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Mark isn’t really sure what he was expecting when he walked into a conversation that started with, “Mark dear, could you do me a favor?” But he knows for a fact that he was not expecting his grandmother to send him halfway across the country (and back) in a week.
“You want me to — what?”
His grandmother huffs a deep sigh, visibly frustrated after having to explain her request to her grandson several different times, “I need you to deliver a letter, a very important letter, to the chief of the Gerudo tribe in the desert,” And, yeah; he wasn’t expecting that. Sure, he’s delivered more letters for his grandma than he can count, but he has never gone out as far as the Gerudo desert. Traveling from his humble farm home in central Hyrule all the way out to the desert in the southwest corner of the kingdom is not an easy trek, even by horseback.
And Mark, a retired Knight of Hyrule with long-standing shoulder and back problems, was surely not going to have it easy on this journey. Especially since, again, he’s never been sent out on a ‘very important’ delivery and certainly not that far away from their home. He normally does deliveries for regular citizens of neighboring villages, and the occasional voyage to Hyrule Castle Town but even that was a rarity these days (what with the King trying to establish an official postage system and doing trial runs in Castle Town).
“But why do you want me to deliver it? You are the one that’s trusted for the important deliveries, not me,” He asks, honestly confused, “Plus, I’ve never even gone on anything longer than a day trip.”
She gives him an inherently maternal look, “Mark. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not exactly getting any younger here,” And, yeah, maybe she makes a good point. He’s watched as her figure has slowly started getting slimmer and noticed how she needs more help with regular tasks due to her frame becoming frailer every day. He’s barely been living with her for a year and he’s already seen so much of her once high energy spirit fade out. He never expected her time to be cut so short so soon.
Then, in the back of his brain, he thinks that if her not going on this trip will lengthen her time, then he’s willing to do it. She’s the last family Mark’s got, and he isn’t ready to be alone again. With a great sigh and a ghost of a grin on his face, he looks the wrinkly woman in the eye.
“Okay, why not?”
—:-:—:-:—:-:—
When Mark is shoved out the door only an hour later with a messenger bag stuffed full of rupees to pay for his journey and several thick envelopes, he’s not sure he has even finished comprehending what he is about to do.
“Wait, you meant right now!?” He asks his grandmother, who is on the other side of the threshold with an abnormally large grin plastered on her wrinkly face.
“Well yes dear, it’s a very urgent message, must be delivered straight away. Now, make sure you don’t spend all your rupees in one place and don’t die,” She punctuates each word accompanied with a glare that says ‘and if you do I’ll kill you.’ She makes sure to add in a light-hearted, “Love you!” before slamming the door in Mark’s face, leaving him questioning his entire existence.
He stares at the closed door with the most dumbfounded look he thinks he’s ever worn, before heading to the local ranch just outside of town.
Once he’s there (it’s not far, perhaps a ten-minute walk max) he greets the stable girl with a warm grin. She asks for Mark’s horse’s name — it’s more of a security measure than anything, Mark boards his horse there often enough for the girl to know him — and when she gets the answer she was looking for, she steps into the barn to retrieve his horse for him.
A few minutes later she returns, guiding the animal out by its reins, its white coat shiny from a fresh grooming session (apparently his grandmother had sent ahead for his horse to be prepared for a long journey). As soon as the creature catches sight of her rider, she walks faster towards him and shoves her nose into his chest. Startled, though not surprised, Mark quickly pats her on the nose several times and strokes down her mane, soothing her so she doesn’t get too riled up before their long trek.
“It really is special, that connection you and her have, nothing I’ve ever seen before,” The stable girl comments, eyes positively sparkling while looking at the white beast. Mark nods his head because, yeah, it is special.
He thanks the stable girl again, her reply being a simple, “It’s my job,” before she leaves to attend to the next person who’s come to take out their horse.
His horse — lovingly named Naydra after one of the goddesses — already has her saddle and saddlebags strapped on securely. She breathes a puff of air in Mark’s face that pushes his hair off his forehead for a second. He looks at her fondly, redundantly asking her, “Are you ready girl?”
She, as always, seems to understand what he says, as she walks out a little further, her side now facing Mark instead of her face. He just shakes his head with a small grin plastered on his lips before he pulls himself on top of his riding companion and they take off at a slow trot into the sunrise.
“This is gonna be a long few days.”
—:-:—:-:—:-:—
“I am so exhausted.”
It’s currently his third — and what will hopefully be his last — day traveling to Gerudo Town. The afternoon sun is bright and hot, making his journey that much more tiring; even after a peaceful sleep at the stable in Gerudo Canyon. Mark had gotten to the establishment at roughly nine the previous night and had given Naydra to the attendant to have her boarded until he collected her again (he also gave specific directions and an extra 50 rupees under the table that stated if he didn’t return to get his horse within a week, to send word to his grandmother. You can never be too prepared).
Last night upon his late entry to the stable he decided that sleeping in for a few hours would be worth the extra bit of sanity he would get in return. And, luckily for his then half-asleep self, he was right.
He had set out at noon sharp, finding his way to the Gerudo Desert Gateway that had an all-encompassing view of the sea of sand before him. The sand made it difficult to walk, his feet getting caught in the grains and sinking a few inches into the earth each time. He makes a mental note to invest in some quality shoes should he ever have to traverse the seemingly endless sea of sand again.
