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Chapter Text

Zelda calls. She always does, doesn’t she? Was this how Link embarked on his first journey when he was twelve, having been woken from his sleep that one fateful stormy night when Zelda called? Her ethereal voice echoes in Ravio’s mind like a call to prayer that ripples down the aisle of the sanctuary. It does not stop.

Hilda would have called too, but she can no longer. The Lorule Passage is no longer. The two worlds are again apart like the goddesses designed them to be. He should have never wanted to challenge the Goddesses’ design, that much is known. After all those sleepless nights spent trying to rip through the very fabric of reality just to see the land of Hyrule again, he was the one who set the fire and watched the bridge burn.

Mister Hero, Link, has left too soon. If Ravio hurries, if he is fast enough and in time for once, he might as well catch up before Link gets there. Link would be there with all those answers, but the answers can wait, and maybe they no longer matter after all.

And Sheerow would be there too, wouldn’t she? Ravio cannot wait to see Sheerow again, to hold her in his palms and let her preen in the folds of his scarf, on his shoulder.

How has it come to this?

All those years ago, he asked himself this question out of sheer desperation when Yuga and his knights hunted him down at a single word of dissent. And then he used this question to whip his fearful self into at least doing something that might help whenever tears welled up behind his mask.

Now, he feels calm, and his hands are steady as he thinks of the journey ahead.

This is not the first time he, Ravio, known coward, has decided to embark on a one-way trip between worlds.

But this one will surely be his last.

Chapter Text

It would be nice to get the fire going, given the weather, Ravio thinks. It has been dark and gloomy for more than a week, and Ravio cannot stop noticing how cold and numb he has been feeling at the tip of his fingers. He taps on the old fire rod he and Mister Hero keep by the side of the fireplace for this one purpose, and yet this well-worn item refuses to do its sole and final job.

Ravio tentatively flicks his wrist at the fireplace again, sending an additional tendril of his magic down to the rod’s fire-making ruby to monitor how the gem responds to his silent but deliberate commands. Nothing. Not a spark. What should be a stream of free-flowing elemental power pouring back from the rod is now like a splotch of congealed shellac at the bottom of an old inkwell.

So he shakes the rod in even bolder gestures as a last resort, sending down more magic than necessary for lighting firewood. One really shouldn’t be doing this to any magical item, and elemental rods especially — Ravio made sure to remind his customers of these details of use and care every single time. But as a skilled maker of enchanted items, he is well aware of his and his wares’ limits, and taking a bit of a risk is nothing unusual for testing new designs or jumpstarting old ones.

Plus, Link’s entire arsenal and Ravio’s workshop (which really should have just been a normal house) is enshrouded in a meticulous guard spell he has woven over the past year, for which he proudly takes every credit. The organization system is ingenious. A separate safety enchantment on each item works well to prevent unintentional discharge and unwanted magical reactions. As long as he maintains the master spell on the house, there would be no need to labor over the individual artifacts in long-term storage (Link’s three hundred rings be damned).

Sheerow lands on the mantlepiece above Ravio’s bent form and tilts her head, chirping a question. The sweet little feather ball seems to react to his magic more since Ravio came back from the War of Ages, and it worries Ravio that Sheerow seems particularly agitated when he casts something with a bit more force. Ravio still feels sorry for leaving his companion behind when he walked through that portal, but given everything that happened in the war, Ravio doesn’t regret having left Sheerow in the safety of their home for a couple of months.

“I am fine, Sheerow, just cold — as usual.” Ravio gives up trying to resuscitate the old fire rod. It should now be allowed to rest. It has had a good life. “Can you fetch me a good fire rod so I can make sure the house is warm before Link comes back?”

Sheerow lifts off at the request, trailing a beautiful arch of silver across the living room. Ravio has been trying to make up for their unexpected separation by bribing the bird with extra snacks. Reparations have been more than enough by now, but Ravio finds it hard to withdraw this additional gesture of affection. Sheerow’s feathers are so beautiful now. She is so well-nourished.

As the bird disappears, Ravio looks in the direction of the door and listens for footsteps. Nothing. Not yet.

He did the same yesterday. He did the same the day before. Waiting for Link to come home is a persistent theme in his memories with Hyrule’s Hero, and back when it meant business the experience wasn’t always pleasant either. There had been more than enough instances where Link could barely stumble through the door frame, soaked in his own blood and drawing labored breaths. Or worse, Link would faint in the front yard, and Ravio wouldn’t find him until much later, and it was always this reality of being late that pains Ravio. There were so many times — too many — where Ravio could have lost Link if he had not decided to hang their laundry to dry in the front yard a bit early, where he would find the Hero of Legend covered in burns inflicted by the bomb-throwing Hinoxes of Lorule.

But this time the stakes are different. Link is still out adventuring. After the portals returned each of the nine heroes named Link to the time and place where he belongs, there should be no more adventures. There should be rest and retirement for his Link, but the Hero of Legend still leaves each morning and turns away from the peace he deserves.

There is a serious conversation Ravio must have with his Hero.

Irene asked him to act on it as soon as he spoke to her about the signs. The young witch nearly fell off her broom when she finally saw the small vial of rust-colored liquid Ravio produced from his pocket.

“Chirp!” Ravio feels a slight push on his right shoulder as Sheerow calls for his attention.

“Oh, thanks.” The chirping sound, as well as the creeping cold, bring Ravio’s mind back to the task at hand. He relieves the little bird of the weight she is carrying and lifts the guard spell on this much better fire rod. Within a few minutes, the flames are dancing merrily, casting a warm glow that fills the void of a missing sunset. As soon as Ravio puts the safety enchantment back onto the rod, Sheerow offers to return the item to its proper place without Ravio having to ask.

As for the old fire rod, it must be retired properly. For an old-fashioned design like this, there is no way to do it with grace.

“I need to do that thing again,” Ravio turns to Sheerow and apologizes, “you may want to stay in the kitchen until I call you. This time it should be very quick.”

Sheerow lands gently on his shoulder and lets out a soft coo, before leaning in to give Ravio’s cheek a delicate nudge.

Take care of yourself. She lifts off and disappears behind the kitchen door.

The room is warmer as the fire crackles away. Ravio closes his grip around the fire rod, holds it to his chest, and closes his eyes. It will be like shattering a useless mirror. That’s all. It will be done before he could realize it.

But the idea of breaking something that was once useful still stirs his heart. Vio told him what it was like to see a mirror shattered. The fragmented reflection of what once was resembled a pool of blood, and that child who witnessed it was never the same again.

Thank you for all you’ve done. Ravio imagines his silent words shrouding the weathered surface of the fire rod. A requiem he says every time.

And then he whips flashes of raw energy into his grasp. The firewood pops and snaps, and yet the air crackles with a chilling static. Through every vein of the item, a hurricane of Ravio’s magic carves a path of destruction, like ripping roots from the flesh of the earth and leaving behind a gaping void where connections once thrived.

So it happened within the space of one thought and a breath. The fire rod now lies silent and lifeless.

Unlike last time, Ravio only had to use very little of his magic, and this time he doesn’t even find his fingers numb or his head light.

Ravio’s gaze shifts toward the door again, his anticipation palpable. Nothing. Not yet.

Fragments of conversations have been playing out in Ravio’s mind for days, and yet each scenario ends in uncertainty and doubt. Will there ever be the right words to broach the delicate topic?

Irene said, from what she knew, whatever it was that Link had been brewing and taking should have already killed an average man. The Hero of Legend is exceptional, but his body is still bound by the limits of mortal endurance. In this regard, Ravio may know more about Link’s physical limitations than the Hero himself. Hylia, in her mercy, always ensured that Link was unconscious during the most difficult moments of his wound treatment. Oblivion, in this case, would do the Hero good.

In those moments, amidst the chaos of battle, these potions would be a lifeline, a reprieve from the relentless onslaught of agony that Ravio never had to experience. At this thought Ravio’s muscles tense. In the one time he was shot in the arm during the War of Ages, he dropped and scrambled and wailed in shock, and he thrashed in Mister Captain Hero’s arms and nearly kicked Tune in the face. Ravio cannot begin to understand how he could be hurt badly and fight his helpers with such force at the same time; perhaps his dramatic façade from a past career would never leave him.

Ravio suddenly feels a nudge against his left arm, the light impact snapping him out of his thoughts. Vision clearing, he finds Sheerow fluttering around him with an insistent chirp. Her legs kick in the air in a ridiculous little dance.

“Sorry, I forgot to call you,” Ravio makes a good attempt at giggling, which he knows Sheerow would want to hear, “I should be better at keeping promises.”

Laying the fire rod on his work desk by the fireplace, Ravio reaches out to stroke Sheerow's feathers, trying to sink into the grounding touch.

Although he started as a field medic, and despite the initial embarrassment of winning the screaming contest in the field hospital, Ravio did join the fight. The Captain, Mask, and Tune did a good job of keeping the details away from Mister Hero’s knowledge. And as long as Ravio finds his own magical conduit soon enough, Mister Hero would never know, and he would never have to worry.

How qualified is he to criticize Link for secrecy when he chokes at the mere fact that he, too, shares his goddess’s powers by blood?

Being adept in creating and using magical items was familiar; being capable of sending moblins flying was new. He hacked his way through the battlefield in a numbing rage, a novice sailor standing at the helm of a ship without a compass, unfurling the sail in a storm with reckless abandon. He knew he should have learned better before delving into such potent forces, but the allure of power proved too tempting to resist. He could help end the war despite coming to it so late. He could help get everybody home alive.

Had he forced himself to face Yuga head-on six years ago, had he braved Yuga’s initial blow to activate that bracelet and gotten his image plastered on a dungeon wall instead, he would have unearthed his dormant powers sooner.

Instead, he callously dumped the bracelet and its burden onto a young blacksmith apprentice, who had finally dared to dream of a normal life. With every false promise and forced smile, he secured the bracelet around Link's wrist like a damning shackle,

“That’s the smell of history, buddy! Musty leather! Moldy aromas! The rich fragrance of a relic!”

He really should properly retire that bracelet too. It was designed to harness and exploit Yuga’s powers, and with that maniac dead, a hitchhike item without a stable source should not be allowed to exist.

It is only now that he realizes how Sheerow has been gently pecking at his fingers for quite some time. She must have been trying to get his attention.

His gaze meets Sheerow's; she tilts her head, and her eyes shimmer with a gentle plea. She pushes the Cane of Byrna across the workbench into Ravio’s reach and watches her master in soft anticipation.

“Right.” Ravio briefly shakes his head to clear his thoughts. “This is the last one in Link’s collection. Lolia below please let it work.”

The slender blue staff shimmers in the light; its energy pulsates beneath Ravio’s guard spell.

Unlike the Cane of Somaria, the Cane of Byrna is a protection spell crystallized into physical form. Ravio picks up the artifact with utmost care and unravels the guard spell obstructing the item’s powerful inner glow. He can already feel a light static between his palms and the cane’s smooth surface. It is not unlike the sensation of channeling his magic into Hilda’s staff when she let him try. The signs are promising.

“Sheerow, maybe you should go to the kitchen,” Ravio casts the little bird a glance as he holds the cane to his chest and lowers his head, “This one is strong.”

He doesn’t hear the bird lift off toward the kitchen. Sheerow zips through the air and trails a cross in refusal, and she lands back on the work desk in front of Ravio.

I will not leave you.

Ravio cannot be sure of what he is about to do, but for Sheerow’s sake, he must try.

Each spell he cast in the War of Ages was a dance on thin ice, and he felt the surface cracking beneath his weight. Numb fingers, blurry vision, and an immense cold within. Without the golden triforce and a powerful conduit like the Master Sword, Lolia’s magic is untamed and raw, like her crumbling world. If Hilda and Yuga could learn to ride the chilling tide with a magic staff, then Ravio must also find a way of his own.

With a hesitant breath, Ravio channels his magic through the cane, praying for Byrna’s sagely protection as he cautiously extends his plea.

A surge of arcane energy erupts, and Ravio’s own magic recoils with vicious force. His senses reel as the conduit expels every trace of his impure magic, leaving him stranded in the heart of a blizzard and tossed about by the tempestuous forces of his power.

Before he could realize it, he is on his knees and trembling from the backlash. There is no solace from the crackling fire. There is only an immense cold within.

Amidst the chaos of sensations, Ravio sees Sheerow spring into action and lift the Cane of Byrna from his side, laying it safely out of reach. With urgent flutters of her wings, Sheerow darts toward him and then works her way gently through the folds of his scarf, rubbing him lightly on the pulse point of his neck. Through the soft layers of Sheerow’s feathers, Ravio recovers the first stream of warmth.

“Are you hurt?” Ravio asks Sheerow, his voice trembling with concern as he reaches to cradle her gently in his hands, feeling the reassuring beat of her wings against his skin.

He does not blame Byrna for refusing to help. He hopes that his undisciplined magic has not tarnished this ancient relic whose secrets were already lost to time.

Muttering an apology to Sheerow and the artifact, Ravio grimaces as he summons the strength to push himself upright. Sheerow chirps sharply in intense worry and hurries to push Ravio toward his chair, which Ravio gratefully accepts.

He can already picture Hilda’s veiled mockery now that he has no choice but to go back to Lorule and commit to her training.

He has already overstayed in Hyrule. What kind of royal advisor would he be if he rarely lives in his own country?

He wishes that his interactions with his newly discovered sister don’t always start with him crawling back.

The door is swung open, and Link stands at its threshold.

Chapter Text

Ravio tenses as the door swings open, his hand flying to his hood out of sheer reflex. He can barely feel the familiar fabric, as there seem to be needles pricking at the tips of his fingers.

What absurdity there is in trying to hide. Mister Hero is his protector.

Taking in a deep breath, Ravio pushes himself up despite Sheerow's anxious chirps above the crackling fire, “Welcome home, Mister Hero. Did you have a good day out adventuring?”

“How is it, lying around at home?” Link strides past Ravio, drops his gear on the merchant’s work desk, and pulls out an ice rod, “Why is it like an oven in here?”

“I…” Ravio chokes on his words, fidgeting with his woolen sleeves under his purple robe. Before he can string together a coherent sentence, Link extinguishes the flames with a flick of his wrist. The lingering magic from the ice rod grips Ravio's thoughts. The dying embers paint Link’s long shadow across the walls.

“I… I just thought it would be nice,” Ravio’s voice wavers, “for you. After a long day out in the chilly rain.”

Link’s nonchalance stings like his bees. Ravio takes a steadying breath, his fingers twisting nervously around the fabric of his robe. Something stirs in his heart, an unfamiliar ache he cannot name.

“Has the rain been giving your joints trouble?”

