Work Text:
Jata was the second Zora Prince born to King Kitar and his consort Luro. He was hatched from his egg on a bright summer day, where his eldest sister and brother, Nopheva and Zile, watched with their parents. The Zora had celebrated; it was made a national holiday, and he was raised with the care you expect for a prince who was never expected to sit on the throne. His parents loved him; to insinuate they didn’t would be an insult. But they had a Kingdom to rule, Nopheva was Heir Apparent, and Zile intended to be his sister’s advisor. There was also a thirty-year difference between them, which equated to nine years in Hylian years. There wasn’t much that they were all interested in.
As such, Jata was loved but was often alone.
In the gardens, in his lessons, and sometimes even at meals, loneliness had been something that had colored Jata’s life since he was a child. He learned everything he could, even the things he didn’t have to: extensive history, science, literature, the sciences, and languages. The Arthurian legends had always been his favorite, even though many turned their noses up at Hylian fodder. By the time he was thirty years old, he had become proficient in both the Goron and Gerudo languages. However, it wasn’t until he was twelve in Hylian years that he could learn the Hylian language through private study.
They had no dealings with the Hylians. None of the other races did, except for the Gorons, who aided only in metal production. The shunning of an entire Kingdom had been ongoing since before Jata’s father became King, and the history was vague yet absolute: the Hylians were greedy. They cared only for themselves. They would turn the world into a wasteland in pursuit of their greed. Everyone knew that helping a Hylian would be a thankless job, and no one was interested in pouring into a constantly draining pool. There weren’t any wars with them, per se. There were some border skirmishes when Jata was younger, times when the Hylians tried to reach out for trade only to be ignored, but it all stopped when the King and Queen died. Jata had been nineteen, again in Hylian years, when they died. They left behind a six-year-old Princess who was not at all ready for the throne. When the Sheikah woman Impa became Regent, she seemed to know she would receive no help from anyone but her people, and as such, focused on matters that would yield fruit.
Shortly after Hyrule turned silent to all races, the Hylian arrived at Zora’s Domain.
He was unlike any Hylian Jata had ever seen in the murals, scrolls, and textbooks. He had skin more in shade with the Gerudo, but his hair was an ashy brown long enough to reach past his shoulders and spikey enough to leave him with such a distinct silhouette that Jata could still remember him years later. His way of dress was also strange, covered almost entirely by a poncho that reached his knees. He wore rings, earrings in his ears that were half as pointed as any other Hylian, and the mask on his hip clanked with each step he took. But his eyes were the most interesting, piercing, and amber like the metal he’d seen the Gorons trade with.
It wasn’t that Hylians weren’t allowed in Zora’s Domain, but they were always shunned and ignored. This didn’t bother the stranger. He appeared one day in the capital, moved like a ghost through the crowds, and led himself right to the palace where he knelt before Kitar’s throne and spoke nonsense.
“I have dreams. And in all of them, the whole world burns so long as the world continues to ignore their Hylian neighbors.”
He was laughed at, mocked, and jeered. They forced him from the palace and threw him in the mud.
“The Sheikah playing King will have to try harder if she wants to trick us!” Zile laughed while smacking his sister on the back. Jata paid his siblings no mind as he watched the man pick himself up from the floor. With a snap of his fingers, the mud was gone from the poncho. When he lifted his head he immediately found Jata in the window. He stared him square in the face, tilted his head, then turned and walked away from the palace. The man had not come for the King. He had come for Jata, but he knew he’d never be able to find a meeting alone with the youngest Prince. Not until he got his eyes on him in a way that didn’t raise any suspicion.
It was still suspicious. Probably a trap. But Jata had heard of Hylian Soothsayers. They said they were even better than the Gerudo’s psychics. The man had ancient magic all around him, calling for Jata. Told him he was invited, and well, Jata didn’t often get invited to things without his family. So that night, between the guard rotation, Jata snuck through his window and disappeared into the waters around the palace. He didn’t know how he knew where to go, but Jata didn’t fight the instinct that took him down the river, far from the Domain he had lived in his entire life—sixty-three years' worth of it.
He found a camp beside the river. The Hylian’s poncho hung from a clothing line that ran between two trees, smelling of herbs. The mask—heart-shaped and colorful—hung beside it. He stared at it wondering if its eyes had always been shut, then fell back on his ass when they suddenly flung open and pierced through him. They were green and bloodshot, and the mask rumbled with a growl that echoed in the camp until a honeyed voice rose above it.
“Majora, that is no way to treat guests.”
Jata turned around, hands braced against the dirt, and saw the Hylian. He stood in the ankle-deep shore, bent forward with his hands twisted in his hair, wringing the water from it. Jata still didn’t know where he had come from. He was certain that no one had been around before, and only his hair was wet as he walked barefoot out of the river.
“Certainly not royal guests.”
The mask had stopped growling. Jata stood. Where his siblings had dwarfed the Hylian, he and Jata were about the same height. Still growing, his mother would always say, with an affectionate hand on his crest.
“Thank you for coming all this way, Jata. I have fish on; it’s nothing so fancy, but it’s food. Care to join me?” He tilted his head toward the fire. Jata watched his hair dry before his very eyes. The ends curled, betraying the straight edges it had had at the palace.
“You know my name, but I don’t know yours,” Jata said. “Wouldn’t you say that’s unfair?”
The man smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes, but his voice wasn’t unkind as he said, “My name is Tahir Iwn. Will you hear my dreams or laugh me out of sight?”
“I came, didn’t I?”
“That you did.” Tahir looked like he already knew what Jata would think. Looking back, Jata fully believed that. He gestured to the fire, leading them over. “That you did.”
