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Chapter Text

Twilight's world turns to water in the span of a blink. One moment he'd been standing on solid ground, mid-retort with Warriors as he stepped through the next portal with Epona's lead in hand, and the next he was falling, nothing at all beneath his feet.

Don't panic.

A swift kick and a single one-armed stroke brings him back to the surface; every child of Ordon knows how to swim, just in case. The water is greedy echoes in his ears, filling in the muffled silence of the underwater world. As his head leaves the water, blinding sunlight burns his eyes and proper sound returns: his traveling companions are gasping, coughing, or in Wild and Sky's cases, steadying the weaker swimmers and offering calm reassurance. They have it handled.

Epona, on the other hand, is audibly distressed, though she's mostly stopped flailing, and he turns his attention to calming her. She’s been trained to swim in water deep enough she can’t touch the bottom, but being dropped in without warning has scared her badly; he can see the ring of white in her wide eyes from here. As he starts swimming towards her, her ears flick wildly and she twists her head to face him. The trust she has in him is heartwarming even in these harsh conditions, as she starts to settle the moment she realizes he’s there.

He considers the packs lashed to her back, but decides to leave them for now—they don't seem to be actively hindering her, and he's reluctant to abandon a large chunk of their gear and supplies before even properly assessing the situation. He can always revisit that decision in a few minutes, once they've had a chance to examine their surroundings and hash out a plan.

"Where's Time?"

The shout echoes over the water and lodges in his chest like a stone, threatening to pull him under. The water is greedy. He twists back to the group, counting heads as he goes: Wild, Four, Hyrule, Legend, Warriors, Sky. Six. Time is nowhere to be seen. Time, who had stepped onto all-but-bottomless water just like the rest of them and been pulled under. Time, who apparently hasn't resurfaced.

Time, who wears a full set of plate armor that weighs almost as much as Four does.

He has only a moment to meet Sky's horrified stare before something blurs between them too quick to see, vanishing beneath the water with barely a sound. Movement below the surface draws his eye, a vague shape rapidly descending and fading from sight. A person? No-one would dive in without confidence in their own skill, but still all he can think is the water is greedy.

"Ahoy below!"

A ship drifts on a line in the water some fifteen, twenty meters out. He has no idea how he didn't see it before, with the size of it—at a guess, maybe forty meters long, with a mast taller than some trees and sails big enough to make a tent out of—but doesn't have long to ponder it, as his attention is caught by the small girl who'd called out to them, leaning over the railing some three or four meters up and waving as if they might not see her.

"Best be swimmin' this 'ere way, fishies! Yer buddy be in the best 'ands there be, so ye get yerself t'the hull now."

She vanishes back over the railing and Twilight hesitates, looking down to the water again. He can't see anything now, no movement at all, but knowing Time is down there somewhere and he's doing nothing to help—

There's nothing he can do to help. Not that isn't already being done. But to not even try leaves a foul taste in his mouth and a lingering sourness in his gut.

“Twilight, come on,” Sky says, his usually-soft voice now threaded with iron.

It draws Twilight out of his mind and back to the present. Hadn’t Sky just been with Hyrule, though? How long has Twilight been distracted, if Sky had time to swim over to him without him even noticing?

Sky grabs his shoulder, pulling at him as much as he can when they’re both floating. Behind Twilight, Epona tosses her head—she’s always been protective of him, especially when she’s frightened herself—and Sky flinches back before tugging on his arm again.

“Someone who lives here has a much better idea of what to do now than we do,” he insists, his hand tightening on Twilight’s arm, “and you’re the only one who can manage Epona right now.” 

He shakes himself free from indecision and starts swimming for the ship, careful to keep right by Epona's head as he leads her with him. Most of the others are already headed that direction, slowly, with Wild assisting Hyrule and Four. As they get close, the girl reappears with something bundled in her arms. She dumps it over the rail and it unrolls, slapping against the side of the ship—a ladder, narrow rungs connected by chain.

"Now 'old a glass, me goodly culls," she calls apologetically as it drops. "Poor chance t'have a body 'alf up the line when 'e breaks the surf."

He thinks she’s asking them to wait, so they don’t cause a delay in getting Time out of the water. Maybe? Her accent and phrasing are like nothing Twilight has heard before. But there isn’t time to ask for clarification, or even puzzle over it himself, because almost as she stops speaking there's a splash and a gasp as whoever dove in before reappears, hauling Time and moving fast. He looks like he has no trouble at all dragging Time with him, despite the full set of armor the man still wears, and swims straight for the ladder without looking, as if he'd known it would be down by now. Perhaps he had—he and the girl were both on the same ship. He hadn't heard any voices before the girl had called out to them, but he also wasn't exactly listening.

The swimmer doesn't slow down a bit as he approaches the ship, all but slamming into the side. As he does, he seizes the ladder and scales one-handed up the side nearly without pause as he steadies Time—alarmingly still—over his shoulder with the other. As he hauls himself out of the water, it becomes clear just how small he is; he looks tiny next to Time's bulk, probably somewhere in between Four and Hyrule in size. And yet he moves like he's carrying nothing, practically flying up the side of the ship and vanishing over the rail in mere moments.

The girl peeks over the rail again, having stepped back when the boy reached the ladder, and waves them on.

"Ye gents come—" she pauses, wincing, as a wordless snarl and a metallic clang echo from behind her (it sounds like the boy has thrown a piece of Time's armor across the deck), then carries on as if nothing happened, "—come aboard now, but ye can't be interruptin', ye hear?"

Wild is the first to move, helping Four to the ladder and hovering behind him until he's well out of the water before doubling back to help Sky with Hyrule. Twilight watches Four like a hawk for the entire ascent, absently stroking Epona's neck beneath the water to soothe her. There's nothing he can do, but just watching quiets some of the worry in the back of his mind.

"Hoy, the back!" the girl calls. A long moment passes, then she huffs. "A little 'elp 'ere, gents?"

"Do you mean—his name's Twilight."

Twilight snaps to attention as he hears his name, looking up and around to see who's calling him.

The girl holds his gaze, grinning down at him. "There be ye! While these fishies be sheddin' their fins, ye an' I needs figurin' out 'ow t'get yer beastie there out o' the water, aye?" Without breaking eye contact, she reaches out a hand to help Four over the railing.

She moves away from the ladder to keep from blocking the way, but pauses as Four gets to his feet. The smallest hero looks to the center of the ship—looks to where Time and the boy must be—and makes a stricken sound, leaning forward as if to approach. The girl grabs his arm, bracing herself to block his path.

"What is he—"

There's something cracked and horrified in his voice, and Twilight bites back a strangled sound. Something terrible must be happening on the deck to so thoroughly disturb their usually-unflappable youngest, and context says that something terrible must involve Time.

"Workin'," the girl snaps back, the first sharp word from her. "Tryin' t'save yer pal's life, aye? An' ye ain’t be interruptin' or I boot ye belowdecks 'til all be done, mind ye! Now sit down an' give yer culls an ‘and up t’the deck, I got work t'do."

Having said her piece, she follows the railing along to near the front of the ship, waving for Twilight to move with her. "Now be ‘ere the plan, gent! Be lettin' down the tender"—she pauses, noticing his confusion—"er, the little boat there, ye see? That. I be lettin' that down, but ain’t be releasin' it; ain’t no need t’let it go floatin’ off. We want yer beastie up on that if not the deck proper. Then—"

She's cut off by another shout, the first real words they've heard from the boy.

"Come on, ye blasted laggard! Dun be ye tryin’ me today!"

She glances back over her shoulder, winces, and looks back at Twilight with a slightly thinner smile and less light in her eyes.

"What's—"

"Nothin' what as be ye able t'help with, gent, so keep yer focus on yer beastie there. Be goin' t'let the tender down now, aye? Dun be ye goin' anywhere." As she steps back from the rail, a sharp crack snaps through the air: the unmistakable sound of breaking bone. She whips around and disappears from sight, leaving him with no indication at all what's happening as Wild lets out a distraught cry and a dull thud shivers through the ship.

"Thank ye fer yer 'elp there, gent!" the girl huffs, audibly winded and thoroughly unimpressed.

"We were told not to interfere, Wild," Warriors scolds, firm but underscored with fright.

Twilight's heart sinks, worry spiking as that makes three of his seven companions disturbed by whatever is happening on deck. He can't quite bring himself to blame them, if it's leading to broken bones.

"He's hurting—"

"An' if ye interrupt yer pal be dead, so keep yerself still!" the girl snaps. A few moments later, a loud splash signals the small boat hitting the water's surface. It's still attached to the chains it dropped down on, one hooked to the front and one to the back, which join together some two meters above the connections points, and the resulting single chain attaches to something he can't see up on the deck.

Before he has a chance to respond, a new sound draws his attention back up to the railing, just in time to see the girl grab onto the chain and start to shimmy down, supporting her weight completely with her arms and holding a bucket between her knees.

He doesn't dare breathe until her toes touch wood.

She glances up and sees him watching, and whatever she reads on his face makes her smile faintly as she settles into the little boat. "Well? What be ye waitin' fer, a written invitation?"

He shakes himself out of his stupor and swims for the boat, holding onto the side to support himself as he checks on Epona. She hasn't started flagging yet, but that probably won't last much longer, especially with all of the packs she's still carrying.

"Alrighty gent, be here the rest o' the plan, aye? Ye an' I, be we floodin' this 'ere tender; so long as we dun undo the chains, it ain't be goin' nowhere, an' if we get it low enough yer beastie oughta be able t'swim right in. Then we just be needin' t'haul it back t'the surface an' bail it out again. Aye?"

He goes over what she said twice before it starts to make sense, but ultimately agrees. It's not like he has any better ideas.

"Then 'elp me out, won't ye?" So saying, she plants one foot on the side of the little boat and starts leaning her weight on it while it tips. It strikes him as horrifically unsafe, the water is greedy echoing in his head on loop, but she meets his gaze and frowns, and he grabs onto the same edge she's standing on and leans his weight against it. Even with the water mostly supporting him, it's enough when combined with her weight and they manage to tip it until water starts pouring in.

When she finally steps back Twilight follows her lead, and as the boat evens out again she's nearly calf-deep in water. She holds his gaze and grins as the boat continues to sink and she sinks with it, and the water creeps up to her knees, then her waist, then halfway up her chest. Then she's treading water, even with him, and her cheer never falters as she grabs onto the chain again and pulls herself up to sit where the chains split, treating them almost like a chair.

"Now be ye checkin' t'see if yer beastie be able t'swim into the space above the tender, aye?"

He shakes himself out of the stupor caused by watching a small girl haul herself around both in and out of the water like it takes no effort at all and coaxes Epona forward, between the chains. As it turns out, the boat is near the perfect depth—low enough for her to be able to pass over the sides, but high enough that once she's above it she's finally able to stand instead of swim.

A second crack of breaking bone makes him flinch badly enough to startle Epona. "Sorry girl," he murmurs, stroking her neck in an attempt to soothe her.

He forces himself not to dwell on whatever is happening up on that ship. It's a good thing. It has to be a good thing, even if everything he's hearing and everything he's seeing from the reactions of his traveling companions suggests otherwise. Because if it isn't… if it isn't, there is no good outcome. And he can't go down that road when he still needs to function in the immediate future.

Time will be fine.

It's a belief he has to hold onto as truth, accurate or not. The water is greedy and Time will be fine.

"Hoy, gent, be ye in there still?"

He shakes himself free of thought and looks back up at the girl. Once he meets her gaze, she drops the bucket she's still holding down to him.

"Now, me gent, I be headin' back up t'the deck t'wrangle some muscle what be able t'help pull the tender back up. Be it yer job t'bail out the water once the sides be back above the waterline, aye?"

He agrees, and settles in to wait as she crawls back up the chain. Her voice rings out over the water as she speaks to the others up on deck, and it's not long before she calls a warning down to him. The chains begin to rise, pulling the boat up with them inch by creeping inch; once the very top of the boat is entirely out of the water, he begins the tedious—but simple—task of emptying out the water it holds, one bucketful at a time. He doesn't know how long he spends mindlessly filling and emptying the bucket, focusing on nothing but the repetitive, thoughtless motion, but eventually it's done and he's able to coax Epona to kneel and rest, stripping off the bags and her tack. Exhausted as she is, she seems content enough to stay perfectly still once he gets her down on her knees.

"You got her settled?"

It's not the girl who called down to him. It's Four, shaky but still moving, peering over the railing at him. He must be who the girl roped in for help; a good choice. He calls back an affirmative.

"Good!" This time it is the girl. He really needs to get her name at some point. "Then get ye up 'ere, aye?"

He takes a moment to breathe, then swims back an arm’s length from the little boat, keeping a careful eye on Epona. She lifts her head for a moment, watching him go, but quickly settles back down to rest. She should be fine, at least for a little bit.

Rather than try to climb the chains like some kind of water-monkey, he makes for the ladder still hanging over the side of the ship, bracing himself for the challenge of climbing while soaking wet and exhausted. As he expected, the moment he hauls himself out of the water his own weight threatens to drag him down, weary muscles aching, and he wants nothing more than to sink back down and let the water hold him up.

It's a trick, a trap, the ever-greedy water trying to claim another life. He clenches his jaw and ignores it, dragging himself up one rung at a time. As he reaches the top, three pairs of hands stretch over the rail to him, catching hold of his arms and the back of his tunic, and he's pulled up over the edge with almost no input of his own, all but collapsing onto the wooden surface as he's released. For a moment, he simply lies still where he landed, but all at once it hits him.

Time.

He jolts back up, scanning the deck, and his heart nearly stops. Time is pale and still on the wood, laid out on his back, and his chestplate (and his chestplate alone) has been removed. The reason why is obvious: the boy, kneeling at his side, both hands braced against Time's chest as he presses down again and again. Those remembered cracks resolve themselves as broken ribs, and something inside of Twilight cracks as well.

The boy's eyes flicker up for half a moment, taking in Twilight's presence, though his movements don't stutter in the slightest. Instead he takes in a ragged breath and shouts again, as if he thinks it would have any effect. "This ain't no time t'be slouchin', slugabed, yer company be waitin'!"

The girl drops to sit at Twilight's side and grabs his upper arm, like she thinks he's going to attack the boy. He can't blame her, if she's already had to stop Four and Wild. But he isn't sure he would dare even if he had the energy to move. There's nothing he can do to help, so interfering… it would mean accepting Time is dead and gone.

He won't do that.

He can't do that. He isn't sure he'd survive it. Not deep beneath his skin, not in the hidden corners of his heart and mind where the core of him dwells. If Time dies, so too does a piece of Twilight; the hero in him would continue on to fight monsters and save the innocent, but the man might just break beyond repair.

He just got Time back. He can't lose him again, not so soon.

"It be brutal, I know, but it can work," the girl tells him quietly, pulling his weary mind from the tattered depths of terrified speculation. No-one seems to be able to take their eyes off the pair now that there's nothing urgent calling them to immediate action. "Keep the blood movin', keep air in the lungs, an' sometimes… sometimes it be enough."

The boy pivots slightly, takes a breath, and exhales hard into Time's mouth. Forcing air into his lungs, Twilight realizes dully, the girl's words echoing in his head as the boy repeats his breath and pivots back to start pressing on Time's chest again. He loses track of how many times the boy cycles through that pattern, couldn't begin to guess how many minutes he's sat and stared.

Then the impossible happens, and Time starts to cough.

The boy lets out a victorious cry, but doesn't stop. If anything, he redoubles his efforts, abandoning his breaths to keep pressing on Time's chest as he works through Time's coughs and gasps. He doesn't stop until Time moves, one hand coming up to push him away. It's a weak motion, the boy who'd hauled Time around so easily before clearly allowing himself to be nudged back, but it's motion.

Twilight doesn't dare look away, or even blink, just in case the illusion shatters and reality pours back in through the cracks. The shine of sunlight reflecting off of Time’s remaining armor makes looking at him painful, but he doesn’t dare close his eyes.

"There be ye!" the boy crows, delight and exhaustion blending in his voice, and he slumps down where he sits, bracing himself against the deck with one arm as he carefully prods Time into lying on his side with the other. "There be ye," he repeats, softer this time, "an' a fair mornin' t'ye, ye sluggard."

Time shifts slightly, like he's trying to get up or look around, and the boy pushes against his shoulder to keep him down.

"Rest ye easy, me cully, dun be stressin' yerself again just yet. Yer crew be safe an' accounted fer, so rest ye easy."

Twilight doesn't know how long Time and the boy stay collapsed on the deck, only that it isn't terribly long in the grand scheme of things. Long enough for the sun to warm his skin, but not so long it begins to burn. It doesn't particularly matter how long, he supposes, only that in the end, the boy whose name Twilight still doesn't know shoves himself back to his feet with notable weariness, trying to smother a groan that Twilight still hears the faintest echoes of. He extends a hand to help Time up as well, and the relief that crashes into him as Time moves to take the boy's hand is so strong he can't breathe.

"On yer feet now, me 'earty cull, less ye be wantin' me t'carry ye," the boy says, clearly teasing but with something deathly serious lining the corners of his smile.

"Where…" Time begins as the boy pulls him to his feet, only for his words to vanish under a pained gasp as he presses his free hand to his chest. The boy clicks his tongue disapprovingly and grabs Time's wrist, pulling carefully until Time lets his arm be brought back to his side.

"Ye be on me ship, the Watchman's Shadow, at current anchored in the southerly-west corner o' the five-five," the boy says once he's satisfied, answering Time's unfinished question. "Presently, ye be goin' belowdecks t'the cabin what fer ye t'dry off an' get some rest, aye?"

It's painfully clear just how little of that explanation Time actually managed to process, judging by his dazed expression. Twilight has never seen him look so out of it. Though Twilight can't exactly blame him for not following the explanation, since all he got from it is that the boy is taking Time somewhere better suited for rest. The boy is—taking Time somewhere else, and the idea of losing sight of him again sparks white-hot alarm in the pit of his chest.

He rolls to his feet before he's even processed he's moved. "I'm coming with you."

The boy stops abruptly, twisting his head to look at Twilight without moving his body where he's supporting Time, and there's something chilly in his eyes as he assesses Twilight—assesses him, and finds him lacking. "No ye ain't," he replies, firm but not sharp, and turns back to his task.

The part of Twilight that is truly a wolf—that is wild and untamed and vicious— growls at the thought of being separated from a wounded packmate, a rumbling he feels deep in his chest. It colors his words when he speaks, utterly unpreventable. "What do you mean, 'I'm not'?" he demands, taking a few steps towards them.

The girl scrambles to her feet behind him and darts forward to grab his hand, and all at once he freezes in place, feet all but locked to the ground. He's strong enough her weight is negligible, but if he keeps moving forward she'll be dragged off her feet. She might fall. She has no part in this, so he settles into reluctant stillness, holding his ground.

"I mean," the boy retorts without looking back, "that ye ain't be comin' belowdecks yet. Dun need ye underfoot while I be workin', I dun."

"I believe he's worried about leaving our badly-injured friend alone with a stranger," Warriors says mildly, no hint of reproach in either direction coloring his tone as he cuts into the conversation.

It's  a good thing he interrupted, Twilight doesn't even need the benefit of hindsight to see that; he doesn't know what he was about to say, no words formed in his mind or on his tongue, but the ugly, frightened, threatening rumble of his wolf would have colored whatever it was until it came out sharp enough to start a fight.

Something in Twilight's chest twists at the reminder of Time's condition, a visceral response that leaves him fighting back a gasp. Warriors' assumption isn't quite correct, he knows the boy means no harm; no-one would put that much work into saving someone just to turn around and hurt them. It's the separation, the not knowing, the idea of his pack leader injured and Twilight isn't there to help. But he doesn't get a chance to say any of that, because the boy is already laughing, sharp and bitter.

