Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The thin walls of the large tent did little to keep out the chill winds sweeping through camp, and everything to keep out the light of day. In the cool darkness, all was unmoving; the small form taking shelter under the mass of blankets thrown haphazardly over a sizable bed dared not stir. If he squinted through the gap in his protective cocoon of quilts and afghans, then he could see the image of the royal Hyrulian crest emblazoned on the tent's exterior in brilliant gold. If he listened, he could hear the trudging of weary boots through mud and pick up indiscriminate chatter from passing soldiers. If he breathed too deeply, he'd choke on the harsh perfumes and fragrant shampoos that permeated his flimsy cotton comforts. Beyond that, he'd discerned the harsh odors of brandished iron and demoralized bodies – a far cry from the familiar forests that should've been his next destination upon leaving Clock Town once and for all.

Link felt so cheated.

This wasn't a new sensation – not by a longshot (or any other item he didn't possess anymore). Even still, coming off so fresh from his previous adventure and into an active war zone had left him rattled. Evil forces he understood. Dark magic and bloodshed and unrelenting battles were to be expected.

But he was supposed to go home. He was still waiting for the childhood that Princess Zelda had promised him when she'd sent him back to live out younger days. He already knew that such an idealistic outcome was beyond his reach when he'd failed to come to terms with the loss of Navi and had set out on his own. He couldn't abide the fact that his body did not match his experiences, and his bones held aches and injuries that were no longer real. His mind played memories that no others could confirm, and he felt himself to be a liar for suggesting that anything about him was different from what outsiders perceived at first glance.

How foolish, he seemed in retrospect, when he'd dodged and slashed his way through a hoard of small, unusual moblins – bokoblins, they were called, and evidently he should've been familiar with such a common enemy – only to find himself in the fringes of a massive encampment. How hopeful, he'd been for a fleeting few seconds, when he'd laid eyes on someone who looked so much like what he'd left behind and knew that it was a hero. 

A young man donned in a forest green tunic who radiated magic, exuded strength, and had a little blue fairy hiding under his pointed cap. If not a hero, then surely a friend of the kokiri! 

Link wasn't prophetic the way that Zelda was when she'd first laid eyes on him when she'd spoken of a fairy boy from the forest who would help her. But he couldn't possibly deny that this person was someone he needed, for reasons he didn't yet fully understand.

“You! You must know what's happening!” Link had gasped, stumbling before the taller figure. He'd yanked his boots from the churned mud and adjusted the keaton mask on the side of his head. It'd been a parting gift from Kafei, when he'd explained to the newly wedded man that he'd given away all his masks.

The green-clad hero with sharp blue eyes and wavy golden hair had crouched down, his words gentle. “Hey there, little man. How'd you get to a place like this? Where are your parents?” He'd reached his hand out, and there was pity in the gesture. “I know we're near a village, so if that's hard to answer… we can have someone look out for you. It's too dangerous on your own.”

Link had only stared at the hand as gears grinded in his head like the mechanisms of a clock. “What? No, I'm…” He'd gestured to the sword and shield on his back. “I'm a hero. Monsters are no issue to me.”

He'd watched the man poorly conceal a laugh, and his hopes had greatly diminished.

Link was taken in. He was warned not to go into the fields, where battles were underway. He was told to use his sword only in defense, lest he injure himself on it.

Conversations with the hero – Link, he just so happened to also be named – were never long enough to communicate all he wanted to say until the fighting died down.

“How long have you been doing this?” Link had asked early on, gesturing to his sword, his tunic, his… everything. It was all so uncanny, and it instilled him with curiosity.

The Captain, as he was called by soldiers, had smiled so easily back then. “I've only been appointed for a few weeks, I confess. But I've been training with a sword since I was a young lad like yourself. Maybe someday, since you seem so eager to fight, you can rise up the ranks yourself.”

Link had frowned at the duel-edged comment. “I did all that, though. I already defeated every monster in my path.” And he'd grown frustrated because of it. “And I am no child. Please don't mistake me as such; it undermines what I've been through.”

“And what would you call yourself instead?” Captain Link had asked with a mildly forced chuckle.

“A hero.” Link knew that in his heart. “An adult.” He'd been told as much, and so it must be true. “Courageous.” His spirit ached with an ancient longing.

He'd been called other things, too: a child, a brat, a street urchin… He chose not to think of those names now.

The Captain didn't seem to understand, but he made attempts. They would sit in the quiet of night, over shares of stale bread and bitter tea that made Link's face scrunch up.

“What makes a hero?” Captain had asked, sipping from a chipped cup of his putrid beverage.

Link has prodded his meager offerings, already growing nostalgic for the bread that Anju would bake on the first morning of every cycle and the milk from Romani Ranch.

“Saving those in need,” had been his answer. No hesitation was to be found as he solidified his resolve. It was something he would always do – always be, so long as he had a sword to strike his foes and a shield to defend the innocent.

Another night, another question. “Why call yourself an adult?” Captain had asked, wearily pulling his tunic over his head and removing the chain mail underneath with a heavy sigh. “You don't want to grow up too fast.”

“It's too late for that,” Link had calmly explained. “If you had your rank pulled from beneath your boots, wouldn't you lament what was lost? When so much had hinged on you being something more than what you were?” He'd hefted Captain's shield into his arms, appraising the new dent in it. For Din's sake, his arm wasn't even big enough to comfortably equip it! So much for borrowing standard-issue gear, when he'd been left with his old kokiri sword and deku shield.

“So how old are you, actually?”

Link had considered that in all thoughtfulness. Deciding he could trust the young man, he'd made the mistake of answering honestly. “I was seventeen a few years ago. But I'm not sure which years are meant to count. And my current age… I lost track. I think I was meant to gain another year at some point.”

“Well, I'm seventeen,” Captain had kindly informed him. “And I'd say we're a bit different. It's fine if you don't know your age – I'd say you're… about twelve? Probably on the cusp of going through changes, Squirt.”

And if Link had given him a downright admonishing glare, then so be it. Link already knew changes. He knew the creaking of bones and flex of muscle and movement of limbs longer than what he currently possessed. He knew more changes than any one person was ever meant to know.

On this evening, the third night since Link had first stumbled into an era he realized was not his own, he wondered if anything would change. His words only ever seemed to fall on deaf ears, and he grew weary of repeating himself. He'd been told that the camp would be packing up soon, and when they reached the next village, that he would be safe.

But his place was here, for why else would the flow of time place him in such blood-stained territories? It was his sword that was needed in these never-ending fights. It was his experiences from numerous dungeons and monsters and challenges that had summoned him here. And if a child was not what this war asked of him, then he would be something else. Some one else. Whoever he was required to be, every time without fail.

The tent entrance rustled, and Captain Link stumbled inside. He dragged his feet with every step, and he dropped his weapons off to the side with little care. There was a bandage on his right shoulder that Link quickly recognized as a glancing blow off his shield. He could viscerally empathize with that.

Link watched him lumber throughout his personal tent. When he'd suggested he stay with other refugees staying in the camp, Link had scolded him profusely. And rightly so, to think for even a second that he could get rid of him like that!

The Captain had called it a tantrum. The audacity.

“Hey, kiddo, you still under there?” Captain asked as he collapsed into one of two chairs situated around a small table.

“Were you thinking I'd slip away in the thick of it all?” Link snipped back, shifting under the many layers to inform him that he was, in fact, still present.

“I wouldn't put it past you – you tend to get underfoot as it is,” Captain shot back. That was the thing about him: past his charming smiles and friendly laughs, he had a sharp tongue that was more than capable of landing him in trouble. The way others saw it… neither of them were very good with words. It was by the graces of the Goddesses that Proxi would often talk on their behalf.

The little blue fairy that reminded him so dearly of Navi alighted on the edge of the bed, and Link couldn't help but feel reassured. “You look so snug! But you can't just stay inside all day – is there a game you want to play?”

“Not particularly,” Link hummed. “I've just been thinking, is all.”

“More like sulking,” Captain observed.

Link pushed himself up into a sitting position, the blankets hanging off him like so many ceremonial robes. “You haven't questioned if I'm courageous. If you don't believe I'm a hero and you've decided an age for me, then why stop there? Are you just waiting for me to prove myself? Do you need to see me raise my sword? Because I will.”

The supposedly older, more mature Link buried his head in his hands. “My gods, Sprite, I'm not going to throw you to the wolfos like that.”

“Why not? What kind? Once you know their attack patterns, they're not so—”

“Because clearly you know shit that no normal kid ever should!” he snapped, eyes stretched wide and pleading. “I can already feel that about you. And Hylia knows how quick you are to remind me! As if I didn't have enough on my plate, now I have to worry about some child showing up and telling me how to do my job!”

“Don't call me that” Link shouted back, feeling an unfathomable anger burning under his skin.

Proxi bolted under the green cap he'd left on the bed, and the Captain jolted in his seat, taken aback by the outburst.

Silence sat between them like a dense fog, and Link felt a slimy worm of misery crawl its way up his throat. His shoulders heaved, and he sank deeper under the blankets. Under the older man's scrutinizing gaze, he felt around for his adventurer's pouch to ensure its contents.

The lands of Termina didn't exist the same way Hyrule did. They were foreign and distant, while somehow being only a short ride into the woods away. It didn't border this kingdom, and no book or map spoke its name, not even as a whisper in the margins. Most of the items he'd gained from those lands had vanished as if they'd never existed, returning his old slingshot, power bracelet, and boomerang… but not much else. And yet he still retained a select few masks, to remind him of his time there and prove that it had been real.

The tired soldier clasped his hands together and leaned forward, exhaling deeply through his nose. “Alright. Not a child. Then what, pray tell, do I call you?”

“I have a name,” Link croaked, feeling a wretchedness in his chest.

“So do I, and it's also Link. But my men are starting to wonder about the new… stranger in my tent – they think you're a relative, and we can't both be Link.” He got up, crossing the small space in two strides, and came to sit on the edge of the bed. “You claim to be a hero – what of? Is there something the people of your lands called you?”

Link shrugged off the blankets. His hand cradled the pouch he kept forever tied to his belt, inside which rested the Ocarina of Time.

The Hero of Time. That was who he was. But that time felt distant now. Furthermore, he’d heard the whisperings of the soldiers, and gathered that there was a widespread rumor of Ganondorf's return on the horizon – who else could control so many monsters? He didn't yet know what role that evil man had in this, or what the history books said, but it felt too soon to be declaring himself as someone who might not belong in this era.

“I'm the Hero… of Masks,” Link murmured, letting go of the ocarina's pouch in favor of the gift from Kafei that hid his face when he wished to not be seen.

“Then I'll call you Mask,” Captain Link decided, resting what he thought was a reassuring hand on the kid's shoulder. Mask recoiled at the contact, and he retracted his hand apologetically. “I'll pass that along so that the others know. And if you truly believe you're here to help us, then stay as long as you see fit.”

Mask turned away, sullenly returning to his mound of blankets. “Thank you,” he whispered, inching further away from the Link that this era knew by name. “I'll be sure to count my blessings.”

He felt a tug, and begrudgingly acquiesced when Link wrangled an old, frayed quilt from the bedding. “Say, Mask, before you ignore me for the rest of the night, when were you planning on giving me back my bed?”

Mask didn't respond. He had too much to mull over already without the man's intrusion getting in the way of his tumultuous thoughts.

Link sighed. “The cot was meant for you, you know. Real beds are a luxury few are given during times of war.”

Still nothing. The strong aromas and heavy layers had become comforting to him over the course of the past two nights – a sensation he couldn't remember in a very long time. It had been years, hadn't it? Since he'd last slept in his own bed in Kokiri Forest. And how many sleepless nights had he had since then? Too many to count, apparently. 

Here, he could close his eyes. Here, he could give in to the exhaustion that had rooted itself so deeply in a soul that was so much older and frayed than his physical body suggested. Here, in the throes of an ongoing war, he could rest a bit easier knowing that it's fate wasn't on his shoulders, but another.

I need to look out for him.

Link freed a baby blue throw his mother had knitted for him before tucking the rest of the pilfered blankets around the small huddled form. The stubborn young lad still looked and sounded like a child, even in spite of his bravado. The soldier had already decided that he needed to look out for someone so small. If this truly was a hero from another time or place, then he couldn't help but think that the Goddesses must be pulling a divine prank.

“Alright. You can take my bed again. Sleep well.”

Chapter Text

Packing up camp after clearing an area was always a nightmare, but the operation required that they press on in a timely fashion to prevent needlessly burning through resources. It was understandably hectic, getting everything in order while still nursing the wounds of battle; Link should've been prepared for challenges like this. And he was, but it didn't help that he'd been saddled with additional responsibilities on top of his already brutal schedule. 

He would never say as much aloud, but Mask had a knack for getting on people's nerves. And he wouldn't speak poorly about whoever raised such a child, but the little fiend was very good at putting himself in other people's business and reaching for things that did not belong to him.

Link was irritable, he knew it: he'd not slept in his own bed for nearly a week, his shoulder still ached from the injury several days prior, and keeping an eye on Mask throughout it all was a headache in itself. If the little hero knew that the Captain had been promoted to a glorified babysitter thanks to him, he'd have strong words to say. Mask did not like being watched and fretted over. But he feared that if he turned a blind eye, that the nosy child would land himself in trouble.

Already, he'd had a few disgruntled soldiers bring Mask back to him with complaints that he'd been rooting through their supply storage and opening up chests.

“It won't happen again,” Link emptily promised to his men with an easily faked smile, leading Mask away by the shoulder. This was the third time already. It would surely happen again.

The moment the soldiers were out of earshot, Link swiveled on his heels and crouched next to Mask, staring into his keaton mask. “Come on, I need you to level with me. Take off the mask and tell me why you keep going through things that don't belong to you.”

The small hero moved his mask to the side, but only so that he could glare daggers at him. “You don't hafta crouch down to talk to me, you know. Just talk to me like you would anyone else.”

Link stood back to his full height, towering over the boy with his arms crossed. “How am I supposed to do that when you're all the way down there?”

Before the captain could blink, a sharp kick connected with his shin. Link bit back a curse as he was bent double, hobbling back a step to favor his leg.

When he looked back up, he was met with those same judgmental blue eyes from before.

“C'mon, soldier, don't you have a leg to stand on?” 

Link let slip an annoyed scowl before taking a deep breath and regaining his composure. It would do him no good to let the little hero get under his skin… though with how quick he was to resort to kicking, Link wouldn't be surprised if he found himself being held at sword tip one of these days.

He settled his weight to one side and adjusted the scarf around his neck, maintaining a look of regal dignity that would not be felled by a meager kick. “Are you mad because you were caught? You don't seem the least bit guilty… about anything, for that matter.” His voice hardened at the end; try as he might to conceal the edge concealed like a knife in its sheath, he'd always been quick to draw.

Mask balled his fists at his sides and tilted his chin up defiantly. “I asked you where the supplies were, and you didn't answer me. And then I told you that I needed them, and you still wouldn't tell me. So I'm getting what I need myself. Is that so wrong?”

Link resisted the urge to roll his eyes. The child didn't understand these things, and that was fine. He'd just have to learn, like everyone else in service to the Hyrulean army. “It is when you're traveling with a large group of people, alright? Because we have finite resources and we need to keep tabs on everything that passes through our ranks.” For a moment, his balance began to wane, and he sat down heavily on a wooden crate stacked outside of the small tent where their conversation was being held. “You have a sword and you have a shield. Presumably, you can use them well enough, and you're never going to wind up on the frontlines. You get two square meals and a canteen of water each day just like everyone else. So just tell me, what do you want? Because rupees, empty bottles, and shields that are too big for you can't be it.”

Mask's face crinkled with distress, and he quickly turned his body to the side so that the captain wouldn't see it. Too late already, but the little hero could keep up his own walls as much as he damn well pleased. That seemed to be what his titular mask was there for, anyway.