Link shakes his head and takes off the leather straps holding his Master Sword, his focus seemingly elsewhere. He casually places the ice rod on Ravio’s desk, alongside his other gear.

Has he put the guard spell on?

Ravio clenches his jaw. He will not let these trivial thoughts distract him any longer.

"Have the potions been helping?” Ravio begins, his voice is soft yet calculated.

Link's expression shifts. He meets Ravio's gaze steadily, “Yes. They have been doing the job. Hylia gives me empty bottles for a reason.” He sees the Cane of Byrna leaning against the door to his backyard, “Why is this lying out here?”

Sheerow chirps sharply, a worried note in her voice. Ravio takes her from his shoulder and gently guides her to perch on his work desk, before inching closer on Link.

“I have spoken to Irene,” Ravio starts again, trying hard to ignore the cold creeping up on him, “I know why you need them. I know what they do. I am sorry that I couldn’t help more, but I wish you had told me.”

Ravio's fingers are steady as he retrieves the vial of rust-colored liquid from the small pocket close to his heart. The glass feels warm to the touch, as if still carrying a trace of his own body heat. He walks forward slowly until Link is within arm’s reach, his movements careful and deliberate, as if handling a precious promise, not sweet death.

He meets Link's gaze, his expression soft yet sure, “We're in this together, Link. I know what you're going through, and you don’t have to keep putting up with pain. I want to help.”

Link bursts out with mocking laughter, cutting through the thick air like a knife, “You are brave to say such a lie like it’s the truth. In this together?" Link scoffs, “What do you do all day in your cozy shop? What do you know about pain?”

Ravio's heart sinks at the venom in Link's words. His companion did not escape all those adventures unscathed. His hearty laughs died as he put on ever fancier armor, the red of his tunic growing darker with layers of old blood stain. His smile, once bright, had faded into the shadows of his haunted gaze since the other heroes had departed.

He can take it, if it makes Link feel better. He has put up with Link’s sarcasm before.

But Link never said anything like this.

Ravio's breath catches in his throat. He feels his pulse through the layers of his scarf.

“I hope you know that the fireplace won’t light itself.” Ravio enunciates his words like each is a spell, “You think your magical assets won’t torch your house if you leave them around while you go picking fights with monsters for their parts?”

Link stomps toward the back door and snatches up the Cane of Byrna, "And this is how you treat my stuff?” Link picks up a mockingly slow voice that mirrors Ravio’s own, “I climbed Death Mountain and walked spike floors to claim it. I wielded magic many times beyond my limit when I was twelve. I saved the sacred realm with my own hands when the whole country turned against me.”

Link stares into Ravio’s eyes, “When the pig-headed beast rose a second time because a mad wizard from Lorule summoned him, where was Lolia’s Chosen?”

Sheerow shrills with so much force that Link’s pupils seem to constrict. She flutters her wings in a battle cry, ready to swoop down from her perch. But before she can make a move, Ravio’s stern voice cuts through the tension, calling her back. Sheerow's red eyes burn with heat, but she obediently returns to Ravio, who cups her with his hand and tucks her into the front slit of his robe.

Why is it that everyone you love always ends up leaving?

A thought flashes through Ravio’s mind, but he kills it in its cradle. He will not let those words escape his lips. He won't forgive himself for even entertaining such a notion.

“You have never been wrong in how you see me, Hero of Legend.” Ravio’s gaze flickers with pain as he meets Link’s piercing stare, “Ravio is a coward at heart.”

“I thought I could change, that I could be more than the sum of my fears. But I was wrong," Ravio continues, his form trembling, “I have never been of service to your world or mine.”

Ravio’s words hang in the air, his breath coming in ragged gasps, “I cannot bear to watch you suffer any longer because of my weakness.”

Link’s brows raise in disbelief, “I have never said such a thing. Why are you inflicting this on yourself?”

Ravio thrusts the vial of potion into Link’s hand, and gestures to Link’s bracelet, “Give me the bracelet, Link.”

His voice is firm. This is a demand.

"Ravio, what's gotten into you?" Link's brows knit together as he peers at Ravio, a mixture of concern and incredulity in his eyes. He takes a few steps back, keeping himself just out of Ravio’s reach.

“Give me back the bracelet, Link.” Ravio’s inches closer.

“Ravio, what's happening?” Link bumps into the door to his backyard, still clutching at the golden bangle on his sword hand.

“I said, I will no longer let my cowardice be your curse,” Ravio’s voice does not waver. “What Ravio does best is to run from battle. But Ravio is not into unfinished business, and Ravio is not afraid to ask for help.”

“Zelda can handle this better than I can. I will see her on my way to the Lorule Passage anyway.”

Ravio's heart aches at the mention of Zelda, knowing all too well the implications of involving her in their tangled web of untold truths and disingenuous confessions. But he has to do it.

If no one will help the Hero learn, Zelda will.

Link’s body twitches at the princess’s name. His lips quiver, but no fiery retort escapes them. His grip tightens around the bracelet, the glass vial in his palm clinking against the metal, “No, Ravio… You can't… You can’t take back a gift.”

“Why not? It's useless now, Link.” Given the many lies he has told throughout his life, Ravio finds a rare relief in telling the truth. Tears glisten in Ravio’s eyes, reflecting the flickering light of the dying embers. He has fixed and retired so many broken things, but this one… this damned bracelet has etched into Link’s soul a scar he cannot heal. This gift? How can Link not see that this is his shackle?

“Yuga's dead. There's no power left in that thing. The war is over. No more pathways to Lorule for you to cross.”

“It's not about the power, Ravio. It's... it's about the adventures past… It… It is from you, that’s what matters. I need it to remind me that our adventure is a reality.”

“And you said we were never in this together, Link.” Ravio's voice barely rises above a whisper. The calmness with which his own words came out unsettles him.

“I am sorry, Ravio. Forgive me. I am sorry…”

Link’s hands tremble, and his chest heaves with each syllable.

The glass vial slips from his fingers, shattering on the floor with a sharp crash, but Link doesn't even spare it a glance. He cuddles the Cane of Byrna like a child holding his stuffed animal. He grips at Ravio’s bracelet like that is all he has.

Ravio’s own tears slide down his cheeks, the heat searing his skin. For a moment, he wavers, the weight of their shared history threatening to pull him back into the safety of their familiar routine.

Sheerow stirs restlessly in his pocket, a subtle yet palpable presence that tugs at his heartstrings.

“What do you do all day in your cozy shop? What do you know about pain?"

It hurt to run from Yuga alive to even warn Hyrule of the impending Incursion. It hurt to rip through reality with all he had knowing that it would be a trip of no return. It hurt, every time, without fail, to see water run red when he washed Link’s bedsheets.

And Link would rather give his heart to a lifeless object than open his eyes and see the work its living maker has done, for him, for their home, for Hyrule?

The fireplace won’t light itself.

Link has never considered that Ravio might be feeling cold.

As ambitious a merchant as he might have been, Ravio has never felt as burning an urge to make Link part with his gear. Link has to be himself again before he can be Mister Hero, or Legend.

"Link," Ravio begins, his voice steady though the tear trails on his face haven’t yet dried, “I've made up my mind. I need to return to Lorule.”

It is time to go. He cannot delay his training anymore. And it would be good to create some distance.

He knows the implications of leaving Link behind and the psychological toll it might take, but he's certain Zelda will keep a caring eye on her brother.

If he stays for another night and waits for sunrise, he might not have the courage and resolve to leave Link anymore. But his unruly magic does not give him a break. The pain of separation is better cut short than artificially prolonged. He can explain everything to Link once they both get better.

The light drains from Link’s face, his Pegasus boots crushing the shattered glass as he draws closer. "Ravio, I am sorry. What … What have I done? Is it the fire? I am sorry. I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry! Don’t you leave me too. Please. Is this a punishment? Why?”

"I am never going to punish you, Link," Ravio wants to maintain the composure he has just regained, but somehow it is slipping again from his grasp. He takes a step back to be out of Link’s reach.

“You already are, Ravio.” Link snarls, “You know what you are doing.”

Ravio’s heart lurches at Link’s words. Something shatters in him like the glass under Link’s boots. Sheerow struggles again in his pocket. She pushes her way out, and Ravio lets her.

He is already worn too thin. His words always cut him short. Emotions and sensitivity don’t come naturally to him in a foreign tongue. He has already tried so hard for Link’s sake. Beads of sweat form on his brow as something warm and raw ripples through his core. It is not speech.

Ravio screams.

The air crackles. A whirlwind of intense purple and black engulfs Ravio, and tendrils of viscous dark energy whip in every direction as runes of shadow writhe and rave. Each petal of this spectral blossom pulses with a coarse rage, its power grating through every surface in Link’s living room, crashing into the myriads of rods and hookshots mounted on the wall.

Lamp fires teeter on the brink of extinction as Ravio’s own master spell on the house groans under the assault.

Sheerow springs into the air with a sharp screech. She darts around the room like a caged beast, her wings flapping aggressively as she emits a series of discordant cries, her eyes predatory.

“RAVIO! WHAT ARE YOU DOING!” Link's voice cuts through the chaos, but Ravio barely registers the Hero’s presence. He feels like a puppet being jostled by unseen strings, his body and mind hollow, his very essence being shaken by the surging tides that he cannot ride.

His hazy vision flashes white as the air rips with a deafening crack. A meteor of light arcs around Link, slicing through the purple veil like a hot knife through butter. Ravio’s world explodes into agony as Byrna’s magic tears through his flesh and bone with merciless precision. He wants to wail and gasp for breath like he did when he was shot during the war, but this time he cannot be sure that his lungs are doing their job.

No one comes to his aid. His body convulses, but there is no one to calm and ground him with the warmth of their arms. He lies sprawled on the unforgiving floor. The glint of shattered glass pierces through the dimness on a horizon too close.

Link does not move. Ravio cannot see what he is doing, but the blue cane in his hands is unmistakable.

Through the haze of white-hot pain, Ravio catches glimpses of Sheerow's frenzied movements. She screeches mid-air and dives. The air from her wings brushes past Ravio’s face. Against the light emanating from Link’s direction, Ravio sees Sheerow open her wings as she thrusts forward with her claws. In an otherworldly silhouette, she spreads her feathers, like a flower, like a shield.

And Ravio’s senses shatter.

Chapter Text

Ravio trudges forward. The darkness beneath his feet feels like a swamp. Reality itself is resisting his progress. The air is thick. It is suffocating.

Is he breathing at all?

Can you breathe in between realities?

There is so much color.

Ravio doesn’t just see the colors. He feels them. The blotches of kaleidoscopic light are inescapable. They seem to etch into the core of his being.

Yuga’s magic. And Hilda is using the kingdom’s most powerful relics to amplify the mad artist’s spells.

Have they already constructed something this strong — or is he too late? No, it can’t be. If they had already succeeded in bridging Lorule to its mirror image where the golden triforce still shines, then there shouldn’t be so much pain in this passage.

His mind spins, weightless, as if reality is a canvas stretched thin, distorting like a carnival mirror and reflecting fragments of the haphazard magic he's wielded. He knows that he did a lousy job. He made a raft of twigs, and he dared to cross the great chasm that the goddesses had designed to keep their realms apart.

But it took all that he had.

If he can reach shore, he will be safe, if only fleetingly, for Yuga's pursuit will be imminent. The path ahead will still be treacherous, but he won’t be alone.

Hylia’s Chosen will keep him from harm’s way. And they will face this together.

Ravio presses on. But a disconcerting sensation grips him. Heat should engulf him; the passage is notorious for its fiery wrath. Yet, there's only chilling emptiness.

And it is hauntingly quiet.

Where is Sheerow?

Suddenly, amid the swirling hues, he catches Sheerow's silhouette. She spreads her wings like a shield against the chaos, a phantom blossom amidst the gloom.

Ravio gasps as he tries to snap his eyes open. But there are no colors. He vaguely hears the crackling of fire, and faint flickers of light dancing on the walls only come belatedly to his senses.

He strains to make out shapes in the dim light filtering through the window, but everything seems distorted as if seen through a haze.

“Sh-Sheerow?” He calls, but these familiar syllables come out as nothing more than a hoarse whisper.

The minimal effort of speaking and the slight movement in his chest are enough to send waves of pain crashing through Ravio’s head. Ravio reaches instinctively for his temples, but he meets an unexpected obstruction.

His fingers brush against the coarse fabric, tracing the outline of bandages wrapped around his head. The fabric itself whispers the reality into his mind, but he does not allow his thoughts to linger.

“Sheerow?”

There is no response. His voice dissipates into the shadows, which threaten to engulf the faint flickers he can barely discern.

Without a thought, Ravio struggles to sit up, but before he can brave the dizziness and pain he has well been expecting, he feels a gentle arm cradling his back and easing him against the comforting softness of the headboard.

“Hey, take it easy,” a soft voice emerges from the enveloping darkness. Ravio's heart drums a frantic rhythm in his chest, each beat echoing loudly in his ears as he tries to roll his head to his bedside. All of a sudden, his world brightens with a searing flash, too intense to bear, and he catches Link placing a lamp on the bedside table and landing his hand on Ravio’s left shoulder.

“BACK OFF!” The words erupt from Ravio's throat before he can fully realize what he is doing. In the sudden flood of light and touch, Ravio's body recoils.

A meteor of light tore through the thick air and crashed into his body. Byrna’s magic sent his world into a blinding shock. And Link just stood there.

Link clenches the Cane of Byrna, the luminescence of the item’s blue a cruel reflection of his eyes. Link just stood there.

Link's hand jerks back as if Ravio’s words sent an electric shock through his body. He stumbles a few steps backward, clasping the lamp between his fingers.

"Ravio. It’s me." Link's voice is soft and calm amidst the chaos. "It’s Link. I'm here for you. You are safe. Blind is dead. I killed him with my own hands."

Blind? Dead?

Words and sentences make no sense to Ravio at this moment, however soft, sweet, and short they may be. Ravio’s heart races, His right eye throbs beneath the bandages.

"Ravio..." he hears Link's voice again. He hears his name in Lolian.

But Ravio senses a primal instinct taking hold as he lashes out in blind panic. "STAY BACK!" he cries, "Don’t you..."

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He chokes on his own words as he feels that damned static pricking at his fingers again.

He remembers screaming. He remembers the untold chaos, his magic spiraling out of control and wreaking havoc on everything in its path. The memory sends a shiver of dread down his spine.

“I… I can’t…” Ravio gasps, fighting to stifle the panic threatening to take hold of him again.

“Hey, it’s okay. Focus… on… my voice if you can,” Link continues in slow and awkward Lolian, each word tinged with a slight accent and a careful hesitation. But then, he switches back to his native tongue, his tone burdened by something heavier, “You fought valiantly. Now you need to conserve some strength, but you don’t have to keep it all in. It’s safe now.”

