Archive of Our Own ^beta

There’s a split-second realization that he hasn’t awakened so much as he has been woken up, and he jolts into action with wide eyes and a gasping breath and a desperate lunge for the Sword.

His fingers wrap around the hilt like they’ve done it a million times before – but he’s only done it once. He took hold of the blade, sunk into the stone, and he didn’t let go when flames seared his hand, he didn’t let go when ice stole along his arm, he didn’t let go when all that was left was numbness and the thought to keep holding on. He didn’t let go, even when the chittering and cackling of the forest children finally led him off and laid him down in a daze in the hollow of a great tree. It’s been less than a day and it already feels like second nature; an instinct worn too deep into his soul to be anything other than muscle memory.

Take the Sword.

He frowns, and scowls into the darkness. There’s a shape there that looks like the outline of a person, and he can’t help but think of all the creatures the Knight has cautioned him about time and again – bokoblins, moblins, all the denizens of the woodlands. But before he can lose his nerve, there’s a sudden flash of light, and he has to screw his eyes up as the torch flares to life. He has to blink several times to clear his watering eyes, but once they’ve adjusted to the sudden brightness, he lets out a shout and nearly falls out of bed.

The man standing at the foot of his bed lets out a low chuckle that sounds like the rustling of leaves on the forest floor. His humorless smile stretches out a thin scar on his cheek, faded to white but vivid in the firelight. He’s older than Link, but not by much – when had he received that wound? He must only have been a child.

“This takes me back,” he says, when it becomes apparent that Link is not going to greet him or exchange pleasantries. “Inside the Deku Tree. Looks nicer now, though. No gohmas hanging around.”

He speaks in a strange, lilting voice, and he speaks of the Deku Tree with familiarity, like the forest guardian is an old friend. Link stares at the man warily, taking in every detail he can of this unknown new arrival. There’s a tenseness about him even as he stands at ease, and it does nothing to calm Link’s racing heart.

Parade rest, the Knight's voice supplies in the back of his mind. It’s that same sense of coiled anticipation and restless energy, like he’s ready to snap into action at a moment’s notice, and Link can’t help but let his eyes dart back towards the Sword.

“Who –” in a moment of excruciating embarrassment, Link’s voice cracks at the very moment he finds it – “Who are you?”

He can feel himself blushing in humiliation, but the man doesn’t even smirk at him, let alone roar with laughter as the other squires do. He only meets Link’s gaze with steady blue eyes that give nothing away, before abruptly jerking a thumb behind him, which draws Link’s attention to a blue-bound grip and a purple pommel, with a gleaming yellow stone set within a guard like spreading wings.

As Link tries and fails to find the words, the man – the Hero – watches on with an impassive look on his face. He doesn’t bother to fill the silence, which means that it only stretches on and on, until the air in the room is as thick and oppressive as the fog that blankets the Lost Woods.

“Are you the Hero?” he blurts out. It’s a foolish question, one the Sword on his back answers beyond any semblance of doubt or suspicion. He might as well have not bothered opening his mouth.

“So they say,” the man replies. “Are you?”

He delivers the question with a mocking lilt, and Link can’t help but bristle at the implicit jibe. “Wouldn’t have the Sword if I wasn’t, would I?”

“I wasn’t the Hero when I drew the Sword,” the man responds, without even batting an eye. “I was a boy, a child, young and unprepared. I wasn’t ready to carry the Sword, and neither are you.”

Be it his father, his commanders, or even Princess Mipha, Link’s never been mistaken for a respecter of reputation – and it seems that his pride won’t stand to be measured and found lacking, not even by a Hero chosen by the Goddess Herself. The implicit has become explicit, the one thing he’ll always respond to: a challenge.

“If I’m good enough, I’m old enough,” he bites back.

“If,” the man counters flatly, staring at the Sword with a narrowed, pinched stare. “If you’re good enough. And what if you’re not?”

“What?” Link blinks. “If I’m not –”

“If you fail, Hyrule falls,” the man presses on, with no sympathy in his sword-sharp eyes. “If you falter, all is lost. You’re not a Hero – you’re too young to bear that burden – and yet, here we are. Again.”

“But you drew the Sword,” Link argues back, scrambling to keep up. “You had that burden! You know what’s coming, you can tell me how to beat it –”

“I failed,” the Hero interrupts him simply, and Link is silenced by the roughness in his voice. “The Demon King tricked me, and I was too weak to stand against him. Hyrule was lost because of me, and remained lost until I was strong enough to fight.”

The Hero’s words strike Link like physical blows. For a moment, he can barely breathe, and it feels like he’s been punched squarely in the chest. The Hero’s expression doesn’t change, he doesn’t shout or curse or even raise his voice, but there’s a terrible burning light in his eyes that Link doesn’t want to name or even think about. All he can hear is the man saying Hyrule was lost because of me, and in that moment, he realizes what he’s done. He didn’t have to come here, to hold the torch aloft in the woods and let the fires light his path through the mist. He didn’t have to draw near, step forward to the pedestal and wrap his hands around that purple-bound hilt. His eyes creep back towards the blade bound to the older man’s back, but now that he looks again, there’s nothing there, not even a hint of worn leather strapping.

