Chapter Text
“Link...”
The one word washes over him, a torrent of noise. Link inhales, sharp, haggard, harsh upon tortured lungs.
Wake up.
Light, sound, sensation. They return in flashes. He grasps them one by one, holds them to his chest like a drowning man would the sands of the seashore.
His mouth is a desert, his head the beat of a war drum. His body aches horribly, worse, even, than when he had trained to become a knight. It feels as though two moblin have grasped either end of him, held him between them, and attempted to rend his top half from his bottom.
“Link.”
Urgency. In the voice, in the surroundings that chorus a sweet melody around him. The smell of freshly washed earth, moist and pungent; of wizened shrubbery and soft perfume; of bird feathers and spring sky — they float to him gently, poking, prodding, urging that he rise.
So different, he thinks, slowly, hazily, than those before.
Before…
Suddenly, the memories pour forth like water from an overfilled water skin.
Memories of fighting, struggling, in the pouring rain, with only the one blade and the fire burning within him.
Alone.
Of falling. A gamble that would have panned out if not for the pain, the endless pain. Streaking through him, tearing him apart.
Of violet, white, black. Glinting teeth in endless night. A promise of a disaster he cannot prevent.
Of Hylia, present in the sighing wind and weeping rain. As real as a dream of the deceased.
Her lips ghosting his forehead. Her voice in his ears. Words that cut like knives.
Victory comes for us in the morn.
More voices join the one. Bells chime soft above him. It smells of spun sugar. It feels cool. The blessed showers of spring, quenching thirsty flesh.
Gently, cautiously, the chill continues. He hardly dares breath lest it flee and leave him here amongst flitting shards of memory and scorching sensation. But it is not so easily discouraged from its task. Bravely, it slips through veins, brushes against frazzled nerves, seals broken and fractured bones. And finally, the pain that has consumed him begins to retreat. Baring its teeth, it backs into the corners of his consciousness.
Link braves the terrible task of opening his eyes, only to slam them shut seconds later. The light that explodes before them is excruciating.
“First? Can you hear me?”
There it is again – the tones that rise above the others. Those that are closest at hand. Clumsily, his mind scrambles to put a name to the voice.
Sky.
The word flits by, so quick he hardly manages to comprehend it. But once he does, relief runs fast through him.
“First?”
Can you hear him. He wants to know if you can hear him.
Link nods, jerky, desperate. The movement feels akin to budging a mountain.
Even so, he tries once more to crack open his eyes. And this time, he succeeds.
The Skyloftian swims nauseatingly into view, eyes blown wide, face pale. Zelda stands behind him, brow furrowed, shoulder to shoulder with Groose. The other heroes are scattered in a rough semicircle, all gazing upon him as though he is a spectacle dreadful to behold.
He suspects that he must be.
Link blinks. Though the sunlight filtering through the tree cover is a welcome sight, it is still harsh and grating upon his abused irses. Dried blood pulls tight at the edges of his mouth. His head begins to pound harder. The world tips nauseatingly.
“How long…” he croaks. The words burn on the way out. “How long was I unconscious?”
“I’m not sure.” It is his descendant who replies, tone shallow, quiet, waters lying still in wait for worse things to come.
The knight’s hand is gripping his, Link realizes, sluggishly. Weakly, he gives it a squeeze. It is a paltry comfort, but the only he can give. As it is, his fingers tremble with the effort.
“You were already out when we got here,” Sky continues. “But it hasn’t been long since then. Maybe ten minutes?” He raises his eyes as though the answer he seeks lies in the scattering of cotton clouds. “Maybe a bit more?”
“We heard you screaming and came running,” Legend says. There is something brittle in his voice, something sharp. “You sounded terrible. What in Hyrule’s green plains happened?”
Still, his body protests. Still, the pain attempts to break free of the bindings that gentle power had placed upon it. Stubbornly, Link pushes himself up. Perhaps, predictably, the earth wavers once more beneath him. Colors smear as though someone has dragged their fingers across damp paint.