“I… spent a long time honing my skills with items that I couldn't bring back. I spent an even longer time trying to get back the things that felt like they were taken from me. Those are gone now, too.” The admittance felt too heavy coming from someone half his size. “It's not enough for me to have my kokiri sword and deku shield. If I don't have the tools needed for whatever happens next, then how am I expected to get through it?”

Link wasn't good at providing comfort, let alone promises. The likes of don't worry so much and everything will be alright felt like pointless diatribe. Mask was too smart – and too suspicious – to ever believe such things. “Alright. Alright. I'll see what I can do. But you can't just steal things from other people. Even if it doesn't have their name on it, if you grab something from the storages without permission, that's considered thievery. So inform me of what you need , and I'll tell you upfront if I can get it for you.”

Mask sat down on the ground, back pressed to Link's crate seat, and stared out into the distance. “I need potions.”

“You're not injured,” Link politely informed him. “If something happens, you can always seek medical aid. In an encampment this large, we don't hoard potions to ourselves.”

Mask curled in tighter on himself. “Then why are you still injured, if it's true that you have people who are supposed to look out for you?”

Link grimaced, his hand reaching instinctively to his shoulder. “It's just a tad sore – not worth wasting anymore red potion on, when plenty of others were hurt worse than me.”

“And that's exactly why I want my own,” Mask gritted out. “Because I don't wanna end up stuck in a bad situation if nobody's around to help me the way that they help you.”

“Medical supplies are always in high demand,” Link reaffirmed, his tone stern. “If you want them for yourself, you'll have to buy them yourself in the next town.”

Mask settled his chin on his bare knees. “...I don't have any rupees.”

“I wouldn't expect you too,” Link sighed.

“I used to have plenty, it was never an issue. ”

“Mm-hm.” Link planted his chin in his hand, mulling over his options. “You'll have to earn your rupees. Try helping out the people around you to earn your keep, if you care so much about your wallet.” He watched the way Mask's ear twitched in irritation and moved on from the subject of monetary compensation. It wasn't as if he'd be getting a soldier's salary anytime soon – more like an allowance. Hero though he might be, children weren't meant to fight the wars of adults. “What else are you trying to find? Surely there's more.”

“...Milk. And fruit would be nice, too.”

“We don't have very much of that,” Link glumly confessed. “Those are important rations, and we're nearing the bottom of our stock. The cows we keep with us aren't producing as much milk as before with less grain to feed them, and we have very few apples left.”

Mask scowled into his arms, folded as they were upon his knees, and let out a groan. There were too many things that he either couldn't have or hadn't earned, and he was growing frustrated because of it. Starting over from scratch was the hardest part of starting any new adventure. Mask just hadn't expected he'd have to do it all over again so soon.

“Anything else?” Link asked, growing weary with the nowhere direction they were heading in. “Give me something I can level with.”

Mask sighed. “I miss my bow.”

That caught Link's attention. He arched a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching into a grin. “Fancy yourself an archer, do you?”

Mask whirled around, sitting up on his knees and peering over the edge of the crate. Link startled, his immediate thought being if he'd upset the young hero yet again. Instead, he found that there was an earnest gleam in Mask's eyes that hadn't been there before.

“You wouldn't believe what I could do with a bow!” he wholeheartedly insisted, gripping the crate so hard it began to splinter. “I had perfect records in all the shooting galleries. I got the highest score possible at the gerudo archery range. I could shoot a poe from halfway across Hyrule Field! So yes I consider myself a good archer.”

Link hadn't seen him express such open enthusiasm for… anything since getting here. He'd lit up the first few times Proxi had gone near him, before getting used to her. And he'd been clearly relieved when his little chestnut mare had been brought into the stables. Other than that, though, he could more often than not be found in a dour or downcast state of being.

“In that case, let's find you a bow,” Link suggested. “There should be a few not in use.”

“Really? You're not lying?”

Self-proclaimed adult though he might’ve been, watching Mask perk up and hop to his feet with an eager grin was downright adorable. If Link ever said as much, that fleeting happiness would be just as swiftly robbed, and he didn't want that.

Link stood from the crate, testing his weight on one leg to make sure it wouldn't wobble beneath him before proceeding forward. “It's not a guarantee, but let's see what we can do.”

He led the way through the bustling camp with Mask hot on his heels. The captain easily greeted his fellow men in passing, observing their progress as they made their way to the armory. A bow and quiver, he rationed, would be good for the little hero. He wasn't quite ready to believe the bold claims regarding his archery prowess that were being thrown around, but Mask seemed eager enough for the challenge.

Link himself was formally trained in archery, but it wasn't generally his weapon of choice, considering he was normally put on the frontlines. If Mask truly wanted to fight in these battles, then a ranged weapon – besides his little slingshot – would certainly be best.

They entered the weapons tent, and Link gravitated to the back where older, unclaimed weapons awaiting maintenance were being held. He began sorting through a crate of unstrung bows. Most were straight or recurve longbows, and even at a glance he could tell that these would be far too big for someone of Mask's size. His arms weren't nearly long enough for the sort of draw required from bows like these.

And yet Mask looked through them as if each one were viable options. “Yes, something like this!” he decided, pulling out a wooden recurve longbow with a blue riser. Without the string, it was nearly as tall as he was.

“Mask… that's not going to work.”

His ears drooped, crestfallen and he looked up to the captain with a face of abject betrayal. “But you said you'd find me a bow, and this one is so much like what I had before!”

“Before you lost a few inches?”

Mask glowered at him, clenching the bow tightly in his small, calloused hands. If he didn't know any better, it looked like he was about to get smacked. It was by the graces of the Goddesses that Mask managed to restrain himself this time.

“Back when I was an adult,” he stressed, pacing the ground with a foul expression. “I learned on the fairy bow, and everything was fine for a while. A-and then the hero's bow… it was different, but it still felt right in my hands. Why couldn't I just keep it? Why don't I ever get to hold onto anything?!” 

Link only watched as Mask's frustrations continued to build, and his tongue felt slow to respond. What was there to say, anyway, to someone who already looked and acted so defeated despite the youth they carried on their cheeks? 

It was Proxi that slipped out from under his cap and rushed to Mask's side, fluttering around his head. “Hey, don't worry so much! There should be some shortbows around here – I'm sure they'd be a much better fit for you, don't you think?”

Mask calmed down quickly. He dropped the bow on the ground with a clatter and nodded silently, his face devoid of expression, and followed Proxi as she began to flit about the room. Link picked up the forgotten longbow, his nerves prickling from the interaction. He didn't know how to deal with people younger – Older? More experienced? Emotionally immature? – than him when they got like that. Mask in particular left a lasting impression that spoke volumes about deeply rooted anger and grief. And Link was not ready to try unwrapping all that. He was busy enough as it was.

“Oh! Here's something!” Proxi announced, alighting on a bow of dark-stained wood. Mask carefully pulled it out of the barrel it was being stored in. This one was still strung, and Link grimaced when he saw that there were a few blood splatters still on it from its last holder.

Proxi hesitated, noticing the signs of battle a bit late, as Mask eagerly appraised the mid-range weapon. “It's perfect!” he said, testing the draw on its string and holding it with practiced ease. Even at a glance, it was evident that he had done this before.

“Care to test it out?” Link asked, reaching for a spare quiver and tossing it over.

Mask caught it without issue, a wide grin stretched across his face. “Of course!”

At least he wasn't too difficult to please, now that Link was beginning to learn what to look out for. And if anything else, Proxi would always know what to say or do. He responded best to the little fairy anyway, rather than any sort of authority.

Link guided him out the tent, thanking the guard stationed there on the way out, and followed a short path to a small target range. The targets situated a ways out seemed a bit far, and Link debated bringing them closer in. Instead, he turned to questioning Mask, who was already nocking an arrow.

“So you've done all this before?” he asked, encouraging a conversation.

Mask grunted out a noncommittal answer and fired his arrow. It landed on the target, just shy of the center ring, and he clicked his tongue in dissatisfaction.

“Hey, that was a good shot!” the captain commended, quick to praise one of his peers.

“No, my aim was off,” Mask huffed, waving a dismissive hand at the offending target. “I can do better, just give me a few moments to practice.”

Link watched as several more arrows were fired in quick succession, each one closer to the center than the last, until two arrows were planted squarely on the bullseye.

Link whistled in appreciation. “You could take a bokoblin's head off with a hit like that.”

He didn't miss the way Mask's mouth twitched into a satisfied smile, and the small archer reached for another arrow. “Thanks. But I can do more than that.”

“More than a bullseye?”

A strange aura enveloped the bow, and Link watched with widened eyes as the arrowhead became engulfed in flame. Mask released the arrow, and it struck the target with searing precision that quickly enveloped it in licks of fire. 

His mouth fell open. Magic. This child was using magic.

“Mask…?”

“But wait, that isn't all.” Before Link could question his abilities further, he drew another arrow. This time, it was pulsing with a frigid ice magic. Mask felt the way it tingled on his fingertips and sapped at his magical reserves. He'd gotten so used to using these in combat, especially during times where it felt as if his magic might last forever. It was a raw sensation that fueled his strength, and he truly felt that he was back in his element.

The ice arrow left his bow, smothering the flames that'd been eating away at the target, and he felt a prickle of pride to see that it'd still found its way into the smoldering remains of the bullseye.

The captain called out to him again, vying for his attention when he was just getting warmed up. He was tired of the bossy hero not believing in him and deciding what was best. He knew, of course, that he'd have to work with this man if he was going to get anywhere, but he wouldn't allow his abilities to be trivialized after everything he'd done to attain them twice over.

“Hey, Mask, were you ever going to tell me that you had…?”

“I'm not done yet!” Mask snapped, once more pulling from his magical reserves. The light of day dimmed around them as it was transferred to his bow at his bidding. A searing, divine light erupted to life on his arrowhead. The bow creaked under the weight of his draw, and the magic condensed on the arrow flickered like a stuttering torch.

Mask concentrated, sweat gathering on his brow as he struggled to pull the light forward the way he always had before. For whatever reason, this use of magic was proving more difficult to maintain than the fire and ice that'd come before it.

But he fired it off anyway, a searing projectile of divinity that obliterated the remainder of the target.

Mask gasped, staggering away, as his vision turned fuzzy and his limbs suddenly felt leaden. His steps were clumsy, and he sat down heavily on the dry grass beneath him as a pounding headache overcame him.

“Mask!” 

The captain crouched at his side, checking his forehead and reaching for his wrist. Mask pulled away with a groan, opting to hold his head in his hands rather than be doted on.

“Was that a Hylia-blessed light arrow? How is that even possible with a normal bow! U-unless you're a sorcerer or tied to the royal family or…!”

Mask groaned louder, aided with readily available annoyance. “You talk too loud!” he complained, clamping his hands over his ears instead to block out the offensive noises. “Why does it hurt so much? It was never like this before!” 

Link sat down next to him, lowering his voice to a gentle whisper while Mask rided out the sensations plaguing him. “Hey, hey, it's alright. I've seen this before, you just have a bit of magic exhaustion is all. Stay put for a moment, focus on breathing, and then I'll go find you a green potion, alright?”

Mask's eyes stung, and he tasted bitterness in the back of his throat. “But that doesn't make any sense. I should be able to pull off more than three lousy elemental arrows!” He sank his nails into his scalp in a vain attempt to relieve the pressure building there.

What's wrong with me this time?!

There was an odd sensation at war with the magic in his chest, sapping his strength like a fever, and he silently begged to be rid of it. His fingers were numb from where the radiant light of his magic had grazed them, and he could hear his own heart beating loudly in his chest like the ticking of a clock.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

All the while, Link rubbed soothing circles into his back. “Light magic has historically been a very… difficult magic to handle. Why don't we step back from it for a while? It's still a very impressive feat, possessing magic that's not tied to a weapon or item but rather comes from the inside. You don't have to prove yourself.”

Mask listened to the easy words as best he could, but he still couldn't shake the feeling of a black cloud hanging over him, smothering the brightness of day. There was a darkness present where it hadn't been before, sitting at the bottom of his bag, and it did not like the light.

Chapter Text

A darkened sky promised rain, and soldiers grumbled and left curses in their wake as they set up camp for the evening after another grueling day of marching. Battles had slowed them all down, leaving the hylian men and women tired and irritable, with little progress to show for. The days only ever seemed to get longer, despite the time for sunshine becoming briefer as winter crept up on the traveling army.

Mask did not envy the soldiers and their lack of horses.

Although the air was cold on his exposed skin, he was kept warm by his company and the feeling of peace that he'd cultivated amongst these bitter lands, where not much else grew.

A gentle, comforting melody that never failed to settle his nerves flitted from his ocarina as he breathed life into each note. If he focused hard, he could almost hear the singing that was meant to accompany his playing.

He wondered if Malon ever thought about his playing the way he thought about her singing. Or… or Romani and Cremia, wherever their lives had gone after the festival.

Epona snorted into his hair as the music lulled in time with his drifting thoughts, and he couldn't help but smile. At his back, the cow that he'd been leaning against let out a dismal moo , as if to ask why he'd stopped. Mask patted her side and tilted his head back to stare up into the darkening sky. He hummed in consideration, answering the cow after a moment. “You too, huh? I don't suppose you know that song, do you? All the other cows seem to.” He turned, smiling to his talkative companion. “Which means it's alright if I have some milk? Is that a fair trade?” If he sounded a bit pleading, then so be it. It wasn't as if anyone else was around to hear him making idle chitchat with the cattle the army carted around.

The cow huffed in his direction, causing him to scrunch up his face. She then stood up, taking her warmth with her, and Mask flopped onto the ground, where cold quickly seeped between his shoulder blades. A moment later, the sounds of chewing suggested that the cow had far more interest in the small patch of springy grass that was still remaining in the churned fields of dirt and mud.

He pushed himself back up and patted the cow's spotted flank once more, a grin spreading over his face. “Is that a yes? Does that make us friends?”

Another moo escaped the cow between moments spent chewing, and she looked back to blink at him with her big brown eyes.

Mask gave her a sunny smile. “Thank you!” he said, swapping his ocarina for an empty bottle.

He was fast about it, not that the cow really noticed, and then he parted ways with Epona in tow so that the cow could be left to her usual business. With the night catching on, it wouldn't be long until the soldiers came to deliver the livestock their feed and get them settled for the evening.

Epona followed loyally after him, all the way back to the tent he shared with the captain. Along the way, he sipped on his bottle of fresh milk. The soldiers acted like it was a luxury, when the cows were right there. The captain had told him that they weren't getting much milk right now, but Mask couldn't help thinking that the claim might've been an exaggeration to keep him from asking for things.

The captain made it seem as though he was so much more demanding than he really was. These were just essentials, at the end of the day.

Mask tucked his bottle away, saving the rest for later, and entered through the large tent flap. 

Captain was slouched in his little chair. In front of him, a stack of papers sat untouched. In his hands, he put far more urgency into polishing an already spotless shield.

Mask kicked off his boots at the entrance, leaving them muddied and flopped together next to Link's own, which had already been scrubbed of mud. A rather pointless task considering that they'd only be sullied again the next day. But if it was the repetition that kept him sane, then Mask could understand that.

He hummed as he crossed the floor, dropping most of his gear next to the table and plopping down onto the edge of the bed.

The captain spared him a tired glance, if only so that he could still his hands for a moment. “You're looking awfully chipper,” he noted dully, before resuming his mundane task.

“Would you rather I be miserable?” Mask sniffed, falling back onto the nicely arranged layers of blankets.

The young man rubbed tiredly at his brow, massaging his fingers into the crinkles forming there. “No, no. It's just… usually there's not much to look forward to in places like these.”

Mask closed his eyes and breathed in the air around him. He'd already grown used to the strong herbal soaps that permeated the threads of each blanket. It was a new sort of homely, in a sense.

“Well… it's hard to stay downcast when you have good music and good company. There should always be something worth looking forward to. Otherwise, the next day will pass us by, and the motivation to keep up with changing times won't last so long,” Mask mused, thinking back on past hardships.

