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At the end of a battle, the area was always a mess. Blood smattered the ground, staining green natural growth in red. Broken bodies littered the battlefield like debris from an explosion. Eyes stared off into nothing, pale lips crusty and coated in drool and vomit and the vestiges of whatever their last cries of pain and horror were. Some were missing limbs, some were missing heads, some were perfectly intact as if they were simply asleep.
Then there were the sounds. The wounded crying for help, the ones who were too far gone crying in pain. The mourners, the dying, the medics, all their voices mixing into a symphony of agony and horror and familiarity.
The weak, wheezing, gurgling breaths escaping the bundle in his arms.
Link’s world spun with dizziness. His leg nearly gave out every other step, the searing, tearing pain from the large and deep laceration making him want to vomit. But his panic overrode any pain sensor, any indication of what might be going on in his own body, because the kid—
Mask wasn’t in good shape.
Mask was dying.
It had been a defeat. A horrible, utter defeat. They had retreated back to their original fortification and tried to lick their wounds, and as the captain had gotten report, that was when he’d realized the young one was missing.
The enemy army had returned to fortifying their own encampment, leaving the actual battlefield unguarded. Link had waited an agonizing half an hour before Impa had given the all-clear signal to scavenge for wounded and supplies.
And Link had found his forest sprite.
The young hero had still been awake, though barely. Link had found him half squished beneath a moblin, one eye swollen shut, face covered in moblin and Hylian blood and dirt. One of his legs was shorter than the other, with enough swelling in his thigh to alarm even the usually carefully controlled captain. He had at least one stab wound in his shoulder, oozing steadily, a consistent trickle of life essence draining his little brother and making him grow steadily colder and paler.
And he was in so much pain. Young Link had been crying by the time the captain had found him, shivering from an internal chill that was making his heart slow more and more. When Link had stumbled upon him, the young hero had reached out pathetically, a wet sob escaping his lips before his hand had weakly fallen beside him.
Link had felt his own heart stop right then and there.
The boy had been in pain and terrified and alone for over half an hour.
Link had struggled to get the moblin off his sprite, which was when he had remembered his own leg wound that had yet to be addressed, but he’d managed. Since then he’d wrapped the boy in his scarf and been carrying him and listening to his breathing turn steadily wheezier. Mask had already lost consciousness by now, and they still had far, far too much distance between them and the medical tent. They were nowhere near camp.
He was going to die. Link was no fool; he’d seen enough of his soldiers in similar circumstances.
He was going to die.
A little blood bubbled at the corner of Mask’s mouth, and his breath sounds started converting from wheezes to gurgles and rattles. Death rattles, they always called them.
Link’s breath hitched. “S-Sprite—stay with me damn it, come on—”
He gave the boy a shake as he hastened his steps. Mask didn’t respond.
And then Link’s leg finally gave out.
Gasping, he fell to the ground, guarding the child in his arms from the worst of the impact and taking it in his shoulder instead. His head narrowly avoided a rock, but the connection with the ground rattled his brain nonetheless. He saw stars between the jostling in his skull and the pain that shot up from his shoulder, and spots started blacking out pieces of his vision like a partly blotted out painting.
He was going to pass out.
Like hell was he going to pass out. He had to—he had to—
I have to what? He’s gone. He’s already gone and you know it. He can’t survive the walk back to camp, he’ll be dead before you get there, even if you were running and uninjured.
The captain started to tremble, cold and alone and empty.
He’s just a child, why was he even here in the first place, this is my fault, he is a child—
Link let out a soft cry of misery, breathy and broken and so utterly exhausted. He pulled Mask close to him, burying his face in the boy’s crusty hair, heedless of the gravel and blood clots tangled in with the locks. The boy was limp and cold in his arms.
I can’t keep doing this, he screamed in his head, rocking the child side to side as he sobbed. I can’t I can’t—
Goddesses, someone just end this.
His mind heard his wish, and his body fought for slumber. He roared against it. He wanted nothing more than to die here, truly, but…
But his little forest sprite wouldn’t want that. And Hyrule needed him.
Fuck Hyrule! He spat in his mind. Fuck them and their need for their precious Hero to fix all their problems for them, fuck Ganondorf and Cia and—
Nausea slammed into him all of a sudden, and he rolled to his side and vomited.
Never mind Hyrule or Ganondorf or Cia. His soldiers needed him.
Moaning, Link pushed himself to sit up, ignoring the dizzy spell that immediately shook his entire body. His right arm was screaming as he continued to cling to the lifeless child, whose head lolled limply to the side as he let out another agonal breath.
Goddesses, just die already, he begged. He hated watching the boy suffer like this. He hoped he at least didn’t feel anything at this point.
On his knees, he tried to give his mind a moment to reorient so he wouldn’t black out the instant he stood. He looked at Mask again, the boy’s pale face still pinched in pain. He brushed what little sticky hair was caught in the blood on his face, getting it out of his eyes. “Let go, Link. Just let go. I-it’s okay…you can sleep…”
His voice broke, and he couldn’t comfort the boy anymore. Weakness and pain and panic and nausea and so much heartache just ripped through him, and he almost passed out right then and there. He trembled from head to toe, and he wobbled to the side, throwing a hand out to catch himself as he started to sob uncontrollably, holding the limp child so tightly it hurt.
Hylia, take him home. Take him to his forests and his fairies. Please let him rest peacefully.
Link collapsed, curling around the boy. His own scream of anguish was lost on his deaf ears.
