Archive of Our Own ^beta

A breeze curls around the back of Link’s neck as he stands at the pedestal. Blue tinges the corners of his vision as silent princesses rustle by his feet. He stares down at the Master Sword, hands curled loosely around the engraved hilt. 

The forest is quiet around him, filled only with the shifting of leaves and the occasional korok chatter. The Lost Woods beyond tug at something in Link, whispers floating in with the mist like a calling.

The Calamity is sealed. Zelda is alive and safe. The world has regained peace, as much as it can. 

So why does Link still feel like running?

He stares at the royal crest carved into the holy blade, just above the hilt. The edge gleams slightly in the sunlight, casting a glow on the green wraps between Link’s fingers, but it doesn’t feel grand. Here, with a sword older than anyone can remember in the hands of the weapon itself, it feels tired. Link feels tired. 

He’s done his job, he thinks, chest hollowing out with the weight of the words. He’s fulfilled his purpose— as Hylia’s chosen, as a Champion, as Zelda’s knight. 

Dropping his forehead to rest on the crossguard of the Sword, Link whispers, “Can I be done now?”

His voice breaks at the end of the sentence, and he closes his eyes like that’ll make the ache behind his heart disappear. Link has been fighting for so long without even knowing why, and being able to just put the Sword down and be done doesn’t seem real.

If I could do it again, he thinks, lips pressed tight against the burn in his throat. If I could just do it again, I promise I would be better. 

Link… doesn’t know how to feel about the blade. Zelda told him it had saved his life— well, returned him to life— back then, a voice whispering to her a reminder of the Shrine of Resurrection. Zelda had also said he’d first pulled it when he was eight, revealing to the world who Hylia’s next chosen was. Link doesn’t remember. All he remembers is the burning on his palms when he first laid hands on it again. 

He might’ve been worthy of the Sword that Seal the Darkness a lifetime ago, but it was clear that was no longer the case. 

Link can’t blame the blade, really. 

Curling his fingers tight around the hilt, he closes his eyes and returns the Master Sword to the pedestal. It feels deceptively easy, sliding into the stone with no argument, like it’s done it a hundred times before. It probably has. 

Is it selfish, he wonders, to hope that no one else will pick it up again?

Is it selfish, he wonders, to hope that someone else will pick it up again, if only to fix what Link couldn’t?

“I’m sorry I’m not who you wanted me to be.” Link whispers. 

There’s a small, weak hum against his palms. A quiet chime in his head. Like a goodbye. 

“I have heard the voice of the Sword, like the legends say,” Zelda had told him once. “I don’t know… sometimes I thought I could feel it, beside you, like a physical being. But that’s a silly thing to say, isn’t it?” 

The chime expands before Link can take his hands off the Sword, fluting notes playing slowly in his ears like a requiem. It feels the same as the regret sitting heavy in his chest. 

There’s the rushing, losing-balance feeling of a memory, and Link barely has time to think, right now? before his vision flips into darkness. 

When Link opens his eyes, the Great Deku Tree is gone. Instead, there’s darkness before him, edged with a familiar cloud. He stares at the strange grassy slope above and then nothingness off the edge of it. A waterfall cascades past him down into the void, the spraying mist billowing past his face. What…? he thinks, because he’s never seen this place before in his life— and he’s been everywhere imaginable in Hyrule. 

Then a young man comes into sight, rounding the corner. He’s red-faced and flustered, skidding a bit in the grass as he rushes after Link. It’s not anyone Link recognises, but that’s hardly a phenomenon. 

With a rush of air, Link floats backwards, blue and purple rustling quietly in the corners of his eyes. His toes just barely skim the ground beneath, and that’s definitely not normal. Unless he could float before and Zelda just neglected to tell him. 

So, if this isn’t one of his memories… who’s is it?

“Wait!” the young man calls, but not-Link is already disappearing through stone. 

A gleam of metal catches in his peripherals, and next thing Link knows, he’s standing— floating? — in front of what looks almost like the Master Sword, except the hilt is a solid teal blue and the gem is a darker shade set in gold. 

The young man is already in what looks like a chamber, eyes big as he stares up at whoever Link is seeing through. He looks down to the sword, then slowly back up at not-Link. 

“Who are you?” the young man asks softly. 

There’s a beat of silence. Then a voice echoes in Link’s ears, mechanical yet bell-like and definitely not his. “The one chosen by my creator,” Not-Link says in acknowledgement, watching the young man. “I have been waiting for you. You will play a role in a great destiny.” 