When he cracked an eye open to gauge the captain's reaction, he caught the hint of a smile curling the corner of his mouth.

“Yes… I suppose that's true.” He looked up from his menial chore. “Were you playing music just now? I didn't hear it.”

Mask stretched out on the bed, rolling onto his side and reaching for a pillow to shove beneath his head. “I was, but that was for my other friends. I'm tired now, so I'm done playing for the night.”

Mask watched the way his shoulders drooped in disappointment. His face remained neutral, though, as he feigned disinterest with a noncommittal hum; his movements slowed, the completion of his task growing further away.

Mask eyed the stack of papers. “Did you still have work to do?”

“I figured I'd get to it after dinner.”

“And when were you planning on getting around to that? The papers are in the way of where your plate would be,” Mask pointed out.

Captain let his shield and rag drop into his lap and looked up at the ceiling as if he might find his patience there. “I'm trying to be diligent,” he stressed.

Mask arched a brow at him. “No, you're procrastinating. That's wasted time,” he scolded lightly.

Captain pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. He didn't snip back with a response. Instead, the rumble of his stomach answered for him. Slowly, he let the irritation drain from his face and set the shield aside. “Alright. I'll get dinner ready,” he glumly expressed, getting up from his chair and fussing about. “In the meantime, could you wash up? You're getting the bed dirty.”

Mask groaned so that the other man could plainly hear his disdain, but otherwise roused himself without further complaint.

The bed itself was already rather dirty, without a stream to wash the sheets in over the last several days. Mask hadn't been the most considerate of their condition during his first few days in camp, when he'd usurped the place of rest out from under the captain. It was only recently that Mask had grown comfortable enough to have him sleep near him, since neither of them were fond of using the cot. The bed wasn't exactly big – then again, neither was he, and so they made it work. 

Mask sat himself down next to a water bucket in the corner of the tent and reached for a wash towel. He started with his face, washing up while Link warmed a kettle over a small oil stove. Above, raindrops began to splatter on the tent's canopy.

When Mask had cleaned off as much mud and grime as he was bothered to get, he pulled his tunic over his head and changed into one of the long, silky pajama shirts from the captain's clothes chest. As always, he made sure to strap his belt and pouches securely around his hip before padding over to where the table was being set.

Mask sat down in his chair and scowled down into a bowl of crushed barley and carrot lumps that were being slowly warmed and thinned by the boiling water that'd been poured on top of it. “Pottage again?” Mask bemoaned. “It's been three days of the same slop. When are we going to get something better?”

When Mask looked up from his sorry meal, it was only to see Link tending to his own. His bowl contained a palm-sized chunk of hardtack submerged in warm water, and he poked listlessly at it while waiting for the tough baked staple to soften. In the meantime, he produced a cap of sugar water from a small waterskin on his belt and set it on the table, where Proxi alighted.

“You're a captain. I would've expected you to ask for nicer meals, given your upgraded accommodations.”

While it was true that his tent was larger and more ornate than others, it mostly only served as a symbol – a means of making him easier to find. Link's brow twitched, and he pursed his lips together while jabbing aimlessly at his lackluster dinner. “I've no intention of taking the lion's share of anything. It's only my rank that's higher than most others – not my hungers or needs. I will accept the same meals that my brothers do.” He flicked a spoon at Mask. “You shouldn't complain so much. Someone your age needs nutrients, and that's the best I can provide at the moment.”

Mask exhaled heavily and planted his head into his open palm. He watched the captain carefully from under his curtain bangs, waiting for his attention to be diverted to his sad supper, before reaching towards his belt. Beneath the table, he uncorked his bottle of milk and brought it above the rim of his bowl to pour into his pottage.

Link looked up sharply. “Did you steal that?” he demanded, his eyes darkening.

Mask froze. “N…no. I did not.”

His fingers clenched tightly around his spoon. “We talked about this. Mask, be honest.”

The small hero pushed himself up out of his chair, feeling his guts churn with a rush of emotion. “I'm not lying – I didn't steal it!” he snarled, feeling his blood boil at the accusation.

“It's a simple question, don't get so mad over it!” he snapped back, his steely facade cracking like ice weakened by flames.

Mask reached for his bowl – he would much rather eat outside with Epona, anyway. Not only was she more reliable company, but she'd probably eat the lumpy carrot chunks in his bland stew.

“Mask, wait!” 

Mask halted in his tracks, taking a deep, level breath as Proxi fluttered over and came to rest on his shoulder. He waited.

“I'm sorry, that was the wrong thing for Link to say,” the little blue fairy apologized on his behalf. Behind them, Link crossed his arms and fixed his sights to the earth. “It was just hard to believe that you got that milk on your own – it's not something that's easy to get right now. Could you please tell us how you got it?”

Mask took a few extra seconds to answer, waiting for his frustration to simmer down into something lukewarm and unassuming. Like his meal. Then he placed the bowl back down on the table and seated himself once more.

“My friend lemme have it,” he mumbled, picking at the unlacquered splinters of the aged wooden table with his nails.

Proxi moved back to her little dish of sugar water, and that was encouragement enough to slowly coax Link back to his own seat. “And who's your friend? Are you getting along with the soldiers?”

Mask shook his head. “Uh-uh, I already know that a soldier won't help me much.” The captain huffed at the remark, but it was the truth; soldiers did what they were ordered to do, was all. If he did something that got in the way of their duty, it would not be taken kindly.

“So then who gave you the milk?” Link asked, his prior frustration replaced by a hesitant curiosity.

“Got it straight from the cow!” Mask declared, just a bit proud. “They're a friendly bunch, and I asked nicely for it. You could have some, too, if you asked me nice enough.”

A frown tugged at the corners of Link's mouth as confusion crept across his face. “But… the cows haven't been producing lately.”

“Then maybe your troops need to find better ranch-hands to keep ‘em happy!” Mask scoffed, pointedly adding another splash of milk to his pottage.

Link's eyes drifted away, and he ran a hand through his hair. “I see…” He drifted into silence, and Mask thought he seemed upset. So he offered some milk to him, even though he hadn't asked, only to be politely declined as he mulled over his thoughts.

Halfway through the meal, he finally spoke up again. “Mask, you should be careful… about getting too attached to those cows. I don't want to see your feelings get hurt…”

Mask only stared back at him blankly. “They're good cows, Link. Nothing will happen to her.”

Link only nodded numbly in return, and didn't push the subject further.

It became something of a routine after that. In the evening, Mask would visit the gentle grazers and play Epona's song to the one cow. She was a bit skinnier and older than the others, so it was easy to find her separate from the rest of the small herd. The days of marching were still impossibly slow and dull, but he always had the evening to look forward to. He decided not to let the smaller portions of food being served to him bother him, either. Everyone just kept saying that things would be better once they reached the next village.

The captain still fussed over him, but his worries were unnecessary. Perhaps he just wished that camaraderie could be so easily found. Mask hardly ever saw the young man hanging around others his age. For all the charm and posh words he used to command his soldiers, once night came he turned into much more of a shut-in.

Mask, for one, had no problems enjoying the company of his friends. 

The nights passed without monster or incident to make them interesting, and Mask was grateful for it. The soldiers were saying that they'd reach the village by the very next day, and they were clearly excited for it.

Mask went to visit the cattle one more time, as he always did. Epona followed, and he saw many a familiar face. But he did not see his cow friend.

He played Epona's song, and, sure, a few cattle raised their heads. But still his friend did not appear. His ears drooped in dismay, and he wondered if she'd drifted away from the others to find better grass.

But it was nighttime now, and it was dangerous to leave camp. The howling in the distance troubled him, and he wandered the camp perimeter in search of her, playing on his ocarina all the while.

One of the tents he passed had a loud assortment of soldiers inside. They were laughing and singing and clattering their dishes against the table. They must be celebrating the fact that their days of marching were almost at an end.

A strong, mouthwatering aroma drifted from the tent, and Mask felt his stomach rumble in protest. He paused, staring at the silhouettes of the men inside, and felt his chin start to crinkle.

Mask marched through the encampment, abandoning his search for the cow in favor of locating that brightly colored tent. His heavy steps picked up, turning from a measured stride into a sprint, until the captain's tent was in front of him.

Mask tore past the entrance, neglecting to take his boots off as he stomped into the center of their shared space.

“ Where. Is. She.” 

Link startled out of his chair, dropping his pen on the ground and floundering with the paperwork he'd been getting an early start to for once.

“Wha— who?” Link dared to ask, rushing to  his feet and reaching for his sword. If there was an attack inside camp, he had to be ready now. Judging by Mask's glowering expression, put on full display for anyone to see, he thought this must be an urgent matter. For what else could rattle the young boy so fiercely?

“My friend,” he spat. “What happened to my cow?!”

Warriors felt his heart sink into the pit of his hollow stomach. It happened all the time, really; more so during the ends of longer stretches of travel, as this had been. Even still, he felt a wave of guilt wash over him. He would never rob a meal from the mouths of hungry soldiers, but perhaps he could've done more to prevent Mask's attachment to the livestock from deepening in the first place.

“Oh, Mask… I'm so sorry, but… sometimes things don't always—”

“It's a simple question,” Mask seethed. “Just tell me.”

Proxi whispered a quiet warning in his ear, begging him to be gentle. But that's not what Mask had asked for, and Link took a deep breath before answering with the full honesty that the self-proclaimed adult deserved. “That cow was probably dinner for the soldiers. We are out of food, and there were mouths to feed.”

Proxi gasped at the bluntness of his words. She would surely chew him out later, after whatever catastrophe came next.

Link expected yelling. He anticipated harsh words and colorful swears that had no right falling from the mouth of one that appeared so young. He was thankful, at least, that there was nothing breakable in the tent, beyond maybe the cheap wooden chairs and ceramic bowls. The temperamental kid hadn't broken things in a fit of anger before, but he didn't doubt that something like this would push him over the edge.

So he was surprised when the yells didn't come, and the tremors of rage housed within the boy shifted to something less restrained – more vulnerable. His bottom lip quivered, and each breath came out choked and uneven.

Link felt the defenses he'd built in anticipation for a fight crumble. “Mask… no, please, I didn't mean…”

The child burst into tears. Fat drops trailed down his round cheeks, meeting at his chin, and the choked breaths evolved into ugly sobs. “You bastard! I had a friend and you took her! I was happy, but that's not allowed in a shitty fucking war!” he wailed, pawing at his eyes to stem the flow of tears.

Link's hands hovered uselessly in the air, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. Proxi, help!

The fairy hid under his hat.

Fuck! He'd just have to talk the kid down.

“ Sshhh , it'll be okay, nobody meant any harm,” he tried to sooth, choosing whatever words of comfort were likely meant to placate someone in the throes of grief. “I'm sure she was happy, too, but there comes a time when—”

“Don't fucking talk to me!” Mask snapped, stomping past him. 

Link raised his hands away and stepped back, giving him plenty of space to reach the bed uncontested. 

Mask crumpled onto the mattress, his fingers curling into the blankets, and sobbed without restraint.

Link went quiet. Like a storm, it would pass. But for tonight, the rainclouds spilled their burdens.

Chapter Text

Poor weather continued for the duration of their solemn march through the muddied and windswept hills of Hyrule Field's southernmost reaches. Despite a brisk pace set by soldiers on foot, it still felt slow. And yet there remained to be hope on the horizon, as the dark smudge of a town grew with every passing hour.

It was just as well, since Link could only ride horseback for so long without growing antsy. The same could not be said for Mask, who appeared perfectly content atop his little chestnut filly. When the captain had first shown the little hero his own horse, he'd been gobsmacked. He'd looked between the two horses as if he'd been seeing double, and went through the effort of telling Link all about Epona, from her bridle to her favorite scratch spots.

Link had just listened. He already knew all these things about his horse, but Mask seemed to think their mounts were one and the same. It wasn't… entirely absurd, given how much the young kid lamented about the flow of time. But he thought he'd know if his own Epona was from an entirely different era. The saddle she'd first appeared in was old-fashioned, but the mare herself didn't stand out so much, other than being a good steed. And yet she would leave him in the mud the moment Mask would play that one song.

For now, things were quiet – at least amongst the two of them. He had no words to say, and Mask was no conversationalist. So while the soldiers chattered excitedly behind them on foot and wagon, Link and Mask rode silently in the wake of General Impa and her white stallion.

Reaching the town itself presented its own host of problems for him. They'd only just managed the first hurdle of the guard gate before getting swept up in the responsibilities that came with getting his squadrons situated. Link managed to keep Mask near him until they reached the stables. Once Epona's reins were out of his hands, their horses taken care of for the evening, he'd turned around to find that Mask was already gone.

Link's spirits lowered just then, and he kicked dismally at the hay littering the stone floor. “Do you think he'll be alright?” he fretted, wringing the edge of his scarf for reassurance. There'd been no music and select few words from the child since he'd lost the friend he'd made of that cow. It instilled in him a feeling of loneliness that he hadn't known himself to possess before.

Proxi settled onto his head with an airy little sigh, her wings drooping. “He's going to have to be, since we still have a lot to do before we can run off like that,” she said, to which Link begrudgingly agreed. He didn't want Impa being cross with him by not having everything in order. 

The fairy hummed in further consideration. “Unless, that is, you want me to keep an eye out for him myself?”

The thought of Proxi leaving his side sent a jolt of anxiety through him. “No!” he said – a bit too fast, a bit too selfish. Not while there was still so much to do. Not while he was in a new place with new responsibilities that weighed heavier on him than a misplaced hero from another era could. He remembered himself swiftly. “Or rather, it'd be quicker if I had your assistance. Mask won't thank you for hovering, anyway; he's said before that he can handle himself, and I believe him.”

Proxi didn't argue the point he'd made. She dutifully stayed by his side, and the rest of the day was smoother because of it. They met with town officials, paid for the influx of supplies that'd been awaiting their arrival, and secured room and board for their ranks wherever possible. Lodgings were limited for a town that could only hold so many, but they made do. And though that should've meant that Link would be sharing a room with his fellow men, Impa still found a way to secure a private space for him and Mask. Moreover, she took one glance at him by the end of the day and seemed to look straight through him.

“I'm sure you're tired, but I suggest refraining from turning in just yet. Your men will want to celebrate tonight – I'll handle the rest, while you go make your presence known.”

A suggestion framed as an order. He could hardly refuse. “Yes, General Impa.”

That was part of his role as a captain, too: know his soldiers, spend time with them, learn their grievances and desires. It was all part of the process to keep morale up, and yet he couldn't claim to be particularly close to any of them just yet. He knew names and faces and backgrounds. But they did not know much of him, and Link was alright with that.

The town was expectantly busy this evening, as the sun dipped below the shingled buildings and thatched roofs. Lanterns flickered along narrow streets filled with hearty laughter and boisterous shouts. Hylian soldiers who hadn't been in a civilized place since their departure from Castle Town mingled with local drunkards and harlots, pursuing small comforts wherever there were any to be found. Rupees switched hands at every corner, and the air was hazy with smoke from hearths and cigars.

Link buried his nose into his scarf to smother the acrid smell and skirted a pile of horse dung left in the streets. He wasn't much for mingling, but Impa was right when she said that he needed to be. Familiar faces in even more familiar uniform flagged him down, and he only waved back.

At the back of his mind, his worries persisted. This was hardly the kind of place for someone like Mask. It didn't matter how old he thought he was – this was too much.

The door of a tavern was flung open in front of Link, and he quickly backpedaled as two burly men freed themselves from the threshold with cantankerous mirth. His nose crinkled in disgust at the foul odor that pervaded them, but smiled all the same when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder.

“There y'are, Cap'n!” one of the men slurred, an unfocused glaze in his eyes. “E'ryone's talkin’ ‘bout you, won'erin’ where ya at! Yer lil buddy's a'ready waitin’ ‘side fer ya!”

“Thinking he's not as scarce as you are to the scene,” the accompanying man snickered, leading his haggard friend away.

Link stood there, stunned for a moment, as the words sank in. My little buddy?

