Archive of Our Own ^beta

Warriors wakes up to violence. Not the dramatic kind, no monsters, no ambush, no blades at his throat, but the far more personal insult of a boot driving firmly into his side.

“Get up.”

The voice is sharp, irritated, and unpleasantly close. Warriors makes a low, offended sound and curls instinctively around the ache, blinking as the world swims into focus. Morning light filters through the trees in pale, intrusive slats, far too bright for a civilised wake-up. His head feels thick. Heavy. Like someone stuffed it full of damp wool and left it to settle overnight. Another nudge, firmer this time.

“I called your name four times.” Legend snaps. “Four.”

Across the camp, Four lifts his head. 

Legend sighs audibly and rolls his eyes. “The number. Not the hero.”

Four lowers his head again.

Warriors cracks one eye open and fixes Legend with a glare that would normally send men scrambling. At the moment, it mostly makes his temples throb. “You kick me again,” he says, voice rough and low, “and I’m demoting you.”

Legend snorts, unimpressed, arms folded as he looks down at him. “You were dead to the world. Hylia, you’re worse than Sky.”

That does it. Warriors bristles immediately, pride flaring hot and reflexive even as his body very clearly objects to the idea of movement. He pushes himself up on one elbow, then the other, ignoring the way the ground seems to tilt slightly under him. “I was resting my eyes!” he says sharply, waving Legend off with a dismissive flick of his hand. “Strategically.” The word comes out a little scratchier than he intends. He clears his throat and tries again. “Strategically.”

Legend raises an eyebrow in a way that suggests he is filing that away for later mockery. “Uh-huh.”

Warriors swings his legs over the side of his bedroll and sits up properly, spine straight, posture impeccable. He refuses to acknowledge the sluggish drag in his limbs, the way the air feels oddly thick in his lungs, or the familiar, unwelcome weight settling into his chest. That dull, creeping heaviness. The kind that sinks into bones and makes everything feel like it’s happening half a beat too slow. Annoying. Inconvenient. Absolutely not worth addressing.

He reaches for his gauntlets, fingers moving on muscle memory alone, and snaps, “If you’re done assaulting your commanding officer, I suggest you find someone else to bother.”

Legend doesn’t move. He just watches, eyes sharp, mouth twisted into something that might be a frown or might be satisfaction. “You missed watch rotation.” he says flatly.

Warriors pauses, one gauntlet halfway on. “…I did not.”

“You did.”

“I don’t miss watch.”

Legend leans down and flicks the edge of Warriors’s abandoned scarf with his fingers. “You slept through it. Time covered for you.”

That… doesn’t sit right. Warriors frowns despite himself, irritation spiking. Time doesn’t cover for people unless there’s a reason. He opens his mouth to argue, and immediately regrets it when his head gives a warning pulse behind his eyes. He shuts his mouth again, jaw tightening. “Then Time should’ve woken me.” he says instead, clipped.

Legend snorts. “He tried.”

That earns him a sharp look. “And?”

“And you grumbled something about ‘five more minutes’ and rolled over.”

Warriors stares at him. “I don’t say things like that.”

Legend’s expression goes flat. “You drooled.”

Silence. Warriors very deliberately finishes pulling on his gauntlet, flexing his fingers like nothing at all is wrong. He can feel Legend’s gaze on him, assessing, irritatingly perceptive.

“Well,” Warriors says coolly, “if you’re finished with your morning harassment, I have a camp to run.”

Legend straightens, lips curling faintly. “Sure you do.” He steps back, already turning away. “Try not to fall over.”

Warriors scowls at his retreating back. “I am not going to fall—”

Legend is already gone, leaving behind the distinct impression that Warriors has just lost a round of something he didn’t know he was playing. As is the standard with Legend.

Warriors exhales slowly through his nose and pushes himself to his feet. The world lurches. Just for a second, barely noticeable, really, but enough that he has to plant his boots more firmly and wait for everything to settle. He blinks hard, irritation flaring as warmth creeps under his skin. He knows this feeling. He hates this feeling. Fine. Whatever. He’ll power through it like he always does. He rolls his shoulders, squares his stance, and reaches for his sword with a practiced, almost ceremonial ease. Across camp, he can already feel eyes starting to turn his way.

Wonderful. He should busy himself, distract from his cottony mind and wake up the senses. He decides he should sharpen his sword. This, to his mind, is perfectly normal. The whetstone scrapes along the blade in steady strokes, the familiar rhythm grounding him as he focuses on the precise angle of the steel. His hands feel a little clumsy, slower than usual, but that’s nothing. Sleep disruption. Morning stiffness. Camp conditions. Entirely explainable.

He presses harder, jaw set. You don’t let standards slip. You don’t let yourself slip.

Across the camp, voices carry softly, easy and untroubled. Too easy. Warriors keeps his eyes on the blade, on the thin line of reflected light as he works. The morning feels… thick. Warm. He can feel heat pooling under his skin, a strange, restless energy buzzing in his chest like he’s braced for a command that never comes. Focus. He inhales, steadying, and for a brief, blessed moment, his thoughts sharpen along with the blade. The war is over. The words surface unbidden, clear as a bell. He pauses, whetstone hovering mid-stroke. The war is over. You’re not on campaign. You’re not surrounded by officers waiting for you to falter. No one is watching for weakness. He exhales slowly. Good. Right. Fine. He resumes sharpening immediately, faster now. Because even if the war is over, habits matter. Readiness matters. You don’t relax just because the enemy isn’t actively at the gate. That’s how people get sloppy. That’s how things go wrong.

And Artemis… The thought of her tightens something sharp and hot behind his eyes. He can’t afford to disappoint her. He’s already failed enough times in smaller ways, missed meetings, delayed reports, compromises he shouldn’t have made. He needs to be sharp. Presentable. Reliable. He presses the whetstone down again, too hard this time. The blade skids with a soft, unpleasant sound. Warriors stills, heart kicking painfully against his ribs. He waits, counting his breaths until the world settles again. There’s a faint ringing in his ears that wasn’t there before. He ignores it. Fine. It’s fine. He adjusts his grip, flexes his fingers, and resumes, slower now, more deliberate. Sweat trickles down his spine beneath his tunic. The morning sun is doing that. Obviously. It’s warm out. He wipes his brow with the back of his hand and grimaces when his palm comes away damp. Unacceptable.

He straightens his posture immediately, shoulders back, chin up. A captain does not wilt. A captain does not droop. He takes a steadying breath, smooths his expression into something sharp and controlled, and scans the camp for anything else that needs correcting. Too many packs on the left. A cooking pot not properly secured. Wind’s boots left out in the open again. There. Something to do.

