Chapter Text
He stumbles out of the Great Plateau with nothing but an axe and a resolve he doesn't dare let go, for fear that if he does, he'll stop moving completely. He follows barely-there paths, spots ruins that are so jarringly unfamiliar he thinks he could be horrified at what they have become, if only he remembered. He doesn't see anyone, reaching for proof of life and only finding the whisper of plants and the endless infinity of a world he's supposed to save but doesn't even know. He follows a muscle memory he's sure is out of date; it leads him through overgrown plains and threateningly silent forests, through hills that end in cliffs, through landscapes that sometimes summon a vague memory, washed-out and hard to look at.
He walks and run and doesn't rest, or only a little; he keeps going forward, wherever forward is, as if fearing something- but he isn't sure what, does not understand what in this world is to be feared, cannot remember how it is different from what it once was. He's battling with his mind with each step he takes, tries to think but must be too used to silence to summon the courage to break it, even in his own head.
He reaches a village, just as the sun starts going down, and startles.
The landscapes sometimes summoned memories, but faded, and nonsensical; he could have just as well have imagined it all, his brain desperately trying to fill the space where the rest of his life should be.
The village is-
Wrong.
He doesn't remember what it was; doesn't understand why it feels so uncomfortable, walking in between houses that he almost recognizes, but not quite; stepping aside as if expecting someone to be standing in an empty spot, but who?
People pay little attention to him, all engrossed in their routine- what does it feel like, a routine? Did he know, once? He feels out of balance, and has no idea where to reach to steady himself; he's sure he knew how to breathe before, but it seems to have slipped away too.
The village is wrong- but it isn't, or at least it is only to him, and what does that mean? What does that mean, that it is right to everyone else, that he is again alone with thoughts that don't quite match what they're supposed to be? What does it mean, that he's on the outskirts, both longing for and dreading being let in?
He follows a muscle memory that's the only memory he has- it leads him to someone, and he's supposed to know her.
He's supposed to-
"Ah, Link," she says, hesitantly, like his name is some kind of regret she hasn't paid attention to in some time, or like he's long ceased to be alive and became a memory instead.
She tells him he has a mission. He listens out of a feeling of duty, out of a feeling of guilt, out of a feeling that he thinks he might call despair, if only he let himself think about it long enough to dare give it a name and just a little more power.
He tries to remember.
oOo
He wanders out of Impa's house eventually, clutching the Sheikah tablet in shaking fingers he has long stopped paying attention to. He walks along a clear path that slowly fades away the further along he walks, until he's in front of a wall of stone and about to collapse and absolutely certain that he'll never get back up again if he does.
(Wouldn't it be funny, if he just gave up?
Wouldn't it be funny, if all the people he had to have loved counted on him to save their world, and then he didn't?
Wouldn't it be funny, if he was kept alive for a hundred years, for that one purpose, and then he just failed everyone all over again?
Wouldn't it be funny?)
He rests his back against the stone and has run out of things to tell himself, so he just closes his eyes until the darkness steals his breath away and his fingers are clutching the rock much too hard to stop himself from falling asleep.
"Are you okay?" Says someone. "You left Mom's house pretty abruptly. Did she upset you? She does that sometimes."
There's a silence, and Link forces his eyes open but can't bear tearing his hands away from what feels like the only steady thing in the world. The rock against his palm is rough, covered in thin moss and fragile plants; it's starkly different from the Sanctuary's smooth and polished stone, and the disparity between them is a comforting weight in the back of his head.
Before him stands a middle-aged woman; Impa's daughter, if what he heard is right, Link guesses. Her hair is grey and kept short, and she looks like she's concerned about him, which is maybe the last thing Link feels prepared for.
(He can handle being a weapon.
Well. He probably can't, actually, if the past days- weeks? are any indication, but it's not really a matter of can you do it, now is it? It's a matter of duty, and promises, and even if he doesn't remember how or why, exactly, those have a particular hold over Link's mind.
So he can be a weapon, or a savior, or an avenger; however you want to frame it. He doesn't want to, and each breath he takes is drawing him closer to the edge of the cliff in his mind, but if he has to, well, at least that's something to do. At least it means something; at least he has something to do, has a purpose, something to chase away the ever-present grief for something he doesn't even remember.
So he can pretend to be the Hero, or be the Hero, whatever people want him to be. He can handle that.
He can't handle being a person.)
"You look tired," says Impa's daughter. Link shakes his head.
"Yes, you do," she retorts, and crouches in front of him. "Like you haven't slept in weeks. Can you even stand upright without collapsing?"
Link shrugs.
"You can't," deduces the woman, frowning, instead of taking his non-answer for the go away it is. "Well, you should nap."
Link shakes his head more forcefully than before, and clutches the rock harder when that turns out to be a terrible decision.
The woman looks on as he tries not to fall over.
"Who even are you? Mom doesn't talk to a lot of people, you know- or well, a lot of strangers, and that you definitely are." When Link stays silent, she sighs. "Why won't you sleep?"
Link closes his eyes.
"Rude," he hears the Sheikah say. "Are you afraid you'll have nightmares?"
