Chapter Text
The water was cold as it was splashed onto his face; it soaked into his bangs and dripped from his chin, eliciting a shudder. The small hero didn't wait before dousing himself once more in the basin's icy waters, cupping it in his hands and scrubbing at his cheeks with blunt nails until his skin turned pink.
Mask braced his hands on the tub's siding and stared down into the pool as the ripples began to settle. He breathed a heavy sigh, feeling a tension between his shoulders, and slumped over the edge as the image reflected there began to take shape. Listless blue eyes stared back at him. He traced the faint, colored markings that lined his cheeks and forehead, a mockery of the mask he'd pried from his face. It was but a hazy imprint left behind by the raw magic that'd filled his altered body, and already it was beginning to fade. He could still feel the longer reach of his arms and straining of muscles that weren't there, like phantoms of what once was.
He could still feel the residual heat of red-hot anger scorching his veins, and the sticky warmth of blood spilling freely from that traitor.
The body had been dumped outside city limits for monsters and scavengers alike to pick at. He did not know if he was seen, but in hindsight a part of him wished he was, so that any other potential backstabbers might know fear and stall their actions. Hylia forbid they do something regrettable as a way to get back at the crown.
He didn't really mind the dirty work, once all was said and done. It'd been a necessity to defend himself. If asked, that was what he'd say.
In a twisted sense, it'd been nice to have a reason to bring out the power of the deity and stretch his legs. It was the closest he could get to that feeling of being an adult again, and he relished it even in spite of the grim responsibility it brought. At least when he was like that, he felt strong enough to actually bear that weight, rather than wonder if his child body might get crushed.
And yet he regretted to think he needed such power in the first place. Were he truly capable, his small hands would be enough. But since they hadn't even been enough when he'd first pulled the Master Sword, he doubted a few more years and new adventures would change much.
Caught up as he was in mulling over the past, he failed to register the sound of steps approaching him. Any other time, it would've costed him dearly.
A familiar face appeared in the pool of water beside his own: blonde hair, cobalt blue eyes, and the sharp facial features of a young adult.
Mask startled back, wondering briefly if he was being haunted by his older self. When he was greeted instead by a solid presence halting his retreat, clarity returned to him. He looked up into the captain's surprised face and felt the way his hands hovered uncertainly over his shoulders.
“Apologies – did I scare you?” Link asked, checking him over with a keen eye.
Mask shoved him away – not very hard, evidently, as the captain didn't budge – and hastily backpedaled with a scowl written across his features.
“Ugh! Don't get behind me like that!” he snapped. His cheeks burned red with embarrassment; he preferred the childish blush to the dark red streaks he'd bore before. “And no, you didn't scare me. I don't get scared like that.”
The last person to catch him by surprise had his life quickly snuffed. Mask resisted the urge to reach for the thin scar running along his collarbone, barely hidden under the hem of his tunic.
Captain frowned down at him, making him wonder if something was wrong – if he could still see the bloodstained entity that embodied the mask stowed into his pouch. But the captain showed no apprehension or judgment, and the softness of his voice undercut his sloppily maintained guard. “You have something on your cheek,” he said. Then he stooped, licking his thumb, and rubbed it into the side of his face. Mask scrunched his nose and ducked away with a mumbled protest, and the captain smiled as he leaned back.
Mask avoided his eyes as he wiped begrudgingly at his cheek. And so he didn't see the way that the taller hero knit his brow in concern, his smile fragile.
“When… did you leave last night?” he asked carefully. “I thought maybe you'd come back at some point, but I must've been mistaken.”
Mask still didn't look at him. “Couldn't sleep,” he answered evasively. And for that much, it was true.
Unfortunately for him, Mask had returned to the room in the middle of the night. He'd been walking in a state of being that wasn't entirely him, his head cloudy and movements automatic as he thought only of going back to bed. It was only when he'd reached for his bed covers and seen the blood on his hands – his hands that didn't truly belong to him – that he'd been able to chase the fog from his mind and retreat from the room.
He hadn't tried going back since.
People didn't scare him. But revealing the true nature of who he was… that was a terrifying thing, and already he'd told the captain more than most people ever heard of him.
How saddening, then, that the captain was also a hero. Hardship would surely lead him down a similar path.
“I was worried when I woke up and found you gone. I thought you were… well, I suppose it doesn't matter. Why don't we get breakfast? There should be some fresh-baked pastries you can pick out.”
Mask was quick to set aside his grievances, perking up at the prospect of food. If he could stock up on the breads and sweets the stalls had to offer, he would. But they staled too fast, and were never as tasty as the first bite, when they were warm and fresh.
At least he'd picked up some good fruit for the road, despite Captain's insistence that the wagons were plenty stocked already. He'd learned his lesson, and was adamant about holding fast to his own supplies.