He rises briskly, sword tucked under his arm, and strides across camp with purpose. The ground feels… oddly uncooperative, but he compensates automatically, adjusting his pace without thinking. Years of training carry him through. No one looks at him strangely. Good. Legend glances up as Warriors passes, eyes flicking briefly to the sword, then to Warriors’s face. Warriors meets his gaze coolly, daring him to comment. Legend says nothing. Just hums under his breath and goes back to what he was doing. Warriors counts that as a victory. He reaches Wind’s boots and nudges them into a neater line with his toe, then pauses, hand braced against a tree as a wave of dizziness rolls through him without warning. His vision blurs at the edges, the world narrowing to a tunnel of light and sound. He closes his eyes. Just for a second.

The war is over, he tells himself firmly. You are safe. You are not failing. You are not letting anyone down. He opens his eyes again. The world is still there. The camp is still calm. No alarms. No shouts. No banners falling.

See? Fine. He straightens, squares his shoulders, and continues on, heart still racing as if it missed the memo. Somewhere deep down, a quieter thought whispers that he should sit. Drink water. Say something. He ignores it. Captains don’t complain.

Wild is humming. It’s an infuriatingly cheerful sound, light and tuneless and entirely inappropriate given the state of the world, which is to say, Warriors is awake, and therefore things should be taken seriously. Wild crouches by the cooking pot with sleeves rolled up, methodically chopping something that smells aggressively herbal, the rhythm of the knife matching his humming like he’s performing for an audience only he can see.

Warriors watches him for a moment, arms folded, sword newly sharpened at his side.

Wild glances up, bright-eyed. “Oh! Captain. Perfect timing.”

Warriors straightens immediately. “Of course.”

Wild smiles, easy and open, and gestures vaguely toward the trees. “Could you grab some water from the stream? I used the last of it for the tea earlier.”

Simple. Reasonable. Harmless.

Warriors nods once. “Consider it done.”

Wild turns back to his pot without another thought, humming resuming instantly.

Warriors takes two steps, and then stops. The path down to the stream slopes gently away from camp, a shallow decline worn smooth by countless passing feet. He’s walked it enough times, they’ve been camped here for a few days now. He practically knows every root, every stone. Right now, it looks… far. Not far far. Just… longer than usual. Steeper. The thought of carrying a full waterskin back up makes something unpleasant churn low in his stomach, a queasy, hollow sensation that spreads outward like a warning flare. His grip tightens reflexively on the strap of his pack. For a fleeting, treacherous moment, the thought crosses his mind. I could ask someone else. The idea hits like a slap. No. His jaw tightens, heat flaring behind his eyes as his thoughts spiral sharply, unbidden.

You don’t pass off tasks because you’re tired.

You don’t hesitate because you feel weak.

That’s how it starts.

The memory is sudden and vivid, sharp enough to steal his breath for half a second, the smell of smoke and iron, the weight of his armour digging into his shoulders as voices murmured behind his back. The way eyes slid away when he entered the tent. The way his orders had started coming back delayed. Questioned. Ignored. The moment he realised they’d decided he was no longer fit to lead.

Warriors’s fingers curl into a fist. Captains do not show weakness. Captains do not admit weakness. If the camp sees him falter, sees him slow, sees him hesitate, if they start thinking he can’t handle something as basic as fetching water… No. Absolutely not. He draws himself up, shoulders squaring, spine straightening as if by instinct alone. The sickly heaviness in his limbs is shoved aside with practiced ruthlessness. He has done far worse than this on far less sleep, under far worse conditions.

Everyone is counting on him. The thought cuts clean and grounding through the haze, steadying him just enough. He will not disappoint them. He will not let something as trivial as feeling a little off undermine him. He takes a steadying breath, fixes his expression into calm resolve, and steps forward.

The descent is… manageable. He keeps his pace measured, controlled, careful not to rush. The world sways faintly at the edges, but he compensates automatically, adjusting his balance with the ease of long habit. His heart beats a little too fast, but that’s fine. Exertion does that.

By the time he reaches the stream, his shirt clings uncomfortably to his back, warmth radiating from his skin. He kneels and dips the waterskin, watching the clear current fill it with focused intensity. Cold water splashes over his hands. He winces despite himself. Good. Focus. Stay sharp. He secures the skin, hefts it with a brief internal grimace at the weight, and turns back toward camp. 

The climb is worse. Each step feels heavier than the last, legs protesting with a dull, insistent ache. His breathing grows shallow despite his efforts to keep it even, and sweat trickles down his temples, blurring his vision just slightly. Don’t slow down. Don’t let them see. He fixes his gaze on the edge of camp, on Wild’s bright hair and the curl of smoke rising from the pot. He does not look at the ground. He does not let himself think.

At last, he steps back into camp and sets the waterskin down beside Wild with a decisive thunk.

“There.” Warriors says, voice firm, steady, perfectly normal. “Anything else?”

Wild beams up at him. “Thanks, Captain!”

No concern. No hesitation. No sign that anything is amiss.

Good.

Warriors nods curtly and turns away, heart still hammering, stomach unsettled, pride intact. They didn’t see. He didn’t fail. He lasts exactly thirty seconds before he starts noticing things. Legend is sitting on a log near the edge of camp, ostensibly checking his gear. That’s normal. Legend checks his gear constantly. Obsessively, even. If anything, it’s reassuring. Except… Legend looks up. Their eyes meet. Legend’s gaze lingers for half a second longer than necessary. Warriors’s spine goes rigid. There it is. The feeling crawls up the back of his neck, cold and electric, a sharp awareness that has nothing to do with the present and everything to do with memory. He knows that look. He’s seen it before, years ago, in a different camp, under different skies. That was the moment, he thinks distantly, when they stopped seeing me as their captain. Legend looks away again, apparently uninterested, but the damage is done. Warriors’s thoughts spiral immediately, fast and merciless. Of course. Of course it’s Legend. He’s experienced. Capable. The others listen to him. He’s the kind of man people trust when things go wrong. The kind of man who steps in when leadership falters. The kind of man who could replace him.

Warriors clenches his jaw, pulse pounding in his ears.

No. No, this is fine. This is nothing. Legend always looks like that. Suspicious. Judgy. That’s just his face… Is it?

He risks another glance. Legend hasn’t moved. Still sitting there. Still quiet. Still watching the camp with that infuriatingly calm, observant expression. Watching him. Warriors’s grip tightens on his belt. This is exactly how it started last time. He can see it with terrifying clarity now, the way conversations would stop when he approached. The way orders were met with silence, then delay. The way his second-in-command had smiled at him like everything was fine, right up until it wasn’t. He swallows hard, throat dry. They can’t think he’s weak. He won’t let them. He straightens abruptly and strides across camp, boots striking the ground with deliberate force. He has to do something. Standing still feels dangerous. Standing still lets thoughts fester. He stops near Legend, just close enough to assert presence.

