Archive of Our Own ^beta

In hindsight, maybe it had been a bad idea to ambush the Yiga clan.

Well, “ambush” was a strong word. He had snuck in to the Yiga clan hideout. Broken in, if you will.

Okay, that didn’t actually sound less stupid. At least, not to anyone who didn’t know about this whole “destined hero” stuff. The stuff that to Link was simultaneously too unbelievable to be real, all that he had known since he’d awoken, and so familiar to him sometimes it did feel like it was his destiny. Or, maybe, familiar to a different version of him, a destiny for a different Link, the one that had died a century ago in all but name, and left him to pick up the pieces.

Anyway. Yiga clan. Hideout. Being caught and kidnapped. Yeah.

Did it count as kidnapping if you broke into someone’s home, he wondered? It’s not like Hyrule had anything like a central authority anymore to define the legalities of such a thing. And this did appear to be a somewhat collected--if extreme example of--society hidden within this mountain. The closest thing nearby that one could say were rules ordained by some definition of a governing body were the clan’s guidelines themselves, and well--seeing as they were the ones doing the kidnapping, and he was the outsider, he was sure he knew what their stance on such a matter was.

It was funny because he’d already fought tens of them easily along the road while traveling, while wandering, while picking up the sparkling pieces of his past that King Rhoam, Impa, and countless ghosts of memory that claimed to be sentient told him belonged to him. The clan members were all so annoying, and so obvious. It was clear they always expected him to be some sort of mundane, oblivious traveler, and were infinitely startled and aggressive when he turned out to be far more competent--turned out to be the supposed hero they already knew and hated.

He didn’t feel like much of a hero with his hands tied behind his back, his weapons and Sheikah slate stolen, and a gag in his mouth--his own fucking scarf, thank you very much. Snatched from his own outfit (he’d thought if only he could stealth his way through the hideout--), forced between his teeth, then wrapped around his jaw and neck multiple times before being tightened almost frighteningly so, and finally tied with a literal bow. The Yiga member who’d done it had laughed as he’d done so, whispering something about just desserts and biting the hand that feeds and sweet irony, or whatever pretentious nonsense the Yiga clan seemed to think was poetic.

(Link would know a thing or two about pretentious poetry--some part of his brain that loved guessing which parts of his memory were and weren’t important had made the grand decision to remind him of what had passed for court poetry in Hyrule. That was time and effort wasted he’d never get back--in either life.)

He’d overestimated himself, maybe. Let this hero nonsense get to his head. That’s what he got for listening to ghosts.

Though, jokes aside, it had been the opposite. He was so unused to enemies his own capability--after weeks of fighting mainly keese, stray chuchus, several stal, and so many fucking bokoblins he was certain he left a mile long trail wherever he went simply because of their unerring habit of tracking him exactly when he wanted to be left alone, he might’ve left his guard down.

Ha. Guard down. Funny, for someone who was apparently a Knight’s son.

He still did his exercises, after all. What he remembered of his training regimen, the stances and poses and motions that seemed almost burned into his body, like his body remembered in blood more than his rational mind ever would. And given what he saw of the white, deep, long-healed-over scars peppering his skin with stories that escaped his grasp anytime he lay still at night and traced their edges by fire- and moonlight, he thought that must be true.

It was just. He was here. He’d found this place, all by himself, and he knew how quickly he’d dispatched the Yiga members he’d met before--haltingly at first, cautiously, and then faster and more confidently, as if he had fought them before, as if his sword knew their blood as well as their bloodlust claimed his own--and he’d been… curious.

He felt that a lot lately. In different amounts, usually, in various edges of sincerity, or lightheartedness. That was the only emotion that felt right to him some days, the desire to know more and explore more and explain the history of this land under his feet and simplify the mystery in his own body and satisfy the simple, joyous wonderment of: what happened if he attached ten octo balloons to a raft?

(The answer, to his delight, was that it floated.)

Anyway, offtrack. Again. His mind stayed so consistently scattered anywhere not in the heat of battle that he was starting to suspect it might just be a perpetual state for him, and not just a symptom of the amnesia. The fact was, he’d broken into the Yiga clan, and now he was paying the price.

They’d dragged him a ways off from the entrance, deep into the caverns, through secret doorways hidden behind red curtains that he hadn’t had time or inclination yet to find himself, and down stairways that were old enough to start wearing in the middle of them from footsteps. It was still dry down here, still slightly dusty, still lit by that everpresent firelight behind yellow lanterns that turned the red of the Yiga’s jumpsuits bright and vibrant, the only things starkly visible in these dim rooms. There was, in fact, almost no difference between these rooms and the rooms he knew to be above him, yet he could feel it, in whatever instincts he’d possessed or trained--the automatic knowledge and assurance of his internal direction that told him sunlight was further and further away with every second he was dragged deeper.

He just hoped this place would be less mazelike and confusing when he finally found his ascent again. But he wasn’t overtly worried about that, given the existence of those same instincts that he’d learned to trust and he figured would probably avoid letting him get too turned around.

The first obstacle was un-kidnapping himself, though. Un-dekidnapping himself? No, the inverse of kidnapping. Saving. Saving himself. That was it. Could you rescue yourself, or was that just called fixing your own stupid mistake?

Yeah. Hero of Hyrule. If only Princess Zelda could see him now.

(Oh, goddess, he hoped that the same link that let her speak to him at times didn’t let her glimpse visuals of his journey. He wouldn’t survive the embarrassment. He’d throw himself to the mercy of the nearest lizalfos camp if that was so.)

He was thrown into a single room, with barely any furniture but more boxes containing whatever supplies the Yiga collected to support themselves through the years. Several Yiga members were assigned to guard him, which was at least a boon to his nonexistent pride--that which had been mortally wounded after the missteps that’d led to being surrounded and taken by surprise in enemy territory.

They held him for a while. There seemed to be a lot of arguing about it, both within the room and without. Link eavesdropped as he could, mentally counting the minutes. The ones assigned to guard him had just as much fun mocking him as they did gossiping--someone called Master Kohga was out, and would be for quite a while on some sort of incredibly important mission--he wouldn’t be back for several days. Link had to wonder what exactly he was doing, seeing as the only important goal he had noticed of theirs so far seemed to be disturbing the peace in the Gerudo province and hunting him on and off. But the point was, they didn’t know what to do with him.

It seemed to breed both anxiety and anger. Triumph and speculation. Boredom and pride. And Link didn’t like that combination.

It wasn’t even a few hours before someone finally took an action. Barely past nightfall, to his estimates--he’d snuck in around evening, hoping they’d be winding down for the night.

There were two Yiga members left inside this makeshift cell of an empty room, and two outside. One footsoldier and one blademaster on each side. He would’ve given them points for their signature apparent dedication to a task, as they tended to show within their tenacity to kill him, but the one of the ones inside--the footsoldier--had sat on one of the boxes within the first hour and taken to passing the time by swinging his sickle, and both of the external guards seemed to be barely paying attention to what happened inside the room besides conversing on and off with the two inside.