"Oh, that be it, aye?" he scoffs, and Twilight wants to protest but the boy doesn't stop for a moment. "Then perhaps ye care t'remember I be the lone cause fer 'im only bein' badly-injured, me dainty lad."

"I know—" Twilight begins, uncaring if he's speaking over the boy, but the boy doesn't stop.

"Dun be ye an' ye alone takin' risks, asides, or be I not leavin' ye lot up 'ere with me sister o' twelve?"

Reality shatters like broken glass (like a mirror, scattered on the wind, carrying the shards of hope and trust in its wake) and the girl squeezes his wrist, just gently. He looks down at her like someone else is turning his head, studying her features; she stares back at him, not with understanding but with kindness, and when she blinks it breaks the spell holding him in place.

He looks back up at the boy. Same hair. Same eyes. The two of them out here alone, no-one else in sight.

He reassesses the situation. The boy is a pack leader in his own right, he can see it now in that hard, challenging stare. It doesn't do much to settle his nerves, but if the boy can trust them with his little sister, he can force himself to trust the boy with Time. He imagines leaving Beth alone with a bunch of strange men, even if he wouldn't be far, and shudders despite himself, dismissing that thought before it can properly agitate him.

"Big brother," the girl scolds lightly, "ye can take one o' them with ye, supposin' they can sit quiet."

The boy scowls, but doesn't protest, and after a moment his expression softens. "As she declare, one o' ye can come. Not 'im, though"—he nods at Twilight—"that one be wound too tight, an' I dun be needin' 'im snappin' uncoiled on me. Ye best decide quickly."

For someone who can 'sit quiet', it has to be Sky. Warriors puts forward the suggestion, and the rest agree unanimously. The boy studies him, nods, and starts for the stairs. He stops just before descending, however, and glances back over his shoulder.

"Hoy, Aryll!"

"Aye?" the girl replies.

"Ye get that beastie on the deck, ye hear? Dun be wantin' t'tow the tender all the way 'ome."

"Aye, captain!"

Sky, Time, and the boy vanish beneath the deck, leaving the rest of them to flounder. But Aryll doesn't leave them hanging for long, as she releases Twilight's wrist to clap twice, sharp and loud. "Ye gents be gettin' up an' about, aye? Best be checkin' yer gear fer anythin' that need dryin'! An ye lose all what layers ye can, ye hear? Be ye airin’ out faster, an' there ain't no need t'be chafin' yer skin off. ‘Old a glass an' I be gettin’ ye the laundry line hung an' tied."

Every inch of Twilight, body and soul, itches to go below and check on Time. He bites back the urge, instead stripping off his outer layers and dumping them—and the remainder of his gear—on Wild as Aryll reappears to usher him to the railing. The absence of his wolfpelt presses down on him, the weight of discomfort greater than when its sodden form hung heavy on his back and shoulders.

She gives him instructions, but he's made the mistake of stopping for a moment and giving himself the opportunity to think and feel, so they wash over him without catching. His thoughts are down the stairs with Time. How bad are his ribs? Is he having any trouble breathing? Is he letting anyone help him? He can be so stubborn about that sometimes.

His mind turns to the past, to the distant fog of childhood, and he can't help it. He thinks of the laketales and riverstories, the warnings to always be careful, to be borderline paranoid because the water is greedy and once it has you there's nothing anyone can do. The haunting whispers late at night of waterghosts, half-thought a myth despite the people who swear by their existence, wailing under the moonlight while bare feet and teardrops stir up ripples that grow into storm-waves.

A small hand tangles in his sleeve and tugs, and he looks down to find Aryll staring up at him with solemn eyes too old for her round face.

"Yer captain be in safe 'ands, me cull. Be ye able t'check on 'im soon, aye? 'Til then, ye stick with me an' 'elp me with this 'ere beastie."

He can't force his body to unstick now that he's stopped, can't force air into his lungs or words from his mouth. There is no danger here, not anymore, but there is worry and stress and icy fear he can't set aside, memories he can't put back on the shelf, and he feels he's the one drowning now.

Fog on the water, staring down Lake Hylia's deceptively innocent surface wearing armor he was given by a dead woman. Zora cannot drown, but if there can be one kind of ghost who's to say there cannot be another, and Twilight—

Does not want to weep forever. Does not want to be a voice on the wind luring others to investigate.

Aryll pulls and as off balance as he is he falls, shoulder slamming into the railing as his knees hit the deck. There are thin arms around his neck and his own arms come up without his input to support the small body that's crashed into him.

"Breathe, me cully."

He does, chest burning with his ragged gasp.

A wave, crashing over his head as he forces himself to trust the armor and sink below the surface. He can do this. It's only confronting the one hazard warned most harshly against his entire life, that's nothing. He'll be fine. He's already tested it.

"Again."

He does.

Memory is a cruel fiction, malleable in the hands of imagination, he had thought, staring into the water and seeing his face reflected pale and wet and empty-eyed, tears and lakewater mingled as they spill down his cheeks and drip from his chin, mouth open in a gaping sob. It's even crueler now, as the mockery of his reflection warps until it's Time's face, not his, trapped beneath the surface and wailing at the waves.

The shade was a forest ghost, he reminds himself. The woods, not the water. It's a worn-thin comfort, but he clutches at it anyway.

"Again."

He does. And then he does again, without her prompting, and then again. He can feel the deck beneath his knees now, can feel the railing against his back.

"Good. Be ye able t'open yer eyes?"

He hadn't realized he'd closed them. Now that he's aware of it, the muscles ache from being so scrunched up. The sudden flood of light stings, leaving him blinking as his eyes water, and he forces himself to relax his jaw as he notices he's grinding his teeth.

The world comes back into focus. Aryll smiles at him, heavier than a little girl should know how, and something deep in his chest weeps for those understanding eyes. It's the same mournful howl coiling tight as when he finally brought the children home to Ordon, for the same knowing, aching light behind big eyes in small faces.

"Back with me, gent?"

Words are still beyond his reach, so he nods.

She frowns, leaning back and letting go of him. He can't quite crush the ache stirred by the absence of touch, but it only lasts for a second because she doesn't move away. Instead she reaches up and grabs his face, palms pressed to his cheeks as she tilts his head and holds his gaze for a long, heavy moment.

His entire focus is consumed by the feel of skin on his; he can't redirect his mind to anything but the warm weight of fingertips pressed into his cheekbones. He must be more touch-starved than he thought, not that he should be surprised. It's been… too long, since he was last home in Ordon. Too long since he was last in a space where people know how much he craves touch.

"Be ye? Truly? Lookin' a bit shocked out still, me cull. Ain't no shame in needin' more than a ten-minute's glass t'process what 'appened today."

And it's almost funny, because it hadn't occurred to him to be ashamed before. He'd only had space for fear. But now, glancing past her, watching Wild and Four and Hyrule sorting out the contents of various non-sealed packs to dry, knowing Sky is down below with Time, knowing Time was up and moving—albeit with the boy's help—and Twilight is collapsed here against the railing all but hyperventilating when he should be helping Aryll figure out how to get Epona up from the water?

Now shame begins to bubble, and he doesn't have the strength to trim its claws and file its teeth and make it tame. Not today.

She pulls at his face again, and he refocuses on her. He doesn't have a choice, not really—not when someone is touching him. It doesn't happen enough these days for him to just ignore it.

"What been I just sayin', gent? None o' that, now. Today been traumatic all 'round, an' everybody 'andles that different. 'Tween ye an' I?" She leans in, and her next words are a conspiratorial whisper. "Everyone on this 'ere ship be due a breakdown by the evenin'. Ain't no shame in yers comin' sooner than some."

He's reminded, suddenly and completely, of sitting in Kakariko with his back to the wall of Barnes' bomb shop—plunged into the memory so thoroughly it's nearly as if he were living it again. Colin, sat in his lap like Aryll is now, clutched close to his chest as he curled around the boy, unable to bear the thought of letting go even though he's fine. He's fine but he almost wasn't, and the danger was past but the fear still remained and he couldn't stop thinking. Couldn't silence the what-ifs when Colin wasn't in sight, in reach, right here Twilight could always look or reach and know for a fact that he was okay.

He hadn't closed his eyes for more than a moment the entire rest of the day, because even in whip-quick blinks the image of Kakariko as he rode back in to find Colin bound to King Bulblin's mount like some kind of macabre flag had floated to his mind's eye, bringing with it the hot-cold flash of horror-anger- pain.

It's the same thing now, he realizes, only there is no image for his mind to conjure, so it fills in the gaps with muddied memories of childhood fears. There is no danger here, not now. Nothing that demands his attention, because even if there are things he should be doing, things people want him to do, there is no danger and no-one will be harmed if he doesn't, so it can't compete. And so he will remain frozen and lost until he provides his terrified mind enough evidence of Time's continued health to replace that haunting false image of his pale and gasping face broken up by storm-wind ripples on the water's surface.

Footsteps approach, too even and precise to be any kind of calm. They stop, a shadow cast over the pair of them down on the deck, and Aryll looks up but doesn't move away. Twilight stares at Warriors' boots and doesn't say a word.

"Dun be thinkin' 'e be up fer anythin' right now, gent," Aryll says, and there's no condemnation in her voice, only understanding and compassion.

"I had assumed as much," Warriors agrees, voice as crisp as his footsteps had been. It's impossible to tell what he's thinking or feeling; he's always been good at hiding those, and Twilight can't even make himself look up right now, much less try to interpret any evidence he might be able to find. "But we do still need to get Epona up here, according to your brother. It sounded like you had a plan, but I missed the details before; why don't you explain it to me?"

Is he… he’s not. He’s not going to ask Twilight to get up, or to help, or to do anything productive. If he were, he would have done it by now. Something deep in Twilight’s chest begins to relax at the implicit permission to just sit here and try to remember how to breathe; something else coils even tighter because that same permission removes the last barrier that kept him from falling into it completely. He’s allowed to not have a job right now—his inactivity is actively endorsed by Warriors stepping in to take over for him—and so the last of his resistance crumbles.

His breath hitches again, but this time it's because of the suffocatingly soft affection welling up in his chest.

"Aye," Aryll agrees, and Twilight expects her to get up but she doesn't. She does let go of his face, the sudden absence of touch leaving him drifting for a moment before he catches himself, but rather than moving away she turns in his arms, lets her back rest against his chest, lets the side of her head press against his jaw. She must know how much he needs touch by this point, for her to keep indulging him.

"Been thinkin' on 'ow t'get the beastie up on deck, I ‘ave, an' I do believe the best way be the same as gettin' 'er out o' the water t'start with, almost. She dun weigh more than the tender can carry, obviously, an' me brother been 'round islands what dun 'ave proper ports often enough 'e made sure the davit could lift that tender full t'max weight. If ye gents be strong enough t'lift it be another matter, but it be the best idea I got."

Warriors makes an agreeable sound and assures Aryll they'll be able to manage it, then starts questioning her for precise details. Twilight closes his eyes, leans his head back against the railing, and lets the words wash over him while he tries to remind himself that everything will be alright.

Chapter Text

At the moment, Link is three things: tired, sore, and vexed.

Tired, because he's hauled a grown man covered in metal up to the surface of the sea, then out of the sea onto his ship, and spent thirty-eight minutes without pause working to snatch him back from Nayru's Locker. Sore, for all of those same reasons. Vexed, because the man is being exceptionally uncooperative for someone who just tried to breathe the sea. For Din's sake, if this man tries to stand up or interrupt Link's examination one more time, he's going to riot.

… okay, maybe it's at least partly his fault for goading the man to wake up and stop laying about as much as he had, but in his defense, he'd been nonresponsive at the time. It was a totally different situation and honestly, it's rude to carry those instructions over from one to the other.

When he's finally had enough of the man's obstinate insistence and he's starting to genuinely worry what the old fool will do to himself by disregarding a medic's instructions, he plants his feet, puts his hands on his reluctant patient's shoulders, and pushes. Back, not down, because he's not cruel enough to compress broken ribs, and with a slowly-building pressure that's gentle enough not to send him crashing back into the berth but firm enough to keep him still when he keeps trying to get up and return to the upper deck.

"Sit ye still fer a bleedin' five-minute's glass, ye daft clod!"

The man at his back shifts, standing more at attention, but doesn't interfere. Link's opinion of him rises a few notches. The man in front of him sits where he's put and stares, as if stunned someone Link's size can push him around.

Thank Din for power bracelets, though he has no intention of sharing that detail with his new passengers.

He holds up a hand in a silent request to wait for a moment, then turns his attention inward. His emotions, now that he's acknowledging them, are tangled worse than a toddler in a net, and he takes a slow breath as he packs them away for now. He can deal with them later. For now, he just needs to get them under control.

When he opens his eyes, his patient is still silently staring. He sighs and settles himself carefully on the edge of the berth, far enough from his patient that he won't crowd the man but close enough to put them on relatively even footing. And that's the first thing he needs to correct, actually. He can't go on calling the man 'his patient' and nothing else. What had they called him before? He can't remember; he'd been a bit preoccupied with diving after him.

"Thinkin' we got off on the wrong foot 'ere, me cull. What be yer name?"

For a long moment, the man doesn't respond, something shaken and vulnerable in that wide-eyed gaze. It's no surprise to Link—an experience like the poor cove's been through today would leave anyone floundering and lost—but he can't help but wonder if the rest of the man's group would recognize it for what it is. The tough types, like this man seems to be, don’t always like to let people know what’s under the surface, and being really, truly seen can be deeply unsettling if you’re not used to it.

"… Time."

Link nods in acknowledgement, offering a kind smile and a gentle pat on the arm in lieu of a more traditional clap on the back. No need to hurt him worse. "Glad t'make yer acquaintance, Time. Ye can call me Mal."

Time flinches. There's no other word for that reaction.

Link frowns. "No good?"

But Time is already shaking his head—a motion he aborts mere moments after he begins as the movement pulls at his ribs. "It's no trouble. I know a Mal, that's all; I wasn't expecting to hear the name here."

Which means Link doesn’t have to try to come up with another name. Perfect. It’s hard to come up with names he can respond to naturally without falling back on things that would give away his title or actual name. It wouldn't be the end of the world for them to know he’s the hero, but… he'd rather have his captain on hand to back him up if they find out. Just in case.

"Supposin' that be fair, aye," he agrees. Then, to be polite, he looks back at the man by the door. "An' ye, lad?"

The man mouths something to himself, a distant confusion in his eyes— lad, maybe?—then shakes his head and smiles. "I'm Sky."

Link acknowledges the introduction with a quick nod before turning back to Time. The man is still watching him carefully, but some of that unsteadiness is… not gone, but hidden. It's a shame he's about to have to break it wide open again.

"Time," he says, firm and even, and watches the man straighten up at his tone. Holding his gaze, he asks the question that could stir up a storm-wind to drown them both. "Know ye what 'appened today?"

"I…" he trails off.

Link winces internally, careful to keep all emotion but soft sympathy from his face as he realizes just how this is going to go. Exactly how he was worried about. It won't be the first time he has to handle a patient in denial, but it's never easy, it's never fun, and it doesn't usually happen when he's surrounded by said patient's friends with no-one else but his sister around. This could get messy.

"… got hurt," Time finishes.

"No, me cull," Link says, shaking his head, even as he wishes he didn't have to. The terrible gentleness of his voice haunts even him, sitting cold on his lips and in his ears; he doesn't want to imagine how it must sound to the others. "Ye drowned."

Time makes a pained, protesting sound, but Link doesn't give him enough time to turn it into words.

"When I pulled ye out o' the sea, ye dun been breathin' an' yer heart dun been beatin'."

The first hints of realization dawn on Time's face, but it's still not enough. Link can already see him starting to lock down and bury that truth again, and he can't let that happen.

"Ye dun been 'urt, me cull—ye died today. Fer 'alf a glass, ye been gone. Luck an' stubbornness an' an 'ole lot o' work dragged ye back, but ye cannot take this careless, aye? Ye got t'let yerself rest an' 'eal."

Time trembles, slow and deep, and Link lets the topic drop. The man will need time to think it over, to process the information he's just been forced to face, but Link is more than happy to give him that. Part of why he'd been so insistent on keeping most of the sorry sprats on deck was to give Time space to hear this truth in private, or at least as close as he can get to it. It's no easy thing to be faced with the concrete truth of your own mortality.

"Is that a measure of time, then? Glass?"

It's a good thing, Link thinks, that he has practice disguising his initial reactions to things. The surprise that question stirs never sees the light of day, masked behind an easy smile as he turns back to Sky. He'd known these travelers weren't locals—their mere accents were proof enough of that, even in the absence of any other indication—but the knowledge had been sort of tucked away while he focused on his medical work. This innocent question, and the ignorance of such a basic fact that it displays, slaps that realization across the face and wakes it up again.

"Aye," he agrees lightly, pulling a small hourglass on a cord from beneath the neck of his tunic. It's nothing fancy, and frankly not all that useful given how small it is, but he's never felt quite comfortable without some kind of hourglass on his person after everything in the Temple of the Ocean King, even if this one is just mundane and would be no help at all. He holds it out for Sky to see, but doesn't remove it from around his neck. "It be based on the 'ourglass, aye? It be takin' an 'our fer the sand t'go from the top t'the bottom."

Sky inspects the glass without so much as reaching to touch it. Link hides the gratitude and relief that respect spawns just as well as his earlier surprise; there's no need to let them so close. Not yet.

"It's variable though, isn't it? You said something about a… five-minute glass, earlier?"

Sky looks away for a split second, his voice faltering as he quotes Link's words, and Link holds back a little laugh. Not one for emphatic language, then. "I believe me exact wordin' was 'a bleedin' five-minute's glass', but aye. An 'our be standard, but they come in all kinds o' sizes."

"Half an hour," Time says, cutting off whatever Sky's response would have been. Link turns back to him and there's a pained, paralyzing understanding in that eye now. "I was… dead, for half an hour."

Time shifts in place, but thankfully Link doesn't have to scold him again because all he does is rest one hand on the other. No, wait. Not his hand—a ring. He's touching a plain, worn golden ring on the third finger of his left hand. And Link's people might not practice the exchange of rings anymore—too easily lost, too expensive to make, and not hardly dramatic enough to satisfy the romantics among them—but that doesn't mean they've forgotten the symbolic meaning of that kind of ring on that finger.

Time is married.

Time is married, and he'd been dead, and from the look on his face right now he's neck-deep in dark thoughts of a family left alone to wonder why he never came home. Link might not have seen that expression before, but it looks just the way his own face felt when he dwelled too long on Grandma while he and Aryll were both gone.

"Time?"

The man doesn't answer him.

Link huffs to himself. "Hoy, polliwog, ye listenin'?"

Time still doesn't speak, but his attention shifts this time. He looks up from his hands to stare at Link like he's staring through him, but it's still better than before. He'll take what he can get.

"Lad, can I touch ye?"

That draws more of Time's focus, but Link doesn't move, waiting for permission or denial. Eventually he nods, still distant, and Link reaches out slow and careful like he's trying to pet a bird without spooking it. He doesn't dare take Time's hand, he won't come anywhere close to touching that ring any more than he'd chance touching someone's marriage tattoos, but he does rest his hand on Time's arm, just below his elbow. 

Time inhales deeply, like he’s just realizing anew that he can, and some of that distant haze begins to fade. Contact was the right choice, then—Link tightens his grip and watches Time come back to himself like he's being drawn out of a dream.