More howls of delight erupted from the tavern's interior, and he made up his mind just then.

Proxi fluttered nervously next to his ear before quickly seeking shelter under his cap instead. Her voice was hardly loud enough to be heard in a place like this.

The captain stepped inside and was greeted with a wall of warm air and delighted cheers. Men and women from his unit called out to him by name and rank, and the villagers caught on awfully quick. His cheeks warmed at the reception, and he forced himself to slow down and take a breath. He threaded his way carefully through the densely packed establishment, shaking hands and patting backs with a charming smile to mirror the lopsided smirks being cast his way. His skin crawled from all the attention and unwanted touches, but he didn't let that show. It was all so that he could search every table and chair for Mask, anyway.

An off-tilter ocarina note caught his ear, and he swiveled his attention towards a wall of patrons huddled around one section of the bar. A string of incoherent notes was followed by a bout of giggling, and the group laughed along with it.

Link pursed his lips, worry twisting his guts, and carefully stepped around the tangle of people to reach the bar.

Seated atop the counter, legs swinging idly while he held up his ocarina, was Mask. His keaton mask was askew on the side of his head, and his cheeks were flushed. Sitting on the bar next to him were a couple empty glasses of milk.

Link choked out a gasp and swiftly inserted himself into the close-knit circle. “Mask! There you are! What are you doing in a place like this?!” he hissed, commandeering the wooden stool closest to him and shooing away a disgruntled bar patron.

Mask shot him a soured look, not unlike the sorts of milks this place served. But that was dropped quickly as his brow crinkled in concentration. “I'm tryin’... tryin’ to ‘member a song. Ahhh how did it go?” He squeezed his eyes shut, raking a hand through his hair and further displacing his mask, only to perk up. “Oh! Okay, hang on—” He held up his ocarina again – something he'd once explained was a very important magical item and heirloom to the royal family – and busted out a popular bar ditty. His little audience burst into cheers once more, and one began to sing along.

Someone on Link's other side elbowed him in the ribs, and he smothered a wince. “Where'd ya find this guy? You didn't say there were minstrels in your family!”

Link was left speechless.

A tall glass of milk was slid between him and Mask. “On the house for special patrons ,” the barkeeper mumbled out.

Link stared at it dumbly, wondering if that meant him, only to watch as Mask reached for it instead.

His thoughts churned. A warning screamed in his thoughts, and he felt himself sickened. He left this child alone for the afternoon and this was where he'd found him.

“Mask, have you been drinking?” His tone was sharp.

Mask jolted, spilling a drop of milk on the counter. He could see him going over potential responses in his head, trying to settle on the best one. “‘S jus’ some milk,” he muttered, looking away.

Link snatched the glass from his hand, earning a cry of protest, and brought the beverage to his lips. His taste buds recoiled at the harsh burn of rum mixed into the concoction, and he slammed the glass on the bar. “You're drinking milk punch! Mask, are all these glasses yours?”

No response. He tucked his ocarina away and adjusted his mask to cover his face more.

The audience groaned and began to disperse, now that the captain had come around to rob the wind from their sails. Mask stopped swinging his legs and stared down at the ground.

Link massaged his temple. “Can we… can you please come down off the table? I want to talk.”

Mask shook his head sullenly. “Don't wanna.”

Behind them, a pitcher shattered on the ground with a resounding crash, followed by an exchange of colorful swears, and Link flinched. Mask ignored it.

He tried again. “Hey, listen, if this is about trying to make friends—”

“Don't. Want. To.” 

Link rested his head in his hands. This was not a place where he wanted to talk to him. Not when he was so tired. Not when Mask was like this.

Oh, you are going to hate me for this.

Firmly grasping the glass of milk that'd been left between them, Link tilted his head and knocked the rest of it back. It was putrid stuff that lay thick on his tongue, making him wonder how the child could stomach it, but he downed the liquid courage and pushed himself to his feet.

“Mask, we're going outside.”

He was slow to respond, confusion stalling his tongue, and Link made his move. Grabbing the small boy beneath the armpits, he hoisted him off the bar and held him in front of him. Mask let out a startled yelp, thrashing in his grasp and kicking some sorry sod in the rear.

“Lemme go!” Mask howled. Laughter followed them as they made a beeline for the exit, and both their ears burned red.

The moment they were out the door and were hit by cold air, Mask went limp. He dangled in his arms like a doll, and for a moment Link thought there was something horribly wrong.

In their wake, a stream of calls and jeers beckoned their return, condemning them for leaving so soon and spoiling the fun on a night worth indulging in.

“Mask…?” He set him down gently but never truly released his grip, feeling the way he wobbled once his boots hit the cobblestone. “Can you stand?”

“I said lemme go,” he mumbled, much quieter this time. There was a waver in his voice that gave him pause. But he relented, shuffling aside as he did so to clear them from the tavern's swinging doors.

Mask pitched forward, and Link made a grab for him. The boy shook him off with a scowl, finding stability in an iron-wrought railing instead. He didn't try to help again. But he did start to pace, fretting all the while.

“Mask, you're drunk. How did this even happen? Who gave you those drinks?”

“I bought one. Played a song. Next one was free.” His words, normally much sharper, were dulled by the alcohol in his blood. He must've realized as much, too. He didn't try to argue or act defensively. This was just how it was.

“How'd you afford it?” he dared to ask.

Mask sighed, the breath hovering in the air as an icy mist, and his head lolled groggily to the side. “...Played a cheater's game. Used my lens to find the right chest. Easy rupees.”

The unasked question about these mysterious lens notwithstanding, it sounded as if he'd been gambling. So that he could go to the bar.

It occurred to the captain just then that perhaps he should never be trusted to look after children. Or whatever in Hylia's good graces Mask was supposed to be, but it most certainly wasn't an adult.

But it was cold out now. And it was late. And the way that people were looking at them unnerved him to no end. Mask was beginning to shiver in spite of the booze in his system, and Link himself was feeling nauseous. Whatever Mask was trying to gain, it couldn't possibly be this.

Ignoring the chill setting in, Link unraveled the scarf from his shoulders and wrapped it snugly around the smaller boy. Hesitant fingers clutched at the cascading blue fabric, careful not to let it drag on the ground.

He bent down, hands on Mask's narrow shoulders, and spoke with calm, quiet words. “Be honest with me – do you think you can walk?”

Mask avoided his eye, looking anywhere else, before offering a tentative nod. His first step resulted in a stumble, and Link stabilized him with careful hands until the encumbered child could get his bearings. Mask's left hand found its way to his belt, where he gripped it for support, and he leaned into his side.

“Do you want me to carry you?”

A spark of annoyance crossed his face. But when he shook his head no, it was just as hesitant as his last response. He supposed that settled it.

“Why don't we turn in for the night? We have a room waiting for us at the inn.”

They walked in relative silence for a good long stretch, and it was comfortable that way. There was virtue to saying nothing, even if it accomplished little in the end. But to continue that way would be to insist that nothing was wrong. He did not want this sort of ignorant quiet to be normal.

“Frankly speaking, a milk bar wasn't the sort of place I expected to find you,” Link began again, careful to clip the accusation from his tone.

He received a noncommittal grunt in return for his troubles.

“Do you… like drinking?” he asked, pressing a bit harder for anything that might justify a proper response.

Mask rubbed wearily at the side of his face, taking his time to pick through his words. “If it makes me feel like this… then no. Prob’ly not.”

“Then why do it?”

He could tell that this was difficult to answer. Whether it was because his thoughts were cloudy or he was resistant to opening up, he couldn't be sure. But Mask did, eventually, relent. “Was familiar. I wanted the chateau special. Didn't taste right. But it felt right, ‘cause no ones was treating me like I didn't belong there.”

Link sighed through his nose. “So you felt like an adult.”

“I felt accepted .”

The admittance hung heavily between the two, and Link resisted the urge to derive more responses from him. In his current state, intoxicated as he was, it wouldn't be fair to question him further. It would only start to get redundant, and he'd be remorseful if Mask opened up about subjects that he'd rather keep private under normal conditions. This wasn't an interrogation, and he prayed it never came to that.

Mask's vision was swimming by the time Captain was leading him up the short flight of steps into the inn. There was a foul taste in the back of his throat that he felt the need to swallow down, and his movements were far heavier and clumsier than they had any right to be. 

This was nothing like the surge of magic and feeling of relief that was offered to him by a refreshing Romani Chateau. The premium Clock Town beverage had been an asset to his adventure and a weight off his shoulders, there in the disquieting atmosphere of the mostly empty Milk Bar.

He should've known that such a cheap drink would offer nothing but a distraction from his ongoing ailments. No magic, no clarity, no willingness to keep going into the next day. He just felt miserable. Was this normal? Had he been poisoned?

Mask's thoughts drifted blearily to a memory of Romani and Cremia holding one another as the moon fell – a scene that perhaps he wasn't meant to see. It seemed like alcohol's true purpose was only to dull the pain.

He buried his face into the captain's tunic as he opened the door to the building. He could feel the heat in his cheeks, and it was far too warm for his liking.

This couldn't possibly be the feeling that adults chased in those sorts of places. But it had been fun, at least for a while, to forgo his bitterness and indulge in the same things the others did. It was a loud and tumultuous environment, but it blocked out the thoughts that'd been rattling in his skull. Only a dull throb remained.

When the captain finally came to a stop in the open doorway of a new space, Mask lifted his head to look around. The inn room was small and unassuming. But at least a few familiar possessions had already found their way here, and it came as a swift reassurance.

There were two small beds, their thin mattresses made with fresh linens. One was already piled with old quilts and home-knitted blankets that Mask quickly recognized, and he shuffled over to that bed on instinct. He kept one hand on the bed for support, letting go of the captain and inching his way along until he reached the headboard. Behind him, the captain was grabbing a cup from a shelf and filling it with water from his waterskin.

His voice called out from across the room, halting Mask in his tracks. “That's my bed. There's two – you can sleep in the other one just fine, can't you?”

Mask cringed away from the comfortable blankets with a sharp intake of breath. Somehow, something so obvious felt like a punishment right then. But he nodded to show that he understood and turned towards the other bed.

In the process, he grabbed the top layer from Link's blanket pile and dragged it along with. He ignored the sigh his action prompted and sagged into his designated place of rest.

Link set the cup of water on the nightstand between them as Mask burrowed his way deeper into the sheets. The captain's scarf reeked of the streets, but it'd already become interchangeable with the rest of the blankets. He wouldn't be getting it back tonight.

“Make sure you drink all this water, or else you won't feel so good come morning,” Link briskly instructed.

Mask blinked slowly at him from under the bed covers, his lips curling into a frown.

“ Please, Mask. I'll refill it through the night if need be.”

He gave it a few sips. With the residual taste in his mouth from the bar, it wasn't very good. When the captain turned away to undress, Mask set the half-empty cup back down and rolled over to face the wall.

The residual murmurs of tavern banter filled his thoughts as he closed his eyes. In his dreams, he was someone else – someone older – sitting at that bar and playing music for his peers. And that made it just a bit easier to sink into a heavy slumber.

Chapter Text

Mask awoke at some point in the middle of the night, sweat-drenched and parched. It felt as if he'd swallowed the whole of Gerudo Desert, and he foggily recalled the water Captain had left for him. Lantern light seeping in from a break in the curtains illuminated the pewter cup on the bedside table. With movements that still felt frustratingly dull and uncoordinated, he wrapped his little fingers around the cup and drank its contents. He set it down with a clatter and nestled deeper into his blankets with a moan. Sleep claimed him again within seconds.

It was the burning light of dawn that roused him in full. The sun's warm glow ignited a heavy throb in his skull, and he screwed his eyes shut. “Turn it off!” he complained, burrowing his face into the pillow.

A beat of silence. Then, uncertainly, an amused voice. “Turn off… the sun?”

With a growl, Mask patted around the layers of sheets smothering him. Gods, where is it? His hand located a small leather pouch, and some of the fog left his head as he felt the cool surface of his ocarina lying within. His lips were horribly dry as he held up the instrument. He blew a few flat notes into it, parsing through a long list of songs in his head – no, that's Soaring, no that's Storms – before settling on the Sun's Song. He played the first part, only to pause. Should it be the Song of Double Time? I don't actually want to skip the whole day, do I?

A light chuckle sounded from the other side of the room, drawing his attention. “Do you usually start off your day with a song? You must be feeling alright, if that's the case.” He drew the curtain closed to block out the light.

Mask sat up in bed, only to stare hollowly at his ocarina. “I feel like shit.” 

Sympathy flashed in the captain's eyes. He was already dressed and prepared for the day, only missing the telltale scarf that was pinned beneath Mask. “Because you drank too much,” he chastised lightly. “I need to meet with Impa and run an errand, but after that we should have the day off. Why not take the time to rehydrate and get ready? When I get back, we could look around town – together, this time.”

Mask sighed and slipped his ocarina back into its bag. It looked like he was going through with this day after all. The captain didn't get very many days to himself – not that today would be much different, with him around.

Link left, taking the room key with him and informing Mask not to lock himself out, and he was alone.

Mask took his time getting up, until he could tolerate being in bed no longer. When he reached over, he found that his cup had been refilled and dutifully chugged it. There were some crackers left for him, and he munched on them while getting ready. Slowly, his head began to wake up, and he dug his fingers into his aching skull as nausea welled within him.

Mm… gotta pee…

Mask dragged himself out of the room and stumbled his way down the steps. A trip to the outhouse cleared his head a bit more, and returning to the bedroom had him getting a better grasp on reality. The cold morning air left goosebumps on his skin, and he felt more aware than before, even if his head still ached something wicked. There'd be no point returning to bed after this, tempting though it was to forego the whole day.

Upon reaching the stairwell's landing, the rattle of a doorknob demanded his attention. He looked up sharply to find a dark-clad figure standing in front of the door to their room, 

Alarm bells tolled in his muddled mind, and he chased the last dredges of fog from his thoughts. “ Hey! Whaddaya think yer—?”

The person turned and fled down the hallway, and Mask gave chase. When he turned the corner, the mysterious figure was already gone. But a looming dread remained, settling heavily on his shoulders.

Mask stepped back, lingering a moment longer in the hallway, before slipping back into the supposed safety of the bedroom and locking the door behind him. He searched around, finding nothing amiss, but still couldn't shake a feeling of wrongness permeating what'd previously been a place of security.

In the end, he quietly tucked the information away for later and focused on getting ready as Captain had suggested. Whatever that was would surely come back later. And when that happened, he'd be ready.

By the time Link returned to the room, the sun was pushing towards the highest point in the sky and Mask had found himself exceedingly restless.

“ There you are,” he complained, arms planted firmly on his hips. He was just glad it was actually him coming in through the door. Mask had been ready to draw his sword.

Captain gave him a tired smile. The day had only just begun for Mask, and this hero already appeared worn out again. “I figured you'd want the morning to sleep in.”

“Well, you figured wrong,” Mask sniffed. He edged his way past Link and glanced warily into the hallway, suspicion prickling along his spine. Behind him, the captain finally recovered his blue scarf from the throes of Mask's bed and wrapped it securely around his neck.

“In that case, why don't we peruse the stalls in town? Perhaps something will catch your eye.”

Mask hesitated. The town center was sure to be crowded by now, with both villagers and soldiers to fill the streets. Between getting laughed out of the tavern last night and having someone creeping outside their door, he wasn't sure he wanted to be in highly populated places right now. But he couldn't stay penned in this place, either. He'd be a sitting cucco. 

“My head still hurts,” he said, not entirely untrue. “Can we go somewhere quiet?”

Link considered that for a moment as he adjusted his uniform in little, tedious ways. Then his eyes lit up, and he couldn't keep the note of excitement from his tone. “Oh! There's a small library in town I've been wanting to check out. Is that something you'd be interested in?”

Mask looked up at him with wide eyes. He'd seen a few book stalls before, and on one occasion Zelda had let him into Hyrule Castle's dedicated library. But that wasn't a place where he could linger for long, and he was a slow reader. There was also the odd library in the Oceanside Spider House, although those books had been illegible, for better or worse.