Oh, how he wished they’d overlooked even a single dagger somehow on his person. With this crowd, he could’ve been out of the caves again before the sun had even set, if only they had.

But what they ironically lacked in discipline, they made up for in patience--and cruelty. The one footsoldier perched on the box took to flicking pieces of trash and broken wood at him, watching to see if he’d react. The other, tall and muscular and almost as quiet as him (gagged or not), said and did little, but every now and then between scant answers to his companions, he’d keep his head turned directly in Link’s direction, unmoving. He didn’t know if it was vigilance or a purposeful attempt at unnervement that motivated the man; he could just imagine the smirk under that single-eyed mask.

Link took to glaring at both of them over the gag in response. It seemed to amuse them, if anything.

“I can’t believe this is the hero,” the sitting one said, for the dozenth time that evening. His voice was nasally, sneering, exactly the kind of self-important and dismissive tone that all of the dialogue among the Yiga clan seemed to encompass in general. “He’s so… scrawny.”

Link dared the man with his eyes to untie him and test his scrawniness one on one. He’d find far more muscle beneath the surface of his lean body than expected.

“Maybe he’s malnutritioned,” one of the guards outside joked. “You know, it has been a century he’s been in hiding. Maybe he didn’t eat in all that time.” He laughed, as if he’d said something particularly witty.

“I think he’s just not full-grown,” the other outside remarked meanly, pointedly, with a twist of his head inside the door, as if Link cared or would be insulted by such a thing. Hard to insult the age of someone who didn’t remember their own birthday.

(He was pretty sure it was sixteen. Zelda had been sixteen, he thought. He distinctly remembered her mentioning her seventeenth birthday. Surely he was the same age? Maybe it was eighteen, then. Of course, that was not including the hundred years to give or take, but that wasn’t the point.)

“I can’t believe you tried to sneak into the Yiga clan, of all things,” the sitting one said again, this time arrogance coloring his voice as thickly as Sayge’s dyes colored cloth. “How could you possibly think you’d manage to infiltrate us? Despite whatever you were looking for,” he trailed off from his stupid postering, sounding less confident and more perplexed.

“Doesn’t matter,” the quiet Yiga guard said, head still unmoved from pricking Link’s peripheral vision where he had been tossed unceremoniously onto the ground and now sat with his back to the wall. “Master Kohga will find out.”

“Well, I wanna know,” the mouthy one outside said. “Awful lot of hubris for the goddess’s chosen hero, yknow?”

The second one outside laughed at his joke. “Oh, yes, tell us, hero, what sacred quest brought you to our doorstep?”

They all laughed then, even getting a snort out of the quiet one with the mockery.

They liked that--liked sarcastically calling him hero, liked insulting the Goddess, liked anything that seemed purposely malicious. Of course that was why they followed Ganon to begin with, wasn’t it? Not even a few months out of the Shine of Resurrection, and Link was consistently surprised the few times he’d seen such genuine cruelty from the mouths of his fellow people, as genuine as any moblin’s half-thought urge to destroy and maim. Perhaps even less excusable for anyone who wasn’t a moblin, for they had the ability to choose it, whereas any creature of the -oblin sort seemed to Link as simple and pure physical manifestations of Ganon’s malicious intent and growing control upon the world. Not really their fault they acted the way they did, as annoying as they were.

He glared harder at them for their efforts, and this time it seemed to spark something else.

“Aw, have we struck a nerve, hero? Blaspheming your precious Goddess?” the sitting one said, with his eyes (or rather, eye, singular, painted) locked on him and only him. He kept twirling his sickle idly, the metal gleaming brightly and dangerously under the firelight. His grin was audible, vicious. “Poor thing’s in here just glowering at our conversation. Must be so terrible to hear such horrible truth from the lips of the enemy.”

“That’s what I gagged him for,” the fourth one outside said. “Nobody wants to hear that thrice-accursed Goddess worship. It died with its Princess a hundred years ago, and good riddance.”

Link couldn’t help it--it was some sort of instinct, buried deeply in his subconscious. He reacted not just on words, but what that insult meant directly to his emotional processing--and to his automatic, unsuspecting brain, it meant derision and disrespect, and a reactive protection. Once again, his body acted before his mind, knew more than he did, and it was in the apparent familiar movement and memories of the muscles beneath his skin that he jerked, a half-aborted lunge forward to put an arrogant, cruel, harmful stranger in their place--firmly away from the Princess, firmly away from hurting his vulnerable (and sometimes beloved) charge.

He didn’t even have a weapon on him. Didn’t yet have the sword in his memories that he knew was important, and was usually enough of a warning if he dared to pull it from its scabbard. Couldn’t even speak, but then again--had he ever? Had he ever needed to say anything to get across his point? Had he ever needed words to prove his intent when his actions spoke loudly enough?

The emotional memory and reaction shocked him, enough that he froze halfway through the movement, trying to understand what he was even doing a split second after mentally deciding to stop it. Where had that come from?

It was not a quick enough halt to escape notice, however.

“Did you see that?!” the sitting one exclaimed, sounding almost delighted. The combination of his clear glee and the leftover disturbance in Link’s emotional being turned into disgust, turned his stomach. He hated it. Hated the inhuman inhumanity of it all.

He wasn’t used to it. He was used to people being more… well, kind or just plain indifferent. He spent most of his time alone, yes, but there was a kind of kinship when meeting another traveler on the road, or in an inn, or in a village. Link said little, much to the amusement or derision or understanding of what few companions he found along his way, but he cherished the company oftentimes when he did find it. It let him see a little more of the world every time, viewed through the eyes of another person. Reminded him why he was fighting in the first place, despite the confusing and difficult path ahead of him. It just made him happy. Content. The feeling of cooking beside another person, hearing people trading stories beside a fire, the good-natured bickering of nearly-strangers--it made the world better. Made his world easier to bear. Despite the general lacking of what he knew of the world, he did know, in his heart, that this was how things should be. That people, with all their quirks, for better or worse, were meant to enjoy each other’s company in life before moving on to the next milestone on their individual paths.

He didn’t know if that was a philosophy he had had before for some reason, or something he had picked up in the lonely, new, isolating experience of amnesia, but he knew that this, this ridicule and abuse of another person for fun--he hated it.

So far, it was something he mainly seemed to experience when the Yiga showed up. It didn’t give him a high opinion of them, among the many other reasons.

He settled carefully back against the wall as chortles and hoots reached his ears, purposely relaxing his bunched muscles and smoothing his unexpectedly tightened expression. The wall was cool against his back, and he turned his face away from the clan members, physically denying himself the urge to respond to them and denying them the opportunity to satisfy their own viciousness.