"Now listen, aye? Ye been dead, that be true, but ye ain't now. An' so long as ye behave yerself an' comply with medical instructions, ye be goin' 'ome t'whoever ye be thinkin' of in the end. Ye shown yerself t'be hardy all through, me ben cull, dun be cuttin' yerself down now."

"Medical instructions," Time echoes faintly. Then he sits straighter, wincing as the motion doubtless pulls on his ribs, and looks Link dead in the eye. "And what might those be?"

"Firstly, me cull, dun be twistin' up yer ribs," he answers dryly. "Notice ye they ain't be too pleased with ye at present? Two be broken, an' like as not more bruised. An' 'ere"—he lays a hand carefully against the center of Time's chest, where his hands had been less than an hour before as he fought to snatch this man back from the waves that had no right to him, and lets the remembered dread pass over him like a wave before dissipating—"ye be like t'have some heavy bruisin' fer a decent while.

"Treated mundane, ye be lookin' at some four, six weeks t'heal up proper, longer t'drag yerself back t'whatever kind o’ shape ye been in before. Potions 'ave ye lookin' at a week, maybe a week an' a bit, fer the same spot. But ye ain’t be havin’ any o' those fer at least four, five days at the soonest, so ye best be settlin' yerself in t'rest, aye?"

Time only nods, calm and serious, and some part of Link thinks he must be familiar with these instructions already. But that means thinking he's had experience with broken ribs before, either firsthand or close exposure to someone else, and a sympathetic pang has him putting that thought aside. He can't afford the distraction.

"Why the delay?" Time asks, after a moment, and it's his even tone and patient response that let Link read it as a sincere question instead of a complaint.

"That be due t'me second concern. Ever notice potions make ye tired? Healin' takes energy. Lots o' healin' at once takes lots o' energy at once, an' potions can only provide so much, so ye gotta make up fer it with yer own. Normal conditions, that ain't be no problem, aye, ye just be restin' after 'til ye perk back up. But ye, now? Ye ain't be able t'afford it. Ain't be in calm waters just yet, me cull; the first three days after drownin' are the highest risk o' developin' complications."

Link can't help interrupting his own explanation to study his attentive patient. "Ye know, ye be surprisin'ly calm about havin' yerself a pint-size medic," he says without really thinking about it. Despite the man's earlier uncooperativeness, it's the truth. Link is used to having belligerent patients openly berate his training and skill because of his age and small stature, and Time hasn't so much as given him a sour stare.

Behind him, Sky laughs, a small, choked sound like he wasn't able to hold it in. Time's lips twitch into a smile like he doesn't actually want to smile but can't keep his expression even. Any other time, with anyone else, Link would suspect he's being made fun of, but these two… their amusement doesn't seem like it's directed at him.

"You speak like a medic," Time says. "You clearly know what you're talking about. If I were to protest over your age alone, well… I've no desire to be a hypocrite, shall we say."

Link considers that, then shrugs and moves on. It's not like he's bothered his patient isn't kicking up a fuss over his youth. "Anyhow, Hylian lungs dun like bein' introduced t'anythin' but air, aye? Ain't precise likely t'turn into an infection, I dun be thinkin', but if it does ye be needin' all ye got t'fight it off. Ain't able t'do that if ye burn through yer stores now over those ribs, so potions 'ave t'wait 'til the risk be lower. An' speakin' o' the risks—sorry, cully, but ye best be stayin' right where ye be fer the next few days, an' under watch, too. Ain't no need t'be wearin' yer body out more than ye gotta, an' if ye do pick up an' infection, I be needin' t'know immediately t'sort out a proper treatment, aye? T'that end, ye need t'be tellin' what body be down 'ere with ye if ye start 'avin' any issues with breathin', hurtin' worse than ye be now, or feelin' off in any kind o' way, ye hear? No tryin' t'tough through this one if ye be wantin' t'get 'ome in the end."

The light mood in the room fades the longer Link speaks, as these instructions give Time noticeably more of a challenge. But he quickly earns a spot as Link's favorite patient, usurping even Gonzo, as he sits perfectly still, closes his eye, and takes several slow breaths instead of making a fuss. He's obviously not calm when he re-engages with the conversation, but he's much closer to it; the effort alone matters more to Link than what measure of success it met.

"Used t'keepin' busy, aye?" he asks, when it looks like Time doesn't know how to respond. "Bein' in charge?"

It's a long moment before Time answers, but Link doesn't rush him. There's no need to make this situation harder for the poor fellow.

"I am… ill-accustomed to sitting idle and useless while others work," Time confesses, a bitter note to the words.

Sky shifts in place at the back of the cabin, like he wants to speak up but isn't sure what to say. Thankfully, Link has it covered. Leader types are all the same at their core. "Aye, I see. Might I offer ye an alternate perception, me cull?" he offers, hoping for a yes but prepared to accept a no. If he wants Time to respect him, he has to respect Time in return.

Time studies him for a few seconds, head tilting slightly to the side, eye narrowed in thought. Then he nods once, short and sharp. Displeased, but willing to listen.

Link can work with that. "What ye need be realizin', me cull, is that ye ain't be doin' nothin' sittin' 'ere, even if it seem like ye do. What ye be doin' is healin', an' that be 'ard work. Yer body be tryin' t'put itself back together, but it ain't be able t'do that if ye ask it t'take on the world at the same time. As fer bein' useless, that ain't true either. I be relyin' on ye t'be aware o' yerself an' tell me if anythin' be wrong, aye? Ye be bound t'notice any problems before I could, what as ye can feel it an' I can only observe, an' if somethin' do ‘appen, treatin' it fast be bound t'be critical."

He pauses, studying Time's face. It seems like the man is really hearing him, not just listening to humor him, but it's impossible to be sure. His attitude over the next few days will show just how effective this was.

"Ye 'ave a job t'do 'ere, polliwog, an' that job be t'rest, t'heal, an' t'tell what body be sittin' with ye if somethin' be wrong. I be countin' on ye t'do yer job an' t'do it well, I be, so dun ye be lettin' me down now, ye hear?"

For a moment, silence hangs between them, a dangerous uncertainty. Then something brittle and stubborn in Time’s posture gives way and he nods.

“I won’t.”

Link remains perched on the edge of the berth as the rest of the passengers crowd into the tiny cabin, a living barrier between Time and the chaos of the group. Maybe he'll move, once the room has settled, but he's not about to let anyone work up a patient under his care, friends or not. Link is a hero, and not some sorry lad who was forcibly recruited, no—he recruited himself and forced the goddesses to acknowledge him, and he's not about to back down from a bunch of half-drowned shiprats when one of his patients is involved. Those under his care are safe whether they want to be or not.

He's almost surprised to see the one who'd been so vehement about following them below deck is the last one in—that is, until he registers the shocked-out stare and the death grip Aryll has on his wrist. He meets his sister's gaze for a moment, and an unspoken understanding passes between them.

Aryll drags the man over to the berth, weaving between tight-packed bodies, and as she does Link stands up and dusts himself off, straightening his tunic. Aryll's stranger gingerly takes a seat where Link had been without prompting; the same kind of silent communication occurs between him and Time, minute expressions flickering across unfamiliar faces in rapid succession. Whatever discussion they'd been having, Time is the one who concedes in the end, holding out his right hand for the other to take.

A weight drops from the man's shoulders as their hands clasp, and he leans back against the wall with a heavy sigh.

Link gives them a moment, settling himself against the cabin door, then clears his throat. All eyes snap to him in an instant, and no less than five hands reach for weapons his impromptu passengers don't appear to be carrying. Paranoid skipjacks.

"Now, me lads, I believe it be time t'sort out where we stand, aye?"

The tension in the air ratchets up another notch and Link's shoulders tighten despite his efforts to keep them loose. His palm itches for his own weapon, for his trusty Phantom Sword that had seen him through a nightmare of life and death and everything in between, but it's tucked away in storage because it's too conspicuous for an ordinary sailorman like "Mal" to be carrying around. It's best to stay unarmed in a situation like this, anyway; it's not like he's incapable of defending himself and Aryll even without a sword if someone starts up a fight, and a visible weapon in his hand would only increase the risk of rapid escalation.

It still feels like standing at the edge of a safe zone staring down the hollow darkness of the phantoms' helmets, safe but trapped, knowing the threat looms just out of reach while it waits for you to get desperate.

Aryll, reading both the room and Link's current emotional state, crosses the cabin to settle in at his elbow, close enough to grab or be grabbed by him if it should be necessary. Close enough he'd be able to shove her out the door in a matter of seconds. She doesn't touch him—doesn't do anything that might impede his mobility, she knows him well enough to know that will just stress him out worse—but her presence at his side is a palpable weight that loosens some of the chains around his chest.

"We are, of course, quite in your debt for all you've done for us today," the proper one says. He tries to keep his focus on Link, but on the word debt his gaze flickers whip-quick to Time and back. "If you wish something of us, you need only ask."

A sharp fury sparks in his chest and he stamps it down; he won’t risk an outburst in a room full of armed strangers when his sister is standing beside him. The tension rises as his impromptu passengers realize just how agitated he’s feeling, but he refuses to let it get to him. Still, the fire colors his voice when he finally speaks.

“Settle ye down now, popinjay,” he grinds out through gritted teeth, and has to stop to take another steadying breath. They don’t know, and snapping at them won’t solve anything. The sting of his nails digging into his palms catches his attention and he forces his hands to uncurl, running his fingers through his hair for something to do with them.

When he’s wrestled the outburst back, he’s left feeling tired and hollow, and rubs at his face with a heavy sigh. The tense atmosphere fades a little, and he finally looks back to the travelers. Hopefully he can clear this up quickly.

“I dun be askin’ anythin’ from ye. Ain’t need no favors, ain’t need no answers. Yer skills an’ stories be yer own. Savin’ a life be a medic’s duty, not somethin’ what makes a debt; I been content wavin’ off the rest o’ me help as well, but if tryin’ t’pay back that latter be makin’ ye lot more comfortable, ye can do it by swearin’ ye ain’t be causin’ no trouble fer me or me sister while we be out on the seas.”

"They won't start any trouble," Time cuts in, firm voice a stark contrast to how frail a picture he makes propped up against the wall and half-buried in blankets, "or they'll be taking it up with me."

The quiet thought brewing in the back of Link's mind regarding just who is in charge of this group resolves into the understanding that these men and boys (because some of them can't be more than a few years older than he is, and that's not old enough to be an adult no matter what they've gone through; he's not helpless or useless but he's still a child and he knows it down to his bones) have watched their leader die today. The proper one has stepped up admirably, but a floundering second-in-command has a certain look about them that Link knows all too well; for all his bluster, Linebeck had never really been the captain of the two of them.

Link sighs again, long and tired, eyes turned to the planks beneath his feet and the ocean they hide as a string of colorful curses flit through his mind unvoiced. Sure Farore had put him in the right place at the right time to avoid a tragedy, as befits her hand, but Nayru could have done better than letting a whole group of people from Somewhere Else stumble into the heart of the sea with no knowledge or preparation. Where's the justice in that?

Aryll's elbow digs roughly into his side, shaking him from his thoughts, and he drags his focus up from the depths to study his passengers. They look confused more than anything; it could be worse.

"Good t'hear it, cully," he says, feeling the tension relax further. His own body unwinds in response, and he starts to feel like he can breathe easy again. "If that be sorted, then perhaps we might actually work out where we be goin' from 'ere?"

There's a quiet round of agreements, though Link only really pays attention to the ones from Time and the proper one, so he settles in for an explanation. Now how to go about explaining thoroughly enough they can genuinely contribute and understand without working them into a secretive huff about their unusual origins?

Bah. He'll make that Future Link's problem.

"Firstly, if ye folk 'ave a destination in mind, ye be lettin' me know an' we see what we be able t'work out." He waits for any comments, or any response at all, but none comes. None of them will hold his gaze, but he'd expect that much. After a few seconds of silence, he nods to himself and continues. "In that case, ye be welcome t'come along with me an' Aryll 'ere. We been headin' 'ome from a short trip, we 'ave, so we just keep goin' thataway. Ye be figurin' out where ye really want t'be goin' once ye be off o' the waves."

"That sounds like a wonderful plan," the proper one says. "And as we've so far neglected to say… thank you for your aid, captain."

The man actually bows and Link stares for a long moment, utterly baffled.

"Quit that," he scoffs lightheartedly, letting his embarrassment bleed through his Captain Face, and pushes at the man's shoulder until he stands back up. "Won't turn down no thanks, but ain't no need fer that kind o' dramatics, lad."

"Lad?" someone murmurs in the background, audible only because of the cramped quarters. The scarred one, Link thinks.

"He's been calling us all lad, even Time," Sky whispers back.

Link stifles a little smirk. Of course he has—his elders or not, they're on his ship, which makes them peers at most and subordinates at least. He can call them lad if he wants to. Besides, it's funny watching older teens and adults try to control their reactions to it.

"I don't mean to be rude," the scruffy one says, everything about his posture screaming awkward and don't look at me as he won't quite meet Link's eyes, "but how long of a trip do you think it will be? Generally?"

The small one—and Link badly needs to call for a round of introductions so he can stop thinking of them all as varied adjectives, but this isn’t the time for it—makes an affronted sound and looks for all the ocean like he's going to start scolding the scruffy one. Link cuts him off with a sharp gesture, almost surprised when the older boy falls silent immediately, and studies the scruffy one and the pantsless one who's been tucked under his arm the entire time.

Has Link even seen that guy move the entire time? He doesn't think so. The pantsless one looks pale, distraught, and distant. As if he's only half present. By the quiet worry on the scruffy one's face, and the way his gaze has already drifted from Link back to the pantsless one, this is the reason for his question. And Link can't begrudge him that, not when he knows what makes people fear the water.

"Considerin' the amount o' weight that just got added t'me poor ship? Nearabouts three days, but we ain't be sailin' fer all o' it. I dun sail after dark if I dun 'ave to. By me estimate, we 'ave a twelve 'our trip t'South Fairy, another twelve from there t'Shark, an' nineteen or so from there t'Outset. Whenever we reach an island, we be anchorin' fer the night an' settin' out again in the mornin'. Technically we could make it in two, but that be a forty-odd 'our trip over open water with no landfall overnight, an' that ain't a trip I like t'make when it ain't be necessary."

The pantsless one is listening, as it turns out, because his face goes from pale to gray as Link explains. He doesn't say a word, just curls in on himself and lets the scruffy one pull him even closer. Under normal conditions, Link would assign someone to keep watch over him—that kind of traumatic shutdown really can't be left unattended in an environment like this—but it looks like the scruffy one already has it covered, so he tries to put it out of his mind. Hopefully the poor lad will be able to settle even a little as the journey continues, but Link won't get his hopes up.

"Any other questions, lads?"

No-one says a word.

"Then ye settle yerselves in, aye? Aryll be helpin' ye figure out 'ow t'stow yer gear securely an' find spaces t'be—an’ that beastie o’ yers be yer responsibility, laddies. I be goin' up t'the deck t'start on the first leg o' our trip—we got a good twelve 'ours ahead o' us an' it already be mid-mornin'. If ye need anythin' Aryll ain't able t'help ye with, come an' find me."

When no-one stops him, he turns and walks out of the cabin, making his way up to the deck on muscle memory alone. Now that they've talked things through, it doesn't even bother him all that much to leave Aryll with them—they seem like decent enough people, no-one was in a fit when he left, and if it comes right down to it Aryll is always carrying at least one knife. And she bites.

He takes a minute to run through a few quick stretches—his body will thank him for it later, if only by not throwing the fit it would if he didn’t—before settling in. It's the work of pure habit to weigh anchor, to disconnect and stow the snubbing line, to settle himself at the helm and measure the wind and check the direction, to trim the sails accordingly and just sail. He's done it so many times it's pure instinct; he doesn't have to think. Not when it's just him sailing short-handed with no need to work around a crew; not when he's just going home. Not even that unreasonably giant beast the travelers have with them is in the way, with the size of the deck, though he does spare it a wary glance for a moment or two.

They're underway, and Link doesn't have to think, and Link remembers.

The deafening splash when he'd just been sailing easy with Aryll, on their way back to Outset after a few days playing around at the Oasis. The voices ringing over the water. The heart-stopping terror of "Where's—" as someone fails to resurface, half a moment lost in memory before he rips himself free because someone is drowning.

Trusting Aryll to drop the anchor and the ladder, to manage the ones treading water because he doesn't have time for that. A running start, footsteps pounding on the deck, as he launches into a practiced dive and makes use of momentum to drive him as far below the water as possible; he's strong but he's small and he's light and if someone hasn't resurfaced at all they're either swimming the wrong way or weighed down somehow and sinking fast, and he'll need the help to catch up with them either way.

A body, unmoving save for the currents' sway, and it's not too late, he won't accept that. Smooth metal beneath his hands that slows him down as he struggles to find a solid handhold. A weight that threatens to pull him down as well, that would have dragged him to the sea floor if he didn't have his power bracelets. Angling his ascent to bring him to the surface as close to the ship as he dares, weighed against his own ability to hold his breath, because a straight line is shorter than going up and over.

Surfacing. Gasping for breath, but not stopping. Crashing into the side of the ship because he can't spare the seconds to slow down, reaching for the ladder he already knows will be down but hasn't wasted the time to look for, balancing the stranger's sheer bulk as he drags them both up from the water as fast as he can. Practically throwing him to the deck, realizing the metal that gave him trouble before is doing so again because he can't start compressions with that in the way.

Fumbling one-handed to slice through the straps holding that metal in place, because he can't spare the time to undo unfamiliar buckles, even as he forces air into the man's lungs. Flinging that metal across the deck, heedless of where it ended up, and starting compressions as quick as he can because he doesn't know how long it's been since the man's heart stopped beating.

Aryll moving about the deck, saying words he doesn't waste the concentration to interpret. As long as she's there directing things, he doesn't have to worry. She won't let anyone interrupt him. Others boarding, moving, talking; Aryll keeping them back and keeping them quiet. Making them let him work undisturbed. Keeping them from interfering while he tries to save the man's life.

The impossible ache building in his arms and shoulders as he works and works and works, the kind of sustained labor his joints weren't built for, and he'll be feeling it for days. It's worth it. Whether it works or not, the attempt is worth it. The crack of a rib snapping under his hands. The knowledge that he can't stop, no matter how many bones break.

He's dead he's dead he's dead and Link can't let that stand. These are no ordinary travelers, they're not from here, they've done nothing wrong, the waves have no right to him. The water cannot have him. Nayru will only drag his soul into her collection when Link is broken and breathless.

Another broken rib.

Desperation and denial and a grim sort of determination.

The horrible, beautiful sound of the man under his hands coughing and gasping. Knowing that he still can't stop, because coughing and gasping aren't breathing and it means his body is still trying to figure out how to function again, but that he's probably going to be okay. Settling more solidly on his knees because his only responsibility is compressions now that the man is starting to take in air on his own. A hand, batting weakly at the general vicinity of his chest and arms, as the man shakes and shudders and comes alive beneath Link's hands.

The sheer bubbling relief that nearly has him laughing, the exhaustion that pulls him down to collapse on the deck beside the man. His new patient, because they're on his ship and he's a trained medic and he's not letting the man go before making sure he isn't going to keel over on him after he's put so much work into yanking him back.

Everything that comes after.

"Big brother?"

Aryll's voice calls him back to the present, calls him out of his memory and into new perception. He's leaned half over the wheel, shoulders curled in, head up only high enough to watch the sails so he can trim them proper to keep moving evenly. His hands are steady; it's his shoulders that are shaking, half from the adrenaline crash now that the immediate crisis is over with and half from sheer exhaustion due to all he's put himself through today.