Legend glances up again. “You need something?”

The words are neutral. Casual. Warriors hears accusation.

He lifts his chin. “Just making sure everyone’s staying on task.”

Legend blinks once. “Uh-huh.”

There it is again. That tone. Mild. Noncommittal. Like he’s humouring him. Warriors’s thoughts race, logic slipping through his fingers like water. He knows. He knows something’s wrong. He’s watching. Assessing. Waiting for Warriors to slip up so he can step in and take over.

Warriors forces a tight smile onto his face. “If you have concerns, you’re welcome to bring them to me directly.”

Legend frowns, confused. “What concerns?”

Warriors laughs, sharp and a little too loud. “Good. Excellent. Then everything’s in order.”

Legend opens his mouth, then closes it again, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You sure you’re—”

“I’m sure.” Warriors cuts in immediately, heart hammering. “Perfectly sure.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. He turns on his heel and stalks away, blood roaring in his ears. 

Idiot! You can’t let them see cracks. You can’t corner people like that. That’s how you look insecure.

He scrubs a hand through his hair, breath coming faster now, chest tight.

Think. Think like a captain.

He needs to prove it. That’s the answer. He needs to demonstrate strength. Capability. Control. If he’s seen as indispensable, irreplaceable, they won’t dare question him. Tasks. He needs more tasks. His gaze snaps to the supply packs. Then to the perimeter. Then to Twilight, who is casually sparring with Wind, laughing when Wind trips over his own feet. Too relaxed. All of them. They don’t understand the stakes. Warriors strides toward the packs and drops into a crouch, immediately beginning to reorganise them with aggressive efficiency. His hands shake slightly, fumbling with straps that refuse to cooperate, but he works faster, movements growing sharper, more frantic.

Stay busy. Stay visible. Stay useful.

If he slows down, if he rests, if he lets himself stop—

He sees it again, unbidden, the flash of steel, the way his own men had stood just a little too far back, hands on hilts, eyes cold. His stomach twists painfully. No. Not again. Never again. He will not fail. He will not be weak. He will prove it if it kills him. Behind him, Wild hums happily, oblivious, and Sky laughs at something Wind says. The camp remains warm and easy and utterly unaware of the silent battle Warriors is fighting inside his own head.

Good. They can’t know.

Warriors waits until his breathing evens out before he approaches them.

Casual. That’s the key. Casual implies confidence. Casual implies control. Casual implies there is absolutely nothing wrong and certainly no reason for anyone to be watching him. He turns back to glance at Wind and Twilight. They're sparring in a loose, unstructured way near the edge of camp. Twilight is barefoot, of course he is, stance relaxed, movements easy and precise. Wind darts in and out, laughing when Twilight catches him by the wrist and spins him aside like he weighs nothing.

Practice. Team bonding. Normal.

Warriors schools his expression into something pleasant and strolls up, hands loosely clasped behind his back like he hasn’t been reorganising the supply packs with the intensity of a man defusing a bomb. “Good form.” he says lightly. “It’s nice to see you two getting some practice in.”

Wind grins, bright as ever. “Yeah! Twilight was just showing me a new counter.”

Twilight glances over, smile easy, familiar. “Mornin’, Captain.”

Captain. The word lands wrong. Too formal. Too deliberate.

Warriors keeps his smile in place. “Mind if I join you?”

The question is perfectly reasonable. He spars with them all the time. There’s no reason for this to feel like a test.

Twilight’s grin widens immediately. “You? Sure. Long as you don’t trip over your own fancy footwork.”

Wind snorts. Warriors laughs with them, sharp and charming. “Please. You only say that because you can’t keep up.”

Twilight chuckles, stepping back and rolling his shoulders. “That so? Alright then. C’mon.”

He says it easily. Invitingly. No hesitation.

And yet… Warriors’s thoughts twist the moment sideways.

Fancy footwork. It’s always that. Always framed as a joke. Always indulgent. Like Twilight is humouring him. Like he doesn’t see him as a real threat. Like he doesn’t see him as an equal. Warriors steps into the ring anyway, posture immaculate, movements smooth and practiced. He draws his blade with a flourish that earns a low whistle from Wind somewhere behind them. Good. Eyes on him. They can watch him prove his strength. Twilight mirrors him, stance loose, sword held casually. Too casually. Like he doesn’t need to take this seriously.

Warriors’s pulse kicks up. He remembers another man who’d smiled like that once. Relaxed. Friendly. Confident in a way that said I don’t need to try to beat you.

That man had been the first to turn.

“Ready?” Twilight asks.

Warriors nods sharply. “Always.”

They move. At first, it’s fine. Familiar. Steel meets steel in clean, ringing clashes. Twilight presses, Warriors counters. The rhythm is there. He knows this dance. He’s good at this. He’s excellent at this.

Except… Twilight adjusts mid-strike, effortlessly redirecting Warriors’s blade and tapping him lightly on the shoulder.

“Careful.” Twilight teases. “You telegraph that one.”

Laughter ripples from the sidelines. Warriors’s smile doesn’t falter, but something inside him snaps tight. Telegraphing. A mistake. A visible flaw. He presses harder, movements sharper, faster. He can feel the heat radiating off his skin now, sweat slicking his palms, but he ignores it. He can’t slow down. Slowing down means losing ground.

Twilight’s expression shifts, not alarmed, just attentive, like he’s noticed Warriors pushing. Like he’s evaluating him. Warriors’s thoughts race. There it is. He sees it now. Twilight’s always been stronger. More grounded. People trust him instinctively. They follow him even when he insists he’s not a leader.

If Twilight decides Warriors isn’t fit—

If Twilight decides to step up—

Warriors lunges, a fraction too fast. The world tilts. Just a little. Enough. Twilight deflects the blow easily and steps in close, blade poised but not striking. “Hey.” he says, still smiling, voice low. “You alright there, Wars?”

Concern. Pity. Warriors jerks back, heart pounding, and laughs it off instantly. “Fine. Just warming up.”

Twilight hums, unconvinced but not pressing. “Sure.”

Sure. That’s the word, isn’t it? The polite lie people use when they’ve already made up their minds. Warriors resets his stance, forcing his hands to stop trembling. He will not fail in front of them. He will not let Twilight look at him like that. He can’t.

He straightens, chin lifting, smile sharp and confident. “Again.”