He unclenched his jaw carefully from the fabric of the scarf from where his teeth ground down on it. He didn’t understand his response, but he was almost used to that. Sometimes emotions just hit him out of nowhere, responses evoked from influences that didn’t justify the reaction he had to them. He’d learned that they were remnants of… the Link from before. The things that he understood, from deep within Link’s subconscious, and had opinions about. Link had flinched more than once away from a fellow traveler in a confusing, upsetting instance that spoke of injuries or threats that he didn’t consciously remember now. He’d gotten angry, like now, over provocations that confused him--like retellings of the battle of Hyrule that some part of himself screamed was wrong, even though now he could not recite in full what had happened if asked. Sometimes, after certain instances, like meeting Mipha and Urbosa’s spirits, he was filled with such a deep grief that he couldn’t even put to words, but he knew nonetheless was the weight of all he’d lost without being able to truly understand what he’d lost.

He wasn’t alone, in that, at least. The entirety of Hyrule still grieved, even now, a hundred years later. Life went on, yes, but grief was part of that life, post-tragedy. Post-calamity.

“Oh, c’mon, don’t be like that," the one inside the room intent on his reactions said. It was clear he was bored, and that Link’s decision to deny them a target had been effective.

"You upset him," one of the others snarked faux-sympathetically.

"Well, then, let me make it better," the sitting one drawled, getting up, box underneath him creaking as he scooted off the edge and stood.

That drew Link's attention again, head and eyes flitting back to the potential threat.

"What are you doing?" the tall, unnerving blademaster demanded, voice deep and commanding.

"Oh, quiet, I'm just playing with him a little," the original one said in an attempt to get his friend off his back, but was a move that only increased Link's wariness.

"Leave the sickle here, then, idiot."

Oh, damn him. Link could've used that.

The Yiga member looked down at his sickle in surprise for a moment, then understanding. With an overexagerated movement that made Link roll his eyes, he set the weapon down delicately. It was a clear show for his friend's benefit and Link wondered vaguely if the other Yiga member was also hiding his exasperation.

Link watched cautiously as the guard approached him. The skinny, red-clad figure crouched in front of him, and he could hear the smirk.

"I'm so sorry for hurting your feelings, O' Great Hero of Hyrule," the man began to lament loudly, dramatically, adding pleading, upturned hands to the show a moment later. Behind him came several snickers and a sigh. "Please forgive me my trespassing. Don't tell the Goddess, pleeeeeeease." He finished in such a theatrically whiny tone of voice it was nothing but pure scorn, as if prayers to the Goddess were nothing but childish pleas or tattle-tailing.

Link made direct eye contact with wherever the eye holes of their mask must be hidden, and snorted, unimpressed.

The man dropped his hands and loosened his posture, sitting limply on his heels. "What, you don't like my acting? I'll have you know I won third place in Master Plo's Extensive Theater Training Class two years ago."

"There's a reason it wasn't first," someone in the doorway muttered, and the guard in front of Link spun, pointing an accusing finger.

"Shut up! You're just jealous it wasn't you."

Link turned with the pointed finger to see as well, just in time to see one of the guards outside make a rude gesture inside without looking.

The Yiga member turned back with a sigh. "Anyway," he said, and began to reach for Link's face.

Link flinched away, but fingers slipped beneath the layers of soft, Sheikah-make fabric anyway, pulling at the circles of cloth wrapped around his face and neck while muttering.

The voice Link knew belonged to the other inner guard came, sounding very displeased. "Now what are you doing?"

"Untying his gag, what's it look like? I'm bored and you all aren't exactly riveting conversation."

"Hey," someone outside protested mildly, probably more as a joke than an actual complaint, given the other snicker that followed.

The mouthy Yiga member turned back to him, speaking over his shoulder as he pulled Link uncomfortably this way and that, trying to untie the scarf. Link didn’t resist, but neither did he make it easy for the member to manhandle him. "And don't glare at me like that. I'm not gonna untie his hands or something. I'm not an idiot."

The grunt that followed seemed to dispute that, but thankfully, they didn't start arguing again.

Soon, after several vicious yanks on the scarf that simultaneously achieved the Yiga's goal and succeeded in tightening the cloth painfully around Link's throat a few times, it was pulled free. Yanked again actually, nearly clicking his teeth together from the forceful grab.

Link watched mournfully as the Yiga member dropped his very nice scarf onto the dirty floor. Then a hand was patting his cheek, so hard it was almost a slap. His eye on that side flinched closed in instinctive fear of pain.

"There," the clan member said, sounding satisfied. "Now we can have a conversation."

Link just eyeballed him, subtly testing the muscles of his jaw--sore, from the gag and the subsequent treatment.

“Don’t be shy!” he exclaimed. “Surely you have some opinion on this turn of events? On your failure to infiltrate us?” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Or the fact you serve a weak Goddess, and will never defeat Calamity Ganon?” He was clearly using any attempt to rile Link up, wanting to replicate the reaction of earlier.

Link didn't know how to tell him--even if he wanted to, which he didn't--that he didn't know what had caused the reaction either. He just stared at him silently instead. Usually people got the point when he did that.

"Hm. Disappointing."

Then the Yiga member was standing and a hand was buried in the hair just below his bun, and the Yiga member jerked.

A cry left Link's lips at that as the move wrenched his scalp and made pain flare across his entire head and down his spine.

He heard the grin in the man's voice above him when he spoke next. "Much better."

Then he did it again, giving another hard pull on Link’s hair just to hear the involuntary sound of pain that Link gave. Then again, then again. He jerked him around like a toy, like a fun thing to pull noises from.

Link was gasping with tears in his eyes when the man finally stopped, rich laughter muffled by his mask.

"It's just so pathetic, isn't it?" he said, apparently to his other companions. "That this is the Goddess's chosen hero? The one destined to fight Ganon?"

Link was dragged forward with the leverage on his head, making him stumble on his knees before the Yiga members who had turned to watch his suffering like entertainment. He tried to put all of his anger into the eye contact he made with them, dared them to do more if they really wanted to see what would happen when he eventually got out of this place, but the wetness in his eyes may have ruined the effect a little, given the snorts.

"A little hairpulling and he's on his knees," another one added from outside, amusement clear in his tone. "I don't really know if I believe he actually took out our other scouts."

"Oh, no, that was him," the talkative one said, fingers still tightened uncomfortably in his hair. He gave a little shake for emphasis. "Alllll him. Now he gets to see the consequences in person."

One of the outer guards twisted a little more into the doorway, seeming almost contemplative. "...How many of us has he killed, again?"

"Sixteen," said the other outside slowly, as if picking up his friend’s thread of thought and not outright rejecting it.

A chill went down Link’s spine. He didn't like that tone of voice.

The first Yiga member threw him suddenly to the ground, face first. With his arms still bound and the strong momentum, he had no way to stop his cheek from slamming into the rock floor, nor his bony shoulders and forehead kissing the rough surface so hard he knew he'd have bruises for at least a week.

Link shifted himself up painfully from his position on the floor, eventually dragging himself into a semi-sitting position instead with one leg under him and one leg bent at the knee in front of him. He stared daggers at them from under the hair that had come loose from its bun and fallen into his eyes for the treatment.

