Chapter Text
When the portal appears in his room of the castle, swirling and golden, Ravio stares at it in awe.
It’s beautiful and feels like Mr. Hero’s power, like that of Miss Princess Zelda, and he’s drawn to it. What lies beyond, he doesn’t know, but he does know that it feels safe, and despite being an utter and complete coward (no matter how much Mr. Hero has told him he’s not) he isn’t scared of it.
When Hilda comes in for their regular evening talk, draping in her regal bed robes and holding a mug that’s far too fancy to be at home with the cider he’s tried time and again to replicate, his princess panics, voice raising with fury that the deal she’d made with Hyrule’s princess has been broken.
“But no one has come through it.” Ravio murmurs softly, trying his best to appease her.
The princess glares at it but her mouth snaps shut as her mug hits the floor. It’s golden, so it doesn’t shatter. Ravio almost wishes that it would. “We’ll investigate it tomorrow.” She says at last, face pinched and brows furrowed as she wheels about on her heel. “For now, you can stay in one of the guest rooms.”
And Ravio nods, but once he’s been left alone in another room he immediately creeps back into his room, staring at the portal as he sips slowly on the not-quite-right cider. It’s not salty at least, but it’s missing that wild taste that made drinking it an adventure.
The portal is enticing, and even though he knows Hilda doesn’t want him or anyone else to go through, his heart yearns for a cluttered little cottage on the edge of an orchard, bees humming as they do their work and the songs of lands far away rolling over the fields that stretch out and away from it, carried over the breeze in the dulcet tones of a pink haired hylian who’s fingers work at light smithy work and embroidery.
He can’t go, he reminds himself as he stuffs his scarves into his bottomless sack.
Hilda will be mad; he whispers as robes and shoes and any number of items follow after.
He can’t leave, even if he’s no longer needed as an advisor now that Hilda has found better and more bold people to aid her, his mind reminds him as he ties the bag shut, slipping his hooded robe back on a with a sigh.
“Hilda’s going to be so mad.” He murmurs as his foot crossed over to whatever lies beyond.
He finds himself in a different place entirely, a great giant castle full of people and warriors and knights, and just outside there is fighting and shouts and cries of fear.
It’s little to no time before he’s swept up in the battle when what he assumes are enemy forces break through the gates, and for all that he’s a coward and a merchant, he’s learned a few things from Mr. Hero, and he does what he can to protect both himself and the other people in the castle. And when the dust clears and there are three Mr. Hero’s, although none of them his, he learns the truth of the portals and the war happening around him.
It’s hard to not be pulled along into the fighting and non-sense that is war, and injuries and illness plague them on the daily. There is little comfort in the army camps, and on the cold night all that can be done is bundle deeper into his robes and share a few of his extra scarves when the younger ones become chilled.
Mr. Captain Hero Sir, the tallest of the three heroes, will settle with him beside the fire many a night, a child pressed to either of his sides as Tune and Captain Hero Sir Jr. Either doze or stare into the flames. Neither child is innocent to war, and neither rest easy in the long nights that follow a battle, their hands resting on their blades and their eyes sharp and open against traitors.
There people are cold. They are made harsh and wary and thin by battles after battle, and they meet the world with wariness that Ravio wishes he could wash away with the same ease as his cocoa had offered Mr. Hero.
It’s that thought that sets him off one night, watching the soaked and trembling youngsters' bundle together under warm scarves and the single blanket they’ve been able to find, Mr. Captain Hero Sir lending his own heat to the pile as he holds both of the younger heroes. It’s like watching Mr. Hero come in from the rain all over again, and he wishes that the trio could have the comforts that he’d been able to offer or help Mr. Hero to gather on the rare trip he made home.
And then it strikes him that he does have some of them.
He’s puttering about the fire in a practiced yet clumsy manner, the eyes of the trio of heroes following his motions as he juices the apples and spiced the juice, boiling it over their campfire and handing it out in mugs.
It’s too bitter. He realizes mournfully as he sips his own, but the three all release sighs of delight as they drink, and only thanks can be heard as they smile up at him.