In an instant, Sky’s hand finds his shoulder, keeping him from sliding down the forest’s tilted surface. Link breathes out, sags gratefully in his grasp.
Guilt tugs at him like a needy child on their mother’s skirt. Yet, the Skyloftian’s embrace is warm, safe. The strength it would require to deny himself the comfort of it is more than he currently possesses.
They have this effect on him, he thinks as Wind flops down beside him, tentatively setting a shoulder to his. These men and boys he has come so reluctantly to love. When they reach out to him, he cannot help but take their hands.
“The Shadow happened,” he says now. The words are bitter. The taste of defeat is never pleasant. He has found recently, however, that it’s flavor is far more potent than he previously thought.
One failure begets another and another. Until all he knows, all he adores, is engulfed beneath their waves.
(And yet…Hylia had breathed words of hope. If that, indeed, had been her voice, her touch.)
(She is – was – many things. But never was she a liar. She would not speak such things without reason.)
How? His mind cries out, desperate for answers in a world of murky mystery. Why?
No one replies.
It is Sky’s voice that slices through his thoughts, not that of his goddess.
“The Shadow?” The knight’s eyes grow even wider. He had not thought it possible. Under different circumstances, the expression might just be comical. “He was here?”
Link nods. “Yes. He was the one who called out my name. I do not know why, for he obviously left me alive. We battled, and I managed to hold my own well enough. Until the end, of course. If he planned to kill me, he very well could have.”
Time’s gaze flits over him, quick as a fairy in flight. “You would not be able to see them now anyway; a fairy has healed you. But when we found you, you had little in the way of physical wounds. There was much blood, to be certain. But the injuries we could see would not have caused a scene as severe as we discovered.” He frowns. “What exactly did that monster do to you?”
Instinctually, Link glances down at his body. In the moment, it had seemed as though that immense pain could only result in a display of nauseating gore. Yet, truly, the stubborn marks of deepest agony that usually cling even after a fairy’s embrace are nowhere to be seen.
“I suppose that my wounds were internal only,” he says, slowly. “It is true that from what I could tell, he dealt them without need of fist or blade.”
“Magic, then?” Twilight asks.
Link shakes his head. “It didn’t feel quite like magic.” He looks at the ground, takes in the differing hues of the granules of dirt stirred by the rain. To gaze upon the sky is too difficult. “There was something different to it. Something I cannot pinpoint. I cannot fully tell whether or not this is true — I only have the Shadow’s word as proof — but he said that there is a connection between us and it runs dangerously deep. Perhaps, it has something to do with it.”
“A connection between you and the Shadow.” Zelda’s gaze is sharp. “It’s because he raised you from the dead. Isn’t it? It’s the only explanation.”
He nods. “That is the reason he alluded to. And the way it felt, the manner in which he did it…”
He clenches his hands into fists. They tremble, traitors to the weakness in his limbs, the fear in his heart.
Idiot, he berates himself once more. Fool! If things are as they seem, you walked right into his trap.
The only time it is admissible to do such a thing is if you craft a way out and bring down your opponent in the process. You did neither.
“It felt…” He breathes in. The expansion of his lungs makes his chest hurt. “It felt as though I was being unmade.”
The sound of a cumulative intake of breath races sharply through the atmosphere.
“Unmade?” It’s Wild now, stepping forward, horror turning skin pale and scars dark. “Like he was disassembling you? Like Flora does with Guardians?”
“Almost like you weren’t human,” murmurs Twilight.
“He resurrected you…” Four says it with thoughtfulness and caution, every word dripping with the deliberate slowness of honey from a jar. “He put you back together when fate seemed to have rendered that impossible. And that makes him think he tear you apart just as easily.”
Link ducks his head. The echoes of agony pound behind his eyes. Every breath scrapes through a throat rubbed hoarse by outcries of anguish.