Because he’s not the Hero who wields the Sword. Not now, anyway. Now that’s Link, because he’s the one who drew the Sword; and a quiet voice seizes the moment to whisper a cursed thought into the back of his mind.

What if he fails, too? What if he’s the one that’s brought the Calamity to their door?

He opens his mouth, but nothing is forthcoming. It’s a little bit because it’s unbecoming of a knight of Hyrule to use coarse language, but it’s mostly because he can’t think of any swear words that do the situation justice.

They’ll call him the Hero. They’ll say he’s Chosen of Fate. Champion of the Goddess. They’ll cheer him for it without ever quite knowing why.

They’ll say he’s the one who’ll save them all, when he’s the one who’s damned them all.

It must show in his widened eyes, because the man gives him a smile. It’s not a happy smile; it’s hardly even reassuring. But it’s a smile all the same – or what passes for one, with his gimlet eyes.

“I wasn’t the Hero when I drew the Sword,” he says again. “Chances are, neither are you. But you will be. Wouldn’t be Chosen if you weren’t. And you won’t be alone.”

It’s a glimmer of hope in the middle of the fast-encroaching gloom. “You’ll be there with me?”

“No.” the Hero shakes his head. “She will.”

He’s a little too young to remember the late Queen, but he knows that ever since her passing, Princess Zelda has been hoping and praying to unlock her sealing powers, all to no avail. The last time the Calamity came to Hyrule, the legends say, it took great machines and mighty warriors and a Hero of fearless courage and a Princess of peerless wisdom to banish the monster and save the realm. This time around, they’ve got a boy with a sword and a princess with no power.

If possible, Link feels his heart sink even further. It must be lying somewhere around his ankles by now. “The… princess?”

“The Princess,” the Hero confirms. Although he does nothing more than repeat the word, he says it differently, like he means something else. Abruptly, he stands and turns away towards the vines that the forest children had hung up to serve as a makeshift door.

Mister Hero, they had called him. They’d been so happy to see him. Link wonders whether King Rhoam and his knights will be quite so pleased when he returns bearing the blade of evil’s bane, the sword that seals the darkness. But it needs Darkness in order to Seal, and it can’t be a Bane without an Evil.

It’s coming. He’s led it right to them, with nothing but a torch and a trail of sparks.

“Are you –” his voice cracks again, and he has to breathe out sharply and take another breath to collect himself, but he doesn’t dare try to repeat himself. He can only stare at the Hero in mute appeal, but thank Hylia, the Hero seems to understand his unspoken plea.

“You won’t be alone,” he repeats himself. Suddenly, he laughs. His abrupt joviality is perhaps even more disconcerting than his earlier cold manner.

“Word of advice,” he continues, smiling slightly to himself. “It takes some getting used to when you hit your growth spurt.” He looks Link up and down, and his mouth quirks slightly. “If you hit your growth spurt.”

Link can feel the very tips of his pointed ears turn red with mortification, but he can’t bring himself to try and defend himself. He keeps his mouth firmly closed as he watches the Hero walk away. And then he’s left alone, with only the Sword for company.

…

As Revali beats his wings and grows smaller and smaller until he’s just a dot of pale gray against the blue sky, Link has to remind himself that shooting the pompous featherbrain would cause more of a diplomatic incident than the Princess would thank him for. But then again, it’s not like she’s been particularly thankful for anything he’s done so far anyway, so it needn’t be a particularly weighted factor in deciding whether to put an arrow through Revali’s wing. He might be the finest archer in all of Hyrule, but that doesn’t mean he’s anything short of a total prick.

His internal debate is cut short by an external interference, and he stiffens at the sound of someone approaching. As he turns around, he sees a blond Hylian making his way along the wooden path to join him on the platform. He’s dressed simply, in a white tunic and brown-beige pants, and the two of them might be of an age, but he’s a little broader in the shoulders and a little rounder in the face.

There’s a sword strapped to his back, and it makes Link’s head hurt to think about it.

Link eyes the newcomer warily but doesn’t speak, waiting instead for him to start the conversation. He settles down on the edge of the landing with a soft sigh, leaning back on his hands and letting his feet dangle over the edge.

“It’s a nice place they’ve got here,” he says as if he’s speaking to himself, closing his eyes with a contented sigh. There’s a small smile playing about his mouth as he tips his head back to bask in the sunlight. “Kind of like home, you know?”

“No,” Link replies truthfully.

“Well, people are the same everywhere you go.” He tilts his head in the general direction of Vah Medoh. “He seems cool.”

Link doesn’t say anything, but either he needs to get better at controlling his facial expressions or his distaste for the Rito is just so obvious it doesn’t need to be said out loud. Whatever it is that gives him away, surprise, surprise, the other Hylian picks up on it.

“No, really,” he argues, if such a word can be used when his tone is so mild. “Being able to create an updraft like that? I remember a few times when that could have come in handy.”

“He’s proud,” Link says tersely. “He wants the glory.”

The newcomer laughs softly to himself, but frustratingly neglects to share whatever it is he finds so amusing. “Can you blame him?”

He can’t, and that’s the problem. Before he’d drawn the sword, he’d felt the exact same way.