With that in mind, he eagerly accompanied Link in the pursuit of breakfast. By now, the captain was easily recognized by the locals – word of mouth passed quickly in small towns, and he stood out too much already with his green tunic and embroidered blue scarf. At least Mask was small and easily missable as he dogged the captain's heels, living up to the moniker of a shadow that was being used by the soldiers. In truth, he hated the analogy, for it reminded him of the shadow he'd fought once before, in those misty halls of the Water Temple. But… it was an apt description.
In any case, Mask was happy to spend on Captain's rupee. They bought little fruit pies and nut loaves, both to eat now and save for later. Mask couldn't help the little skip in his step as he trailed behind Link while nibbling on a peach pastry and sharing the crumbs with Proxi. He rocked gleefully on his heels when Link was stopped by people to talk, and hurried along when he picked up the pace with renewed purpose.
There was… much more activity in the streets today than there'd been before. Merchants mumbled worries while guards whispered of monsters coming closer to the gates.
“Captain Link, there you are.”
Mask and Link both stiffened to attention and turned on their heels towards the source of the cold, steely voice. They each raised a hand to their forehead in twin salutes, standing rigidly before General Impa.
This Impa was younger than the one he knew, but just as calculating and formidable. There were few people he would listen to completely, but he'd be damned if he was going to show inadequacy towards someone like her. She had high expectations, and he didn't want to disappoint Zelda's closest attendant, no matter the era.
Proxi fluttered between them. “General Impa, what can we do for you?” she asked, speaking on Link's behalf. Mask and Link slowly lowered their hands as Impa waved her hand, placing them at ease.
“Plans have changed. We are to have a quick debriefing and then mobilize asap,” she announced.
The captain grimaced at the sudden proposition, and Proxi hesitated before tentatively continuing. “That is… rather sudden. I thought we were staying another night and then heading out in the morning?”
“The reasonings can be discussed in private, ” Impa reaffirmed briskly. Her piercing gaze flicked down to Mask, and he raised his chin higher, expecting… anything, really. “Mask, you are dismissed. I'll be taking Captain Link with me for a while.”
Mask deflated, even if he wasn't surprised; Impa was one of the few who knew of his true history and status as a hero. Despite this, he was not privy to these sorts of confidential meetings just yet.
He'd just learn about it secondhand from the captain later on, but it would've been nice to be recognized…
Link reached down and gently patted the top of Mask's head. Mask jolted at the contact, hands flying to his hair, and stared up at him in bewilderment.
The taller hero snorted a laugh and, keeping his voice low, said, “I'll catch up with you later. Think you can stay out of trouble?”
He gave a tiny nod, his eyes wide as moons, and could only watch as Impa led the captain away.
He felt his spirits lower just then, and even the taste of his peach fritter didn't seem so sweet anymore.
People and carts moved around him as he stood in the center of the street, staring after the quickly vanishing end of Captain's trailing blue scarf.
Mask was surprised to find that he missed the company. Or rather, there'd been few times in his life where he'd ever been truly alone, but that's what made these fleeting companionships matter more in the end. He didn't do well on his own, he'd come to find.
The streets weren't very good for Epona, who was still boarded in the stables, and that place would get busy once the order to mobilize was made… The stables weren't a good place to be “underfoot,” as the captain liked to put it. Nor were the open streets, he quickly decided, as he ducked out of the way of a man hauling a cart of produce.
Mask would rather make himself useful, then.
This settlement was just a bit bigger than Clock Town, though the walls surrounding it weren't as tall and reinforced against outside dangers. Perhaps this was supposed to be a safer area, and it was only a recent uptick in monster activity that had it so guarded. Either way, he knew what to say to get access to the thin ramparts that lined the perimeters. He indicated the bow and quiver on his back, lied about being here on orders from Captain Link of the Royal Knights of Hyrule, and claimed that he was taking counts on monsters seen outside the walls.
Mask patrolled the walls unbothered, barely acknowledging the other guards as he went, and stopped anytime he caught sight of a monster.
There were those strange bokoblins out there again, sniffing around the edges of the forest the town bordered and peering up with baleful eyes. Crows and guay circled out in the fields, and a few peahats sat dormantly amongst grass clumps.
Mask took out his bow and made quick work of any potential threats to the town and the soldiers.
He recalled spending nights slaying stalchildren outside the front gates of Castle Town, and found it nice he could be on the inside this time, picking away at enemy numbers from a safe distance.
But besides satiating the need to be doing something productive, Mask was here for another reason.
Carefully, he'd take aim at a bokoblin snuffling around a fair distance away. Then he'd pour some elemental magic into the arrow and send it flying.
Fire arrows would burst the enemy into flames as expected.
Ice arrows would freeze them on the spot.