The sun is hot — much hotter than Mark is used to — but he supposes that’s only normal when there aren’t any trees to block the oncoming rays. His sweat pools above his waist where his traveling cloak is tied, too unbearably scorching to wear such a heavy thing. He has his gray-brown pants hiked up above his knee creating a wrinkly mess over his thighs and, although he is grateful for having enough foresight to wear a short-sleeved undershirt, it doesn’t make the way the fabric clings to his back any more bearable. His hair, black as the night sky without a single star, looks more like the belly of a wet dog with the drenched locks plastered to his pale face.
He can remember having warm days back at his grandmother’s house or even all the grueling hours of training at the garrison when he was a soldier, but nothing quite as dramatic as this.
It’s now been something close to two hours in the desert (three since he left the stable) and the exhaustion is starting to kick in. He is used to day-long journeys, most of them on foot, but this is a new level of fatigue. The last two days of traveling have been living Hell and he was only on horseback — he doesn’t even want to begin to think about how tired Naydra must be. Sand is getting into his boots, disrupting what little comfort he has left and weighing him down significantly. His breath is as hot as the sun, coming back and hitting him in the face every time he takes a step forward, and that adds up. He’s just so done with everything right now.
‘How did grandma do this every other month?’ Is really the only comprehensible thought he has at the moment, all other ideas fried as soon as they try to come to the forefront of his brain. He honestly wouldn’t be surprised if he started seeing things.
The wind beats against his face, the sand drying out his skin the longer it continues to assault him on his simple journey. He’s sure by now that he has to at least be three miles from Gerudo town. He can’t say for sure though, considering that the wind is blowing sand around and making everything incredibly dusty and impossible to see through.
His feet feel heavy, his head is pounding, and his stomach growls every five yards, but he knows he can’t afford a break; it’s already a few hours past noon and three miles isn’t going to walk itself. Plus, if he does end up caught out in the dark, it will most certainly end in his early demise what with all the monster camps popping up all over the desert (he remembers overhearing such information from one of the ladies around the fire at the stable last night).
So, he keeps pushing forward, another mile — or what feels like one anyways — until his brain is about to fry and he seriously considers just taking a tiny nap in the sand.
He really considers this actually, so much so that he’s already pulling his messenger bag from across his shoulder and is about to crouch down in the sand when wait, is that—?
“Hey! Wait up!” He spots another person — a boy — only a few hundred paces in front of him. He doesn’t feel his aches and pains anymore because now he’s sprinting at this boy as fast as he can. It seems that the boy hadn’t noticed his shout the first time, so he does it again, louder and hopefully a little bit less desperate-sounding.
But before he makes it to the boy, he falls; flat on his face into the crystal sand. He quickly pulls himself up, brushing off his chest and knees, glad that no one was around to see except for — oh.
The boy, the one who was a hundred feet away from him a minute ago, is now standing directly in front of him. He has a large hood over his face, covering it in a dark shadow and making most of his features blur together into one. But Mark can still make out his lips. They’re full, and they’re the prettiest shade of pink Mark has ever laid his eyes on. He doesn’t even care that he’s staring at this boy because wow he deserves to be admired with looks like that.
In Mark’s humble and only slightly biased opinion, this boy — based on his lips alone — deserves monuments to be made of him, showcasing his beauty for all of Hyrule to see. Because as much as Mark would like to be selfish over a boy he’s only just seen, this boy deserves his beauty to be known by everyone, everywhere. Mark would even go as far as to say that his breathtaking appearance could end wars, those of the past, present, and future alike.
But then, the boy is bringing his hood down, revealing the rest of his face and, oh no. Mark’s brain shuts down completely, any semblance of a complete thought carried away with the bustling desert winds because not only is the rest of this boy’s face breathtaking, it’s also terrifying.
If Mark was shaking in his boots with his jaw on the floor before, he is now ten times more affected. The boy, the one currently glaring daggers at him, is no boy at all; he is none other than Haechan.
Haechan, the first male Gerudo to be born in one thousand years. Haechan, the official Chief of the entire Gerudo tribe. Haechan, the one so gorgeous and glowing he has been nicknamed ‘The Second Desert Sun.’
That Haechan. And, as it turns out, ‘that Haechan,’ is earth-shakingly scary.
“What brings you here!” He bellows out, his booming voice sending a spark of what Mark assumes to be fear down his spine. Although, as much as it makes him fear for his life, it also sobers him up a bit and forces him to reassess what very well may be his last few moments as a living person. He must have thrown his messenger bag when he fell because it’s splayed just out of reach of his right hand and some of what was inside is now laying on the golden sand — including the very important letter that he was sent to deliver to the Gerudo Chief that is standing right in front of him.
He scrambles for an answer that will make sense, “I—I’m here in the place of Ms. Hath to deliver a message, sir,” (Mark makes a mental note of Haechan cringing at the word sir).
He tsks, pushing his foot an inch closer to Mark’s folded legs, “And how do I know you aren’t lying, hm? For all I know you could be another one of those blasted ‘Yiga Clan’ in disguise, trying to attack another one of my people in the name of your evil doings.”