“I knew a guy like that.” The man chuckles again and gives a half-shrug of his shoulders. “He was a total jerk for a while, but he turned out pretty okay on the surface.”

He almost sounds fond as he talks of this guy, but Link will take his morning bath in Hinox piss before he thinks of Revali with anything approaching affection. “Under.”

“Hm?”

“Under the surface.”

The other Hylian frowns as if the words don’t quite add up. “What’s under the surface?”

Link briefly debates whether it’s worth seeking clarification but quickly decides against it. “Never mind.”

The man must not be overly concerned about it either, because he hums placidly and dips one shoulder in an absent-minded shrug. “Well, we worked our differences out in the end, anyhow.”

Somehow, Link doubts that history will repeat itself. The Rito Champion’s ego is as big as his beak. But complaining won’t accomplish anything, and it’s a waste of time and breath to start, so he only grunts noncommittally and turns to look up at the Divine Beast flying above them.

Of course Revali would want the Sword, he thinks bitterly to himself. The birdman’s got hollow bones, it wouldn’t come as a surprise to Link if he had a hollow skull, too. Chances are that all Revali’s got between his ears is a few feathers and a slight breeze passing through.

Does the Rito think Link wanted the Sword? That he was happy to pull it free from the pedestal? Maybe for a moment, perhaps, but he can’t recall any excitement or exhilaration, any pride or self-satisfaction. Whenever he thinks back on that day, all he can remember is the burning heat, the icy chill, exhaustion and pain as he pulled the blade free from its pedestal. The memory is an unpleasant one, but Link thinks of it less often now – not because the passing of time has made it any less vivid in his mind, but because as time passes, more things have started to press on his mind and clamor for his attention. Bokoblins are getting bolder and moblins are getting meaner, and travelers and merchants are getting anxious about spending time on the roads as a result, so the knights are looking to him for inspiration and instruction in how to deal with the nuisances. One of the reports from Akkala mentioned a lynel in the region, so it’s only a matter of time before the message comes from the Citadel requesting the Hero’s assistance. And to top it all off, the Princess is still unable to awaken her sealing power. Well, if Revali wants to deal with all of that, he’s welcome to it. He can be the one chasing after the princess every time she runs off in a fit of pique. He can be the one who’s got to solve every problem in Hebra and Faron and Eldin by yesterday morning. He can be the one everyone stares at.

On second thought, perhaps not. Featherbrain’s full of hot air as it is, but if he blows any more smoke up his own ass, he won’t need that stupid updraft. Although he knows he’s being petty and immature and all those things a Knight and a Champion ought never to be, Link had spotted several octoroks on their way across the Tabantha Great Bridge, and he briefly amuses himself with the thought of attaching an octo balloon or five to the birdman’s leg. He imagines the Rito squawking helplessly as he floats away upside-down, and he can’t help that the thought brings a smile to his face. See how the Rito respond to that masterpiece of aerial techniques.

“You mind if I take a nap?”

“Hm?” Lost in his reverie, Link takes a moment to refocus. “Why would I stop you?”

“Well, I didn’t think you would, but she would.”

Link figures he can take a reasonably educated guess at who he’s talking about. “The Princess?”

“I mean, I just call her Zel, but yeah.” The man smiles somewhat sheepishly. “She just calls me sleepyhead.”

Privately, Link thinks that this Hero’s getting off lightly if that’s all his charge subjected him to. The Princess appears determined to act as if he simply doesn’t exist, and when she is forced to acknowledge his presence, she refuses to refer to him as anything but sir knight. She says the words with the same kind of venom that Mipha saves for lynels and Daruk for sedimentary rocks. Petty and immature it may be, but Link can’t quite help but scoff under his breath.

Apparently, it’s not quite quiet enough, because the blank, expressionless look the other man gives Link still somehow contrives to be slightly reproachful. It irks Link that he’s hardly said two dozen words and yet it already seems that the man has the measure of him.

The man makes himself comfortable where he sits, looping his arm around one of the wooden railings lining the edge of the platform and resting his head against the corner of the fence. “Do the two of you not get on, then?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Link says evasively.

“Well, what would you say, then?” Link just sets his jaw, and after a few moments of stubborn silence, the other man just sighs and shakes his head. “Alright, suit yourself.”

“Weren’t you just about to take a nap?” Link reminds him impatiently.

“I’m getting to it, I’m getting to it,” the man laughs. “You gonna join me?”

“No.”

“Fair enough,” he says agreeably. “Probably don’t want her to catch you snoring.”

“What? That’s not – I don’t –” Link sputters indignantly for a moment, and he has to shut up and shake his head in frustration before he can start over and try and find the right words. “I don’t snore.”

It’s clear from the man’s slightly doubtful smile that he doesn’t believe him for a moment. “Sure, sure.”

This is exactly why Link doesn’t talk to people. “Shut up before I push you off the edge.”

The grin that spreads across his face is downright disbelieving. Link’s still not sure if this even is the Hero, but it’s pretty convincing evidence. He can’t resist a challenge: never has, never will. “Has she done that to you, too?”

“Done what?”