Light arrows…
Light arrows…
His hands began to shake, and his vision blurred. Tears pricked his eyes, and he lowered his bow, the magic receding like the tides. He let out a shuttered breath and waited for the dull pain caused by the light to ebb.
Just let me have it.
Mask rooted through his belongings and produced a green potion he'd purchased Just the other day. With one hand, he uncorked the bottle in his teeth and drained it of half its contents. His hair stood on end, magic tickling across his skin, and he felt the concoction replenish what'd been spent.
He tried again for a light arrow.
Give me back the light!
Golden magic rippled across his fingers, scorching them, and he fired off an arrow that streamed light in its wake like a shooting star. It struck an ugly moblin on the edge of the forest, sending it crumbling to its knees.
He didn't even get to derive satisfaction from it.
Mask buried his head in his hands with a groan, fighting down a bout of nausea. In the dark void behind his eyelids, it was someone else clutching their head. A person he hardly recognized and yet was also Link.
At what point had it become so hard to foster control? Was it because the Fierce Deity mask wasn't a divine gift from the Goddesses, but rather something else? A relic seeped in darkness from a land beyond their jurisdiction?
I can control it, though. I'll be fine.
Mask gritted his teeth and nocked another arrow.
For once, the passage of time came second to the task at hand. He was aware, of course, about the way the sun passed overhead, hidden as it was behind a thin layer of cloud. But it didn't matter how much time passed while he sat there, legs swinging from atop the rampart, as he sniped unsuspecting foes with the power instilled upon him.
Three green potions and a full quiver of arrows later and he was beginning to sway. Mask swallowed thickly, and he felt the sugary bread from this morning clogging the back of his throat. He gagged, holding a hand to his mouth, and counted numbers in his head until the feeling subsided.
He'd already intended on stocking up again before they left the town, but…
I feel like, no matter what, I'm running out of time.
Mask slowly eased himself off the wall, hands shaking as he slid back onto the walkway with a shuttered breath. White spots danced in his vision, and he wasted more time still blinking them away while leaning against the rampart for support.
His boots nudged the empty bottles that he'd left on the ground, and he stooped very carefully to pick them all up.
The wooden steps nearby creaked under a new weight, signifying someone's inevitable approach, and Mask straightened up hastily.
Too fast, he thought, as vomit crawled up his throat. His tongue tasted green potion.
“I was told you might still be here,” Link said, clearing the last few steps and joining him on the walkway. “Orders from the Captain, right?”
Mask leaned heavily against the wall for stability, struggling to keep his sickliness from reaching his face. He must've not been doing a very good job.
In the span of two seconds, the captain was crouched in front of him. He was wearing that familiar mask of concern that seemed to fit him so well. “Mask, is something wrong? Have you fallen ill?”
“I'm fine. Just leave me be,” Mask managed to spit out, the bile on his tongue turning to bile in his words.
Before Mask could react, there was a hand being held to his forehead. It was cool and tender.
“You're warm. Are you sure you're feeling alright?” Link pressed, more intensely than he normally would whenever his inquiries were shot down. His voice was laden with worry, and Mask wasn't quite sure what to do with it. He stared up at the hero with wide, unfocused eyes, before delivering a dismal nod and stepping just out of reach, waving him off.
“Y…yes.” But now he sounded less convincing, and he worried that the captain could see right through his crumbling facade. This sort of familiarity wasn't something he was used to, and he felt a yearning that was difficult to process.
He knew care. He knew… something sort of like the love shared amongst family. Mask cherished his memories of the kokiri who raised him, though none were as close to him as Saria had been, and it'd been years since he last saw her... And there'd been Cremia. She had hugged him once before, after he'd fended off cargo thieves from her milk delivery. She'd been warm and smelled of hay, and she had held him the same way she would Romani, as if just holding him would protect him from the cruelty of the world.
He regretted to think that he might miss that feeling.
But it was finally starting to sink in. The idea that – oh, Gods – this man cared a great deal. And where that should've been a comfort, it was instead a condemnation, for how could he accept such a thing when it was all so temporary? Mask was not bound to this hero and his plight, in an era that wasn't his own, and there'd come a day when he'd surely disappoint him. If not sometime soon, then most definitely by the end, when he inevitably had to leave.
Mask wasn't one to pray to a higher being when someone as small as him could be so easily overlooked. But perhaps it was not too late to ask for mercy – not for himself, but for the captain.
Link took in the clues for the young boy's ailing state: the empty bottle in hand, the depleted quiver, the reddened fingertips that threatened to bleed…
He swallowed back sorrow that rose like a sickness within him. The little hero was pushing himself when there shouldn't be any need for such thankless endeavors. If Mask's goal was to keep down monster numbers, then it was in vain, for they were without end. If this… was about his magical struggles, then he couldn't be rightly sure what he needed. And that was particularly maddening, when he wanted to help him any way he could, but lacked the power to do so. Perhaps a Great Fairy could provide some insight. Or… or Princess Zelda, if she wasn't gone. But he was at a loss, despite the success of this mission and the lives of his soldiers resting on his shoulders.
