Work Text:
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
The motion unfelt, unconscious, involuntary, repeated.
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
The Other moves. The Shade copies.
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
Instantaneously. Perfectly. Constantly. Unconsciously.
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
Not an instinct. Not a will. Not a want. Not a desire.
Not even a thought.
The Other moves. The Shade copies.
Two sides of one coin.
Left and Right.
One cannot exist without the other.
That is the nature of their mirrored existence.
Their steps freeze at the bottom of a flight of stairs. They stare up up up an endless coil of winding steps leading to the top of the tower. Two figures take a deep breath, but only one of them truly breathes. They square their shoulders and begin to ascend.
The Shade is not sure why that is. Is not sure why it knows with utmost certainty one would not exist without the other. Because surely, if the Shade were to cease, the Other would persist?
The Other moves and the Shade copies, after all. Not the other way around.
Their steps falter. They have been walking for a while now, up up up and around around around, the circle of steps seemingly unlimited. They pause to rest, though only one of them needs to. They look down to where they started. They look up to where they are going.
And they continue walking up into the sky.
The Shade knows that without the Other, it would not have form. Would not have movement. Would not be.
But the Other…
They pause again, for longer this time, shoulders heaving as one of them struggles to pull thin air into exhausted lungs. A hand is placed on the cold stone of the wall for support. Their palms meet at the barrier but, as always, never touch. As one, they shiver against the cold.
The other hand, the one not on the wall, reaches down to their waist, pulling a bag closer to their side. Reassurance.
They keep walking.
What would happen to the Other without The Shade there to copy movement, to bear constant witness to The Other’s existence, eternal and irrefutable proof that The Other had even moved at all?
...
The Shade doesn’t want to think about it.
They have reached the end. The summit. They emerge from the shade of the staircase and out into an overcast day.
Wind, loud and howling, immediately tears at them; grabbing at their hood, ripping at their hair, pulling on the bag at their side.
They hold their bag closer, but otherwise, ignore the wind as they stride away from the exit of the stairs, purpose to their steps as they walk to the center of the circular roof.
In front of them, a raised platform stands alone, vacant and...
And…
...
The Shade knows this place.
It is not sure how but…it knows this place.
Knows the feeling of thin, cold air fostering icicles in its lungs. Knows the way the wind screams through the sky as it swirls around the top of the tower. Knows the ancient cobblestones that the Other walks over with ease.
Knows the raised platform they are walking toward. Knows what is carved into it: a single stylized eye surrounded by a flurry of stone wings, locked eternally in flight.
And it knows what used to sit in the center of the carving’s pupil.
The Dark Mirror.
But…
But that’s not right. The Shade… it shouldn’t know these things.
It has no lungs to breathe the frost bitten air. No ears to hear the song of wind. No eyes with which to lock with the one made of stone.
It could not have walked these stone steps up to the top of the platform alone.
So how can it see these images clear as day behind it’s non-existent eyes?! How can it see itself, memories of itself, without the Other, here in this tower in the sky?
And why does it feel a growing sense of sickening dread as they kneel down on the platform, their hands gently examining the carving of Vaati?!
…
...Vaati?
How…?
No.
No no no no! That isn’t right!
The Other moves. The Shade copies.That’s it! There is nothing else! Nothing else to do. No way else to be!
The Other moves. The Shade copies.
The Other pushes themselves back to their feet. The Shade mirrors. The Other takes a deep breath. The Shade breathes along without air. The Other, with shaking hands, reaches for their bag. The Shade follows, trembles and all.
From within the depths of the satchel, they pull a bundle of cloth.
A simple, small little bundle which, when unfurled, reveals itself to be a cap.
A purple cap with a distinctive gold trim and a single, glowing red gem set in it’s fabric.
And something in the Shade snaps .
Because it knows that cap. It knows that cap and as The Other holds it, examining it, the Shade feels a tidal wave of fear, it’s silhouette twitching, straining to get away.
The Other shouldn't have that. The Other can’t have that.
Vaati was sealed with it on, Link can’t–!
...
The Shade doesn't know what's going on.
It doesn't know why it knows this place. It doesn't know why it can see itself here, alone, moving without the Other to follow. It doesn't know why images and names that shouldn't exist continue to spiral around in it’s head: the tower, Vaati, a girl, Link, a mirror, shattered.
It doesn't know why the cap fills it with such icy fear.
But it does.