Mark leans back, a poor attempt at getting some distance between himself and Haechan’s overwhelming aura. And, like a smart person, he doesn’t keep the intimidating man waiting when he quickly points to the letter next to his messenger bag, “I have confirmation from Ms. Hath herself; signed, sealed, and written in Gerudo for your convenience.”
Haechan follows his finger to the paper in the sand, giving Mark a final doubtful glance, before he swipes the seemingly offensive thing from the ground. He analyzes the parchment and the words written on it — none of which Mark can discern due to his lacking knowledge of the Gerudo language — before he shoves the thing into the back of the waist of his trousers. He seems satisfied with what he read, seeing as how he didn’t shred the letter in Mark’s face.
Mark gulps, the other man silently looking him over from head to toe before he shakes his head and turns in the opposite direction. He walks towards the town, the original destination Mark was meant to reach, with a sway to his hips and his hair blowing with the evening wind. Haechan turns his head in the direction of the wind, years of riding through sand storms making the bits of sand flying into his eyes go completely unnoticed. He seems to be looking at something in the distance, watching it; perhaps he is waiting for something.
That’s when Mark gets a better look at his side profile, his lips that Mark had previously been gawking at, protruding out nicely along his face, complementing his sharp jaw and long bird-like nose — a signature of the Gerudo people. And, better yet, all of it is framed with soft locks of bright fuchsia hair, curly and beautiful all on its own. It’s not hard to see why he is so widely admired, his face is built like a perfectly chiseled statue not unlike those used in worship of the goddesses. It’s fitting, really, because even based on a single feature alone, he is a man worthy of worship; worthy of hundreds upon thousands of people committing their lives to praying on his behalf. Farmers sacrificing their best bunch of crops, women offering their most perfected recipes, children showing small things that may not be inherently important to the common person but they thought it was amazing enough to give to a god.
Haechan turns his head one last time, catching Mark’s stare with one of his own; an unimpressed look befalls his face.
“There’s a storm coming in, Northwest of here.” He seems to be deeply contemplating something, waging a war in his own mind. But then, he visibly makes up his mind with his eyes focusing on Mark, “It’d cut you off before you made it even halfway to the nearest camp. So, if you were planning on surviving a night in the desert, it’d be best you take shelter in town, no?”
And, while Mark wasn’t sure what Haechan could possibly say, he definitely didn’t think it would involve inviting him into Gerudo Town. ‘The town where the Gerudo, a clan solely of women and their one male who just so happens to be the Chief, live. The town where men are strictly forbidden and are thrown out immediately should they even place a toe into the place.’
That’s the town that Haechan suggests would be a good place for Mark — a man — to take shelter from a sand storm.
His only question now is, ‘Why on Earth would the Chief of such a place invite me in?’ But it seems, when Haechan begins walking away with a — completely and totally related — sway to his hips, that Mark won’t be getting that answer as easily as he had hoped. So he picks himself, along with his poor messenger bag, up off the desert floor and follows the pink-haired man like a lost puppy.
—:-:—:-:—:-:—
“I thought we were going into town, isn’t the entrance there?” Mark asks as they’re only a few hundred feet from the front of the town. Haechan had taken a sharp right turn, bringing them further from the entrance.
“Sa’oten no, you’d be tossed out faster than you would know what hit you. We’re taking one of the side entrances; the guards I have on duty there won’t question me when I let another voe in and it’s closer to a place where you can hideout for the night.”
They near what Mark can now make out as one of the so-called side entrances where a Gerudo woman is standing guard and his nerves increase ten-fold. ‘ I’m too young to die, especially at the hands of a tall pink-haired woman!’
When Haechan approaches the guard and gives her a warm “Sav’saaba,” he also leans in to whisper in her ear. The two of them stay that way for several seconds, Mark allowing himself to bask in the glory of the wall in front of him. It’s not much to look at, bland sandstone with no carvings or decor along the entire thing, but he figures it does what it needs to do. After all, Gerudo Town isn’t meant to be an inviting place (especially not for men). It’s meant to keep everyone else out; a fortress if you will.
When the guard turns her head to see Mark, who upon eye contact can only manage a lop-sided smile, she gives him a once over. Her green eyes never focus on one place too long, the glare she’s wearing making it clear that she would rather not have to look at him at all.
She and Haechan have a lot in common, as Mark imagines the rest of the Gerudo do as well. They both have stunning hot pink hair, thick and voluminous and eye-catching in their own right. Haechan’s is pulled back out of his face with a gold headpiece and it ends just above his shoulders while the woman has hair to the middle of her back in a neat high pony. The two look down their long bird-like noses at Mark the same way: with slight distaste and a heaping amount of distrust. But, he supposes, that’s what decades upon decades of tradition does. The only difference is in their eyes, the guard’s bright emerald green ones a stark comparison next to Haechan’s luscious gold eyes (Mark thinks it’s fitting, the leader of the desert tribe having eyes the color of the sand they travel).
And as soon as the entire interaction begins, it ends, Haechan stepping back to give the guard some space. He gives her a curt nod to which she replies with a firm pound of her staff against the sandstone floor. The tall woman gives Mark a final dirty look before turning her head to face forward, resuming her duties.