“Yes. If it is as he believes, the monster who brought me back from the gave may just have the power to enact my hasty return.”
Groose sighs, runs a hand over his looming pompadour. “No matter what that creep can or can’t do, one thing’s for sure. The side of light’ll always win. If anyone taught me that, it’s these two.”
He slaps Sky on the back, nearly causing him to plant his face in the dirt. Zelda is next. She stumbles several steps at the overeager gesture.
“And another thing I know for sure is that that can’t happen if we’re all hangin’ around here yappin’.”
“He’s right.” Sky smiles. It tries to reach his eyes and falls short. “We can head back to our house. You’ll be able to rest there.”
“The monsters are gone,” Time adds. “They retreated the moment you cried out. Following their master, I assume. But your path is clear, if you have the strength to walk it.”
Link nods. His strength is shaken, his confidence with it. His mind whirls with thoughts he cannot piece together, nor pull apart. But now is not the time to collapse. Now is not the time to give way to the murky black that whispers to him in clawing, tantalizing tones.
He lifts his face, dares to face the sky of endless blue. For a brief moment, before his eyes slip closed, he catches a glimpse of the sky islands so far above. He inhales the scent of sweet decay and bitter birth, of mildew and rain, of spring water and earthy wood, of herbal new foliage and the stuff deteriorating beneath his feet.
Exhaustion drags heavily at him. Tender skin protests the incessant pull of old blood. Remnant raindrops have turned his clothing to a burden. But the pain is within its cage, the threat subsided for the time being.
He breathes.
Link pries leaden eyelids apart.
There are tongues of light now gleaming through the branches of the trees. Like panes of stained glass, it shines upon the ground in shades of gold and violet and spun sugar pink. It catches his gaze, holds it, as though by spell.
Know that you are never alone. Know that the darkness cannot claim you.
He grasps Sky’s hand and Wind’s, and he moves.
With the heroes’ help, he stands. With the heroes’ help, he walks forward.
Out of the woods and onto the path that winds like a surging river through the village.
Though the monsters have fled, as Time stated, the terrible remains of their presence are still plain to see.
Cobblestones have been plucked like loose teeth from their places nestled into the path. Quaint, wooden homes, with paint still drying, bear marks of searing flame. Piles of building supplies have been tipped over, scattered amongst piles of monster innards. Even now, some yet pulse with the phantom beat of life. The dying rays of the sun reflect upon their gelatinous surfaces.
Unfamiliar faces stare as they move along. Ashen visages bend, bloodied hands move, already dedicated to setting things to right. Exhaustion marks every determined movement. Bravery flickers in bloodshot eyes.
Their flames still reach toward the sky; their spirits still cry out in sweet symphony with the loftwings above. It is clear that they will not allow even this to snuff out the fervor and fight within.
Link admires their devotion. It seems Hylia has not only gifted her heroes souls of courage and perseverance.
But that cannot rid him of the guilt that gnaws at him, like a dog with a bone.
He casts a glance over his shoulder. Hylia still rises above the trees. Content, unmoving, complacent.
Cruel.
Link turns away. Once more, he is hit with the realization of how different she was from these statues that attempt so poorly to portray her. Hatred is a strong word, one he is reluctant to use. But he would be lying if he said that he did not dislike these depictions.
His goddess would never watch her people be torn apart and do nothing.
His goddess would set the Shadow ablaze if given the chance. There is a reason that their enemies feared her with as much passion as her people adored her.
Save for one, of course. But he feared no one and nothing. He worshipped only power and the gory glory he sought to garner from it.
Darkness will come. Not by the Demon King’s hand.
No.
This time, it is my hand that will lead it forth.
Link sets his gaze back upon the road. He feels ill.
Suddenly, Sky comes to an abrupt halt, and their little troupe with them. Beside the path, a man kneels, gently tending to a wound upon a young woman’s leg.