Tahir was more than a Soothsayer. He was a witch and a harbinger, and he told Jata a prophecy that made his head spin.
“You shall walk the edge of legend, unseen yet vital. You will be the echo that steadies the voice of the savior. He will rise only if you stand beside him. Fall, and he will falter. Stray, and his soul shall shatter.”
“Who is he?” He demanded. Tahir traced a symbol into the ash of the campfire with the tip of his finger. The Triforce. He filled in the right triangle.
“The Hero of Legend.”
Jata stood.
“A Hylian,” he said. “You must be joking. Why would I help a Hylian?”
“You wouldn’t help him,” Tahir told him. “You will love him. Three times shall your hand turn the tide—”
“Stop this.”
“—once in guidance, another in fury, and finally in love.”
“I will hear no more of this!” He turned to leave and Tahir stood with his hair shifting in a wind Jata couldn’t feel.
“If you don’t do this, if you ignore my warnings, then all my dreams will come true. This world will fall apart, ruled by brimstone and fire—Ganon will win, again.”
“Again,” Jata turned, “what do you mean again?”
“You are named after Jabu-Jabu, yet you don’t know the man who killed him?” Tahir’s eyes narrowed. “The world holds onto grudges, yet they can’t even remember the source.”
“If you’re going to speak in riddles, I’ll just go home.”
“The world hates Hyrule because years and years ago, they failed to defeat Ganondorf, and the entire world suffered for it. Never mind that a Hylian defeated him later, a Hero of Legend who lived unloved because of his cursed blood. No, the world had lived long enough in their pain to still want someone to blame.”
“You’re saying Ganon is coming back.”
“How smart you are.” Tahir smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes then either. It was bitter, small, and tired. “Not this year or the next. Probably not for another ten. But he’ll return in your lifetime, a calamity will herald his arrival, and if the Hero of Legend cannot rise to the task…then this world will fall again. Permanently, this time. Everything you know and everyone you love will fall apart right before your eyes…and you’ll be the last to follow.”
Jata’s hands curled into fists. His talons scraped against his skin.
“So, I’m to…what? Be a Hylian’s lapdog? A forgotten companion, giving my life for his?”
“You are too smart to believe the stereotypes.”
Jata didn’t answer. Tahir pulled a potion from a pouch in his poncho. The moonlight reflected off the yellow liquid inside when he held it up. It was starry. A dried flower floated inside it.
“You will never be able to stand beside him as a Zora. You would be ostracized, blamed for your father’s and grandfather’s decision to ignore their pleas for help, the offers of friendship. So you must be a Hylian.” He tossed the bottle up, then caught it. “This…will make you a Hylian. You will eat, drink, breathe, and age as one. Integrate into their society, and wait until fate brings the Hylian into your fold.”
“Leave my life,” Jata laughed, “leave it all behind, for a Hylian who, perhaps, isn’t even born yet?”
“Why not?” Tahir looked him in the eye, and he felt he was looking right into his soul. “What do you have here, Prince? A throne you’ll never have—”
“A throne I’ll never want— ”
“—and a family who never sees you.”
Jata stared at him. Tahir turned the potion in his hand, tossed it back and forth between his hands, and looked down at it as he spoke.
“Sometimes, fate puts us in the wrong place. Displaces us even in the wrong skin. The truth of the matter? You are wasted here. Useless, even.” He looked at him again. “But with the Hylians? You can save the world. You can finally be seen… and mean something to someone. Someone who’ll have the entire world’s attention, but only wants yours.”
Jata said nothing. Tahir lifted his head and peered at him. His eyes looked more like rust now. He lifted the potion toward him.
“So. What will it be, my Prince?”
Jata didn’t drink the potion that night. He carried it home with him, put it in the chest at the end of his bed that the servants knew not to touch, and didn’t touch it for the rest of the week. Or the week after that. But the Hylian’s words never left his mind. It lived in the back of his head, haunting and loud. He tried to ignore it—he did. He continued his studies, attended the galas and parties he and his family were invited to, ate dinner alone more than with anyone else, and walked the gardens alone. Offers of marriage came to his desk, all from people he’d never even met, seeped in political gain and the need for heirs. He made appointments to see his parents, caught an hour with his siblings once in a blue moon, and told himself he belonged here. The Hylians had nothing for him. The Zora were his people; they had everything he could ever want.
It hardly worked for half a year. Jata stayed for nearly a year before his facade shattered. He couldn’t ignore what Tahir had told him, what Jata had always known.
It happened on a night without stars. The sky hung heavy and black over Zora’s Domain, as if the heavens themselves had turned their faces away. Jata had stayed late in the archives, thumbing through scrolls he’d read a hundred times before, searching for something—anything—that might still bind him to this place of coral towers and silver fountains. But the words were dry tonight. Dust and duty.
Halfway to his chambers, he heard the splash of hurried footsteps below. A courier, soaked to the gills, darted through the inner courtyard and up the stairs toward the royal hall. His side bled where something sharp had pierced his armor. His left fin dragged. Jata followed at a distance. Just close enough to hear the doors open, the guards murmur, and the voice of his father, low and cold, as he received the bloodstained message.
“They came to the river mouth,” the courier rasped, “a band of Hylians—children, elders—starving. Their villages are gone. Some black sickness is spreading across the southern hills. They begged for safe passage. Shelter.”
“And what did you do?” King Kitar asked.
“We turned them away.” A pause. “As you commanded, Your Grace.”
Jata pressed his back to the cold wall outside the chamber. His stomach churned. He had seen no decree like this—heard no council convened. No vote. Just quiet cruelty, sealed in the mouth of power. He had never known his father to be so cold. So cruel. He waited until the messenger was gone before stepping inside. His father was rubbing his furrowed crest. He looked up, surprised to see him.