“Pushed you off,” the man elaborates. He looks over the edge of the platform and gives it an appraising glance. “It was a lot higher up than this one, too. Way bigger drop.”

And with that, he folds his arms and closes his eyes, completely uncaring for whatever reaction he’s managed to elicit from Link. Link’s just about made his peace with the idea that an aeons-old, primeval evil is out to kill him; if he’s also got to look out for rogue princesses trying to push him to his death, maybe Revali can have the stupid Sword after all. But before he’s recovered enough to think to ask for answers, the messy-haired young man lets out a loud snore.

Link tries to wake him, but to no avail, and there’s still no answer when the Princess returns in high dudgeon, her examination of the shrine apparently having yielded no results. They are both frustrated and in earnest need of answers, but only one of them is allowed to vent their ire on the other.

The urge to sneak into Revali’s roost and stick an octorok balloon to his leg intensifies.

…

Everyone knows that the desert is scorching in the heat of the day, but what they invariably fail to mention is that it’s absolutely freezing when night falls. You can carry around as many hydromelons as you like, but if you haven’t got a stock of spicy elixirs to go with them, you’ll quickly find yourself in trouble once it hits twenty below freezing. Not only that, but the temperature drops so quickly, you could be scoffing down spicy peppers not five minutes after your last portion of chilly fruits. You have to be constantly on your guard, because everything can change in an instant.

The thought is enough to make Link double-check on the bunch of bananas he’s frying on the open fire. If he leaves them alone for too long, he’ll be left with nothing to show for all his efforts.

And look, Link’s not one for metaphors or similes or any of that other stuff that court poet keeps banging on about, but he knows one when he sees one. Hears one. Fights one. Whatever.

He scowls at the bananas and shakes the skewer a little too roughly. A chunk falls off and drops into the fire, and there’s a slight sputtering sound as the flames struggle to adjust to this unwelcome new arrival.

“Hey, now,” comes a disapproving voice. “That’s a waste of good food.”

Now it’s Link’s turn to let out an undignified sputtering noise. He nearly drops the skewer in the fire before snatching it back, except he grabs the metal stick and it’s hot hot hot, so he has to juggle it back and forth in his hands until he can take hold of the spit at a point where it’s only been warmed by the heat of his hands rather than by the crackling fire.

He glares at the uninvited guest who very nearly cheated him out of a meal. He’s got russet hair and a slightly squashed face. His nose is crooked, like someone landed a good punch at some point in the past and it never quite set right afterwards. The mat Link’s sitting on is threadbare and fraying at the edges and not exactly comfortable, but this man’s taken a seat on the sand without any apparent care for the fact that the damn stuff gets everywhere.

He hasn’t taken a bite out of the lightly-roasted fruit yet, and the man eyes it speculatively. “You gonna eat that?”

Link doesn’t like the plaintive, slightly covetous note in his voice. “Get your own.”

“Can’t blame me for trying,” the man shrugs. He continues, however, to eye up the skewer with more interest than Link cares to see. “You gonna try and stab me if I try and grab it?”

Link gives him a particularly dirty look at that one. The feeling that this is all one giant literary technique only intensifies.

“Alright, alright,” the Hero holds his hands up in apparent acquiescence. “Yeesh. No wonder they ran off.”

They both know who it is he’s talking about, but after all he’s been through today, Link’s not in the mood for shared confidences or coy asides. As delicately as he can manage, he tugs a healthy-sized piece of chopped banana off the skewer, using his teeth and avoiding catching his tongue on the metal. Chewing on the roasted flesh allows him the time to sort through his thoughts as he looks down at his sand-encrusted boots, but his eyes are drawn inexorably back across the desert to the shadowy cluster of buildings that make up the Kara Kara Bazaar.

He's never felt like that before. Never felt such anger, such rage in his life He’s never felt such fear. It was like some sort of chuchu bursting free, like fire tearing through his veins, like electricity buzzing under his skin, like ice chilling his blood and soul. When he had seen her sprawled out on the sand, cringing away from the blade held high above her…

Leaning back against the smooth outer wall of Gerudo Town is enough to ground him. She’s not out on the far side of the oasis anymore. She’s safe in the palace, having returned with Urbosa to the desert settlement as the sun began to set. The last time Link had watched her walk into the town, she hadn’t spared him a backwards glance, but she had been looking behind her all the while as they had passed through the entrance and left him behind at the gates. Before she had followed the Princess into the town, Urbosa had handed him a satchel with a conspiratorial wink. He’d taken one look inside and instantly snapped it shut again. It had been too much to think about after the events of the day.

Maybe he’ll take another look at the veil and the sirwal in the morning, just to see if they fit. But right now, he’s finding it hard to think about anything except the desperate charge across the sand, and the jarring force as the Sword clashed with the sickle’s edge.

“Is it…” he struggles to find the words. “Did you feel it, too?”

“When you saved her? Or when I did?”

Either. Both. Link’s not sure which. “Yes.”

The Hero smiles slightly. His eyes glint in the glow of the firelight, but his face is shadowed in the darkness of the night. It makes the twist of his mouth a little less knowable.

“I knew she was in danger,” he says slowly. Quietly, as if he’s confessing something. “I woke up when I heard her voice, and I knew I had to do something. It was all I could think about.”