Ravio nods weakly. This isn’t what he is expecting. Link’s voice washes over him with a soft glow. There is no trace of the hero’s usual snark and absentmindedness.

He fought? Valiantly?

Blind? Dead?

As the initial wave of panic gradually subsides, Ravio's senses begin to come back to him. The sound of fire registers again, and he can even start to feel a trace of warmth.

“What do you remember?” Link settles onto his bedroll spread across the floor, positioning the lamp beside him to cast a softer, gentler glow. Ravio finds the light less harsh on his sensitive vision. This small relief amidst the confusion finally allows him a second to breathe and navigate the thorny paths of his mind.

Ravio struggles to piece together the fragments of memory that seem to drift just beyond his grasp. "I... I remember..." His voice trails off as he tries to focus, his mind feeling like the Lost Woods with no clear direction forward.

Has he had a concussion?

"I remember... pain," he finally manages, his words coming out in a strained whisper. "And... you blasted bright light. Sheerow... Sheerow was there."

His hand instinctively reaches out, searching for the comforting weight of his companion, but finds only empty air on the linen shirt draped over his shoulders. Panic flickers in his chest like a guttering flame.

"Sheerow," he repeats, his voice trembling. "Where is she?"

"She's outside, Ravio. Rest now." Link says softly. He meets Ravio’s gaze, carefully pulling up the blanket by the corner draped over the bed. “You can see her when you get better.”

“I need her now! I need her here with me.” Ravio demands, fingers curling into the fabric, ready to spring into action.

“I know, Ravio,” Link murmurs softly, his hand extending tentatively before retreating. "Try to relax now. You can see her when you're ready, I promise. She's waiting for you."

Before Ravio can find the breath to speak again, Link starts, “Blind the Thief broke into our house, and you fought valiantly to stop him. Your guard spell on the house held up under the attack. If not for you, we would have lost… everything…every asset of ours. Seized and turned against our worlds.”

Ravio's expression tightens, the bandages wrapped around his head shifting uncomfortably with the movement. His hazy mind struggles to process Link's words. Blind the Thief? The fabled leader of the Thieves of Lorule?

Haven’t the Thieves been rehabilitated since the Golden Triforce was restored?

Ravio does not know much about the inhabitants of Lorule’s Kakariko, but there is one thing that he can guarantee. He designed the Lorule Passage to be impregnable, its gateways guarded by the princesses of the two worlds. How could Blind have breached its defenses?

“He hurt you, Ravio.” Link's voice trembles as he speaks, raw like a wound freshly torn open, "And… I was late when I... I should have protected you. It was my fault! I came in too late and left you to pain and darkness and the cold all on your own!"

Link's voice breaks as he struggles to continue. His slender form trembles slightly in the lamplight, like a child waking from a nightmare. His nails dig into the flesh of his arm just above Ravio’s bracelet. “When he attacked me on my first adventure, Blind disguised himself as the maiden I must save. She begged me to take her to freedom, but all of a sudden she shrieked under the skylight, and the ginger of her hair raved like worms breaking out of a jar...”

A shiver runs down Ravio’s spine at Link's words. He has heard the story before, but there is something about the sight of a red-clad hero trembling on his bedroll that pours acid down Ravio’s defenses.

“And when I faced the Thieves again, his successor used my uncle’s face against me. Such is the nature of men who desired the power of monsters. One falls. Another takes his place. But this one… His chest heaved, and his face was bloody. ‘I told you not to leave home!’ he said. It was so familiar. It was so real. It was exactly as I remembered.”

Link rolls up his right sleeve; the long scar etched from his wrist to his elbow reflects a dark brown in the lamplight like a twisted vine.

“I knew nothing good lies at the end of dungeons, but… I don’t know, I don’t know what has gotten into me. I wanted Uncle back, I just wanted one more second with him. Even if… even if it was not real.” Link swallows, and he pauses before looking up at Ravio, who is keeping his breaths soft and silent out of respect for the fragility of the moment.

Longing lingers in Link’s words.

The hero looks down for a moment, allowing his thick bangs to hang in front of his face. He reaches to rub his eyes. His green sleeve comes away slightly darker.

“He read my mind. Ravio. He almost got me by hiding under my uncle’s face.” Link stops, biting his lips. The room falls into a heavy silence, broken only by the soft crackle of an occasional pop in the fireplace. “When another showed up, I saw Marin.”

Link’s voice trembles at this name. How old was he when he shipwrecked on that island and tore through the red-headed girl’s mirage with his own hands?

Ravio has never heard this story before. Link often speaks to Ravio about his nightmares, but he has never mentioned seeing Marin again. This is a name both of them have chosen to leave in the tender embrace of memory, an old jewel wrapped in silk and safely sealed in a cushioned box.

Ravio cannot bear to look at the image in his mind’s eye — a monster, smiling behind an island girl’s charmingly sun-kissed skin.

“I drew my blade right through her throat.” Link utters his words in a monotonous hum, his gaze fixed on the floor. The lamplight catches the gold trim on his red tunic, shattering across his trembling form. Ravio cannot tell whether the boy is half veiled in the fire’s glow or half cloaked in the room’s shadows.

“I knew it couldn’t be her. She is not… she is… Why Hylia I can’t do this to… this is so…” Link’s body jerks abruptly, as if Blind himself is gripping the hero’s muscles. The hero’s voice fades into a slow sob.

Ravio's breath catches in his throat as he processes Link's words. His hands clench the bedsheets beneath him.

"I am never going to punish you, Link."

"You already are, Ravio.” The one with Link’s face snarls, “You know what you are doing.”

Despite everything, Ravio still trembles at this memory. His fingers graze over the bandages covering his injured eye, and a dull ache pulses beneath the wraps. The pain, however unpleasant, is not as unbearable as his racing thoughts.

The air feels thick, sticky, and suffocating. Ravio sits in the long silence, and he tries to brush through the tangled threads in his mind by focusing on the crackling fire. But all he hears is Link’s uneven breathing. A part of his mind aches with each of the hero’s stifled gasps. Link shouldn’t have had to keep everything to himself.

Ravio keeps looking away, observing Link’s movements instead with his ears and his heart. Eventually, he feels the hero’s breath slowing, and he waits a moment longer before starting again.

“You kept things from me, Link.” Ravio utters, still avoiding the hero’s gaze.

Despite the darkness, he senses Link pausing.

“Yes, I did, Ravio," Link admits, his voice smooth and genuine, “I am sorry, Ravio, I… I made you worry. I know I can never make up for what I have done… I saw the shattered glass on the floor. I… I learned to make potions in Wild’s world. It helped with all those feelings. It helped with the pain. But I am sorry. I should have let you know. I do not deserve your forgiveness.”

Ravio's brow furrows as his head darts in Link’s direction. The transparency in Link's voice catches him off guard. This is not the reaction he anticipated. The Hero of Legend has never sounded so vulnerable, since… since the day they parted ways in Lorule’s sacred realm.
He once thought he would never see Link again. He once thought he would never see Link being tender and open.

But in just three years, he has built the permanent Lorule Passage. If he can raise a bridge over the impossible chasm created by the goddesses, he may as well stand a chance in getting the veteran’s smiles back.

“I... I didn't realize…" Ravio stammers, “Yesterday… yesterday, you, no, Blind, said we were never in this together, Link. It scared me. It broke me… It…”

"It was the day before, Ravio,” there is pain in Link’s eyes, “You have been out for more than thirty hours. He said what he knew would hurt you most. You have been through quite the ordeal, so rest.”

Indeed, merely staying awake is taking its toll. But Ravio cannot rest, not until —

“I want Sheerow here with me.”

Ravio threatens to sit up one more time. He will find Sheerow himself if he has to.

But Link's gentle gaze holds him in place, "Ravio, I promise you, Sheerow is outside. But we need to talk about something else first."

A nagging doubt creeps into Ravio’s mind. Link's expression is soft, but there's a hint of unease in his eyes, “What did you use to stop Blind?”

Ravio's breath catches in his throat, “I… ” How does Link know if he has come in late, if Ravio has already passed out?

“It's okay, Ravio," Link continues. "We all have secrets. But you can trust me. We're in this together, remember? I need to know because you threw something powerful, and it affected Sheerow. We need to figure this out before I can let you see her."

Ravio's heart aches. What has he done?

Sheerow’s sharp screech echoes in Ravio’s mind. Her eyes shine the color of blood against the shattered glass.

He has to tell Link. He needs to do it for Sheerow’s sake. Link has spent so much time with the other heroes from different eras. His help might be the way out.

"Lorule's magic is wild, Link." Ravio starts, his words tumbling out in a low and delicate voice. It is like walking on thin ice again, in the depth of winter on a frozen lake. Ravio sees the hairline cracks under each of his steps, but he merely closes his eyes and prays that what he saw was no more than fleeting shadows. "I didn’t know I had Lolia’s blood. I only confronted Hilda about it after I knew about you and Zelda."

I will not leave you.

Sheerow gently shook her head as Ravio took up the Cane of Byrna. Was she hurt then? Did she put herself in harm’s way just so Ravio would not be alone?

“The War of Ages brought out the worst in my magic.” Ravio continues. The bedsheets he is staring into dissolve into nothingness in his field of vision, the dimness enveloping him fading away. Shouting rings again in his ears. He remembers gritty air, the smell of someone else’s blood. The clash of steel against steel and scorched earth under Volga’s fire.

He suddenly feels someone pulling him by his hand, not knowing where they are headed. A flash of light blue whips past him, and a war god’s thunderous laughters crackle where a masked kid once stood.

He stumbles under some heavy weight. Limbs. A limp body, thank Lolia still breathing, that he must carry back to the medical camp. A powerful gust of wind rips through the smoke clouding his vision. Another child, gripping a silver baton in one hand and a sword in the other, commanding him to go before the opportunity is missed.

Ravio remembers running. He has become remarkably good at it. The weight on his back does not bother him anymore. He runs until his vision turns white, and he commands his body to keep on going.

“I…I indulged in powers I never knew I had.” Ravio’s head spins, and after a moment’s pause, he sees Link next to him again. “I cannot bear to see anyone suffer any longer because of my weakness.”

Link bites into his lips. Ravio hears the hero’s heavy breaths again, each inhale and exhale resonating in the chamber of his chest like the signs of a brewing storm. But Link shakes his head and shifts forward on his knees, placing a reassuring hand on Ravio's arm.

Ravio jerks away from Link’s touch. But as soon as he does, guilt zips through him. Link only wants to help, but Ravio still cannot bring himself to stare into the red of his tunic.

What has gotten into him? The word Link, a name that was his lifeline, now feels like a jolt of lightning coursing through his veins.

“I'm sorry, Ravio. I overstepped. I just... I wanted to offer some comfort…”

"I'm sorry," Ravio struggles, his voice barely audible over the rainstorm of his own thoughts. "I just... I can’t deal with this. Why do I fear your name? Why do I fear your clothes? It was not you! I…" Tears. His voice falters as tears cascade down his cheeks, the bandages absorbing their salty streams. The saline water stings his right eye like needles, but he can’t care less.

“Ravio, let it out. It's okay to feel scared. I'm here for you, no matter what…” Link looks down. He stops to take a breath, and then another.

Ravio does not know how to make his tears stop. The dimness and the feeling of damp fabric over his face have grown to feel too familiar.

“Hey,” Link starts again, slowly and delicately, “if 'Link' feels too heavy right now, you can always call me 'Legend', as the other heroes do. You have always been part of us. Or anything, really. Shatter what you must like those pots if that makes you feel better. If that makes you feel safe.”

The warmth in Legend’s voice is unwavering.

Ravio sobs for a moment longer, and Link sits back on his heels and witnesses Ravio’s emotions run free in tender silence. Ravio’s tense shoulders begin to relax, and his breathing steadies.

“I… I can’t control my magic.” Ravio continues, “No one taught me. Hilda’s mo-… our mother didn’t teach me. She just sent me away. Hilda has her staff. Yuga has his. I can’t do it without a conduit. I can’t do it on my own. I... I don't know what to do, Legend.” Ravio grabs his blankets with a force that sends his heart racing, “I need to go back to Lorule. Hilda promises to teach me. But what if it takes too long? What if Hilda won't let me leave until I've trained to her satisfaction?”

“You need to rest until you’ve healed, Ravio.” Legend listens intently, “We will figure something out together. And, we need to find out how the Thieves got here. We need to know what they want. But you need to focus on getting better. That’s what matters.”

The idea that Blind’s gang can travel freely between worlds adds to the weight pressing down on Ravio's shoulders. He feels the tension knotting his muscles. He can’t risk leaving the signs of another Lorule Incursion unchecked.

“Does Zelda know?” Ravio asks.

“She doesn’t, not yet.” Legend’s voice holds a tinge of anxiety, his gaze drifting towards the floor, “I only called the royal physician to check on you. He promised to keep this secret. I don’t want Zelda to think that the Lorule Passage is faulty. I don’t want her to burden you when you are not well...”

Blind has crossed. The Lorule Passage must have been faulty, and Ravio is ready to take every blame. But if Blind is dead, then there is still time.

Legend's voice trails off for a moment, and he hesitates. "Ravio, there's … never mind. Heal first. Please."

“I am sorry...” Legend adds as he sits further back on his bedroll.

The idea of another secret claws on Ravio’s nerves. But it is not time for judgment.

"You don't have to shield me from something I already know," Ravio says, forcing his voice to sound as strong as possible, even though his body betrays his true state. "Just tell me."

Legend swallows hard. Ravio observes the subtle shift in Legend’s body posture.

His words are having their effects.

It is hauntingly quiet.

"The injury to your eye... it's severe. The physician said... you won't regain sight in your right eye. We tried everything. Even a fairy can’t help with magic damage like this…"

The corner of Legend’s mouth twitches, as if seared by the heat of something raw yet unspoken. He jerks sharply away the moment he catches Ravio staring. “I am so sorry, Ravio. It is all my fault.”

Ravio holds his gaze still, trying to register every detail of Legend’s red tunic. He cannot make out much, but it is the intensity of staring that matters.

Legend clenches his bedsheets, his jaw tensing.

Ravio seizes the moment. "It's not your fault," he says softly, then, with a calculated pause, adds, "But you could have eased my pain. And you keep denying me comfort!” Ravio’s voice breaks.

There is a missing weight in his heart.

Legend meets Ravio’s gaze, his eyes flickering with a mix of confusion and hope. "How?"

"Bring me Sheerow." The force of Ravio's voice makes his head ring, and a sharp pain shoots through his temples, but he pushes through.

"Please, Legend."