It fills the Shade with such icy, icy, howling fear that makes it wish to throw the cap off the side of the tower, never to be seen again.
But the Shade doesn't do that.
Because the Other doesn't do that.
Because the Other moves and the Shade copies. Not the other way around.
So the Shade can do nothing but be dragged along through the motions of taking the cap with both hands, unfolding it slowly, carefully, before bringing it up and placing onto the crown of their head.
For a minute they stand there, listening to nothing but the screams of the wind as they breathe in one sided synchronicity. Terror grips the Shade as it waits with a sickening sort of anticipation.
After what seems like eternity, the Other finally moves, finally speaks and the Shade’s mouth moves along in unwilling unison, lips forming words in a language it doesn't know.
And then the Other says:
I wish Shadow was free.
The effect is instantaneous.
The jewel on the cap flares to life with a blinding fire and pain, red-hot and nothing the Shade has ever known, stabs through its chest. Stabs through and then takes root where its heart would be, where its lungs would be, and begins to expand.
Thorns of lightning skewer through nonexistent arteries, through nothing veins, each pulse of it’s not beating heart sending the tendrils of hurt further throughout its body until the Shade knows nothing but agony. Every nerve is alight with flame as it’s being is consumed by the red light.
The Other is screaming.
The Shade can only briefly wonder if the pain it is feeling is it’s own, or just another pantomime of the real thing.
And then the Shade is lost to the crackle of red, the burn of brambles piercing its veins, and the feeling of something grabbing it by the ends of its hair and wrenching it up up up and into the light.
…
Being forcibly pulled from the Realm of Shadows is… odd.
It’s odd because in one moment, Shadow is nothing. Literally. He is a lack of light, nothing more than someone else’s fleeting imprint on the world. Nothing but a fading shade, a silhouette pulled along unknowingly, unthinkingly, by someone else’s will.
No body to feel. No eyes to see. Not much of a mind to think.
But now...
One moment he is nothing and in the next he is something.
He is something and dear shades, for a second he wishes he wasn't.
Existence rips him from the cool, numb comfort of darkness by his hair and slams into him, making him uncomfortably aware of the fact that he has skin and it crawls, the fact that he has ears that ring, and a body able to very acutely feel pain .
The force of it all, all the sensations that before this point had been just as non existent as he himself was, crashes into Shadow like a brick wall.
Or, perhaps more accurately, like an unforgiving cobblestone floor.
Dull pain, not the stabbing electricity which had seared his blood moments ago, but dull bodily pain lights up in response to what Shadow can only guess is himself being tossed like a ragdoll down onto the floor. Aches immediately flare up and then turn inward, grinding down to the bone as Shadow finds himself laying face down on the cold stone floor, trying to remember how to breathe.
He hasnt had to breathe for a long time. Mirror it, yes. Pantomime a widening of ribs, an expanding of the chest. But bringing real, actual air– thin and so needling cold– into his lungs… It's been years since he's had to do that. And it hurts.
By the shades it hurts, it stings, it burns. Burns like the sun. Like the light.
But Shadow also knows that not doing so will hurt more.
So he breathes. He breathes and he breathes and he breathes some more until slowly but surely, the sound of blood roaring in his ear fades to nothing and each inhale no longer wheezes as it forces its way into his lungs.
...
So why is it that Shadow can still hear the sound of labored breathing?
The cold air in Shadow’s lungs condenses, freezing his diaphragm in place as needles of unbidden, frostbitten fear claw their way into his veins.
Link.
Without thinking, Shadow shoves himself to unsteady feet, neck aching as his head whips around, searching for the source of the noise, praying to gods who have never heard him that his friend is okay.
His eyes land on a small, shuddering bundle of multicolored fabric on the ground.
Shadow is moving before he even realizes, ignoring the pain of cobblestone slamming against his knees as he slides to a stop, pulling the trembling person into his lap.
With fumbling hands, Shadow gently pulls back the hood of the person in his lap…
And feels his heart turn to lead in his chest.
Because it’s Link.
It’s Link and he looks horrible .
With the hero in his lap, Shadow can feel the full force of the shivers that wrack Link’s body. Can feel how cold the little hero is even though the layers of clothes between them, how his skin feels as cold as stone. As cold as glass. Can feel the other’s shuddering breaths, the way his ribs and shoulders heave and stick and heave and stick, fighting to pull air into convulsing lungs.