“I wasn’t thinking,” Link murmurs a confession of his own. “It was just instinct, to go to her. To seek her out. Is it always like that?”

“You’re the Hero. You’re always like that.”

“Out of control?”

“Brave,” he counters. “And you’d do it for anyone.”

That, Link knows, is true. Or, at least, he’d like for it to be true. If it were Mipha lying there, gasping for air and weak from the heat, nothing would have been able to hold him back. He has enough faith in Daruk or Urbosa to believe that they would be able to handle themselves if they’d found themselves in a similar situation. But would he do it for Revali? The jury’s out.

Not very heroic of him. He should probably do something about that. The people need to know they can trust the Hero; that he’s someone they can put their faith in. It’s just another thing he’ll need to do. Protect the Princess, destroy the Calamity, defend the weak, protect the needy, serve the lowly, inspire the people, reassure the skittish, respect the nobles – and now he has to add making nice with the birdbrain to the list. He closes his eyes and lets his shoulders slump as a sudden wave of exhaustion washes over him.

“Get some rest,” the Hero advises him, evidently mistaking the source of his tiredness. “You won’t be much use to anyone tomorrow if you can’t keep your eyes open.”

Link has to concede his point, not that he likes it. The reason he doesn’t like it is because he’s acutely aware – more now than ever before – that he’ll need to be ready tomorrow. The Princess might be safe enough in Gerudo Town under Urbosa’s watchful eye, but the journey back to Castle Town is miles of desert wasteland and claustrophobic canyon walls, and if Hyrule Field is large enough that it’s easy to see enemies from a distance, that just means it’s also easy for enemies to see you coming. Which only makes it all the harder to protect the Princess when the Yiga can appear from nowhere and vanish in a puff of smoke. He needs to rest now so that his performance tomorrow isn’t hindered by tiredness, but there’s no way he can sleep when his emotions are in such turmoil.

“And there’s not a lot you can do except sleep, because you can’t be much use to her tonight,” the Hero reminds him softly. “She’s safe now.”

She’s safe now, Link thinks to himself. But who knows what tomorrow will bring? “Urbosa can’t watch over her indefinitely. She can’t stay there forever.”

“You have the Sword. You have courage. That’s enough.”

“What if it’s not enough?” Finally, Link summons up all that much-vaunted courage to look the man in the eye and ask the question he’s never dared to ask out loud. “What if I’m not good enough?”

“You were,” the Hero says simply. “You saved her.”

“This time,” Link mutters to himself. But what if it’s not Yiga next time? What if it’s a pack of lizalfos, or a lynel, or worse? What if it’s the returning Calamity they’ve all been waiting for with bated breath and silent dread?

“Every time,” the man says, and shakes his head when Link opens his mouth to argue. “Or will you just leave her to her fate next time?”

He asks the question lightly, but Link’s mind flashes back to that moment when the Princess had fallen. She had been so quiet – breathless from her flight, speechless with terror. She hadn’t screamed for help or cried out for mercy; she had just closed her eyes and surrendered. The Princess had been silent, but something within Link had erupted, howling in rage, screaming in fury. Could he ever have left her to that fate?

His answer must be plain enough to see upon his face, because the Hero offers him a small, satisfied smile.

“You’ll find a way,” he reassures him. “You always do.”

He stands to his feet and spends a good half-minute or so slapping sand off his legs before gesturing vaguely towards the Bazaar. “I’m hungry. You want anything?”

“I’m good,” Link says.

“Alright,” the Hero says easily. “Go bananas.”

Link rolls his eyes and pointedly does not laugh at the terrible pun. The joke’s so bad, in fact, that the bananas have begun to look distinctly unappetizing. That’s not to say that Link’s lost his appetite, though – oh, no, Goddess forbid, it’s just that he’s got something else in mind.

He pulls an apple and a handful of wildberries out of his bag. Then, when he goes digging for some wheat and cane sugar, he decides to add in another generous helping of wildberries, just to be on the safe side. He’s not quite sure how it’ll turn out, but it’s got to be worth a try.

…

Though Ploymus Mountain doesn’t stack up to some of the taller peaks in the Lanayru range, the East Reservoir Lake is still at an altitude that means the temperature drops quickly once the sun begins to set. It’s not that warm to begin with, but by sundown, it’s getting decidedly chilly.

There’s no danger of frostbite or anything drastic like that, but Link figures there’s no harm in keeping his circulation going all the same. He flexes his arm a couple of times and turns his wrist this way and that, but he needn’t bother; Mipha is an outstanding healer. There might never have been a wound in the first place; the skin is unbroken, pristine. He stares contemplatively at the limb – skin and flesh, muscles and ligaments, cords and tendons, born and destined to shield a Princess and strike down her foes – and for a few moments, the only sound to disturb the stillness is the water quietly lapping against the shore.

Link’s getting used to the sound of measured footfalls by now. This time, he doesn’t bother turning around to see the approaching figure. He knows he’s here, and he knows he knows. Who is he? Who knows. Hylia knows he doesn’t. Hopefully Hylia knows, because he sure doesn’t.

