Chapter Text
His father absent, Link’s dreams of becoming a soldier fizzled. Without Dakrar’s stories of the outside world, Castletown seemed like a dream, the mountains of Necluda a prison that chained him to his mother’s potion trade. For a time after his father’s final departure, he reapplied himself to his sword practice; he dreamed desperately for some change of heart, a miracle by which someone - his father - would discover some latent potential, make him a soldier, and rescue him from his restlessness. It wasn’t exactly glory he dreamt of, or even recognition. He never wished to become a knight, like Dakrar was. He wasn’t entirely sure what drove him - all he knew was that each second he continued without a sword in his hand might truly drive him mad. He worked Fifi until she tore off the calluses on his hand and he reformed them anew, until his feet were raw and blistered, and the grassy plateau where he trained was beaten into trails of its own.
His ardor in the night did not go unnoticed in the day. His fingers were stiff, his brewing sloppy; in his fatigue, he confused processes and ingredients. Fiona and Link were alone in the storeroom, arranging alchemical ingredients. He saw the glances she shot at him, though he pretended not to know what they meant. They sorted in silence.
“You’ve got a bruise on your arm,” Fiona said.
Link shifted. “It’ll heal soon.”
“You’ve got a cut on your face, too.”
“It’s alright,” Link said.
“Is it?”
“I haven’t been doing anything dangerous,” he told her.
“You’re always doing something dangerous.” She ran her hand through her hair. “Just because it won’t kill you, doesn’t mean it’s… a good thing to do.”
What did she even think he was doing? Sneaking drinks at the tavern? Getting into brawls?
“Bokoblin attacks have been on the rise,” she continued. He knew. It had scared some business off already. Fewer and fewer people wanted to risk the roads. “And your dad isn’t around to… protect us. Anymore.”
“Fiona, I haven’t been doing anything bad. I promise.”
“We need you here! In the shop, not - wherever you’re going at night. ”
It still seemed a fundamental contradiction to Link that his training might be a problem, rather than a solution. Fiona must misunderstand him.
He avoided his problems by attacking his daily and nightly efforts with equal commitment, a valiant attempt which barely got him so far as a week. One of his mother’s foremost buyers blacklisted them, claiming a contaminated product: their family had been afflicted by a persisting bout of fever, feebleness, and retching. Looking at their order, there was no doubt of the cause. Blood, mixed into the product, caused exactly such symptoms. In his carelessness, a scab on his hand might’ve broken while he was working on the batch, and contaminated it; or perhaps the cut on his face began to bleed again. Regardless, this had been Link’s assignment. He had proven himself untrustworthy in potion-work for the last time.
Thereafter his mother relegated him to menial jobs: carrying deliveries, collecting shipments. It was not that he minded the work. In fact, he enjoyed cutting himself loose, losing himself in menial jobs and the excitement of dealing with new people. But in a small town like Hateno, there were hardly any extra hands to hire for an involved craft like potion-making; he was not where he was needed, and it pained him. Fiona was a naturally adept potion brewer, like her mother. Link was clever enough, and far quicker with his hands - so why was he so unable to match what seemed to be effortless for them? That night, he crept out his window for the final time, and snapped Fifi. It was ridiculous that some run-down stick with a childish name had such power over him for all these years. From now on, he would devote himself to the family business.
Link surrendered himself to his errands, pushing his speed and agility to new heights in order to quiet his restless hands. He was often seen sprinting through town, bumping into carts and spooking cuckoos; though a sociable boy, there was always a buzzing energy behind his mannerisms. Where he had once been directed, he was now distracted. No longer the quietly determined child he had once been, when he spoke, it was a gushing ramble that terminated itself as abruptly as it started.
To his own surprise, vendors were charmed by his extroversion now more than ever, as his flighty nature made him almost famous around town. His favorite were the infrequent trips where had cause to meet a client or seller in the larger town of Fort Hateno. Link was well known to the guards who manned the gate; he had endeared himself to them with clear awe over their equipment, and would often find himself stalling his breakneck speed to beg news of Hyrule Castle and the wider world. It was with great concern that he began to hear more of monster attacks than ever before, of increasing group activity and even several horrific accounts of raided villages - something he had never known was possible.
Link took equal pleasure in the adrenaline of a long journey and the bustle of a busy plaza, and journeyed to Fort Hateno even on his days off, whenever they came about. The ‘city’ was a hub of the Necluda region, so much as a hub could exist for the area’s smattering of mountainous towns, and various travelers could be observed passing through; his favorite establishment was the Red Flagon, a bustling tavern just beyond the town’s gate. There he could sit in the shade and observe the passing of guards, merchants, bards, and farmers as they flowed into and out of the city. Often, he would aid newcomers by offering directions, or take on other tasks and odd jobs to keep himself busy. Favorite of his were the appearances of traveling entertainers, whether they be actors, puppeteers, or otherwise - an entire day could be spent setting up for a performance, a day filled with new people, new stories, new tasks, and a purpose. Time spent helping was time not wasted. Besides, at the end of it, he was always rewarded with a show; if he was lucky, he might even see some nostalgic rendition of the Sword that Seals Darkness. In Link’s opinion, the best versions were the ones that humanized the Hero: lonely, sweet, and melancholy; the second best were those with well-staged sword fights.
He was sitting in his favorite tavern, or rather, standing next to a table as he chatted with his server, when he spotted a commotion near the wall. He paused his gesticulation absently to watch a cluster of guards and civilians swarming beside the entrance, gate still half-open. He had jogged halfway to the gate before he realized that he left his conversation rather abruptly, and gave a sheepish wave over to the server - but he had to see what all the hubbub was about.
To his shock, he spotted a traveling ensemble unlike any he had seen before. Many wore a strange sort of folded straw hat, while others kept their hair pinned up in buns; all had the same ethereally white hair, straighter and purer in color than any of the elderly folk in the village. Sheikah, like from his father’s stories. Belatedly, he noticed the instruments strapped to their backs, and wondered if they were a traveling musicians’ troupe - if the Sheikah even had things like that. It seemed like the guards were giving the newcomers some trouble, so Link elbowed his way closer to listen in.
“You say you’re on royal business, eh? And you claim to travel from the Zora’s domain? Why pass through Necluda? ”
That was Butrik, belligerent as usual.
“We are traveling minstrels,” the Sheikah woman in the front replied. “We journey next to the Faron region.”
Her voice, though placid, had the tone of someone who had already repeated herself many times.
“So you travel all across Hyrule? How come I’ve never heard of you?” said Carlav.
Knowing Carlav, he was just curious - but the poor Sheikah visitors would be trapped in place for hours if Carlav and Butrik were given the chance to interrogate them further. Link slipped up to Carlav and tapped him on the shoulder.
Carlav had his eyes firmly on the visitors, and murmured to his interruptor, “What is it? Spit it out, already.” Seeing Link, he startled. “When did you get here?”
“The Red Flagon’s big act skipped town at the last minute. I think they’re looking for a replacement.”
“What, do you want me to sing–” a light flickered on in his eyes. “Do you think they would?”
“Well, they look like musicians, don’t they?”
Carlav leaned over and whispered to Butrik, gesturing to the swelling mob of civilians, both curious and impatient, who gathered around the gate. Butrik grumbled, then thumped his spear twice along the ground.
“Fine. You can pass. But I’ll be keeping an eye on you, outsiders.”
The gate began to rise again, though traffic dispersed slowly with a number of residents craning their necks to get a look at these strange wanderers. Carlav turned to comment to Link - ‘their performance’d better be good, eh?’ - but, as usual, the boy was already gone.