He swallows, counts up to seven and then back down, and swallows again.

"Aye, here I be," he finally says.

With his acknowledgement, Aryll steps up to his back and hugs him, arms under his to keep from impeding his sailing. Her face presses into his back, right between his shoulders, and she hugs him like she's trying to break him in half.

"Ye did amazin', big brother. Today been a lot, aye, but ye did fantastic an' yer patient be alright."

He takes a deep, slow breath, and lets it out even slower. Then he does it again, and again.

"The lot o' them be settled an' well?"

"Aye, captain. All be well."

"An' ye, sister o' mine? 'Ow be ye?"

"Due some tears tonight, captain, but all well under today's sky."

He closes his eyes against the cruel reality. It's… not ideal, of course, but it's the best he could feasibly hope for under the circumstances. A man almost died, right here on the deck of his ship, and she'd had a front row seat to watch him fight back against that fate. She'll cry over what could have been tonight, and then she'll do what she always does and put it behind her while she focuses on the future.

He's the same way.

"Then ye best be mindin' our guests, lassie. Dun think most o' them 'ave seen the sea before today, an' the one who 'as dun be havin’ a good time with it. I be well 'til we drop anchor again, no lie."

Her arms tighten impossibly further for a long moment, then she slowly lets go, reluctance clear in the motion. "Aye, captain." Her footsteps thump like a heartbeat through the air, and he lets it ground him in the moment as she vanishes down the stairs.

Chapter Text

"Out," Aryll commands in a flat, no-nonsense tone, hands on her hips as she stares down the group of reluctant travelers. They've been camped out here too long as it is for how small the room is, and with Mister Time finally asleep, she's putting her foot down.

"But—" Mister Hyrule protests.

Mister Time stirs at the sound. Aryll's eyes narrow and she pins the teen with her best impression of Tetra's unimpressed glower, waving to the open cabin door. "I be leavin' the door open, fer yer sake an' mine, but ye gents get out. 'E needs uninterrupted rest more'n anythin' right now, an' if ye wake 'im me brother be right furious."

"Hyrule." Mister Twilight grabs Mister Hyrule's shoulder, pulling him gently back towards the door. "I don't want to leave either, but she's right that he needs rest. Why don't you come sit out here with Legend?"

She catches Mister Twilight's eye as he and Mister Hyrule leave, guiding a mostly-unresponsive Mister Legend with them, and offers him a grateful look. He grimaces in response—clearly honest about not wanting to leave—but she still appreciates his newfound cooperation. The others file out as well, complying with varying degrees of reluctance, and when the cabin is finally empty she lets out a quiet sigh of relief. The cabin really wasn't meant to fit so many people, even for such a short time.

True to her word, she leaves the cabin door cracked open; initially it's in the interest of being an attentive host even while watching over Mister Time, but she learns later that the sound of their voices in calm discussion, when distant, actually helps settle Mister Time into a deeper sleep rather than waking him up.

She takes a seat at the built-in desk that pushes up to the berth, resting her elbows on the flat surface and her cheek on her crossed wrists, studying the sleeping man for lack of anything else to do. He looks… strange is the best way she can come up with to describe him. Not because of the marks on his face—though she does wonder what they mean; she hasn’t seen a tattoo she couldn’t at least generally interpret since she was four years old—and not because of his scar. No, it's deeper than that. Something about his features just strikes her as odd.

Oddly familiar. Maybe he's distantly related to someone she knows? She can't place it, though, so she tries to put it out of mind. Besides, it doesn't really matter who he is—all that matters is keeping an eye on him, especially while he's asleep and unable to monitor his own health. She sits and watches him for over a full glass, eyes and ears sharp but thoughts drifting, before anything changes.

The ship rocks a little more forcefully than usual, and Mister Time's hand falls from his lap, hanging over the edge of the berth. This has the unfortunate side effect of pulling him to slump a little sideways, compressing his ribs enough that she can already see him starting to make a face and crawl up from the depths of slumber. It hasn't been anywhere near long enough for him to be waking up yet, so she hops up from the desk and nudges him back upright, pulling his arm back up onto the berth, and rebundles some of the blankets to help keep him from falling over again.

It's no good. She'll have to get out a lee cloth. Thankfully the cloths for the berth and the cabin bench are stored in the cabin, so she won't have to leave him alone to do so.

She glances back at Mister Time. His expression hasn't completely smoothed out, nose still scrunched up the way her brother's does when he's starting to wake up but really doesn't want to be yet. She pauses, decides 'why not', and reaches out to pet his hair. If he reacts like her big brother does when he's starting to wake up, she might as well respond the way she does when she's trying to coax her big brother back to sleep.

"All be well, captain," she murmurs, combing her fingers through tangled blond hair that's so much like her brother's she's almost overwhelmed with the sense-memory of it. "Skies be clear, seas be smooth, an' all yer crew be safe an' counted fer. All be well."

It seems to work, so she counts it as a win.

She still needs to get that lee cloth, though, so she reluctantly steps away and starts digging through the cabinet by the door. She's quiet—trying not to wake up Mister Time—but it also means the other travelers don't realize she's close enough to hear their conversation. She doesn't try to listen in, she has other priorities and that would be rude, but a single word catches her attention and freezes her in place.

Hero.

She wrenches herself free of her temporary paralysis, because she has a responsibility to pay attention as the designated Time-keeper, but she keeps her movements quiet and her ears pricked, and as a result she's rewarded with more snippets of their conversation.

"—where we are—"

"—when we are—"

"We're all—"

"—Time's our priority—"

"—need to find—"

"—supposed to do that—"

"—this era’s hero."

She grabs the lee cloth and closes the cabinet silently. Mister Time has started listing over in his sleep again, so she nudges him back upright once more. The lee cloth was definitely a good idea. Once it's secured and Mister Time won't be able to really fall over again, she bites her lip and stands in the doorway, where she'll still be able to hear any changes in his breathing.

They're talking about heroes. They're talking about being heroes, and normally Aryll would at least question that but she'd literally watched them fall out of a hole in the sky, so it doesn't sound so unbelievable as it might have otherwise. They're talking about finding a hero, and there's a storm beneath her skin. She's tired (her brother has done enough) and she's sad (he's going to go with them in the end, if they’re looking for him they need him and he's too much of a hero not to) and she's angry (how dare they ask him for more when he's already stabbed a man in the head to fulfill the duty he put on himself to save her) and she's proud (her brother is a hero and no-one can deny that).

But she's also reluctant to leave them floundering alone when a few particular missteps will have her brother all but slamming the door in their faces. It's so easy for outsiders to misunderstand the ties that bind her brother to his captain, and if they dare disrespect that he'll have nothing more to do with them, save as a medic.

"Ye ain't be findin' 'im by sneakin' around an' stickin' yer noses in the skeletons' ribcages."

She can't tell who's more surprised by the sound of her voice, herself or the travelers. The way they jump and startle would be funny if it didn't chance waking up Mister Time. Since it does, she shushes them and leans back into the cabin to check on him. Still fast asleep, still breathing steady, still upright.

"What do you mean?"

She looks back out into the saloon, gaze shifting from one pair of blue eyes to another, skimming over the faces of these so-claimed heroes. She'll have to handle this carefully; if they are heroes, and at this point she's inclined to believe they are, they're more likely to recognize one of their own than a random sailor would have been.

She can't let them find out about her brother, not yet. Not when they don't know his role, not when they don't know his respect for his captain, not when they don't know how to approach him without getting burned. Not when everyone is stuck here, with no space to get away from each other if tempers run too high. She needs to direct their attention somewhere else; somewhere on the horizon so they won't think to look right under their noses.

"I mean," she begins carefully, "that the Wind dun be goin' 'round as the hero fer all an' sundry t'see. He be a quiet soul, aye? An' 'e dun make no acquaintance with what folks as be new without 'is captain vouchin' fer them first."

"But you know him?" Mister Four asks, something shrewd in his violet eyes.

She needs to redirect that line of thought immediately. "Aye, that be true. 'E saved me an' me brother, some few years back, an' we do still be fair close with the crew 'e sails under. I ain't be tellin' ye who 'e be, though, an' make no mistake. Ain't be no way t'repay the tarry ol' cove fer 'is 'elp, it dun."

"It wouldn't be," Mister Warriors agrees mildly, and rests a hand on Mister Four's shoulder. "And we wouldn't dream of asking you to do so. Would we?"

Mister Four flushes, hunching in on himself and looking at no-one. "Sorry. I wasn't thinking."

"Ain't been an 'elp t'ye anyways," Aryll admits, shifting the focus away from blaming the older boy. At the curious looks, she continues. "I done told ye, the Wind ain't meet new folks without 'is captain's say-so. Tryin' t'sneak around that just be gettin' ye tossed off at whate'er island be closest, aye? Ye gotta know the Wind respects 'is captain. Dismiss the importance o’ her role an' ye ain't gettin' so much as the time o' day from 'im."

She can see the realization dawn on them that they almost lost their chance to so much as speak civilly with the hero they're looking for. Mister Four in particular looks downright distraught.

Thankfully he's close enough to the front of the booth she can reach out and grab his arm. "Hoy, gent. Ye listenin'?”

He twists to look up at her, but stops at the last second and nods instead.

"Ain't mad, y'know. Ain't fair t'blame a body fer somethin' they ain't got no way t'know. That be why I been talkin' ye through it, aye? Since ye ain't 'ad no way t'know, an' I dun be wantin' t'see ye wreck fer lack o' guidance."

Only when she falls silent does he finally look up to meet her eyes. She smiles, a silent acceptance, and he smiles shyly back.

"The wind?" Mister Twilight asks, breaking the silence.

Aryll lets go of Mister Four's arm and steps back, tilting her head to study Mister Twilight. "Hm?" she prompts.

"You called the hero 'the wind'. Is there anything you can share about that?"

Her smile grows, genuinely pleased and yet still sharp. The respectful phrasing and request, underscored by honest curiosity, is something she won't deny. With another quick glance back into the cabin to check on Mister Time, to which she is met once again with no changes or cause for alarm, she settles onto the floor in the doorway.

"Aye. I call 'im the Wind because that be what 'e be, no lie. The hero be the 'and o' Farore, lady o' the wind an' sky," she says evenly. "It do be a… religious sort o' idea, some superstitious an' some reverent. The Wind o' Farore… it ain't been a title before this 'ero, ain't never been needed before 'im. Not fer a person, anyhow. Same as the Waves o' Nayru an' the Shores o' Din, it be a… concept, more than anythin'."

“A concept? You mean like a religious teaching? What do they mean?” Mister Four asks, the light reflecting purple from his eyes. Aryll wonders if he knows it does that, and only when he seems more curious than normal.

“Aye, that be it! We got these… rules? Like as ‘ow the world be, not like as ye be gettin’ in trouble fer disobeyin’.” She takes another second to compose herself before she continues. "Comes back t'the goddesses, it does. Farore o' the wind, Nayru o' the water, an' Din o' the earth. Our lives ain't be an easy thing, an' our goddesses ain't no dainty ladies either. Nayru o' the water, she be wisdom an' justice—if ye prepare well an' respect the world around ye, all been just fine, but if ye earn 'er wrath, the waves'll swallow ye 'ole."

She pauses, takes in downturned faces and shadowed eyes, and realizes how that might sound when they've just witnessed a friend nearly drown. "Yer friend be fine, gents. All well." She leans back into the cabin again to confirm, then turns back to her audience. "Me brother ain't never been lettin' the sea keep 'im, not when it ain't got no claim on 'im. An' the waves know they got no right to 'im; be why they gave 'im back in the end."

"No… right to him?"

She meets Wild's eyes and grins. "Well. Ye gents dun be thinkin' me an' me brother missed yer… unique arrival when we been close enough t'help ye, did ye?" Seven faces pale, and her grin softens into an understanding smile. "Ye dun be worryin' about us sayin' nothin' now, me culls. We know 'ow t'keep secrets. But ye lot ain't from 'ere, so our seas ain't got no right t'claim ye."

"What about the other goddesses?" Mister Sky asks. It's half to move the conversation away from their arrival and Mister Time's situation, she can see that easily enough, but the other half is his own genuine curiosity.

"Din o' the earth, she be power an' shelter," Aryll answers agreeably, allowing herself to be redirected. "In 'er 'ands, ain't nothin' the other two can do t'ye. Stick with 'er an' ye be safe from 'er sisters, but ye also be stuck in place an' stagnant. Ain't be goin' nowhere if ye take no risks—an' if ye make 'er angry enough, she never be takin' ye again. Some stories say that be why the ol' Ghost Ship never makes port; Lady Din ain't be lettin' it near her shelters ever again.

"An' Farore o' the wind… she be courage an' mercy. She guides from island t'island, ferryin' folk between Din's shelters, an' carries ye safe across Nayru's oceans. Ye 'ave t'trust 'er, settin' sail, bein' as if ye make 'er angry ye might find yerself stranded with empty sails, but ye keep 'er peace an' she be bringin' ye home no matter 'ow far ye been gone. 'Er winds even be able t'snatch ye out o' the maw o' the storm, if ye let 'er. That be why our 'ero be called the Wind o' Farore—because 'e be savin’ ye if ye let 'im."

A heavy silence settles over the group as her voice fades away. She takes the opportunity to check in on Mister Time once again—still no change. Good. The longer he goes without developing complications, the less likely they become.

"Listen," she says quietly, and seven sets of eyes focus on her. "Me an' me brother still be in contact with the Wind's captain, as I been sayin', bein' as they saved us an' all. Once we get t'Outset, I dun mind reachin' out an' lettin' the captain know ye want t'speak with 'er about 'im. Ain't no promise she be agreein' t'meet with ye, an' even less fer ye t'earn her approval an' get t'meet the Wind, but I dun mind givin' ye a chance."

She stands up and dusts herself off, and when no-one replies she ducks back into the cabin, closing the door behind her for real this time. She doesn't lock it, but the click of the latch seems unreasonably loud in the quiet. Before she can take a seat at the desk again, though, she notices that Mister Time isn't quite asleep anymore.

"Hoy, gent, ye be wakin'?" she asks, soft enough not to disturb him if he's only dozing. She isn't nearly that lucky; he shifts in response to her voice, turning towards her. He doesn't look quite awake, but he's not really asleep, either. She sighs, not really surprised. "Ye heard that 'ole chatter, ain't ye?"

She doesn't really expect a reply, so it startles her a little when he hums a non-committal note in response. It's so much like what her brother would do that she can't help a quiet, huffing laugh, shaking her head with a thin, fond smile.

"Get ye back t'sleep, gent, ain't nothin' need yer attention at present."

She sits back down at the desk as he falls back into the depths of slumber, a perfect mirror for how they were situated before her conversation with the other heroes. A thought—no, a realization—hits her like she'd failed to duck under the boom, and she turns slowly to study Mister Time once more. That same nagging familiarity rises, but now she can place it.

They're heroes, see. Not just foreigners, not just newcomers, they're heroes. Aryll has grown up on stories of exactly one person who could claim that title before her brother: the Hero of Time. The name lingers in her mind and she tries to dismiss it, but it won't go, because she doesn't just know the name. While the title is all most people have to go off of, most people aren't related to the new hero. Most people don't know that deep below the sea, in a land long-since forgotten, there stood a particular statue.

A statue of the Hero of Time, which her brother had dutifully taken a number of pictures of, because his predecessor deserved to be remembered as well as possible. A statue, now submerged, that stood perfectly preserved for generations, no weathering or age corrupting its shapes, just as accurate as it was the day it was carved. A statue whose features would be, to her best estimate, a near-perfect match for Mister Time if he were twenty years younger.

She settles in to keep watch over the folk hero of her childhood and refuses to make a fuss. It doesn't matter—he's a patient like any other. The complex tangle of emotions holding her breath hostage will fade eventually.

The door creaks open, an unknowable amount of time later, and she wants to scold whoever has come in, but her body isn't quite responding. It seems her own breakdown has caught up with her in the quiet of the cabin. But whoever it is doesn't speak, and steps quietly to not disturb the stillness; only drapes a heavy cloth around her shoulders and sits on the floor beside her chair, gently taking her hand when she doesn't retreat from the touch. There's thin fabric against her palm, but the fingers curled around her hand are bare skin; she catches the tiniest flash of deep blue in the corner of her eye. Mister Warriors, then.

As long as he doesn't cause any trouble, she's content to let him sit with her this once. She doesn't begrudge her brother his duties as captain, but it's nice, to not be alone.

The strangers have been surprisingly good traveling partners, all things considered, Aryll decides. No fuss over meals, save that Mister Wild be allowed to cook, and after his first demonstration neither she nor her brother had any interest in denying him that; no fuss over sleeping arrangements, save the initial weak protest when she refused to have anyone else in the cabin; no fuss over cramped quarters, save for good-natured bickering they keep a steady hand on.

No, the closest they've had to a problem is Mister Legend, who hasn't left the lower deck in the two days they've been sailing, and his trembling hands and ash-gray face every time the ship rolls heavy tells her all she needs to know about that. Mister Wild has even taken an interest in the mechanics of sailing, and has spent a number of hours with her brother, up on deck learning to read the wind and trim the sails during the day and at the navigation desk learning to chart a course once they're anchored for the night. She’s grateful for it, even if she won’t say. Her brother might be hiding how much he overworked his body saving Mister Time, but Mister Wild’s curiosity serves the same purpose as deliberate help: allowing him to rest and recover without losing time on the trip.

As she has been since that first afternoon, she's sitting with Mister Time, perched at the cabin's desk. He's even awake this time, and properly coherent, which is a good sign. He's sitting in silence now, mind somewhere far away, but just fifteen minutes ago he'd been telling her a story about a time when he was a child trying to sneak past his older sister's watchful gaze to have a little adventure. The others have been in and out all day, the same as yesterday, and he'd changed the subject every time someone else was in the room. The mischief in his smile as he confessed the others didn't know about his sister yet had been one of the things that really endeared him to her on a personal level. At the moment, they're alone again, the others out in the saloon doing who knows what.

It's that quiet solitude that allows her to act. "Hoy, Mister Time?" she asks, even enough to not startle him.

He pulls himself back to the present slowly, the way her big brother does when he lets himself think too hard about his experiences as a hero, and turns to face her. "Yes?"

"Might I…" she trails off, twisting her fingers together and glancing away before forcing herself to look back at him. "Would ye be lettin' me braid yer 'air?"

There's kindness in his answering smile, and genuine regret. "I'm afraid it isn't long enough to braid anymore."

Budding disappointment withers before it can properly bloom; he's misunderstood her request. "Nay, gent, I ain't meanin' a tie-back braid, only one o' ye folk what could be usin' one o' those be Mister Wild. What I mean be… well, more like this." She hops up from the desk and approaches him, pointing out a few of the narrow plaits that sit so subtly in with the rest of her hair. They're not quite what she has in mind for Mister Time, if he agrees, but they should be enough to get the point across.

"I suppose those would work in my hair," Mister Time muses. "Is there a particular reason you want to?"

Her eyes light up. "They be luck braids! Ain't no real power to 'em, not so far as any folk know, but the symbol still… thought be what matters, aye? An' if we make our own luck, ain't no reason not t'write our guidin' wishes. All sort o' luck braids be fair common, especially…" She falters for a moment, then pulls herself back together. "Especially when a body ain't doin' well."

She can't bear to look at him while he thinks it over, too nervous about how her offer might be taken. Locals would understand the spirit of it, the intent behind the gesture, but she has no way of knowing if the same holds true for Mister Time. Do folk even braid symbolically where he's from, if he assumed she meant a tie-back braid?