Legend hesitates, his gaze dropping to the floor as if tied to an unseen weight. His right hand clenches and twists Ravio’s bracelet around his left wrist.

“You promised. You will not hide things from me anymore.” Ravio pleads.

"Ravio," Legend begins, his voice ringing with a painful edge, his eyes hollow, "about Sheerow... She's outside, but not in the way you remember her. She's... she's found peace now. I buried her under her favorite apple tree."

”

Chapter Text

A rabbit can be incredibly quiet.

Ravio pulls, and the door slides smoothly into place without a sound. The dancing light from the fireplace narrows into a sliver, the golden beam vanishing and carved apart by the darkness.

Dawn breaks, casting a wash of fresh, cold glow that reflects off the stairwell walls.

Ravio inches toward the stairs, each step a calculated move to avoid the creaking boards he knows by heart. He does not care to look at his feet, for his sight is useless. He just listens. Listens. And he just trudges forward. Forward.

The skirt of Legend’s long tunic brushes above Ravio’s knees as he halts in front of his own room, closer to the staircase. He listens intently, holding his breath. The soft, rhythmic sound of Legend’s snoring reaches his ears. Ravio sighs, albeit shallowly, and moves on.

The hero’s exhaustion does him a favor. Lolia, please, may he sleep for a bit longer. Ravio prays.

A rabbit can be a fantastic liar.

“Ravio. Are you sure you‘re gonna be fine like this?” Legend has asked.

“I will be okay.” Ravio has insisted. He has deliberately raised his head toward the lamplight so that Legend could see his good eye holding no tears. "You must be tired," Ravio said softly.

He might have even managed to force a light smile. Years of practice and necessity have made cheeky smiles and sweet words a muscle memory.

“Guess I will take a nap. But before that, can I help you change out of these wet bandages?”

Ravio gently shook his head. “I will manage on my own.”

“I can’t leave you like this.” Legend’s hesitation was palpable, even though his voice had slowed and his eyelids were drooping. “I need to check on your eye.”

“And I need space,” Ravio’s voice was calm, almost soothing. He shifted in Legend’s bed and took his arms out of the blanket. “Thanks for letting me stay by the fire. It helps. I’ll manage, and you need to rest.”

Legend sighed, rubbing his eyes. “Sure…”

He looked away.

“Drink the soup I brought you. It should have cooled by now.” After a barely noticeable moment of silence, Legend continued, “You need to keep your strength up.”

Legend reached for the bowl of Cucco noodle soup on the bedside table, but Ravio waved to stop him. In a swift movement, Ravio picked up the spoon with a remarkably steady hand.

“I will. And you should get some proper sleep, not just a nap. Use my bed next door. The bedroll will hurt your joints.” Ravio fidgeted with the spoon as he spoke in a low but smooth voice. “You battled Blind. You saved me. You’ve been taking care of me for the past day and a half. You deserve rest.”

Legend paused, his eyes hesitantly meeting Ravio’s gaze. The hero’s shoulders slumped, weariness etched into his features. “Alright, but promise you will drink the soup.”

“I promise,” Ravio nodded, “I know how to take care of myself.”

A rabbit is unmatched in hiding pain.

Ravio lets out a breath he doesn’t realize he has been holding. With each cautious step, he struggles down the stairs, his fingers pressing on the handrail. The shifting shadows of the swaying apple trees play tricks on his limited vision, their movements dizzying. But Ravio presses on, one step after another, guided more by memory than sight.

He has become too familiar with Legend’s house. Over the years, he has whispered so many joys and secrets to the wooden structure through his enchantments. He hopes that the house and its furniture will have mercy for him today. It shouldn’t be too much to ask.

Ravio forces himself to take a break once every few steps. He knows he needs them, so he plans accordingly. He cannot afford to trip or fall.

He cannot afford to faint or bleed.

Legend’s shirt feels strange against his skin — a bit big, too heavy, and too rigid. Its unusually sturdy material presses on Ravio’s shoulders like its owner’s burdens. Ravio never wielded a sword. He never held a shield. He never grew the muscles that he needed, somehow.

Traces of dampness make the dark green fabric cling to Ravio’s chest, and an awkward tug grows with every breath.

He does not want to be seen like this, but beggars cannot be choosers.

Tying the new bandages has been a failure. Ravio vaguely remembers how much the old ones clung to his skin. He couldn’t get them off, so he pulled on the ends and ripped at the layers. He had become impatient. Why do obstacles keep showing up when he doesn’t have time?

The ones he tied on his own probably look like a mess too. Ravio figures that the protection and support they offer are barely passable. But he has done his best to look decent.

What would Sheerow think if she saw Ravio like this?

She must be watching Ravio now, so Ravio needs to be good.

So he has reached for that bowl of soup, as he had promised. He wanted strength, and he needed it now.

He is on a sacred quest which he must not fail.

He prayed to Lolia as he raised the bowl of soup to his lips. The goddess answered by making him misjudge the distance and spill the thick liquid all over his front. The sticky dampness mocked Ravio as he sat still at the bedside for a moment, the bowl in his hand.

It could have been worse. Ravio thought. At least the bowl didn’t break and wake Legend. At least he didn’t accidentally cut himself with the shards and create more work.

Lolia must have found this incredibly funny.

Sheerow, however, will never mock him, not even in jest. It isn’t her way. Never has she made light of his missteps. She will always be there. She always offers comfort in her own silent, affectionate manner.

No, she is not yet gone.

She will be here. She will be here with him. Soon.

In a brief moment of silence, Ravio could almost feel her fluttering down to his side, her soft feathers brushing away the mess with gentle, reassuring strokes, her soothing coo chasing away the fatigue and embarrassment.

As much as it hurt, Ravio shook off the lingering feeling of Sheerow’s presence. It was almost too real. Her colors, her scent, her tender touch — they flickered in Ravio’s mind like the dancing flames in Legend’s fireplace.

Ravio would not allow himself to indulge in these tricks of his mind. For Sheerow’s not yet at peace. Ravio couldn’t be the selfish child clinging to her company when she needed rest.

Only flames can set her free.

At this thought, Ravio pushed himself to stand. He peeled off his soaked shirt and began to wipe himself down. The warmth from the fire caressed his skin, and in the flames’ whispers, Ravio heard a bittersweet song of solace.

Every Lorulean life ends with fire. Or at least this is how it should be. In its dissipation, the body denies the polluted land any further harm. Through the songs of loved ones, the soul bids a dignified farewell as it journeys to the other end.

Ravio rummaged through Legend’s closet and pulled out a fresh tunic. He would have preferred to wear purple for the singing, and he would have hoped to get a proper bath. But the formalities didn’t matter. It would be enough if he could simply be the one to see Sheerow off on this quiet morning.

As he descends the stairs, Ravio's mind wanders to the many departures he has witnessed, both in the War and well before that. He knows the sting of loss intimately, just as he knows the solemnity of farewells. And yet, he doesn’t blame Legend for burying Sheerow; after all, the hero wouldn’t have known about Lorulean rites.

Fragments of Link’s earlier words occasionally echo in Ravio’s mind. He knows that Link only meant well. Breaking bad news hurts anyone equally, even for a Hero of Courage like Link. But despite all the times Ravio has been late in his life, he still has the chance to tenderly tuck Sheerow in for her eternal sleep with his lullaby. He still has the opportunity to hold her one last time.

Ravio pushes open the back door and steps into the garden. The morning air brushes past his face. The bandages and the tunic flutter slightly in the breeze.

Ravio hears birdsong.

He passes the spot where he lay motionless just a few days ago. The memories of shattered glass and Byrna's magic, of pain and screams, now seem distant and blurred.

The birdsong sweeps away those memories like cleansing flames ripping through the shadows of death.

He sees it now. He sees the small mound of freshly turned earth under the apple tree’s canopy. A bunch of asters, with their beautiful purple petals and golden eyes, lie quietly in the swaying shade.

The soil under his bare knees yields slightly to Ravio’s body weight. He reaches out, sinking his fingers into the earth, and begins to scoop up the soil in a rhythm that is almost meditative.

Ravio will not leave Sheerow in this limbo. At last, he has finally come to her side.

He has briefly considered using a shovel; this way they could be reunited sooner. But Ravio realizes how little he knows about Hyrulean burial. He cannot be sure if Sheerow waits in a coffin or a simple shroud, and he cannot risk causing any further damage to…

Sheerow’s broken body.

She is no longer in the way Ravio remembers her.

Ravio’s resolve remains steadfast. He has come so close. He can face whatever awaits because it will be Sheerow on the other end of the struggle. She will always be Sheerow.

But his hands waver. At first, he sees a bit of trembling, barely noticeable, like the quiver of leaves above his head. Then, he finds his fingers refusing to obey, stiffening against his will. His body resists his silent yet deliberate commands, like those old fire rods that he has retired.

The bandages around his head begin to unravel, falling in limp coils to the ground. It's irritating, the way they betray him. So he yanks them off, wrapping them tightly around his hands instead, and plunges his fingers back into the soil.

His body is but a vessel in this mission.

Ravio tries to open his right eye, but all he perceives are strange blotches of brightness. Within moments, his entire field of vision becomes disoriented, dissolving into nothing but swirling shapes.

He tries to go deeper, but every grasp meets not the missing weight he seeks, but only soil, shifting soil, that slips past his fingers until it abruptly hardens beneath his touch.

Ravio pauses. A sparrow lands next to him and pecks at the asters. He notices the birdsong, but in its mocking cheerfulness, one distinct voice is absent. There is a missing note in what could have been a melody.

There is a missing beat in Ravio’s heart as he begins to piece together what this could mean.

“Ravio.” A familiar voice calls softly behind him, “Sheerow isn’t here.”

Rabbits can be incredibly quiet.

Ravio has never imagined that words could grow claws that sink into his bones. He never imagined that they would come from Legend, who now speaks in such a delicate voice.

“What have you done!” Ravio snarls. He didn't know he could.

He turns and catches Legend holding something to his chest. He swears if it is a bowl of soup again, Ravio will scream until the ceramic shatters, and he will dig into the world’s flesh with its shards until reality is a broken canvas.

Legend is holding Ravio’s robe. Its golden trim shines a beautiful glow under the rising sun.

Legend meets Ravio’s gaze. He kneels on the ground to meet Ravio at eye level. He lays the robe on his knees and shows his bare hands.

“I couldn’t let you see her like that, Ravio,” he begins quietly. “She was... she was too broken. I couldn't bear for you to see her like that. I couldn’t bear to let you suffer more.”

Ravio trembles, but his fury flares, hot and consuming, “Did. You. Burn. Her. Body!”

“Yes.” It is more like Link sighs the word than says it. “She rests in Lake Hylia.”

Rabbits can be fantastic liars.

“You had no right!” Ravio roars, his voice tearing through the stillness of the morning like a crack of thunder. Static arcs between his fingers.

He is late after all.

Like all those other times.

“YOU HAD NO RIGHT TO TAKE THIS FROM ME!” Ravio screams, his voice raw. The surge of magic startles the birds, sending them into a panicked flurry. Wings beat frantically amidst the canopy. Singing throats are strangled by fear.

Sheerow walked the final stretch alone. There were no songs for her.

Legend doesn’t flinch a bit. He just looks down at Ravio’s robe and clutches his bracelet.

A pink glow spills from between Legend’s fingers. The relic chimes a low hum.

But a high-pitched ringing fills Ravio’s ears, drowning out his ragged breaths. He is already breathing out more than he is taking in. The air around him begins to boil. Ravio sees purple and black again. Tendrils of viscous dark energy wind around his left wrist and pull it up like dead flesh.

Ravio’s hand aims at Legend.

Ravio would have shouted more at the kneeling hero. He would have demanded if Link thought what he did was an act of mercy, if he thought he was being protective. But there is no time.

Ravio’s useless vision gives in, the magic coursing through his veins like molten iron poured into a paper mold. He has never felt it in this intensity, but he thinks this might be fitting. He almost welcomes the sensation.

If all Lorulean life ends with fire, so he might as well burn in his own flames.

He has already startled the birds, so there will be no songs for him either. Maybe he deserves it. Maybe it was he who hurt Sheerow after all. Blind only cut her suffering short.

“Get away, Link,” Ravio cannot move his body an inch, so he growls, his voice crackling with the ferocity saved up over two decades. If he can no longer trust the hero to be honest, he can at least trust him to have common sense, or some survival reflex.

But rabbits are unmatched in hiding pain.

“I am not leaving,” Legend's voice trembles, and Ravio can almost hear the tears. “I will not leave you. Sheerow wouldn’t want you to do this to yourself. She wouldn’t want you to be this hard on yourself.”

Ravio’s breath hitches. How dare Link say Sheerow’s name.

“If anyone deserves your rage, it is me.” Legend’s voice steadies, “Ravio, please. Sheerow would have wanted you to live, Ravio. She died protecting you. She left you a message, and you need to stay alive to see it with your own eyes.”

Ravio’s magic surges again. He can feel it burning, threatening to tear him apart from the inside. But he catches a flash of color amidst the inferno of chaos. It is so familiar. It is purple.

Has Lolia herself come to claim him?

Purple. The color of the asters on Sheerow’s grave. The color of his sister’s duties. The color of his homeland.

The color of his robe with its glistening golden trim. He sees it.

He stares into the piercing eyes on his rabbit hood, which Link unfurls and holds up with both hands in front of his kneeling form.

I will not leave you.

It is like staring into his own skin.

“Stay with me, Ravio,” Legend pleads. “Sheerow has something to tell you. She waits. You managed your magic in the war, even when she was not around. You can do it now.”

Ravio’s breath catches in his throat. The war was different. The war was a realm of chaos, where his rage was a mighty weapon against the encroaching darkness. But here, in this peaceful garden, pointing a blade of flames toward a friend? His fury feels misplaced, undisciplined, and untamed.

And then he hears the birdsong, the soothing chorus of nature’s gentle forgiveness.

In that fleeting moment of clarity, the realization dawns on him like the morning sun’s grace. He is not lost to the chaos within. He is already doing so well. He has always wanted to protect, even in rage, for rage can protect himself, and the child within him.

Ravio draws in a long breath, just in the way that Hilda has taught him, and channels his focus, willing the raging fire beneath his skin to yield. The energy swirls, and it shifts; it takes shape and bends to his command like the elemental powers he has so proficiently infused into his items and wares.

Ravio screams.

He screams for Sheerow’s loss. He screams for her revenge. He screams at Lolia for daring to laugh at him.

Ravio snaps his eyes open, and he whips his purple energy at the thick bark of an apple tree to Link’s side. The impact sends a violent shock through the tree, its apples raining down in a sudden cascade. The chattering birds take flight in a panicked flurry.