Ravio only wishes they could taste Mr. Hero’s cider; they would be over the moon.
The war ends and he is sent back to his own world. His own Hyrule. He does not bother to correct Lana when she calls it that, there is no point in telling her to send him back to his homeland when there is nothing that waits there except for a bitter and still recovering sister who struggles to speak with him in any manner but that of a princess to her aid. So, he lets the Time Guardian make her mistake, and when she opens another portal, he sees that she smiles, almost knowing, as he waves back at her and steps through.
The portal swirls and tosses him about, nothing like the pathways between Lorule and Hyrule, and Ravio is left lying on the ground when it spits him out, stomach churning as he looks up hazily at apple blossoms and bees that buzz soothingly as they go about their work.
A smile pulls at his face as his body settles, and he’s pulling himself up ad looking around with growing delight as he takes in the familiar cottage and orchard, eyes feasting on the sight.
It must be a Thursday, he tells himself as he looks around. It’s noon and Mr. Hero isn’t puttering about the hives in the back like he does on Mondays, and he’s not working the orchard like he does on Tuesdays, and the washing isn’t hung out to dry like it is on Wednesdays. There’s no fire roaring from the mini-forge round the back like there is on Fridays and Saturdays, and while it could very well be Sunday with how still it is, there isn’t a mug and stool by the front door.
He’d asked once why Mr. Hero liked watching the sunrise every Sunday morning, but his friend had only said it was something even he didn’t have the answer to, only that he’d been doing it since childhood and had no wish to stop now. The mug of weak tea he’d sip as he sat would always be forgotten for some reason or another, and it isn’t there now, at mid-day, when Mr. Hero would be too busy to retrieve it.
So, it’s Thursday, when Mr. Hero cleans his items.
Only, when he taps nervously at the door, there’s no response, and when he peeks in at the single window that hasn’t been left shuttered up, there is no sign of life, only a faint coating of dust across the kitchen table.
Ravio's brow furrows. That won’t do at all! Mr. Hero not using the table? Has he reverted to eating outside alone? Or not at all? Heavens! His friend is thin enough as is! He doesn’t need Mr. Hero fading away entirely!
Worry gnaws as his heart as he searches his pockets for the spare key. He’d only realized after they parted that he’d never returned the thing, and in the months since, he’d found comfort in having another little piece of home. After all, Mr. Hero made the key himself! Something that most people can’t replicate and therefore they can never sneak into his house. The item in question is at the bottom of his pocket, and he only finds it with the help of its faded pink ribbon, the silky fabric catching on his roughened fingers as he digs about.
It clicks into the door stiffly, as it always has, and Ravio has to bite back a sigh as he realizes that Mr. Hero never did get around to fixing that blasted lock and stopping it from sticking every time.
When the door opens, it does so with a creak that makes Ravio wince, and dust flies up around him and makes him cough and wheeze for a good minute before he can enter. When he does step through the door though, his eyes widen in horror.
It’s empty. There’s no sign of life; everything is covered with dust and Mr. Hero’s blasted rocker is still shoved in the corner where he’s last put it. Ravio’s brow furrows. Mr. Hero always used that bloody chair when he cleaned his items, a smirk on his face as he’d stared pointedly at Ravio, rocking the thing in its creaking manner as his oil-cloth would slide over weapons and items, a faint chuckle in his voice when Ravio finally breaks and insults it. He hates the thing, but as he walks further into the room, he finds himself brushing his fingers over its dusty arms with a sad little smile on his face.
The house is empty. Mr. Hero has gone somewhere, possibly yet another adventure, and the house is stale and cold and smells of nothing but dust.
This won’t do, not at all.
He’s bustling about with Sheerow in minutes, dusting surfaces and organizing items. It takes three whole days of fussing; washing the curtains and sheets and tablecloths and hanging them out to dry, dusting off the items on the shelves and lighting the candles around that awful monster mask, turning the mattresses in the bedrooms and cleaning the kitchen from top to bottom.
The whole while, he keeps a pot of cider on, trying his hardest to bring back the smell of home.