“Karane! Pipit!” Zelda rushes forward. “Are you alright?”
The man turns, setting sharp, gray blue eyes upon them. He wears the uniform Link has come to recognize as belonging to the Skyloftian knights. The brazen gold picks up the sunlight in the warm brunette locks that peek out from benath his cap.
“Ah, Zelda! Link! Groose! I’m glad to see that you are all okay.”
“When we heard all that screaming we were worried,” says the woman — Karane, Link supposes.
She cocks her head. Hazel eyes gaze discerningly out from a gently circular face. Auburn hair flows over her shoulders in two long pigtails. Her hand rests atop Pipit’s, as he secures the bandages about her wound.
“As for me, though, I’m fine. Just a scratch.” She sighs. “One of those nasty stalfos got me toward the end. But Pipit is as much of a gentlemen as ever and has patched me right up!”
“Why, my brave, brave love.” Pipit inclines his head, placing a free hand upon his hip. “It’s nothing at all for us knights. Chivalry is in our very being! And certainly, towards those we care so deeply for.”
She laughs and presses a quick kiss to his cheek. “Not everyone’s chivalrous, though, right, Link?”
She winks at Sky.
He chuckles, knowingly. “No, definitely not.”
“Well, you look as though you’d best be going,” Pipit says. Though his tone is brisk, it is not harsh. It is merely one of experience with and knowledge of issuing commands. “We’re just fine here.”
“Our house isn’t at all far, anyway.” Karane gestures toward the cottage with the loftwings and flower blossoms Link rescued from the flames so very long ago. “We’ll manage.”
“Alright.” Zelda looks reluctant to leave, but she turns anyway. “But please, let us know if there is anything we can do for you. And here, take this. We have more than enough.”
She presses a bottle full of ruby liquid into Karane’s hand.
“Thanks.” Karane sighs, though the smile is still on her face. “Luv’s potions do a good job of taking the edge off. Now, I’ll be up and about in no time. I can help out with cleaning up this mess.”
“Don’t worry.” Sky offers them a steady smile. “We’ll rebuild quickly. Our defense against the monsters held strong. Our town still stands.”
“Of course!” Pipit grins. “We knights of Skyloft are stronger than any harbingers of darkness! We’ve stood up to far greater threats than this!”
Groose nods and elbows Sky. The knight stumbles and nearly takes Link down with him. Thankfully, Twilight reaches out and stops their fall.
“Hah, if that ain’t the truth,” he snickers. “If they dare come around here again, I’ll hit ‘em with the Groosenator!”
“Sounds like a plan, buddy,” Sky says, weakly. “As long as you don’t have to shoot me out of the Groosenator again.”
“Ah, come on! It was an unforgettable experience!” Now, Groose turns to Link, grinning. “Believe me, pal, once you’re patched up, you’ll want to try it out yourself. Bein’ shot out of a canon this powerful is somethin’ you won’t wanna miss!”
Link smiles. He can only hope that it appears genuine. Being shot out of a canon does sound exhilarating. But his strength is draining away with the departure of day.
“Perhaps, I will have to.”
“Even if he doesn’t, count me in!” Wild says, raising a hand.
Beside him, Wind bounces into the air. “Me too! Me too!”
Zelda chuckles. But Time looks less than enthused.
“There’ll be time for everyone to risk life and limb, I’m sure,” he says, drily, as though he would never think of doing such a thing for fun. By the look on Twilight’s face, that is little more than a flimsy facade. “For now, let us regroup and contemplate our next course of action.”
“Yes.” Warriors turns to Link. His gaze seems to bore through him to his very soul. “It’s clear that these developments should not be taken lightly.”
The moon rises fast, eager to gaze upon the earth with pale contentment.
With a jovial farewell and wishes that Link “heal up quick so he can take a ride in the Groosenator,” Groose heads to his own house for the night. The heroes crowd into the cottage Sky and Zelda call their home.