But he did like books, and the thought of going to a library caught his interest.

He gave a slow nod. “Y…yes, I think I'd like that,” he confessed.

At the very least, it seemed like a secure place away from the room.

Link guided him through the town's narrow streets, choosing a path that was a bit longer to avoid those that were more heavily traveled. His hand would stray towards Mask from time to time, and it was clear that he was keeping an eye on him. Mask could hardly blame him.

Along the way, the cobbled streets opened up into a small courtyard with low, mossy walls and overgrown hedges lined with frost. Mask's eyes followed a short set of cold stone stairs that led up to a small church. He came to a stop in the middle of the courtyard and stared up at the dull gray walls of a small cathedral. Sunlight filtered down between the walls of the surrounding buildings, glancing off a bronze bell situated in the steeple. The stained glass windows were dark in this quiet corner of town. There was a faded symbol of a winged figure situated over the heavy wooden door; even with the lack of detail, he thought her to be frowning down at him.

He'd been stalled long enough for the captain to take notice, and he doubled back to his side to see what he saw.

“Do you pray to Hylia?” the hero asked, noting the winged figure.

Mask turned away. “No. I don't suppose I do.”

He walked out of the courtyard without another word, and Link dutifully took the lead again. Her eyes bored into the back of his skull.

He wondered if She knew of all that'd transpired in Termina, or if that was only a designation for the other deity hovering over his shoulder since the end of that journey.

Considering where he'd ended up, he could not tell if he was wanted by either.

Before long, they came to a stop in front of a much more modest building that instilled him with a greater sense of relief. This part of town wasn't particularly busy, with most people still out shopping for the day, and the shaded awnings beckoned him.

They entered into a warmly lit space filled wall to wall with shelves of books. It was much smaller than the castle one he'd seen only once before, but his eyes lit up all the same. He tipped his head up to stare at the higher shelves and began to wander aimlessly through the maze set before him, taking in the sights and smells.

Link smiled at his back, following behind him for once. “Do you have a favorite genre?” he prompted.

Mask blinked owlishly, realizing he had yet to actually pick up a book. “Umm…” His hand drifted instinctively towards an aged book with intricate golden filigree along its spine. He looked over the nondescript cover, puzzling out the title on the front. 

He stared.

And he stared.

The letters jumbled in his head. They looked just a bit off: familiar enough that he could almost sound it out, but nonsensical enough that nothing could be gleaned from it.

Mask opened the book anyway, flipping to a random page and skimming through the paragraphs.

More gibberish.

The words blended together wrong, no matter how long he tried to read the letters.

Link glanced over his shoulder, casting a shadow over the page. “ Zora Waterways: From Oceans to Rivers. Do you like to learn about the world? You're quite well-traveled, aren't you?”

Mask wilted. That did seem like something worth reading, but… “I can't read it.” His ears burned in embarrassment, and his head shrank into his shoulders as he closed the book and put it back onto the shelf.

The captain didn't act surprised. “That one might've been a bit technical. Why don't we try the…” He paused, choosing his words. “The young reader section?”

Mask grimaced. He could just call it the kid's section – it was hardly a secret. But he nodded anyway, still while trying to make sense of those words.

A hand on his shoulder guided him to a corner of the small building, where the books were thinner and more cheaply printed with the likes of poems and common folk-tales. He pulled another one from the shelf, this one with a little illustration of a decorated white fish on the cover, and opened it up. Once again, Mask stared dumbly at the words, waiting for it to click. Building frustration made his hands begin to shake, and his hold of the pages caused the paper to crinkle.

“Hey,” Link scolded. “You have to treat the books gently, or else you can't read them.”

Mask slammed the little book shut and shoved it into the soldier's hands. “I can't read it anyway!” he hissed, struggling to keep his voice quiet in the public reading space. “Is this shit even Hylian?!”

He resented the pitiable expression that Link gave him. “So you can't read.”

“I can! ” Mask insisted, his words bordering on pleading so that he might understand. “Saria taught me, and I know it wasn't wrong!”

Link hushed him gently, asking that he calm down before his frustrations could build themselves further. “I believe you, it's alright. Why don't we sit down at a table with a quill and paper? I haven't actually seen you write yet.”

Mask took a deep breath to settle his frayed nerves and dipped his head stiffly in agreement. The captain went to find some utensils at the front desk while Mask sulked at the nearest table. He ran the alphabet through his head, trying to remember what it was supposed to look like and second-guessing himself all the while.

When Captain returned, he placed a second chair right next to him and sat down. They shared an inkwell between them, and he situated a quill and paper in front of him. “Alright, let's start off easy: how do you write your name? We're both Link, after all.”

Mask nodded – it was easy. He picked up the quill in his left hand and wrote his name out, exactly how Saria had shown him years ago when he'd been writing out the sign for his home.

When he was done, he glanced over at the captain's own paper.

It didn't match.

Mask's ears drooped in dismay. “But this is how I spell it…”

Captain considered that, a hand held to his chin. “It's possible… that the hylian script has changed quite a bit from your time. Perhaps the royal records would have literature from your era, but not a place like this.” He sighed through his nose, and Mask let his head drop onto his crossed arms on the table in defeat. If that were the case, then there was nothing he could do about it. He wasn't all that literate to begin with, anyway. Maybe skills beyond swordplay and magic were wasted on him in the first place.

“I suppose I'll just have to teach you myself,” Link said, resigning himself to the task.

Mask closed his eyes. “You're fibbin’. No point teaching me. ‘S not like I'll be stuck in this era forever.”

The tip of a quill feather tickled his nose, and he screwed his face up. “Come now, you said yourself that you enjoy reading, and I will not deprive a child that opportunity.”

Mask lifted his head back up. He didn't argue the slight against his age, even if it still stung. He picked up his quill again.

“Besides,” Link went on, jotting down a list of letters, “It doesn't matter how long you'll be here, if even a bit of extra know-how can come in handy.” He turned the page to Mask. “Does any of this look familiar?”

Mask squinted at it for a prolonged moment before looking away, unable to answer.

It was a non-issue to Link, who wasted no time in introducing him the alphabet that was used in this era. Why it had to change so much in the first place, Mask couldn't be sure. But it wasn't as if it was a foreign concept to pick up on what letters made which sounds. It made enough sense with just a bit of sounding out, and he set to work copying the new alphabet on his paper to better familiarize himself with it.

He was maybe halfway through when the captain's voice stopped him. “You have to raise your hand off the paper, otherwise you'll just smudge the ink.”

Mask lifted his hand up, realizing too late that the bottom of his rested palm was already smeared black. Likewise, the letters he'd painstakingly drawn out were illegible blotches on the parchment. He groaned in frustration, dropping the quill and leaning back in his chair. “I don't like this. How come the letters always go left-to-right?” He closed his eyes with a pensive sigh. “Perhaps I'm just not one for writing.” And he hated to confess that, because people had taught him how to do this already. He wanted to hold onto those old lessons as best he could, rather than potentially squander the times others had taken to try and educate him. But getting thrown into a new era where the writing was just different enough to appear entirely foreign to him was maddening. Another instance of thinking he was finally getting somewhere with his prior trials only to have that meager confidence ripped from him.

“I didn't take you for one who gave up,” the captain said, delivering a pointed blow to his pride. Mask's stomach twisted sharply, and he swallowed thickly as the older hero went on, oblivious to the pain he'd just dealt. “It's not that big of a deal – most people are right-handed, so to them, writing that direction is more natural.” He nudged Mask softly in the side with a lopsided smile. “People like you and me just have to do things a little different sometimes. And there's nothing wrong with that, even if it makes those things harder in the end. Could you please pick up the quill again? Let's try it from the top.”

Mask gave a tiny nod and tried again.

Link offered him a handkerchief to clean his hand and continued as he had before. 

There was something oddly relaxing and normal about teaching the small boy, though he would never confess that. Clearly he was struggling – not so much with the letters, but with the monumental task of learning this all over again. But Link was patient, and Mask was a good student. 

It reminded him of his own schooling, and how diligent his older sister had been in making sure his ink strokes were neat and orderly. Despite a lack of proper education brought on by their low social standing, she'd spent as much of her time as possible ensuring that he was well-learned. That way, he would maybe stand a better chance at rising up the ranks when he enrolled as a soldier.

It'd hardly mattered in the end, once Princess Zelda's prophetic dream had marked him for greatness and hardship. But he also couldn't fathom fulfilling his current role without his sister's strict teachings, predestined or not.

The least he could do was pass that same gift of learning onto another, regardless of how long it took. He hardly had the time to spare in the midst of war, but he would at least make every second count. It wasn't as if the small hero had asked for any of this.

He opened up the small book Mask had selected – The Ballad of the Wind Fish, an old classic. Recognition flashed in Mask's eyes when Link read the title aloud, but he seemed clueless about the actual story itself.

“I know a song for it,” he murmured hesitantly. “If there were musical notes, I could read that. Music doesn't change…” He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Music doesn't change, right?”

Link chuckled at that. “The words for notes and scales might differ across languages, but I suppose sheet music stays mostly the same. Is this a song you'd like to play?”

Mask pressed his lips into a thin line, thinking hard before shaking his head ruefully. “Can't. Don't have all the instruments for it anymore.”

Link raised a brow at that. “You can play more than the ocarina? That's impressive.”

“I play whatever is needed in order to move forward. Don't read into it too much. It's just…” Mask stared down at his hands. “Second nature. None of those instruments were ever truly mine. It's all borrowed.”

Link ignored the little voice in the back of his head that warned him of that which went unspoken. Beneath his cap, Proxi shifted uneasily, eliciting a muffled jingle. It was so slight a noise, and yet it was enough to break Mask from his stupor. His attention shifted back to him.

“You still with us?” Link asked with a forced chuckle. 

A quiet nod answered him.

Link opened up the book between the two of them, moving the ink and utensils aside for now. Mask clutched his carefully scrawled letters close to his chest, incessantly glancing between the pages and his notes as if desperate to decipher it. His impromptu teacher placed his finger at the start of the text. “Here, I'll read this out for you, and you can follow along. Once you get more familiar with this syllabus, you can try it for yourself. Ready?”

Another nod, more enthusiastic this time. Mask's eyes were wide with a keen interest, and he scooted his chair in closer to see every word.

Link began to read to him, there in that little corner of the dusty library. Nobody bothered them, and for that he was grateful. The words were familiar and comforting as they left his mouth, regaling the old legend of a slumbering spirit and the monsters invading its dreams. For a brief while, he was not a captain in charge of so many lives, and that brought a sense of peace he hadn't felt since being named the Hero.

Chapter Text

Link decided he was most certainly done for the day when he finally laid his head down to rest. His silk pajamas were cool against his skin, while his mound of blankets blocked out the edge of chill threatening to creep into the room through the windowpane like an unwelcome guest. A book from the library rested loosely in his hands as he glanced more than read through the candlelit words. Already, his tired mind was beginning to drift, and he reasoned that it was fine if this marked the end of the night.

The day as it stood had been long, as each one before it had been. His mind was more weary than his limbs, and he hoped that meant more peaceful slumber. They only had so much time left before they'd need to leave, and he wanted to embrace these periods of rest as much as possible before returning to the warpath.

He didn't think Mask had such thoughts rolling around in his head. It was all the same to someone who followed their trail in perpetual uncertainty, never quite knowing what the next day might bring. But Link had at least hoped that the day's events would tucker him out and settle whatever thoughts did keep him up at night.

Evidently not this evening.

Link closed his book and looked over at the adjacent bed. They'd already settled down for the night some time ago, and he would've expected the small boy to be snug beneath the blankets – there were some days where it felt impossible to rouse him from his slumber.

And yet, for whatever reason, tonight was different.

Link held a hand to his mouth and yawned. Then he watched Mask's jaw tremble as he stifled one of his own. He must surely be tired. But the small hero was obviously guarded, perched as he was at the foot of his bed. His eyes were locked expectantly on the bedroom door, and his sword rested at his side within easy reach. 

“Will you be going to bed soon?” Link prompted.

Mask's eyes slid begrudgingly away from the door and settled on him. He was surprised by the iciness found in his intense blue gaze. “Not yet.”

He'd been about ready to blow out the candle, but the response gave him pause. “Mask, is something wrong? You can tell me if there is.”

He was quiet for too long a time, leading Link to decide that there must be a problem, and he was just deciding if he was going to share it or not.

“Tell me, Link: who do we fight?”

Link startled at the tone – it wasn't often that the small hero called him by name, since he could never bring himself to do the same in the off-chance that it gave away his true connection as a hero from another time. 

But he answered, albeit a second later than he would've liked. “Monsters, of course. Who else would it be?”

There was a calculating aspect to Mask that left him unnerved, and yet he couldn't fathom where this feeling came from. The child was calm right now. Even in the midst of a bout of anger, he never got an impression of harmful intent. The same was true here, but there was a nagging idea that he'd not yet seen what Mask was truly capable of. He prayed to Hylia he didn't have to – that his own ability would be enough to safeguard them on this newest “adventure” for the boy.

Mask considered his answer for a few seconds more before rebuking instead with another question. “Would you raise your blade against fellow man?”

“I see no reason why I would have to,” the captain bit back, unable to suppress the sharpness in his tone. “We have good people on our side. We are all united against this threat.” Is what he said. But Impa had warned him only this morning that they cannot afford to remain in this village much longer. They were overstaying their welcome in a small village that could not host so many. Being united was an obligation, not an act of kindness.

“And you trust them?” Mask pressed with an insistence that wasn't entirely unfounded.

Link pushed himself up from his mattress, figuring this would be more than a brief exchange of words before bed. “Mask, these people are brothers and sisters to me. I would never deem it fit to harm them, if that's what you're wondering.”

He didn't actually believe that his fellow warriors were like kin to him just yet, but it was conviction that mattered in the end. So long as he was responsible for leading them, he would ensure their well-being as best he could. Every life mattered when faced with the threat of darkness.

“What about…” Hesitation stilled the boy's tongue, and he noted the nervousness with which he chewed his bottom lip. Link nodded encouragingly, motioning with his hand for Mask to go on, and he relented. “What about the gerudo? Do we still fight them?”

The question creased Link's brow, and he frowned sternly. “The gerudo warriors are our allies. We're sending units to aid them with the monster outbreaks.”

Mask's eyes stretched wide in shock. “Allies? Since when?”

“Since—” Linked paused, searching his thoughts for old history lessons. This wasn't a new development with the desert people, but he was vaguely aware of tense relations in the past. Oh, Nayru above, when was it…? “Since the… um, you know, the Shadow Invasion, or something. The gerudo emerged from hiding some time after an evil king was evicted from the throne.” Mask only continued to stare, until he shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat to clarify. “It's… well, that history is rather old, now – a few centuries gone, I believe. I'm not sure how it'd align with the events you're aware of in your own time, though.”

Mask gave his head a shake, as if to rid himself of some damning thought. “No, I understand. It's beyond my time. I just…” Guilt flashed across his face. “It would've been nice to be better friends with them. For a while…”

Link was perturbed by the expression. It was not something he wore often, and sympathy settled within him in response. “I take it you've fought them before?”

Mask tugged shyly at his blankets, no doubt thinking back on past encounters. “Y…yes. Quite a few times, in fact. I never wanted to fight them, but I had little other choice.” He sighed, and it was a breath so heavy that Link could feel it weigh upon his own shoulders as well. He wondered if there was anything he could do to lessen the burden. “Do you think bad of me now, knowing that I once had to fight your current allies? And might still have to when I go back to my era?”

Link suppressed a wince. “Times are different now. It's fine to fight back – to defend yourself and your kingdom during periods of unrest. I could never fault you for that.” Even still, his eyes drifted towards Mask's hand, and the way it hovered so close to his sword. His words were not emptily spoken, and yet he could not contain his doubts. On but two occasions, he'd caught the child sparring against fully grown soldiers; he fought with such careful and concise bitterness, as if his very life depended on winning.