“Jata,” he said. “Why are you up? Nightmares?”
He hadn’t come to his parents for nightmares since he was six, because he didn’t want to bother them.
“You let them suffer,” Jata said, voice brittle with disbelief. Kitar blinked and looked confused. “They came with nothing—no weapons, no threats. Just hunger.”
“You speak of the Hylians. You were listening in.”
“Because I saw the courier bleeding.”
“Then you’ll know they did have weapons. If they can hurt our people in anger, they can defend themselves with it.”
“We both know it wasn’t anger—it was desperation!”
“They are not our people,” his father said, tone scathing. “Our domain is not a sanctuary. Their suffering is not our burden. Let the Hylians help themselves, for once.”
“They tried,” Jata whispered, voice cracking. “They came to us.”
The older Zora turned back to his wine, dismissive. “Paupers’ tears do not wash away the sins of their kings. Nor by yours, boy. You'd do well to learn that.”
The word boy cut sharper than any blade. Jata wondered if he would ever be grown in his father’s eyes or always be a boy—his youngest. The spare for the spare.
Jata turned and left without another word. His father didn’t stop him, left him to what he simply saw as a tantrum. Back in his room, the night felt colder than it had in years. He opened the chest at the end of his bed. The potion still lay nestled in velvet, unshaken since the day Tahir gave it to him. Its yellow light pulsed faintly now, as though it had begun to breathe. He grabbed the vial, went out his window, and swam down the river until he remembered himself.
He pulled himself onto the bank, holding the potion to his chest. He didn’t know where he was. He had gone further than he ever had before, even when he answered Tahir’s invitation. He wouldn’t be surprised if he were in Hylian land, but Jata wouldn’t know unless he saw his position on a map. He looked down at the vial and lifted it. The dried flower inside had unfurled, just slightly, in the liquid. It reminded him of something sacred. Or broken. Was there ever a difference?
He stood for a long time, staring into it, remembering Tahir’s words.
You are wasted here.
But with the Hylians…you can save the world.
He thought of the children his people turned away at the river, of the sickness spreading in the hills. Of the hero—somewhere out there—unborn or perhaps already lost.
Their suffering is not our burden.
Paupers’ tears do not wash away the sins of their kings. Nor do yours, boy.
The potion felt warm in his hand.
“Then let me be their burden,” he said to the darkness. “Allow me to give them my tears.”
And he drank.
The potion slid down his throat like starlight and sand. It tasted of metal, honey, and ash. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. The silence stretched. Jata stood alone in the dark, fingers still curled around the empty vial, his breath shallow and uncertain. Long enough that he wondered if he had waited too long, or he'd been the blunt of a long joke.
Then the pain came.
It began behind his eyes—white-hot, like lightning tearing through his skull. He dropped the bottle; it hit the grass and rolled away. His knees buckled. He tried to scream, but his voice caught in his throat. The sound he made was nothing he’d ever heard before—half-choked, half-human.
The bones were the first to shift. Jata’s spine convulsed with a sickening pop, vertebrae grinding, reshaping. His gills burned as they collapsed into smooth, useless scars, air suddenly feeling like fire in his lungs. He clawed at his chest, desperate for breath, and fell onto his side as muscle unraveled and knotted again in new patterns. His limbs shrank and lengthened, angles wrong, fingers spasming.
He tasted blood.
His tail thrashed at the back of his head, then shrank down against his scalp until it disappeared entirely. His ears burned as they were formed, pulled out into a sharp point that had his mouth opening in a scream. His mouth was on fire in his gums as his teeth dulled. His legs thinned out and grew longer, while his arms underwent the same transformation. His chest widened, his stomach grew taunt, and the agony of it was primal. Like being born through fire, when he’d been surrounded by water all his life. His skin lost its luster. That opaline sheen of the Zora’s scales faded, dimmed, and dulled into a soft, mortal skin. His vision swam. He threw up at least once, maybe twice.
He lay on the floor for what felt like an age, limbs trembling, breath ragged. The pain ebbed slowly, like the tide going out—leaving him bruised, raw, and utterly changed. When he could finally move, he dragged himself toward the river. He looked at his reflection in the water. A sixty-four-year-old Zora didn’t stare back at him. Instead, it was a nineteen-year-old Hylian man. His black scales had transformed into short, black hair on his head, chest, arms, legs, and under his arms. His eyes weren’t purple anymore—they were a cool, lead gray like all of the color had been sucked out of them. He pulled his lips apart with trembling fingers and saw dull teeth stained with his own blood. He had bitten his tongue, which was shorter and thinner.
He wasn’t a Zora anymore. He never would be again. He was a Hylian, as naked as the day they were all born.
He saw movement behind him in the water. When he turned, he met all-knowing topaz eyes. He recognized Tahir by the shape of his hair and the poncho hiding the mask on his hip. “I knew you’d come around. Thought it might take a little longer, if we’re being honest.” He threw clothes into his chest, and Jata coughed. He was perplexed by the noise. “Get dressed. You’re cute, but there’s work to be done. First things first…” Jata looked up at him, trying to figure out how proper breathing worked for a Hylia. “You need a Hylian name.”
Tahir spun a pretty tale for him, gave him the proper papers and clothes, fitted him into a life he had to pretend he’d been in for years, and left him at Castle Town to find a life in the one profession the Hero would be connected to—the army. Jata no longer existed after that night. By morning, Vance lived in his place.
The first year was the hardest.