By the time he finishes cleaning the house and setting it back to rights, he’s been visited four times by villagers who think that a robbers broken into the house. Each one explains that Mr. Hero has gone away again, just as he expected, but they also welcome Ravio back with bright smiles and even brighter rupees as they wager and haggle to buy some items they’d been hoping to acquire before he’d left.
Before he knows it, he’s got folks coming up to see him regularly, and just like before he’s got his shop all set up in the main room, his poor imitation of cider brewing over the fire and filling the house with a smell that isn’t dust and dirt.
The villagers offer advice on how to better make the cider, how to try and replicate Mr. Hero’s special brew, but none of them appear to know it any better than he does, and the longer he tries the less the house smells like home.
And then, one day, he’s busy tidying the shed, one of the places he’d failed to get in his initial cleaning, when the door busts open and Ravio finds himself darting into a corner to hide as several armed men dressed like knights enter. He’s delighted when he sees Mr. Hero among them, even more delighted to see familiar and not so familiar faces of the family that his friend has brought back with him, and his first order of business (after trying to sell them something) is to invite them up to the house for some cider. The heroes agree, following after and watching as he putters about in a nervous imitation of the easy dance Mr. Hero preforms when he’s working in his kitchen. The cider smells sweet, but wrong as he nervously pours it out into mugs and distributes it, and he has to fight back a wince as Mr. Hero’s face stiffens at the first sip.
“This is good!” Mr. Captain Hero Sir states, sipping at the cider happily, face nostalgic as he looks into his mug. “Just like I remember.” And the others all nod in kind, murmuring thanks and compliments as they drink, but Mr. Hero is still frowning down into his drink and it makes Ravio’s hard patter lightly in shame.
“I know it’s not as good as yours.” Ravio mumbles softly. “I did try, but there’s just-”
“Cloves.” Mr. Hero looks up, brows furrowed. “Did you use cloves?”
And Ravio’s words stutter to a stop, mind winding back to the jar of little black particles that Mr. Hero given him. The ones he had looked at later when he’d unpacked his bags and thought they were seeds from a trade that must have occurred earlier on, one he hadn’t remembered. “Lolia below!” He groans, tugging at the ears of his hood. “I forgot!”
The smile on Mr. Hero’s face is the faintest hint of one, but it’s the closest he’s had in ages to seeing the real thing and Ravio treasures it, smiling softly to himself as the veteran hero pulls himself up out of his cursed rocking chair and moves towards the kitchen, shaking his head. “I’ll make a new batch.”
Mr. Captain Hero Sir snorts into his mug, chuckling softly as Ravio’s eyes fall on him and cocking a brow in question. “So sure you want him in the kitchen?”
Ravio blinks, confused. “Why ever wouldn’t he go in the kitchen, Mr. Captain Hero Sir? It’s his house.”
And that’s all it takes to have Mr. Hero back in the room, a real grin playing over his surly features as he glances between Mr. Captain Hero Sir and Ravio. “’Mr. Cap-’”
“Shut it.” Mr. Captain Hero Sir snaps, face flushing, only making Mr. Hero chuckle mischievously as he looks from one to the other.
“We met in the war.” Ravio explains, motioning to the captain. “When you- when the portals were closed, I stayed home, but then one appeared in my room and-.”
The smile he’d been so delighted to see fades as Mr. Hero stares at him in horror. “You fought in a war?”
“Yes. But don’t worry! I mostly just sold items! I only fought when I really had to and it wasn't all that dangerous. You’re the one who said I wasn’t a coward, Mr. Hero, and when I tried to think of you and how you would act, I didn’t feel so very afraid and I was able to help and-”
“Ravio.” Mr. Hero’s brows furrow in what Ravio knows is a subtle sign of concern. “Don’t worry about it. I just didn’t think Hylia would tug you across time to fight a witch.”
And he nods; he understands. Mr. Hero doesn’t like people having to fight. He doesn’t like adventures and wars and Ravio can understand why, so he doesn’t press, instead turning to his friend and staring at him with all the hope he can gather glimmering in his eyes. “Regardless, Mr. Hero, would you please make us some cider? I haven’t had yours in forever , and no matter what I try it doesn’t come out right!”