Twilight grins as they circle each other, blade loose in his hand, shoulders relaxed like he’s stretching rather than squaring off. “C’mon, Captain.” he says lightly, rolling his wrist. “You’re movin’ like you expect me to bite.”

Warriors laughs, sharp and bright, the sound a fraction too fast. “Maybe I’ve learned not to underestimate you.”

“Or maybe you’re overthinkin’ it.” Twilight replies, and there’s no edge to it, no challenge, just amusement, like this is friendly noise filling a quiet morning. They clash again. Steel rings out, clean and familiar, but Warriors feels it all a half-step too late. His sword jars in his grip, the vibration shooting up his arm, and he has to grit his teeth to keep from hissing. His palms are slick now, sweat soaking into the leather, and he adjusts his hold too often, fingers aching as if they’ve been clenched for hours.

Twilight steps back easily, boots barely disturbing the dust. “Relax.” he says, chuckling. “You’re gonna wear yourself out before I even break a sweat.”

Relax. The word lands wrong, sliding straight under Warriors’s ribs and lodging there. Relax is what men say when they think you’re struggling. Relax is what they say when they’ve already decided they’ve got the upper hand.

Warriors’s smile doesn’t waver. “I’m perfectly relaxed.”

He lunges. It’s too aggressive, he knows that even as he does it, but stopping feels impossible. Momentum is the only thing holding him upright. Twilight deflects smoothly, turning the blow aside with an easy twist of his wrist, and taps Warriors’s blade away just enough to open him up.

“Careful.” Twilight says mildly. “You’re telegraphin’ again.”

Again. Warriors’s heart slams painfully against his ribs. Heat floods his face, his neck, his chest, and for a horrifying second his legs feel like they might simply… give up. Like the ground might drop out from under him if he shifts his weight wrong. Telegraphing means predictable. Predictability is a weakness. He forces himself to breathe, dragging air into lungs that don’t quite feel like they’re cooperating. “Then stop reading me so easily!” he snaps, aiming for playful and landing somewhere sharper.

Twilight’s grin falters, just a touch. “Hey. Easy. I’m just sayin’—”

Warriors doesn’t let him finish. He presses forward again, blade flashing, every strike thrown with desperate precision. His thoughts are no longer lining up cleanly; they skid and overlap, memories bleeding into the present until the trees around them blur into canvas tents and smoke, and Twilight’s relaxed stance starts to look like something else entirely. Someone waiting. Someone confident he doesn’t need to try.

“You’re tense.” Twilight says, still light, still trying to keep it fun even as he’s forced to give ground. “This ain’t a battlefield, Wars.”

The battlefield is exactly what Warriors sees. His vision swims at the edges, dark spots blooming and fading with every heartbeat. His legs tremble when he pivots, weakness crawling up from his calves to his knees, and fear spikes hot and vicious when his sword dips for half a second too long. Don’t drop it. If he drops it, they’ll see. If they see, they’ll know.

“I know where I am.” Warriors bites out, voice tight. “And I know what I’m doing.”

Twilight blocks another strike and steps in close, lowering his voice. “Then why’re you fightin’ like you’ve got somethin’ to prove?”

The question hits harder than any blow. For a heartbeat, Warriors can’t answer. His mind scrambles uselessly, thoughts tangling around each other, panic roaring so loud it drowns out reason. He feels sick, truly sick now, nausea curling low in his gut, heat pounding behind his eyes, his grip threatening to fail him despite everything.

He shoves the feeling down and laughs again, breathless and strained. “What, can’t handle a little competition?”

Twilight studies him, concern finally seeping into his eyes despite the joke. “Wars—”

That look. That look. Warriors recoils instinctively, stepping back too fast, heel skidding on loose dirt. His sword wobbles in his grasp, dipping dangerously, and terror lances through him so sharp it almost makes him cry out. He catches it just in time, knuckles screaming, pulse roaring in his ears. Not here. Not now. Not in front of them.

“I said again!” he snaps, lifting his blade with visible effort, forcing his stance back into place through sheer will. “Unless you’re scared.”

Twilight exhales slowly, jaw tightening as something shifts behind his eyes, not challenge, not amusement, but wary understanding. “Wars,” he says quietly, “this is gettin’ real weird.”

Warriors barely hears him. All he can hear is the echo of boots in another camp, another morning, the sound of steel slipping from numb fingers, and the certainty that if he stops moving, if he stops proving himself, it will happen again. The strong thrive, there is no place for the weak at camp. And he cannot survive that twice.

“Again.” Warriors says. It comes out harsher than he means it to, too sharp, like a snapped command rather than a challenge. He resets his stance anyway, feet braced, sword lifted with deliberate care, as though precision alone can keep his hands from betraying him. Twilight hesitates. It’s subtle, just a fraction of a second where his weight doesn’t shift, where his easy grin doesn’t come back, but Warriors sees it. Feels it. That hesitation blooms instantly into something ugly and hot in his chest. There. Doubt.

“Wars,” Twilight says, voice lower now, no teasing in it, “we can call it here.”

Call it. Like a mercy. Like a concession. Warriors’s vision tunnels. His pulse roars so loudly in his ears it drowns out the camp noise entirely. If he stops now, if he backs down, if he lets Twilight end it— “No!” he says immediately “We’re not done.”

Twilight’s jaw tightens. He studies Warriors for a long moment, eyes sharp and searching, like he’s trying to decide whether this is still play. Whatever he sees there makes his posture shift, not aggressive, not relaxed, but ready.

“Alright.” Twilight says quietly. “But slow it down.”

Warriors lunges instead. There’s nothing playful about it now. No testing strikes, no easy rhythm. Warriors comes in hard, blade flashing with desperate precision, every movement driven by raw urgency rather than strategy. Twilight meets him blow for blow, expression focused, concern flickering through his eyes even as his body responds on instinct. Steel crashes against steel. The impact shudders all the way up Warriors’s arm, a violent jolt that makes his teeth rattle. He grunts, muscles screaming as he forces the blade back up, sweat blurring his vision, breath coming in shallow, uneven pulls.

Twilight blocks, counters, pivots. “Wars!”

Another clash. Harder this time. Warriors presses forward, because stopping feels impossible, because if he pauses for even a second the world feels like it might tilt and never right itself again. His legs are shaking now, strength bleeding out of them with every step, but he keeps going, mind screaming over the ache. Don’t slow down. Don’t hesitate. Don’t let him see. Twilight parries a wild strike and steps in close, their swords locking with a sharp, ringing crack. The force of it is immense, vibrating down Warriors’s arm like a lightning strike. Pain explodes in his wrist, his elbow, his shoulder, a white-hot jolt that makes his fingers spasm involuntarily.