Goddess, he’s babbling like Princess Zelda did after Urbosa slipped her a Noble Pursuit at the King’s birthday celebrations. It’s probably a good thing he’s so used to keeping his mouth shut. He gives himself a mental shake and finally turns around to take a look at the man who’s been standing there and waiting for him to acknowledge him.

The Hero’s armor is polished to a burnished shine, and it seems to glow in the dim light thrown up by the luminous stones the Zora use to light their way. It’s different to the plate metal Link’s father wears on duty; no crest or engravings of Hyrule’s Royal Family are marked on the breast. His thick blonde hair hangs around his thin face, and his blue eyes glint and flash even in the gloom and shadows of the dusk. There might only be a couple of years difference between the two of them, but there’s a slump to the man’s shoulders and a hardness to his eyes and his jaw that make him seem so much older.

“Seemed pretty cozy up there, just the two of you,” he says without any preamble. “That something old, or something new?”

The first thing that comes to mind is to tell him it’s none of his business, but Link refrains all the same. Silence is a hard habit to break these days; the sword weighs heavy on his back and on his mind. The other man doesn’t seem to be put off by his silence. He has his hands shoved into his pockets as he looks out at the East Reservoir Lake with what could be interest or boredom.

“She’s my friend,” Link says, once he finds his voice. “We were children together.”

“Childhood sweetheart, huh?”

The words come out with a hint of mockery, and Link can feel his hackles rising. “That’s not your concern.”

“Seems to me like she was the one with concerns.” His companion lets out a light scoff that practically drips with disdain. “Heart was bleeding worse than you were.”

Of course Mipha’s got concerns, Link thinks furiously to himself. She cares for him, she always has, she’s got the kindest heart of anyone he’s ever met. She’s been his best friend since he was four, and she’s too compassionate, too generous, too good to deserve anyone talking down on her behind her back.

Hero or not, if he keeps talking about her like that, Link’s going to swing for him. “I’m not talking about this with you.”

The Hero doesn’t scoff this time – instead, he lets out a loud bark of a laugh. “Who else you gonna talk to, huh?”

His smirk is sly, and Link turns his head away so he isn’t tempted to throw something at his stupid know-it-all face. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. And it’s stupid, anyway. He carries the Sword that seals the darkness. There are bigger things to worry about than romance. The Hero has a duty, and he can’t afford to be distracted. Can’t be seen to be distracted. Some days, it seems like he can’t put one foot in front of the other without holding his breath.

Is this the moment the Calamity returns? Is this the moment the Calamity returns? Is this the moment the Calamity returns? Will I be ready? Will she be ready? Will we be ready?

The worst part is that the bastard’s right. It’s not like Link can talk to anyone about this sort of thing. Can’t exactly talk to Daruk about romance, Urbosa likes playing matchmaker too much to stay objective, and he’d rather shave his balls with the Master Sword than ask Revali for advice. And as for Princess Zelda… no, he’s not even going to think about going there.

So, no, he can’t talk to anyone. All he can do is the same thing he’s been doing since he was announced as the Hero: do nothing, and do it quietly. The desire to act – to do something, anything – is almost overpowering. He scowls out across the reservoir lake, struck with the irrational urge to go and find a rock so he can throw it into the water, for no other reason than because he wants to.

In his mind’s eye, he can see it: the stone would be heavy, and it would make a satisfying splash upon impact – it might even send out a spray of droplets that would pitter-patter down like rain – but then the story plays itself out, and Link sees how the stone quickly sinks without trace, and how all he’s managed to achieve with his childish outburst is to get his tunic soaked. He’s itching to find a physical outlet for his frustrations, and his hand twitches towards the hilt of the Sword. But the only other person here whom he can challenge to a sparring bout is the Hero, and Link’s still no good with metaphors, but even he can figure that one out.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Throughout his emotional turmoil, the Hero has remained silent, but he’s been watching Link carefully the whole time. It puts Link in mind of a hunter watching its prey, and it’s not a comparison that sets his mind at ease.

But it’s like he said – who else is he going to talk to?

“She wants to spend some time together. Once this whole thing is over.” He tries very hard not to think about either part of that scenario. “Like we did when we were young.”

“And how’s about you?”

Link shrugs, a jerking motion that makes the Sword rise and fall uncomfortably over his shoulder. “It’s nice to have a friend.”

“I had a friend, once,” the man says quietly. “Childhood sweetheart, much like you an’ yours. Weren’t never quite the same, after.”

“What changed?”

“What do you think changed?” he asks, but it doesn’t sound like a question. “Changes you, don’t it? Ain’t the same as what it was, ‘cause you ain’t the same, neither.”

“We’re not the same, either.”

The Hero smiles, but it’s a sharp, glinting thing with no joy in it. “Yes, we are.”

Link rounds on him, his burgeoning temper suddenly snapping like a frayed cord. “I’m not like you.”

The man lets out an impatient tch and half-throws his hands up in the air in an exasperation he most certainly doesn’t deserve to feel. “Kid, what’s that Sword doing on your back if you ain’t?”