Mr. Captain Hero Sir snorts. “Legend can’t cook to save his life, why would you want him to make cider? Your’s is terrific, Rav! We don’t need burnt apple juice to spoil it!”
It’s said in a teasing way, and Mr. Hero’s glare is in no ways serious, but Ravio stares at the rest of the heroes in horror all the same. “Are you saying that Mr. Hero has never cooked for you? He’s never made you cider? Mr. Hero! How could you deprive these poor souls of your brilliant creations!”
The veteran hero rolls his eyes and darts back into the kitchen, but Ravio isn’t done. “No tarts? No pies? Please tell me you at least shared some of your lovely apples with them Mr. Hero!”
But Mr. Hero doesn’t answer, he only continues to glide about the kitchen and whip up a batch of cider that just feels and smells so much like home that tears leak down Ravio’s face, and he’s bursting into sobs as a mug is placed in his hands in the familiar dismissing way that Mr. Hero does thing, as if it’s a side though although they both know it isn’t.
“Ravio, are you-”
“Ravio! You’re crying!” Tune and Captain Hero Junior both cry out, but Ravio can’t bring himself to care as sweetness and spice rolls over his tongue all familiar and safe.
He has been at this house for a month and five days, but it is only when he takes a sip of Mr. Hero’s heavenly cider that he finally feels that he is home.
The heroes have to leave again after a few days, but Mr. Hero allows him to stay (he pretends he’s doing Ravio a favor but the hug that the merchant received once the others were out of sight that first evening is all he needs to know that Mr. Hero has missed him too). There’s fussing and bustling for all of the morning that they depart, but then Ravio is left alone in his and Mr. Hero’s house, with only Sheerow as a companion.
That’s alright. As much as he loves the heroes, he loves the quiet as well. It’s never truly silent here, and the hum of the bees and the singing of Mr. Hero’s bird friends mixed with the song of the breeze and the dancing of the trees to fill his head with noises of home and safety and life.
That doesn’t mean he’s opposed to it when the heroes all come back, time and again.
The wind is whipping fiercely outside when Mr. Hero and the others stumble in through the door, half-frozen and soaked to the skin and so, so reminiscent of so many nights before when he and Mr. Hero were still getting to know each other.
Just like those nights, Mr. Hero’s first course of action is to stumble into the basement where there’s more clamor than usual as Ravio guides the heroes to the living room and pulls out warm blankets for them while Mr. Rancher stokes the fire higher.
Scarfs are wrapped around necks and Ravio delights in handing out fuzzily knit socks for them to wear on their cold and frozen feet. But feet aren’t the only things that are frozen, and the sound of a clatter in the kitchen and a burst of swearing has him darting towards the room, only to see Mr. Hero kneeling in a puddle of apple juice, fingers trembling pitifully as he curses the stairs and the floor and the spilled juice that will no longer be able to become cider.
Ravio frowns as he pulls his friend up, gently guiding Mr. Hero into the living room and settling him before the fire, even as he protests and insists that he still needs to clean the spill and make something warm.
“Let me do it. I’ve been sitting all toasty and you’re half frozen!” Ravio coaxes, rubbing icy fingers in his hands carefully and breathing over them in hopes of inciting some warmth. Cold hands are bad as is, but with Mr. Hero’s arthritis they must be downright miserable!
Mr. Hero scowls, about to protest when Ravio adds. On. “I’ll make hot cocoa.”
That stops Mr. Hero from saying anything, and the veteran hero only nods sullenly as he settles where Ravio had placed him, blushing lightly as Ravio presses a warm kiss to freezing hands before darting up and towards the kitchen.
Cider is a dance full of tripping and blustering, but cocoa is practiced and known and comfortable, and as the chocolate melts in a saucepan he busies himself with the puddle on the floor, listening with a warm smile to the idle banter that leaks in from the living room.