“Have you…” He paused, wondering for the first time if he wanted this answer. And spoke anyway, pushing past the sickness permeating his mind. “Have you ever had to kill another man?”

Mask seemed to ponder that. Like, seriously ponder the question that'd been put forth so boldly. So easily, as if this was such a natural progression of this nauseating conversation.

“I never killed any gerudo, if that's what you're asking – just beat them in matches or hit them with arrows.” Even still, Link grimaced at the thought. Mask either didn't notice or didn't care about his apprehension, and went on undaunted. “I did defeat… a lot of things that used to be human: redead and gibdo and… and maybe some things that didn't resemble humans at all.”

Link nodded along, biting his tongue on any comment that might be misconstrued. There'd been a few encounters with undead monsters, and they struck fear into the hearts of normal soldiers. He'd usually be the one to deal with them, a decision that he abhorred despite its necessity. “Is that all?”

“There was this thief I would run into every cycle. He'd rob the bombs from the old lady, and I'd stop him,” Mask went on, idly picking at a hangnail. “I shot him with my bow once, and he blew up. No more thief. I did that a few times, actually, finding different ways to stop him.” He glanced up at Link, the corners of his mouth pulling into a frown. “What's that face for?”

“You killed him!” Link balked, unable to hold back the accusation. His guts were churning.

Mask scowled. “It didn't matter! He'd come back in the end – just reset things and it's fine. I didn't kill him on the final cycle, so—” He stopped. Held a hand to his mouth and turned his head away. “Fuck, did I?” An uncomfortable silence stretched between them where Link felt horror crawl its way up his throat. Then Mask recovered just as swiftly. “No. No, I needed him alive for—” Irritation flashed across his face, and he pivoted away from the subject. “Anyway, that's not the point.”

Link dropped his head into his hands. He was so naive, in hindsight, when he'd first found the boy wandering through camp and mistaken him for something defenseless and scared. “Mask, please, could you bend an ear to me?” He looked up again, and Mask was staring. Waiting. Willing to listen. “I don't want to see you harm another person,” Link confided, desperation creeping into his voice. It was a hope as much as it was an order. He felt guilty enough as it was having someone so small and youthful firing arrows at the monsters that neared them during their march here. At the same time, he could not be entirely sure that Mask possessed anymore of the innocence of childhood, and that thought brought him unfathomable grief. Even still, he had to try. There was always something or someone worth protecting. “And I most certainly don't want to see you get caught up in the worst that this war might still have to offer. It's only just begun, and we know so little of what's to come.”

“I already know war,” Mask said. It was a damnation unto itself that robbed the breath from Link's lungs. From the green cap on the bedside table, Proxi chimed sadly.

“But you're so young, ” Link protested weakly.

“That's not true. You know that's not true. Otherwise, could I not say the same for you?” The small boy sighed and rested his chin in his hand, slouching forward on the bed. “I've seen your type before. I've watched devout soldiers bleed out in the back allies of Castle Town, struck down by their own. I put to rest a duty-obsessed captain that couldn't accept the fact that their war was over. I watched them fight over ruins and bitterly protect nothing, in an age where all they had left to hold onto were their orders. Will that be you someday?”

Link gripped the edge of the bed. “It won't have to be so long as I can bring peace to my kingdom!” he argued, becoming heated. Frustration burned beneath his skin – not for the expectation placed upon him as a soldier fated for ruin, but for how easily Mask could talk of such horrible things. Even deeper beneath that was something else. Something primal and ageless: fear. “ You shouldn't be in these positions, either! It's the adults in your life that are meant to shield the next generation. Why do you know these things? How can you be so familiar with bloodshed and the ailings of war, yet cry at the loss of a cow?”

Pain flashed across Mask's face, and the child quickly switched his gaze back to the floor. The sword at his side was slowly dragged into his lap, and he curled in on himself with an unreadable expression.

Proxi stared judgmentally at Link. She'd already expressed to him that if he said something upsetting to Mask, that it was his responsibility to make amends. She couldn't excuse the words he said in private forever, even if she'd sworn to be his voice for stressful public affairs that never failed to tie his tongue.

Link rubbed ruefully at the back of his head. “Mask, I‐I'm sorry, that came out wrong…”

“But it's what you truly think, isn't it?” Mask whispered. In the quiet of the small room, it was the only noise worth hearing.

Link nodded shamefully as he struggled to find better words to say.

“No, that's fine. You're right – it doesn't make sense,” Mask confessed. His hand worried the pommel of his kokiri sword. “But it's been enough years. I don't know how to grieve what was lost – I just knew that things would be different, after I was told that I wasn't what I thought I was…” His words drifted off uncertainly, and he was clearly thinking hard about his next words. Link had found that usually remaining silent was the best way to encourage him to keep going. That was true in this instance, as well. Although Mask hardly talked much to others, he could not stand the silence.

“I was nine when I found out what war was, and that it was the reason for being where I was. My father was a knight who gave his life in the Hyrulean Civil War, and my mother died when she fled to the forest with me,” he explained evenly. There was no grief in his voice. Too young to remember them, then. Link clutched his blankets a bit tighter around him, and it made him feel just a bit childish. He was the sort who held tight to old familial bonds, despite how distant some of them were by now. If he focused hard enough, he could still smell his grandma's perfume on the hand-stitched quilt. If he sorted far enough through his childhood memories, he could just make out the blurry features of a smiling face and warm, calloused hands on his shoulders. His father had smiled down on him, eyes crinkling at the corners, and promised to be back from his duties as a royal knight. He had lied.

Link was snapped back to reality as Mask went on. “Everyone I met in Castle Town acted like that war was over, but there was still deceit and treachery that was taken advantage of. I know of war because it never went away – I don't mean to be apathetic. But losing someone is a feeling that you can never get used to.” His eyes flicked back up, startling Link in its intensity. “Does that make sense?”

Link nodded solemnly. It felt as though he were the child being talked to about the world. It was so backwards, and yet there was something so oddly validating about having someone like Mask open up about his experiences with this battle-torn world. Like… like he wasn't alone in the misery and hardship. And what a horrible thing to think, that maybe he was better off having another hero around who understood these ordeals before he'd even seen the worst of them. Shouldn't he be the one to reassure and comfort someone who was so clearly lost in this familiar setting?

Link would freely admit that he wasn't good with such things. Because he was still new to these roles. To being a leader and captain and hero for others to rely on. But he had to do better for the people he cared about. And that included Mask, so that maybe his circumstances wouldn't have to be so cruel.

“Mask… Link. ” The boy jolted to attention. There was no point using his pseudonym when he wanted to talk to the boy, not the hero. It was just the two of them here. “I don't want you to feel the burdens of this adventure. I'm the one who needs to take responsibility for the things that happen. This isn't me pulling rank or age or anything – but if there's anything I can do to… to protect you, and do for you what others in your life couldn't do during your own adventures, then I will. So… so please, if any troubles come your way, will you confide in me? If you find that you need help, can you approach me?”

Mask stared at him for a long moment, his thoughts churning. Worry creased his brow, and try as he might to avoid the captain's gaze, he couldn't turn away. Until, finally, he offered up a small nod.

“I will try.”

Link felt relief flow through him, meager though it was. “You're a good k—ah, person, I mean. Don't ever forget that.”

“And good people don't hurt others, right?” he asked quietly.

During such violent times, it'd be a most fragile blessing if he could keep someone like Mask on the right track. Too many stories about heroes ended in tragedy and loneliness, and Mask deserved so much better than what he'd been dealt.

“Right. Let me handle the bad guys, and everything will be okay. You've already done a lot for your age.” Link settled back down, tugging his blankets snugly over him. The newest revelations still weighed heavy in his conscience, but even that was being overruled by his tire. “Will you be sleeping tonight?”

It was a simple enough question, or so he thought, when compared to other asks that'd been answered this evening.

“Dunno. I'm thinking right now.”

Link exhaled through his nose and leaned across his pillow. “Don't think too hard, now. Tomorrow's another day.” And with that, he blew out the candle, plunging the room in comfortable darkness. Briefly, he saw Proxi's blue glow from inside his hat, before that, too, dimmed beneath the fabric.

This was a lot for one day. Even after learning so much about the hero that'd come before him, it seemed as though he hardly knew him at all. But that didn't change the way he felt about the small boy.

He was a good kid.

Mask listened to the way that Link's breaths slowed into light snores. It wasn't like him to drift off so peacefully. He probably felt safe here – or maybe he was just that tired.

All the while, Mask kept his eyes glued to the door and ears trained for signs of intrusion. He regretted to think that, despite the captain's words and display of will, he wouldn't be able to uphold the flimsily made promise. He just didn't think that such a thought would make his chest ache this way.

Mask waited. Very patiently. While sitting on the edge of his bed with his sword held close.

Then, with utmost caution, he slid off the mattress and toed the cold ground with bare feet. His breath was stalled in his throat as he crept along the floor and made his way past the captain's slumbering form.

He knew a thing or two about being quiet – sneaking past castle guards and deku scrubs had taught him as much. And growing up with the kokiri had instilled in him a light-footedness that he was quick to use to his advantage.

He felt a stab of guilt as he unlocked the door and slipped out, but there was nothing else he could do to ensure their safety. He had to see for himself if there were enemies closing in on them, or else he would never be able to sleep.

The hallway was predictably dark, without windows to shine in the light from street lamps. He closed the door behind him, holding his breath as it clicked shut and leaving it unlocked. Once his eyes adjusted, he crept his way through the empty hallway, turning the corner towards the staircase that led down to the main floor.

There was nobody else around.

His hand drifted to the pouch he kept forever on his person, inside which were his most valued possessions. His boomerang and slingshot, his ocarinas, one of which his heart ached to play, and his masks. Only one of them still hummed with magic – the sort of magic that made his skin prickle uncomfortably and whispered ancient rites to him. He kept it within easy reach, despite the warnings in his mind telling him to push it to the bottom of his bag and pray to Hylia that it did not see the light of day. Those thoughts were ignored.

Mask stood guard like this, eying the stairwell for shadows, for sixteen minutes. His nerves itched with unrest while his thoughts burned endlessly, wondering when something would happen.

Maybe nothing would happen. But he had to be sure. Because there was no rewinding time if something went wrong. That was how it was meant to be.

A hand snaked its way across his mouth, stifling a yelp, and Mask was pulled back from the stairwell.

He kicked and squirmed as strong arms pulled him into a tight embrace, only to go rigid as a cold edge was pressed to his throat.

He hadn't heard anyone. Who was this, that they could creep up on him so easily? Only the sheikah could do that, as far as he was concerned.

“You're the captain's lap dog, eh? Thinkin’ if you bark loud enough, he'll come runnin’?” The man purred in his ear, hot breath stirring the hair on his head. Too close for his liking. Too close for anyone.

A cold anger brewed within him.

He glared daggers at the face in the corner of his vision; he was shadowed by a hood, but was most certainly a hylian man.

“Can't have you snoopin’, kid. Sorry, orders are orders, and I can't let some brat muck it up. But if'n I let you go, they'll hear it all the way back to the damn castle, huh? It's nothin’ personal…”

Oddly enough, he didn't feel threatened. The threat was there, surely, but it paled in comparison to past dangers.

Mask bit down on the hand covering his mouth. Hard. He tasted blood on his tongue.

The man loosened his hold and stifled a curse. The knife drew a line across Mask's collarbone as he twisted out of the hold, and his hand reached for his sword.

He could cry out. He could awaken the captain and draw him out into the worst this world had to offer – a world of treachery and deceit. But he did not want to do that just yet, if it could be helped.

He could handle this.

Good people don't hurt others.

Despite everything, Mask hesitated.

There was murder in the man's eyes. This was a person trained to kill – not some mindless monster. But it was still a person. A swift lunge grabbed Mask's sword hand, keeping his blade sheathed, while the man's other hand raised his knife.

Then I'll be somebody else.

Mask reached into his bag. His fingers brushed cold painted wood, and he suppressed a shudder as he selected the mask from his possessions. 

A memory came to mind, one where time stood still and synthetic sunlight kissed his skin. In a vast field of green, he stared down at a lonely child sitting in the shadow of a tree.

Let's play good guys against bad guys…

Yes. Let's play that.

Are you ready?

The small hero held the mask to his face. A disorienting magic of dubious origin seared his skin and swallowed him whole. His limbs strained and cracked, growing longer, and his vision flashed white as he welcomed the dormant spirit into his body, to house as a vessel of destruction. It was still his mind and his decisions that moved each limb with surety and strength. But the insatiable bloodlust was unbecoming of him, and suppressed memories lingered in the back of his mind like unsung hymns for a demon he did not understand.

But even that, he could accept.

The man stumbled back as the Hero outgrew his restraints and took a step forward. He opened his mouth as if to scream, and Mask lurched forward in one swift movement to grab his face and smother the sound. The assassin threw up his knife hand, and Mask moved faster. He clutched the traitor's wrist, watched it shake, and tightened his hold until the knife clattered to the floor. He felt bone snap beneath his fingers, as fragile as a deku stick, and a whimper was muffled into his palm.

What was he supposed to do with this man? If he let him go, then he'd raise the alarm to whoever else was plotting the captain's downfall from the shadows. But he did not want to bring this burden to the captain's attention, either. How would he explain that there were people who sought to hurt him despite every sacrifice he'd have to make as the newly appointed hero?

Mask made up his mind, as he stared into the man's face and saw fear. He hoped that Link would never look at him with the same expression. 

Briefly, he felt shame course through him, only to push it away. He hadn't tried at all.

I'm sorry, Captain. I must not be a very good person.

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.

Chapter Text

It was nature's will that the clouds would darken by the time the Hyrulean forces were ready to depart. They left through the front gate in a long line of wagons and foot-soldiers, with Captain Link and General Impa leading the front as expected. It was a quiet affair, the clop of hooves and march of boots muffled by a veil of fog that lay low to the muddied earth.

Their stay in the village, a mere two days, had been enough to replenish rations and supplies while lifting the morale of their troops. But as they left behind the reprieve from travel and battle, they were all promptly reminded of the trials that awaited them.

Link had explained the situation to Mask as best he could, with only a few omitted details. They'd meant to stay another day, but the large congregation of soldiers had inadvertently placed a target on the town. Monsters that'd never bothered the townsfolk before had become more aggressive, destroying crops and coming closer to the gates than ever. The townsfolk had been fearful of the little town coming under siege. After all, it was them that drew the monsters’ attention – the knights blessed by the crown and bloodstained by the foes they'd conquered already.

Link couldn't blame them for wanting to distance themselves from a bitter war. In the end, they'd made good use of the town's resources, and that was all they'd really needed.

Behind a thick layer of cloud, the sun must've already passed its zenith by now. It took a lot to mobilize so many people at once, and with the day already halfway over, they might be expected to march into darkness to cover enough ground away from civilization. They weren't here to cause trouble, and they couldn't afford to have neighboring areas be impacted by this crusade.

Link ran his hand anxiously down the side of Epona's neck, pausing only to fiddle with the little tangles found in her mane. Lagging just a bit behind them, Mask rode atop his own Epona, swaying ever so slightly.

He had asked the boy if he'd be more comfortable riding in a wagon for the day. Mask had responded rudely, and yet it'd lacked his usual bite. That, too, concerned him. For what point was there to exhaust himself so, before they'd even stepped foot out of safety? As a hero, it might've felt like a meaningful sacrifice, if he truly believed his antsy behavior was within reason. As a casualty caught up in the tidings of war, it was an admission of fault on his part. Every time the boy slips from his sight, he returns with heavier bags around his eyes and heavier burdens on his shoulders, the source of which he hasn't yet ascertained.

Link considered small talk, of which neither of them enjoy, and swiftly rejected the idea within the same brevity.

But Mask was nodding off not two miles into their journey, and he'd be in a fouler mood still were he to slip from the filly's recently fitted saddle.