But then, they circle overhead in the morning wind, and, they gradually return, their songs filling the air once more.

The last of the dark energy finally dissipates into the morning light. Ravio's body gives in to the strain. With a gasp, he collapses to the ground, his hands clutching the earth beneath him. But at last, his ropes are cut loose. He sees now, and he feels. The soil is soft, and it is damp with morning dew.

Legend rushes to Ravio's side, and he stops just out of reach, his pink strands plastered onto his cheeks and trembling just so slightly with his breaths.

“Check the pocket,” Legend says softly, carefully draping the purple robe over Ravio’s arm. The hero takes a step backward and sits on his heels, but somehow Ravio can feel Legend’s chest heaving with his in a rhythm that is rough but very much alive.

Ravio hastens to gather himself and fumbles for the hidden pocket close to his heart. The familiar silky fabric caresses and cradles his fingers, soothing their delicate and swollen joints. His hands are trembling, because they have been cold, and they have been working. They have done many magical and powerful things. Warm tears begin to well up. Ravio regrets not having taken care of his hands. He swears he will never do it again.

His fingers brush against something small and firm. Sheerow must be watching now. She may be in another world but she must be watching now. She would want Ravio to carry on.

Carefully, Ravio pulls out a handful of pine seeds and a single, pristine feather. Ravio’s tears fall among these smooth and rich promises of nourishment. He feels their weight. The feather, so pure and white, radiates warmth and an inner glow, as if freshly shed.

Take care of yourself. Sheerow lifts off and disappears behind the kitchen door, trailing a silver arch across the room.

Ravio counts the seeds one by one like he counted rupees. He thought if he had enough of those little gems, the Great Rupee Fairies might show some pity on his failing world, if his plans could sell. But these tokens are different. They are Sheerow’s gift to him and him alone. Sheerow would have wanted him to be fed and well.

I will not leave you.

The world around Ravio begins to sharpen and gain color. He notices the brisk morning air, the scent of the asters on grass, the gentle rustle of leaves, the melodious birdsong. Something thumps within him, and he realizes that he has been trapped under an ice cap and not getting air. He needs to breathe, like Hilda said.

Ravio struggles to sit a few steps back and leans against the comforting mass of the apple tree, its withered bark rough yet grounding against his back. He brings the feather to his neck, the softness brushing gently against his pulse point, and his tears run free. A shiver runs through his exhausted body, like a stream of fresh water joining the embrace of the sea. The sensation is tender, so familiar, as if Sheerow herself were cooing to him that it will all be okay. Broken things can be mended anew. They truly can.

He pushes the pine seeds through his lips, one after another, feeling the rich oils melt on his tongue. They are moist, and just a little bit salty. He spreads his purple robe over himself like a blanket, fidgeting with the hood’s stuffed rabbit ears as his racing rabbit heart slows to a steady and powerful beat.

Sheerow must be watching Ravio now, so Ravio needs to be good, to himself.

Sheerow is gone?

No she isn’t.

No she isn’t.

Chapter Text

Ravio thinks again of his first passage to Hyrule. A passage. What a fitting name for the journey ahead. There is so much uncertainty and pain in every step. And yet, there are so many hopes and dreams on the other shore, waiting to blossom under his touch. 

Ravio knows that he is dreaming. But there are no swamps under his feet this time, no colors that rave over his head. There is only a pure, shimmering white that washes over him, soothing and serene. He reaches out, and the white seems to respond, like a screen that bounces gently under his fingers, cool and soft like the finest silk.

Ravio wonders if this is what it’s like to be a particle of sand caught between Sheerow’s feathers, cradled in the gentle rhythm of her flight. Ravio feels his lips curve into a smile, his heart drumming a steady beat as he savors the wondrous weightlessness of his body.

But gradually, the rhythmic thudding sound grows more distinct, more tangible. It is not just Ravio’s heart. The noise is of a duller color and grainier in texture, pulling him from the dream's embrace. Ravio feels himself being picked out of the fabric of his sweet reverie and sewn back into the waking world, each thud a stitch that binds him to a much less comforting reality.

He decides to let go of the dream, allowing it to unravel as he awakens. A passage, after all, is a journey from one state to another, and his journey must continue.

Ravio tries to open his eyes, bracing himself for the impending discomfort. His left eye squints against the intense brightness, like staring into the sun; his right eye, bandaged tightly, plunges him into coarse, unseeing darkness. The contrast stirs something deep within him — an echo of the threshold between worlds. He remembers the instant his body breached the divide, the moment the familiar hues of himself warped and fractured, as though turned inside out. For that fleeting heartbeat, he wasn’t himself but some unmade thing, unraveling and reformed in colors this world did not recognize.

Ravio waits patiently in place for the initial discomfort to pass, holding on to the sense of safety and serenity that still lingers from his dream. It feels as if Sheerow’s gentle presence is still with him, whispering reassurance. It is not long before the brightness gradually becomes more bearable, and Ravio registers the soft, flickering white of the curtain swaying gently in the morning breeze.

Thud, thud, thud. A sound that feels distant yet steady, like the echo of something striking wood. He doesn’t know what it is, nor does he have the strength to wonder. The rhythm reverberates faintly, almost as if it comes from a memory rather than the world around him.

He closes his eyes briefly and focuses instead on the soft crackling of the fireplace. When he shifts slightly, a cascade of sensations returns to him. The smooth linen shirt against his skin is dry and cool, the threads fine enough to whisper as they move with him. It is his own clothing, he realizes — clean and comforting, as if the turmoil of yesterday never happened.

Thud. The sound comes again, sharper this time. His brows furrow instinctively as though his body, not his mind, recognizes something faintly out of place.

But yesterday did happen. Ravio runs his thumb along the nails of his fingers, and there is still dirt. 

A part of him acknowledges the care Legend must have taken to change him into these new clothes, as he remembers nothing of yesterday’s aftermath. He shifts uncomfortably at the thought, disoriented by the void in his memory. Gaps like this are rare for him — too rare. 

He has seen this kind of forgetting before. He remembers the faraway look in Legend’s eyes after a battle gone wrong, when the hero would wake with no memory of the blow that felled him or the hours that followed. Ravio had always marveled —and mourned — how Legend seemed to just bear those absences like any other scar. Yet, now, with his own memory fractured, something about it feels irrevocably wrong.

Thud, thud, thud. The rhythmic sound seems to come from outside. Ravio’s heart quickens as he pushes himself upright. He tries to swallow, and he notices a stickiness in his throat. A pungent bitterness ripples through his mouth, and paradoxically, it feels like the aftermath of eating too much candy, leaving a phlegmy residue that is both deeply unpleasant and oddly familiar.

It must have been a blue potion, a balm poured into a vessel that was cracked and leaking from the surge of its own magic. Legend must have administered this powerful elixir to patch up the ragged edges before the vessel — Ravio’s body — could shatter from the strain.

So yesterday did happen. Ravio remembers the searing heat of his own magic, flames licking at his skin as he teetered on the edge of oblivion. 

His body still feels odd. Ravio can sense the potion’s effect beginning to restore his strength. As he slowly rises from the bed, Ravio finds himself a bit light on his feet, but he also marvels at the ease with which he moves. He scans his limbs for the chill or numbness that usually follows the reckless, blunt force he’s wielded in the War of Ages, but there’s nothing — only warmth and ease.

There is something unsettling about this physical comfort, this disconcerting absence of consequence. Ravio knows that he is only held together by threads of borrowed resilience, a temporary fix that masks the deeper fractures that he still has to address from the source. At this thought, Ravio hesitates, and he looks back at the empty bed — Legend’s bed.

Ravio has witnessed Legend battle for his own life in this sickbed countless times, and he has never hesitated to administer these powerful elixirs to Legend when the hero needed miraculous intervention. Yet, he cannot picture himself in Legend’s place, in this bed, wiped clean and bandaged and spoonfed precious elixirs that they have to ration in the best of times. He didn’t wield powerful relics in the face of Ganon’s wrath, he didn’t save a world and someone else’s, he didn’t …

Thud, thud, thud. 

Silent tears trail down Ravio’s cheek as something warm stirs behind the weight in his heart. Ravio closes his eyes, his eyelids trembling slightly as he focuses on the rhythmic sound outside, grounding himself in the present moment. 

He will not do it again. He has promised Sheerow. 

A long breath carries away his rambling thoughts, and the tides of his mind begin to ebb, leaving behind a gentler landscape.

He remembers that moment, when he had been ready to surrender, to let the flames take him and end his pain and bring him to Sheerow’s side.

And yet, here he is, alive, breathing. Breathing is hard. It always has been. No one understands how hard it is to breathe through the pain. But he did it. He did it yesterday.

There was something in him that refused to break, and it is still here. The vessel may have been chipped, but it still holds, and the precious warmth of survival hums softly within its fragile yet resilient walls.

He may not have saved anyone else’s world — perhaps he even failed to live up tp Lolia’s plans — but he saved his own, by choosing to fight on and breathe and live and wake up and come into the gentle caress of the morning breeze.

Thud, thud, thud. Each distant beat now brings a newfound clarity to Ravio’s mind. Ravio inches toward the open window, and there is a sense of newness in the air. The waves of grief have receded, leaving behind a curious tranquility. It is not numbness but a profound stillness, like the smooth stretch of sand left by a retreating tide. The beach of his mind lies serene and unmarked, a blank slate that stretches out before him, ready to be written upon anew.

“AAARGH! Ugh!” 

A terrifyingly human scream shatters the tranquility and claws into the softness of Ravio’s heart. 

Ravio stumbles, a wave of phantom pain blooming across his skin as if a whip has cracked against him. The shock sends a jolt through his body, like shards of glass spreading from the point of impact.

A dread, so different from pain, drills into his chest, pressing down with each frantic beat of his heart. The sound of tearing, smashing chaos filters through the disorienting haze. Through the punishing brightness, Ravio forces his gaze toward the outside. He fights against the throbbing discomfort, his eyes straining to pierce through the glare.

“AAARGH!” The rugged, burning scream strikes him again like a fresh lash from the whip, but this time Ravio does not falter. He locks his focus onto the sound like he would grip his assailant’s rope, even if it means the flesh of his palm would tear and bleed under the strain. He pulls himself closer to the source of the anguish, and —

He sees Legend’s shuddering frame in the backyard. He sees Legend snapping the young branches of an apple tree, whose parts lie strewn around him like the shards of a broken pot. Fallen apples are crushed under his boots as he screams, splitting open with each stomp, their sickening squelch mixing with the rustling of those still undead leaves in Legend’s hands. Slender branches, now severed with no more chance to flourish, are scattered across a pile of neatly chopped wood, slightly disturbed from its once orderly arrangement.

Ravio is on his feet again before he knows it. He scrambles for the door, his hearing still sharp and attuned to the turmoil unfolding downstairs. His legs, fueled by the potion’s artificial strength, propel him forward with surprising vigor, but it is at this moment that his vision betrays him once more.

“AAARGH!” 

Ravio is inclined to think that he rarely screams. But the sound is involuntary, ripped from him by the sudden jolt of pain and the shock of falling. 

A bolt of warmth zips through Ravio almost as soon as his body crashes to the floor, the distinctive heat from his magic overwhelming the sharp, cold pain from the leg that scraped against the unforgiving corner of Legend’s bed. For a second, the air around him crackles with faint energy, but it quickly dissipates, leaving Ravio gasping on the floor.

Before he can gather his bearings, rapid footsteps on the stairs pierce through the dizziness and pain.

"Ravio?" Legend's voice calls out, breathless and raw.

The door bursts open, and Ravio feels a rush of air as Legend’s bare knees crash onto the floor beside him. 

“Ravio! Are you okay? Are you hurt?” Legend's words tumble out in a frantic rush, mixing with Ravio’s rugged breaths as he tries to push himself upright.

The shaking horizon finally resolves into the familiar shapes of the room, and Ravio grits his teeth as he reaches for his left leg. Something must be bruising. The magical forces that healed him so swiftly now make every minor injury feel like a significant blow, but he can handle it. He’s had worse. There is something else that worries him.

Ravio’s shoulder bumps into something solid, and he looks up. It is Legend’s right hand, hovering over his body, ready to help him up. Ravio appreciates the thought and the space, but he cannot help but notice the tremor in those calloused hands. 

“Ravio, please, talk to me,” A jagged voice pleads. “I felt magic. What happened? Did it hurt you again?”

Pop!

The sound from the fireplace startles them both, bringing the crackling warmth back into focus, and Ravio finally catches sight of Legend’s face. His face is so pale, too pale, and his eyes are red-rimmed. They are almost like Sheerow’s. Ravio will never forget eyes as red as those.

The soft light of the fireplace reminds Ravio of Sheerow again, like it did yesterday. In its warmth, Ravio senses lingering traces of Sheerow’s worried chirps and feels her fluttering about in tight circles. If she could be here, Ravio would guide her to perch gently on Legend’s shoulder. Ravio wants to say something, anything, but words seem to elude him once more. His second language, the one he performs with an effort like he does a musical instrument, slips away from his grasp in this delicate moment like a leaf that bends under the weight of the falling rain.

Instead, Ravio gently shakes his head and reaches out, his fingers brushing lightly against Legend’s trembling hand as he rises to sit on the bed by himself. The physical pain doesn’t matter now. In fact, Ravio can barely feel it. It is only a bruise on his leg, after all.

Against the flickering light of the fireplace, Ravio sees Legend's breath catch. The hero is looking away again. He hides his face under the shadows of his thick bangs, like he always does when he has something to hide. It's almost child-like, the way he thinks he can hide by simply dropping his head. But Ravio can see the tremor in his shoulders and the way his hands clench at the fabric of his long tunic.

“Thank Hylia… ” Legend murmurs as he takes a few strides toward the fireplace and falls on his knees again, his back turned to Ravio as he stirs the embers and adds a log to the flames. The hero’s voice falters, replaced by his shallow and uneven breaths. Ravio hears them with a painful clarity despite the crackle and pop from the fireplace. 

The hem of Legend’s skirt brushes past red and swollen knees as the hero reaches forward to prod the embers. The flames dance with renewed vigor under Legend’s care, their growing glow landing softly on the hero’s hunched form. 

Ravio knows this too well. 

The tides of Ravio’s mind surge with the gritty taste of salt and the sting of sand, its rolling white waves crashing and throwing ashore pieces of yesterday’s memory: the same long, dark tunic smeared with dirt, red knees pressing into the ground, and the relentless task of digging with hands that shook and trembled…

Unshed tears in one’s eyes. A futile attempt to escape and stifle pain and grief and desperation that are etched into the body, whether one feels them or not.  