"What anger for such a little hero," spoke the one that Link really wanted to punch, standing beside him now, leaning against his box with his arms crossed. His voice took a dark turn. "Now imagine how we feel."

Link didn't have to, because he was about to make a really stupid decision.

He lifted his leg without warning and slammed his foot directly into the Yiga man's shin, aiming to snap his leg inward from the knee. There was no expected crunch--his angle was off--but there was still a resulting howl of pain, the Yiga member immediately doubling over and thrashing, nearly falling as he flailed away, landing again on the box by the door he'd first sat upon.

Of course, that was when it went to hell. Oops?

The other guards yelled in alarm, and the one leering in the doorway rushed in, the very first to react. In for a rupoor, in for a rupee, Link figured, and kicked at him, too, though with far less success.

His foot merely glanced the gauntlet of the clan member’s forearm (barely missing the defensive spikes swung at him) as he leaned back to thrust his foot at the Yiga blademaster. Then, before he could rear his foot back for another kick or even try to scramble to get it back underneath him, the guard's hands fell on his leg, seizing and hauling him up. He was so tall that by the time Link’s ankle was shoulder height on the man, his own shoulders were barely resting on the ground.

That was fine, though, because a second later he didn't even care about it when the Yiga member slammed his foot into the back of them, directly between his shoulder blades.

Link suppressed a shout, maybe only successful because of the shock of agony that overcame him.

Then the hand holding his leg knocked it into the tall box next to them, and its edge was just at the current height of his knee, and oh, there was some irony, he thought, as his own knee bent painfully to the side with a clicking noise he really didn't want to examine.

He was gasping by the end of it, hanging limply by the hold around his ankle, other leg dangling pitifully between them. The other outer guard was behind the one holding him now, and the one he’d kicked was straightening back up, recovered from the pain. He came to stand to Link’s left, and ah, was that the quiet blademaster behind the shoulder of the other, also watching him now?

Though dazed from the shock, even Link could see the problem with four angry Yiga clan members staring down at him.

The next few actions were a bit of a blur. It was loud, it was fast, it was all four of them arguing for another intense, heated moment of confused frenzy and enraged arrogance. For all their talk of capturing the hero, they seemed to fall apart when left without a higher authority to answer to.

Link didn’t really need the details, though. Between the inner blademaster’s quiet disapproval, the gleeful hissing that passed for sentences from the chatty footsoldier, and the way he didn’t catch half of the fast-paced conversation because he was being thrown back-first roughly onto a set of boxes (crushing his arms behind him, slamming his head into the hard wood along the way, making him dizzy as well) by the other outer blademaster who’d rushed in, he got the gist: they wanted to hurt him.

He didn’t catch how until half-bits of a demand for somebody’s stupid sewing kit that I know you carry around met his ears, followed quickly by the knock and rattle of a sickle slammed down by his head--in favor of picking up a slender, shiny, almost deceivingly delicate sewing needle and holding it up in the dim light.

Link’s stomach dropped to his feet--which were then held down by the outer footsoldier, as the outer blademaster hovered over him, easily holding him down by one hand at his hip and another on his shoulder.

The chatty, vicious, inner Yiga guard began grabbing for his face with dark intent. Despite not knowing exactly what he planned to do with the needle in his hand, he didn’t need a written invitation to struggle against their hold.

Link thrashed, trying uselessly to buck off the Yiga member holding down his torso, desperately attempting to kick out at the third one leaning onto his legs with all his weight. It was pointless--he had no advantage, no plan like this

“I’d hold still if I were you,” the one with the needle whispered nastily, strong fingers of his other hand grasping Link’s cheeks and gripping meanly to the point of bruising, trying to hold him in place. “This is gonna hurt you more if you don’t.”

When he didn’t, continuing to struggle against and grapple with the hands on him, the Yiga clan member simply hissed and grabbed his chin, forcing it sideways so that his head lay on its side towards him, then held him down with a cleverly angled hand on his jaw. Link tried to pull away, but he didn’t have the leverage or strength in his neck to defy the force exerted on him--could only watch, helplessly, as the needle got closer and closer to his face.

“Beg,” commanded the voice right above him, greedy and pathetically cruel. “I want to hear the hero plead for mercy.”

Though the words were simple, it took a moment to break through the haze of fear in his mind. And despite it all, there was no hesitation in his mind when he chose to answer.

He shook his head mutely, determinedly, watching the footsoldier’s grip on the needle tense and become enraged.

“Fine,” he snarled, “let’s just force it out of you, then.” He then threaded the needle with some difficulty one-handed, frustrated and swearing, but eventually he managed, all the while more and more ice crept up Link’s spine.

He scrunched his eyes shut, entire body tensing when he finally felt the equally icy tip of metal brush his skin.

On his mouth. Right above the corner of his lips.

He froze. He panicked, to a degree he wouldn’t be able to qualify until later, afterwards. The world went white with fear, even behind his closed eyes.

Then the Yiga member began to push in, delicate needle effortlessly ripping through delicate skin. A silent gasp was torn through his nose. Blood dripped inside his mouth, and metal scraped against his teeth. The needle was pulled through, and thread replaced it, the sick slide of it gliding through the newly formed wound in his mouth burning as it went.

Link trembled pitifully in place, only motionless through the terror that gripped him, made him deathly afraid of how much worse it would be if he thrashed while that was in his skin. It took all of his nerve and training to not move.

It was funny, he thought. He was supposed to be the bearer of the Triforce of Courage or something, right? That’s what the legends of the hero who held the sword that sealed the darkness said. Yet here he was, shaking like a leaf over a man in a mask holding a thin piece of metal.

Here he was, the supposed hero of Hyrule, crying silent tears as three regular men--not even bokoblins, not even moblins, not even someone with the sheer might or strength or cunning of a hinox or talus or lynel--held him down, and made him bleed, and laughed while they did so, because they did so.

The Yiga clan member had been right--he was pathetic.

The one holding his face snickered as he worked carefully, murmuring all kinds of cruel nonsense he seemed to find funny. How the needle and thread made a better gag than cloth ever could, how truly great and noble the hero of Hyrule appeared in this state, and of course, repeating all of his typical insults from earlier. At one point the pain was too much and Link’s eyes eyes were wrenched open by it, and the hands beside his face were too close, too red, and the wall beyond too blurry, and he panicked in sincerity, uneven breaths leaving his mouth, this time alongside vague pleas of whimpers that pulled at the stitches (stitches, he thought dizzily) around his lips, and he tried to pull away again, but the hand on his jaw held him firmly.

The Yiga member simply tutted at him. “Ah, ah, ah!” he said, shaking a finger in front of Link’s face where he crouched to be even with him. “You don’t get to decide to speak now. Hold still and be quiet.”

And Link did. Goddess help him, he did, choosing the easy and obedient path for once in his life, even as the tang of more and more blood spilled inside his mouth, and dripped down his chin, even as sobs threatened to burst uncontained from his throat, even as his whole body ached from how hard he was holding himself still, barely breathing.