For half a heartbeat, he can’t feel his hand at all. Steel rings, once, twice, and then the sound changes. It loses its open, airy echo. The clearing tightens, sound flattening until every clash lands dull and close, like it’s being swallowed by walls. Warriors barely notices at first, he’s already moving, already pressing forward, breath coming too fast, heat roaring in his ears.

Twilight grimaces as he barely blocks in time. “Careful Captain!”

The word slides wrong. Warriors’s vision flickers. The green of the trees drains out, bleaching into something gray and cramped, shadows snapping into straight lines, muddy tents and weapon stands. The smell hits next, oil, sweat, iron. Barracks. His boots scrape against packed earth that’s been trampled into submission by too many men standing too close together. The air presses in on him, thick and stale, heavy with anticipation.

Warriors blinks hard.

Twilight is still in front of him, except he isn’t. The familiar lines of his face blur, jaw sharpening, eyes flattening into something colder, older. The armour shifts, insignia twisting into one Warriors hasn’t seen in years but recognises instantly. The grin is gone, replaced by a tight, resentful line.

You don’t look well, the man says, but his mouth doesn’t move. You’ve been slipping.

Warriors’s breath hitches. No. He attacks. The strike is vicious, far too hard for sparring, driven by pure reflex. The man barely blocks in time, steel crashing together with bone-rattling force. Warriors presses immediately, overwhelming, forcing ground, because hesitation is death and space is survival. The barracks watches. He can feel them, too many eyes, weighing, waiting. He knows this moment. He’s lived it. This is where command fractures. This is where doubt turns into knives.

“Stand down!” the man snarls, voice sharp and accusatory. “You’re not—”

Warriors roars and slams into him, shoulder-first, knocking him off balance. They go down hard, the impact knocking the breath from the other man’s lungs. Warriors rolls with it, comes up on top in one fluid motion, sword already raised. The barracks goes silent. They’ll be on him soon, all wanting a piece of him. His arms shake, his eyes are wild, his breath stutters with fear and resolve. The man beneath him stares up, eyes wide now, not defiant. Afraid. That’s worse. Warriors pants, chest burning, sweat pouring down his spine. His arm shakes with the effort of holding the blade aloft, but he doesn’t lower it. He can’t. If he hesitates now—

This is how it ends, his mind supplies calmly. Finish it or they will.

“Captain!” someone says behind him.

Too close. An arm slams into his side. Warriors is tackled hard, weight crashing into him from the left, then another body piling on, pinning his sword arm. He snarls and thrashes, raw panic tearing loose as he’s dragged off the man beneath him, the blade wrenched from his grip. This is it. This is it.

“You’re really doing it?” he gasps, choking on his own breath, vision tunnelling as bodies press in from all sides. “I knew it—I knew you would—”

“Wars—STOP!”

The voice cuts through like a blade through fog. The weight shifts. The hands gripping him aren’t violent, they’re frantic, restraining without striking, holding him like they’re afraid of hurting him. The barracks shudders. Walls waver. Shadows bleed back into trees. The stale air thins, replaced by sunlight and wind and the sharp smell of grass.

Warriors blinks wildly.

Twilight is above him, Twilight, unmistakably, eyes blown wide with shock, face pale, one knee braced against Warriors’s hip to keep him from bolting. His hands are still gripping Warriors’s wrists, not crushing, just firm enough to keep him from hurting himself or anyone else. Sky is holding him down too, panting, he slowly lets go.

“Hylia!” Twilight breathes. “Wars, it’s me. You just—Hylia, you almost—”

Warriors can’t hear the rest. His heart is hammering so hard it hurts, breath coming in jagged, useless gulps. He twists violently, trying to break free, terror clawing up his throat. “Don’t!” he begs hoarsely, eyes darting past Twilight’s shoulder to the rest of the camp, to the figures rushing toward them. “Don’t let them do it in front of the men. Please.”

Twilight freezes. “…What?”

Warriors’s vision swims, tears burning uselessly as his chest locks up again. “I did everything right.” he gasps. “I stayed standing. I didn’t break. I didn’t… make it quick, at least. Honourable.”

Strong hands catch his face.

Twilight leans in close, voice shaking but fierce. “Wars. Captain. Look at me.”

Warriors’s eyes flicker, unfocused.

“You’re in camp.” Twilight says urgently. “You’re not surrounded. Nobody’s killin’ you. You’re sparring in a clearing and you scared the hell outta me.”

Warriors shakes his head weakly, disbelief etched into every line of his face. “Sky tackled me.”

“Because you were about to stab me.” Twilight says softly. “And Hyrule already goes on about red potion conservation.”

The absurdity punches through the fog, just enough. Warriors’s breath stutters. His body goes slack all at once, fight draining out of him like a cut string. He sags against Twilight, trembling violently, panic finally cresting into something helpless and broken.

“…I thought…” he whispers, voice wrecked, “I thought this was it.”

Twilight swallows hard and pulls him closer without hesitation, arms wrapping around him like a shield. “Naw.” he murmurs, low and steady. “Not today. Not ever.”

Warriors shakes in his grip, fever burning, reality still fragile, but the blades stay sheathed. And no one, not a single soul in the camp, reaches for a sword. Warriors becomes aware of the camp all at once. Not as a blur, not as noise, but as faces. Stunned. Pale. Wide-eyed in that awful, quiet way people get when they’ve just realised how close something came to going very, very wrong. Twilight is still half over him, hands braced like he’s afraid Warriors might vanish if he lets go. Hyrule is already moving in from the edge of the clearing, eyes sharp with alarm. Wild’s ladle hangs forgotten at his side. Legend has gone very, very still.

They’re all looking at him.

The heat surges again, thick and suffocating, crawling under his skin like fire ants. His hands won’t stop shaking. His heart is still racing, but now it feels wrong, too fast, too shallow, like it’s trying to outrun something that’s already caught him. Too many eyes. Too exposed.

Warriors swallows hard. The world tilts. “I’m sorry—” he starts, or maybe he thinks it. His stomach rolls violently, warning too late, and he twists away from Twilight on instinct, barely managing to get turned before his body revolts.

He retches. Hard. There’s nothing dignified about it, just a sharp, miserable heave that burns his throat and leaves him gagging, breathless, one hand scrabbling uselessly at the dirt. Someone swears. Someone else lunges forward, boots skidding.

The ground feels very far away. Very warm. Very soft. Warriors’s vision tunnels, edges darkening as the heat spikes one last time. His ears ring. The sounds of the camp smear together into a distant roar, like surf crashing too far away to see.

“…Captain?” someone says, suddenly panicked.