Ravio sees himself in Legend, and a part of him screams that he should spring out of bed and help. But here, standing in the crashing tides of his mind, feeling their sound overwhelming his heartbeat, Ravio finds his feet sinking into the wet sand. Ravio is painfully aware of his own fragile state. The emotional upheaval of yesterday still lingers, and his spirit has not yet found solid ground. He fears, he fears that he will drag Legend down into the shifting sand with him if he runs toward him too soon.

So Ravio shifts in the bed, making room for another to sit next to him. He moves slowly, and deliberately, ensuring the hero notices the gesture. He cannot let anyone, especially someone with joint pain, sit on the cold floor.

The bed creaks, and Ravio breathes softly through the seconds of ensuing silence. Legend turns, eyes wide and uncertain, meeting Ravio’s gaze. 

Ravio offers a small, encouraging nod, and reaches out to smooth the bedsheet next to him, like drawing a line in the sand, hoping to convey what he cannot yet put into words.

Legend hesitates, then slowly rises and moves to sit beside Ravio. His weight shifts the bed slightly, and the warmth from his body mingles with that of the crackling fire.

Legend’s movements are tentative, his body painfully stiff. He settles on the edge of the bed, hands clenched tightly in his lap. He stares into the fireplace, and light washes over his weary features.

After a moment, Legend finally speaks, his voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t know you were awake. I didn’t mean to wake you up,” he says, his eyes fixed on the flickering flames. “I just… I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

Ravio’s gaze washes over the hero’s form in the soft morning light, the gentle rays through the curtain casting his shadow over Legend. Similar dark colors haunted yesterday’s sunrise. Ravio recalls that moment, caught in a purple cloud of burning despair, when he had growled at his hero:

“Get away, Link.”

Those caustic words still echo in Ravio’s ears, and they hurt like stones cast into the shallow waters of his heart, their jagged edges sinking into the soft soles of his wading feet. 

Ravio feels the tides coming for him again, but he now knows where his anchors are when he needs them. He needs truths, solid and unyielding. He seeks the truths so generously offered by this thriving reality — the melodies of birdsong, the soft earth under his weight, the vibrant purple of the asters, the nourishing oil of the pine seeds, and the gentle tickle of Sheerow’s feathers against his pulse.

Without fully understanding why, Ravio feels speech bubbling. It’s as though his own need to ground himself in reality has manifested in this simple, factual observation. The words bypass his thoughts and flow out, surprising him with their clarity.

“You are in pain.” Ravio says.

Legend’s body shudders as soon as the words touch him, a fleeting tremor running through him like a ripple on water. He turns to face Ravio, his jaw tight. For a moment, he looks like he might deny it with his signature snark and nonchalance, but instead, he shifts his gaze and nods, looking again at the floor.

“Yes,” Legend admits softly, but then, Ravio finds him holding a breath. “My knees… my joints… everything hurts. Old injuries and stuff. It’s not news.”

Ravio doesn’t say anything. And most of all, he doesn’t judge. He sits quietly, breathing slowly and evenly, imagining the warm air leaving his body and unfurling like a gentle wave, reaching out to wash away the weight on Legend’s body. His steady breaths create a rhythm, a silent invitation for Legend to match. 

For a moment, Legend doesn’t move. He only tightens his hands into fists until the knuckles flash white, as if trying to fend off the pain with sheer willpower. But Ravio knows that resisting pain — this kind of pain — only makes it more relentless, like fighting a wave that drags you deeper with every struggle. He has learned this through his own trials, the memory of crossing that burning threshold of rebirth still fresh in his mind and body.

Perhaps Ravio’s body understands more than he gives it credit for. In moments when his mind falters under an oppressive weight, his body always steps in to protect him. He recalls the burn in his throat from the screams that fought back the lashes of Blind’s words, the jolt of his muscles when Legend's touch pressed against the wounds of his recent attack, and the swift readiness of his magic in a lightning flash as he crashed to the ground. His body remembers survival even if his mind hesitates.

And now, his hand moves of its own accord. His body may seem to do contradictory things, but Ravio now trusts his instincts. His hand reaches out to Legend with a deliberate gentleness. His left palm lands on Legend’s right fist, and his fingers close around Legend’s hand, cautious but firm. 

These are the same hands that, in a blinding rage yesterday, aimed at Legend’s head and threatened to reduce the hero to ashes before Ravio’s mind could intervene. Ravio cannot verbalize why his own body had acted that way, why it had almost hurt the one person who had always stood by him. A part of him feels a sharp pang of shame, wishing it could have been someone else who shouted and nearly inflicted harm. But the reality is, it was still him, just clouded by a different state of being. Ravio must now face the full weight of those actions.

A shiver blossoms from Legend’s right hand as their body heat connects, a subtle tremor that radiates up through his arm. The warmth of Ravio’s touch seems to seep into Legend, melting away the cold shell of restraint. 

Legend’s breathing becomes erratic for a moment, and his body tenses as if something painful stirs; his hand trembles but doesn’t pull away. As Ravio closes his fingers just a bit further, a subtle transformation takes place under his touch. Legend’s shoulders begin to relax, the rigidity of his posture giving way to a slow, trembling release.

Legend opens his palm, and Ravio cradles it gently. Ravio takes Legend’s hand in both of his, guiding it to his lap with a careful touch, like he does when he tends to the hero’s battle wounds.

“I’m sorry, Ravio. I lied, I lied so much, and I hurt you. I’m sorry.” Legend’s words tumble out again with his shuddering exhalations. As his words spill from his lips, his body trembles as if something buried deep is sprouting, struggling to break free from the layers of hardened earth encasing his heart. Tears finally begin to stream down Legend’s face, carving tracks through the grime and sweat.

Ravio listens in silence, his gaze locked on Legend’s right hand. He doesn't need to see the hero’s face to understand the depth of his pain. He may have been blinded, but his heart now perceives with a clarity he’s never known before. His thumbs begin to move in slow, deliberate strokes, gliding from the base of Legend’s palm to the tips of his fingers. He gently bends each ringed finger back, guiding them into a soothing stretch.

“I keep saying sorry, don’t I?” Legend’s voice cracks as he lets out a broken breath that sounds eerily like a sneer, “And I keep lying, Ravio.”

Lies.

The first thing Ravio ever did to Legend, all those years ago when they first met, was lie.

“I lied because I can’t face it. I said I couldn’t bear to let you see Sheerow like that, it was true but… you were right, I had no right. I had no right to take that from you. Of all the Hylia-damned courage I am supposed to wield, I was scared, Ravio. I am scared…”

Legend’s right hand tries to clench again, but Ravio gently presses his thumbs into the palm, putting himself in between Legend and his physical dread.

“I was so scared of losing you. I failed. I couldn’t protect Sheerow, so I thought I must do whatever it took to protect you. I thought if it could stop you from hurting and leaving it would have been worth it. I thought I still could patch things up. But… but…”

Legend chokes on his tears, and he growls again, but he doesn’t pull his hand away. Ravio continues to massage small circles around each of the calluses on Legend’s palm, his fingers brushing against the metal of Legend’s rings.

“... But I only hurt you more, Ravio. It almost cost you everything. It almost cost me everything. If… If I had woken up seconds too late yesterday, I would have lost you too. And it would have been my fault. I would have taken everything from you… with my words…”

Words can hurt, yes. Ravio will never forget how much Blind’s words hurt, and they hurt not because they were deceptive, but because they felt all too plausible. They seemed so real in the moment — the way a phantom Legend accused him of using his homecoming to Lorule as a punishment. Ravio, too, had once laid his hands on a weapon of words that he knew would cut deep — 

“Why is it that everyone you love always ends up leaving? ”

If Ravio had said it, would things have turned out differently? 

Did his willingness to lay down his weapon cost Sheerow her life?

“I kept thinking… I kept thinking I could fix it. If I had chosen the right thing…” Legend’s voice pierces through Ravio’s thoughts. Ravio suddenly realizes that his hands have stopped moving, that he has waded too far out to sea in chase of a mirage. With a deep breath, Ravio brings his focus back to the present, gently rolling up Legend’s sleeve and running his fingers along that long scar on Legend’s forearm. Blind and his lies had hurt the hero too.

“If… If I had chosen the right thing, then maybe there wouldn’t have been suffering…” Legend stammers, his arm struggling in Ravio’s grasp. Ravio turns, and he meets Legend’s eyes. 

“I hurt you, Ravio. I hurt you in ways I can’t undo. You have every right to leave me and tell Zelda and Hilda and your world and mine that I’m a — ”

“I am still here,” Ravio says, softly, gentle like his touch over the two trails of small dots along Legend’s scar.

At this, Ravio closes his eyes, and he observes whatever shards of glass Legend was about to drop on himself be tossed and polished and smoothed by his hitching breaths, rolling like waves breaking against the shore.

All of a sudden, Legend’s arm breaks free from Ravio’s hands and grips Ravio’s wrist with surprising strength, as if scrambling for something to keep himself afloat. There’s a fierce will to survive in his grip, the kind of grip of someone who has been shipwrecked and knows the terror of being lost to the sea or pulled into its endless dreams.

“I hurt you, Ravio. I don’t deserve you. I can’t undo what I’ve done,” Legend repeats the same words, but Ravio also feels the way the warmth of Legend’s body seeps into his skin as the hero quietly leans in. Ravio notices the subtle shift in the air — the way Legend’s chest rises and falls in time with his own breaths.

Ravio feels a flicker of something like quiet amusement, a rare, fluttering urge to smile that he has been starved of for so long in the waking world. For all his burdens, Legend’s demeanor seems so transparent now, regardless what he says in words. 

“No, you can’t.” Ravio’s voice is steady and clear, yet still gentle and deliberate. He takes Legend’s arm again with his free hand, turning it to trace soft lines over the same long scar with its ragged stitch marks, dense but clumsy like the footprints of a drunk centipede.

“You can’t undo anything. Sheerow isn’t here anymore, I know,” Ravio continues, his speech finally blossoming, like a new sprout awakening in the morning dew. “There are… things that cannot be healed with magic. This scar wasn’t healed with magic, and it’s still here... It’ll always be here. It is part of you. It is ugly, and it must have hurt. Yet… your body found a way to mend itself around it. It’s… a bit different now, but it’s still whole.”

Ravio begins to massage Legend’s arm again, his careful long strokes soothing over the muscles on either side of the scar. He feels the resilience in Legend's skin, still tight and smooth, fitting for a young man that the hero still is. There is still so much ahead for Legend, for them both.

“... You have magical hands. You know that,” Legend says, the red-hot roughness in his voice now soft and smooth as his breathing.

“In more ways than one now, as you know,” Ravio follows, feeling the tension in the air lift. He is glad that Legend has finally made a factual observation, “Suppose all those years of apprenticeship with the blacksmith master weren’t wasted. He always said a good massage can work wonders, though I doubt he imagined it would come in handy with a hero who crash landed into his world.”

“He taught you massages?!” Legend looks surprised.

“He did. And you didn’t have to make his bed and cook his food and fix the knots in his back?!” Ravio mimics the hero’s inflection, adding a hard nudge to a pressure point. He chuckles softly as the hero grimaces, “Guess it’s a good thing he made sure I learned every detail.”

“No, I mean, no, aaargh…” Legend grits his teeth as Ravio presses again on the same spot, but then, he falls silent for a moment, before continuing, “... I’ve been lucky Ravio, and I will get better. I promise. It hurts now, but it’s… it’s what I need. I’ll remember this. Thank you for giving this to me.”

Ravio senses the shift in Legend’s tone, the weight of unspoken words in the air.

“Now…” Legend exhales deeply and carefully extracts his arm from Ravio’s hands. He meets Ravio’s gaze, and in the hero’s red-rimmed eyes Ravio sees hope. “Will you let me do something for you?”

It is at this moment that a strange weightlessness fills Ravio’s body again, his heart drumming a steady beat as something pure and soft flutters in his mind.

Thud, thud, thud.

Legend turns toward the bedside table and picks up a small wooden box with both hands. Ravio doesn’t even realize that it has always been there. Bandages, smeared with dirt, run down the entirety of Legend’s left forearm, threading through the gold bracelet that glints in the light. Ravio doesn’t even realize that they have always been there. 

Thud, thud, thud.

The wooden box nestles in Ravio’s hands, and it feels unexpectedly warm. There is a familiar weight to it. 

Thud, thud, thud.

A pure, shimmering white embraces Ravio. 

A tear trails down his face. 

A soft, silky texture responds under his fingers. 

His mind spins, weightless, like a piece of sand floating in the vast, open sky.

Thud, thud, thud.

The stitches are so neat, almost invisible. The colors of the fabric are exactly as he remembers, precise and lovingly chosen. Her eyes are closed, embroidered with dense, solid lines that bind together a precious promise.

Ravio threads his fingers gently under the stuffed doll in Sheerow’s image, and he finds that piece of feather lying quietly beneath it. Ravio lifts the doll close to his heart, feeling the pressure seeping delicately into the right place.

Thud, thud, thud.

Thud, thud, thud.

“Ravio,” Legend’s voice rises like a gentle wave, echoing as Ravio’s mind takes miraculous flight, “I can’t undo anything. I cannot undo death. But I promise, we will have a proper rite for Sheerow tonight, if you want. The wood outside is for her.”

“She is perfect,” Ravio says. 

Ravio thinks again of the passage between worlds — between the living and the lost. Creating a bridge between Hyrule and Lorule, between these two parallel dimensions, was challenging but within his reach. Yet, he can never truly bridge the chasm between Sheerow and himself. He cannot see what looms at the other end of this passage, for it is not yet his time to cross. And now, there is no fear on his part, and he is glad to be back from the threshold, back to the world where he belongs. He has come home.

Chapter Text

“Your arm.” Ravio breaks the quiet. “What happened?”

Legend is humming softly as he picks up the iron poker and nudges the embers, coaxing the fire to crackle and leap.

“Much better now. Thanks for the massage earlier,” he answers softly, tossing a small log onto the glowing coals. “That helped a lot.”

Ravio watches him in silence, his gaze pinned to the bandages on Legend’s left forearm. He cradles the Sheerow doll in his hands, his thumbs tracing short, alternating strokes over the back of its head. Just the way she had liked it.

“Your left arm,” he repeats, each syllable gentle as his touch on that little white ball but steady like the soft tug of a river current. “What happened?”

The humming stops. For a heartbeat, the only sound is the crackling fire. Legend shifts, glancing back at Ravio with a slight pause, his fingers adjusting the bracelet on his wrist.

“Strain,” Legend says after a moment, and he sighs. “You know how it is. Hauling gear and swinging swords, dragging Wild’s ass out of pits of fire. Wear and tear. Didn’t expect swinging an axe to be so hard a month into retirement.”