The one above his torso laughed, forcing his weight further onto him, crushing his arms. “Don’t worry, hero,” he said conspiratorially, amused. “It’ll be over soon.”

“And even if it’s not,” the one by his head hissed in his ear, breath gently rustling the loosened hair at his temple. “It’s less than you deserve, for what you’ve already taken from the Yiga clan.”

Over and over the needle worked. In and out, burning and piercing and meticulous, thorough. The stitches were carefully placed, closeset. He felt them pull together slowly inch by inch across the line of his mouth, every time warming his mouth with more blood, forcing him to swallow or else feel it drip out past his lips and onto the box, every time making him intimately aware of how it felt to have his skin be agonizingly slowly and methodically torn through. It seemed to take aeons, ages, years, he thought he’d live long enough to see another century pass by the time it was over. Yet it also passed by in a flash, time and experience simply skipping by him, too overwhelming and frightening to truly process, seeming as though it had never truly happened until the moment the Yiga footsoldier finally pulled away and light flooded Link’s vision as the shadow of the clan member’s form left him, letting in the glow from the lantern at the man’s back. The hand left his jaw and the needle was removed, tugging carefully at the edge of his mouth, tightening sickenly second by second until the Yiga footsoldier considered himself done and severed the cord.

Link quivered, staring at the distant wall almost numbly. His arms felt numb, too, underneath him. His mouth was a blazing spot of bright pain in his consciousness, but it was so bright it almost skipped past his radar of focus, like staring into the sun for too long and then becoming unable to see anything at all afterwards.

“There,” the Yiga said, after cleaning and putting away the needle. “Consider this your second and better gag, since you’d rather not speak to us. And consider this a fraction of the bloodprice you owe us. The rest we’ll collect when Master Kohga decides what to do with you.”

“Or how to do away with you,” the footsoldier at his feet sneered.

They tossed him onto the floor again, without regard. His head slammed into the stone again, and this time it jolted through his brain, worsening and doubling the stress headache he only then noticed, as well as jostling the new cords painting a picture of pain across his face.

The sobs were harder to stop now, now that he didn’t have to hold still. He was good at not showing anything to other people, but usually that was for his own benefit, not theirs, and with this sick feeling of horror curling in his stomach, the urge to let the weeping go unchecked was hard to deny.

But now it yanked on the threads stitching his flesh together, creating a beautiful web of agony that refreshed with every twitch of his expression--and making the suffering worse with every second, a self-fulfilling cycle of torment.

He cried on that cold floor, hot blood dripping down his face and neck as he did, tears doing the same, with terrible strained whines and whimpers escaping his throat despite his best efforts to contain the hysterical emotions warring in his chest and lungs. He did his best to curl up and bury the sobs in his knees, if for no reason other than to try to hold his own face still to not hurt himself further.

They laughed at him intermittently as he did so, and through it all, he felt the gaze of the silent blademaster on him.

It wasn’t long before they made an error. Over a day, certainly, forcing Link to spend a mostly sleepless night in the room that had become his makeshift cell on the cold and hard ground, but that wasn’t different than usual, at least not the part about the floor. Afterwards it was another day of mockery and bearing the pain--and then finally, as night fell for a second time in the Yiga hideout, he found the opening he’d been waiting for.

It was just an hour or so after the sun must have set--and it took only that long for several of the clan members to fall asleep on guard. They’d switched out the Yiga members watching over him for the night, and none of these had been particularly impressed or cautious about the “hero” they’d been assigned to look over, hunched over on a dirty stone floor, maimed and bloodied and exhausted.

That was their mistake.

Link had picked up a few of the Yiga’s sickles before, after defeating the footsoldiers he’d met on the road over time who’d picked fights with him. He needed weapons, and so few of the ones found laying around Hyrule remained in good shape. He couldn’t deny that the Yiga were good at crafting vicious, deadly, sturdy blades. But what he carefully snuck towards, removed from where it had fallen onto the floor, and then cut his bonds with was not a sickle. It was a weapon he’d never seen before in the hands of a Yiga member--it was sharp and rounded, completing a full circle with edges lined by razorlike points. It looked ferocious, dangerous, scary. It might’ve been a weapon intended to intimidate as much as it was intended to be used, because Link could not even imagine how it was meant to be handled, ideally, despite the handle on it, and he had seen many different kinds of weapons in his travels, most of which he’d used himself at one point or another, and most of which he seemed to have an instinctive familiarity with that he could only attribute to the training of a life he no longer remembered.

But it wasn’t hard to figure out, at least not for a cornered and capable teenager confronted with the vulnerable forms of those who were apparently meant to detaining him: fingers around leather grip. Sharp edge to skin. Slice.

The weapon was fashioned with a tassel on the end, red like most of everything associated with the Yiga. It swung through the air silently as Link soundlessly maneuvered the blade.

The two newest guards inside the room fell to the ground nearly as one, and when the two outside rose in alarm, they were dispatched just as quickly as well.

Irony, he thought, or perhaps design, that their red outfits hid the blood so well.

Something he couldn’t say about his own, noticing the pool of semi-dried red staining the pale lavender cloth around his shoulder and neck, accompanied by new, fresh platters along the torso and down the pants.

Carefully, carefully, trying to control the heaving of his own chest, he brought the blade to his mouth and picked at the threads tying his lips together, one by one. Each time, a sharp bite of pain flew through his system from disturbing the inflamed skin, making him have to resist the urge to cringe and worsen it.

When it was done, he pulled the pieces out together as one and threw them to the floor, gasping anew at the pain.

He sat there a moment, controlling his breathing and righting his mind, preparing himself. There were no more guards nearby, at least not immediately, but that would change soon.

When finally his breathing felt steadier and his being something closer to what he knew would lend him the ability to take down anything both stupid and brave enough to stand in his path, he continued down the hallway outside of the room, fingering the grip of his new blade--but not before recollecting his scarf, rewrapping it around his face and neck, both for convenience’s sake, and in some vague acknowledgement of perhaps stopping the bloodflow on his face.

It wasn’t hard taking down the rest of the Yiga clan members who met him in his trek to find his gear, and then, the exit. A fair one-on-one (or one-on-two, or one-on-three) fight, unlike the ambush earlier born of his own distraction? Yeah, they didn’t stand a chance.

The strange weapon he’d found seemed just as fit as a blunt weapon as a blade, he discovered quickly, slamming the heavy metal into the backs or heads of unaware footsoldiers and blademasters. But the blade was also useful--for the ones who refused to go down or caught him sneaking down the hallway to their own detriments, they met the end of it quick enough. He left a trail of bodies behind him, both unconscious and inanimate.

That was the interesting thing, he’d learned--it was both easier and harder to kill than he’d suspected. He didn’t go out of his way to fell enemies by deadly force, but he wasn’t averse to it, and it seemed to be something sewn into his being, something he could neither admire nor dislike, simply observe. The part of himself he’d come to associate with the Link who’d awoken in the shrine was surprised by it when he’d discovered it, but there was nothing much to say on it beyond that.