Jata— no, Vance, now —was reborn in shadow. He arrived in Castle Town with nothing but the name Tahir had whispered into his ear and the scars of a life shed like skin. The city was strange to him. Loud. Heavy. The air didn’t move the same. His gait was awkward, his reflexes half-drowned in memory. He walked as if he were still underwater. He slept like he was waiting for currents to carry him. But he learned.
He joined the guard not for glory, but for proximity—to the Hero, wherever he might be. And because, deep down, he needed a cause. Any cause. By the second year, he knew how to hold a sword. Not like a Zora with a lance—fluid and dancing—but like a Hylian: grounded, brutal, efficient. He trained harder than the rest, bled more than most, and asked for no comfort. The veterans muttered about him, calling him strange, quiet, and watchful. But he was fast. Fierce. Focused.
By the third year, they had come to respect him.
By the fifth, they trusted him.
By the seventh, they followed him.
He rose through the ranks like a silent tide. Not with charisma—no Vance had no taste for speeches—but with precision, calm under pressure, and an instinct that sometimes bordered on the prophetic. When ambushes came on lonely roads, he was already drawing steel. When tensions stirred in border towns, Vance recommended the right patrols at the right time. Some whispered he was lucky. Others said Vance had visions. Only Tahir knew the truth, and he didn’t visit often.
After the fourth year, he didn’t visit at all.
Vance lived simply. He took a small room in the barracks and decorated it with almost nothing. But inside his footlocker, hidden beneath standard-issue tunics and oiled boots, was a velvet pouch containing the vial. It held only the wilted flower now. If he were to open it and touch it, it would surely crumble to dust. He kept it as a reminder of who he was and why he waited.
Hyrule ached for a hero. After the King and Queen died and left a Princess too young to become Queen, they begged for a hero to save them from their steady decline. Every year, the mages whispered predictions. The Hero would rise soon. Or already had. Some thought it was a child in the countryside with strange dreams. Others believed the signs pointed to a noble-born orphan whom the Temple of Time had adopted. But none were sure, and Vance already knew they were wrong.
So he waited, and while he waited, he taught. Apprentices came to him—some assigned, others asking by name. He didn’t coddle. He didn’t flatter. But he taught well. He taught them to listen, to read terrain and read people, to strike when needed and hold back when mercy served better. He taught them to think not just with the sword, but with the soul.
And slowly, they made him more human. He learned to laugh again—rarely, but honestly. He learned to drink with the others, to play cards badly, to argue about soup and song and whose turn it was to clean the armory floor. He wrote letters to his once-family, though he never sent them. He read poetry again, late at night when no one was watching. When his skin dried out, he went to the closest body of water and lay at the bottom, breathing in water like air until the flaking on his skin went away. It would return, it always did. But after his sixth year, they stopped whispering about him being a Zora’s bastard because it didn't matter to them anymore.
He grew.
By the eleventh year, he had been a Lieutenant in the Hylian Royal Guard for three years. The Captain trusted him with everything short of the crown’s secrets. Vance oversaw the outer patrols, trained recruits, advised on strategy, and walked the castle halls like he belonged there. No one whispered about how strange Vance was anymore, how he seemed to appear from nowhere. Now they whispered about what he could do, the strength behind his hands, the handsome features on his face.
He had a strong jaw, a defined chin, a hooked nose that had been broken several times, and cool gray eyes like the steel he'd been born to wield. His hair was pitch black, though it was becoming broken up by the gray roots creeping in despite having only just celebrated his thirty-first birthday a month ago. His beard was beginning to see spots of gray as well. His body was tanned, covered in scars from battles he'd won and survived; he was tall and noticeably muscular, having won several tournaments and jousts throughout the years that caught his interest. He was no blushing virgin by the time he was twenty and fell into the beds of men, women, and everything in between.
Being a Lieutenant kept his bed plenty busy. An unspoken tradition was spent between Captains and Lieutenants, for those willing. Such high-profile positions could wear down even the most seasoned soldier, and one way to combat it was by falling into each other’s arms. Bloody battles would be forgotten in the throes of passion, stressors momentarily washed away by the force of teeth and tongue, cock and cunt.
In short, they fucked. A lot.
Vance opened his bed to his fellow Lieutenants. His Captain who was a woman five years his senior and still ran laps around them. He didn’t fuck soldiers anymore considering the power imbalance his position brought, but he rented plenty of rooms with civilians attracted by the rugged soldier sat at the bar. But he never had the urge to open his heart to another. He never married or settled down, despite having plenty of offers. None of them interested him. Instead, he waited for a face he would recognize, though he’d never seen it.
For the Hero. For his purpose.
And one morning—bright, clean, ordinary—he woke up with a chill in his chest. A flicker of something ancient and aching, like the ghost of a storm in his lungs. When he pulled himself from bed, he found a flower on the table where he had his meals; the same one that had wilted in the potion Tahir gave him. The message was clear. He dressed slowly, stepped out into the sun, and thought: It’s close now. Whoever he is…he’s almost here.
Just weeks later, during that siege on the castle, he gripped his newest apprentice to his chest. A Hylian of barely eighteen summers with pale skin blistered by a Dragon-Knight’s fire. His tousled blonde hair was burned at the ends and smelled of smoke. He was shaking, gagging like he was going to throw up from the blinding pain, while Vance gripped his wrist.
“Fuck,” Trainee Link Tailor rasped. “That hurts. It hurts, Lieutenant.”
Vance had no words for him. The Triforce gleamed on the back of his hand. A trainee. His apprentice. Barely a man, still just a boy. Tahir’s words came to him then, blinding and damning.
“...once in guidance, another in fury, and at last, in love.”
The Hero had finally come. Late. Small. Already wounded.