Warriors tries to lift his head. Doesn’t manage it. The world drops out from under him all at once, and the last thing he feels is Twilight catching him, arms wrapping around his shoulders as his legs finally give out completely. Then… nothing. Just the dark, cool quiet of his body finally, mercifully, shutting him down before he can make things any worse.

Voices bleed back into him slowly. Not words at first, just tone. Low, careful, edged with worry. The kind of voices soldiers use around the wounded, or around something fragile they don’t quite know how to touch. Warriors floats toward the sound, awareness heavy and reluctant. His body aches in a distant, muted way, like it’s been wrapped in wool. There’s heat under his skin still, but dulled now, simmering instead of roaring. He breathes. Good. That still works. His eyelids flutter. Light leaks in, soft and unfocused, resolving into shapes, fabric above him, shadowed tree branches, the edge of a bedroll. Camp. He recognises it distantly, like a place he’s seen in a dream.

Then a face leans into view. Warriors’s breath catches. It’s a boy. Young, too young, painfully so, kneeling beside him with worry carved openly into his expression. His hair is mussed, eyes too big for his face, jaw tight with the kind of fear that comes from trying very hard to be brave when you shouldn’t have to be. There’s no mask on him now, but Warriors doesn’t need it to know who this is.

Mask.

The world tilts. Warriors swallows thickly, throat dry. “…You’re not supposed to be here. Are you alright? How much did you see"” he murmurs, voice rough and disbelieving as he pushes himself up as he begins to fuss.. “I told you to stay back. You never stay back, do you?”

The boy doesn’t answer right away. Just watches him, eyes flicking over Warriors’s face like he’s checking for something broken.

“Did they hurt you?” Warriors asks quietly, panic threading through the question despite his attempt at calm. His hand twitches weakly against the blanket, fingers searching. “You shouldn’t be near the front. It’s not… this isn’t a place for you.” He tries to lift himself, immediately fails, and exhales in frustration. “Dammit,” he mutters. “You promised. You said you’d listen.”

The boy’s expression tightens. Warriors forces a shaky breath and softens his tone, like he did back then. “Hey.” he says, gentler now. “It’s alright. I’m here. I’ve got you. Just—just tell me you didn’t run off alone again.”

The heat behind his eyes pulses, dragging memory over reality until the two blur together completely. He can almost hear the barracks again, feel the press of bodies and fear and responsibility. “I told Impa you weren’t ready.” Warriors continues, words slurring slightly as exhaustion drags at him. “You shouldn’t have to see this. You’re… you’re just a kid.”

His voice breaks on the last word. The boy’s face wavers. For a moment his features seem to stretch, sharpen, lines etching themselves where none should be. The worry doesn’t fade, it deepens, settles into something older, heavier. But Warriors doesn’t see that. He only sees Mask, kneeling far too close to the edge of a battlefield that never should have touched him.

Warriors reaches up weakly, fingers brushing fabric at the boy’s sleeve. Solid. Real. “You okay?” he whispers again. “They didn’t hurt you, did they?”

A hand closes gently around his. Warm. Steady.

“No.” a voice says, calm, low, nothing like the boy’s. “I’m fine, Wars.”

Warriors frowns faintly, confusion knitting his brow. “You sound… tired.” he murmurs. “Did you skip sleep again?”

There’s the smallest pause.

Then the voice answers softly, “Something like that.”

Warriors exhales, tension easing just a fraction. “You can’t keep doing that.” he mutters. “You’ll burn yourself out before you ever get a chance to grow up.”

He goes quiet after that, breath shallow but steady, eyes fluttering as the fever tugs him under again. His grip loosens, fingers slipping from the boy’s sleeve. Time keeps hold of his hand anyway. He watches Warriors’s face soften as sleep takes him again, the lines of strain easing just enough to make him look younger too. Smaller. Like someone who carried too much for too long. Time bows his head slightly, thumb brushing once over Warriors’s knuckles.

“I’m still here.” he says quietly, even though Warriors can no longer hear it. “And you did keep me safe.”

Warriors doesn’t answer. But he sleeps.

Warriors wakes up like his body is personally offended that he’s conscious again. Every muscle aches. His head feels stuffed with wool and heat, throat dry and scratchy, stomach still unsettled from earlier. He makes a low, involuntary sound as he shifts, half groan, half complaint, and immediately regrets moving at all. “Hylia, I’m getting old, why does everything hurt.”

“Oh, thank Hylia.” Sky says, far too loudly for someone speaking near Warriors’s skull. “You’re awake.”

Warriors squints blearily at him. “…That’s debatable.”

Hyrule huffs a quiet laugh from the other side of the bedroll. “He’s talking. That’s improvement.”

Warriors closes his eyes again for a second, as if hoping the world might take the hint and go away. It doesn’t. The fire crackles softly. Someone shifts. The air smells like herbs and damp cloth instead of smoke and steel.

He opens his eyes again, slower this time. Time is sitting a little apart, posture careful, too careful, like he’s not quite sure where to put his hands or his attention. He’s watching Warriors.

Awkward.

Warriors swallows, throat aching. “I… ah.” His voice comes out rough and wrecked. He clears his throat, winces, and tries again. “Sorry. For earlier.”

Time blinks. “For what.”

“For…” Warriors trails off, heat creeping up his neck that has nothing to do with fever. He gestures weakly in Time’s direction. “…That. You just… I thought you were someone else.” He finishes lamely.

Time’s mouth opens, then closes again. He looks away, just briefly, like he’s recalibrating. “…You were unwell.” he says at last. 

Warriors grimaces. “I know. Still.”

Sky glances between them, picking up on the tension immediately. “You were very feverish.” he offers helpfully. “You also tried to negotiate terms of surrender with a tree.”

“That tree was hostile, clearly.” Warriors mutters.

Hyrule snorts. “It really wasn’t.”

Time’s mouth twitches despite himself. The tension eases by a hair.

Warriors shifts again and groans outright this time, clutching at the blanket like it’s personally wronged him. “Everything hurts.”

Sky leans in at once, pressing the back of his fingers to Warriors’s forehead. “You’re cooler.” he says happily. “Still warm, but better.”

“I feel like I’ve been trampled by cavalry!” Warriors complains.

Hyrule nods solemnly. “If the cavalry is Sky, then yeah, you were.”

Warriors exhales, exhausted, and lets his head sink back. “…I hate being sick.”

Sky smiles, unguarded and relieved. “We know.”

Time clears his throat quietly, drawing Warriors’s attention back whether he wants it or not. “You frightened us.” he says, not stern, not reproachful. Just honest.

Warriors winces. “Sorry.”

