forbidden.
@grimoircs / yul + rae, lozatla
“sir!” someone yells at him (and yul would be lying if he said he hates the sound of it).
he turns and the wreckage pangs something in his chest. this is necessary, he reminds himself. for the good of dal ra-- of hyrule. the crackle of fire on wood all around them and the groans of the injured filter through his ears, but he presses on. steps over the body of an old friend, pulling an arrow that once burned bright out of his chest all while refusing to look down. he’s sending a message, he reminds himself once more. that he’s coming.
“sir!” the voice comes again, more frantic this time, “we found something you need to see.”
he drops the arrow and buttons his vest, uselessly brushing off dirt from the blood splattered, torn fabric. a small flame glows from his fingers as he lights his way through the dark night, following the chatter of voices towards the edge of what once was the small village. when the flame lights up an all too familiar noble caravan, now surrounded by his people with hands at the ready, the rest of the night happens in a blur. at least for yul, who drowns out all the sounds around him, gaze laser focused on a figure so slender with eyes so bright he thinks he might still be asleep. but he isn’t. his feet feel frozen on the ground, stuck in the half-burnt grass and heated dirt while the others work around him.
he barely hears the yelling, barely remembers leaving with a prisoner in the back of their vehicle, barely knows how they got back to lurelin village a few hours later.
all he knows now is he’s standing in front of an isolated wooden cabin guarded by two of his own, and dal rae is sitting inside, a door the only barrier between them. he gestures to the plate of food in his hand, and the guards let him in. when their eyes meet, he doesn’t let them waver, freezes in place. he waits for the door to shut behind him before he moves, quick, setting the food down on a small table and sighing out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. he fumbles for the knife in his pocket, desperately reaching for her hands soon after
“what the hell are you doing here?” he asks, or scolds really, in as quiet of an angry whisper he can muster as he works at the rope binding her hands.
“i was going to come back for you.”