Haechan brushes a piece of hair out of his face and begins walking into his town, nothing even as small as a glance spared in Mark’s direction.
Not wanting to be left in the dust (literally, the storm had picked up a decent amount since they set out from where they initially crossed paths) he hurried after the man, making sure to keep his footsteps quiet. There’s a small fenced off area to his left with a few large animals inside (Mark assumes they are the sand seals that his grandmother has always said she loves dearly) and a small stand where a woman is sleeping in a chair. They pass through several openings that lead to other rooms, none of them housing anything that stands out or looks out of the ordinary. But then they arrive at what appears to be a throne room of some sort, a large chair made of sandstone and covered in beautifully decorated rugs stands at the center, several stone statues of Gerudo warriors surrounding the ornate throne. But before he can get a better look at the place he is hurrying after Haechan up a set of stairs near the front of the room.
The stairs split off, one continuing to go straight and the other going up and to the right. Haechan takes the one in front of them. From here, Mark can see the rest of the town several feet below him. There isn’t much to look at, really, a few stalls with sleeping vendors and two streams of water going down the center of the entire place, it really is a sight to behold.
At the top of the stairs is a single door on a small landing. Mark assumes Haechan’s room is beyond the door, blushing a bit at the idea of staying the night in his room with him.
He was, however, quickly brought out of those thoughts when Haechan opened the door to reveal a small room with a few boxes and brooms shoved in the corner.
Before Mark could ask if he was actually going to be sleeping in a broom closet, Haechan gave a forceful push to his back and shoved him in the room with a gentle, “Sav’orr,” shutting the door in his face.
And even though Mark doesn’t want to get his own hopes up, he swears on the goddesses that there was almost hesitance in Haechan’s face when he left. Almost.
—:-:—:-:—:-:—
It’s the next morning and Mark wakes up in the same spot in the same room that he fell asleep in. He was so tired last night that he couldn’t find it in himself to complain about the fact that he was sleeping in a broom closet and curled up in a corner on the floor. The sandstone kept him cool while his long traveling cloak made sure he didn’t freeze from the chilly desert night.
He rubs his eyes and sits up, flinching when a bright sliver of sunlight meets his eyes. He groans in response, moving his head back and reopening his eyes to follow the golden beam. It leads all the way up and out a long and thin hole at the top of the wall, which Mark can only guess is meant to act as a way to keep the room ventilated.
He’s not sure what to do now. It’s already fairly late in the morning if the color of the sunlight is anything to go by, and he can’t exactly just walk out of this room where anyone could see that he is, in fact, a ‘voe’ and that he stayed in their town overnight (the latter more so because he didn’t want Haechan to face any heat for so kindly allowing Mark to stay safe through the night).
Which, now that he’s thinking about it, why did Haechan sneak him in? He could have very easily left him in the middle of the desert, no food, water, or shelter at his immediate disposal; he didn’t owe Mark anything. As far as Haechan knew, Mark was a fill-in delivery boy, easily replaceable and not worth the time and effort of the chief of the Gerudo (not to mention the fact that he is the most handsome person Mark has ever laid eyes on).
He can’t think about it for much longer because the next thing he knows is he’s jumping back from where he was standing and colliding with a stack of crates. He was startled by the door suddenly opening, swinging forward with a fierce amount of force yet somehow managing to not bang into the wall. In Mark’s stumble, it would seem he managed to throw a crate so far it knocked into several of the brooms standing up in the corner, all of which fell straight to the ground with several thuds and bangs.
“ Sa’oten, are you trying to let the whole town know you’re here?” It’s Haechan, the same magnificent image he was the day prior — sharp tongue included. Mark, with his brain frazzled in every way possible, can only muster a few dull blinks at the man in front of him. Haechan rolls his eyes, one of the few things he seems capable of doing in Mark’s presence, and mutters an almost incoherent ‘ Goddess help us all,’ before his stern and bitter look returns and rips Mark apart from the inside out, “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you aren’t exactly welcome in this town.”
Mark just gapes.
Haechan’s thinly-veiled message is loud and clear: get out. It makes Mark a little sad but then he thinks, ‘It’s not like I was even meant to be here anyway,’ and snaps out of his stupor immediately.
“Yes, I — actually — have noticed,” And it’s so awkward Mark wishes someone would just slap him upside the head. ‘I’m sure Haechan wouldn’t mind volunteering at this point.’
“Right, let us get going then,” And just like that, Haechan is leading the way down the small flight of stairs that led to the blasted cupboard. Mark tries his best to keep up, he really does, but Haechan is all long legs and strong gait, so he ends up falling behind after not even five seconds. They’ve made it to a landing before the next set of tall sandstone stairs, Haechan about to round the corner to take them on before the all too familiar sound of thundering footsteps clouds their ears.
It was one second Mark was hearing said footsteps, his brain barely comprehending the incoming threat that was about to be upon them, and then the next he was being dragged inside another room, this one different than the last, with a door slamming shut behind him. There’s a hand over his mouth, leaving only a sliver between the top of said hand and the tip of his nose that he can breathe through.
“Chief? Are you alright in there? We began getting worried when you did not come down at your usual time.”