Link’s suddenly itching to wipe that smirk off the man’s face. He wants to throw a punch, drive his fist into the man’s jaw and feel flesh and bone give way under his knuckles. He’s right-handed, but for some reason he wants to do it with his left – maybe because he’s still unconsciously favoring that side, even after Mipha’s healed him, or maybe because the Hero shouldn’t have a dominant hand. The Hero can’t have a weaker side. The Hero needs to be perfect.

Hylia, even here, when it’s just the two of them, it never goes away.

He pulls his fingers into a tight fist and clenches his hand until his knuckles are sore. The discomfort is enough to ground him and pull him back from the edge. He doesn’t let himself get this agitated, but there’s something about this Hero, the taunts and the goads and the constant knowing mockery, that makes him feel a little crazy. Makes him go a little wild.

“Way I see it, you’ve got two choices,” the Hero says. His tunic rustles as he lifts his hand to show two outstretched fingers, and the motion sends a strange scent wafting into Link’s face. He can’t place it, but it reminds him of a place – if that even makes sense. Tabantha, maybe, or Hebra. Akkala?

“Door nummer one,” the man continues. “You got the Sword, but maybe you got scared, too. But you got your friends and your Princess, too. So you go out and fight anyways. That’s what courage is all about.

“And then you got door nummer two –” he doesn’t allow Link to speak, but it’s not like Link had much to say in response to that anyway – “where you still get scared, but this time it gets bad enough that you don’t want to fight.”

“Who says I have to be afraid?” Link challenges him. “Why can’t I just be brave? No fear, just courage?”

“I ain’t give you no third door, dumbass,” the man answers derisively. “We all get scared, that ain’t gonna change with you. We all get scared, we just all pick the first door anyways. Is that gonna change with you?”

Link grits his teeth. Are those his only options? Fight the Calamity with fear sapping his strength, terror clouding his mind and dread dulling his senses – or flee? Why are those his only choices?

A wolf howls in the distance, and Link looks up in confusion: they don’t get many wolves in Zora’s Domain, or even the wider Lanayru region, and the sound is incongruous enough to cut through the tumult running through his mind. Lynels are starting to encroach on Eldin, and now wolves are making themselves known in the Great Spring. Is this another of those omens Princess Zelda had been so worried about?

By the time he’s turned back to his companion, the Hero is nowhere to be seen.

…

Link can – Link will never admit it, but he’s just as eager to get out of Hyrule Castle as Zelda is. He’s just better at hiding it, that’s all. He’s packed and ready to set off for the Spring of Courage before the day has broken, and when she opens her door to step out into the corridor, he’s already waiting for her. Her eyes brighten at the sight of him, and he offers a small, conspiratorial smile in return.

They make their way through the castle in silence, with the Princess leading the way and her sworn knight three steps behind. The hierarchy is familiar and reassuring: the Princess commands the Hero and the Hero goes to fight the enemy and the enemy is defeated and all is as it should be. The people see the Hero’s loyalty to the Crown, and they know that the Kingdom is in safe hands. But in order for the people to see this sort of thing, they have to see Link. Which means that everywhere he goes, he has to wear that Goddess-damned blue tunic.  Everywhere he goes, he has to carry the Sword. Everywhere he goes, the whispers follow him, and their watching eyes seem to weigh heavier on his back than the Sword ever could. The finest swordsman of his age, born and bred to be a Knight, the pride of Hateno. Sure, there’s an evil on its way, but if anyone’s up to the task, it’s the Hero. Wouldn’t have the Sword if he wasn’t, would he?

A maid curtseys as Zelda passes by, and keeps her eyes downcast as Link follows along. A minister mumbles a distracted good morning to the Princess, but his eyes widen at the sight of the Master Sword and he steps out of the way with a hasty apology. Two ladies who made spectacles of themselves at the last royal ball fall silent as they approach, but Link can hear them begin to confer in hushed whispers as soon as they think he’s out of earshot. It doesn’t take much wisdom to figure out what they were talking about. He wants to take a swing at every snide baron and earl and moron with a title who hides their scorn behind smiles. All the gossipmongers and naysayers who spend their time speculating as to why the Princess is yet to unlock her sealing power. Of course, not one of them has yet provided any helpful advice or a solution to the Princess’ troubles, but why would they? It’s much easier to criticize than it is to offer guidance.

Of course, it’s much easier when they’re not the ones who have to endure the whispers and the disapproving looks. They’re not the ones who have to stand in freezing water and pray and pray and pray for hours on end. No wonder Zelda keeps her chin up and her eyes forward and doesn’t speak to anyone unless it’s absolutely necessary. Her fingers are gripping the Sheikah Slate so tightly, he’s surprised it hasn’t snapped. The weapons the Sheikah have been testing for the Royal Guards aren’t nearly as durable.

There’s a guardsman standing to attention and keeping watch by the entrance to the dining hall, and a small boy leaning against the wall and idly scuffing up his boots. The guardsman salutes the Princess as she walks past and exchanges a nod with her faithful attendant. The boy just pushes himself off the wall and falls into step beside Link. He’s wearing simple cotton pants and a blue tunic, and Link knows it’s not a competition, but he likes to think he pulls off the blue a little better than this one does.

