Chapter Text
Link never really had the time to think about… all of it. About the new visions he was having.
Now, all Link had was time.
You’d think he’d hate the concept of time, having spent so much of it sleeping (or whatever it was he did for a century). From the moment he woke up to the moment Zelda was safe, he hadn’t stopped to think about the flashbacks.
They started as a byproduct of his journey, memories that Zelda left for him to find. He almost didn’t recognize himself the first time he went back. To the princess, he was a bored prodigy. A cog in the machine of Hylia’s divine plan, he played his part perfectly; an exemplary soldier.
Then, they shifted. He no longer had to find these memories. They started to come to him. He’d be sitting by the lake only a stone's throw from his home, and he’d be thrust into visions of Mipha and Sidon. Playing in the surf with his friends, being a child.
Those were the nice ones.
The unpleasant memories struck him like an arrow to the heart– quick and painful, leaving him gasping for breath. Link wished he could say these memories didn’t trouble him. He would also like to say he had a million rupees, but that would be just as much a lie.
Sometimes, when the woods were too quiet, he got the ‘nothing’ memories. Memories of a still and endless blue sea. There were no sounds in this memory, nor did he see much, but all he’d feel was loneliness. Wild didn’t know how long they lasted. They felt like they took an eternity to pass. It could have been just a minute; he was never sure.
He hated having all of that time to think.
So there he was, stuck on first watch with Warriors. Having nothing but time.
Legend had loaned him an ice rod just before bed to soothe his still aching nose. Wild was surprised when he first received it, noting that it had a strange purple cap covering the ice gem. The two prongs resembled bunny ears; he questioned the vet about it. He proceeded to grumble that it was rented and advised him not to let anyone else touch it. The threatening undertones were enough for Wild to reconsider letting Wind “borrow” it.
Warriors seemed to have also noticed the odd addition to the top of the ice rod. Perhaps he knew better than to poke the bear that was a sleep-deprived Legend, so he said nothing at all. The two sat on an overturned tree trunk, where the dim embers of that night’s campfire smoldered at the center of a semi-circle of seven unconscious heroes. The tension in the Captain's shoulders was palpable; his back was ramrod straight. Wild had started to think he was sitting on a wayward stick. However, his theory was disproven when the soldier let out a long, quiet sigh, hung his head, and rested his elbows on his knees.
The crackle of the dying embers was the loudest sound in the gorge. For a long while, neither of them spoke. Warriors stared into the ash, his fingers rhythmically tapping against the hilt of his sword before he finally let out a breath that sounded like gravel.
"I've been replaying it," Warriors said, his voice barely carrying over the fire. "Every second of it."
Wild didn't look up from the bunny-eared ice rod he was pressing gingerly against the bridge of his nose. "Drop it, Wars. My face feels fine. These magic bunny ears are doing wonders–"
"That wasn't a standard sparring reflex, Wild."
The joke died in Wild's throat. He kept his eyes locked on the purple cap of the rod.
"You didn't block," Warriors continued, softer now, stripping away every ounce of the sharp, authoritative cadence he usually carried. "You didn't take a standard defensive stance. You dropped your center, threw dirt to blind, and braced like you expected a blade or a boot to come down. Not a sparring glove."
Wild swallowed hard, the cold from the ice rod suddenly feeling biting against his skin. "You know how my home is. Lots of… aggressive wildlife," he muttered, forcing a dry, brittle edge into his voice.
"Wild."
The single word stopped him cold. There was no command in it, though it made the younger man slump with a heavy, aching weight.
Warriors turned his head, his blue eyes catching the dim, orange glow of the embers. "I’ve spent time in barracks filled with men who knew how to drill, and I’ve spent time with men who learned how to fight because staying alive was the only option left on the table. I know what muscle memory looks like when it's been beaten into a kid who wasn't allowed to fail."
Wild's grip on the ice rod tightened until his knuckles turned white. He wanted to deflect, to crack a joke about the Captain's dramatic flair, to stand up and walk away, to pretend his chest wasn't suddenly tightening into a painful knot, anything.
But the silence stretched between them, unyielding. Warriors wasn't demanding answers, and he wasn't offering pity (which somehow made it infinitely harder to push away).
"I hated the idea," Warriors murmured, looking back down at his boots, "that my clumsy footwork dragged you back to whatever hellhole you came from before you had to sleep. I'm sorry, kid. Truly."