But one, single, distinct sound was not.
Wood against stone.
Link almost missed it. But there was an energy buzzing in the air that ripped into his mind and skin, almost like electricity. Gasping for air, he opened his eyes, his vision blurred from tears, and he saw a mask on the ground.
The Fierce Deity.
Link’s mind was blank. He didn’t know what to do. His heart was crying, bloodied and torn and broken. His body was screaming, cut into pieces and falling apart.
He grabbed the mask. It burned white hot in his hands, making him hiss and snapping him back into his physical reality with sudden clarity.
It was his only option he feasibly had left.
The captain pressed the mask against young Link’s face and a bright light glowed around the boy. He looked away.
The child in his arms shifted, twisting and growing heavier and larger. He was weighed down by the sudden change, and he collapsed on top of him with a grunt. When the light disappeared, his cheek was pressed against armor, and he fished his arm out from underneath the larger figure.
His shoulder clicked and pain surged all the way down to his fingertips, and he cradled the limb to his body with his other arm as he shuffled away. The Fierce Deity was on the ground, eyes closed tightly, fists and jaw clenched, breaths shuddering but carefully measured. A single tear had already made its way down the side of his face as he lay on his back, and he arched his body with a sharp gasp before he tried to take even breaths once more.
“H-help,” Link cried brokenly, desperate and scared. “Help…”
The Fierce Deity’s fists uncurled to rake into the ground instead, and he propped one foot on the earth as he took another shuddering breath. Link didn’t know what to do; he was usually the calm one in these circumstances, accepting of the death of others and mourning it later.
But this was his baby brother.
And now he was seeing how much pain the boy had truly been in reflected in a creature who should be impervious to such things.
His single flicker of hope faded, and he let himself fall.
And was caught by a strong hand.
Link coughed, the wind knocked out of him at the sudden stop in movement, and then another hand held onto his tunic and pulled him upward. He staggered to his feet, dizzy and weak, his tears growing cold as his face grew numb. He looked up and saw the Fierce Deity watching him determinedly, eyebrows pinched together, face taut. The mythical deity shifted his position, standing beside Link, holding one of his hands and wrapping an arm around his back, bracing the captain against him.
Fierce took a shaky step forward, and Link followed suit. His feet felt like they were made of iron, the horizon wouldn’t stay still, and he was too emotionally drained to even realize what was happening. But as they took one tremulous step after another, the cold numbness of his existence started to recede steadily, burnt away by a searing desire that started in his heart and spread to every fiber of his being.
Mask is going to live. Fierce will save him. And I can’t slow him down.
A part of Link wondered why Fierce was even bothering with him when Mask so utterly and desperately needed help now, but he was too focused on moving to question it.
One step. Then another. A stumble and a catch. Then another.
He could do this. He could do this.
Rain started to pelt onto his face. He shivered so violently he almost fell over. Fierce caught him again.
The ground grew muddier, fighting them with every attempt they made to get to camp. Link started to feel nauseous again, and he could barely see ahead of him. His body begged him to stop, his head bobbing as the seconds ticked by, but he refused to give in.
When he tripped over debris and was caught for what felt like the hundredth time, he was finally hauled into the deity’s arms. He groaned weakly in protest but was unable to do much else. He heard buzzing around him, footsteps and voices, and he realized that finally, finally, they’d made it.
It was pouring by now. Link shivered in Fierce’s arms, exhausted beyond words, allowing the deity to carry him to the medical tent. When he was settled on a cot, however, he gathered all his energy to sit up and call for the healers to take care of Mask. Fierce gently pushed him back down.
“Rest,” the deity said softly, his grip firm on the captain’s uninjured shoulder. “I’ll take care of him.”
For a moment he was going to argue, but the gentle thumb that caressed his collarbone in reassurance quieted his worries, and at last, he gave in to his mind’s urgent need to sleep.
Just as his consciousness finally faded, he saw the Fierce Deity gather all the healers he could and start talking to them in hurried, hushed tones. Link sent up one last prayer to the goddesses and then everything faded away.
It felt like he’d only closed his eyes for a second, but when he opened them once more Link found himself in different clothes with his arm in a sling and gauze secured tightly around his leg. His head felt like it was full of fog and his body felt so incredibly heavy. He vaguely saw Sheik hovering over him, and Impa stood off in the distance speaking to someone.
He saw the corner of Sheik’s eye crinkle in a smile. “Good morning.”
Memory slammed into him, and he anxiously slurred, “M-Mask…?”
Sheik motioned to his right, and he looked over to see the child resting peacefully in the cot beside him. His eye was still a little swollen, but the blood was all cleaned up, the stab wound wrapped, and his expression was cam.
He was breathing. He was okay. He was alive.
He was alive.
Link reached out automatically, his hand coming up short for the distance, and he crawled out of bed. Sheik gave him a hand in standing, and he practically collapsed beside Mask’s bed, cradling the boy in his arms. He was too tired to hide his emotions, too worn thin from the entire war to care that everyone could see him visibly trembling and silently crying as he hugged his little forest sprite and wept into his tunic. Sheik’s hand was warm and gentle on his back.
Just beside the cot sat an innocent mask, familiar and safe and comforting. Link reached his fingers to brush across its surface, and it warmed, sending a tingling bubbling reassurance throughout his body. He smiled as he nuzzled his face into Mask’s hair, giving the boy’s head a gentle kiss.
Thank you.