He had awoken in a time and place he didn’t recognize, not even knowing his own name or food preferences, but he’d found out before the day was over that his hands were as comfortable wielding a weapon against an enemy throat as they were tying back his own hair. It seemed mundane, almost, among the list of facts that he didn’t understand but nonetheless filed away as apparently true and a remainder of his life before: his name was Link, he was a hero and a knight’s son and a princess’s guard, he was meant to save Hyrule, and he was no stranger to death or killing.

Maybe it should’ve bothered him more. But at the same time, he knew that just as simply as one slaughtered and butchered in the name of survival via food, one must do so for battle. And it was only in survival’s name that he ever raised his blade in battle--for himself, or others, equally.

When he fought, it seemed as if the entirety of the world slipped away from him, anything that was not the battle. Who he was, where they were, what lay on the horizon and would come after the battle--it all became meaningless to the single moment or moments chained together that became the fight. It was all meaningless to the cause, the reason he’d grab a weapon in the first place. A sense of only emotionless determination and calm surety overtook him, overriding everything else. And that was not just familiar, but right. That felt true. He knew, if he knew nothing else about himself since the whole ordeal of everything foisted upon him after his reawakening, that he was truly himself when he fought. He was the hero of Hyrule, the fallen and failed knight, Zelda’s guard and friend, and the Goddess’s chosen in those moments. When he fought, past met present and it was one of the only times outside of the scraps of memories he collected that he truly felt like he embodied more than just his day to day minutia of existence that he was struggling to call an identity. Like if only he reached out his hand, he could grab onto the Link of before and drag him back into the present and fulfill this role, freeing himself from the burden of discovery and the momentum of time, and giving himself something more to align himself to and carry with him forward--as if, as easily as he wielded a sword, he could step back into the person he had been before.

And then the battle ended, and the past slipped away, and the enemies fell to his feet as they always did, and he was just a boy in borrowed armor with stolen weapons and a destiny he didn’t understand--a destiny wrapped in prophecies and memories and deities and all sorts of things that seemed far too grand and important for the charmingly mundane life he led inbetween the times he stumbled upon the things that unearthed more prominent significance of his existence.

And apparently, either way, he was just… Link.

The Yiga fell one by one, he found and reobtained most of his gear, and the battle ended. One or two of them along the way happened to be some of the guards from the day before, he thought--he recognized their voices even though he may not have seen their faces. They were more alarmed than the others, having apparently thought him down for the count, and he almost wished he could think it was funny--would that have made him as bad as them? It would’ve been cruel, surely--it would’ve been painfully human, certainly, and when Link fought, he was no regular human. He was someone else from another time and plane and existence who did not spare his thoughts or energy on things like revenge or vengeance or any anger that wasn’t born out of righteousness.

They stood in his way, and they were slain. And he had no other opinions on the matter. He might later, when both exhaustion and pain and the remnants of Link-from-before had finally seeped out of his being, leaving only the person he’d been becoming the past few weeks, but not now.

Eventually, no one else stood in his way. Eventually, he made it to the outer and upper caverns, the ones he began to recognize. Eventually, it must have been nearing midnight, which he knew both because of his internal clock and the faint, nervous itching under his skin that he’d learned was the beginnings of a new blood moon. The latter should’ve given him pause, but the weight and surety of battle dropping from him simply made him lax, sped his sore feet, and spurned him forward. He nearly dropped the demonic-looking blade in his hands in his relaxation and sudden reassurance of this latest trial being done with, looking forward to the sight of the night sky, red or not.

He was glad he didn’t drop it when a footstep sounded behind him.

Just as easily as the feeling and interior role of hero-Link-champion fell from him when no longer required, it came back--Link’s whole body tensed, whirling instantly on his previously unsteady feet and raising the wicked weapon back up in front of him in defense.

Before him stood a blademaster, tall and imposing and with the signature windcleaver at his hip. But he didn’t go to draw it--he merely stood there, watching.

Link knew, suddenly, that it was a familiar gaze. The inner blademaster of the first night, the quiet one. But where before his stare had been provocative and unclear, now it seemed somehow… contemplative.

That was confirmed when he spoke.

“It appears we’ve underestimated the hero. Again,” he tacked the end part on and Link couldn’t help but think he meant more than just tonight, maybe even more than the past weeks of confrontations.

Link didn’t move.

Neither did the blademaster step forward to meet him. He tilted his head, and changed the subject. “Leave the blade here,” he said simply. He didn’t gesture, but Link knew he must mean the circular one in his hands--there was nothing else.

Link only shifted on his feet, prepared to move quickly if need be. He didn’t drop the weapon. He couldn’t even if he wanted to--which he didn’t, didn’t want to give the Yiga member an opening--because he still hadn’t found his own sword wherever they’d stashed it in these labyrinths of caves. His bow and arrows, his Sheikah Slate, his bag of food and supplies, yes, but not the latest sword he’d picked up somewhere in Faron. In the end, he’d decided to just give up and take the Yiga weapon in his hands for defense from here on out.

The Yiga member crossed his arms. “I won’t attack you. You’ve already proven you are probably more than capable of still fighting back even without it. I suspect getting the upper hand on you to begin with was a fluke. I have nothing to gain here.”

And he might be correct, but Link didn’t follow this train of thought. And he didn’t trust the man before him.

A sigh. “Do you even know how much it takes to cast and shape one of those things? The time and effort? The detail? I suppose it’s too much to ask that a warrior know his way around a forge these days.”

It was more than Link had heard the clan member say in all of the long hours he’d been guarding him. It spoke to some sort of inner conflict or goal or emotion that he didn’t yet know. Despite that, or because of it, he stayed where he was, arm brought up in defense, feet slowly edging backwards in case of sudden attack. He was prepared. If the Yiga member chose to, he would die tonight, like all the others.

Another sigh, but this time less weary, and more of an amused exhale. “Here. Does this change your mind at all?” he asked, deep voice resounding in the large, echoing outer cave, and then from somewhere behind him--probably using the same talent most Yiga seemed to have for transporting themselves through empty air--pulled out a sword. Link’s sword.

Well. Not his--he’d gotten that from an empty chest hidden under the rubble of what was once a house, but enough his that he recognized it immediately: plain and gray and brown, but strong and sturdy, not rusted at all. It was why he’d looked for it so hard in the first place.

Link’s eyes widened and he braced himself when the sword suddenly went flying through the air--more like guided through the air, really, but quickly--and landed a few feet from him. The blademaster just stared at him.

…What was he supposed to do with that? It was suspicious and baffling he’d almost suspect it as a last-minute attempt at (re)disarming him, but that just confused him further. Why send the sword to him first before convincing him to drop the blade in his hands? Why would the blademaster stop to give him this at all, have this pretense of a conversation at all, instead of just attacking him like all the others?
Link’s confusion deepened when the Yiga member stepped back, then, neither finally attacking nor walking away from the conversation. Maybe trying to stall for the blood moon to revive the rest of his clan? But that was still some time away…

“It’s yours,” he said, nodding to the sword. “So take it. And then answer me one thing before you go.” His voice brooked no argument. Not that there had ever been an argument Link wouldn’t happily voice with his actions, or even provoke through them if someone was irritating enough, but something about him seemed sincere. Thoughtful, again.