The thick red carpet muffles the kid’s footsteps, but he still manages to make a surprising amount of noise as he ambles along with them. He’s whistling a jaunty tune and he doesn’t seem to know quite what to do with his hands, either scratching his ear or thumbing his nose or pulling his green cap off to smooth his shock of yellow hair back down into some semblance of order. Link rather suspects he’s fighting a losing battle on that front.

The first time Link’s father had brought him along to the castle, Link had spent the entire time looking around in wonder. Whether it was the framed masterpieces hanging on the walls or the high-vaulted ceilings, everything had seemed so regal, so majestic, so impossibly grand. But it appears that this newcomer is unfazed by all of that. In fact, he seems remarkably uninterested in all the trappings and finery: his large, catlike eyes follow Zelda all the while.

“She doesn’t act much like a princess, does she?” he observes, his eyes alight with interest.

Despite himself, Link can’t help but bristle. Zelda is stubborn and impetuous and determined and persistent and smarter than anyone else he knows, and if that’s unbecoming of a princess, then he thinks princesses could stand to be a bit more like Zelda. The boy heeds the warning look in his eyes and smiles sheepishly in apology.

“It’s not a bad thing,” he says placatingly. “Mine doesn’t, either. Actually, I think I like her better that way. She gets really creative when she swears.”

Despite himself, Link has to wonder what creative swearing entails. For the most part, his cussing is rather limited – beyond your basic four-letter standards, he’s never really ventured beyond the Din damn it and the Farore’s teeth variety. Occasionally, he’ll let loose a Nayru’s hips – or, if the situation is particularly vexing, perhaps he’ll call upon some other part of the goddess – but he’s not exactly what you’d call creative when it comes to swearing. He doesn’t have a way with words like the Sheikah poet at court, although Link could probably think of a word or two to describe that particular smug bastard.

He's got absolutely no doubt that Zelda’s creative enough to come up with all manner of amusing profanities. The thought makes him want to laugh, but he squashes the smile down before it can appear on his face. He’s got a job to do and a duty to uphold, and grinning like a loon comes under neither of those headings.

“And it’s not like she has to act like a princess, anyway,” the boy continues. “I mean, she can act how she wants to act and she’ll be acting like a princess, ‘cause she is the princess. You know?”

Link frowns slightly as he tries to make sense of his argument, but he’s spent enough time around Zelda, Purah and Robbie at the Royal Tech Lab that he’s gotten quite adept at making sense of such convoluted sentences.

The boy sticks his finger in his ear and wiggles it about, apparently unbothered by Link’s silence. “Pretty cool that you got the sword back, though.”

Link shoots him a sharp look, and he holds his hands up.

“I didn’t lose it.” he sounds a bit too defensive to sound entirely convincing. “I know where it is, I just can’t get it.”

That still sounds a lot like lost to Link. He grimaces doubtfully.                                                           

“Look, that’s not the point, alright?” the boy mutters. “The point is that we beat him. I stabbed him with the Sword and turned him to stone, but then the boat guy flooded the whole kingdom, so it’s kind of hard to go back and get it right now when there’s a whole new sea sitting on top of it.”

Link has about a million questions right now, but he’s had enough dealings with these Heroes to know that they aren’t always forthcoming with answers. So instead of asking about the boat guy, or about exactly how the Sword that was last seen lying at the bottom of the ocean came to rest in the Lost Woods, he elects to focus on the other part of the Hero’s story.

They beat him. Link allows himself to be cheered by the thought. The Sword has sealed the darkness before. Surely it can do it again. The Hero and the Princess have defeated the Calamity before, once, twice, a hundred times.

The castle town is still waking up and getting ready for another day’s trading as Link follows Zelda through the gates and down into the central square. The boy lets out an ooh! sound and makes a beeline for a farmer from Holodrum who’s trying to sell the castle town on the various virtues of bacon. A few of the regular merchants greet them respectfully, but most of them just stand and stare. Link ignores them as best he can and hopes that none of them will approach him and ask if he can show them the Sword – or worse, strike up a conversation. He keeps his eyes forward and tries not to make eye contact with anyone. He is the Princess’ appointed knight, and he never lets her out of his sight. It’s safer for both of them that way: Zelda doesn’t have to worry about Yiga, and Link doesn’t have to worry about chatterboxes.

Thankfully, the Hero of Hyrule has acquired enough of a reputation for unsociability that people rarely trouble Link anymore. A squeaky-voiced Hateno kid who wasn’t even old enough to go drinking with the rest of the knights wasn’t exactly the stuff of legend, so Link had quickly learnt to let the Sword do the talking. It was less likely to break than his voice.

It’s only when they finally make it through the marketplace and get out onto the main road that Link allows himself to relax. Zelda knows this by now, and she keeps looking back at him as they head southeast across Hyrule Field. The first time she looks over her shoulder is nothing more than a knowing glance, but the further they walk and the further the sounds of the town fade away behind them, the more frequent and more obvious her little looks become. By the time they’re half a mile beyond the walls of the castle town, she’s outright rolling her eyes at him and her patience is clearly wearing thin. Link holds his head up and his shoulders back until she gives him a particularly dirty glare, at which point he can’t help but laugh.

Zelda smiles at the sound, and she practically skips back to join him so they can walk on, side by side.