“My apologies for worrying you Kalohm, I ran into some small matters I needed to take care of before leaving this morning. I am just about finished up and I will be down for reports momentarily,” That’s when Mark notices that the hand over his mouth is Haechan’s (he’s not sure what he was expecting, but it’s a relieving surprise nonetheless). He assumes the person on the other side of the door — the door that he has also just realized he is being pressed up against — must be one of the other guards, one that doesn’t know of Mark’s presence in the town.
“Yes Chief,” And just like the guard at the entrance last night, she pounds what Mark believes to be the butt end of a staff against the floor before her footsteps begin to fade into the distance.
The two of them are left in silence, Mark fully noticing just how close they are right now. Haechan has one hand pressed against the door, the other still pressed firmly against his mouth even after the threat of being found is far gone. Their knees brush against each other when Mark fidgets, not used to being this close to anyone, much less someone who is so drop-dead handsome it makes Mark’s head spin.
He’s sure that Haechan can feel his heart beating out of his chest; the weak thing thumping so hard against his rib cage it just may be trying to break free. However, if Haechan does notice anything, he doesn’t say it.
Neither of them move, Mark physically unable to with Haechan’s broad shoulders and thick muscles creating a barrier around his much less in-shape body (and making Mark’s thoughts a little clouded and fuzzy). He’s not sure why Haechan isn’t moving though.
Haechan could easily pull back and release Mark from his dizzying hold, but instead, he stays, locking eyes with Mark. His beautiful burnt gold eyes, the color of historic metal and history; they match the rest of his ensemble well, half of his chest covered with a breastplate of gold with perfectly cute jade and rubellite jewels. There’s a red shirt under it, preventing the metal from rubbing against his soft skin. The cloth runs along the length of his left arm, fashioning a full-length sleeve held down with a golden vambrace decorated in the same jewels. There's a matching one on his right forearm, a thick strip of leather just above it with intricate Gerudo scripture.
Yesterday, in the fading light, he looked like a child in his large hooded cloak. But today, he is a warrior through and through, gold shining against the morning sun, the red of his clothes mixing with the tan of his skin in a way Mark didn’t think possible.
He’s covered in jewels and riches like the true king Mark saw him as, and like ancient Gerudo civilizations would have named him. And it doesn’t just look good — great — on him purely from the aesthetics alone; it’s in the way he carries himself in his Chief garb, posture tall and straight, commanding the attention of anyone and everyone in sight. It’s in the way his fuchsia locks twirl and dance in the desert winds but do nothing against his concentration.
Mark thinks that beautiful is an understatement; he thinks that any word is an understatement for the masterpiece that is Haechan of the Gerudo.
But the most puzzling part is why Haechan of the Gerudo, who is fierce enough and ethereal enough for an entire country, is staring at the nobody that Mark Lee considers himself to be. Haechan is the sun, everything orbiting his addicting warmth and beauty, wanting to get closer, closer, being burned in their desire for more. And Mark, small insignificant in comparison Mark, is nothing but another star in the sky; one of thousands — millions — wishing to look just a bit longer, wishing to get just a bit closer.
“Are you— are you gonna move? Because I don’t think I can in this… position,” Mark mutters helplessly, tilting his head down in an attempt to hide the all-consuming blush rising to his face.
Haechan’s eyes widen for a short moment, his pupils dilating inward, making Mark even more confused. His mind seems to sober up and he doesn’t lose his composure as he lightly pushes himself off of the door and away from Mark. His eyes fix themselves, a larger black circle now taking place of the smaller one, still swimming in the untouchable sea of his golden irises.
“I have some things to take care of as Chief for the remainder of the morning. Thankfully, we have a night raid planned on nearby monster camps, which means most of my best guards will be resting for the afternoon and we can get you out of here with little to no resistance,” He states, his mannerisms reverting to their usual chief persona.
Mark blinks at him, “So what should I do then?”
“You will stay here and stay quiet,” He looks him up and down, analyzing Mark so intensely it feels like he can see right through him, “I will bring food at noon seeing as how you haven’t eaten since being here and I have no plans of carrying you out.”
Mark gives him a hesitant nod of his head, Haechan staring at Mark with an unreadable emotion behind his eyes. But as soon as Mark tries prodding his way into Haechan’s mind, tries to get a glimpse at what the other is thinking, he’s gone in a blur of tan and gold.
—:-:—:-:—:-:—
It isn’t until Mark has read through a hundred pages of a Gerudo history book and several hours have passed that he realizes how crazy the last few days of his life have been. He’s seen more of Hyrule than he ever could have imagined possible for a small-town boy like himself on the journey to the desert alone, and then, to top off the once-in-a-lifetime adventure, he met a famous Gerudo chief who takes his breath away every time their eyes meet.
Takes his breath away. “I really am that far gone after not even a full day huh?”
He’s learned a lot, being cooped up in a room with shelves upon shelves of books and not much else to do other than read. The history book he’s currently dissecting is from the perspective of a Hylian scholar and explains the Gerudo tribe in-depth spanning from biological commonalities to the average life of a modern Gerudo person. The Gerudo are known for being an all-women tribe that worships the Goddess of the Sand.
Ages ago it was told that a full-blooded Gerudo male was born every 100 years and that he was to be crowned king.