"That's very kind of you, Aryll," he says eventually, and when she looks back up he's still smiling. "If weaving these… luck braids, as you called them, into my hair will help you feel calmer, I don't see why I shouldn't let you. Will you tell me what they mean when you do?"

"Aye!" she chirps back. It takes some fussing to find a way that she can work, since he's so much taller than her—they end up with Mister Time in the desk chair, turned around from its usual arrangement, while Aryll sits behind him on top of the desk itself—but eventually she's able to separate out a small section of hair and start weaving.

It's interesting, explaining as she goes; most people know what all the braids are, so she's never had to act as an interpreter before. Still, inexperienced as she is, she does her best. The first she weaves is a basic three-strand braid for the blessings of the golden goddesses, a generic wish for good luck. It's a pleasantry, more than anything, but a polite opening can do wonders in the right circumstances. She's quick about it, since it seems to make Mister Time a little uncomfortable, and secures the end with a spacer bead and one of her personal beads. Maybe the bead isn’t strictly necessary, but she likes the man, so it’s no trouble to sign her well-wishes with her own mark.

She follows with a rope-twisted braid, a lifeline, a bind to hold him to this world. Here she pauses, makes a quiet offer, and with Mister Time's permission adds seven more fine rope-twisted braids, secured with generic green instead of her own personal beads; the travelers out there might not know how to weave these braids themselves, but Aryll can do it for them. Then she works a narrow lace braid, deliberately hard to see despite its more eye-catching nature, a mimicry of the intricate fragility of the body and a wish for good health.

Next is a braid that will be the most visible, despite her best efforts to keep them all unobtrusive: a thirteen-strand braid woven from tiny herringbone plaits, for the Ocean King and his temple's many floors, a wish for safety from the dangers of the depths, for an anchor against the call of the slumbering souls of Nayru's Locker, for a guide through the stormy future that may still appear. It's the hardest luck-braid she's ever learned, working with so many strands at such a small scale, but it's worth it.

Then a four-strand braid, for the four settled islands of the Great Sea, a fond welcome and a wish for safe passage. A ladder braid, next, for a steady recovery. She starts an eight-strand braid for unity, then pauses, unpicks it, and starts again as a nine-strand braid, eight strands made with hair, and a fine white ribbon making up the ninth; eight for his existing group, and a stand-in for the one they haven't yet found.

Finally, she closes out her braiding session with another three-strand braid.

"This one ain't fer the goddesses, or fer any 'igher power or special circumstance," she tells her bemused companion. "This be just me, wishin' ye health an' luck an' 'appiness. Just me wishin' ye well."

For a moment, there's just silence between them, and she begins to worry she's pushed too hard. To her, he's someone her brother will soon travel with and eventually come to love, because her brother's heart is too big for his body and he loves everyone if they give him half a chance. To him, she's a stranger who's been keeping him company since her brother fished him out of the ocean. It's difficult to hold herself back, and here she'd forgotten to even try.

Then Mister Time stands up to move back to the berth, but turns back to tousle her hair before taking a single step. "Thank you, Aryll. That means a great deal to me," he says, warm and genuine and smiling, and Aryll smiles back.

That smile freezes on her face when he breaks into a short coughing fit, hard enough to make his face twist up in pain as it disturbs his ribs. For a moment both of them stay locked in place, then she slides off the desk and hurries over to him. She's too small to be much help, but she hovers at his side regardless as he settles gingerly back into the berth. He takes a slow, cautious breath, and Aryll's heart sinks.

Both of them can hear the faint wet wheeze that underscores it.

"Aryll," Mister Time begins, low and solemn, and she bites her lip. "I think it would be best if you went to fetch your brother."

She swallows hard and nods, taking care to wipe the worry from her face before exiting the cabin at a calm pace. Running won't help; two minutes won't make a difference at this stage, and there's no need to alarm the others before her brother has even had a chance to see to him.

Mister Wild is up on deck as well when she emerges into the sun, and she winces. She'd really hoped to be able to tell her brother privately.

"Aryll? What be ye needin', t'be up 'ere instead o' down in the cabin?”

She has to swallow twice before she can make herself speak, and in the silence she sees her brother's eyes dim with understanding. "MIster Time be askin' t'see ye," she finally manages to say.

Her brother's posture shifts in an instant as he switches from sailor to captain. "Wild, ye think ye be able t'keep us on course?"

The older boy pales, the dawning realization written in every line of his face, but alarm solidifies into resolve before Aryll can really start to worry. "Yeah, I think so."

"Good. If ye start strugglin' or think ye be gettin' off course, drop anchor. Ought keep makin' distance if we be able, but better t'sit still than t'go off route an' make the trip longer in the end. Aryll, with me, no tellin' if I be needin' any 'elp."

"Aye, captain," she says, and pauses only long enough to see Mister Wild take over the wheel and lines before following her brother back into the dimness of the lower deck. While the travelers had taken little notice of her on her way up, now that she's come back down with her brother in the middle of the day the saloon is thick with alarm.

She doesn't follow her brother into the cabin, diverting to the saloon instead. He'll yell if he needs her.

"Is he—" Mister Twilight asks as she approaches, but his voice cuts off halfway through the question.

"First signs o' infection turned up, aye," she agrees quietly. "Quicker caught often be meanin' a better outcome, but ye need be waitin' fer me brother's opinion o' the matter, 'e knows shiploads more than me."

Mister Twilight shifts in his seat, and she's prepared to shove him over if she has to, but he visibly stops to compose himself before he can stand, curling in on himself instead. He looks downright miserable, and she can't blame him for it.

"Is there anything I, we, can do to help?" he asks, barely more than a whisper. "No interrupting, I know, but… anything at all."

"No, gent," she replies, and watches something in him crack. "Waitin' be miserable, painful work, but there ain't nothin' ye be able t'help with nowabouts, not unless one o' ye be holdin' out on proper medical trainin'."

And maybe she's never had to wait quite like these poor folk—by the side of an injured family member, sitting outside a closed door to let a medic work—but she still knows how it is to wait. To sit in the cold, damp dark with a group of strangers waiting for a rescue that might never come, to stand on a strange ship with a strange crew trying to distract her from the endless cycle of what-ifs because they're all just left to wait, none of them knowing if their people are coming home again.

Aryll knows waiting. She knows it burns and twists and hollows you out until you're not even sure you're real anymore. But she also knows it's necessary.

A firm but unhurried "Aryll!" issues from the cabin, and she hurries to answer her brother's call, closing the door firmly behind her.

"What be ye needin', captain?"

Mister Time doesn't seem too pleased to see her right now, but that's alright. It's not an angry look, just the ever-familiar "should someone so small really be here right now?" look. And if there were any local adults around right now, she wouldn't be in here, so she's not overly bothered by it. After the sheer derision she and her cellmates had been treated to in the Forsaken Fortress, she can't bring herself to make a fuss about a responsible adult's well-intentioned concern, not even in her own head.

"Get ye t'the galley an' start me a Blue Brew. An' bring some White an' some water with ye on yer way back."

"Aye!"

She leaves the cabin as quick as she'd entered, most of her worry settled. Blue is common for infections, and for anything that irritates the lungs. It's strong, but it just means her brother is trying to hit the symptoms before they get a chance to properly appear, to give Mister Time as much of a chance to fight it off as he can. Her brother might be good at keeping a calm face for his patients, but she knows how to read him, and he hadn't been frightened. A little concerned, as a good medic should be, but not alarmed. It's not serious.

… At least not yet.

The other travelers are still in the saloon, watching her, but she doesn't let that distract her as she works. Fresh water, measured out and poured into the kettle, which she sets onto the stove and clamps into place so the rocking of the ship can't spill it over. Light the stove, feed the flame, and she can ignore it while it boils. There's a special cabinet where medicinal ingredients are kept, and without hesitation she slides out a small basket marked with a blue tab. All the ingredients for Blue. There are a few pre-made bags, too, but while she has the time she'll make it fresh—it's always stronger that way.

Ginger and turmeric, thinly sliced. Thyme, roughly chopped. Peppermint, torn. Lemon, juiced and zested. Cinnamon, part of a stick snapped off.

When the water reaches a boil, she dumps in everything but the lemon juice and leaves it to steep, flipping a five-minute glass her brother had built into the galley shelving after forgetting to bring one with him one too many times; the hourglass that is his constant companion is too small to be any help for short times, but he never remembers that until he’s already started something. Putting the blue basket back into the cabinet, she retrieves her next item: from a basket marked with a white tab, she picks out a young green coconut. Carefully bracing it against the counter, she drives a thin metal spike through the shell until she meets no more resistance, then carefully pours the coconut water within into a mug. The shell and the spike are dropped carelessly into a bucket to keep them out of the way until she can deal with them.

The sand runs out as she steps back over to the kettle, and since the Blue is done steeping she strains it into a second mug, mixing in the lemon juice and some honey. Digging through the cabinets, she comes up with a small tray and sets both mugs on it. Then she pours a measure of fresh water into a third mug, sets it on the tray, and she's moving again, back to the cabin, still not acknowledging the travelers. They'll be fine for a little while longer.

She sits the tray down on the desk and picks up the mug of Blue without prompting, passing it over to her brother. He takes it with a silent nod of thanks, then turns back to Mister Time.

"This be somethin' what we call Blue Brew. Has a fair many ingredients aimed at reducin' coughin', fightin' fever an' inflammation, an' holdin' off infections. Folks 'ate it or they love it, ain't much middle ground, but ye do be drinkin' it, ye hear? Dun care if ye despise it, ye drink every last cup o' it ye be given or ye an' I be havin' an issue."

Apparently satisfied with his warning, he hands the mug over and just stares until Mister Time takes a sip. The look that flits across his face is… complicated, but she thinks it's safe to say he falls into the "hate it" category. Still, he dutifully drains the cup under her brother's stern stare.

The empty mug is passed back to Aryll, and as she takes it back she hands over the mug of White instead.

"This one be coconut water, though ye be hearin' us call it White as well. Better fer ye than only water when ye be sweatin' through a fever, an' I do be guessin' it ain't be long before one 'its ye. Same rule—ye drink what ye be given."

Mister Time obediently drains the second mug as well. Aryll trades out for the third.

"An' that one just be water. Ye dun 'ave t'drink that one all at once, but whenever ye finish that cup speak up an' we get ye another, aye? Dehydration be one o' the most dangerous pieces o' infections like this, an' it be best if ye keep as hydrated as possible now in case ye start 'avin' trouble keepin' it down later."

Her brother gestures vaguely in what Aryll recognizes as dismissal, and she picks up the tray and goes to leave, only pausing to wave to Mister Time. Given the choice, she'd rather have offered a proper farewell, but she knows better than to disobey a medic at work. The empty cups go in the same bucket as the coconut shell, the tray goes back in the cabinet, and Aryll herself goes to the saloon, climbing up into one of the empty seats of the booth and slumping over the table.

"Aryll?"

It's Mister Warriors, careful and calm and undemanding, so she picks herself back up and looks at him.

"Is there anything…"

"Nothin' special t'worry about, I dun think, but ye be needin' t'wait fer me brother's final say, aye, gent? But I can tell ye what 'e 'ad me make up fer 'im only be Blue."

"… Blue?"

It hits her again that they're strangers, not ordinary travelers. Not from here, and not familiar with local practices or terminology. She knows that, logically, but she still keeps expecting them to know what has always been common knowledge for her.

"Aye," she says, gently this time, and puts on her softest smile. "Blue. 'Round 'ere we call our medicines by a color, aye? Ain't wise t'count on all folk bein' able t'read if ye need a helpin' 'and in an 'urry, but most all folk know their colors. Blue be a common first treatment fer any kind o' infection or anythin' what irritates the lungs. Ain't nothin' t'worry about there."

A thought occurs.

"Say, Mister Twilight—if ye be wantin' somethin' useful t'do, maybe later I can teach ye 'ow t'brew it. Blue be fair simple, even if a good bit goes into it, an' like as not we be needin' a lot o' it over the next few days."

Mister Twilight agrees, the dangerous dull worry in his eyes fading into a cracked and crumbling kind of relief, and they sit in silence again as they wait for her brother to emerge from the cabin.

When he finally does, some half a glass later, he doesn't acknowledge them right away. Instead, he goes straight to the navigation desk and starts writing something down. It's maybe five minutes before he gets back up and hangs the marked-up sheet on the cabin door. It's an incomplete grid, a sequence of columns each made up of a different number of squares. Eight blue, two white, three black, and six empty. Beneath the grid are three more shapes, all black: a triangle, a circle, and a diamond.

A treatment chart. What to give Mister Time, and how much to give him in a day. Blue, White, Black (probably for the caffeine), and water. Then the triangle, for cool compresses to help reduce a fever; the circle, for steam treatments to help ease breathing; the diamond, to let him sleep under any circumstances, and not to wake him up even for other instructions. It doesn't read as a response to a severe illness, which settles the last of her worry. It just reads like a medic hitting hard and fast, to try to cut down symptoms before they appear as much as possible.

Finally, her brother approaches the saloon and stops at the table, facing the whole group of them squished into the bench.

"Time should be fine," he says first, and the entire group sags with relief. "Fer the next few days, 'e be like t'get a fair bit worse before 'e be gettin' better, but 'e ought be fine in the end. Now, Aryll be managin' the proper treatments, by me chart, an' I be checkin' on 'im as oft as I be able t'get away from the wheel, but ye lads be welcome t'act as extra supervision. It be even more important t'keep a close watch over 'im now, an' t'fetch me if anythin' changes—an' I do be meanin' anythin', laddies. But as matters be, 'e ought t'be alright."

With that, he turns and returns to the deck, taking control of the ship back from Mister Wild and leaving the travelers to process his words. Aryll hops up, nudging Mister Twilight's shoulder until he looks at her.

"Want ye come with me, gent?" she offers, reluctant to leave him floundering now that his presence doesn't run the risk of disrupting something important. For a moment he just stares, and she wonders if he was too far in his head to register the question, but then he gets up and comes to stand with her. She grabs his hand, watching him cling to the contact like a lifeline, and tugs him with her as she approaches the cabin door.

Chapter Text

As much as Link would rather be down in the cabin keeping watch over his patient, he's needed to keep the ship sailing smooth. Still, every hour he tags Wild onto the wheel for ten minutes so he can duck below and check in with Time. The first three times, the man had been awake, aware, and thoroughly unimpressed with Link's continual check-ins; after then, he'd become gradually more and more incoherent and ill, his breath turning wheezing and raspy, fever coloring his face, sweat soaking his hair and clothes. The last two check-ins, he'd been entirely asleep, though a trembling chill means it hasn't been restful.

Aryll has been his saving grace since they picked up these travelers, content to sit with Time as an observer and to take charge of the treatment plan Link had designed. She might not be properly qualified to draw up plans of her own—though the way she drinks in everything around her says it might not stay that way for long—but she can certainly follow them fine. Twilight seems to have some potential as a medic as well, taking to brewing medicinal mixtures under Aryll's guidance like a fish to water, and Link makes a mental note to dig out his old medic's handbook for him before they leave. He'll have to draft himself a new copy for emergency reference, but there will be plenty of time to copy it down from Outset's reference, and honestly he'll feel much better sending these strangers off with a still-healing friend if they have a medic's book with them.

It's been nearly an hour since his last stop in to check on Time, and the medic in him insists on going to see his patient, but the captain in him wins out. He can't hand the wheel and lines to Wild anymore, not with how dark it's getting. No untrained sailor should be handed a ship like the Watchman's Shadow in the dark, even as heavily modified as she is to make solo sailing feasible. Even he’s reluctant to let his attention slip long enough to keep up with his stretches, but he needs them if he wants to be able to keep sailing.

Just a few more hours until they reach Outset. Just a few more hours until he can drop anchor and check on his patient. He just has to keep sailing for a few more hours. Under normal conditions he'd light up a beacon, drop anchor here, and call it until morning, but he's not willing to do so with his current cargo. Not that there's anything anyone on Outset can do that he can't do here by himself, but at least at Outset he has access to more experienced medics he can consult with if anything goes wrong, more supplies than he carries on a quick trip with his sister, and solid ground for Legend to retreat to if it starts storming. And who knows, maybe that “horse” of Twilight’s will appreciate access to land as well. The great beast is a mystery to him.

His arms ache and his eyelids are heavy and there's little in his head but the sound of the surf, but he can't sleep. Not yet. He loses himself in the wheel and the lines and compass and the chart, drowning out the minutes and hours as they creep by quiet as thieves, and almost before he knows it Outset Island appears on the horizon. He brings them in slow and steady, dropping anchor and furling the sails once he's as close as he's comfortable getting. They're here.

Next step: check on his patient. He descends into the lower deck and finds almost everyone asleep, scattered about the saloon in whatever place they can find comfortable enough to rest. The only one still awake is Warriors, who stirs slightly at the sound of his footsteps and peers up at him through the gloom.

"Are we there?" he asks, sleep-slurred, and the corner of Link's mouth twitches into a smile despite himself.

"Aye," he agrees softly, "we be anchored at Outset. Ye sleep now, me lad; I be checkin' on Time now, but like as not all be well 'til mornin's light."

Warriors mumbles some kind of bleary agreement and slumps back into the bench he's resting on, boneless in a way that speaks of deep weariness. Link's smile fades as he studies the man, taking in how worn and drained he looks even as he slips back into slumber; the past few days have been harsh for them all. Worry is a cruel, cruel mistress, and he's tired enough without it being personal. It's bound to have hit Time's actual friends much harder.

Crossing the lower deck silent as a ghost, he eases the cabin door open. Aryll is asleep at the desk, somehow having not fallen out of the chair. He sighs, a voiceless breath, and picks her up, carrying her over to the bench just inside the cabin door and laying her down. She grumbles, stirring slightly, but he shushes her softly and she settles back into sleep; the same way her touch eases him into slumber when he's on the edge of waking, his voice soothes her. It's the work of seconds to get out the bench's lee cloth and hook it on so she won't fall if the waves pick up, and then he's back to his original intention.

Time is sleeping, but restlessly, shifting every so often where he leans on the corner formed by the meeting of the cabin wall and the berth's lee cloth. An abandoned compress cloth lies on the blankets by his knees, his breath is a harsh rattle, and his face burns bright with fever. Despite the blanket, he's shivering, and yet he's practically caked in sweat; the cruel contradiction of fever. None of it is good, but neither is it anywhere near as bad as it could be. There's no sense in waking anyone in the middle of the night when there's nothing they can do. It will lighten up in the morning, once he's able to drink the water and teas he's given.

He reaches out and lays the back of his hand against Time's forehead, hissing under his breath at the heat. The man shifts away from his touch, but doesn't wake. That temperature has to go down, so Link fetches a basin of water and some clean rags and carries both back to the cabin. Compresses are easy to make, and his hands go through the motions with no thought at all: soak a rag, wring it out, fold it up. Time is still slumped against the lee cloth, and though it's less than ideal for his ribs it makes placing the compress easier.

At least, it would have if the man didn't jerk awake at the first touch of cool cloth.

"Easy, polliwog," Link says, low and calm, and waits for Time to realize where he is and who is with him. "Ye be far too warm, aye? Only be tryin' t'do somethin' about that temperature."

For just a moment he gets a glimpse of Time's right eye, solid white catching his focus before it slides closed again. The blue one, however, remains fixed on his face, despite how glassy and glazed it is. Slowly, Time begins to relax again, leaning back into the support of the lee cloth.