The cocoa is perfectly frothy and sweet when it is done, and Ravio makes extra sure to sprinkle an extra bit of ground chocolate flakes and cinnamon over the cocoa in Mr. Hero’s mug.
Curious eyes follow him as he trails through the living room with a tray of steaming mugs, and he starts with the youngest heroes and works his way forwards, carefully depositing a slightly bitter one in Tune’s hands and an extra sweet one in those of Captain Hero Sir Jr. If cider was any indication, they’ll like what he’s done for them.
He doesn’t know enough about the others to do anything special, but their eyes light up all the same at the smell of the stuff, all save for Mr. Rancher, who looks down at the mug sadly before handing it off to his protégé. Ravio is halfway through handing Mr. Captain Hero Sir a mug when he sees the little exchange, hurt filling his eyes at the rejection of his labor. “Do you not like cocoa, Mr. Rancher Sir?”
There’re snorts of laughter from the others at the name, but Ravio ignores them, green eyes boring into midnight blue as the rancher shifts uncomfortably.
“We’ve never had cocoa before.” Mr. Champion Hero Sir frowns, looking down at his extra mug and then up to his mentor. “Why don’t you at least try it?”
“I can’t.” Mr. Rancher murmurs apologetically, offering a weak smile to the merchant and then his protégé. “I’m- uh...allergic.”
Understanding dawns on him. “I’m so terribly sorry! Would you-”
“If I may,” Mr. Rancher stands, brushing himself off. “Might ah make some tea? I can do that at least without setting things on fire, so you needn’t fuss ‘bout it.”
“Of course! Mr. Hero keeps some tea in the corner cabinet I believe.” He answers, and the hero nods thankfully before ducking into the kitchen.
Ravio shakes his head to himself. How unfortunate, but at least Mr. Rancher can have cider, apples don’t hurt wolves after all.
He’s handed out mugs to the rest of the heroes before he moves to curl up at Mr. Hero’s side. His house-mate huffs lightly as Ravio has to help him hold his mug while his fingers thaw, but once he’s taking small sips, Ravio is bustling about the two of them with pillows to make them comfortable, and making sure that Mr. Hero’s favorite blanket is snug over both of their shoulders before he takes a proper sip himself.
It’s sweet and rich, and after having so much cider, eh sighs in disappointment. “Still doesn’t beat your cider, Mr. Hero.”
“I told you I could make some.” His housemate responds with a huff. “But why would you want cider when you can have cocoa?”
“Why would you want cocoa when you could have cider?” Ravio challenges in return.
Just like that, the old argument blooms between them as they bundle close together, his scarf around both their necks and the blanket covering their shoulders and trapping the heat of the fire before them. Giggles sound from around them as the heroes listen to them squabble, their lack of malice clear to the others as the age-old argument comes to its close with Mr. Hero scoffing and slurping his drink pointedly.
“If you offered cocoa at an event in any other country but Lorule, it would sell like mad, whereas if you offered cider, you’d be left with half a barrel to drink at the end of the day.”
“The opposite is true in Lorule though.” He responds with a grin, but he lets it end there as Mr. Hero yawns heavily, head drooping to lean ever so slightly on his shoulder. A smile lights his face as he gently takes Mr. Hero’s empty mug, ignoring the coos and chuckles of the others as he pulls the blanket closer around Mr. Hero’s shoulders before running a hand through long pink locks. There’s still ice in Mr. Hero’s hair, but it’s silky soft like rabbit fur all the same.
There’s no comeback to his argument as Mr. Hero falls asleep on his shoulder, and Ravio wouldn’t have it any other way.
He turns to the others with a mock glare, brows low and eyes glinting with mischief as Mr. Rancher re-enters the room with a mug of tea, a surprised smile on his face. “Cider is the superior drink, correct?”
Some grin with mischief and agree, and others roll their eyes with a smile as they sip their drinks, but no one contests his statement, and he feels satisfied that he has, at last, won the argument. It’s almost a shame Mr. Hero didn’t get to see it, but looking at the peaceful face that leans on his shoulder, he supposes he doesn’t mind too very much.