The young man just stares. The… woman (?) Link is seeing through continues, monotone. “According to your social customs, I should provide you with my personal designation. Fi is the name I was given.” 

Then the memory is gone, wiped away as if with a cloth. Another one bleeds into being before Link’s eyes a second later. 

There’s a child in front of him. In front of Fi. Their vision is blurry and fading at the edges, the sort of cottony feel of waking up disoriented accompanying it. The boy can’t be more than ten, and he’s staring at Fi with wide, unsure blue eyes. Link wishes he knows what the child is seeing. 

Fi can feel the Hero’s Spirit in the child, small and uncultivated. Unready. 

The boy reaches out, little hands shaking, and the memory blurs again. 

Link looks into the face of a teenage boy from a strange angle, like Fi is held in his hand somehow, and dimly recognises him as the child from before. The boy’s jaw is clenched so tight the muscles in his neck stand out, and he glares down at Fi with a deep, deep anger. 

“How could you do this,” the boy hisses, but Link can hear the thickness creeping into his voice. “How could you!” 

There’s a movement, stone pillars flying by, and then Fi slams against the wall. She bounces off to hit the floor with a strange clatter, almost metal sounding. 

“Sacred blade, my ass!” the boy yells, his voice echoing in the empty room. “Why me, huh? Why me if I was too young?! Seven years of my life, gone! You took that from me!” 

A sob catches in his throat after the last word, and he shoves a hand over his eyes, shoulders shaking. 

“You took that,” he repeats weakly, and Fi’s vision goes dark. 

Sacred blade, Link thinks, pieces sliding together in his mind. Sacred blade. 

Another memory picks up— memories , really, little pieces of them flying by like half-remembered conversations. It’s a different little boy this time, round-faced with strawberry blond hair and gentle purple-blue eyes. The Hero’s Spirit beats steadily in his chest, young as it is. 

“... dumb guards and dumb Agahnim with his dumb magic!” the boy is huffing, and his face blurs as he swings Fi into a sheath. The world goes a pleasant dark, but Fi’s senses expand beyond the cloth. It’s a strange sensation. “How would I even kidnap the princess, anyway?”

— Fi peers through the dark at the boy’s now dirt-streaked face. He bursts into a coughing fit, bringing his elbow to his face, and Fi hums concernedly on his lap. 

The boy drops his elbow with a wheeze, tapping his fingers on Fi’s blade. “Fine,” he rasps. “I’m fine.”

An ominous rumbling comes from overhead, and the boy’s head jerks up—

— “You’re not taking this seriously, are you?” the boy sounds amused. Older, too, and that’s confirmed when Fi rushes past his face for a blink. He’s fighting, Link realises. With Fi. 

Fi hums out a pattern that could almost be a laugh, and the boy snorts. There’s the squelch of flesh as he lands her home, and a monster squeals. “Yeah, me neither.”

— the soft jostle of footsteps, trees around them. The boy hums quietly as he walks. Fi hums along with him. His fingers tap out a pattern on her hilt; one, one-two-three. Fi pauses and returns it in her fluty chimes. 

The boy smiles.

— Fi’s vision focuses, solidifies as if waking up as she registers the pattern. The boy isn’t a child anymore, late teens if Link had to guess, and his eyes are older than that. He looks tired, the skin under his eyes dark and expression heavy. Fi isn’t in his hand, Link realises. 

He taps out the pattern again. Fi does it back, warmth in every note. The boy smiles, and his smile is different, too. Small, barely a twist of lips, and achingly, achingly tired. 

“Hello again, old friend,” he says. “Shall we do this one more time?”

 The memory melts away, and Link’s mind comes to a screeching halt when he sees the wolf. He’s younger, yes, no age lining his eyes or rough fur, but it’s him . Wolfie. Link’s companion who disappeared before Link could say goodbye. His chest feels like it might burst as he watches Wolfie from Fi’s eyes. 

But what is Wolfie doing by the Sword of Evil’s Bane?

He can feel something wretched in the air, contaminating and dark. Fi recoils from it— from Wolfie — for a split second before golden light fills the air. Fi is shining so bright it hurts even Link’s metaphorical eyes. Wolfie rears back, growl ripping from his throat. It quickly turns into a whine that tears at Link’s heart, and then coagulated darkness almost too black to look at is gathering around Wolfie. 

When Link looks back, there’s a man in Wolfie’s place. He seems frozen, dark blue eyes wide as he stares at Fi. Fi can feel his soul as easily as any other, and the Hero’s Spirit is unmistakable. 

Carefully, the man reaches out as if in a dream, curling his fingers around the Sword’s hilt. The world flips as he pulls Fi free of the pedestal with ease.