Mask stared down at the ground between his feet, his eyes puffy; Link wondered if he'd been crying not long ago, or if he'd just exhausted himself. Lack of sleep would do much the same.
“I'm sorry,” Mask blurted out, surprising him. There was a crushing weight to the apology, as if the small hero sought to be absolved of some horrible sin that'd gone unnamed. Link struggled to think of a time where he'd expressed remorse of any kind so blatantly. Apologies didn't pass easily from the lips of someone who lived a life of anger and hurt.
It wasn't an excuse for some of the actions he'd taken during their time together, however brief. Just… a matter of understanding. Link thought that he, too, would be more bitter and less apologetic in the wrong circumstances. But that still didn't tell him where this was coming from.
“Sorry for what, pray tell?” Link asked, picking up the remaining bottles on the floor and handing them back.
“I…” Mask choked on his words. He looked ready to throw up, and that worried the captain immensely. They'd be setting out soon on Impa's orders – healing would be harder on the road, and quality sleep was already something the young boy struggled to attain.
“I need to buy more arrows before we depart,” he mumbled. Link wasn't sure that's what he meant to say, but he remained sympathetic.
“I can get those for you. It's not a problem,” he gently reassured.
Mask still did not look up. “And more green potion. Even though you told me not to be wasteful and… and horde stuff.”
“No worries. The town witch might be low on supplies, though. So don't be disappointed if we can't get all your bottles filled. Okay?”
Mask rubbed tiredly at his face and hummed in agreement. It didn't seem like he was very stable, so he took Mask's hand carefully in his own and led him down the stairs. Mask didn't protest, so he was either perfectly fine with this… or he was worse off than Link imagined.
“We'll do some last-minute shopping before going back to our room, and you can rest for a bit while I pack our things and tell you about the meeting. Does that sound alright?”
Another hum, more ambiguous this time, reached his ears. He lightly squeezed the little hand gripped in his, hoping it offered some small reassurance, and guided him along with strides that were easier for Mask's shorter legs to keep up with.
The young hero stayed unusually quiet throughout it all. Link considered that he'd been oddly silent all of today. Did their conversation just last night upset him? Certainly, it had been upsetting subject matter, but Mask had felt detached from it all, in a way that'd left him unnerved.
Perhaps it was just his mind playing tricks on him, but… he wondered if it had anything to do with the strange dream he'd had?
Rarely ever did Link sleep deep enough to dream. And when he did, they showed him vicious images that he didn't always understand.
Zelda… had visions. Prophetic dreams that served as guideposts towards a better future than the one they were headed towards.
Link didn't believe he had anything like that. And yet he couldn't rid the dream from his thoughts, vague and unusual as it had been.
He thought maybe he'd been awoken in the midst of his heavy slumber, for all had been dark and comfortable before a great sense of danger had clutched his heart. He hazily recalled the feeling of his blood growing cold in his veins, paralyzing his limbs, and his eyes flashing open only to be greeted by a mask of his own face: swooping silver hair, sharp milky eyes, and a frown that matched his own in how deeply it could be pulled when he was at his most stressed. He could've convinced himself that he was looking into a mirror, if not for the striking blue and red markings running along the imposter's forehead and cheeks.
If not himself, then… then surely a demon. That was the only conclusion: something so sinister and capable of striking fear that he could find no other name for it.
In his dream, Link had been shaking. He thought, perhaps, it was an effort to break free of invisible shackles, but it was surely out of cowardice. His tongue had been locked, his fingers numb, and he'd been incapable of crying out as the demon stared right through him and spoke.
“Swordsman…
Do you think yourself… a Hero?
I wonder…
Is that enough to save…
The ones you love…?”
The dark folds of sleep had swallowed him after that, leaving him to toss and turn as if he were still trapped. The words circled his mind on loop, a torment that'd ailed him much longer than this and yet never failed to creep up on him.
When dawn light had filtered through the curtains and he'd finally lurched from his unconscious stupor, his heart had been pounding in his chest.
It'd caused him a great deal of grief, then, when he'd frantically looked about the room, hoping to find little Mask, only to be greeted with an empty bed. In his addled state, he wondered if the demon from his nightmare had snatched the young hero during the night.
It sounded like something out of a fairytale. And yet… Mask often lamented of what'd been taken from him.
If this demon existed beyond his dreams, he could not have Mask. Because Mask was right here, at his side, with his hand held gingerly in his own while they shopped for potions and arrows. And if he could be selfish for once, he would want it to stay just like this, so that he could look out for the child for as long as possible. If nobody else could give him a childhood, in the midst of war or otherwise, then the least Link could do was show him love.