And that held true for hundreds of thousands of years until one male Gerudo by the name of Ganondorf was born. He has brought death and destruction to the land of Hyrule several times throughout history, each time he is thankfully taken down by heroes of each period of time, but the demise he leaves in his wake is remembered for ages.
Within the past thousand years, the Gerudo did not have a male born due to Ganondorf leaving an ill impression of Gerudo men on everyone. A hundred years ago Ganondorf was struck down once and for all, restoring a much-needed peace to Hyrule and its people.
Twenty years after that, Haechan is the first male Gerudo to be born in over a millennium.
The tradition of Gerudo men automatically being crowned the leader has long since been removed and Haechan was required to earn his way to chiefdom. And he did so as the best warrior the tribe has seen since the late lady Urbosa.
To say Mark was impressed by everything Haechan has done is an understatement. He’s impressed, dumbfounded, and attracted all at the same time (“Though I suppose that’s only natural when thinking about someone of his magnitude and skill set”).
Haechan managed to best a once-formidable chief in combat at the ripe age of seventeen and is now one of the most well known Gerudo at the age of twenty.
And just as Mark is beginning to let his mind wander a little too far away from the topic, the man of his thoughts comes striding in through the once locked door, shutting it securely behind him. He’s carrying a golden tray with two round green things Mark has never seen before.
“I brought you hydromelons for lunch and if you eat quick enough we can be out of town by one,” He says, lowering the tray to the table next to Mark’s chair. Mark’s face must show his curiosity and confusion as to what exactly a hydromelon is because Haechan explains not a moment later, “It’s a very watery type of melon. It’s very sweet and a favorite among most who visit the Desert.”
As soon as the explanation is over Haechan walks across the room to his desk and starts writing things on scrolls of paper. Mark, excited to try this new food, delves in.
He quickly realizes that it is indeed just as Haechan said it would be; it’s sweet and watery and thirst-quenching all at the same time and Mark can’t believe he has come this far in his life without tasting such a magnificent thing before.
He looks over at Haechan, about to share his thoughts on this delicious thing before him, but stops when he realizes that Haechan doesn’t have any food of his own. He’s working on something at his desk, a writing utensil in his hand and parchment beneath his forearm; no food in sight. Mark gets worried, ‘why isn’t he eating anything?’
“Did you eat anything?” Mark asks hesitantly. He’s not sure what kind of mood Haechan might be in and the last thing he wants is to upset his ticket out of Gerudo town alive.
He doesn’t move to look at Mark as he says, “I’m fine thank you.”
“Have you eaten at all today? You’ll need twice the strength I do.”
This time he turns to look at Mark, inspecting the outstretched hand holding the other hydromelon, before dropping his writing utensil and plopping into the chair across from Mark. He takes the offered fruit with the ghost of a smile on his face and digs in. The two of them eat in silence, revel in it for two completely different reasons; Mark for the time to collect his thoughts and think of decent small talk, and Haechan for the mental break.
Mark’s not sure where to go from this. The silence isn’t necessarily awkward, but there’s an underlying tension that hangs thick in the air. He’s sure that they both know it’s there, it’s too heavy and uncomfortably warm for Haechan to not have noticed, and Mark, getting braver the longer he hypes himself up in his thoughts, decides he would like to try to strike up a conversation. He only hopes it will be interesting enough to keep Haechan’s attention, full and acute and everything Mark could ever want. So he starts with a common interest, a subject Haechan knows the most about and one that Mark is so eager to understand:
“I was—” He clears his throat, the courage he had built up beginning to dissipate slightly, “I was reading one of your books, about the Gerudo, but there was a part I was curious about?” He says, voice raising at the end in uncertainty. Haechan regards him with a slight tilt of the head in Mark’s direction.
Haechan’s eyes remain on his lunch but Mark is far too giddy to care (he considers even this small thing a victory).
“Well, this book said something about not having accurate transcripts of the Gerudo language, and I was just wondering why that was?”
Haechan looks at his melon thoughtfully, Mark staring particularly at leftover juice dripping down the pink-haired’s chin, when he responds, “For millennia my people were distanced from the rest of society and few who were not blood-born Gerudo were able to pick up the language. Even though in more recent years we have been more integrated, we are still fairly cut off thanks to most people’s little desire to travel through the desert, and language translation isn’t an overnight process.”
Mark nods, taking in the information and letting it soak into his brain to comprehend it fully.
“But that’s beside the point because — while my people have always been fluent in both Gerudo and Hylian — no blood-born member of the Gerudo would willingly give up something as precious as our language to an outsider,” He looks out one of the various windows in his room, admiring his town and the vast sea of sand beyond it.
They are basked in silence once again, Haechan admiring the view out the window and Mark admiring the one sitting in front of him. He wonders how Haechan is able to act as if he isn’t blatantly being eyed — Mark knows he isn’t being subtle. He figures he doesn’t have time for subtleties when his time with Haechan is being cut shorter and shorter with each passing minute.
Haechan turns back to facing forward, locking eyes with Mark’s. A shiver of panic runs down Mark’s spine, ‘Caught,’ he thinks, but neither breaks the contact.
