Work Text:
If the ominous, dark landscape wasn’t unpleasant enough, Warriors’s sickly charge was making the afternoon rest as miserable as possible.
“I hate this,” Wild groaned, trying to roll himself into Warriors’s side. “My body is one big ache. Make me better.”
Goddess, bless them with the patience of a sage. They were stretched out, resting against a dead tree with their sword nearby, while Wild wallowed next to them, occasionally rolling or thrashing on top of them before resettling in the little nest he’d made of his bedroll. Warriors took another deep breath. They’d survived the first hour. Surely the others would be back any moment. They’d survived stronger tests of patience before.
“I can’t just make you better. It’s not even an infection. You’ve just gotten sick and have to get through it.” Maybe, they wanted to say quietly, if you’d brought this up earlier, before the group left a town with an apothecary...
Wild gave them a stink eye before dropping back down to rest his head on their stomach. Maybe he could read minds. “I don’t get sick. Not my fault I didn’t recognize the symptoms.”
“Everyone gets sick.” Especially soldiers. Illnesses would tear through the barracks for weeks at a time. Warriors had lost count of the amount of times they’d been sick. It got better when their heroic soul was revealed and they got a private tent, but it wasn’t in their nature to leave their soldiers to suffer, so they usually caught it anyways when tending to the ill. There were never enough hands in the medical tents, and they were never turned away.
They were probably going to be sick with whatever this was by the end of the day (and then, it would tear through the rest of their group — they should make sure to do an inventory check before the rest got back, make sure there was adequate food and water, make sure to keep the bedrolls of the sick separate from the healthy, consider when the next laundry opportunity would be— )
“I never get sick,” Wild said, voice muffled by Warriors’s body. They sighed.
“Then what’s happened to your phenomenal immune system?” Silence from Wild, which was slightly unnerving, even if he was just sulking. Wild loved having the last word. Warriors’s brushed his hair aside and rested a hand on the back of his neck. Still warm, but hard to tell if it was warmer than earlier. But Wild was still perfectly coherent, just grouchy (hm, a bit like their own sister, when she was little), so the fever didn’t seem too bad yet.
“I never got sick,” Wild said, his voice distant and dreamy, finally picking up his train of thought. “Wasn’t allowed, before the Calamity. Even when I felt bad, I — they — ugh, never mind. I never got sick.” There was a pause, and Warriors let him think through it. "Couldn't risk being a burden," he said, barely above a whisper.
That answered one question, at least. Warriors let out a puff of breath, setting aside the rise of emotions in their throat, and focused on their hand stroking Wild’s hair gently. His hair was dark with sweat, wet and clumpy, so far from its usual careful stylish do. “If you ever feel sick now, I want you to tell me."
Wild hadn't mentioned for two days that his throat had gone scratchy and his joints ached beyond the usual, until his fatigue got so bad that another hero carried him and felt the fever burning through his skin. Warriors swallowed down the rising anger. If they had known earlier, the group would have remained at the inn and not pushed on to another world. If Wild's former “superiors” had taught him to respect his body, then Wild may have brought it up earlier. (A big maybe, Warriors conceded, thinking about the general dispositions of the rest of the heroes.)
"Won't be a burden," Wild muttered. "Even now."
"You can be a burden," Warriors said. "Especially now." They kept their voice firm. This part of being a team, and they needed Wild to understand that his own health affected the group’s health. Not only because this was probably contagious, but keeping silent meant Wild had to bear so much of it alone. For all of Wild's proclamations he was 'over' the anxieties that plagued him before the Calamity, it seemed his moderate illness drove him straight into the remaining crumbs.
Wild stared up at them, eyes fluttering a little. “When I’m better —” he paused to sniffle dramatically, a bit of snot running out of his nose — “I’m gonna make it up to you a lot.” And then he winked, as if that was seductive. It wasn’t ever a good wink, much closer to a blink.
“Oh? How?” Warriors asked, keeping their voice dry. But the little bit of flirtation was a relief to see, a glimmer of the real Wild hidden underneath a fever and runny nose. Warriors had missed it, these past few days.
“Kisses,” Wild whispered, trying for suggestive but landing somewhere in the vicinity of warbling keese. “Lots of kisses, everywhere. You’re so nice, Wars.” His voice was starting to fade.