(Maybe.
He doesn't want to fall asleep. He did it once -or he must have- and it cost him a 100 years, and his memory, except when it didn't.
He must remember, in his dreams. He must remember, he must know, because he wakes up terrified and guilty and grieving, even more so than usual, and he can never tell why.
What if he dreams, and he wakes up, and he remembers? What if he dreams, and he wakes up, and he doesn't?
(What if he dreams, and doesn't wake up?)
Does he want to remember all he lost? Is it better, to wander alone, and confused, and aching for something, home maybe, but not to know exactly what it is, the smell and sound and taste of what he once had? Will it hurt more, to know what he lost; to be able to get lost in memories and never want to surface again?
What if he remembers, and it breaks him?
What if it doesn't?)
He opens his eyes.
"Alright," Impa's daughter sighs. She sits in front of him. "I used to tell my daughter a story, when she was little, about nightmares. Do you want to hear it?"
Link stares at her.
"You want to hear it," decides the woman for him. She sends him a sharp look. "At least sit, it's fairly long."
He tears his hand away from the rock and slowly slides down. Once seated, knees folded against his chest, he buries his hands in the grass around him and focuses on the feeling of dirt getting caught under his nails, on the afternoon sun against his arms; on anything except the woman in front of him.
"There was a time," she says, "when fairies weren't scared of us."
She sounds practiced, like she's told this a hundred times; like she'll tell it a hundred times more.
"It was a long time ago, when magic was even rarer than it is now, when roads hadn't been created yet, when people didn't know enough about the world to have stories. Fairies weren't scared of us, at the time, but that didn't mean they liked us, either; they just were indifferent. Most everything was indifferent to everyone, at the time. Maybe it was a better world than the one we have now, but then again, maybe not. No point in wondering."
Link shifts, uncomfortable, reaching for more grass to tear in his hands; the woman notices, but doesn't comment.
"So fairies weren't scared of us, until they were. The thing was, humans were very vulnerable back then, and fairies were a miracle cure. At some point, someone discovered it, either by befriending a fairy, or just capturing one. And people loved their family, obviously, so they went to search for fairies. Predictably enough, fairies started to mistrust us; started to hide away from children and reject our offerings, milk and apples and other gifts that were just baits, in the end."
This doesn't sound like a happy story, realizes Link, but stays still. A children's story; surely it can't be that bad.
"So in return, they invented nightmares. Because that's how they work, right? That's how fairy magic works; it tricks you. It makes you believe you're fine, and suddenly you are. That's why it works whatever the wound, that's why there are no scars. It just tricks your body and mind into being okay, and they can't even help it. It's like those frogs you can find, whose venom just numbs you until you can't feel anything, and so insects don't think to run away because they don't feel anything happening. Except in a positive way, because- well, they don't kill you."
She shrugs.
"Anyway, they made nightmares. Not that we didn't have them before, just- less powerful, if the stories are to be believed. Not as believable. They made nightmares as a way to get justice, for all those they had lost- but it didn't work as well as they must have hoped."
Not a happy story, confirms Link, but doesn't try to get up. There are very few chances he could do more than just stumble his way off a rock and into unconsciousness.
"The fairies first aimed nightmares as punishments, for- well, murderers, from their point of view. They were just designed to be scary. Just meant to scare humans away."
She smirks a little.
"Except humans have never been good at being scared away. Nightmares could hurt you, sure, but you'd wake up, eventually, and back then that was already a lot. So they just kept going at fairies, and the nightmares kept getting worst and worst, and bigger and bigger. But they were only aimed at those that actually caught a fairy. The thing was- there were already monsters, back then, and people didn't have a sword or any of your fancy equipment. So catching fairies- that was difficult. A lot of work for a reward that wasn't even for you, except it was, of course, because it'd meant your family would survive. Your friend would survive. Someone would survive. That's all people ever cared about, back then."
The woman tilts her head; catches Link's eyes.
"Once you caught one fairy, you had little nightmares. If you caught two, they were a little bigger. And on and on, until you could barely sleep at all, just because you cared about people so much. Just because you couldn't bear to watch them suffer. And eventually, if you caught too many- well, the fairies attacked your family, too. People you cared about. People you had sacrificed your dreams for."
There's no grass left to tear anymore. Link clenches his fists until he can feel crescents of pain digging into his palms.
"So that's how the story goes. Fairies invented nightmares to chase us away, but humans cared too much to let that get in their way. It's just a story, though." Impa's daughter tilts her head. "If you don't want nightmares, maybe you should care less about your family. But hundreds and hundreds of people have already tried that, and it turns out humans aren't great at not caring. So you can just do the next best thing: sleep, and if you have nightmares, you'll wake up. Remember: they're fairies. They'll never actually hurt you."
There's a moment of silence. Then the Sheikah sighs.
"Now nap, or I swear I'm calling Mom here."
Link glares at the ground, and then at her.
"You couldn't stand upright if you tried, you don't scare me. Nap so I don't have your death on my conscience."
(And Link, stupidly-
does.)