Life changed after that. Everything did. Cia heralded in a war they couldn’t ignore, and allies and enemies alike came through portals of her design. Some of them were children—one was a hero who was even younger than Link and had a god mask. He latched onto Link and followed him into battle even when they tried to make him stay. Another was a man with black hair and dark skin, who wore a scarf and a bunny hood. Vance didn’t question it; he was a hell of a tactician, and he could make weapons that used magic to mow down their enemies.
A Twilight Princess. A Zora Princess whom Vance was confident was his ancestor. A Goron who called everyone 'brother,' the Hylian Princess in Sheikah disguise, and a girl obsessed with bugs—the list went on and on for their allies. And at the front of them all was Link, the Triforce illuminating their way.
Link rose quickly. Too quickly. By the third month, he led squads into cursed woods and demon-fogged valleys. The soldiers followed him partly because of what was on his hand, partly because he never asked them to go anywhere he wouldn’t go first. His courage was a wildfire, and it caught hearts like dry grass. When the Captain fell—cut down by one of Cia’s shadow-beasts in a siege outside the ruins one of the portals had led them to—Link didn’t hesitate. He took command before the body cooled, rallied the broken line, and held the pass until dawn. No ceremony. No speech. Just fire in his eyes and blood on his boots.
He was named Captain Link the next day.
Too soon, Vance argued with Impa. It’s too soon.
They need hope, she told him, with an ache in her eyes like she despised to do this as well. They need a symbol.
He’s just a boy.
No. He’s a Hero.
How Vance had come to hate the word. But it had been all his life revolved around for the past eleven years, so he stayed and watched it all. Vance stood beside him, behind him, for him. He followed his orders, followed where he led, gave him pointers whenever Vance was sure he wouldn’t overstep, and helped him through everything he could. Link trusted him. Perhaps he even looked up to him. When he discovered he and Linkle were twins separated shortly after birth, Vance had been the first one he told. When strategies escaped him, he sought Vance's guidance.
And all the while, Tahir’s prophecy echoed like a drumbeat in his mind: Once in guidance. Another in fury. And at last, in love.
Fury came a year and a half later.
Link was twenty-one. They had tracked the Master Sword down. Link ran ahead to claim his birthright with soldiers he trusted, that Vance trusted. But he never came back. The treachery was revealed only by chance, because the youngest knight in the group had run when Link screamed for him to. The other soldiers had turned on their Captain. They said they were told that if they handed him over, Cia would stop the war. It was just him that she wanted after all, his face that cursed them all.
They never saw a trial. The pathetic creatures that handed Link off like he was something to trade, who were so afraid of war they’d turn on their Captain and Hero, met their ends under Vance’s hands and teeth. Hylians are selfish, Vance remembered as he stood in the carnage. Hylians are selfish, he looked at his bloody hands, tasted gore in his mouth, and Zoras are apex predators in pretty scales.
Impa asked for no favor when she covered up their deaths, saying they committed a mass suicide before they could be taken into custody. But it didn’t matter to Vance. None of it did anymore. Link was gone. He was gone, and Cia had him.
The months that followed were blood. Just blood. Vance became unrecognizable in battle—no longer Lieutenant, no longer steady. He moved like vengeance itself, cleaving through sorcery and shadow with the grace of a storm. Allies and enemies alike whispered his name like a curse and a prayer. One battle saw him tear apart one of Cia’s Generals right before her, screaming with a ferocity beyond any normal Hylian. She looked afraid. Good.
Where is he, bitch?! He was reported to scream in the Zora’s language. Where is the Captain? Where is my Hero?!
She ran. She ran, and Vance pursued through every battlefield, every ambush on the border, every skirmish, no matter what side started it. His teeth were sharp in his mouth, his skin dried up faster than ever, and once he shed blood in the river that led to Zora’s Domain. Zora guards—he hadn’t seen any in a long time—watched as he caught a fleeing lizalfos in their waters and dragged them to the shore to beat them like they owed him money, except they owed him something much more valuable.
Where is he? He snarled. Where is he?!
He doubted the moblin actually knew. But it felt fitting to kill him for the sins of his leaders on the shores of the Zora. The Zora guards didn’t stop him, which was a good thing. He’d have killed them otherwise. They simply watched him drag the corpse away from the shore so that they couldn’t complain about any waste left in their waters. He didn’t look back, felt no nostalgia—not then or ever. Not when his eyes were focused on the future that he was determined that Link would see. The other races still wouldn't help. The Gorons were already giving all they could. So Vance turned inwards to the Hylians, who had already proven to him years ago that not all were as selfish as the Zora said.
He got the help of other Lieutenants and soldiers he could trust, and they made a system of code names that couldn't be traced back to them should Cia intercept the messages. After becoming a Hylian, he didn't have much time for leisure reading, but he had read the Arthurian legends so much in his sixty-three years as a Zora that Vance could recite them by heart. As such, he was the one who gave everyone their name. Lana was Lady of the Lake. Linkle was Guinevere. Other knights were Gawain, Tristan, the young knight who fled under Link's order and brought the treachery to light was made Elyan, one Lieutenant was made Galahad—and Vance was Lancelot.
Link was Arthur.
Link’s twenty-second birthday passed by well before they found the fortress where Cia kept her trophies, where she kept him. Vance wasn’t there because they hadn’t expected to see him there; they were after the territory it held because war didn’t stop for anybody. Tahir had said his hand was extended in fury. Not to save. But Vance read the reports afterward, practically interrogated those who had been there, and something in him died with each word he read. They had found Link in a glass chamber sealed with sigils, naked and bruised, the Triforce on his hand dimmed to a flicker. His eyes were wild when they broke the wards. His voice cracked when he said Impa’s name.