Shadow can see how Link’s skin is as pale as porcelain, how his mouth opens closes opens closes, trying to breathe or speak, Shadow can’t say for sure. Can see Link’s eyes wide, blinking fast, and whirling with a hurricane of color as they search for something in the distance.
And he can see the moment that Link realizes who is cradling him, when the tornado of color lands on Shadow, and the far-away frantic look that had strained the hero’s face fades as he takes in who has entered his twitching eye line.
And despite the obvious pain the other is in, the wracked sobs and choked breaths and the trembling, Shadow watches as Link’s lips twitch up into a smile .
“You’re here,” Link rasps simply, his voice shattered glass. “Good.”
“How? Why?” Shadow shakes his head, taking Link by the shoulders and looking into the others eyes, searching for answers in those prismatic storms. “Nevermind. Not important. What’s happening? How do I help you?”
Link’s grin doesn't waver for a second.
“You can’t.”
Crack!
The sound drowns out the screaming wind of the tower.
And like ice, like porcelain, like a mirror thrown onto the ground , black lines sprout from where the cap still lies against Link’s forehead, carving inky trails into the skin of the hero’s face.
Crack!
Another fracture, deeper, and Link lets out a whine of pain. His harsh breathing kicks up again, wheeze after wheeze after wheeze, as Shadow watches the lines claw their way lower, crisscrossing the hero’s face before disappearing under the neck of his tunic, no doubt extending farther than Shadow can see.
The cap! Shadow thinks desperately.
He takes a fistfull of the violet fabric in his hand and whips it away from his friend’s head.
Crack!
It doesn't help. Even with Vaati’s cursed hat gone, the hero’s body still convulses hard , going stiff as a board as another weak whine of agony is torn from Link’s throat.
The fissures on Link’s face grow fissures of their own. Tears drip from the blonde’s eyes as they widen widen widen widen, the colors in his irises moving faster than Shadow has ever seen, mixing, blending, spinning, whirling together going faster faster faster faster–!
“S-shadow,” Link grits out, the name just as weak and shaky as the hero himself. There is a rattling to his voice– the sound of a stone rattling in a hollow ceramic pot– and Shadow can't tell if it's the way the hero’s teeth are chattering or if the cracks run deeper than even he dared fear.
“Shadow,” he tries again, and by the shades, Link’s smile cracks at the edges, the corners of his lips blossoming inky, unnatural trails as his trembles grow into full blown earthquakes. “I’m glad you’re… You’re finally fre–”
Crack.
The sound echoes through the air, cutting through the screaming winds like the tolling of a bell, all encompassing and final.
In his arms, Link’s trembling comes to an abrupt halt.
As does his twitches, his gasps, his words.
His breaths.
A final sigh breezes past frozen lips and Link’s entire body goes slack, the soft, pained smile still painted over shattered porcelain lips even as his eyes...
His eyes...
Link’s eyes lose all life. All light. All color. No more sprouting trees, no more raging oceans, nor warm hearths, nor cutting amethysts.
In fact, there are no irises to speak of at all. No pupils either.
Link’s eyes have gone completely white.
...
No.
That's not right.
As Shadow instinctively pulls Link closer, huddling the small hero in his arms, as he leans forward, pressing his forehead to the origin of the spindling black lines, and as he stares into the face of the only person who had ever treated Shadow like he was worth a damn, he can see that Link’s eyes are not white.
No.
They are pure silver.
Reflective.
Mirrors.
Mirrors that reflect his own horror stricken face right back at him two fold.
Slowly, numbly, Shadow brings a hand to the other’s face, cradling Link’s cheek with his palm. The skin beneath his hand is already cold as winter touched glass, sending pins and needles into Shadow’s hand but he doesn't dare pull away. Instead, he carefully thumbs away the lingering tears, making sure they do not spill over from unblinking crystalline pools.
“Stupid hero…” he chokes, the words clawing painfully at his throat as his eyes slam shut, trying to ward off the too hot, stinging lines that draw themselves from his eyes down his cheeks. “What did you do?’
Something cold– freezing, ice – brushes the boiling tears from his lashes, causing the shade’s eyes to flash open in surprise.
And beneath him, Link stares up blankly, his mouth mutely finishing the words Shadow had just spoken as he mirrors his counterpart perfectly, brushing the tears from Shadow’s face, just as Shadow is doing for him.
A perfect little reflection.
It makes Shadow sick.