It was probably a bad idea, but Warriors leaned over and kissed his forehead. (No doubt, their own fate was sealed with that kiss, but sometimes love was worth it.) “You’re very sweet, too. So maybe try and take a nap.” They watched as Wild’s body slowly relaxed, pressed tight against their own. Wild’s warm, tan skin never looked so sick, a paleness underlying the warm browns, and the flush across his face wasn’t encouraging. He was going to have to fight off a fever in a bedroll, outside a dungeon, on the middle of an island. The life of a hero was rarely fair, but this insult left a particularly petty weight in Warriors’s heart.
Next to them, Wild's eyes finally lost the battle against the heaviness of sleep. His breathing slowed, although still rattled, as Warriors slowly combed their fingers through his tangled hair.
The small island they were on was mostly safe. The single red octorok meandering around had been easily eliminated, and only a single thin wooden bridge led back to the mainland. A tall wall of rock ensured no zora could see them and spit fireballs at them. Homey? No. Safe? Enough. Several massive dead trees littered the island, and in the center, the largest of all sat with a gaping maw, two wooden eyes staring down at the heroes.
(”The Eagle,” Hyrule had said brightly, eyes widening when he recognized their new location. “My very first dungeon!” And oh Warriors saw the frozen looks that crossed some of their fellows’ faces as they stared at the large, silent tree corpse. Dead trees must be a common theme for the dungeons, and now they were going need another round of group therapy, weren’t they?)
Warriors had settled themself and Wild against a far tree so they could keep an eye on both the rickety bridge and the dungeon entrance. It was obvious Wild couldn’t go in, and to Warriors, it was obvious they were the one to stay behind. They were the only one with the field medicine knowledge to care for Wild, and, well. They wouldn’t admit it aloud... but dungeons were terrible. The battlefield was awful, but at least it was open. The oppressive and stifling air, the weight of the rocks, the silence, the occasional echoing snarl of a monster, the unyielding loneliness — no. Warriors would take a battlefield. Give them screams and the roar of battle rather than aching loneliness.
But now the afternoon had passed without the other heroes emerging from the dungeon. Warriors swallowed down the rising anxiety. It was fine.
Beside them, soft cries slipped out of Wild in his sleep. He flung himself violently away from Warriors, fever dreams chasing him away. Warriors leaned over and pressed a hand to his neck: hotter. Curses crossed his mind, but it was useless to dwell. They were trapped here until the others returned. If they returned.
Anxiety crawled down their spine. What if the other heroes had come down with Wild’s illness, down in the still and stale air of the dungeon? They would be vulnerable to any monster attack, weak to any poison.
It was almost enough to get Warriors onto their feet, but Wild twisted again and pressed tight against them. Warriors took a deep breath and let it out. Paranoia was only going to make this worse.
The sun, a miserable and muted thing here, hit the western edge of their small stone island. Tension began to creep up Warrior’s neck. The unknown rules of this world meant they had no idea if the red octorok was going to pop back into being, or a new one wander across the bridge, or some other way of repopulating the little island. A red octorok wasn’t a threat, but currently Wild was curled around their arm, shifting uneasily into fever dreams. The shadows began to lengthen, the arms of the dead trees now grasping claws dragging themselves across the ground.
Still no sign of their fellow heroes in the dungeon. How long did a ‘first dungeon’ take, anyways? Whatever they were looking for down there, surely they had found it it by now.
Tucked beside him, Wild began to shake with fever. Soft, incoherent words dripped from his mouth, intensity rising as he began to thrash in his sleep. Warriors breathed through his own rising anxiety. They’d seen this a hundred times, and Wild was not giving off any serious red flags yet.
“Sir, yes sir,” Wild mumbled, and Warriors clenched their fist in the thin blanket covering the other hero.
“Just rest,” they said quietly, trying to drip just enough command into their voice to permeate Wild’s nonsensical dreams. “Champion, you must rest.”
Wild’s cries eased, and he tossed in Warriors’s direction. Warriors had grown up fast, shoved into a leadership position before they were ready. Spending time with their soldiers, in sickness or in health, had been so grounding during the war (and made the betrayals so, so bitter). But Wild had been separated from the pack, named Champion, and isolated from nearly everyone except the royal family for most of his training and early career. Who had kept him close when he feel ill? Wild never spoke of it.
The minutes inched past. No sign of the others. Wild thrashed in fever dreams, soothed only by Warriors’s touch, and if the others were in trouble down below... At what point did they have to choose between staying with Wild and venturing into the dungeon to find the others? Wild was nearly defenseless in his fevered state.