Once he's calm, Link tries again, carefully looping the damp cloth around his neck and making sure it rests directly against skin without his hair in the way. He makes up another compress and lays it over Time's left hand, careful not to brush skin; yes he's a medic and knows things happen, no he doesn't want to deal with his own mortification if he accidentally touches that ring. He has time to be careful, so he will be. A third goes over his right hand. Ideally, Link would want one on his forehead, but with his ribs forcing him to stay mostly upright, it wouldn't stay for more than a few minutes.

"Ye want some water while ye be awake?"

It hurts, cruel and jagged in his chest, to watch the sharp-eyed man who'd earned his sister's adoration in less than a day turn that question over like the riddle of life as he struggles to think through the dual haze of sleep and illness. But in the end he nods, just barely, and Link is quick to fetch a mug with a measure of fresh water. The compresses currently covering Time's hands are doing important work to lower his temperature, so Link holds the cup for him instead, helping to steady his head with his other hand.

This man is a warrior, Link can tell that much. He's obviously strong, and that monstrous sword the others insist really is his primary weapon proves it. He's used to taking charge of the situation and looking out for those around him, or he wouldn't have been so stubborn when Link first took over as his medic. And if Link listens to Aryll, which a sensible person always does, he's clever and he's kind as well. Everything about him screams hero, even if doesn't hold the official title.

To see someone like that laid low, so bound by injury and illness he can't even drink without help… it aches. At least Link can take solace in the fact that he isn't helpless. The heartbreaking, paralyzing helplessness of watching someone waste away is exactly why he'd insisted on studying medicine in the first place. He’s so tired of having to just stand aside and watch.

When the mug is empty, Link sets it on the desk, but as he takes a half step away from Time to do so the man follows him, leaning towards him to press his head further into Link's hand. Link… doesn't think he's quite aware that he's doing it, but it's not like he's doing any harm, so. Link steps back towards the berth, letting his touch shift from supporting to comforting. Time's hair is a filthy, sweaty mess, but he can't help it and Link has dealt with much worse, as a hero and as a medic, so he doesn't let that stop him from gently combing his fingers through it. Aryll's luck-braids are a bit messy by now, but they're solid work and haven't unraveled yet.

"Sleep ye now, aye? All be quiet an' all be well, an' good patients be restin' as they be able."

That gets him a half-hearted glare, but it's faint enough to fall well short of frightening and land solidly in worrying instead. Still, Link doesn't move away, continuing his careful motions and humming a soft tune under his breath until Time eventually slips back under and Link is once again the only one awake on the ship. Even then he stays a while longer, hands gradually stilling but unable to bring himself to move back or look away.

Eventually, though, it has to be done. Slowly detangling himself, he sits down at the desk, exactly where he'd picked Aryll up from before, and rests his head on his crossed arms. Those compresses will need to be changed eventually, but for now… he just needs to rest for a moment.

He doesn't mean to fall asleep, but the next thing he's aware of is his sister's hands in his hair as she murmurs a quick status report. All well. He can already tell he hasn't slept anywhere near long enough, but he's beyond grateful it's Aryll who's waking him. The familiar routine is the only reason he comes back to himself peacefully instead of rolling upright swinging and shouting and reaching for his sword, and that would be hard to explain to their clueless passengers. As long as Aryll is here, he's safe, so he can afford to indulge the foggy hands of sleep as he crawls back to wakefulness.

"Awake, be ye?" she asks, somewhat redundantly, as he pushes himself halfway upright and rubs at his eyes.

He yawns in reply, loud and pointed.

"Close enough." She huffs a laugh and cuffs his head, light enough not to hurt. "Sue-Belle be askin' permission t'come aboard, captain."

He jolts the rest of the way upright, eyes flying open, and jumps to his feet. He'd actually forgotten they'd made it to Outset the night before, what with the sheer exhaustion of the day. "Granted," he says, but his attention is already drifting towards his patient.

Time is still sleeping, more peacefully than he had been when Link was last awake, and it looks like the compresses have been changed at least once. Aryll leaves the cabin to let down the ladder for Sue-Belle, but he ignores her in favor of checking Time's temperature again. It's notably lower than the night before, and he can't hold back a sigh of relief. Fever is dangerous, and as much as he hates the fact, it remains one of the things he can’t always do anything about; he can try, but it’s a stubborn thing that doesn’t always respond to treatment. Time's breathing is still rough, but better than the previous night; he must have woken up and had something to drink at some point since, maybe even a steam treatment, though Link doubts he'd have slept through that entirely. Time still isn’t well, not by any stretch of the imagination, but he's significantly better than he was.

Link runs through a few quick stretches—wincing as he starts feeling the effects of forgetting to do them last night—straightens his tunic, and exits the cabin. The passengers are all awake, save for Sky who's passed out on one of the upper benches still. Twilight is in the galley, making… ah, he's brewing another cup of Blue. It must be getting to late morning, then.

"Morning, Mal," Wild greets, unholy cheerful, and passes him a bowl of something he doesn't recognize.

Link has learned not to question or doubt Wild's cooking over the past few days, so he just takes the bowl with a wordless grunt of thanks. Even eating as quickly as he can—which is honestly a shame when it comes to Wild's cooking—he's only half-finished when Aryll and Sue-Belle descend the stairs, and he sets the bowl on the saloon table without hesitation, squaring his shoulders and putting on his Captain Face as he approaches the pair.

"Pemission ta board, cap'ain?" Sue-Belle asks as he approaches.

He nods back, ignoring the baffled mumbling of the travelers behind him. "Granted. Welcome aboard, Sue-Belle; what can we be doin' fer ye?"

"Much thanks ta ya, Mal. Yer granny asked me ta come an' check on ya two, bein' as ya got in some when last night an' ain't been comin' ashore. Real worried, she been," Sue-Belle answers, and Link hides a wince. He should have expected that. If he'd been any less exhausted he would have gone ashore and at least left a note, but after twenty hours of sailing without any real, solid breaks, he'd been fit to collapse. "But Mal, who be these folk? I ain't never seen ‘em before, I say, or ‘eard any sort o' description what fits ‘em, an' I been livin' on every inhabited island there be. Where ya findin' ‘em?"

"In the water," Link replies, flat enough to warn her not to ask any more questions about that.

The blood drains from her face, and she glances over his shoulder, noticing the treatment chart on the cabin door for the first time. "Mal—"

He interrupts. Whatever it is she's going to say, it isn't going to be helpful. Not when his ship—and the room they're currently in—is full of strangers unaccustomed to life on the water.

"When ye get back t'shore, send yer gramp out 'ere, aye? I got a patient could use a second set o' eyes lookin' 'im over, just fer safety. An' if ye be willin' t'let me gran know Aryll an' I be all well, I be much appreciative."

For a long minute, Sue-Belle stares him down. He meets her gaze head on, silently begging her to let it go. She's one of the few folk who know just why precisely he'd insisted on studying medicine, who know just how close to home drowning hits. Who has witnessed the medic's nightmares that haunted his steps at the start of his lessons and the way he'd faded as his knowledge grew before finding his feet and putting that hurdle behind him.

"Aye, I be doin' that for ya, though I dunno ‘ow long granda be," she relents, clearly reluctant but conceding because they're on his ship. "But I ain't managin' yer granny beyond that, ya be two days late an' she been worried mad, she has."

She leaves as quick as she'd come, Aryll walking her back up to the ladder like a good first mate. Link takes the time to finish his food—quickly, because he doesn't know when Sturgeon will arrive and his passengers' expressions make it clear he's going to be answering questions before then. As soon as he sets his bowl down a second time, he looks up to find Warriors and Twilight as close as possible without crowding into his space.

"Sue-Belle's gramp Sturgeon be the main medic o' the isle," he says before they can ask. "It be only good form t'ask fer a second opinion, but I ain't true expectin' any concerns about me treatment plan, what as Sturgeon be the one who taught me the trade in the first place, an' 'e made well sure I knew what I been doin' before 'e let me graduate from 'is lessons an' get me medic's ink. Anythin' else ye lads be wantin' t'know?"

"Medic's ink?" Warriors asks, at the exact same moment that Twilight asks, "What didn't you want her saying?"

Link groans, shoving his bowl to the side so he can let his head drop to the table in relative safety. The combined weight of their silent stares is more than he can stand, though, so he only lays there for a few seconds before sitting back up. Casting a quick look about for Aryll, who's nowhere in sight—she must still be up on the deck—he gestures for the two to lean closer.

Trading a suspicious look, they do.

"Listen lads, drownin' be a rough topic fer a load o' folks, an' I be one o' them. Sue-Belle know just 'ow much it be fer me, but Aryll ain't got no clue," he mutters. It's only half true, but it's far enough from a lie that he can make it sound genuine. And Aryll really doesn't know how often he wakes up with nightmares of screaming faces and water-filled lungs, which is a status quo he'd like to preserve.

Suspicion melts into sympathy, and Link knows they've bought it. Good. Even better if this keeps them from speculating in his presence; he doesn't need them working themselves into a fit over their friend. Now to distract them.

He sits back upright, opening space between them. "As fer medic's ink," he drawls, tugging the collar of his tunic down to let them see the tattoo over his heart, "see fer yerself."

Twilight makes a scandalized sound. "You can't have a tattoo, you're twelve!"

Warriors, on the other hand, just laughs. "Come now, rancher," he says, clapping Twilight on the shoulder, "he's at least thirteen."

"Fourteen, actually," Link corrects, "but I got me medic’s ink a few weeks before me thirteenth birthday."

Twilight's protest draws the room's attention, and as a lively conversation about tattooing and responsible ages starts up, Link settles back in his seat with a self-satisfied smile to wait for his old teacher to arrive.

True to her word, Sue-Belle sends her grandfather their way as soon as she gets back to land. Link's teacher sweeps aboard without asking permission, as is his right as a medic, and his brisk no-nonsense attitude is a welcome break from the ceaseless fretting of the travelers. He completely ignores the travelers in the saloon in favor of plucking Link's treatment chart from the cabin door to study. Link stares down said travelers and waves them silent, glowering narrow-eyed when it looks like one or two of them are going to ignore him. Sturgeon isn't here to answer their questions, he's here to offer a second opinion on Time's health.

"Get in 'ere an' let yer patient know I ain't be no intruder, guppy," Sturgeon says, the first words he's spoken since he came aboard, and steps into the cabin.

Link shoots a warning look at his passengers and hurries into the cabin after his old teacher, closing the door firmly behind him. As it turns out, though, he doesn't need to worry about Time's reaction quite yet, because the man is once again asleep. Though to call it sleep might be a touch too charitable, as miserable as he looks. His face is still twisted with discomfort, skin shiny with sweat and cheeks flushed fever-red. As Link watches, his ear twitches twice and he shifts in place.

Ignoring Sturgeon for the moment—his patient takes priority—Link steps forward and smooths his fingertips over that messy hair, coaxing it to lay flatter. "All well," he murmurs, "ain't no cause fer wakin' up at present. Get ye t'sleep."

Time settles into a deeper, more peaceful sleep, and Link looks back to Sturgeon.

"Drownin'?"

"Aye."

"An' 'ow long before 'e started breathin' on 'is own again?"

"Thirty-eight minutes."

"Symptoms appeared?"

"Two days after."

"Yer diagnosis?"

"Aspiration pneumonia, resultin' from water in the lungs."

"Not second'ry drownin'?"

"That ain't come with 'eadaches, trouble swallowin', an' coughin' up the nastiest gunk since bilgewater, last I checked. Asides, that been a day an' some change ago an' 'e ain't dead, so I dun think it be all that unreasonable t'say it ain't secondary drownin'."

"True enough, lad," Sturgeon concedes good-naturedly, in a way that tells Link he hadn't been contesting the diagnosis but only checking to make sure Link had considered the alternatives. The man goes on to quickly question him about symptoms and timelines, and while Link had spent most of his time sailing these past few days, he's still a medic and he'd been checking in with Aryll at every opportunity. One can't treat one's patient effectively without being aware of all developments in their health.

"Ya done all ya be able, guppy; all what left be waitin' ta see 'ow bad 'e wants ta live," Sturgeon tells him bluntly at the end of their conversation.

Link considers pointing out that anyone who wakes up thirty-eight minutes after drowning clearly wants to live very badly, but Sturgeon doesn’t make a habit of leaving time for idle commentary.

"Now sit ya down so I be checkin' on yer shoulders, ya done overworked yerself bad an' I ain't 'avin' no student o' mine walk around injured. Bad fer my reputation, it be."

Link doesn't bother protesting, hopping up onto the desk and turning away from Sturgeon. It wouldn't work even if he did—it would only cause a slight delay and irritate the other medic. Besides, he likes to think one of the things his medical training has taught him is how annoying stubborn and troublesome patients are, and he strives to be the least annoying patient in the room at all times.

That does not, however, mean he can control a shiver as those cold hands prod at his back and shoulders, testing his range of motion and checking for swelling.

"That 'urt," Sturgeon says when Link winces, his shoulders protesting a particular shift. It's not a question. "Describe it."

"Dull," Link reports dutifully. "Not stiff, not torn. Just sore."

"Ye stretchin'?"

"Mornin', night, an' several times in the day."

"Take anythin' fer it?"

"No. Been goin' as easy as I be able, but I ain't be lookin' t'split or tear somethin' because I ain't aware o' the extent o' me injury. Be takin' somethin' if it dun settle down in the next day or two, seein' as I ain't be sailin' all day now."

"Good lad," Sturgeon says, and departs as quickly as he arrived.

There's a deep satisfaction in having his former teacher evaluate his work with the deference of a peer instead of the critical eye of an instructor, but that satisfaction fades as he looks back at Time, pained and miserable in that hazy realm of half-sleep. Poor brick didn't even do anything wrong; with what Link had seen of their arrival, and has heard since, the travelers hadn't had any way to know what they were getting into or that they wouldn't end up on land. It's strange to think of a place without the ocean, but they must be from such a place; their discomfort with and ignorance of sailing and ships and sea-life makes that much clear.

They’re not from here. They’re strange and foreign and unfamiliar with the sea, and he doesn’t hold that against them but their presence here is a storm he can’t weather on his own. If other worlds are getting involved again, he’s going to get swept up into the mess; he doesn’t have the excuse of studying with Sturgeon or being laid up with a bad knee this time.

But he doesn’t have to handle it on his own, not here and not now, not when there is someone he can call to help. He needs Tetra.

He needs his captain.

He's a captain in his own right, certainly, and in most respects he remains independent and self-managed. He does still sail with Tetra and the crew of the Nayru's Favor at times, but just as often he sails alone on the Watchman. He may not have a crew, aside from Aryll on some occasions, but he's no less a captain for that, and Tetra and her crew recognize him as a fellow-captain deserving of the respect of the rank.

But in matters like these, Tetra is his captain. Tetra won't let him shoulder the whole of unusual events and unexpected responsibilities on his own, hero or not. She'll have his back, she'll help him out, and right now, he needs her.

He just has to call.

His patient comes first, though, and there's no way he's leaving Time alone when he's this obviously miserable. There has to be something he can do to help, and he won't leave before he figures it out. He turns the thought over in his mind, considering what makes him feel better when he's sick out of his mind, before it hits him. Every time he's been ill, Grandma has taken the time to wash his hair. While it can't do anything for the pain or nausea or disorientation, it never fails to make him feel a little less horrible. And he has already noticed the state of Time's hair…

His mind made up, he digs through the cabinet for his supplies and sets them on the desk. He'll have to unpick Aryll's braids to be able to wash Time's hair properly, but that's alright. He's a medic, it's not taboo for him to undo luck-braids; sometimes life gets in the way of tradition. He still makes careful note of where each braid is and what kind of braid it was before he undoes it, dropping the beads into a little hollow carved into the desk for that exact purpose to make sure they don't roll away.

With the last braid undone, he slides his fingers carefully through Time's now-loose hair, breaking up the biggest tangles. He starts to pull back and reach for his comb, but Time grumbles in his sleep and Link changes tracks, rubbing the pads of his fingers against Time's scalp in firm, even circles. Restless sounds fade into a soft sigh, but after a moment the man begins to stir like he's waking up. Link can't keep him asleep all day every day, even if it would make his work easier, so he doesn't try to coax him back to sleep, just keeps up his impromptu massage.

"What are you doing?" Time asks blearily, though he doesn't try to move away from Link's hands.

Link laughs. "I been meanin' t'wash yer hair, but ye ain't been lettin' me get me comb, seein' as ‘ow ye been actin' like a cat what wants pettin'," he teases lightly, finally sliding his hands free to do just that. He pretends he doesn't hear Time's quiet, wordless protest at the loss of contact.

Comb in hand, he returns. "Keep ye still now, aye? Dun be wantin' t'poke ye by mistake," he says as he begins working out the smaller, fussier knots and tangles in Time's hair. It's not bad, it certainly could have been much worse, but he has been fairly well cooped up in bed for several days and it shows.

"Why?"

"Mayhaps because ye be injured enough already without addin' a bunch o' comb-tooth pinpricks?" Link drawls, even though he's sure that isn't what Time is asking. What can he say, he's not above a little bit of deliberate misunderstanding.

"No," Time says, reaching up to rest his hand over Wind's and forcing him to pause his work. "I mean, why are you… helping me like this?"

Link sighs, slow and tired. "Could give ye any count o' reasons an' excuses, but I dun be thinkin' ye'd actually believe any o' them. So I swear t'ye, polliwog, what I tell ye now be the 'onest truth: I be helpin' ye because I be able to."

Time's hand loosens over his and he pulls his own hand free, stopping to set the comb down on the desk.

"I be goin' t'get a basin o' water so as we might get yer hair clean an' see if it 'elps ye feel even a mite better, aye?" he says, stepping back from the berth and reaching for the cabin door. "Ye think about what I said, an' I be back in a glass."

He'll need to update the others as well—hopefully Aryll has at least given them a basic reassurance after Sturgeon's departure, but specific questions fall to him, both as the captain and as the treating medic. That's fine. It'll just give Time more of a chance to think over Link's statement.

Seven worried faces look back at him as he approaches the saloon. He passes them, leaning against the galley counter instead of sitting down, but nods an agreeable greeting anyway.

Wait. Seven faces?

"Where be me sister?" he asks, careful to keep his tone light. He's worried, of course he is, the last time he lost track of her unexpectedly was when she was kidnapped by a giant bird, but he doesn't want to even accidentally sound like he's accusing them of anything.

"She went to shore," Four answers. "She said she was going to speak with your grandmother."

Link leans further on the counter, body suddenly heavy in the absence of adrenaline. Of course she did. They're safe. Everyone is safe. There are no monsters here. He gives himself seven seconds to process that spike of emotion, then straightens back up and nods his thanks. He doesn't like the implications behind the sympathy on those faces.

"Ye lads got any questions fer me while I be out 'ere?" he asks instead, turning to dig out a basin rather than meeting those too-knowing gazes.

"Aryll explained most of it," Twilight says. "But I'd like to hear it from the medic—he'll be alright?"

"Aye," Link agrees, steadier now that he's back in his element, and busies himself putting water on to heat; he won't let it get hot, but a bit of warmer water mixed into the cool will make it more comfortable. "Ain't no such thing as promises when it comes t'health an' healin', but yer friend, 'e be a stubborn one all through, aye?"

Someone in the background mutters "you know him so well already". Link ignores it.

"Well, 'e still be like t'have a bit o' downhill ahead, but I well believe 'e'll be fine in the end, lads."

For a moment, there's silence, and Link busies himself checking the water and filling the basin.

"What are you doing?" Hyrule asks.