This time, Time doesn’t dodge it. He nods once. “Apology accepted.”

There’s a pause. Not uncomfortable, exactly, but weighted. Warriors shifts, then stops, frowning faintly.

“…I didn’t say anything else stupid, did I.”

Sky and Hyrule exchange a look. Hyrule opens his mouth. Time speaks over him immediately. “No.”

Hyrule looks affronted. “Hey—”

Time cuts him a look. “Later.”

Warriors squints suspiciously. “…You’re all terrible liars.”

Sky laughs, warm and fond, and reaches out to adjust the blanket around Warriors’s shoulders. “We’re just happy you’re awake.”

And that, more than anything, makes the awkwardness bearable.

Warriors closes his eyes again, groaning softly as his head throbs, but this time, when he exhales, it’s not panic. Just fatigue. Just illness. Time remains where he is, still a little stiff, still a little uncertain, but present. And for now, that’s enough. Warriors is just starting to sink back into that unpleasant, dozy half-awake state, where everything hurts but at least it’s quiet, when he hears it. Legend.

“Oh good!” Legend says cheerfully. Far too cheerfully. “He’s conscious.”

Warriors’s eyes crack open in immediate suspicion. “…Why do you sound happy.”

Legend steps into view, hands on his hips, grin sharp enough to cut glass. “Because now I’m allowed to tell you the weird shit you said.”

Warriors groans, a long, pained sound. “I rescind consciousness.”

Sky makes a small, helpless noise like he’s trying very hard not to laugh. Hyrule abruptly finds the fire fascinating.

Legend plows on, delighted. “Let’s see. You accused a tree of espionage. You tried to give a formal apology to a washcloth, you punched a pot.”

“The pot started it.” Warriors mutters weakly.

“…and,” Legend adds, leaning in like he’s about to deliver the killing blow, “you threatened to demote your boots.”

Hyrule snorts. Warriors drags a hand over his face and immediately regrets it. “I was ill.”

“You were poetic.” Legend corrects. “Honestly, I learned a lot.”

“None of you are allowed to repeat this.” Warriors says hoarsely. “On pain of—”

“—what, you’ll stab us?” Twilight cuts in, voice amused.

Warriors freezes. Then winces hard as Twilight comes into view, crouching beside the bedroll, expression easy and relieved, no trace of lingering fear. Twilight looks… fine. Uninjured. Smiling.

“Oh.” Warriors breathes. “Thank Hylia.”

Twilight blinks. “For…?”

Warriors swallows, throat tight. “…I’m sorry. About earlier. I—” He grimaces. “I nearly killed you.”

Legend opens his mouth.

Twilight waves a hand immediately. “Naw. You didn’t.”

“I had my sword up.” Warriors insists miserably. “I knocked you down.”

“And Sky tackled you before you could do anything worse.” Twilight says lightly. “That’s called teamwork.”

“That was not—”

Twilight grins, sharp and reassuring. “Wars. I’ve seen you actually try to kill things. That wasn’t it. That was you bein’ sick and scared outta your mind.”

Warriors looks away, ears burning. “…Still.”

Twilight’s expression softens. He reaches out and gives Warriors’s shoulder a brief, solid squeeze. “I’m not mad.” he says simply. “Just glad you’re back with us.”

That… helps. More than Warriors wants to admit. Legend, of course, ruins the moment immediately.

“Also,” he adds brightly, “you asked Twilight to make it ‘quick and dignified’ if he had to execute you.”

Warriors makes a sound like a dying animal. Sky covers his mouth. Hyrule straight-up laughs.

Time stares. “…You did what.”

Warriors squeezes his eyes shut. “I wasn't in my right mind.”

Twilight snorts. “Yeah, I gathered.” He glances at Legend. “Did you tell him about the medals thing?”

Legend grins wider. “Oh, I was saving that.”

“No.” Warriors croaks. “Absolutely not.”

Twilight stands, still smiling, relief plain in every line of him. “Rest.” he says, gentle but firm. “We’ll pick on you later.”

Legend salutes mockingly. “Get well soon, Captain. I have notes.”

Warriors glares weakly at all of them. “…I hate all of you.”

Sky beams. “We know.”

And surrounded by grins, laughter, and the undeniable fact that Twilight is alive and unstabbed, Warriors lets his eyes slide shut again, still sick, still sore, but no longer afraid of what he might’ve done. He lets his gaze drift back to Time before he can stop himself. It’s unintentional at first, just a flicker of attention drawn by movement, by presence, but once his eyes land, they stick. Time is still seated where he was, posture easy, composed in that infuriatingly serene way of his. He looks like himself. He always does. And yet. The longer Warriors looks, the more the edges start to blur, not visually this time, not fever tricks, but something quieter and worse. Familiar. The set of Time’s shoulders when he leans forward. The way his eyes gleam with mischief without him meaning them to. The patience. The restraint. The knowing.

Warriors’s jaw tightens. No. That’s ridiculous. He’s exhausted. Sick. His head is still full of cotton and heat and leftover fear. Of course his mind is reaching for patterns that aren’t there. He resigned himself to never seeing mask again. Now nostalgia makes him grasp at straws like a madman.

He looks away.

Then back again. Time meets his gaze immediately, like he’d been aware of it all along.

And in that instant, brief, devastating, Warriors knows.

Not because of anything Time does. Not because of some grand reveal or slip of the mask. Just… the look. The way Time’s eyes hold his, steady and calm and unbearably gentle, like he’s seen Warriors like this before. Like he remembers something Warriors thought only lived in his own head. Like he remembers him.

Warriors’s chest aches.

He searches Time’s face harder now, almost against his will, cataloguing details with the ruthless precision of a commander assessing a battlefield. The eyes, older now, but the same depth. The mouth, pressed into that familiar thoughtful line. The stillness that feels less like distance and more like practiced survival.

Mask had looked at him like that.

Back then. When the world was too big and too sharp and Warriors was trying, failing, to be enough for both of them. His fingers curl into the blanket, knuckles whitening. Time doesn’t react. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. But something flickers there, just for a heartbeat, recognition, maybe. Or acknowledgement. Not surprise.

That hurts more than anything else. Because it means Time knows too. He knew then. He knows now. And he said nothing. Warriors swallows hard, throat tight. The thought lands slow and heavy, settling into him like a bruise forming under the skin. All that time. All those years. Carrying that memory alone, thinking the boy he failed to protect had vanished into the churn of war and time and consequence.

Alive.

Here.