He burned his scarf when he got home. He lay curled up in bed for days, unable to keep down broths and water. He wailed something fierce when the nightmares came, to the point that Lana had to remake the silent sigils on his door every day. His fairies snuck into his room and tried to heal him, but their magic couldn’t reach his shattered soul. Arthur had returned, but the Round Table continued to lead in his stead, as it had been the entire time he was gone.
Vance’s hardened heart cracked bit by bit, like that was all it knew how to do now. He had run out of rage a while ago, if he was being honest. Bloodshed was always easier. Familiar. But familiarity wasn't helping his Hero.
After the second week, Link got up and wore his Captain’s uniform again. They all chipped in to get him a cloak, long and dark blue like his scarf, embroidered with the Hylian crest at the end. Link’s adoptive father, the tailor who had taken him from the orphanage as a babe, had done the embroidery himself. He wore it daily and seemed to hide behind it until he could stand tall in public again. The healers said he’d live. But the look in Link’s eyes said something had died.
Cia had torn him to shreds, and Vance had no idea how to fit the pieces back together. Vance wasn’t a healer. He was nothing gentle. Lieutenant Vance wielded a mace, as well as a claymore, kicked ass in a joust with a lance, and was known to use the wooden crossbow on his hip from time to time—though he delegated more to swinging fists when he couldn't use his mace or sword. He had snapped a man’s neck during a bar fight once. Vance’s hands could grip and break anything in a matter of moments, if he so chose to. How was he supposed to help now that he had failed to protect?
But one night, Tahir’s words returned to him; Once in guidance, another in fury, and at last, in love.
In guidance, he’d become Link’s mentor and trained him for those few short months.
In fury, he’d become a nightmare to Cia and her legion after Link was taken from him.
In love…
He remembered the tradition between Lieutenants and their Captains, and knew what he had to do. Try to do, at the very least.
Captain Link would need delicate hands. And it was clear that while his fellow Lieutenants were thinking it, they didn't have the balls to step up and do it themselves. They were afraid of breaking something. Of pushing too far and only hurting, not helping. If the Captain were anyone else—or maybe if he hadn't been so young when he was appointed and so they kept their hands far away—they'd have established this well before that witch-bitch Cia sunk her sharp nails into their Captain. But he wouldn't sit here and debate the what-ifs, should-have-beens, and if-onlys. It drove him mad, watching the strongest soldier among them slowly deteriorate under a pressure he was too young for.
But he wasn't too young for proper help anymore.
“Come in.”
The Captain's office reeked of a man in pain, and he could see it plainly in the bags under Link’s eyes, the pinch in his waist, and the slight tremor of his hand as he shut the drawer that Vance knew hid a heavy scotch he'd been drinking straight for a few days now.
“Lieutenant Vance,” Captain Link muttered. “What is it? Don’t tell me you have bad news—did I not assign Lieutenant Elyan as the bearer of bad news for the week?”
“I traded positions with him today.”
Link's dull blue eyes snapped up to stare at him.
“Why?” He drawled, the accent he tried so hard to hide from the court bleeding through. The accent that betrayed he was from the northern lands, with the bogs and the rolling hills where it rained more than the sun shone.
“I want to talk to you.”
“About? The weather? The duties you're neglecting?”
So prickly. Vance didn't take it to heart. He'd make him better.
“About you and the breakdown you're tethering on.”
Link stared at him, his eyes narrowed. Slowly, he exhaled before he turned away, waving a hand over his shoulder.
“I appreciate your concern,” he said unappreciatively, “but I’m more than capable of completing my duties even so. Now, if that’s all…”
“I know you can complete your duties,” Vance cut him off. “You're the most competent Captain we've had in a while, which is saying something.” Considering your age and how you became Captain. “But that's not what this is about.” He stepped closer to Link, and immediately, he saw the way his shoulders stiffened.
“This is about you needing a break. Release, if you will.”
There was a long pause, and Vance could see him tightening and tensing, hiding the shaking of his hands with that. He was not looking at him but instead at the war map as he placed pieces over it, but he wasn’t paying attention to what he was doing.
“I think I can decide for myself what I need.” Link answered at last, after a considerable amount of time was spent easing the trembling in his voice. He knew a dismissal when he heard one, but still, Vance pushed. If he left this office without doing something, they wouldn't have a Captain or a Hero anymore. He wouldn't have his ex-apprentice, the last one he swore to train.
“It wouldn't hurt to take a few suggestions, and I think you'd like mine.”
“You think so?” Link snarked, but there was little bite to it. He was just tired. So, so tired. If it were anyone else, he'd cage him against the desk and show him that he knew so. But that would hurt way more than it could ever help, and likely end with him missing a hand.
“It wouldn't hurt to try, little lion,” he said instead, voice softer than before. Trying to sound approachable since he wouldn't look at him. His tone seemed to help. It felt less like a threat, less like an order. Link looked at him at last, his brow furrowed, searching over his face. He was thinking about. Slowly, he exhaled.
“…What do you have in mind?” He asked finally, his tone earnest, if tired, as he turned to face him, crossing his arms as his back leaned against the edge of the table. Vance smiled, just a little. It was nice to see that face again, even if he did look tired.
“Have you ever read past Captains' journals?” He asked.
“I haven’t had much time for reading,” Link answered honestly, though there was a sarcastic edge. He gestured. “Why?”
“It would have made this easier. I'm not the best at talking, but I'll make do.” He scratched his beard. “It's not uncommon for a Captain and their Lieutenants to…” The world fuck seemed too harsh. But they wouldn't make love. He didn't want to give Link the wrong idea. He loved him. They all did. They all loved him so much, even before everything he'd sacrificed in the name of the kingdom, bravery, and the Queen. But Vance? He lived for him.