Link winks at him. "Ye ain't never 'ad anyone wash yer hair when ye be sick? I tell ye, lad, makes ye feel like an 'ole new person." He takes a moment to study those surprised, borderline-disbelieving expressions, then ducks back through the cabin door and gently kicks it shut. Time is watching him, but Link ignores him for a moment, setting the basin on the desk.

"You were serious."

The stunned tones to Time's voice almost break Link's heart. He's the leader of that group out there, sure, but haven't they shown him any gentle, unnecessary affection when he's feeling down? … Has he ever let them see when he's feeling down?

He shakes that thought away. This isn't the time for it.

"Aye, lad!" he answers brightly. "Ye think ye be able t'move t'the chair, or ought I be settin' up at the berth instead? I be well able t'work with either, so ye focus on yer own comfort 'ere."

For a long moment, Time just studies him, almost like—

Like he's waiting for Link to laugh at him for believing a trick. He doesn't let that realization show on his face, but he's not going to be forgetting it any time soon. He lets his smile dim from exuberant to kind and holds Time's gaze as he waits for the man to realize he isn't going to back out. He doesn't know how long it takes—a few minutes, at least—but eventually Time relents.

"I can move over there," he offers cautiously.

Link nods, accepting the statement, and waits patiently as Time carefully crawls out of the berth and settles at the desk chair. He takes care to keep his touch gentle and his voice light as he coaxes Time to lean back and let Link work with his hair.

At first, Time's shoulders are squared and tense, his hands clenched into fists, and his mouth set in a firm line. But the longer Link works, the more Time begins to relax, and the sheer trust this wary man is placing in him is simultaneously heartwarming and agonizing. It's good to see him relax, though, so Link might, perhaps, take longer than he strictly needs to. He keeps smoothing his hands through Time's hair, ostensibly to make sure it's all properly soaked, and doesn't even consider reaching for shampoo until Time's shoulders are loose again and the only reason Link is sure he's still awake is the barely-audible hum of contentment he doesn't seem to know he's making.

He spends longer than necessary on this step as well, turning what could be an efficient wash into something more like an extended head massage. Time doesn't complain, though—he honestly looks so hazy and lost in his own head that Link isn’t sure he’s aware enough to complain—and Link? Well, Link wasn't kidding when he said he was helping because he could, but it wasn’t exactly the whole truth, either. Making people happy makes him happy, and he's perfectly satisfied to stand here soaking up the second-hand contentment.

He doesn't want the water to get too cold, though, so he reluctantly switches tracks and starts rinsing Time's hair, taking care not to let any of the water get in his face. Time had trusted him to do this, and Link is determined to make sure the experience is thoroughly and completely enjoyable. He takes his time again, knowing firsthand just how soothing it can be to have someone combing their fingers through your hair under the water, and by the time he finally starts prompting Time to sit up and let Link dry his hair, his hands are thoroughly wrinkled.

Worth it.

He's just as careful drying Time's hair as he had been washing it, and he leaves the towel draped over Time's shoulders as he sets himself to the task of recreating the luck-braids Aryll had done, carefully weaving each one in the same place it had originally been in. The only difference is that he fastens each braid with one of Aryll's beads and one of his own beads, instead of Aryll's and a spacer, adding his own name to the list of well-wishers.

Finally, he coaxes a very content, half-asleep Time back to the berth, helping him settle in again. As he steps back, Time opens his good eye to study him.

"Thank you," Time whispers into the fragile silence of the cabin.

Link smiles. "Thank ye fer lettin' me help," he replies, just as soft. Then, reluctantly, he straightens up and steps back. "I got t'get t'shore an' see me gran, lad, but yer friends be just outside the door. Ye want someone in 'ere with ye?"

Time hums a noncommittal note, and Link makes the executive decision that yes, someone should in fact be in here with him. He grabs the basin to dump in a graywater barrel and leaves the cabin, quickly letting the others know he's heading ashore and leaving them to decide who should sit in the cabin with Time.

Link makes his way off his ship quickly, waving to the various residents who greet him without breaking his stride, and strides into his own home with a roguish smile. "Hoy, Gran!" he greets, and finds himself swept into a crushing hug. Aryll has been here long enough to explain and let the worst of the emotional storm break already, but the hug is no surprise.

"We be well, Gran, I swear it," he says.

She kisses his forehead and lets him go. "Come back at dinner," she says, and waves him away. He needs to call his captain; she understands that well enough. Link retreats to the loft where Aryll is already waiting for him, and the two of them settle in to call Tetra.

She picks up almost at once, her concerned face filling up the charm's surface. "Ain't one o' the usual call days, pigtail, what be wrong?"

Something tight and desperate in Link's chest uncoils, just a little. His captain is here. His captain is handling it. He isn't alone. She's always been good at reading him, and she knows he needs help. It's annoyed him plenty in the past, but just as often it's been a saving grace.

"Picked up some strangers, three days back. Not from an island, out o' the water. They… captain, they ain't be from 'ere. Fell out o' the sky, they did, an' ain't been prepared t'land in the sea."

She swears. Not the emphatic terminology he uses, either, but actual foul swears. The news has rattled her bad.

"Ain't all," Aryll cuts in, and Link turns to stare at her as swiftly as Tetra does. She'd spent far more time with the passengers than he had, that much is true, but this is the first he's hearing of something more.

"What d'ya know, monkey?" Tetra asks.

"They be lookin' fer an 'ero. Overheard them chatterin' on the first night. Told them they ain't be findin' any hero without 'is captain's sayin' it be safe, I did, but they be good people, so I promised once we got 'ere I be callin' t'state their request."

Link breathes a sigh of relief. With a request like that, of course she wouldn't tell him. It would only have made him worry, and that wouldn't have benefited anyone. Not only would it have been uncomfortable for him, it would have made him uneasy around the travelers, and might even have been enough to crack his cover wide open. If he could have done anything with the information, she would have told him. He couldn't, so she didn't.

Aryll has always had his back, in every way she can.

Tetra swears again, but milder this time. "I be on my way back as soon as I be able, but it be a time, aye? My crew be chasin' down a specially forsworn blackguard at present, an' we may be needin' ta get back by the fortress dependin' on 'ow it go. It be some few days at least afore we be done with 'im an' able ta head yer way, may'aps a week or more. Ya be well until then, my doves?"

"Aye," Link says, and Aryll chimes in with her agreement mere moments later. He can handle anything, as long as his captain has his back.

"It be a plan then. An' Link," she begins sternly, and his entire world narrows to her sharp eyes and firm voice at the way she calls his actual name, "ya be takin' care o' yerself until I arrive, ya hear?"

The warmth bubbling in his chest grows stronger. "Aye aye, cap'n."

"Better days ahead, an' dun ya forget."

"An' a fair wind t'ye, captain."

The charm goes dark, and Link and Aryll are alone once again.

Chapter Text

It's quiet aboard the Watchman's Shadow, a peaceful late morning like the many before it over their stay at Outset Island. As tired as Time is of being bundled up in the cabin like he's made of porcelain after so long under Mal's hovering watch, right now it's almost nice to be able to drift between sleep and waking without disturbance.

The peace is shattered by Aryll's thundering footsteps and cheerful shout. "Mal! Mal, captain, big brother, wake up!"

A loud thump echoes through the hull; either Mal has fallen out of his seat, or Aryll shoved him. Time would believe either, having seen in the weeks of his recovery just how those two can roughhouse when provoked.

"Fire an' thunder, Aryll, what d'ye want?"

"They be arrivin'!"

Absolute silence reigns for a beat, then Mal sputters and manages to string together half a sentence. "Ye mean—"

"The Favor be anchorin' now! Get ye abovedeck an' look fer yerself!"

Mal laughs—an energetic, elated sound—and races up the stairs.

Time gets up carefully, mindful of his still-healing ribs, and moves out into the saloon to join his traveling companions. If the people who can tell them about their missing Link are arriving, the last thing he wants is to be laid up and looking as injured as he feels. Besides, one important conversation taking place in the unbearably cramped cabin is enough for a lifetime; if it can happen out here in the saloon he'd prefer it.

Despite the fact that he hasn't been fully confined to the bed for days, Twilight still looks desperately relieved to see him up on his feet. The younger hero hurries to slide further down the bench so Time can sit carefully beside him.

"Morning, old man," Twilight says, a careful lightness to his tone betraying just how worried he really is.

He returns the greeting, not just to Twilight but to all of his fellow heroes, who are doing their best to pretend they're not just as relieved by his presence and the fact that he walked out here on his own. Wild passes him a plate and he accepts it with quiet thanks; it's so nice to be able to join everyone for a meal again instead of eating in the cabin with just one or two of them.

Mal darts down the stairs again, nearly tripping in his haste, and when he skids to a stop facing them there's a bright grin stretching from ear to ear.

"Me an' Aryll be headin' over t'the Favor soon, aye? Ye lads best be stayin' 'ere, the captain be comin' over t'speak with ye. Dun be worryin' overmuch, she knows 'ow t'behave on me ship an' she ain't be givin' ye any trouble less ye dish it out first. We thought it best t'give ye some measure o' privacy fer yer discussion, an' Aryll an' I be itchin' t'catch up with the crew anyway."

His clear excitement is a welcome change from weeks of somber worry and cautious hope, and Time finds himself smiling slightly in response. The boy is so small, and it's a relief to see him exuberant like a child should be instead of shouldering what should be the adults' concerns.

"We'll be fine waiting," he says.

"Have fun," Warriors adds a moment later.

Mal laughs at that, light and cheery, and waves briskly before practically bouncing back up the stairs. His voice echoes from the upper deck, indistinct but recognizable, as he speaks briefly with Aryll. Then it's silent, the siblings are gone, and Time and his traveling companions are alone for the first time in weeks.

"What do you think the captain will be like?" Hyrule asks, so quiet the words are barely audible.

The eight of them trade glances, but for a long while no-one speaks. They don't have the first clue where to even start guessing what the captain of this world's hero might be like.

Then Wild says, "Protective, for sure."

That much is true without a doubt. The mere fact that they have to meet her first, that they have to earn her approval before even being allowed to know who this world's hero is, proves that. For a moment, Time can't help but wonder if his Zelda would have been so protective of him, if he'd been allowed to stay in that future-when.

He smothers that thought and focuses on the present. Dwelling on what-ifs never helped anyone.

"Strong," Sky adds, Wild's statement having opened the guessing gates. "She'd have to be, to be able to protect her hero."

"Dangerous," Legend says, cracked and weary, and they all turn as one to look at him. "The way those kids talked about her? I'd bet good money she's the type who'd take your head off in a heartbeat if she thought you were a threat to one of her people."

"Suppose we'd better not be a threat, then," Four says, a little quirk to his smile that says he's making a joke.

"Yeah, you're already short enough, you can't afford to lose your head," Wild teases, elbowing Four with no real force behind the gesture.

Quick as a flash, Four grabs Wild's ponytail and pulls him down. "If we take off yours we can be the same height," he retorts without missing a beat.

Both heroes are smiling, still, but Time decides to intervene before they can get too off track. "Children," he states flatly, pinning them both with a blank stare, and they reluctantly detangle. Four does tug on Wild's ponytail one more time before releasing him, and Time coughs pointedly, ignoring the twinge of pain from his ribs.

Four stares back at him, the picture of innocence.

Lying little pest, Time thinks to himself, stifling a fond smile.

The exchange has the effect it was likely intended to; the tension is shattered and everyone is a bit more at ease than they were mere moments before. Before anyone can continue the conversation, though, they're silenced by a scraping sound that starts up on the outside of the ship. Someone is climbing the ladder.

The captain has arrived.

Footsteps thunk their way across the upper deck, an unfamiliar gait. Hard-soled boots click against the stairs as the newcomer descends. The girl who steps down into the cabin is tanned, lean, and most of all small; she's shorter than all of them save Four, and she can't be much older than Mal if she's any older at all.

In the corner of the booth, Warriors chokes on a breath.

"Ho there, ya mealy-mouthed labbernecks! 'Ow be the wind?" she greets, turning to face them with a sharp, almost mocking expression. "Our Malapert be a good 'ost on the av’rage day, so 'opefully 'e be takin' good care o' ya, but ya tell me if 'e be slackin' an' I be settin' 'im right straight, aye?"

Her accent is thicker than Mal and Aryll's, her phrasing more foreign, but the question is still mostly understandable. That doesn't mean Time can answer, his mind still stuck on her knees-and-elbows frame and the baby fat that clings to her face. She's a child, even if she'd probably attack him for saying it—she's practically a baby and his chest aches for her being dragged into a dangerous, chaotic life so young.

Thankfully, he doesn't have to answer.

"Tetra?" Warriors asks, half-strangled with shock and the stinging edges of grief.

The girl practically jumps out of her skin, eyes wide with disbelief as her smirk falls away. She composes herself quickly, however, and the smirk is back after only moments, sly and fond this time where it had been impersonal before.

"Burn an' sink me, if it ain't be my skull-an-bones bully boy! Dun been thinkin' I be meetin' ya again, ya sweet, swashin' barracuda, no I dun! Joy ta see ya, mister… oh, what be it our bunny-boy been callin' ya, mate o’ mine?" she drawls, sweet and mocking, dark eyes lit with mirth.

"No, don't you dare—" Warriors starts, leaning halfway over the table as if he means to launch himself over it to stop her talking. Despite his words, he doesn't actually sound mad, just annoyed.

"Oh right, that be it!"

"Tetra I am warning you—"

He has one foot up on the bench now, and Time is starting to think he might actually vault over the table. There are plenty of worse things that could happen, of course—though he scoots further back into the bench and curls an arm protectively around his ribs just in case—but this intense response is something he would expect from Wild or even Legend, not the responsible and largely reserved captain he's come to know.

She laughs, bright and clear, and snaps one hand up into a crisp salute. "Mister captain ‘ero sir."

Warriors groans, loud and disgusted but still not properly angry, and collapses back into the booth, dropping his head to the table with an audible thunk he doesn't acknowledge. "I hate you so much right now, I killed and buried that name," he grumbles into his arms, muffled and barely understandable.

Four coughs pointedly, and everyone looks to him. "As many questions as this… fascinating interaction raises, I believe we were here for a reason?"

Her expression hardens, the cheerful girl vanishing behind the mask of the protective captain, and her mouth sets into a firm line as all her joy disappears in an instant. "Aye, that be true. As my sweet lad say, I be Cap'n Tetra o' Nayru's Favor, elsewise known as the Waves o' Nayru. I ‘eard a rumor on the water that ya lads be lookin' for the Wind o' Farore; that true?"

"It is," Time agrees mildly.

Her entire focus shifts to him, bearing down on him like a brewing storm that might pass him by or strike him down depending on what she sees, and while her gaze is locked with his, all sense of the passing of time slips away. They could have held that stare for a moment or a millennium and he wouldn't have noticed a difference, frozen in place like there's a redead screaming in his ear and just as sure of the fact that he's in danger. A strange sense of vulnerability creeps up on him, as it seems almost like she's trying to peer into his soul and examine everything that makes him who he is, to dig into his mind and pore over every little action and decision making up his memories to decide if he is an enemy.

Those burning eyes turn away and the spell is broken, and he lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Whoever she is, this girl is a predator, ready and waiting to tear apart any threat that enters her domain.

"Then ya best be convincin' me yer reasons be good ones an' ya ain't be draggin' 'im inta any real danger."

"What, no leniency on account of you apparently being pals with Warriors here?"

The tone is familiar—Wild is trying to crack some of the tension so they can speak more levelly—but Time already knows it isn't going to go over well, not here and not now and not with her. Warriors looks like he knows it too, and is unhappily waiting for her sharp response.

She turns her head slowly to stare at Wild, and as Time watches the boy freeze he wonders if that's how he had looked a few seconds ago.

"Best be clear, babbler, I dun know ya an' I dun trust ya, an' I ain't be pointin' ya towards a member o' my crew without those. If it just been my darlin' lamb askin', aye, like as not I been introducin' 'im right quick, but even 'is word ain't be enough ta cover all o' my concerns."

"And what concerns are those, exactly?" Four asks, measured and non-confrontational. The reflected light shining in his eyes almost seems to flicker between several colors as he stares at her. "You mentioned danger, but combat is part of being a hero."

She scoffs, rocking back on her heels and crossing her arms. "Ain't been talkin' ‘bout no combat, mannikin, an' that bein' yer first thought do be concernin' me. The Wind be knowin' 'ow ta fight an' take care o' 'imself, an' even on that rare occasion 'e fumbles it be only a matter o' blood an' bone. No, gentlemen, I be worryin' about real danger. Things what cut deep 'ere"—she taps her chest, right over her heart—"an' 'ere." The same hand lifts and brushes against her temple.

"If ya dismiss 'im, if ya isolate 'im, if ya push 'im too far. If ya use an' abuse 'im 'til there ain't nothin' left but achin' an' weariness. If 'e ain't be able ta smile an' laugh around ya. If ya grind 'im down inta the dirt an' stone 'til 'e be polished smooth an' cold. If ya ain't willin' ta let 'im be a person an' not just the 'ero. That be what I worry about when someone new be wantin' ta meet the Wind."

The room is as silent as an empty grave as they process Tetra's impromptu speech. As it stretches on, she sighs. Her fire doesn't fade, but she banks it, pulling back from something aggressive to something pleading. Her arms are no longer crossed, one hand tapping at her leg and the other tangled in her handkerchief, and she looks like nothing more than a sad, tired child.

"Bodies always be at risk, no matter where ya be or 'ow careful ya bein'. Ain't nothin' anyone can do ‘bout that, an’ ain't a body alive what'd thank ya for tryin'. I just want 'im ta be safe."

Time doesn't offer any response, but it's not because he doesn't want to. It's because he can't, too caught in the memories of what-once-was, as bound up in the past as he was as a child. It circles in his head: the requests, the favors, the journeys and tasks, the responsibilities everyone kept handing him because he was the hero. The fighting. The fear. And the after, worse than all the rest put together because he didn't know how to stop anymore. Didn't know how to sit and just be, how to live in a world that didn't need saving and where there were no monsters that needed fighting—not until a farm girl took his hand and pulled him back when he drifted too far.

Tetra hasn't moved, hasn't said anything else, but Time sees her in a whole new light now as he imagines how Malon would have reacted if there were people knocking on their door asking to meet the hero at all hours while showing no interest in the farmer. He thinks back to the first question the sailor boy had asked, when he was trying to reach out to Time as a person instead of a patient. He thinks of what Malon would have needed to hear someone ask if she were going to introduce them to him. And he thinks, maybe, that same question is what Tetra needs to hear, to be comfortable introducing someone to her hero.

"Tetra," he says, and it comes out so rough he has to stop and try again.

She looks back at him, tired eyed, her temper leashed but still present. Not quite so ready to attack anymore, but still on guard for any missteps. His companions are watching him as well, he can feel the weight of their stares as everyone waits for what he has to say.

"Tetra, what's his name?"

Her smile shines like the fourth sunrise, creeping slowly from the dark, and a dangerous relief settles in her eyes. A silent understanding passes between his fellow heroes, its bones the same skeleton but the tone varying from person to person; some are closer to sorrow, some to grief, some to pain.

"The Wind's name be called Link," she says quietly, "though I be startin' ta suspect ya lot already knew that."

Among the somber group of heroes, Wild is the outlier. He's smiling—a soft, genuine smile that reaches all the way to his eyes. "I'm glad he has someone like you to look out for him. We need that, even if some of us won't admit it."

She closes her eyes and breathes, long and slow, and she's shaking now. It's only barely visible, but it is visible, the faintest tremors running up her arms. She crosses them again, presumably trying to still that same trembling, but it looks more like she's hugging herself now. She isn't crying, but when she opens her eyes again they're wet and shiny, and her breath is as unsteady as her body.