Ravio doesn’t respond immediately, but something feels heavy. His fingers trace the edge of the Sheerow doll, the stitched feathers tickle his skin. 

“Let me massage it. To make things even.” 

Legend shakes his head, a faint chuckle slipping through his lips as he stands upright, poker resting against the hearth. “Massages don’t do much,” he says lightly. “Trust me. Rulie has tried. Same with fairy magic. Can’t fix chronic stuff. It’s like trying to wring water out of a rock.”

Ravio’s fingers go still for just a moment before resuming their gentle path along the doll’s stitched feathers. Words slip past his lips.

“Then… what helps?” 

“Rest.” Legend leans on the mantel, his good hand brushing over the hem of his tunic. “Time at home.”

The words hover in the air, like bubbles escaping the soapy loop of a wand. They don’t settle. Maybe they can’t. Ravio knows there’s another answer, unspoken but loud enough in the silence between them. Legend has rarely been at home since the other heroes left.

Potions.

It surfaces in his mind like a dark shape under muddied water. The throbbing tug of the thought makes his chest tighten, his grip on the Sheerow doll firming. He doesn’t look at Legend, but he knows Legend is thinking it too.

It’s not like Ravio hasn’t sold potions. He gets a good commission from Irene for stocking Hyrule’s most popular remedies. Red potions are a quick fix in a bottle, cheap and safe as it has none of the monster-derived stuff. Vials are stacked neatly on shelves and sold with smiles, as ordinary as bread.

In his hands, though, the weight of glass feels different. 

He can’t unsee the way colorful liquid used to disappear down the throats of masked men, who chanted the strange songs of monsters and sat away in Misery Mire, naked, daydreaming. Healing was a thing to be fought over, potions swallowed behind locked doors and away from the ones who’d bleed you dry for a drop of its promise. 

Lorule didn’t have a potion shop for a reason. The witch quit her job long ago. She cherished her life too. 

In Lorule, potions weren’t for heroes.

As a hero never arose.

Potions fed the minds that wanted escape more than healing. The monster worshippers. The Thieves. They wanted numbness, to drown out the gnawing hunger and decay that whispered in every corner of his world like a siren’s song.

Is this what Blind was after?

“Hey, Ravio.”

The voice cuts through the fog. Legend is closer now, crouching in front of him. Their gazes meet.

“I am sorry.” Legend tilts his head slightly to look Ravio in the eye, “I mean it.”

Ravio blinks, and Lorule’s dark purple clouds begin to fade from the edges of his hazy vision. The hero’s frame comes back into focus. Ravio catches a faint tremble in Legend’s hands — both of them — barely noticeable, but there. It’s enough to snap Ravio out of the alleys of his mind, back into the sunlit present.

There is something in Legend’s breathing too — something grainy, something restless — a subtle shiver in the way his chest rises and falls, like the aftershocks of a storm are still passing through him. 

It is not just the tremor of physical exertion, or a mental block that can be fixed with catharsis. Legend’s body is fighting a different battle against itself, grinding through the gnawing emptiness and starvation from wanting to reach for the relief it’s known but no longer gets.

Yet the veteran holds steady. There is remarkable strength in the way he keeps his shoulders squared, the way he paces his breaths like an experienced stable hand guiding a startled pony, not whipping her to submission but coaxing her back to calm.

Legend’s trying. He’s come a long way, even in just a few hours. Ravio realizes that now. His body may be testing him, taunting and betraying him, but he’s not running. Not hiding.

“You’re home,” Legend says slowly, softly, clearly. His voice is radiant, a charming glow. “Home with me. Take it slow, okay?” 

Home.

One of the few words that sound exactly the same in Hylian and Lolian, past and present. 

But there is something foreign in the calm, the normalcy, the improvement, like it calls from a world neither of them has quite reconciled with. Ravio reaches into this nebulous discomfort, not sure what it is that unsettles him.

Ravio doesn’t reply yet. His fingers ache, and he suddenly realizes how tight his hands are around the doll’s body. He feels terribly sorry. He’s ruined it again.

“I’m the shopkeeper,” he says finally, with a weak smile. 

Back then, he had planted himself here with noisy enthusiasm, pretending to belong — his wares spread over every surface, his voice and Sheerow’s chirp a constant echo in the air. It had all been a distraction, a farce to keep his plan in motion. A cover, like his bunny hood, for watching over Legend, for keeping him safe in the dark.

“You fixed this place,” Legend says suddenly, his gaze washing over Ravio with an intense concentration that catches him off guard. “The gear, the guard spells, all of it.” He pauses, his voice lower but no less firm. “You made my house a home. First time since my uncle died. For me. For us…”

Suddenly, Ravio feels it — a thought that pricks him from beneath his skin, the hidden splinter in his flesh.

“Blind fixed it. You were barely home before he came, and he…”

… And something warm tickles Ravio’s eyes again. The salty water stings, but he lets it stay. Pain is uncannily effective in giving him clarity. Ravio swallows. Something trembles, like a too-full kettle on the edge of boiling over. His chest tightens, and language flees again as sticky and shifting emotions bubble up, hot and insistent, seeping out of places he thought he’d sealed off.

Home.

The word, a mere sound, becomes a bridge between worlds — a nexus of time and space. An understanding, not born of contact, but fate.

His desire for Legend to stay home was where it all began, and now, at the end, it’s the only thing that ever mattered. . The goal has been achieved.

But at what cost?

It was a desire that once burned bright and steady like the flames in the fireplace, only to be trampled by anxieties and numbness, warped by fractures that cut deep. It had been beaten bloody and bitter, stripped down to jagged shards, until a Lorulean Thief hijacked it and forged it into his blade. 

There was a moment, in a cold that bit through his bones, when leaving seemed like the only way forward. He was about to go back to Lorule, but it never felt like going home. At least not in the glorious kind of way. It felt like duty. But Blind, then, like Legend now, had asked him to stay.

Why?

“Hey, Ravio. Stay with me.”

What is happening in Lorule? What does Blind want from this world?

“Ravio?”

The shadows of Lorule always catch up, don’t they?

A warm tear lands on his hand, and Ravio suddenly registers Legend’s hand on his. Before he can form a thought, his body jerks away, the Sheerow doll falling into the folds of his linen sleeves. The sudden movement sends a shooting pain up his leg, yanking Ravio back to the present, to his body sitting on the edge of Legend’s bed.

Right. The bruises. Definitely there now.

“Hey, Ravio. Don’t go there, okay? Don’t give him that kind of credit.” Legend’s voice is steady, but there’s a thread of urgency beneath it. “You’re safe here. Blind has no place in this world. Okay? You stopped him, Ravio. I’d have fallen for his traps if you hadn’t exposed him, alright? I didn’t save our home. You did.”

“Was he after your potions? What if he’s still out there? What if—”

“Blind is dead,” Legend interrupts, “I made sure of it. Vanished into smoke, like all of Ganon’s minions.” Legend interrupts, “Not all monster worshippers get that kind of power, to shapeshift, to read minds. And—”

Legend exhales sharply, his hand falling back to his side as he sits beside Ravio, careful not to close the gap too quickly. “Those aren’t attack potions. They wouldn’t do anything for him. If anything, they’d slow him down. And, if Blind could choose, he wouldn’t have come alone. He’d need his gang, and he didn’t have them. You know why? Because I think they couldn’t follow him.”

Ravio catches his breath. The logic makes sense, but the weight on his chest doesn’t ease. “So, the Lorule Passage—”

“Is probably more secure than we thought,” Legend finishes. “Blind was desperate. He came through alone because it was his only option. He wanted something from us but didn’t get it. It will take us time to figure out what, but I don’t think anyone else has the ability to cross.” 

Ravio nods faintly, letting the words settle. He knows Legend is watching him, thoughtfully, respectfully. His fingers close briefly around the Sheerow doll before resuming their gentle stroking motion, tracing the soft fabric and sinking into its grounding warmth. 

“Ravio. You’re here now. You’re safe. Today’s not about him. It’s about her.”

At that, Ravio looks down at the doll in his hands. A gentle weight, a radiant light, a cloud in her sleep

“You’re right.” He says, at last, his voice steadying, “I will see her off tonight. She needs to go home.”

Legend nods solemnly, and he straightens, brushing off his tunic as he stands. “I am at her service. Before that, can I head to the fairy fountain? Maybe grab a stronger fairy from the Great Mother, to take another look at your eye?”  

“No.” Ravio’s answer is immediate. The word comes out quick and sharp, slicing through the air with an edge he hadn’t intended. He softens with a shake of his head, lowering his gaze, “It wouldn’t help, Link.”

He knows his body. He knows magical items.

“Why not?” Legend presses.

“Not with… this.” Ravio sighs, his lips curving into a bitter, humorless smile. “I’m not Hylian.”         

Legend’s expression shifts, furrowing his brow. “What do you mean?”

Ravio hesitates. He learned it the hard way too. He tries not to think of the War, of its smoke and scorched fields and too-young combatants. But he did learn more about the nature of magic by witnessing its direct effects on human flesh, searing its patterns into the victims he could not save. Or rather, the way magic judges who is unfit to spare.

He has seen lightning dance harmlessly over Captain’s armor but sink deep into Zora flesh, charring their scales, gripping their throats until their lips turn white. He has seen the river’s tide crash harmlessly over a Goron’s stone skin, but when twisted by magic, it drills into their shells, seeps into their cores — softens, freezes, and shatters them from the inside. And he has seen Zelda wield the Golden Light on the battlefield — Hylia’s gift to her chosen — how it turns merciless in the face of darkness. It does not purify. It does not care to mend. It scorches shadows into the ground, hollows out the ribs of anything it deems impure.

The way it does not hesitate.

“It’s not just the Cane of Byrna or Sacred Realm magic,” Ravio says, steadying himself as echoes of screams and steel, tears and pain, rise in his mind. “It’s me.”

He glances at Legend, catching the faint flicker of confusion, and he presses on.

“After… after that arrow, back in the War of Ages…” Ravio pauses, taking a breath, “The one I told you about. Left arm. My magic caused trouble then. Or, I think it did, now that I know what it’s like. I don’t remember all of it… I just… I just remember the pain. Kicking, screaming — almost got Tune right in his face when he tried to hold me down. Poor kid. He just wanted to help.”

“It’s okay, Ravio. We don’t have to do this now if you don’t want to…”

“No,” Ravio replies without thought, but then, he pauses. He looks down, gently brushing over the doll’s head with his sleeves, voice softening, “I owe her an explanation.”

Ravio closes his eyes, drawing in another long breath. He listens, and he feels, sensing the pulse at his neck, the warm stream of blood coursing through his body, carrying Lolia’s whispers to her descendants.

“…And then I was inside. On a cot, half out of it. I could barely move, but I could hear them talking. The Captain and Lana.”

His gaze falls to the doll again, settling on the careful stitches that form Sheerow’s closed, serene lids. Her delicate form seems to glow softly in his hands, like the faint light of that lantern in a storm. With her holding him by the hand, he feels not the shadows of his past. He will be safe to wander down the cold corridors of his mind.

“The Captain was trying to feed me something, but Lana… she wouldn’t stop talking. She just kept going, like she had to get it all out. The Captain told her to stop, said I needed to rest. But I didn’t want her to stop. I wanted to hear.” 

Ravio exhales, reaching further into the chilly water of his memory. The clean scent of burning wood from the hearth mixes with the faint, lingering aroma of fresh fabric against his skin, but he presses hard against these traces of comfort until the warmth of Legend's room begins to blur.

There was… the rough texture of a coarse blanket scratching at his neck. The scent of iron, sharp and metallic, in the air like steam. Lana’s sickly sweet voice murmured in fragments —

“She was talking about me. About what happened. She said it was dark element magic, the type that clashes hardest with anything to do with light. That she… didn’t expect me to have the same kind of magic as Ganondorf. As Ghirahim. But it makes sense, doesn’t it? Why it hurt so much. Why Byrna, even in his afterlife, wouldn’t let me touch his gear. Why everything felt like it was ripping apart inside me...”

Ravio’s voice falters, his words trailing into the quiet crackle of the fire. “But it doesn’t matter now…”

“Dark doesn’t mean evil, Ravio,” Legend says gently, though a current of intensity threads through his words, “The Cane doesn’t know you, Ravio. It’s just an item, an asset, dumb and unknowing and left in a chest to rot on Death Mountain. It just reacts, it loses its Hylia-damned mind like a Cucco. But Sheerow knows you. She stays. Today is about her. It’s about you.”

Ravio’s breath hitches as Legend’s words sink in, the thought of Sheerow sending a ripple through his core. He holds the doll with his bare skin again. He can’t hurt her. She was treasured, but never fragile, never weak.

She liked his touch. She liked him above everything else. She was home in that failing world.

Home isn’t a place. It’s a nudge on his neck, a weight on his shoulder, a chirp in his ears.

A hand outstretched, clean sheets and linen, a hearth burning through the cold night.

And a voice rising with the embers, carrying her name into the stars.

“Legend,” Ravio gathers himself, and begins, “I need your help. A bath, first.”  

“No problem, anything else?”

“My scarf.”

Legend arches a brow. “Your scarf? Are you cold? I can grab a blanket—”  

“No,” Ravio interrupts. “Not for me. For her. Her bed.”  

“Alright.” Legend nods, “Anything else?”

“I want to move back to my room.”

Legend frowns. “You don’t have to do that. The master bedroom’s yours now. Much warmer, good fireplace—”  

 “It’s too much,” Ravio says softly. “I just… I need normal. Familiar. She would prefer her old spot.”  

Legend doesn’t argue, but the furrow in his brow lingers. “Alright. Smaller room it is. But before any baths or moving rooms…” He jerks his thumb towards the stairs and crosses his arm, tilting his head, “You eat first.”  

Ravio glances up at him, one brow arching. “What’s on the menu? Leftover soup?”

“Yep,” Legend replies without missing a beat. “Barely a day old. A few hours more, tops. That’s fresh by Hylian soup standards.”  

Ravio blinks, then lets out a soft laugh despite himself. “Feels like it’s been weeks…”  

“Yesterday,” Legend says, his tone dry but his eyes flickering, blinking once, then twice, as if chasing away something unseen. “You can argue soup specs later. For now, you eat.”  

As Legend’s footsteps flutter down the wooden stairs, Ravio hears the renewed vigor he’s not sensed in the hero for an eternity. He listens to the faint clatter of bowls and spoons, the sweetly amusing sound of chaos in the kitchen.

When Legend returns, the bowl he carries is steaming, a veritable tree of rosemary sprouting from its depths. Ravio takes one look and shakes his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips.  

“Still terrible at this,” he mutters.  