“I don't suppose you have any songs for staying awake?” Link tried, going with what was easiest. The subject of music was common between them, as it seemed to be the one thing Mask could always carry with him no matter what losses befell him. Link himself couldn't play, but the small hero's ocarina was a beautiful instrument, and his songs ranged from delightfully upbeat to soul-wrenchingly serene.

“I think I'd rather play a lullaby,” Mask bemoaned, slouching over the little Epona's neck. “I used to have a mask for staying awake. Dreadful thing. Probably belonged to the royal torture dungeon.”

Link creased his brow in concern, but turned the corners of his mouth into a smile all the same. “I don't think we have those,” he patiently explained. “Our fight is just with monsters, and they don't have much to say.”

Mask's face soured. “Says you. You just haven't seen Hyrule’s bloody secrets. Doesn't mean they're not there.”

Link pursed his lips, failing to come up with a proper response. The young hero always had something unnerving to say, and all it did was worsen the worries instilled within him.

An iciness crept its way along his spine, and when the captain turned to look ahead of him, it was to find Impa glaring back at them disapprovingly. He wasn't certain what'd drawn her ire, but perhaps talk of dungeons and secrets was inappropriate travel banter.

“Right…” Link mumbled, resigning himself to silence once more. Perhaps… another time, then. There was so much he wished to talk to Mask about, but the subject matter might be more fitting in private. And it seemed he could hardly find Mask in a good state for the sorts of things he wished to discuss. Last night had been… eye-opening, for lack of a better word. He'd asked and been answered forthright; he couldn't regret what he'd learned.

There were times when he wanted to inquire for the other hero's insight, so that he might better understand what trials awaited them. But that would serve to further distance Mask from his youth, and he couldn't ask that of him.

Link wanted to see Mask acting his age… whatever that might be. No matter how much he strove to take on the role of an adult, Link wished only to see more of his childish ways. Those little moments when he kicked his feet when sitting on seats too big, or how he lit up when presented with something sweet. Watching how he pet every horse and paraded with every dog in the streets of town. The way he snuggled up in bed and tried to steal his blankets and Link just couldn't help but brush the bangs from his sleeping face the way his grandmother used to when he'd been a child so young himself. It was the only time where Mask couldn't fully hide the truth of his youth from the world, there in the private of the nighttime bedroom, away from prying eyes.

It was probably too late now, with the village far behind them, but maybe Link could find him a gift. Not a bow or knife or shield, but something that's usefulness wasn't integral to its worth on the battlefield. It could just be something small that children enjoyed, like a toy or a flute or a mask.

Link's thoughts began to drift. No. Not a mask. But he likes soft things. Perhaps he'd enjoy a stuffed animal…? He muffled a chuckle into his hand at the thought of Mask running around with a plush toy.

“What's so funny?” Mask grumbled, peering his way with slitted eyes.

“Nothing,” Link assured easily. “I suppose you could say I'm just being optimistic.” 

“What for? Can't say I'm excited much for riding the rest of the day.”

“But there'll still be a warm bed in store for us by the time we call for a stop,” Link reminded, straightening in his saddle. “And soft blankets and peaceful sleep…”

“I get it,” Mask snipped irritably, stifling a yawn. “‘M not sleepin’ in the wagon. You need me out here, up front with you.”

Link felt his light teasing die on his tongue. By now, he knew better than to brush aside the young hero's words. Too often, he knew so much more than he let on.

“And why would that be? All is calm right now.”

Mask looked away from him, a crease forming in his brow, and stared ahead with a stony gaze. “There's a fell wind blowing our way. It carries with it the stench of rot.”

Unease crawled its way up Link's throat, and his mouth dropped open at how casually such distressing news could be delivered without warning. He should've known, but still it was an upsetting revelation. And yet, when asked why he thought this and how he knew this, Mask had no answer to give. He merely shook his head and declined to speak.

He did, however, eventually pull his ocarina free from his pouch. Link hoped it would bring a liveliness that was sorely missing from their march.

Instead he played a requiem, and Link couldn't be entirely sure who it was for. But it fit the sullen mood around them, and ensured all within its range that they were being watched and judged by bygone spirits for their actions. To push onward no matter what befell them, that was the task at hand.

The cool shadows of night were beginning to darken as they entered a dense forest cramped at the bottom of a valley. The hills to either side were too steep to climb, and going around would cost them dearly in travel time. Though the trees too closely knit for wagons save for a single narrow path, it was their best option in continuing south. But the best didn't make it feel more secure, and ripples of unease spread swiftly through the ranks on whispered prayers and fearful curses.

A wail split the air, far to the back, and Link knew it to be the death throes of man. Soldiers and horses alike pulled to a collective stop, eyes wide and beseeching a veil of darkness they could not penetrate while clouds concealed the moon.

Mutterings of fear reached the captain, and he could not be phased. He had to remain resolute.

“Enemies.”

“Monsters!”

“Oh gods, he's dead.”

Ripples turned to waves, and panic surged forth.

Impa's call went out over the heads of the troops. “It's an ambush! Shields raised, stick together!”

Link pressed his leg into Epona's side and guided the reins into a sharp turn. Soldiers scrambled to part as her hooves pounded the earth, and he dismounted with a curse. “I'll handle it at the source!” he hastily promised, hand ready on his pommel as he charged into the turbulent crowds. An inkling of fear prickled along his spine, and he smothered it down for not mattering so much. He would sooner maintain his perseverance instead, and act fast to mitigate casualties. He could do it – for the people who relied on him.

Mask watched the end of his blue scarf vanish into the ranks while dread pooled in the bottom of his gut. Above him, Impa continued barking orders to regroup, calling for carts and wagons to stay in the center while soldiers formed defensive walls.

With the moon still struggling to peer out from he clouds, there wasn't much to discern. Ashen faces and sweaty animal flanks were briefly illuminated by waving lanterns. Further out, Impa's orders could be heard being carried down on the tongue of her men.

A haunting chill crept up Mask's arm to remind him of the enemies he had, and he looked up at Impa with wide eyes.

“He can't do it alone,” Mask rasped, words heavy and certain.

Impa spared him a glance, lowering her voice and leaning over the side of her ebony steed to address him. “He won't have to. His allies are many; his courage is true.”

“You don't know that,” Mask said with just as much conviction. He raised an arm, pointing out over the heads of the soldiers. “You sense a shadow of death, don't you? It comes for us all.” He was no prophet. And yet there were some things he was certain of.

The general bit down on her lip, weighing her options and his ability. “Your arrows won't be much good in a forest this crowded.”

He slowly dipped his head. “Yes. I understand that.”

Impa's eyes narrowed at him, as if to calculate his innate potential. She must've deduced something, for she argued the point no further. “Very well. Proceed with caution, little hero.”

Mask pressed his heels into Epona's sides and spurred her forward with a shout. Letting out a winny, the young mare bolted into the tangled grove of trees and hylians. She dodged each obstacle with precision, her smaller stature and experienced rider aiding their advancement. 

While the captain had seen fit to struggle through his throngs of men, Mask was eager to break free of the clutter. He dashed into deeper woods, leaving the firelight of lanterns behind in favor of the forests he was more familiar with. The ranks of the hylian army fell away quickly, soldiers pushing together through the underbrush to hold a solid line. On its fringes, he met their ambushers: legions of stalchildren, with fresh dirt clinging to their bones. They'd been waiting just beneath the earth's surface for the tremors of the army. With night upon them, their disturbance was to be expected. And a path so narrow meant less ground for the army to stand on, protected as they would've otherwise been on a road where the undead were forbidden from walking.

What mask wouldn't have given to have his captain mask right now. Commanding the legions of undead… now, that would've been a sight.

As it stood, Mask had to work diligently. Where he went, a path of bones followed. Stalchildren fell to a swing of his sword or shot of his bow. And yet he restrained himself, lest the felled children summon a larger enemy to fight on their behalf. Foes tangled with fellow soldiers met a swift end, but many more he let slip between the trees as he thinned their numbers.

Nevertheless, despite his best intentions, the monsters did become larger – more formidable. Stalchildren turned to stalfos, the glint of their swords faint in the low, near impenetrable night. Throaty growls and skeletal grunts followed him, and his progress slowed. His sword proved too short to reach them, even as theirs drew dangerously close to slashing Epona's sides.

Mask made an easy decision, there in the darkness of the forest. He tugged sharply on the reins, spinning Epona around, and leapt from her back in a swift dismount. A slap of his hand on her flank spurred her back the way they came, and he promised to find her again as she bolted into the brush.

Mocking laughter belittled his decision, and three stalfos armed with heavy swords and thick leather armor edged towards the lone hero.

In the distance, an otherworldly wail of the condemned pierced the night, loud enough to chill his blood, and he recognized that the worst was yet to come. The undead were such tortured souls, and it was his responsibility to put them to rest.

But… he needed to find the captain. Those foes – they stalled his feet like no other, as if he didn't yet know how to look death in the face. He had to find Captain before they did.

And so he reached for the mask.

Link gasped greedily for each breath as he hacked and spun his way through an onslaught of skeletal foes. Soldiers cried out over his head, demanding order, and the captain barked back just as loudly.

“Hold the line and retreat! Do not press into the woods – they have an advantage there!”

The dirt ruptured at his feet, mud clumps coming undone as a large stalchild dragged itself from an unmarked grave. Its jaw dropped open, a wordless rasp slipping from cracked molars, and Link lunged forward. His sword slotted its way between the calcifying teeth, and he felt the blade pierce through the roof of its mouth. The red lights in its eyesockets went dim, and he pulled his sword back to his side before throwing himself at the next target.

“Captain! Their numbers are thinning, but reports say there's many more waiting under the forest cover!” A soldier chipped in, falling into place at Link's side to fell another skeletal foe. “We think they're regrouping. Do we press back?”

Link dealt with his immediate target and took a step back to let his fellow soldiers finish the last of this wave. In the light cast by torches and lanterns, he was perceptive to the woes of his allies. The sting of surprise had left many grievous marks, and the presence of so many undead in this congregation invited wanton despair. Pig-headed beasts and gelatinous blobs were one thing, but any rational man or woman might hesitate when faced with the wrath of undead. Too many stories and folklore warned of the departed and their plight in the afterlife. Too close to human was the promise of death and the corruption thereafter, as if to say that any lost soul could become that which was loathed most. A monster.

Even now, he could see the way his soldiers hesitated, their attacks shallow and tinged with fear. While their position here was a reassurance, he didn't have the heart to march them blindly into the dark. He would rather fight harder on their behalf and spare them an ugly outcome. If it was him, he could make it through.

“Stick together – don't push back!” Link roared, inciting relief amongst his ranks. He turned to the soldier, lowering his voice and grabbing a lantern from him. “I'll scout the woods, see how many more there are while there's a lull in their forces. If there's more waves, I'll come right back to alert everyone. But we must keep the line moving to get out of the woods. Understood?”

A nod was all he needed, and then he was off.

Bushes rustled and patches of earth quivered as he raced through the forest, but they weren't so many that his men couldn't handle them. Foes this numbered… they usually had a source, or a larger opponent that needed to be felled before the enemies could truly back off, and he intended to find it.

Link carved a path of his own through the dense forest, stamping down brambles and cutting down foes. The lantern hanging at his waist swung wildly with his sporadic movements, bringing the closely knit trees alive with dancing shadows and light. The sounds of his warriors engaging in combat grew fainter the deeper he got, following the diminished trail of monsters that spawned in his vicinity.

It was strange, then, that they'd yet to prove a harder fight, when only the undead footsoldiers were engaging him thus far. While the slog of fighting wore down on his stamina, it wasn't much challenge to strike a stalchild down in one swing. And he wondered, just briefly, if perhaps this was all the forces of darkness had to throw at him.

Link tumbled out of the forest, surprised to find that the dense thicket had suddenly opened up into a sizable clearing of grass and stones. He hadn't thought there could be an open space like this, so close to the wooded mountains that surrounded them on all sides. At the very least, it offered him a chance to catch his breath and disentangle himself from the snares of ivy and thorn.

He sauntered forward, sword at the ready, as he cast his gaze about him. His brow his beaded with sweat, his limbs scraped where briars and skeletal claws had dug into him during his traipse through the woods. A cut on his brow stung, but only as a minor nuisance, and he wiped the blood from his eye as he turned in a circle, surveying the area.

Empty and quiet.

The sounds of battle had dwindled to a murmur behind him, his men hard at work picking off stray foes. The clatter of bones and tree branches had gone still, where both monsters and the wind had died. In its absence was an unnerving sense of peace, like he was walking along the icy surface of a lake, and the anticipation kept his adrenaline fueled.

The lantern guttered at his side, its flame weakened and tired. He was lucky, then, that the clouds above were beginning to thin, allowing muted moonlight to bathe the clearing floor.

Still no sign of greater foes.

He ought to turn back, if that was all the danger that'd been prepared for them.

Link lowered his sword with a sigh, taking a moment to swipe languidly at the hair sticking to the back of his neck. Proxi stirred beneath his cap, peeking her little head out from golden locks.

“Is the coast clear?” she whispered in a voice so small that it seemed unlike her.

“I think we'll be alright,” he said, only a bit louder.

His words bounced off the rocks in the clearing, meeting back with him, and he went to retrace his path back to his men.

The innocuous stones unraveled themselves before his eyes, coming undone under the light of the moon, and what he once thought was stone surface wrinkled and spasmed into tanned flesh pulled taut over jagged bones. Faces hidden behind wooden masks stared through him, their eye sockets empty and void of life. Spindly legs pushed up neglected torsos that appeared both too limp and too stiff.

Link felt his heart climb up his chest and stay there, clogging his ability to breath. His hands shook against his will as he forced himself to raise his sword, while his innermost thoughts screamed at him.

Be brave! Just fight! You have to!

The dirt beneath his boots began to twitch, and he was slow to notice until it was erupting at his feet. Undead abominations crawled from the earth, a conglomerate of gnashing teeth and writhing bodies. Things that must've once been canines dragged themselves free from shallow graves, rotten flesh and fur sloughing off their monstrous frames.

Link's mind went blank. His vision narrowed. He raised his sword with a shout and, throwing caution to the wind, swung madly in a massive spin.

Snarls of beasts and groans of damned rose up in a haunting chorus all around him, and he resigned himself to fighting tooth and nail to scrape out an escape from this newly realized hell. 

A paralyzing scream froze him in place, and his life was measured in seconds.

Chapter Text

There was so little that could stand in his way.

Any monster that reared its head was just as swiftly cut down. The forest cringed around him, creating a path that granted passage without hazard, and he raced through the dense terrain unimpeded.

The hands of stalchildren underfoot clutched at his ankles, and a swing of his massive, twin-bladed greatsword sliced cleanly through bone.

Magic unfurled around him, burning just beneath the surface of his skin and dancing like little blue fairy lights around his head. To command power so immense was to be free of sorrows and burdens. To have nothing stand in his way was a declaration of his respect and standing.

To not be small.

To not be weak.

A smile curled its way across his face as an ancient power whispered praise.

Link plowed his way through the forest, an unstoppable force headed to where he'd heard those redead screams. Those contemptuous enemies would be a hassle if left alone, and if someone had set them off, then they were likely in danger. He couldn't have that. He still had to…

What am I doing out here? Was I searching for something?

Another unholy screech split the night, and the swordsman returned to his senses.

Yes. The monsters. I'll defeat every last one.

By now, the stalfos had stopped coming for him. He'd mowed down so many already, and now he could only assume there were none left. And yet his muscles still burned in anticipation, the fingers wrapped tight around his hilt itching to move. All this strength inside him needed to come undone, or else something important would be snuffed out.

Link hurtled through the last of the woods, feeling for the first time a sense of open space. There was light here, silver and faint but present nonetheless, and it highlighted a jumbled mess of targets set before him. More undead monsters with splintered bones tethered together by debilitated tendons.

Something was writhing among a throng of skeletal wolves. A voice that registered familiarity in his thoughts broke through over the snapping of jaws, howling in pain and terror.