Vance existed because of him, even.
“To mate,” he settled on. The Zora roots bled through occasionally. Their words worked when Hylian ones failed.
Link went rigid immediately. “To…” He started, and then swallowed hard, shaking his head slowly. “I… you’re suggesting…” His jaw was set, his eyes wide, like he was staring down at a Moblin, not his trusted lieutenant and once mentor. “…That…won’t help. You…you know. That won’t help me.” He hissed out the last part, and there was betrayal in his tone, like he couldn’t believe that Vance had asked of him what he had, knowing what had happened to him.
He didn’t understand. Vance could see the faith in him dying in his eyes. He had to move fast.
“We don't have to,” Vance said, his voice soft and tender, as if speaking to a lover. A wife, perhaps, if his cards had fallen right. But they hadn't, and he doubted any woman would love him as he was now. He was a great friend, an even better soldier. But he knew he would be a horrible husband, distant and a workaholic like his father. But he and Link didn't have to be mates to do this; he didn't have to love Link like that—no, he loved him with a fierceness well beyond that. Something the Goddesses would be jealous of, if they'd ever cared to listen. And his Captain was no woman, of course. He was hardly a man. He was a Hero, proud and true, despite everything he'd gone through. A lion born in mortal form, powerful and deadly. He just needed a bit of help grooming his mane.
“But I think it would help you, Link. I would be good to you. Slow and sweet.”
Link’s jaw was tight, his eyes wide as he stared at him uncertainly. “I don’t…” He began, and Vance could see him reminding himself that he trusted Vance and knew him to be good. Unselfish. He wouldn’t lie about this for his own gain. His own pleasure. His own desire. It wasn’t about that. It couldn’t be. If it were…it would kill Link. He was as sure of this as he was about the Triforce on the back of his scarred hand.
Link swallowed shakily, his nails gripping the table, though he didn’t notice. “...now…?”
“Do you want to do it now?” Vance asked calmly, ensuring Link saw his empty palms and still feet. He wouldn't approach unless he were allowed to. Would not touch until he was given the go-ahead. He wouldn’t even think of his Captain that way until they'd touched bodies. Link’s eyes strayed to his hands, then back up to his face, his expression still concerned and alarmed.
“I… I don’t…” He began, glancing at the map again. He hadn’t been making any progress. He was just here because he couldn’t sleep. He was killing time until day came, that was all. Vance had brought him a recommendation. An alternative. Maybe he was right. Perhaps it would be better than wasting the hours thinking, shaking, trying not to break down, and usually failing.
He swallowed hard, his voice shaking when he spoke, no longer caring—or able—to hide it. “…What if…I change my mind?” He asked. “What if I tell you to stop?”
“We stop.” His answer was immediate and firm. “I stop. Immediately and completely. I will only touch you if you allow me to, and that consent can be taken away at any time.”
Link shifted, his eyes wide, but slowly, he swallowed. Finally, he gave Vance a short, sharp nod, like one of surrender, either to him or to his inner voice, he didn’t know.
“What do I…” Link whispered, looking much younger than his age, in his shy, anxious uncertainty. “…d…do…?”
“You don't need to do anything,” Vance soothed. “Not this time. As for the future, well…” He shrugged. “We'll talk about that if we get there.” He gestured to the space between them. “May I approach?”
Link looked to his hands again, and then to his face, before finally nodding.
Vance approached. He could see Link's breath hitch, then return quicker than before. “It's alright,” Vance whispered. This close, he could feel his warmth, the way it climbed as the hair stood on the back of his neck. He didn't point it out or linger on it for too long, and lifted his hand. “May I touch you?” He whispered. Link nodded faster this time, though his eyes were on his hand, watching it like one would a weapon. Poor little lion…he needed help so badly. A protector, just to give him time, to help him back on his feet. And he would be a proud, strong lion again; he would feel that good again.
Vance could help him. He would.
He touched his shoulder. Link looked a little surprised, but Vance smiled. He wasn't one to rush into things. He certainly wouldn't with Link. No, not his Captain. Not the one he loved so dearly. He massaged the tense muscle there, then ran his hand up to his neck, curling his fingers against the back and rubbing there as well. He threaded his fingers into his hair and felt more than he heard Link’s breath shudder. He wasn't sure when he'd gotten so close, but he so loved the smell of him. Link couldn't bear to look at him when he began to move his hand down, down, down...over his shoulder, down his arm, to his hand, which he grasped and pressed his lips to the calloused palm with the scars at the tips of his fingers.
A tailor's son, by name and by the hardened flesh of his fingertips that had been nipped by needles all his childhood. If only he'd stayed. But then Vance would have never met him. And that was a hard thing to ask of him.
“I,” Link stuttered.
“It's alright,” Vance whispered as Link's fingers dug into his beard. He didn't mind, leaning closer to ease up the tension on the hair, pressing their bodies together, and he could see Link's ears flush red and his body shudder.
“Are you okay?” He whispered. Link nodded, eyes squeezed shut. “Tell me verbally, little lion.”
“Yes,” he pressed out. “Yes, I'm...o-oh…” Vance's lips touched his neck, so careful, kissing so sweetly even as Link's head rolled back. Those pretty blue eyes, so dull, had a spark of life in them as he stared up at the ceiling with a half-lidded gaze. He grasped his hips and lifted him with the same care he gave rescued princesses when he pulled them up onto his horse—perhaps with even more care than that.
He sat him on the edge of the table, and something brushed against his thigh before Link snapped his knees together and tried to pull away. “It's alright,” Vance said.
“Sorry,” Link gasped out, looking so mortified, and Vance's heart broke for him.