Above them, the clouds part, and the sun peaks its way through the curtain of gray. The light hits Shadow’s hunched shoulders, sinking into the dark cloth of his tunic, warming his back in contrast to the cool presence of Link in his arms.
And in his lap, Link’s body becomes suddenly, horribly, lighter.
Shadow whips his head up from where he had been hunched over the hero with a start, eyes flashing down to see that the hero’s legs are beginning to fade into the cobblestone. Beginning to fade into the silhouette that Shadow is now casting thanks to the sun.
The Hero is being dragged into the Realm of Shadows.
Two sides of one coin.
One cannot exist without the other.
A shade for a shade.
That is the nature of their mirrored existence.
Shadow pulls Link closer, as if he could save his friend if only he held him closer, out of the way of the burning sun. Behind his back, he can feel Link’s arm’s encircle him, copying without thought.
“Link, listen to me.” Shadow says lowly, seriously, trying to give his words as much weight as possible. “No matter what happens, you have to remember. Remember who you are. That place will do everything in its power to make you forget so you have to remember.”
In Link’s eyes, he can see himself. Can see the tear stains that mar his face, the red puffy skin around his cheeks, the way his mouth is contorted into a grimace, showing teeth as he tries not to sob
And he can see that his teeth, his canines, are losing their point. That his eyes are losing their red, becoming duller as his pupils shorten and become rounder. More normal, more hylian.
Link’s hair, meanwhile, is turning pale at the roots, as though someone is bleaching away the gold from the inside.
“Your name is Link,” Shadow says, taking the hero’s face between both hands, hoping against hope that the other can hear him, or at least, unconsciously register what he is saying, like Shadow remembers himself doing when he was nothing but the Shade.
“Your name is Link. You’re the Hero of the Minish. The Hero of the Four Sword. You’ve saved Hyrule and defeated Vaati twice.”
The dam is broken. Words spill unbidden from Shadow's lips, flowing fast and quick and natural, a waterfall Shadow has no mind now to stop.
“Your name is Link, but you’re also Red, Green, Blue, and Vio. You’re courageous and stubborn and strong and stupid and kind and emotional and clever and cruel. You're a blacksmith but you hate making horseshoes.”
Shadow chokes on a laugh that burns his throat as much as his eyes.
“By the Shades, you hate making horseshoes. Your best friend is Zelda but you don't call her that. She hates it when you call her that. So you call her Dot. I don't know why, but you do.”
“Your name is Link,” Shadow says again with more force, repeating that single sentence again and again and again like a mantra. Like a prayer. “Your name is Link, your name is Link, your name is Link!”
Link’s mouth moves to the words, repeating repeating repeating repeating even as his hair becomes as pale as his skin, as his chest begins to fade into shadow.
“Your name is Link,” Shadow whispers desperately. The presence of arms around his back fades into nothing. He tucks what is left of his friend into his chest, his now declawed hand brushing through snow white hair as he clutches the hero’s face into his body.
“Please, Link,” he whispers. “Don’t leave me alone again. Not yet.”
Shadow feels as Link mouths along to the words.
And then...
“Ssssshadow…”
It’s not exactly a voice that says his name. More like the sound of someone tracing the edge of a wine glass with a finger tip– resonant and multi-toned and layered in an unnatural, cold way.
But it is his name none the less.
The heat on Shadow’s back increases four-fold as the sun pulls itself more fully out from behind the clouds.
And in a flash of reflected sunlight, Shadow feels as the cold weight in his arms disappears completely.
Leaving Shadow to sit alone.
Well... not entirely alone.
Shadow stares down at the cobblestone beneath him.
His shade stares back.
Tears fall from his eyes, staining the ground.
He stays like that for a while, feeling the sun on his back for the first time in his life as he stares at the unmoving shape of his silhouette.
Eventually, Shadow pushes his hands beneath himself and picks himself up off the ground. Without taking his eyes from the stone below, he walks to the tiny bundle of purple cloth laying innocently on the ground. He picks it up, feeling velveteen fabric on his palms as he thumbs the golden base and the red jewel housed within.
Vaati’s Cap.
The Minish Cap.
Granter of Wishes.
Whatever spell Link had performed to get it to work… Shadow will learn it.
He’ll learn it and then finally get to give that stupid little hero a peice of his mind.
“Hold on,” Shadow whispers to the cobblestone below. “I’m coming.”
He turns toward the spiral stairs.
And for the first time ever
The Shade moves.
And the Other copies.