Sitting three feet away and pretending not to see the fracture forming behind Warriors’s eyes. Of course Time wouldn’t say anything. He never forces things. Never drags old wounds into the light unless they ask to be seen. It’s one of his better qualities. It still feels like a betrayal. Warriors tears his gaze away first, blinking hard. He stares at the fire, at the ground, at anything that isn’t Time’s face, jaw clenched so tight it aches. His pride bristles uselessly, anger flaring and fading in the same breath, leaving only something raw and wounded behind.

You could have told me.

The thought goes nowhere. There’s no accusation in it. Just hurt.

Time shifts slightly in his peripheral vision, adjusting his posture, but he doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t speak. He gives Warriors the space like a deliberate choice, not avoidance.

That, too, hurts.

Warriors exhales slowly through his nose and sinks back into the bedroll, exhaustion pressing down on him again. His head throbs. His body aches. His chest feels strangely hollow. He keeps his eyes closed this time. If Time knows, and Warriors is certain now that he does, then this silence isn’t ignorance.

But what is it?

And Warriors, for all his stubbornness, isn’t ready to find out.

Wild’s laughter reaches him, a welcome distraction. It’s not loud, Wild rarely is when he’s actually being sneaky, but it’s unmistakable, that breathless, barely-contained giggle that means he’s up to something and very pleased with himself about it. Hyrule is with him, shoulders hunched, hand clamped over his mouth, eyes bright with shared mischief. They gesture Warriors over. Warriors hesitates for half a second, out of habit more than need, then pushes himself to his feet. His legs hold. No wobble. No tremor. Just a faint, lingering ache and the dull heaviness of someone who’s been sick and is still in recovery. He rolls his shoulders once, smooths his tunic, and walks over, grateful for the excuse to put some distance between himself and Time and his own spiralling thoughts.

“And what,” Warriors asks wryly, already bracing himself, “might you be giggling about'

Wild bites his lip. Hyrule fails entirely and snorts. “Okay,” Wild says, clearly trying, and failing, to sound innocent, “so. In my defence. You were out.”

Warriors narrows his eyes. “That is never a reassuring preface.”

Hyrule gestures eagerly at the Sheikah Slate in Wild’s hands. “You should see this.”

“I absolutely should not.”

Wild beams and tilts the slate anyway. The first image loads. Warriors stares. It’s him. Obviously. Asleep on a bedroll, head tilted back at an angle no one should ever be allowed to witness. His mouth is open. Not dignified-open, drooling-open. His cheeks are flushed a deep, feverish pink, lashes clumped slightly, hair flattened messily against his forehead.

Warriors makes a strangled noise. “Delete it.”

Wild flicks to the next picture. This one is worse. Same angle. Same drooling. But now Legend is clearly visible in the background, crouched beside him with a shit-eating grin, carefully balancing a compass on Warriors’s head. “Oh,” Hyrule says helpfully, “that was early on.”

Wild swipes again. Another picture. A smooth stone has joined the compass. Another swipe. A feather. Another. A folded cloth. Another. A small wooden charm. Warriors watches in horrified silence as the tower grows, picture by picture, like a slow-motion execution of his dignity. Legend appears in most of them, expression delighted. Wind pops into frame once, eyes wide with awe. In one particularly damning shot, Time is visible in the background, arms folded, expression unreadable.

Warriors closes his eyes. “…How many,” he asks tightly, “did you take.”

Wild tilts his head, counting. “Uh. Thirty-two?”

Hyrule nods. “Thirty-four, if you count the blurry ones.”

Warriors opens his eyes again, very slowly. “You are all dead.”

Wild laughs outright now. “You should’ve heard yourself!”

“I do not want to hear myself.”

“You told Legend not to touch your medals.” Hyrule adds, grinning. “And then you tried to salute a blanket.”

Warriors pinches the bridge of his nose. “I was delirious.”

“Yep.” Wild agrees brightly. “It was incredible.”

Wild swipes one last time and stops on a photo that somehow manages to be both mortifying and absurd, Warriors mid-snore, drool threatening to escape, tower of objects balanced precariously on his head, and at the very top, unmistakable even in the firelight, a single green rupee.

Warriors stares at it.

“…Legend.” he says flatly.

Wild grins with glee, shaking his head. “No. Time.”

Hyrule snickers. “He said it was for you to buy some dignity when you woke up.”

Warriors exhales slowly, then squares his shoulders, lifting his chin with all the wounded pride of a man who has lost a battle but intends to win the war. He shakes his head with a small smile, confident revenge would be achieved. “Very well.” he says stiffly. “Enjoy it while you can.”

Wild grins. “Oh, we will.”

Warriors levels them with a glare. “…If that slate ever leaves your possession, I will deny everything.”

Wild taps the screen, already saving the images. “Of course, Captain.”

Despite himself, despite the lingering ache, the humiliation, the knowledge that this will never truly die, Warriors feels the knot in his chest loosen just a little. He shakes his head, lips twitching despite his best efforts. “…You are all insufferable.”

Hyrule beams. “You love us.”

Warriors sniffs. “Debatable.”

But he doesn’t walk away. And that, Wild decides, is victory enough.

Later, when the fire has burned down to embers and the camp has gone quiet in that loose, trusting way it only ever does when everyone is sure the night will hold, Warriors lies back on his bedroll and stares up at the stars. They’re sharp tonight. Cold. Distant. The same stars he’s slept under a hundred times, in a hundred different lives. His body still aches. His throat is raw. His pride is in ruins. Somewhere, irrefutable proof of that exists in Wild’s slate, preserved for eternity. But his hands are steady now. His breath comes easy. And that should be enough.

He turns his head just slightly and catches sight of Time near the fire, seated alone, posture relaxed, face half-lit by dying embers. There’s nothing unusual about him. Nothing that shouldn’t be there.

And yet… for a heartbeat, Warriors sees something else layered over the image. A flicker. A memory. A boy standing where he never should have been, hair falling just so, eyes far too old for the rest of him.

Mask.

The thought presses in, unwelcome and unresolved. Time doesn’t look over. Doesn’t meet his gaze. He stares into the fire like he’s watching something much farther away than the flames, expression unreadable.

If Time remembers. If Time knows. Why hasn’t he said anything?  Warriors swallows, jaw tightening as he stares back up at the stars. There are questions sitting heavy in his chest, sharp and insistent, but his head still throbs and his limbs are leaden and he knows, instinctively, that tonight is not the night to open old wounds.

Not yet.

“…Tomorrow.” he murmurs to the dark, more promise than threat, “I’m confiscating that slate.”

Legend’s voice drifts back from somewhere near the fire, lazy and smug. “Sure you are, Captain.”

Warriors huffs softly, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself, and lets his eyes slide shut.

The war is over. The mask remains.

And some things, he knows, will have to wait.