It is cozy, quaint. Paintings of flowers — tall and slender, pure white, and sky blue — adorn the doorway. Intricate, looping designs are carved into the knob.
“Silent Princesses,” Wild breathes, fingering one of the brush strokes of vibrant blue.
Zelda smiles. “So, that is what they are called. I had wondered.”
The hero looks at her and there is a question in his eyes. If she notices, she does not deign to reply.
The inside is dark save for the slender silver gleams of the moon. Shadows stretch like lounging remlits across the creamy walls. Even so, Link can make out the forms of furniture. And once Sky stirs a cheery fire to life within the heart, they grow to be more than fuzzy blurs of navy and gray.
Four intricately carved chairs surround a birch table. A bouquet of multicolored wildflowers clashes with vibrant yellow placemats. In the living room, two rocking chairs nestle beneath throws. Knitted from the thickest wool, they cascade over the backs and arms, throwing their varying shades of blue over pale wood. There is a small kitchen, wider than it is long, and a stove set with a sizable soup pot and a plump little kettle. It soon hums a jovial song as Zelda sets about preparing tea.
Two other rooms branch out from the living area — a bathroom, Link supposes, and a bedroom. Through a cracked door, he can just make out the darkened form of a full-bellied dresser.
“Your house is lovely,” he says, offering Sky a smile as he eases into a dining chair. The other heroes find various places on which to perch, politely leaving space at the table for their hosts.
“Thank you,” the Skyloftian says, glowing with pride as he turns from the crackling flames. But his expression quickly turns sheepish. “Sorry there isn’t much room. I guess we should’ve made it more accommodating for this much company.”
Warriors waves a dismissive hand. “There’s no need to apologize! You and Zelda did a wonderful job building this.”
“Absolutely,” Twilight agrees. “And we’ll be fine. We’ve put up with much worse than this, right old man?”
Time chuckles. “Indeed. Besides…” he gestures toward the living room — “Wind and Hyrule have found the rocking chairs. I believe this evening is shaping up to be much less grim than we expected.”
A smile pulls at Link’s lips as he watches the two heroes rock gleefully, giggles spilling from them like children on Hylia Day.
“Thank you, Sky, Zelda,” he says, turning away before their laughter can infect him, “for allowing us to stay here with you. Your kindness knows no bounds. I fear I can never repay it.
“You don’t have to.” The smile that graces Sky’s face is soft. “You’re a friend and brother. It’s the least we could do.”
Link looks down, feeling a sudden wetness behind his aching eyes. The words strike deeper than he suspects Sky realizes.
Never had he dreamed he might once more find a group of people as loving and welcoming as Orville’s family had been so many years before. Blood had meant nothing to them. And he can tell, blood means nothing to these men and boys either.
…or to the woman stirring cups of herbal liquid in the kitchen.
Their hearts are meant to love, regardless of the origin of the connection. He supposes even without spirits of courage, this family would have found one another.
He looks down at his hands, clenches them into fists, digging nails into palms.
This family found him too. When he was certain all was lost, his loved ones gone. And though being here now, surrounded by warmth and joy, almost makes the events of today seem far away…he will not delude himself into believing it.
He gazes around the room. He lets the images seep into his mind and heart, his soul. And he locks them away so he may never forget. So that they may strengthen him when the day of trial comes again.
For though exhaustion lies heavy on his shoulders, though terror rests in his heart, Hylia’s promise echoes within him.
Victory comes for us in the morn.
Shaken as he is, he still has his spirit, he still has his soul. Beaten and burned in the forges of deities and rulers, honed into the sharpest blade for tribulations such as these.
It will have to be enough.
The Shadow may shred his flesh, tear his muscles, break his bones, grind him into the ground. But he cannot take his soul. And he will not take his friends.
Not again.
Failure begets failure. Yet it is time for that cycle to end.
With whatever breath is left within him, with whatever life he has been gifted, Link will protect these heroes. Even to the death.