A high-pitched shriek echoed across the waters beyond their small, safe-enough corner, an inhuman cry of hunger. Several shrieks rose up with the first call, a cacophony that felt like nails in Warriors’s ears. Wild tossed, a soft sob slipping out, some mumblings of keese. Warriors shuddered. Their keese didn’t sound like that.
They wouldn’t leave Wild alone in this barren world. They would be useless in the sprawling labyrinths underground. If Hyrule had been able to conquer this dungeon as a ten-year-old, a team of adult heroes could handle it now.
But the prickle of fear sat heavy on the back of their neck. They weren’t down there to watch, think, strategize, help, advise, triage. Caring for Wild was the only thing they could do. It had to be enough.
At the moment, it was the most important thing to do, but the reminder didn’t fully the ease the growing sense of useless that coursed through Warriors's tired (but so tense, like a rag twisted and pulled taut) nerves. They didn’t consider themselves particularly overprotective, but there was distinctive feeling of... their little goslings were off in the dark, and they couldn’t find them.
Nothing to do but trust them, and take care of the one gosling under their wing.
They felt around for the wet rag that Wild occasionally allowed on his forehead. The rag was barely damp, its edges crinkling into strange shapes. Without jostling Wild, Warriors felt out the nearest canteen. The water here was drinkable but needed to be boiled. Refilling was in their immediate future, anyways, and it was more important to try and keep Wild cool. They sprinkled just enough of the precious clean water to dampen the towel set it carefully over Wild’s sweating brow. At least it seemed to soothe Wild’s distress, who fell back into quiet murmurs.
“I have you, Link,” they said softly, and reassured themself that he relaxed the slightest bit from their voice.
The dark weighed down around them, heavy as a winter blanket. High above, the sky faded to purple. Not much longer now, and they would be left with nothing but the sad little lamp that was left behind for them. Warriors took a breath, their hand in Wild’s hair as much for their own comfort now as Wild’s. Then, another breath, as though their own steady breathing might calm down Wild’s. But his frenetic breathing continued. Warriors felt for his hand, taking it gently. His palm was clammy, his fingers twitched in tandem with the dreams haunting him.
With no other tools left, Warriors turned to song. The princess had taught them her ancestral lullaby once, and it was easy enough to hum through as they stroked Wild’s hair. B - up - down - up — They sang through the lullaby several times, watching Wild’s breathing finally, oh so slowly, come to match the lullaby’s rhythm.
After four rounds, they let it go, watching Wild’s brow smooth out into a calmer sleep. Warriors switched to another song, a common and sometimes bawdy jig, and then onto the only of Hylia’s hymns he’d ever bothered to learn. The songs fluttered out into the dark, keeping the shadows at bay.
There was one last song, not from their time in the army, but earlier, the earliest bits of Warriors’s memory, the only place his mother still lingered. She had a song... high - low - and then scaling up to the first note, and on and on, which she never told them the origin. A song for a hero, she used to whisper in their ear as they snuggled together during cold nights. A song for courage.
Truthfully, the song was more for Warriors now than Wild.
The darkness weighed down around them. The last of the purple rays vanished. No light but the sputtering lantern, no sounds but distant echoes of wandering monsters. No breeze. Just them, in the dark.
Warriors hummed through the song of courage again, eyes open despite the darkness.
There was nothing as fearsome as powerlessness. Nothing they could do for the other heroes in the dungeon. Nothing they could do to heal Wild. All they could do was sit, hold him close, and wait and wait and wait. The moon crested the cliffside, filling their small safe spot with eerie silver light. The dark shadows stretched across the island. Warriors stroked Wild’s hair, and shoulder, and hands, traced mindless patterns on the back of his hand and arm, and stared at the stars above.
Warriors waited, eyes closed, for their trust to bear fruit.
And finally, sleep started to touch the corners of their mind, a dark, dreamless sleep that might at least restore their energy—
Wild gasped and sprang up, nearly knocking his head against Warriors’s own. He blinked at the other hero, eyes bright and clear for the first time all evening. Warriors raised a hand to his forehead, still sweaty and gross, but noticeably cooler. The fever had broken. Relief ran from the top of their head to the tips of their toes.
“Hey,” Wild said, voice weak but again coherent. His smile was enough to melt the fear still curled around Warriors’s heart.
“Hey, yourself,” Warriors said, reaching for the canteen to force some clean water down Wild’s throat. The night didn’t seem so ominous now, with Wild’s company.
And finally, from the dungeon entrance, light and familiar laughter echoed towards them: distant but clear, like a bell heralding the sunrise.