“I really enjoy watching the sunrise and set every day,” Haechan mutters, barely loud enough for Mark to hear across the small distance between them. His eyes soften a bit; he truly means every word he’s saying, “Perhaps it’s because the sand and sky are all I know; or perhaps it’s because it’s the only constant in a world plagued with dishonesty and hostility.”
They stare for a few moments longer, the gaze growing intense in a way Mark’s not sure he’s familiar with, before Haechan is widening his eyes the slightest bit and whipping back to looking out the window. His exposed chest turns pink in the afternoon sun, dancing up his neck and dusting the apples of his cheeks the lightest of all.
Mark decides then and there that Haechan blushing is a gift from the goddesses themselves; hand-picked for Mark and Mark’s eyes only (that’s what he’ll fool himself into believing: believing he is the only person blessed enough to witness such a sight, no matter how true or false that belief may actually be).
“We’d better get going if you plan on making it to the Desert Gateway before dusk,” Haechan says, formalities back on in a thick layer with his signature mask of authority to top it all off. He stands from his chair, leaving the rine of his half of the melon on the low table in front of them.
Mark shakes himself off, pushing the events just far back enough in his brain to focus on the task at hand, but not so far back that he forgets about its existence. He wipes off the front of his pants quickly and gives Haechan an affirmative nod.
Haechan springs into action at that, giving Mark short directions on how they will quietly yet efficiently make their way out of the town through a different exit than the archway they entered through last night. Mark listens attentively, clings onto every word and statement that falls from the fuchsia haired boy’s mouth.
And it’s like this, Haechan blazing a trail for Mark to tentatively follow, that they make their escape.
—:-:—:-:—:-:—
It’s only been what Mark believes to be an hour since they left the beautiful desert town and he already misses it. He barely even got to see the place but it has already, in that short time, carved a special place in his heart. Or maybe it isn’t the town at all; maybe it’s the boy that lives there, tan skin and gold eyes glistening in the morning sun.
The same boy is glowing right now, riding beside him on a shield led by a sand seal, though this time he is embraced by the warm light of a setting sun. It’s different, most certainly a different ambiance than before, but not in a bad way. In fact, Mark dares to say this is better. The warm-toned evening backlights Haechan in a way the morning could only ever dream to.
The sunlight of the day enhances how young and boyish and yet powerful Haechan truly is; it shows him in full, no shadows in sight. It is a reminder of what he is: the Chief of the Gerudo tribe.
But the setting sun, the oranges and pinks of the sky reflect off of him, blend his tanned skin into unblemished perfection and all that is left behind is the sharp angles of his jaw and the toned muscle of his arm. He is still a boy, most definitely, but anyone who met him at this time of day wouldn’t have the slightest clue. His charm that is hidden beneath a thick layer of power and strength is showcased completely in this light, the glimmer in his eye a reflection of the floor of sand he walks.
“I never got your name,” Mark is snapped out of his Haechan induced stupor when the other man speaks to him. He almost misses it with the sliding of sand beneath their shields and the panting of the seals filling his ears.
“Oh,” He’s quiet, he doesn’t know why he is so thrown off by the question, “It’s Mark.”
Haechan nods at that, though this isn’t like the curt motion he used with his guards. It’s softer, gentler in a sense. It’s not meant to be assertive or aggressive like his usual persona. They go silent again after that, Mark wishing he had listened to his family all those years ago when they told him he needs to get better at socializing. Luckily for him, it seems he is an open book that Haechan can read almost too easily, and he carries the conversation in areas where Mark cannot.
“Where do you come from?”
He collects himself, his mild panic in his brain subsiding as quickly as it came, “I was born and raised in Lanayru Province but I live in Central Hyrule now, a small place by the name of Mabe Village.”
A slight glimpse of recognition flickers behind Haechan’s eyes, “I’m familiar, though I suppose I haven’t been outside the desert in quite a few years,” He looks to the setting sun, the rays ghosting his sides and shining splendidly in his favor, “I assume you are working under the old woman who previously handled deliveries, how is she?”
Mark gulps, his mind had entirely strayed from the worsening condition of his grandmother, “She’s not getting any younger, unfortunately. I imagine she’ll be having me take over her deliveries completely within the next few moons.”
“I’m sorry.”
He looks to where Haechan is, catching the other man’s eyes immediately. There’s remorse — genuine remorse — dripping from his gaze. Mark can’t do much of anything other than stare. He figures ‘if you can’t cup beauty in your hands, the next best thing is to look upon it endlessly and entirely.’ He’s not sure how much more his heart can handle though, how much more looking without touching, without having.
So he looks away, stares at the ever-shrinking distance between them and the desert entrance (his inevitable exit), and shrugs out a simple, “I’m the only family she’s got left, I owe it to her to handle her life's work with care.”
They’re silent again after that, both of them finding solace in the sound of the grains of sand flicking off their shoes and getting lost in the sea at their wake.
“I do have a question though,” and Mark’s not sure where this sudden bout of confidence came from, but he guesses he’ll ride it as long as it’ll let him. Haechan just perks an eyebrow up in curiosity, silently asking him to continue, “your people have a historic dislike for men and yet, they are okay with you?”
A harmless question is all he meant, genuine curiosity. However, judging by the currently souring look on Haechan’s face, he can tell he’s said something wrong.