“This is what one calls home - made.”

Chapter Text

The fire in the master bedroom burns softly and quietly. Its light brushes the hallway in dull pulses, half-swallowed by the midday sun.

Ravio doesn’t look long. He’s had enough of that fire for now: the heavy blankets, the sweat-damp sheets, the nights wrapped in pain and dreams he could not shed.

That flame feels too close. The flame stirs like it knows him — reaching, coaxing, catching at the edge of his mind. But he doesn’t answer. It isn’t the fire he needs. It isn’t the fire Sheerow needs.

His old room is smaller. Cooler. No hearth — just the hush of dust and shutters, and that pale spill of daylight washing across the floorboards.

Everything is just as he left it.

Just like before.

He wraps his scarf around his hand and shapes it into a small nest on the nightstand. Then, gently, he sets the Sheerow doll in its center. He smiles, and the tips of his fingers glide across the doll’s stitched feathers.

His touch is light, as if pressure can send too much of a ripple through the calmness.

As if she might rest easier, tucked just so.

He lingers a moment longer than he means to, breath held in the instant between gestures.

Outside, the sound of footsteps. The hallway creaks as Ravio waits.

Water sloshes somewhere. Then footsteps — up, down, up again — louder each time. Ravio imagines Legend’s arms full of towels, or buckets, or whatever sounds heavy enough to be an ancient contraption dragged out of the house’s forgotten basement.

It is so delightful, hearing the thud-thud-thud of the hero so quick on his feet.

A drawer shuts. A cupboard thunks open. A pause. Then more movement. More hustle and bustle blooming all around him.

Too much, maybe, for only a bath.

But the rhythm radiates a gentle energy — a soothing harmony Legend is orchestrating with the help of their house.

“…What are you building?” Ravio calls.

No answer. Just one last thump. Then silence.

The door creaks open. Steam coils into the hallway.

Legend stands in the mist, sleeves rolled, slightly flushed from effort. “It’s ready,” he says, “Don’t rush.”

Ravio shuffles in, one hand to the wall. The humid air embraces him like a blanket. There are… whispers of rosemary, and —

Three wooden chairs turned toward the tiled wall, their backs lashed together with rope.

“That’s… a lot of chairs.”

“They’re railings. For you.”

A beat.

Ravio tilts his head, allowing his left eye to adjust to the tricky light filtering through the thin curtain, bouncing thinly and scattered through curling steam.

Another chair sits next to the window. This one’s padded with rolled towels. Beside it, a brass basin, glowing faintly with the warm aura of a ruby’s enchantment, heat shimmering steadily just beneath the surface.                                                        

He moves towards it slowly, one hand brushing each chair back as he goes. The rope between them tugs gently under his palm.

The seat is low, firm. He sits.

A gentle clink: a golden bell set on the low table close to his legs.

“If you need anything,” Legend says, “ring this.”

Ravio takes it. The wooden handle is familiar to his touch.

“Doesn’t this summon Irene’s broom?”

“If the broom bothers you, I’ll torch it.”

“Please don’t.” Ravio mutters, “I service her brooms.”

Legend smirks, already turning away.

“That broom gets more customer perks than I do.”

The door clicks quietly in the distance.

Steam lifts in slow ribbons. His skin prickles in the heat.

The bandage over his right eye itches, already damp at the edges.

He exhales, slowly.

Alone now.

The water looks back at him.

Warm streams trail down his left arm.

Rivulets crawl over the old wound. The arrow's mark.

The heat soaks into his skin, rising in waves. A phantom shiver follows it — like a memory not his, stirring.

He doesn’t flinch. Just letting his senses take root.

It reminds him of fire.

He wonders, absently, what it will feel like when the real flames come — when his dark hair smolders like incense, when his bones crackle like dry kindling. Like all the Loruleans who passed before him.

Not buried. Burned.

Smoke curling skyward. Embers fed to the wind.

He won’t be there to feel it, of course.

That’s the comfort, isn’t it? The old mercy — they burn the empty shell he’d leave behind.

Who will they be? Who will sing for him when everything comes to rest?

He pours another dipperful over his arm, feeling the trail it leaves. Water, warm like his blood.

That melody comes without warning. Low. Half-sung under his breath, half-dreamed in the depth of his soul.

He doesn’t think about it. Doesn’t need to.

The song has never left.

Always part of him, humming through each heartbeat.

He remembers the last time. The last pyre he built.

His uncle’s body lay still under a bedsheet, feet sticking out from the handcart as it rolled slowly down the long road to the chasm.

The cart creaked under uncle’s weight.

A slow, hollow sound swallowed by the barren fields.

A quiet knowing that no one else would come.

He hadn’t met Sheerow yet.

But sometimes, he wondered if she was watching over him even then — quiet and unseen, a soul waiting for him to survive long enough to find her.

He doesn't know if he's crying.

If he is, the water can carry it away.

The song rises again, faint and shapeless on his breath — not yet a melody. Just the nebulous sense of it. Like a promise.

Ravio blinks. His hand drifts toward the rolled towels on the low table…

…and pauses.

Something else sits beside them.

A shallow dish, placed dangerously close to soap. On it, two round cucumber slices and a few shaved into crystal-thin ribbons.

Beside them, a jar of honey, pale gold and half-sunken in a dish of warm water. A loofah covers the top, its corner already drooping into the golden liquid.

Ravio’s brow furrows. For all the hero’s thoughtfulness in preparing such a curious little Hylian snack, he could still be terribly clumsy in the details.

He eases the jar free, careful not to spill, and nudges the loofah aside from the dessert.

He takes a cucumber slice, letting the cool crunch settle across his tongue. Crisp. Faintly sweet. A little odd.

There doesn’t seem to be a utensil for the honey, so he pours a bit into his palm, then brings it to his lips.

Not quite a meal.

But warm. Offered. Waiting for him.

So different from last time. The sweetness will fuel his song and help him through the long fasting that awaits.

He eats it slowly. Carefully.

And enjoys it very much.

Ravio runs his fingers along the folded stacks in his wardrobe. Familiar purples. The color of his homeland. The color of his strength.

Somewhere near the back: the robe he’s looking for.

He doesn’t let his mind linger on it. Just pulls the bundle free.

The fabric is still stiff in places. Frayed along the collar, wrinkles too deep to be ironed out crisscrossing at the hems. One sleeve is torn nearly through.

There’s a patch of dried blood across the shoulder. Dark. Like an aged wax seal.

He presses the cloth between his fingers. For a second, he fears the garment would scream.

Then: footsteps coming from the light.

He doesn’t turn, not right away.

“Ravio. I want to give these to you,” Legend’s voice behind him.

A clink of glass.

“Pour it into the garden.”

Ravio closes the wardrobe door.

A pause.

“No. Please.”

Ravio turns. Slowly. Two glass bottles glint in Legend’s palms — the deep, rusty red of congealed blood.

Still stoppered. Still dangerous.

“They’re sealed,” Legend says. “Haven’t touched them since. I’m done.”

“Pour it into the garden.”

Legend doesn’t move.

“I can’t. I can’t replicate it.”

Ravio presses hard on the wardrobe door. The wood screeches.

“They work,” Legend looks down, his answer a beat too quick than what Ravio expected.

“Work, how?”

Legend doesn't meet his eye.

“Faster than red potions. Stronger. A few drops melt on your lips and your body stops hurting. Your skin closes up like nothing happened. A strange heat. You sleep, and it’s like you never bled.”

“And then?”

“Then… No pain. That’s the point.”

“No pain, where?”

Legend looks down.

Another beat.

Then:

“Like a Wind Fish’s kiss,” Legend says in a low voice. “Or curse. I don’t think it’s supposed to do that.”

Legend’s fingers tighten around the bottles. His voice stays low.

“Wild made these from scratch. Lynel guts and spotted lizards. I watched him bleed through all his clothes but these potions just dragged him out of it and he could climb up a cliff right away. The way he rose from his grave and shed his blood-stained shell and kept fighting. The way these tiny bottles make death a second thought. In his time, people pin potion recipes on stable wa —”

“You were born a few thousand years too early for that.”

Legend stops, shifting the bottles in his grip.

“I’m not asking to keep it,” Legend finally looks up. “I’m asking you to.”

Ravio doesn’t move.

“I was going to give it to Irene, to Zelda.” Legend continues. “They could analyze it. They could save our lives with it…”

“Then why didn’t you?”

Ravio already knows the answer.

But he asks anyway.

“Because I am afraid.” Legend’s voice thins.

Afraid.

Not of pain. Not of war.

Afraid of the look in Zelda’s eyes when she realizes what her hero has done.

What the Hero of Legend almost became.

“I’m afraid of losing what little trust I’ve still got.”

The hero’s red-clad frame trembles.

Tears tap on the wooden floor.

Tiny puddles of still waters.

Then —

The melody comes again.

Not sung. Not spoken. Just there, humming through his marrow.

The Lorulean requiem. The song that waits. That knows.

That death is not conquered. Not outrun.

There’s a line in the song. It brushes against the edge of his tongue.

He cannot speak it.

Not yet.

“You didn’t even use it on me.”

Legend’s grip falters slightly.

“I didn’t trust it. I can’t risk hurting you more.”

A beat.

Is it a salve or poison?

The silence deepens.

The potion gleams in the light now — not just like rust, not just sweet death, but like something not allowed to speak and hidden away for too long. A last resort held too close. 

A quiet kind of fear. Ravio sees that now, despite the gauze on his eye.

No child should be afraid of coming home.

No man should flinch from his own reflection.

No soldier should be asked to rise from the grave and keep fighting.

Tears tap again on the floor between them. Small echoes that no one else hears.

Still waters.

The kind that holds too much. The kind that drowns without a ripple.

Like grief. Like guilt.

Like the red in that bottle — the elixir that fuels the blood in their bodies — raging now, but will eventually come to rest.

Ravio reaches out.

Legend leans in.

The bottles pass between them.

Ravio turns, opens the wardrobe, slides the bottles onto the top compartment, and presses his fingers to the wood.

A pulse of Lorulean script glows in a soft violet as the doors seal shut.

“We’ll retire them properly,” Ravio says. “When you’re ready.”

Legend doesn’t answer right away. He rubs his eye, blows his nose, and smears whatever it is onto his unbreakable red tunic.

His voice, when it comes, is quiet.

Unarmored.

“We will.”

The late light slants gold, autumn's breath curling at the window panes. Not the bone-deep chill from earlier, but the slumbering kind whispering the year’s turning.

Ravio stands in the center of the room, sleeves rolled to his elbows, fingertips outstretched.

He murmurs the master spell under his breath. The command to stand guard travels through each surface like an icy stream coursing through a gorge’s stones.

A low hum rises, vibrating through the grains of wood, seeping from the seams of wallpaper, gliding off ceramic tiles.

The house answers.

Glimmers of script surface over each magical asset. Then, one by one, each glow fades to stillness.

Anchored. Stabilized.

He moves clockwise to each window, placing his palms flat to the glass. A shimmer of violet flash, ripple, then vanish.

Doors next. Then the walls. The fireplace tunnels. The floor.

Behind him, Legend watches from the stairwell. Arms crossed.

“Save some strength.”

“We need a citadel spell,” Ravio says. “What we have isn’t enough.”

“… You think the Thieves are coming back?”

“Blind walked through the front door.”

“You thought it was me.”

A beat.

“I let him in.” There’s no bitterness in Ravio’s voice. Just fact.

Legend exhales quietly. He walks slowly down the stairs to Ravio’s side.

“I fell for that trick three times, those bastards.” Legend begins again. “Mind magic kills without blood. But you didn’t let him win.”

Ravio doesn't answer right away.

He turns away from Legend, and opens both hands.

A heavy web of energy forms midair — each tendril thick as tar, dark violet edged in black. The threads creep outward, slow and insistent, latching onto the walls, sagging under gravity, devouring space.

“Ravio?!”

The threads halt mid-stretch.

Then vanish — as if swallowed back into the air that bore them.

Ravio lowers his hands.

A slight tremor in his frame.

“I can’t do it,” Ravio closes his eyes. “Useless.”

“You’re not,” Legend says, stepping closer. “You’re tired.”

Ravio rubs his hands together. The silence sits too long.

“Hey,” Legend presses, gently, “Yuga couldn’t keep the citadel spell on our castle without Lorule’s relics feeding him from another world. Today’s not the time for you to try.”

Ravio sighs. His fingers are numb.

Legend opens his satchel, pulls out a small bottle with cobalt liquids, and holds it out.

“Drink.”

Ravio frowns.

“I’m not hurt.”

“Your magic’s flaring. This’ll steady it.”

Ravio eyes the bottle, but he doesn’t move.

Legend softens. He tries again.

“Sips. Small ones. Hyrule taught me — he keeps them handy on his belt. Keeps his flares in check. I think it’d help. Keeps your base stable. Less spiking.”

Ravio looks into Legend’s eyes.

“Fewer crashes.” The hero meets his gaze.

A beat.

Ravio’s fingers twitch. Then, slowly, he takes the bottle.

The taste is sharp. Bitter, but refreshing. Cool, like rain water seeping into deep earth.

“Good, ” Legend nods. “You want me to bring someone in? To watch over the house?”

“Who?”

“I’ll go get Osfala. He’s pretty good now. Really learned his craft from Sahasrahla.”

Ravio hesitates.

“How much does he ask for?”

Legend’s face shifts. His arms uncross. He opens himself up.

When he speaks, his words are soft, like Sheerow’s feathers.

“Nothing.”

A pause.

“Actually, maybe some of my apple juice and a place to sit.”

Ravio presses the cork down a little too hard. He doesn’t look up. Just nods. Once.

“He’ll see the mess I am.”

“He doesn’t have to come in.”

“... Thanks …”

Ravio’s gaze flickers towards the sealed windows. A thin gauze of violet pulses in sync with his breaths.

“You are not worried that they will try again? Whoever — whatever that was?”

Legend hesitates. Just for an instant. Just long enough for Ravio to notice.

“What matters is that we are together now.”

He walks towards the front door, slinging a bag over his shoulder.

“And no one can hurt you again. Not while I’m here.”

Legend picks up the Master Sword. The blade drinks in the gold of the setting sun. The light settles on Ravio’s mind like a lantern’s embrace on a cold long night.

Ravio nods. Then, he crosses the room. Kneels. Places his hand to the hearth. The stone has already cooled. The embers there have gone low, soft with an orange light like autumn leaves’ memories of the setting sun.

Light that doesn’t warm.

But lingers.

And that’s enough.

He cups his hand.

“Rest.” Ravio says beneath his breath.

A windless hush falls.

The fire goes out.

Everything is sealed.

Time to go.

”