Wild stared at the flickering embers, the phantom echo of a heavy, gloved fist fading away against the quiet reality of the night wind rustling through the gorge. Slowly, the defensive stiffness leaked out of his shoulders, leaving him feeling beyond tired.
"It wasn't your fault," Wild whispered into the dark, the words tasting foreign and heavy on his tongue. He didn't look at the Captain, but he let his shoulders drop just a fraction. "You just... tripped. Happens to the best of us."
Warriors didn't press it any further. He simply shifted, planting his boots firmly in the dirt beside Wild, offering a quiet, unmovable wall of solidarity in the dark.
The dawn approaches, and the numbness spreading through Wild's chest tightens his heart more and more. Wars had gone to sleep hours earlier when Four and Rulie took over the second watch shift. Wild had also been told to sleep, but the bitter cold of anxiety in his throat wouldn’t allow it. He had previously thought this chill had stemmed from the strange purple ice rod, but when he abandoned it propped up on Legend’s pack, it still didn’t go away.
Tossing and turning did nothing; counting highland sheep in his head only made him more bored. Knowing nothing could melt the ice in his chest, Wild abandoned the idea of sleep entirely. He silently rose from his bedroll, immediately drawing the attention of the third nightwatch shift: Time and Twilight. Instant regret made him mentally slap himself; great, waking up early under the ire of the world’s two biggest mother cuccos.
Time offered a long, measuring look from his post by the embers, but before the old man could open his mouth to lecture a very obviously sleepless Champion about the importance of rest, Twilight raised a hand, cutting him off. A quiet word passed between them—a low murmur that Wild was too far to catch—and a moment later, Time slowly stood, stretching his aching joints, and quietly drifted off toward the sleeping rolls without a word. Twilight was left behind.
Wild sat frozen a few inches from his pack, half-tempted to bolt back under his blankets. Instead, Twilight didn't lunge, nor did he march over with heavy, demanding strides. He didn't offer any empty platitudes, either. He simply shifted his weight, rose from the log, and walked over at a measured, unhurried pace, stopping a respectful distance away.
He didn't reach out. He just lowered himself to sit cross-legged on a smooth boulder near the edge of the camp, leaving a wide, safe berth between them.
"Couldn't sleep?" Twilight asked, his voice rough with the pre-dawn chill, keeping his tone entirely level.
Wild swallowed hard, tasting the lingering metallic flavor of the previous afternoon. He crossed his arms defensively over his chest, trying to suppress the shivers that threatened to betray him. "The ground is uneven, and the vibrations feel off."
“Huh?”
“You know… like the energy? Bad vibes.”
Twilight let out a soft, low huff of breath that might have been a laugh if the air hadn't been so biting. He reached into his pelt and pulled out a small leftover rice ball and a canteen, setting them gently on the stone between them without any sudden movement.
"Well, the 'vibrations' won’t change until we head out again," Twilight said quietly. "Might as well sit where it's warm."
Wild eyed the rice ball.
Then Twilight.
Then the rice ball again.
“Are you trying to feed me?”
“Thought you might be hungry.”
“That’s suspiciously close to feeding me.”
“Would you prefer I throw it at you?”
Wild considered that. “Depends. How’s your aim?”
“Ask me again after breakfast.”
A laugh escaped Wild before he could stop it. It was small and rough around the edges, but it was real enough that Twilight’s shoulders eased.
Wild hated that he’d noticed. He reached for the rice ball.
The silence returned, settling comfortably (or uncomfortably, depending on whose perspective) between them. Twilight leaned back on his hands, gaze drifting toward the canyon’s eastern ridge. The first pale threads of dawn had begun to creep over the stone, turning the sky from black to a deep, bruised purple.
Wild took a bite.
It was cold. A little dry. Probably left over from yesterday’s rations. It was also the first thing he’d eaten since the incident that hadn’t been taken directly from the cooking pot.
He chewed slowly. “So,” he said eventually. “You and Time have some kind of secret meeting about me?”
Twilight’s ears twitched. “Not a secret meeting.”
“Uh-huh. Very convincing. Should I be worried about the intervention you’ve got planned? Because I have to warn you, if anyone tries to make me sit in a circle and talk about my feelings, I’m jumping off that cliff.”
“It’s not much of a cliff.”
“Then I’ll find a bigger one.”
“Wouldn’t put it past you.”
Wild smiled around another bite. Twilight let the moment pass before answering properly.
“Time just wanted to know if you were all right.”
“And?”
“And I told him I didn’t know.”