Time aches to reach out and comfort her, the way no-one had tried to reach for him at her age, but that isn't what she needs from him—isn't his place, as a stranger—so he keeps to himself.

"An’ will ya? Keep 'im safe?"

One by one, they quietly promise they will. They would have regardless—they're heroes, and they look after their own—but there's nothing they can do in the face of a grief-stricken child but reaffirm that commitment. The only one who doesn't speak is Warriors, who Time had somewhat expected to be the first to swear, given his baffling but deeply apparent connection with the pirate girl.

It becomes clear why when Tetra steps up to the table, reaching out to clasp Warriors' forearm in a bruising grip. The pair lock eyes and for a long moment everything is silent save for the sound of the sea; not even a quiet breath disturbs the scene laid out before them.

"An' ya, messmate?" Tetra finally asks, low and pained. "Will ya protect 'im? Will ya look out for 'im like ya did for us, like we did for each other? Will ya make certain there be a space for 'im, an' give 'im back 'is voice when 'e loses it, an' show 'im that 'e belongs with ya?"

She takes a slow breath, which hitches for a moment on an almost-cry.

"Will ya take care o' the brother o' my 'eart?"

Warriors places his other hand over hers, gripping it tight. There's a weight to the air that almost makes it hard to breathe, some kind of ceremonial significance Time knows he's missing.

"I swear it, Tetra."

The tension cracks. She lets go and steps back, taking another steadying breath, and smiles. It trembles, but no-one draws attention to that fact. "Then ya lads sit an' wait a glass, an' I be goin' ta fetch 'im, aye?"

She turns, swiping quickly at her eyes as she does, and she's gone. Her footsteps trace out the reverse of her approach: up the stairs, across the deck, and the faint scrape of her descent. They wait in tense silence, Warriors pointedly ignoring the curious stares of some of their companions, and soon they hear people climbing back onto the ship. Two people.

Tetra comes down again first, something grim in her eyes that practically dares them to make a scene as she steps to the side, one hand resting on her cutlass though she doesn't even seem to be aware of that fact. The second person down the stairs is painfully familiar, and Time finds himself faced with wide, wary blue eyes in a soft round face, and a shock of short blond hair, messy like the boy's been running his hands through it over and over again.

"Ahoy there, lads," Mal greets, off-balance in a way he hasn't been in all the time that Time has been conscious on this ship. Gone is the self-assured young sailor who knew his place and role, the master of his domain whose environment was all but an extension of himself. In his place stands an unsteady hero, afraid of the reception he'll receive on a foreign kind of battleground. "Right pleased t'make yer acquaintance properly. As ye like been guessin', the name be Link; apologies fer the deception, but as me sister told ye, I dun meet folks what be new without me captain's approval."

On some level, Time has always known it was Mal. He'd have to be fully blind, and deaf besides, to miss the similarities between the sailor boy and the heroes Time himself travels with. And yet the confirmation comes out of nowhere and leaves him reeling regardless, because he'd rejected that possibility so fiercely that he never actually consciously realized it. He didn't want to know, didn't want to face the possibility of another too-young hero.

Distorted fragments of a hazy conversation filter back to him, all the way back from that first night. He'd been almost asleep, half-delirious with pain and weariness, but hints of the words remain with him. Some years back, Aryll had said. The Wind saved me an' me brother some years back. The boy can't be more than fourteen now; how old had he been when he'd first picked up a weapon and a title? It's too familiar in all the worst ways.

"Suppose I be travelin' with ye lads, now? Least, if ye still be havin' me."

He looks so unsure, so lost, standing there separate from Tetra and Time's group of travelers alike, as if he isn't quite on either side of the line and he doesn't know which way to reach. Mal—Link looks right at him, almost pleading, waiting for the leader's judgment.

Time’s hands shake. This Link is so small, and the idea of being the one to pull another tiny hero into their dangerous life is devastating, never mind that it’s nothing new to him. Never mind that he’s not quite so small as Time had been the first time he picked up a sword. Time’s heart is racing, and it would be so easy to reach out and pull him into the group, but the thought alone makes it hard to breathe.

But they’re all too young, every single one of them, even Time himself. There’s no such thing as being old enough to risk your life for the safety of others. This Link is a medic, formally trained and familiar with the realities of mortal frailty, and an asset they cannot afford to refuse; this Link is a hero and the person they’ve come to find, and turning him away now that they’ve met him properly would be an insult he might never forgive.

He’d said it before, hadn’t he? He has no desire to be a hypocrite. He’d had enough of being dismissed for his age when he was young. Yet from the other side it’s a miserable equation. A child medic is not the same as a child hero. But the child is already a hero and won’t stand to be made otherwise, so what can he do?

Time reaches out and extends a shaking hand towards the boy-hero who still watches him with nervous hope.

The boy grabs onto the lifeline he's been given with a stormy relief, and all at once it's like he's found his feet again. His smile's crumbling corners build back to a solid whole, and his eyes shine bright without the tint of worry dulling them.

“Welcome to the group, Link.”

Their newest hero, now officially known as Wind, has been traveling with them for about a month when they next step between eras. The others entertain themselves with his shock and awe at land that doesn't end, no large bodies of water in sight, but Time finds himself too distracted to join in. From the moment he recognizes the forest they're passing through, the messy tangle of desperation and relief in his chest starts winding tighter and tighter, until he almost feels like he can't breathe. Not quite like that terrible moment underwater, but honestly not that far off from it either.

But he can't stop thinking about it. Everything about this place, every step he takes, reminds him of what happened. What almost happened. What could have happened.

One of the workers spots them approaching and runs for the main house; the boys ask questions but Time refuses to elaborate. He doesn't think he could speak at the moment even if he wanted to. By the time they reach the main gate, Malon is there waiting for him, smiling bright to cover up the concern he alone can still read in her expression. He greets her with a kiss—like he always does, coming back from a journey—and a hug tight enough to upgrade concern into worry. He still can't bring himself to let go, not when all he can think is that he almost never got to hold her again.

He almost never came home.

He almost left her, and she has no idea. She knows something is wrong, of course. She can read him like a book; he's the one who opened up his walls and taught her the meaning of every nuance and quirk to his tones and mannerisms. But she doesn't know what, and she won't ask after the strength of his hold or the tremor in his arms, not when there are other people around.

Even if those other people are clearly aware of what happened, which is plain to see in the way they avert their eyes, in the set of their shoulders, in the nervous fidgeting and the way they don't interrupt even as the moment stretches on far past what would be considered polite. Finally, he forces himself to let go—to step back until there's just an arm around her shoulders—and introduces the boys to his wife.

But he can't stop for long. There's work to do around the ranch, as there always is, and he throws himself into it without hesitation the moment he's given an opportunity, burying himself in the familiar tasks. This is normal, even if he has to avoid Wind’s attention to get away with it. This is his regular life, not fighting and running and drowning. As long as he's working, he doesn't have to think about the fact that the last time he did this work was almost the last time he did this work.

As buried in the absence of thought as he is, he maybe shouldn't be surprised that he ends up overworking himself. As it is, he doesn't notice the problem until he starts coughing and he can't stop. Staggering back, he leans on the nearest support he can find—a fencepost, as it turns out—and tries to keep his back straight when all he wants to do is curl into a little ball of suffering.

Of course, this is far from the first time he's overdone it during his recovery, and the familiar sound of his coughing fit catches the ear of the current conspicuously-close boys. Hyrule sells him out without hesitation, turning to yell for Wind despite Time's unimpressed glower. He would be fine, given a few minutes to recover, but now there's going to be fussing.

The youngest hero arrives in moments, and from the set of his jaw he'd known what happened before he even got there. Not that it could have been that much of a surprise, since there's little other cause to yell for him rather than walk over to speak to him, and Time's coughing isn't exactly quiet. Meeting Time's unamused stare with an equally-flat look of his own, the boy steps forward and tugs him away from the fence.

"I told ye t'take it easy, ye everlastin' blockhead," Wind snaps, pulling one of Time's arms over his shoulder and wrapping his free arm around Time's waist.

For his part, Time doesn't protest. He's not sure he could if he wanted to; with how ragged his breath has become, with how his chest has begun to ache all over again, with how he can't stop coughing, all he can do is lean on the support Wind offers and hobble into the kitchen, letting himself be all but poured into a chair to the sound of his wife's startled and worried voice.

"Ye can ask yer questions after I get this dealt with, aye?"

"After you deal with this?"

"Small I may be, Missus Malon, but fer this matter I do be 'is treatin' physician, an' full trained, dun ye doubt. Now, any chance o' gettin' some boilin' water? Just need a cup."

His wife might be stubborn, but if there's one thing the two of them have in common it's the ingrained response to a no-nonsense medic's tone, and Wind has that voice down perfectly. She falls silent at once and moves away, the faint sound of the kettle almost lost beneath his coughing. Time doesn't try to listen for any hints to her movements; he has no attention to spare for anything but his breathing as he tries to keep it steady. There's a vague thought in the back of his mind, a regret that she has to see him like this, but he banishes it. He doesn't have the time for regret, and she wouldn't thank him for trying to hide this from her anyway.

Wind reappears, dropping a handful of things on the table—and Time recognizes the materials for that vile tea that kept his suffering to merely miserable instead of utterly unbearable, making a face despite himself—but leaves them where they lay and circles around to stand in front of Time. His hands are strong, despite their deceptively small size, and the sturdy grip on his shoulders as the boy pushes at him until he's sitting upright and straight-backed is a familiar one.

"Try t'breathe slow, cully," he says, like he always does.

And Time does try, even succeeds to a degree, but every time he starts to settle there's some tickle in his chest or hitch in the pace and he breaks into another fit, instinctively trying to curl in on himself as Wind keeps pushing him upright.

"Now what?" Malon asks, setting a small pot of boiling water on the counter.

"Now ye sit 'ere with 'im while I work. Dun be lettin' 'im lean over or curl up, aye? Straight back means easier breathin', an' 'e dun need nothin' makin' that 'arder at present."

Malon's hands against his shoulders are uncertain in a way that Wind's have never been, and he forces his eye open to meet her worried gaze. He tries to smile at her, but that only seems to worry her worse. After several long minutes, he finally manages to subdue his cough, though his breath is still unsteady, and she heaves a sigh of relief.

"Dun be talkin' yet, polliwog, last thing ye need be t'irritate yer lungs again an' kick off an 'ole new coughin' fit," Wind warns sternly from across the kitchen.

Time obeys. He might have his moments of stubbornness, but for the most part he's learned well to listen to his youngest traveling companion when it comes to medical concerns. Neither is he particularly eager to return to the paralyzing terror of being unable to breathe; the sensation haunts him too much in his nightmares for him to court its resurgence in the waking world.

Not that his prior fit was really the result of stubbornness, or of any unfounded certainty he was ready to help around the ranch like he normally does. No, that episode of distraction and overwork was purely down to a suffocating desperation for normalcy, the crushing desire for life to return to how it once was. It's not nearly so suffocating as the literal inability to breathe, however, so he forces himself to put it aside.

Now that he can breathe again, he nudges Malon's hands from his shoulders and leans against her, sliding an arm behind her back to hold her close and resting his head on her shoulder, careful to keep his back relatively straight. The faint tremors that shiver through her body are all the reminder he needs to be more careful with himself, even if he hadn't already reached that conclusion himself. He can't scare her like that again.

Wind reappears, cup in hand, and Time spares a moment to glower at it before reaching out to take it from him. His hand trembles bad enough Malon puts her own over his to steady it, and she helps him hold it as he drains half of it in one large gulp before coming up for air. He knows he's making quite a face, but can't actually force his expression to smooth out.

"That bad, huh?" she asks with a little humorless laugh.

He tilts his head to meet her gaze and offers her the dryest look he can muster, holding the cup up for her to smell. She obliges his silent request, pauses, and then bursts into real, loud laughter, just as much relief as it is humor. In the corner of his eye, he sees Wind startle at the sound.

"Poor baby," Malon teases, ignoring his ever-more unimpressed stare in favor of mussing up his hair.

He grumbles under his breath between smaller sips of that horrible tea.

"It's the spices," she informs Wind. She must have noticed how awkward and out-of-place he looks, now that he's momentarily no longer acting as a medic. "The man's been at war with my spice cabinet since he was your age."

Wind giggles. He'll never admit it, and Time will never describe it as such aloud, but the sound is undeniably a giggle. The mood stays like that, light and playful, until Time finishes his tea and sets the cup back on the table, then slowly begins to turn somber again.

"What happened, dear?"

Time can't bring himself to answer her question. He holds her stare, doesn't try to avoid her, and he tries but every time he goes to open his mouth and answer her it's like he's back in the water. Sinking fast, holding his breath against the reflexive gasp even though it's been decades since he'd last been submerged in the sea, struggling to get his armor off but fumbling with the straps. Shaking hands, ever-weakening grip, and finally losing the battle against his own body as he inhales and chokes on water.

There's a hand on his arm and he jolts back to himself.

"Breathe," Wind commands, and no matter how calm he sounds there's no mistaking it for anything but an order.

Time obeys. He grabs onto the familiar lifeline with all his strength; if Wind is here with him and talking calmly then there's no danger. He's not in the water. He's at home: back in his era, in his house, sitting in his kitchen, holding his wife's hand. He just has to remember that. He's safe, even if he doesn't feel like it.

"I was going to tell you tonight," he says. It's not what he meant to say, but it's what he manages to get out of his mouth.

Malon's mouth turns down into a worried frown.

Wind sighs, tired but not upset, and squeezes Time's arm before letting go. He misses the contact at once, but he'll never ask for it.

"Shush, polliwog. Ye just sit pretty an' be visibly well, aye? Ye focus on keepin' yerself calm an' present. I be more'n able t'answer yer questions, missus."

Malon knows him, though, and she can see just how he reacts to Wind letting go. So she reaches out to him instead, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pulling him close. He lets himself be moved and held without protest, leaning against her and relishing the touch. As long as she's touching him, he knows he's home. He knows he's safe.

She turns, the underside of her jaw brushing against the top of his head, and pauses. "Sit down, sweetheart," she tells Wind, gently. "You look like you're standing trial."

The boy chuckles, a little nervous note to the sound, then pulls a chair out. He can picture the way Wind is probably swinging his feet in the silence, and the way he'd straighten in his seat when he coughs and speaks.

"Ye want t'know what 'appened, missus?"

"I do. I… I know my husband gets into plenty of danger, so don't you try to sugar-coat anything for me, alright? Just tell me what happened."

For a long moment, Wind doesn't speak. Then he sighs again, softly. "Yes'm," he says evenly, once again all medic. "T'say it blunt… missus, yer 'usband drowned."

Time flinches at the word, a phantom pressure building in his chest, and Malon gasps, her arms tightening around his shoulders. It's the truth. Denying it won't change anything. But there's something brutal about hearing it so plainly, something cold and crushing like the water closing over his head.

Malon takes a deep, slow breath, and the motion of it jolts him back into reality. His own breath is ragged, but not so rough as it could have been.

"How?"

"Ye know about our group's travelin' t'different times an' places, aye? Well, me 'omeland ain't exact land. Most o' it be water, an' when this lot o' unlucky ragamuffins tumbled through they ain't end up on no island. Bad luck an' a danger ain't nobody known t'prepare fer. Ain't nothin' a body coulda done different at the when."

"And how is he…" She trails off, as if she can't bear to finish the sentence. Time still knows what she was going to say.

How is he not dead.

"Wind saved my life," he answers quietly, not looking up or moving away from her. "If it wasn't for him… if it wasn't for his training, quick reaction, and refusal to give up, I wouldn't be here."

Her arms tighten around him. "Is that true?"

It's not because she doubts his word, Time knows that much. It's that she needs to hear it again to be able to process it. He can't blame her for that; it's a lot to take in all at once. He’d needed to hear Wind say it directly to be able to acknowledge it, and he had actually experienced it.

"Aye, missus, that be the truth. An' more'n ye know," Wind confesses wearily. "Ain't no medic like the idea o' givin' up on a patient, but ain't many so stubborn as me, or physically able t'keep tryin' after… well, there be a set minimum time a medic has to keep tryin', else they be gettin’ their ink struck right through, aye? An' those what be able be like t'keep workin' so long as they can, but near twice again that window be more than most folk be bodily capable of."

For a long moment, there's a still kind of silence. Time just feels cold and almost detached. He'd already known this—Wind had explained it to him before, trying to impress the seriousness of the situation on him, that a Great Sea medic only had to try for twenty minutes and Wind had worked without pause for thirty-eight—but it still chills him to hear.

Malon unwraps an arm from around him and reaches out, and even without looking up he knows she's taken Wind's hand.

"Then, my friend…" Her voice trembles, and Time can just imagine how she'd be smiling a wobbly smile if he looked up right then. "Thank you. I owe you a debt greater than anyone could repay."

That gets a reaction out of Wind, a hissed inhale and the creak of his chair suggesting he's reeled back in his seat, and his sharp "No ma'am!" is enough to make Time sit up and look at him. He’d reacted sharply to Warriors’ suggestion of a debt back on that first day, too, but not so severely as this. The boy's face is all hard lines and sharp corners, something relentless in his eyes. The knuckles of his right hand are white with the strength of his grip as he squeezes Malon's hand, as if to command her full attention—as if his voice hadn't already done so.

"I seen people die before, missus, I seen people drown," Wind begins, quieter now but just as stern. "Some what could be saved, an' some what couldn't. Ain't be saying ye dun got t'thank me—wind an' waves know I be right furious if a body insulted the value o' me sister's life like that, I ain't be doin' it t'anyone else—but ye dun owe me nothin'. Ain't never a world where I dun try t'help as I be able, an' savin' a life… that ain't somethin' what creates a debt, missus. I ain't be lettin' a sentiment like that sit in yer head t'fester."

Malon trembles, and Time inches a little closer to her in silent support. "I… I understand. I hadn't thought about it quite like that…"

"Dun been thinkin' ye 'ad, missus, or that ye meant any 'arm by it. Most folk dun, not if they ain't been made to," Wind replies, almost sheepish now in the aftermath of his outburst. He releases Malon's hand with what seems like a momentous effort, his fingers stiff from the force of his hold. "Er… sorry ma'am, but I be thinkin' that 'and might bruise."

Malon laughs, not with humor but almost dismissive, as if to cast the notion away. "If it bruises, it bruises. Let it remind me of what you said every time I see or feel it; maybe by the time it heals your words will have sunk in."

"If ye say so, missus," Wind says, chair scraping along the floor as he gets to his feet. "I best be gettin' back t'Twilight an' the others, aye? Ought be lettin' them know they ain't needin' t'worry."

He stops in the doorway like a thought has just occurred to him, turning back to pin Time with a medic's threatening glare. "An' ye dun be goin' nowhere fer the day, aye? Ye stay right where ye be an' rest if ye know what be good fer ye, polliwog."

Time laughs—nervously, because he knows exactly what the consequences will be if he doesn't listen, and one instance of being confined to camp by way of literally being tied to one of his companions is enough for him—and agrees, and Wind spares one more moment for a doubtful stare before finally leaving.

Time honestly has no intentions of going anywhere or doing anything, though; his latest coughing fit may be well finished by now, but that doesn't mean he isn't still exhausted and wary of causing another. He's already worn to the bone and reluctant to make it worse if he doesn't have to. No, he's more than happy to sit quietly with his wife for a while longer, secure in the knowledge that everyone is safe.

"… Link, sweetheart?" Malon asks after a few minutes of silence.

"Hmm?"

"What is a polliwog, anyway?"