He didn’t move, and didn’t continue, and Link realized he was waiting for an acknowledgement.

…What would it hurt, really?

He straightened slowly from his defensive pose, though he kept the weapon held out from his body in warning, and then nodded, short and decisive and accepting.

“Chosen hero,” the blademaster addressed, voice curled in something that was somewhere between mockery and a startlingly sincere measure of respect--and something else that was almost wary. “How old are you, really?”

The question shocked him. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t that.

Either way, he inhaled, and then reached up to delicately pull the scarf down from around his nose, carefully avoiding the new puncture wounds. “Been asleep for a century,” he whispered finally, voice hoarse from the first words he’d spoken in maybe a week, lips newly clumsy and stumbling from the mix of pain and numbness around his mouth. Maybe the blademaster would attribute the dryness in his tone to the hoarseness. “Didn’t you hear?”

There was a puff of air that was something like a laugh, but when the Yiga clan member didn’t move, only sat there, still waiting, Link swallowed and settled on an answer.

“Seventeen,” he said, though he didn’t know if it was the truth. It was close, and somewhere in the middle of the expected range, and it was all he had, so maybe speaking it aloud made it the truth now.

“Hm,” was the only response he got. The blademaster peered at him speculatively, or at least Link assumed that’s what he was doing behind the mask.

Link wondered what he saw--was it something surprising, something awe-inspiring? That someone his age was so esteemed, so capable? Or did he see weakness as the others before had joked, a child in warrior’s clothing, a teenager playing at hero? Or maybe neither, maybe he saw something else entirely that Link couldn’t even begin to guess at in the Yiga member’s mind.

Either way, he relented finally, stepping backwards for good, a clear choice to back off and let Link go. Regardless of his intent now or earlier, Link appreciated the chance to leave and began retreating towards the sword, testing the waters--just to make sure it wasn’t another attempt at a fakeout.

It didn’t seem to be, as the red-clad man did nothing to stop him.

In a spur of the moment decision, realizing how close the exit was and remembering he had regained all of his other gear, Link tossed the Yiga weapon suddenly, back at the feet of the former guard across the room, with none of the same finesse as the blademaster. He startled, apparently seeming to think for a moment it was an attack, and Link wondered offhandedly if that weapon could be used as a throwing weapon as easily as a melee one--it might explain its shape. But the blademaster relaxed again as it hit the stone floor and rebounded with loud ringing clangs, picking it back up easily.

There was a single second of tension, of Link without a clear, explicit tool of defense in his hands, and the blademaster now with two, and a moment of what Link assumed was distant eye contact and lingering thoughts--and then Link was gone, snatching his sword and sprinting in the opposite direction.

He didn’t hear the sounds of chase but he didn’t stop, feet slamming into the stone floor as he ran out of the Yiga hideout and beyond, into the snowy plains of the Gerudo highlands, stowing his sword and then climbing up and skidding down rock faces as he went in a bid to put enough distance between him and his misguided attempt of a stealth mission.

He was panting harshly by the time he reached the point that felt like far enough away, body shaking in exertion--he was no stranger to effort or exercise, and still he was winded and aching from the extended sprint, nearly collapsing on the ground in the midst of a cluster of trees, some distance away from a nearby pond.

The panting hurt his mouth, of course, lips aching from the sting and pressure, pulling new blood form the congealed wounds. He managed with some effort to sit up on his knees, fishing numbly for a bottle of a dubious looking potion he’d bought last week on a whim from a traveling salesman who claimed it could cure any wound with one use. He’d been suspicious, but agreed to the good price anyway, more curious about the outcome than he was hopeful.

Now, he disovered firsthand it was correct--the first swig he took was messy, desperate, half of it spilling from his lips anyway from the pain and, well, the holes in his face, but on the second try, he found the wounds already closing, the pain already receding in the wake of the strange tingling sensation replacing it. (A healing potion and a pain reliever in one? He’d gotten this for a steal.) By the third sip he could actually properly wrap his lips around the bottle, and by the time he swallowed, he found the acidic, almost fruity taste of the potion to have finally washed the taste of blood out of his mouth.

He managed to fumble with numb fingers to put the stopper back into the bottle, stashing it half-empty into his bag once more. Then he collapsed properly back on the ground on his back, muscles trembling and bones liquid, the body-weakening effect of relief chasing the absence of pain so strongly he might’ve passed out with it if not for the knowledge that he needed to stay up at least long enough to make sure no nearby monsters rose with the upcoming blood moon.

The pants turned to deep breaths after a while, which in turn became slower and easier. Finally he managed to gulp in air without it feeling like gulps, his head clearing somewhat after the ordeal of the past two days.

A giggle escaped his newly-healed lips. Then another, and another. And then he was doubled over on his side, nearly curled around the tree he had laid beside, trying to hold back intense laughter that hurt his stomach with how harshly it was being expelled. Perhaps he shouldn’t be distracted like that while a blood moon was just on the horizon and anything that had died in the area within the last two weeks might reawaken, but he couldn’t help it. It all felt really funny, suddenly. Getting kidnapped by Yiga only because he’d broken into their home on a whim? Killing most of them with their own weapon before being so charitably and shockingly regifted his own stolen one from one of the surviving members? The fact that they were all about to come back to life anyway, as servants of Ganon, within the hour?

Being gagged and having his mouth literally sewn shut, and it making no difference in how much he spoke?

He couldn’t help it either when the laughter turned, inevitably, into sobbing.

He buried the tears this time into his bloodstained scarf, trying to muffle the sound out of some instinctive desire to not be too much, too vulnerable--too much and too vulnerable to who, he wondered, but yet again, he could only suspect this as a confusing and unwanted gift from the hero of before he’d gained his name from.

Eventually the crying lessened, and he simply lay in the grass, listening to the wind rustling the trees, feeling the deep, antsy buzz rising in his blood and speaking of what was to come. Not much longer now.

He couldn’t imagine what he looked like, right now--clothes bloody, still shaking from the aftermath of adrenaline and relief, hair pulled unevenly out of place and tangled around his face without care, tears still streaking his face.

He doubted he looked like much of a hero, to anyone’s estimates. Doubted he looked like anything but a troubled and exhausted teen who was too far from home.

With a sudden, sharp pang, he realized for the first time that he didn’t think he had one of those. And if he ever did, it was surely destroyed and abandoned among the rest of the ruins of what was once Castle Town.

Bright spots of light pricked his vision through his closed eyelids and the liquid still slowly draining from them, and he looked up--just in time.

Ah, there it was: the red sky, the purple clouds, the anxiety itching under his skin as strange, glowing embers of malice danced around the air, bright and unreal and formless. He tensed, despite himself, clutching the sword by his hip even as he did not rise, and waited.