“I only meant — um, does that mean their opinions have changed?”
The sour face turns to a glare, Haechan looking away from Mark and instead at something far in front of him, “Voe are not permitted, nor trusted, by the people of my town,” He pauses, the glare on his face deepening.
Before he can continue his thought Mark intervenes, “What about you?”
Haechan doesn’t think about the question for more than a second and answers, “I am one of their own, they have no reason to not put their complete trust in me.”
Mark turns his head and allows a single quiet laugh to escape, “No, it seems you’ve misunderstood me, I only mean, do you trust other men, other voe?”
He scoffs, “Seeing as how I am a direct representation of my people? I feel the same as they do.”
That sentence has Mark tasting the unmistakable flavor of dying hope on his own tongue, “Well, who’s the last voe your people — no sorry — you’ve encountered?”
Haechan goes silent at that, the setting sun behind him showering his tan skin in a beautiful image. His eyes of the purest gold now bore into Mark’s brown ones, his glare lifting ever so slightly that one would miss it should they blink.
“The last one my people as a collective encountered? The dark man of pure malice himself,” Mark goes rigid at that, remembering the few things his grandmother had told him before partaking on this journey; Rule Number 2: don’t mention Ganondorf, anything relating to his evil doings are taboo and strictly forbidden.
Rule Number 1 had been something along the lines of don’t piss off their Chief or you’ll get a one-way ticket to visit the goddesses themselves. It would seem Mark isn’t very good at following rules, but at this point, he’s too far into this to care.
Haechan looks in front of himself once again, pulling Mark from his thoughts, “I, on the other hand, have not encountered a voe personally, not including yourself that is.”
And oh, if that didn’t leave Mark with an unquenchable thirst for such an unachievable thing.
He doesn’t have time to recover from the mental and emotional frenzy Haechan has just put him in because the two have just arrived at the desert Gateway. The great towering sides of the mountains encasing Gerudo Desert stood before them in all their glory, the entrance peeking out between the cracks with its decorated sandstone holding the entire structure up. It's daunting, much more so than when Mark first passed through it. Entering the desert had felt more like an exciting adventure, taking on new lands and exploring the vast world before him. But now, looking at the bleak walls and nothingness beyond the arch, he feels as if he is leaving behind a lifetime of memories and a future of infinite possibilities.
Haechan dismounts his shield first, giving the seal that transported him a few firm pats on the head and a slice of fruit he had tucked away. He brushes his trousers off, the red and black clothing complimenting his toned thighs in a way almost unimaginable.
Mark takes his turn to dismount then, reaching forward to stroke the beast that led him on its back, but is stopped short when the creature startles and dives below the sand swiftly and hides from him. He is brought back to his current situation when Haechan lets a quiet laugh leave his mouth.
Mark turns his head to the sound, Haechan donning his signature intimidating face as soon as they make eye contact.
And then they’re staring again, Mark wanting to convey his poorly hidden desire for the other man one last time and Haechan being just as unreadable as when Mark had first laid eyes on him. It’s a shame, Mark thinks, leaving such a stunning visual in an enclosed Desert. Though, perhaps it’s better to keep Haechan’s true beauty a secret for himself. He’s not delusional enough to believe there haven’t been other people vying for his everything, but he is going to make sure that he doesn’t spread the word to anyone. Because Mark is only a Hylian; a Hylian who only allows himself selfishness once in a great while.
And he’s just found a magnificent person to be selfish over.
Haechan breaks the connection first, as he has every time before, and turns to look at the distant sunset. Mark, only a mere ten steps away from leaving this Desert, can’t bear to watch Haechan slowly fading into a speck on the horizon when he inevitably hops back on his shield and returns to his home.
So Mark decides then and there, that this is it. Once he has turned around and started walking towards the archway that will lead him to his own home, he won’t turn around. And should he be tasked with delivering any letters here again (he most definitely will be considering how few people are willing to make the trip) he decides he will avoid the man.
He decides this, not because he has a hatred for the man that is far out of his league, but because his heart won’t be able to heal if it is ripped away from it’s one true desire again. Hell, it hasn’t even happened yet and Mark can already feel the sting in his chest.
Looking at Haechan right now, his mind swimming with ‘what if’s and ‘what could have been’s, Mark allows himself a final longing gaze, a final moment for his heart to say goodbye.
Because, even after all his gawking and staring, he realized he barely knows this man that his mind had deemed the definition of beauty. Mark knows of his strength, of his hard-working ability, but so did everyone else who has crossed paths with him.
And with his final thought being, “I truly will miss this idea I have of you,” he lets go.
He casts one last look at the sun that is now barely peeking over the Northernmost mountains and turns around to begin his trek back to his horse and his awaiting life as a messenger.
“Goodbye, Mark of Lanayru,” Is the last thing he hears from the desert, almost inaudible with the oncoming night winds. He pauses, contemplates turning around and running to Haechan, getting down on his knees in the evening sand and laying his heart out right then and there.
But his mind forces his legs to carry him beyond the gateway and into the canyon, his heart holding onto a thin thread of hope and yearning, a thread his heart can only wish will be enough to pull Mark back into the living, breathing desert sun’s orbit another day.