Wild’s smile faltered.
Twilight didn’t look at him. “That’s all.”
The rice ball had gone strangely heavy in Wild’s hand. He’d expected something else. A report, perhaps. A list of his symptoms. An assessment of how much trouble he’d become for the group. Maybe even a decision about whether he was safe to keep around.
Instead, Twilight had apparently told the truth. He didn’t know. Wild wasn’t sure why that made his throat hurt.
“I’m fine,” he said.
“I know you’d like to think that.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“No,” Twilight finally looked at him, his expression open and unassuming. “I heard what you said.”
Wild looked away.
The horizon was getting brighter. Somewhere above them, a bird called from the rocks. The sound was thin and sharp, carrying strangely through the narrow gorge.
His fingers tightened around the rice ball.
For a moment, the canyon seemed to stretch.
The rocks were too flat. The sky too wide.
He could almost hear water.
Not the distant rush of a stream, or the sound of waves against the shore. Something quieter. Something that seemed to come from very far away.
An endless expanse of blue.
No wind.
Nothing.
No voices. No footsteps.
Nothing.
Wild forgot to breathe.
“Wild?”
Twilight’s voice came from somewhere beside him, muffled and impossibly distant. The blue pressed against the edges of his vision.
He couldn’t remember where he was.
No, that wasn’t right.
He knew where he was. He knew the canyon, the campsite, the shape of the boulder beneath his legs. He knew Twilight was sitting across from him.
He knew all of those things. So why did they feel like facts he’d been told about someone else?
The rice ball slipped from his fingers. Distantly, it struck the stone and broke apart, scattering grains across the dirt.
Wild stared past them.
White against brown. Against blue.
Little fragments of something that had once been whole.
“Hey.”
Twilight hadn’t moved closer.
Wild could see that much. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the knowledge lodged itself like a splinter.
“Wild, can you hear me?”
He wanted to answer.
He knew how to answer. He had a mouth, a tongue, a voice. He’d spent the last twenty-four hours running that voice into the ground with every stupid joke he could think of. But the words wouldn’t come.
The blue deepened.
For one awful, endless moment, Wild couldn’t feel the ground beneath him.
Then the bird called again; the sound cracked through the silence.
Wild jerked, sucking in a breath so sharp it hurt. His hands flew to the stone beneath him, fingers scraping against its rough surface.
Canyon.
Dawn.
Twilight.
He was here. He was here.
“Shit,” he whispered.
Twilight stayed perfectly still.
Wild swallowed, his heart hammering against his ribs. He could feel the stone beneath his palms now, the rough edges biting into his skin. The air was cold. His nose ached. His mouth tasted faintly of blood.
He was here.
“Wild,” Twilight said carefully. “Do you know where you are?”
The question should have been easy. It was easy.
It was—
“Kakariko Gorge,” Wild managed. “We’re at camp.”
“Good.”
Twilight didn’t sound relieved. He didn’t sound frightened, either, surprisingly. He simply nodded, as though Wild had told him the weather.
“Do you want me to get someone?”
“No.”
The answer was hissed too quickly.
And Twilight accepted it without argument.
“All right.”
Wild’s head snapped up, and he looked at him suspiciously. “That’s it?”
“What?”
“You’re not going to ask what the hell that was?”
Twilight was quiet for a moment.
“I’d like to know,” he admitted. “But I don’t think you’d tell me just because I asked.”
Wild stared.
That was an irritatingly reasonable answer.
He looked down at the scattered rice grains.
“Didn’t sleep much,” he muttered.
“Figured.”
“Probably hallucinating from exhaustion.”
“Could be.”
“Or the ice rod. Legend said it was rented. Maybe it’s cursed.”
“Also possible.”
“...Or maybe I’m finally dying.”
Twilight’s mouth twitched. “If you are, you’re doing a pretty bad job of it.”
Wild barked out a startled laugh. The sound was embarrassingly close to a sob, and he hated that, too.
Twilight didn’t comment on it.
For a while, they sat and watched the sunrise.
Wild’s hands gradually stopped shaking. The strange, empty blue receded until there was nothing left of it but an unpleasant chill beneath his ribs. He didn’t tell Twilight what he’d seen.
He didn’t even know what he’d seen.
But when Twilight eventually rose to fetch a fresh canteen, Wild didn’t flinch at the movement. And when Twilight returned, he sat down in the same place as before.
Neither of them mentioned it, even when Wild got up to start cooking breakfast.
For now, that was enough.