Waited for the rising of the dead. Waited for the voices that would call to him. That always called to him.

First--always first--was her.

Link, whispered something small, something delicate, something strange and pure and familiar yet so achingly foreign. Something touching his consciousness that he was never quite whether or not it was a silent, inherent connection or a purposeful decision to reach out.

He exhaled, mentally leaning into the aura as he always did, listening to the soundless words of encouragement that felt like both comfort and dread, in this moment.

The blood moon rises once again, the princess whispered to him, as if he did not already know himself, as if all of Hyrule did not know every time it came and went, as if Ganon’s vengeful creatures across the land did not prove its existence with every violent scramble of bodies upon the earth from fortnight to fortnight.

And yet, the fact he had been told of her struggle to keep such small calamities as the only ones allowed to terrorize Hyrule for the last century as she remained in the remains of the castle, and still she dedicated some of her focus every few weeks to warning him…

He did not know much of Hyrule, altogether, despite the past few months of trying. Nor himself. Nor even the great monster he was meant to slay. He did not know Princess Zelda, in any way that most people considered to matter.

But he knew, in his heart, where something that he could not define as either old or new lived deep inside it, that this was important. This meant something. He could not define what his relationship was or ever may be to the Princess of Hyrule, nor if he truly cared, but he knew: this is important.

I know, Link thought to her, and knew she could not hear him in return.

Please be careful, he heard, fading now, almost gone, almost fragile if not for the quiet strength and stability hidden in the presence he felt--and then felt no longer.

I will, he promised, across the void of memory and longing and the great, dangerous green expanse of sea that was Hyrule Field, and he meant it.

Some people may have crashed under the weight of all that promise of survival meant, and oftentimes, Link wanted to. But he could not fall--he had to go on, for himself, for Hyrule and Hylia, for her, for all of the travelers he met day and night who kept him simple company and reminded him that Hyrule may have fallen long ago but her people still lived and that was important. That was meaningful.

The winds and clouds sped for a briefest instant, jarring and bright and so vividly intense he was never quite sure he remembered it right. The air grew taut with something that felt like condensed hatred, thick and angry and giddy. The clouds and winds quieted suddenly, all going still, and in the distance--thank the Goddess, only in the distance, Link could breathe out a sigh of relief--the sounds of bokoblins and other monsters unearthing themselves from their temporary graves. Sometimes Link wondered if they, too, ever grew tired of the confusing destiny of life and death placed on their heads.

And then came the second voice he always expected--a great roaring in the distance, so loud and so triumphant it could be heard from every corner of the would-be-and-once-was kingdom, the one that grew in intensity and strength the closer one was to Hyrule Castle.

Calamity Ganon. Link didn’t need a barest connection of nonverbal communication to hear the sweet malice in its voice; didn’t need words at all to understand its intent, or the way that roar somehow, every time, felt pointed at him in particular. Like a call to action against him--like a cry of warning--like a declaration of war and simultaneous preemptive triumph in one.

It was a voice he’d be hearing up close someday.

Not today. Not this week. But if Impa and Rhoam and all of Hyrule and maybe even Princess Zelda herself had their way, it’d be soon.

A voice that belonged not to beasts nor royalty nor even ghosts snuck into his thoughts. His own, this time.

And if I had my way… what would that look like?

Link closed his eyes. A difficult question. Why did his subconscious have to be so profound and bothersome?

He uncurled himself with effort, rolling onto his back again. His hand twitched towards his sword hilt, just in case, on the instinct of someone used to night ambushes, but his other hand, clutched in the scarf, unclenched and pulled itself towards his face almost subconsciously. He traced the edges of his mouth, still flinching subtly from memories of phantom pain, looking up into the now re-darkened sky that was visible through the tree leaves.

Well, he thought absently. He didn’t think he had many serious goals beside or beyond what lay in the dark ruins of Hyrule Castle--for better or worse--but he thought that before that day came, he’d like to know a little more about Hyrule. He’d like to meet Kass again, at the very least--he’d spotted the fellow traveler on more than one occasion, and his songs and absent-minded commentary were always appreciated as they walked along the roads. And there were some recipes he wanted to try--he was trying to keep a catalogue of most of the food materials in Hyrule, and as many popular dishes as he could. He’d discovered that food was a great pleasure on his journeys--was some inherent love of his own that came as easily as breathing air, and some hopeful part of him thought that maybe if he found the right meals, he could unlock a memory of the Link who came before, since this was one thing he knew they both must’ve shared.

And he really did kind of want to visit Lurelin Village again at some point--it was his favorite--and oh, he had promised Hudson his help with that town he was trying to set up, hadn’t he? It wouldn’t be very hero-like of him to go back on his word. And while he was it, he still didn’t know what that glowing light on top of Satori Mountain was--and he probably should check in with Impa again, at least before he headed off to fight that great and dangerous monster lurking over all their heads, after all. It’d be nice to see Paya again.

Plus there was that strange merchant man who kept trying to beckon him over to sell him monster parts, and who was Link to deny the whims of a strange merchant? He really needed to check that out. And it’d been too long since he’d seen a korok--they were so nice.

And, of course, he couldn’t really finish this hero’s quest until he finally did find that sword that seals the darkness, right?

He snorted a little, surprising himself with the smile on his face. He should probably get up and put down some proper bedding for the night but… he was too tired.

Link rolled over again, this time with his back to the tree, and jumbled his scarf into something resembling a pillow--very carefully keeping the bloodied side tucked inwards. He needed to wash that--he needed to wash all of himself and his clothes actually, soon. Wouldn’t be the first time he rinsed a truly outrageous amount of blood and dirt into a stream somewhere--it was always eventful when someone else was passing by, though.

He sighed, staring off tiredly into the distance, eyes drooping. From this distance, the bokoblins a little ways away almost looked cute, piling around an unlit campfire to sleep for the night.

Hyrule was healing. Link knew that much. It was hard, the same way it was hard to heal from a sickness that refused to ever quite leave, but it was managing. Its people were managing.

Link didn’t really dream or even think much on the future of Hyrule--it wasn’t why he did what he did, and he knew the people in it would flourish regardless--but he wasn’t sure it’d ever return to whatever state it had been in before. Or if it did, it’d take another century to get close. Something he surely wouldn’t see.

Maybe that was okay. Maybe they were all a little ruined and broken in the aftermath of the Calamity, but they were still living, and that was what was important. Maybe it was the small moments that made the kingdom worth saving, anyway.

Hyrule was surely fallen. Hyrule was not what she once was. She had failed in her only duty: to protect the people within her boundaries. She was fractured and empty and filled to the brim with casual terror, haunting memories of the past, and symbols of a life before that had survived only enough to remind the still living of what they had lost, and may still.

And she was still full of joy and laughter and playfulness and surprising kindness and the mundanity of life that went on, regardless, of tragedy. Still, she thrived, even if it could not be called the same thriving of a hundred year ago. Still, she fought to survive, as did all her people within.

Perhaps no one could blame her hero for being much the same in all ways, at the end of the day.