A gaunt figure turned to him, unimpressed by his arrival, and staggered forward. It unleashed a scream, and Link blocked it out. These poor, desecrated bodies of the departed had instilled his young self with fear time and again, and he'd grown jaded from it. Now, he couldn't even hear their cries for attention in a way that mattered, and their attempts to paralyze him fell on deaf ears.

When he swung his sword, an arc of condensed blue magic sliced through the air, following its trajectory. It brought the undead monster to the ground, and he waded ahead to clear out the rest.

Rot-weakened foes fell to his blade like blades of grass, turning to repugnant gruel beneath his boots. Brittle bones shattered easily when met with the slightest pressure, and their leathery skin may as well have been chuchu jelly.

A redead managed to grab him from behind, and instead of struggling he simply reached behind his shoulder and grabbed the thing's head in a large hand. With a forceful yank, he flipped the sorry foe onto its back and deftly planted his sword into its ribcage, causing it to gurgle and spasm until going still. An undead dog latched onto his forearm, and he switched his greatsword to one hand so that he could grab the wretched beast by the scruff and hurl it aside with little thought. It crashed against a tree, where the audible crack of its spine breaking was distinctly heard, and it bothered him no more.

These things were swarming him – he knew them to be – and he could not stop until every last one had been hacked apart.

The cacophony of howls and screams were muted, reduced to a ringing in his ancient, battle-torn ears. His nose was clogged with the stench of decay, and yet his child self had been used to it for so many years already. He felt, rather than saw, when a monster was near, and enemies registered rotten on his peripheral everywhere he turned as he waded through a haze of red mist and mounds of felled.

Bodies collected at his feet, undead corpses drawing final breaths as they prostrated themselves before his blade. It was with an enriching sense of satisfaction that he built the piles higher, their desperate attempts to sink teeth into flesh growing more pitiful by the second.

And yet, even when the attacks stopped coming for him, he could still sense enemies around him, waiting for the moment when his guard might lower and his throat would be bared. So rather than slow for even a moment, he doubled down and fought harder. The blood boiling within him burned hotter than the sickly cold splatters painting his armor, and his own frantic breaths clogged his throat. The drum of his heartbeat was a warsong to learn by, and he focused on that as he channeled destruction through his arms and righteous fury through his greatsword.

Link watched in horror as something primal and unyielding tore its way through the ranks of undead that'd brought him to his own knees in so short a time. He stayed there, crumpled on the blood-soaked earth, dizzy and trembling. Bites from beast and redead alike peppered his limbs – a vast array of shallow punctures and freshly formed bruises.

Deep, blood-curdling screams filled the air as the demon that'd been summoned by his cries tore the monsters asunder. At first, the captain wasn't sure what he was looking at. The powerful being fueled by magic and ferocity was hylian in nature – pointed ears and sharp facial features – but he stood two heads taller than the average man, and his eyes were a milky white. Markings of stark red and blue lined the demon's face, highlighting a furious snarl etched into his features, and he knew it to be a creature of nightmares.

But there was something familiar in that face, too. The way his bangs fell to either side. The almond eyes and point of his nose. He swung with his left side and moved across the battlefield in ways that normal soldiers weren't taught.

Woozily, Link pushed himself up from the grass, wincing at a sting in his shoulder; his legs trembled beneath him, and he favored his left leg, where a deep puncture wound had been left in his lower thigh.

The unleashed demon was someone he knew. Someone who oft lamented his small stature and lack of strength, while reminiscing of being someone else. And now that that person had been released from whatever restraints contained him before, he fought without end to purge the earth of all who approached him.

But there was nothing left. Nothing. 

Only the two of them remained on a field of blood and broken bones. And still the foreboding figure laid waste to unseen enemies.

Tentatively, on legs that threatened to fold, Link took a step forward. And called out to the child he saw within.

“Mask?”

It was that tortured voice from before, screams having turned to whispers. It was asking for something; it sounded tiny and unsure, like a child, and he could not tell what it wanted. He paid it no mind. His sword did not stall.

“Mask.” That sound again. A bit louder. A bit firmer. He could ignore it easily, though, so long as he kept fighting. He couldn't possibly be apprehended with words alone. What hero would he be if he let up now?

“Link!”

The voice was too close. Easily within range. It taunted him, he thought, with faked familiarity that demanded his attention outright. That name corroded a hole in his head, leeching his power and interrupting his thoughts. It angered him, he decided. He turned towards the voice, magic and frustration boiling over in the vessel that was this altered body, and silenced the source of that familiarity with a slice.

Warm, wet droplets splattered his face. He blinked, surprised when it wasn't tinged with rot and oozing miasma into his skin. When he licked his lips, he tasted copper that settled heavily on his tongue, and an illness ran through him like poison pulsing through his veins.

Link shuddered, his legs stiff as splintered boards beneath him. He stared, eyes wide and unfocused, at the wickedly sharpened blade that'd embedded itself into his right side, just beneath the ribcage. He thought, perhaps, that the sword tethering him to the bloodthirsty man was the only thing keeping him standing.

Blood oozed freely from the precise wound, and his hands hovered shakily over it, not quite sure if it could be stemmed with pressure alone and too stunned to try. He opened his mouth to speak, and a thin whine escaped him instead.

But he had to keep moving. He had to form words. Otherwise, the wrathful entity that'd struck him wouldn't be stalled much longer.

The cut was shallow, at least. Despite how easily it'd hacked through his chain mail shirt, the sword had stopped the moment it'd bit flesh. The level of control that required was admirable, and he would've pondered that skill further had he not been on the receiving end of it.

Ever so slowly, as if moving before an instinct-driven beast that might otherwise pounce, Link tore his eyes away from the injury and looked up into a face of judgment. This close, he could see the little details of the person who was meant to be Link, Hero of Masks. That likeliness was unmistakable, past the wet crimson splatters that matched the cruel facial markings drawn upon his cheeks, and he gathered his strength to plead to the person he prayed he knew.

“Link… You need to put the sword down... Please. There is nothing left to fight.” The words were heavy and pained as they left bloodied lips.

He watched the man's eyes, twin moons clouded by battlelust, brighten into focus. They stayed like that a moment longer, with the captain's hands resting gently on the sword in a feeble attempt to stop it from digging in deeper. His breathing came out in uneven gasps that he struggled to steady, and the passage of time proved agonizing to endure. But he waited. He allowed that time to pass, regardless of the droplets that fell from the open gash and dampened the soil underfoot.

“I know you're there, Link.”

With painful slowness, the snaking sword blade retreated from his side. Link felt his legs finally buckle, and he collapsed to his knees, face deathly pale and hands pressed to his side. His green tunic had been quickly dyed red, and his hands were soon to follow as he struggled to stem the flow of blood with sweaty palms.

The sword – a beautiful, thing, actually, with pristine edges that hadn't been dulled by battle; its colors shined brilliant in the moonlight – hit the earth with a dull thud.

Mask raised his hands with careful slowness, and Link resisted the urge to flinch as they neared him. But rather than reach out to him, the Hero – with his strange, blood-splattered armor and deeply furrowed scowl that belied the feelings of the child within – reached up to his own face instead.

Link could only watch in stunned silence as the towering figure began to claw at his face. Fingernails bit into flesh, tugging and tearing in search of something. Ugly gasps rose from the hero's chest, quickening as panic and desperation fueled his actions further. Link wanted him to stop. He wanted to take Mask's hands in his and beg the child not to hurt himself further. But the fervidness with which the altered hero dug at his skin must've held purpose beyond mutilation.

Until finally his blood-caked nails sank into something that was not cheek and bone. The searching fingers curled around an edge that hadn't been there before, and Link bore witness as the demon tore off its own face with the sound of flesh being rendered.

An agonized screech left the hero's mouth, echoing through the deadened battlefield and berating his eardrums. Link flinched violently away, coiling in on himself, and squeezed his eyes shut. His stomach clenched, and though he should've known already the horrors of war, this was different. It was raw and personal and intrinsically tied to a small child that wore the mantle of Hero and Chosen. If Link could block his ears, he would've, but he maintained pressure on his wound instead, for fear that he might otherwise pass out.

A burst of tumultuous magic nearly knocked him to the earth; the magic itself wasn't sickly or vile, like what some monsters possessed, but it was intense and vengeful all the same, stinging wherever it touched his scars. The thin, precise wound that sword had carved into his side hurt worst of all, and he felt his head grow faint.

No no no, I can't leave him like this. Please, oh, Hylia, please… just a little longer…

“...Captain?”

A dense fog took its time leaving his head. Exhaustion turned his limbs heavy, and his nose was filled with the familiar scent of blood. None of it was his, though – Mask understood as much, for he felt no exterior pain. Just a deeply sown toll on his soul.

The Fierce Deity's Mask sat in a viscous crimson pool at his knees, empty eyes staring up at him in disappointment. He could not look back at the judgmental relic lest he be forced to face himself. Instead, he settled his sights on the form huddled before him, a blurred image coming into focus under the cold light of the moon.

It was the captain. Though his face was cast in shadow, it was his silhouette that sat before him, swaying precariously in the gentle night breeze. It was his lean build and narrow shoulders and distinct tunic that was so clearly him. And so it was quickly deduced that the wet darkness seeping from countless scars was also his blood.

Horror crawled its way up Mask's throat and perched on his tongue. Shaky hands were raised to his mouth; he startled to find that his own face was sticky and damp, and he couldn't fully understand how that'd happened. But it didn't matter. All he could think about was how haggard and injured and defeated the captain was.

This was a failure on his part. He hadn't arrived sooner to prevent such an outcome.

Or, just as likely, it was because of him that the war-torn hero had been left in such a critical state.

His voice pitched into a throttled wail as the full realization of what'd occurred hit him. “Captain!” he keened, scrambling the distance of a sword's width over reddened dirt to reach his side. Captain grimaced at the noise, and Mask felt his heart plunge into turmoil when the older man shrank away from him instinctively. Tears pricked his eyes, and his bottom lip quivered as he failed to mask the onslaught of emotions that greeted him now. His chest heaved, seized with panic, and the full realization of his actions caught up to him. “I'm so sorry!” he bawled, fingers clenching fistfuls of mud. “I didn't— I never wanted you to see me like—!” His words fumbled over one another in a breathless rush that left him gasping, grief and turmoil welling in the pit of his stomach.

What right do I have to harm another?

The stream of thought gripped his mind, a cage of his own creation, and he couldn't possibly fathom how he was meant to right these wrongs. He could not undo the swing of his blade. He could not take back the pain and fear he'd afflicted onto another. No do-overs. No rewinding. Only the consequences of his actions.

It was fine, really. Or so Link thought, in the hazy part of his mind that clung to consciousness, leeching off the last shreds of his adrenaline that insisted he couldn't yet falter. But it was fading fast, and he didn't have a good grasp of just how much longer he had before passing out.

All the older hero knew was that, no matter what, he couldn't leave Mask like this.

Link reached his left arm out, his other pinned to his side, and draped himself protectively over Mask. He felt the small, tear-stained face bury into his chest and dampen his filthy, battle-torn tunic. Too-small hands clenched the green threads and clung to him like an infant to a guardian. He couldn't be sure how much of a reassurance this was, but Link felt oddly calm as he brought his arm over the young boy's shoulders, hushing him gently.

“It's alright. It's alright… You don't have to explain yourself. You are kind… to have saved me. I know you never meant harm.”

Mask's voice hitched, and Link felt it in the jolt of his small body. “No, I'm not kind! You saw someone horrible, didn't you? This was my doing! I'm—” His fingers dug into his chest, through gaps torn in his chain mail, and Link struggled to suppress a wince. “I'm a bad person!”

Link found himself stroking Mask's hair, dyed silver in the moonlight. That demon from before lingered, he could tell: it was present in the faded markings adorning the child's face and the frazzled magic that lingered around them. But they were not the same. There always existed a choice, even if it was hard to let go. It was, after all, that power that'd saved him, even if it'd been so quick to turn on him within the same breath.

Link waited for Mask's choked sobs to die down before gently leaning away and cupping his left hand to the side of his head. Tear tracks were smudged on his face, blotting the layer of blood and grime, and his usually bright blue eyes were dulled by misery.

“Link… no matter what, you can't let another dictate who you're supposed to be. A hero… an adult… someone good or bad. You will change and you will grow… and still you'll have the heart of a child. You've just convinced yourself you have to be someone else. But a bad person would not grieve me or feel remorse.” Link smiled. And he felt love for the kindred spirit that he knew would persist through countless eras, regardless of what trials they'd face in their uncertain futures, be they together or separate. “I only ask that you be yourself. That way I know… it'll all be okay.”

The chime of a fairy sounded from the treeline, and Link finally let himself rest. 

Mask wasn't ready to bear the captain's full weight, staggering as he went limp before him. With a startled gasp, he managed to hold onto the fainted hero and elevate his head on his knees. The words continued to buzz in his head, a reassurance so kind yet firm that he didn't think he could live without it now that it'd been uttered. He'd been a hero for so long already, for a life that hadn't yet been given the right to naturally grow. Who was he, even, without the fate of kingdoms and the people who lived weighing heavy on his shoulders? What else could he be, if not the hero?

A child, apparently. He hadn't thought that possible after so long.

Proxi flew panicked circles around his head, chiming with distress at the sight of Link crumpled in his arms. “I-I'm sorry that took so long – I went to get help! Is Link okay? Are the monsters gone? What happened here?!”

Footsteps approached from behind, and Mask slowly raised his filthy, sodden face as a steely presence came to a stop behind him. A freezing sensation traveled up his spine, agitating his nerves and eliciting a shiver, and he turned to watch a tall figure stoop to retrieve something off the ground.

Impa inspected the Fierce Deity's Mask with an unreadable expression, turning it over in her hands and wiping the blood from the ancient wood grain. Mask felt cold tendrils running through his innards, worms of discomfort that writhed as he shifted and icy claws being dragged along his heart at the intrusion. He fought back the urge to vomit as nausea overtook him, and he reached out a shaky, red-stained hand to the sheikah general.

“That's mine. Please, I…” I don't need it, but… “I have to keep it.” And maybe that was as much truth as he could manage.

The haunting item of dubious origin was presented back to him. “Here. I'll trade you.”

Mask numbly accepted it back and offered up a meek nod in return. Then he scooted away from the comatose captain, letting Impa handle the situation from there.

The chill in his veins dissipated, and in its place an uncomfortable warmth bloomed. The pressure that weighed on him now was one of haunting comfort, as the dormant mask contented itself with being in his grasp.

Proxi alighted atop his head with a dismal little sigh, and he finally tucked away the mask with a grimace.

Impa produced a bottle from her belongings and uncorked it, freeing a small pink fairy. She circled around the captain, powdering him with gentle healing magic that touched his wounds and seeped into his pores, before flitting away. Then Impa gingerly scooped the young man into her arms and rose to a stand.

Sharp eyes settled on Mask, prompting him to do the same, and he stood on shaky feet in the center of the carnage-strewn clearing.

“He'll be alright,” she levely assured, granting him some fragile relief. “Link will have to get used to difficult battles someday – much like you already have. That does, however, beg the question: will you be alright? Darkness clings to that mask like shadows at one's feet. Are you capable of wielding such power?”

Mask picked his Kokiri Sword off the ground, where it had been laying in the heavy imprint of the Fierce Deity's Sword that'd preceded it. He weighed the light blade in his hands, fingers curling into familiar grooves, and considered for the first time that it felt just a bit too small for him. Were it given to a true kokiri as intended, it would've lasted them forever.

When next he grew up, it would be forever; time marched on whether he liked it or not, and with it so, too, did he. But right now, with Link's words lingering in his head, he would cherish what he had.

“I'm the keeper of this mask. That's all. But first and foremost, I'm the Hero of Time.” The young boy sheathed the sword at his back and looked up at Impa. “And I'll fulfill my role here as that person, through whatever means. So no, you don't have to worry about me.”