“It's normal.” He pressed his hand against his right knee, easing it away, then moving his hand up his leg, to his inner thigh, to his crotch, where he grasped the noticeable tent in his pants. By then, Link's legs were shaking, so red he looked like he might combust; his chest heaved with shuddering, quick bursts of breath. Sweet lion. So young. So easy to please. And so easy to harm.
“Do you trust me?” He asked again, because he had to be sure. Because he would never, ever harm. Link’s eyes were clenched shut, his chest heaving as his face burned red. But he nodded; a reflex, more than anything else. Link looked at Vance as he forced his eyes open, and though Link appeared mortified, Vance could tell he meant it. He trusted him with everything.
“I've got you,” Vance whispered as he eased them onto Link's back on the table. The map was rumpled, and he flicked a figurine away before it could dig into Link's shoulder. The wood creaked as he pressed his knee down on it to loom over him.
“M-mm…” Link murmured, part of his melting under his shadow, his warmth, the intensity of his presence that wanted to protect. He cupped Link's face as he undid his Captain's belt. He intended to worship every piece he was allowed to touch. Every bit of him he'd bear.
“Can I kiss you?”
“P-Please.”
The kiss was warm, soft, and firm, like the man who pressed lightly against him. The map shifted. The figurines wobbled as the table rocked, then fell over. Some fell off. They didn’t care. Link dug his fingers into the table beside his hip before Vance redirected his nails to dig into his shoulder and back instead. He didn't mind. Quiet gasps filled the room, little heaving breaths that turned into squeaks, some bordering panic until they were muffled and then soothed with a kiss. When it ended, the whimpers were now moans, stuttering and shy, and something slick was stroked in a careful grasp.
"There we go. Just hold onto me. I'm not going to let you fall."
He went slow, whispering what he was going to do before he did it. He asked permission to touch each time he changed his grip. He treated Link with the reverence a priest would give a holy relic and never hesitated to kiss and praise.
"That's it... That's it, just enjoy it. Does it feel nice? Mhm...? I'm glad."
He wouldn't presume that he could fix Link this way. Sex could hardly be healing all on its own, but it could do a hell of a lot more than just sitting in silence and suffering alone. Reminding him that he wasn't alone, that touch didn't have to hurt, that it wasn't supposed to —that was the most valuable.
“Don't hold back. You can come. It's supposed to feel good, Captain. That's why we're doing it. You’re almost there, aren't you? Just a little bit more...bet if I... there we go, there we…yes...yes, Captain, good...oh, you were so pent up, weren't you? So much to give me, I'm so honored.”
Goddesses, but the Captain was so beautiful.
“I know, I know. It's big, isn't it? We'll take it one finger at a time. You're already doing so well, just relax a bit more— yes, just like that, just like…”
Jata had read about love but never felt it. His family loved him, but they didn't like him. Strange as he was, unplanned even if he wasn't unwanted, he had never belonged with the Zora people. The sea called to his baser instincts, but it was the land that held his heart, in soldiers to drink with, civilians to play cards with, innocents to protect, horses to ride, and Heroes to love.
“You're gonna come again? So sweet. Go ahead, love. Come while I fuck you with my fingers. Do you need help? Here.”
Love. Such a fragile word. Such a pathetic attempt to name what he felt for Link Tailor, but it was the only one mortal language had.
“Do you trust me?" Soft and hushed, loving and devoted, in the dim room of flickering candles burned down low. “I need you to say it. Out loud.”
“Y-Yes…” It was a raspy, weak, and needy reply. “Y-Yes, Vance...please... please, please, please, plea- a-ah! Ah…!”
“Relax... Relax, Captain. I've got you.”
Goddesses, but Link was beautiful.
“H-Hah! Ah! Nng— gah!”
“Is it good? Good. This is how it's supposed to feel. Lemme get your hair out of your face—yes, there we go. Better? I thought so.”
“M-more...more...!”
“You don't need to beg, Captain.”
“Gah! F-Ffa- o-oh goddess, oh my gods-!”
“Let go. Let go, I've got you.”
“M-Mmf! M-Mmg- Vah- Vance! Help- need help-”
“Like this?”
Vance captured the moment his Captain came, painting both of their stomachs and chest white, his eyes wide open like he was surprised, his mouth hanging open, his chest stalling as the breath was slammed out of him—and Vance held him through it all, every shake and every tremor, whispering nothing but the sweetest words into his pointed ear and kissing away the tears that came.
“You…”
Vance stood between his legs, forearms pressed to the table, their foreheads pressed together. Link's arms were limp above his head, and he looked more beautiful than any painting Vance had ever seen. After a while, Link lifted one hand, and it trembled as he stroked the side of Vance's face, his fingers running over his lips.
“You didn't...finish…”
Vance smiled against his lips. He kissed the pads of his scarred fingers. “I don't need to. I've got everything I want right here.”
Link's ears flicked, hiding his face in his neck. “Let...I should…”
He rolled his hips and then hissed, gasping at the spark of pain that followed. Then he keened at the loss when Vance pulled out of him, leaving him empty, and Vance soothed him as he grasped his hands and coaxed him into wrapping his arms around his neck.
“You're sore...don't push yourself. You just did something very taxing. Very hard. And you did it so well.” Link shuddered as Vance kissed his face and cheeks and the place beneath his eyes and temple. “Let me take care of you, now.”
“Oh...okay…”
“First things first,” Vance squeezed his sides, “a bath.”
Link's legs stayed wrapped around his waist as he pulled him into his arms to carry him to the baths. He'd wash him off, wash his hair to have an excuse to massage his scalp, and then take him to bed, have him drink some water, and stay with him if he allowed it.