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The sword comes down in a rush of air, stilling when his hands reach the level of his hips. He lifts it over his head before repeating the movement in a practiced motion. He is training, Wild belatedly realises. He is training by repeating the same sword swing over and over to a point where it is more reflexive than conscious, training to develop muscle memory that had saved his life more times than he could count after having awoken in the resurrection shrine.
His eyes trained forward, he only briefly catches sight of his hands and it startles him more than it should. They are unmarred. There are, of course, the callouses and the scraps that litter the hands of every practiced swordsman, but the startling pink scar tissue that should stretch over his knuckles and coil around his fingers is gone. Despite the fright, the sword swings down again swiftly, unperturbed.
Oh, he realises. This is a memory.
There is nothing he can do until the reminiscence finally fades, so he tries to gather everything he can from the scene in front of him, limited by the cage of this body he does not control. Every swing picks up dust and the energy of it digs his boots more firmly into the mix of sand and gravel under his feet.
He is standing in a bare courtyard, a large square surrounded by buildings of grey slate and red tiled roofs. The military training ground of the knights headquarters, his brain supplies. This is the place where he had spent years of his life before being appointed as Zelda’s personal guard.
There is not a blade of grass to be seen on the rigorously kept ground, there are but worn down wooden dummies and dusty emptiness. The sun seems to be rising over the edge of the buildings, a church bell chiming the hour in the distance. It is so early none of the other soldiers have started their training yet, but judging from the burning in his lungs and the sweat trickling down his back and sticking his clothes to his skin, he has been at it for more than an hour now. His clothes. His ragged breathing grows louder in his ears as he takes in the clean cut shirt he is wearing, simple and breathable for training, but still showing a distinguishable trace of craftsmanship, silver threads snaking around his wrists, stitching together the crest of the royal guard. It is designed for function, but it remains above all else a uniform. The only trace of wear is the small layer of dust setting into the sleeves, but it is only superficial, a result of the days training.
The same goes for his hands. While sweat muds the dust and allows it to settle into the creases of his skin, his nails are clean-cut, no dirt laying underneath them, not at all like he knew them, stained from digging for roots for remedies or gathering herbs for cookings and potions. These are not his hands.
Wild someone whispers in his ears and it is wrong because this is Link, disciplined and clean shaven, a pristine example of a model soldier. There is nothing wild about the starkness of the courtyard, the careful measure of it’s delimitations.
Wild, he hears again and wants to scratch at his ear to remove the tickle of a breath on it’s shell but his arms are lost in the relentless swing of a blade.
"Wild!" Someone calls and his body finally moves, the battered sword he had ripped from a Lizalfos’ grip only a few days prior whistling through the air to catch whatever has snuck up on him in the throat. Before it can reach it’s intended target however, it is caught mid swing by another blade, sleek and wide, it’s expert craft reflecting itself in the intricate design of the golden hilt. Just as he moves to strike again, the owner of the broad blade curses aloud. It is only then that he recognises the other. Four is scrambling to bring his sword up again to fend off the next blow, his smaller built having been caught off balance by the previous one. He is not fast enough. If Wild does not stop his attack, he will carve a deep line into the other hero’s chest. The aborted motion of the earlier practiced swings jumps in front of his eye, but he is wary of the toll the energy of the choked motion will have on his already sore muscles. Instead, he changes the course of his sword, letting it fly over the hero of four swords and spin around himself, his body lazily following it, slowing down gradually before coming to a full stop; the calm settling of an earlier storm.
"Sorry", he mumbles, strapping the blade to his back. " You caught me off guard."
Four huffs at him, annoyed, but without the anger such an attack should warrant.
"You were remembering something weren’t you? From before?"
Wild turns away from him to face the yard in front of him again. They were at the soldiers barracks in Warriors’ Hyrule, the latter having recognised a familiar fork in the road a few days prior and led them to the closest settlement near Castletown. The buildings are made of red bricks and dark tiles, nothing like they were in his memory, but the dusty training area was designed with the same efficiency in mind. He nods briskly.
" I used to be a soldier", he says, needing to separate the Link from his memory from himself, needing to voice the vision to cut it from the mess that is his mind.
