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The night before, he fell asleep to the image of those eyes in his mind. That dark gaze that pierced into his thoughts, eyes once his own void of any passion. They devour; burn at his throat like a fever.
The trial went far better than Octavo had expected. The King of Hyrule could not have more obviously been vindictive still of being fooled and put to sleep — not that Octavo could blame him. Yet, Princess Zelda and her knight (he had just then learned his name was Link) sang him nothing but praise, despite his crimes. They said that his intentions were good, despite his actions, and that they had witnessed a future where he had attempted to save Hyrule from Ganon on his own.
It became evident that the two of them saw a very different future than him.
He had set out with the intent on stopping Ganon, but the power he wielded corrupted him, and he turned into the very monster he had been trying to stop. Although technically , that did not actually happen since he had defeated himself — time stuff was so very confusing to him — but the knowledge that he could have potentially become… that haunted him.
Power-hungry and bald. How tacky.
He decided not to mention the future he had seen. The king nor public were fond of him. Even the two defending him still clearly had their doubts. Fair enough.
His punishment was simply being under very close observation for a while. He also lost his job as the King’s personal musician, predictably. Still, he supposed he should thank Link and Princess Zelda for not letting him rot in the castle dungeons.
“I’ll be the one keeping an eye on you.”
That was Link’s answer to Octavo’s sleepily demanding why he was at his door, and so early, to boot. A soldier or two would be assigned to watch him, he knew that. He did not know, however, it would be Link .
It made sense when he thought about it.
“Ah, because you are the only one of the lot who defeated me, I assume?”
“Actually, I offered to do it.”
Octavo squinted — he was unsure if he should feel insulted that the King would forget his proficiency in magic and ever consider sending anyone but Link, or curious as to why on Farore’s green earth that Link would take the job of his own accord.
Link seemed to take his look as the latter, because he opened his mouth to speak again.
“The other soldiers didn’t see what I did,” he explained, “They don’t understand you. They’d be mean to you.”
There were a few different implications that Octavo had a difficult time wrapping his head around. Firstly, the notion that Link understood him. Then there was the admittance he had been so concerned for how he would be treated. As if he didn’t deserve whatever poor treatment another soldier would throw his way.
He stared — it was too early for that ; stagnant, disturbed, he was sure the other could sense what deep melancholic pools filled him up. He shook it off, and stepped out of the way of his doorway.
“Would you like to come in?” He asked, tone deliberately empty of any inflection, “I’m no chef, but if you have not yet eaten breakfast, I’m sure I can fix something up.”
It was an idle piece he played, to better soothe the soul that had spoken to him as the two gazed out into the ocean. The sea had been known to borrow voices for its whispers; Octavo had always considered it and its crashing waves to be his lover — the scent of brine was sultry, if not tempting.
He strummed, his lute held close to his chest, as if the instrument would grow a mind and legs and leave him alone if his grip were any softer.
“You’re really good,” Link started after a while, his head not turning from the sea.
“Well, I would hope so,” Octavo replied lightly, “Considering I have dedicated my life to this passion. If I’m bad, I’d hope you would tell me so I can quickly find something else to spend my life doing.”
That got a small chuckle from the knight.
The plucking of his fingers on the strings slowed until the song came to a soft halt. The new silence was broken with a light hum from Link, and he turned his gaze to Octavo curiously.
“Is there a siren in your heart, perhaps?” he began, “Tell me what you hear from the waves, and I will try to match that tune.”
Link found it ridiculous when Octavo would try to wax poetic instead of being straightforward. Underneath the prose, he was offering to play a song for him, Link figured. If he hadn’t found it as cute as he did, or if he had been in a slightly worse mood, he wouldn’t have humored it like he did.
“I hear… a loved one.”
As the words left his mouth, he could have swore he heard the water whisper to him.
“A family member?” Octavo asked.
“No.”
“Oh?” Curiosity raised a brow and curled the edges of his voice, but he didn’t delve deeper just yet. If not a family member, then perhaps a love song was what he wanted to hear? He wondered who had taken residence in Link’s heart… and was disgusted with himself for the sourness that followed when imagining anyone but… himself .
What dangerous territory he was walking into. Still, he took his lute and strummed.
“So be it.”
“It’s for you.”
Link looked at the offered object. It was a lump of wood, rough edges chipped away into a strange knobbly shape. He turned it over several times, trying to determine what exactly it was. Octavo became dreadfully aware of his confusion, and gray cheeks flushed red with embarrassment.
“It’s supposed to be a Deku Scrub,” he explained as he reached towards Link’s hands and his fingers brushed over the supposed snout and leaves.
Link could see it. Sort of. If he squinted. “Oh… Yeah.”
“I have been trying to learn how to carve wood,” he rubbed the back of his head bashfully, “Although perhaps I should stick to music.”
“It’s not bad,” Link tried to assure him, “You’ll get better with practice. You weren’t born playing music as good as you are now, right?”
Octavo tutted playfully.
“Ah, you underestimate me! I’m rather talented like that — who are you to say I did not emerge from my mother's womb with lute in hand already?”
They both laughed.
Zelda noticed the new bracelet around Link’s wrist quickly. He was never one to change up his usual attire much, so something like that would have never escaped her eyes. Absently, she observed the green and purple patterned beads and rolled one between her fingers.
“This is cute,” she giggled.
“Octavo gave it to me.”
“Really?”
“He gives me things a lot.”
Zelda looked at him with what Link could only describe as pure humor. “Link,” she spoke slowly, “You know, it’s rude to not respond when you’re being courted.”
The other soldiers would often joke that Link would make a terrible captive and that the enemy would know everything without him ever having to say a word. His emotions were always clear on his face.
Zelda told him carnations symbolized admiration and affection — really, only the red variations did, but the pale green and lavender petals of the ones bundled in his hands might mean more. Octavo didn’t seem like the type to worry too much about flower language , or whatever Zelda had called it.
His heart pounded against his chest, threatening to crack his ribs. Practice was the best remedy for fear — practice fighting enemies until you no longer feared them.
He was not fighting.
He had no practice for this.
He knocked on Octavo’s door, and perhap only a minute later did he open it. Like Octavo had been expecting him — of course he was. He expected him every day. There had been an almost ridiculous casualness to his visits anymore. As if he wasn’t fulfilling a duty.
The words good morning were left at the tip of Octavo’s tongue as he eyed the flowers in Link’s hands.
“They’re for you.”
“For… me?” For once in his life, Octavo felt at a loss for words. Shock was writ large across his face.
Link could only nod in affirmation. Words never came easy for him, and he couldn’t imagine what he was supposed to say in this situation. The flowers were an answer to a question unasked.
Warm hands brushed against his for a moment as Octavo took the flowers from his hands. Link’s heart beat like drums — and he swore he heard Octavo’s, too. He couldn’t look him in his eyes, but he saw enough of his face to see a gentle smile.
Then, those lips moving forward towards his own face.
They pressed against the corner of Link’s mouth. They were gone as fast as they came, but the skin where they touched seared as if he had been kissed by flame.
That felt like an answer, too.