, and golden, and glittering. 

In this moment, she doesn't need a definition.

#zelda fanfic #loz #zelda #gilded and golden #link #zelink #so...like of 90% is coming from me just being a nonbinary kid growing up on zelda and projecting onto link *a lot* #(didn't we all) #blame this on me getting emotional listening to zelda piano covers #augh this series #also this is...sort of oot timeline? #not really sure #words just happened #writing #cw war mention #cw blood #cw violence