"Huh", Four says. " Well I guess your proficiency with weapons had to come from somewhere. Can’t really picture you being any good besides that though. You kind off lack the discipline. Bet you skipped on all the training to catch insects."
Four grins, nudging his side with his elbow. He is only joking, Wild knows, only trying to lift the frown he can feel etched into his brow, but the comment hits too close too soon. He is not sure if it is anger flaring up in his chest, the word fitting strangely around the emotion of feeling off-kilter, but it forces words out of his mouth before his thoughts can form them.
"I was though. Even woke up before everyone else every morning to get more training in. Followed orders. Did as I was told and never stepped out of line."
There is silence.
"Huh", Four echoes again.
Their voices are hollow and they let their words lose themselves in the wind flooding through the open gates. Finally, Wild speaks, the lack of chirping cicadas and whistling birds unsettling his already troubled mind even more.
"I know it’s me but it doesn’t feel like it. I mean I remember doing the things he did and feeling the things he felt. I remember the touch of Mipha’s hand and the warmth in my chest, I remember the weight of Daruk’s arm slung over my shoulders and Urbosa’s laugh but—" , he cuts off, trying to voice his thoughts in a way that does not sound like the absurd ramblings of a madman, tangling his fingers in his obscenely long hair. "But even though I’ve lived his life I don’t feel like that Link is me! I’m not the pristine soldier that worries about orders and discipline! I could never live in a castle, or follow guard schedules, or let somebody else decide how I should regulate my life!"
He screams the last words and all the rage dissipates as soon as he has said them. When he speaks again, his voice is quiet, breaking on the lump in his throat.
"I’m not the boy who lets expectations weigh more on his shoulders than the task before him. By Hylia, I can’t worry about the expectations of fathers long gone. I can’t worry over pride or etiquette after having brought down the Calamity."
Wild quiets for good then, focusing on his laboured breathing, echoing that of the soldier before. Four has remained silent throughout his outburst, distractedly stroking the golden seam stitching the colours of his tunic together. After a while, he opens his mouth, his gaze still fixed on a far away point, carefully choosing his words, gathering them in his hands and turning them over before voicing them.
"You know, I know a thing or two about having multiple people in your head. I mean I spent years trying to compromise with all these guys", he says, tapping his chest so that his palm fits squarely over the crossed stitching. " Whenever there was trouble Blue was almost begging to join, Green mouthed off at him every chance he got to a point where I sometimes couldn’t even pay attention to anything else, which was bound to get me killed if all the jumping into trouble hadn’t already done that. Red is the type that thinks everything is breezy and fun and if I listened only to Vio, I wouldn’t even be with you guys but rather sulking in a cave on my own somewhere."
Wild nods slowly, having overheard the other talk about the different fragments making up his being before. He had always associated them to parts of Four’s personnality, but now that he actually listened, he realised how close Four was to describing individual people, not emotions. He still does not really understand what Four is trying to get at, but he remains silent, his eyes fixed on the patchwork stretched over the other man’s chest. Four looks at him and sighs.
"My point is, neither of them is just me. I’m not Green or Blue or Vio or Red. I’m all of them. I’m just as much impulsive Blue as I am pragmatic Vio. Red allows me to keep going and see the bright side while the others ground me. They are all me."
His eyes remain glued to the other’s face, looking for a reaction. Wild has stilled by his side. His eyes are far away and he seems to have dificulties swallowing whatever knot is twisting in his throat. He simply nods. Four offers him a smile and a pat on the back.
"I’m going to tell the others you need some time to yourself, they won’t bother you. Just join us when you’re ready, alright?"
Wild still can’t speak so he just nods again, his eyes fixed on a crack on a wooden dummy as he listens to Four’s steps grind on the training gravel.
By the time he moves, the sun is starting to set. He joins the others around the fire over which a large pot is boiling. From the enticing smell coming off it, he knows none of his companions has prepared it.
Instead of joining Twilight’s side as he usually does, he lowers himself to sit next to Four. The others send him weird looks but don’t comment.
He stares at his hands. They are his again, like he has come to know them; the nails dirty and in need for a trim, the jagged pink of burn scars winding around them. But they are the same shape as the boy’s, swinging a sword a hundred years in the past.
"Thank you", he voices, barely above a whisper.
Four silently bumps their shoulders together.