“The sword,” an astonished voice says behind the man. He turns to face a strange imp-looking creature. The imp watches him with careful red eyes. “The sword accepted you as its master… “

Fi hums happily in response, the Hero’s Spirit practically glowing in her memory. Everything goes grey, fading and quieting into nothing, akin the feeling of falling asleep. 

Fi is hundreds, thousands of years old. She has been used time and time again as the hero’s right-hand weapon. She lies alone, asleep and forgotten as the world around continues, growing and shaping itself without her. Slowly, her power fades. Slowly, without the Hero’s Spirit to call for her, she forgets. Link can feel her weariness through her memories, even through her slumber. Her loneliness, too. She does not know how to be anything but a means to an end. 

She slumbers until she forgets the warm light of Hylia’s power, not unlike sunshine itself. 

But something draws her from that deep, far-gone place. A child’s hand, an excited murmuring, the touch of the Hero’s Spirit calling to her like the sunrise. 

Wake up, it says. Wake up. I have not forgotten you. 

Link watches as Fi stirs, unsure and blurred and tired, oh so tired. He stares into the teal-blue eyes of his own face, eight years old with chubby cheeks and berry juice on his hands. 

Her master has come back. Fi is needed. For the first time in longer than she can remember, she is needed. 

And oh, how she loves her master. No matter who he is, what form he takes, no matter what he thinks, Fi will always love her master. 

Link blinks as the first young man’s— hero’s— face comes back, gentle colours spreading out like watercolours on a page. He looks like he’s trying not to cry, face drawn and exhausted and blue eyes damp. 

“Don’t go,” he says, reaching out for Fi. “Don’t go where I can’t follow. Please.”

“You have achieved the purpose you were chosen to fulfil,” Fi tells him, as gently as she can. She knows he will not understand. “Please, set the sword in the pedestal and bring the goddess’ mission to an end.” 

He just stares at her, shaking his head. 

“Now, Master,” Fi says, and she does not want to go, but she must. She knows she must. There will be others who will need her guidance. “It is time to conclude our necessary companionship.” 

And he does, with shaking hands and closed eyes. He begins to walk away, shoulders hunched, and Fi realises, as he leaves her behind, that she has loved him this whole time. 

“Link,” she calls, and he freezes. Link freezes, too, a jolt surfacing in his chest. He can feel Fi’s presence like a physical thing, like the spirit is looking right at him. Him, not the hero. 

“Link, hear me. I have come to consider the information corresponding to our time together among the most precious data I have on record. I do not have the capability to fully understand the human spirit, Link… but now, at the end of our adventure with you, as I prepare to sleep within the Master Sword forever, I experience a feeling I am unable to identify.”

“I lack sufficient data to be sure of my conclusion,” she tells him, and oh, she has never lacked words before. “but I believe this feeling correlates closest to what your people call… happiness.” 

The hero is crying now, but he refuses to looks away from Fi. Fi tries what humans refer to as ‘smiling’, pulling her lips up at the edges slightly. “Thank you, Master Link,” she says softly. “May we meet again in another life.” 

Her mind bursts open as Link watches, showing him the faces of the heroes again and again, splicing together pieces of their adventures with Fi by their side— whether they know it or not. Heroes grinning, joking and laughing even with blood on their faces. Heroes yelling, faces twisted in grief, their hands shaking as they fight for their lives, trying again and again to complete their goal with Fi on their back. Hylia’s chosen. Hylia’s children. Hylia’s soldiers. 

Fi’s chosen. Fi’s masters. Fi’s friends. 

Oh, how she loves them. How she will always love them, even after they are long gone. She remembers every hero who has ever used her and those beyond, and she will not forget. 

Link blinks back into the woods, knees thudding onto stone. The Sword, Fi , stands tall in her pedestal. There are tears blurring his vision and he presses the heels of his palms to his eyes, trying to exchange one pain for another. 

He’d tried, he’d tried, and Fi had fought so hard until her power was nearly nothing just for Link to fail when it mattered most. 

“I’m sorry,” he weeps. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” 

His head jerks up as a voice, now familiar though weak, whispers in his head. Do not apologise, Fi murmurs, as though from a great distance. Her blade glows with a soft purple light. Do not regret what cannot be changed. Raise your head, Champion. 

Link watches her blade flash that pattern from before: one, one-two-three. The gem set in the hilt glows an otherworldly gold, one last time. 

The words are like a gentle breeze, the soft notes of crashing waves in his head. A cradling, a call-to-arms, a lullaby. 

You are mine, Hero of the Wild.