Work Text:
"Everything alright there, Smithy?" a commanding voice calls.
The shadow turns. Its focus passes over several people it does not know to focus on the one who spoke. A man with a neutral but unhardened expression watches it with furrowed brows as it tries to blink the shine of the sun out of its eyes and the sense back into its mind.
"Four?" the man asks.
"I'm fine, Time," the shadow croaks, waving a hand dismissively, "Just a little dizzy."
Memories come to it slowly, knowledge pressed into its hands by gentle, distant ghosts. Their whispers are quiet and spoken in a language it does not know, the memories the only messages it understands.
Time hums, but whether it's meant to be a show of assent or skepticism is lost on it. The man's face is impossible to read, flat but not exactly stern. Around it, the group does not continue moving. They are meant to be moving.
"Are you sure?" someone else asks. Their voice is concerned. "I didn't see you hit your head or anything, and usually the portal effects would have worn off by now. Are you feeling sick?"
The shadow does not see the brown-haired teen's approach, but it turns to find his face inches away from its own. The shadow is struck by the silver and gold that seem to writhe like worms in the earthy brown of his eyes. The differences between what is tangible and what is real seem to grow. If the shadow were not already unsure of the scale and integrity of the world around it, it certainly would be now.
Magic flickers behind the teen's eyes, a deep and expansive sea. That realization is the only warning the shadow has before he's reaching out to it, pressing and prodding at it in the metaspace that makes up Four's magic.
The shadow flinches.
"I'm fine, Hyrule," it says. It doesn't think it's very believable, but the gentle ghosts don't seem any angrier than before. "I don't feel sick, at least."
"Your magic is different," Hyrule says curiously. He leans closer, his fingertips brushing the skin of the shadow's forearm. His magic weaves a gentle net around Four's, exploring the shape of it from every angle.
"A curse?" someone else asks, strained.
Hyrule tilts his head, considering the shadow with an unalarmed and undisguised interest. To the group, he hums out a dissent. "I don't think so. It's more like the magic's the wrong shape."
The shadow has the distinct feeling that it's supposed to be coming up with an explanation right about now. It doesn't have any, as it doesn't know why Four's magic has changed. Magic is meant to be set, it's sure. It doesn't know why Four's magic would shift.
(It doesn't know anything, does it?)
As such, it says nothing. This is immediately proven to be the wrong choice.
Shoulders tighten. Fingers twitch. Brows furrow. Stances settle. The shadow struggles to interpret the individual changes of the people around it. It does not know what the details mean, exactly, but it knows they do not bode well for it. The gentle ghosts mutter discontentedly.
It isn't sure who speaks next. The voice is low and tense. "Are…are you saying that isn't Four?"
"No," Hyrule dismisses quickly, waving a hand. His focus does not leave the shadow. "It's more like--it's still Four."
The shadow peels away from Hyrule's eyes. It has never been a very good liar, even by omission. It looks elsewhere.
The rest of the group takes notice. Battle-hardened eyes narrow and strong hands tighten on the hilts of their swords. The air is tense and the shadow fights not to curl into itself.
"It's still Four," Hyrule insists, louder.
The shadow's gaze flicks back up to him and it smothers its surprise. There's an edge to Hyrule's voice that wasn't there before, and he angles himself in front of it, standing between the group and the shadow. He's defending it, for whatever reason.
He continues, "It's hard to describe, but it's still him. I can feel it."
"But--"
"Wars," Time says, leaving no room for argument, "if anyone knows, it's Hyrule."
Wars frowns. His own hand is caught in a whiteknuckle grip on his sword's hilt, and he glares at the shadow like he might take it apart with his eyes alone. The shadow twitches under his gaze and the man's eyes follow it like he's tracking an enemy.
Time rests a hand on the other man's armored shoulder. His expression is gentle but unyielding. Slowly, Wars's hunted look bleeds away. He releases his sword's hilt and lets the tension fall from his shoulders.
"Of course," he agrees faintly.
Hyrule cuts through the tension deftly, reaffirming, "Four's fine. I'll tell you if anything changes, good or bad. For now, we should keep moving."
The rest of the group seems to settle a bit at that. The one that looks the youngest takes the opportunity to take a running leap onto Wars's back, shattering what remains of the strain between them as the older man squawks. He flails for a moment before stepping into Time's pace, dragging the group forward from the front. The youngest settles against his back like a sack.
A man with warm eyes laughs at the two of them and gives the shadow a gentle smile, unstrained and unburdened by worry. White fabric bunches around his throat and shoulders-- a sailcloth, he remembers--and on his back is a sword that speaks of Light.
The shadow edges away from him, away from the sword, just a bit. Hyrule keeps in step with it, no longer digging his eyes into it, but still standing between it and the bulk of the group. He seems to ruminate on the change in Four's magic, muttering to himself a bit. He keeps a gentle hold of the shadow's wrist, a soft point of contact that the shadow does not protest.
On its other side sidles up the one who seems the least concerned, and the quickest to take Hyrule at his word, despite the shadow's glaring distrustfulness. This one wears a long and draping cap, a darker cross between blue and sea-green. He eyes the shadow with a vague intrigue, but does not press as the shadow tucks closer to Hyrule and averts its gaze.
The shadow sneaks glances of the two tailing the group. One carries more scars than the shadow has ever seen on a person before. He steps away from the group's path again and again, each time returning with something new in his hands that quickly disappears in a flash of blue light.
At his side, the other carries with him the feelings of a predator. A wolf pelt is thrown around his shoulders, a clear demonstration of his threat. He can kill a wolf, and he can surely kill the shadow too. The shadow can feel him watching it, its skin prickling at the sensation. It catches the man's gaze and a chill runs down its spine.
The shadow stumbles.
The man with the wolf pelt narrows his eyes. He seems more curious and concerned than hostile as he approaches. "Are you hurt?"
"No, Twilight," the shadow says, tasting his name as it speaks itself into its knowing, "Like I said, I'm only a little dizzy."
In the quiet of its mind, the shadow thanks the gentle ghosts for their knowledge. It does not know what it would do without their guidance, though it's sure it would not fare well. It is grateful to have them. The gentle ghosts seem pleased with this.
Twilight hums, and the shadow cannot decipher the sound's meaning. "That's good."
The shadow does not visibly respond, but it is as if Twilight can sense its caution regardless. He sinks back to his position behind it without any fanfare and the shadow feels the weight of his gaze settle away from it.
Hyrule chatters quietly with the one on the other side of it and shifts his grip to hold the shadow's hand instead of its wrist. Their fingers intertwine, slotting together seamlessly, and the shadow takes the time to settle and breathe.
Things will be fine, it thinks, like a mantra. It hopes and hopes and hopes. Things will be fine.
---