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Link wakes up in a body that isn’t his own. It’s one of damp wood, its scent reminiscent of lament, of farewells that hang low in the musty air of parts unknown. It’s warm and cloying, swirling in his lungs that feel as if they are stitched out of brittle, dry leaves. His movements are unnatural, stilted, as if he’s brought a marionette to life. Link is merely controlling their actions, his consciousness lost in a deep fog, deeper than the woods he desperately chased Epona down.
A loneliness stirs in his heart, one unfamiliar than his own. It is a loneliness of a child that cries out for their parents, afraid of the unknown, wanting consolation in a scary situation. If he closes his eyes, he can smell the woods, but one that is fresh, dewy moss cooling the air. The warmth is not disquieting, yet comforting, as if the warm embrace of this lost child’s father. Link does not know why he feels this way, and try as he may, it is not something to argue. He is to watch this world from behind a window, learning of a forest that is not his own.
Link attempts to navigate these feelings. He travels through Clock Town in the body of a stranger, listens to the plights of humans (he’s still one of those, he tries to argue, he is ) as the moon continues to lower itself from the heavens. He’s a hero, the boy of destiny, able to control the flow of time into something less cruel. He wants to help these people, but there’s another voice in his mind, whispering a phrase over and over in a fervent whisper.
I want to go home.
It’s the voice of a child. Scared, small, nervous to speak any louder. It begins to sound like his own, and it begs for him to approach the swamp, but Clock Town will not let him leave until the moon is a hair’s breadth away from swallowing up the world in flame. Death’s fingers curl around his body, pulled away at the last second as a familiar melody drowns out the end of the world.
When he can control time once more, Link is able to remove the mask. It clatters upon the floor with a hollow sound, and he does not recognize his own hands.
The cycle begins anew.
The mask tells him to go to the swamp, and he follows. The smell of rotting wood permeates the air; it’s not home, it’s not the home the mask recognizes. It cries for a father that he does not recognize, but feels a pull towards. The boy cries out for a Deku, and Link’s mind wanders back to Kokiri Forest. He may not know this boy, but his pain is familiar.
When his steps carry him to the inner workings of the Deku Palace, the boy’s voice overtakes him once more. Link knows the man by the king’s side is not his father, yet he feels this inexplicable tie. He hates it. He is inhabiting the body of a stranger, falsifying a reunion, of a comfort that is to be stripped away when the haunting melody of time whispers through the night air. Being a hero means sacrifice, accepting them no matter how bitter, but Link never imagines it to be so cruel. The Goddesses should not reunite a father and son this way.
The boy cries when they enter Woodfall Temple. This isn’t the home he remembers, of warm sunshine and clear waters and blue skies. The sky is a pallid gray, the waters a thick, purple sludge, the moon present and scary and bringing apocalypse. The boy knows something is wrong with his home, that the monsters are scary and he wants them to go away. Link knows this feeling, and he lets the voice guide him.
Odolwa lies in the temple’s heart, and is slain by Link’s sword. The air feels lighter, and the boy’s voice sounds happy. Hopeful. The Song of Healing strips the waters of their poison. Link tries not to think about the new mask he has, and prays this is not another face he is forced to bear.
But Termina is not kind, and it is a lesson he shall soon discover.
Mighty waves crash upon the shore of the bay, their roars filled with the lament of a father who shall never witness his children grow. His sorrows dig deep into the wet sand, burying into the vast horizon of the ocean, swirling in its trenches, unable to surface for air. Link feels this sadness as his boots stick into the ground, each step heavier than the last. The sun offers no warmth, despite the fact it is not eclipsed by the moon’s grimace.
The art of burying a body, if one can describe it as such, always errs on the side of ugly. Dirt and sand traps itself under Link’s fingernails. The wind carries the cold spray of the ocean. The tree he buries Mikau under has brittle leaves that threaten to snap in twain with each breeze. He offers a prayer to the Goddesses, even if he’s losing faith with each life claimed to despair. He wonders if they are being guided to a kind afterlife, or are victims to the end of the world in a hazy limbo.
Another mask lies in the sand, and there is nothing to do but carry on its will.
It doesn’t get easier, somehow, assuming the identity of another. Link knows he’s fooling others, offering false hope, a shine in their eye he doesn’t wish to dull. But heroes often do tasks that weigh heavy on the body and soul--and the mind as well, but that is spoken of less often. Unspoken gratitude is not a balm that hears the scars Link bears, nor is it expected. All Link wishes to do is not lie .
He reunites a band that is fractured by loss, the return of a melody threading their lives together once more. Its stitching may be loose, its thread worn and ragged, but stable all the same. Mikau has returned to them, they cheer, they have nothing to worry about. Lulu’s happy, and she’ll sing once again.
At the mention of her name, the voice of a lost live whispers through Link’s mind.
I miss her.
And he knows, he knows the agony of never being able to face a loved one once again. Mikau’s pain is his own, and in a way, it offers something of comfort. It is a feeling they do not have to face alone, and Link is so tired of being lonely. It is strange to find camaraderie in this, but Termina has proven itself to be a strange land.
He hardly gives focus to own feelings; Link knows they’ll end up a burden. After all, his identity amounts to nothing more than the mask he wears. He is to assume the visage of a stranger, of one who cannot mourn for his own heart. He is set to carry the laments of others.
Beauty is sometimes found in despair. Link is able to reunite a mother with her children, of ones who perhaps have a chance to feel hope. If the moon can be pushed back, the tides less angry with it so close, they will be able to see a Termina that isn’t blighted by fear.
They will not know Mikau’s embrace, his unconditional love, but Link must hold faith that Lulu and the others will do so.
Faith is all these people have.
The cries of a child howl louder than Snowhead’s bitter winds. Its timbre carries a hollow echo, heavier than the drums that Link plays the broken fragments of a melody against. If any hope lies in this frigid expanse, it’s been swallowed up by the snow. Grey skies, bleak and unending, are all that Link sees.
These people do not have hope. The Gorons are falling to winter’s unforgiving nature, one by one, the cold stinging worse than ever. The dry air cracks at Link’s skin, no matter the form he bears. Human or Goron, there is no room for mercy.
This time, Link does not complain. He has seen Termina tossed between the three days as if it were a toy in the hands of a child. There lies no rhyme or reason for each reset, each tug back to the first day. Sometimes, it is to help others, and sometimes it is for Link to allow himself the grace of humanity once more. It worries Link that he needs reminders of what it feels like, that it’s odd to see ten fingers and toes, to feel air in his lungs, to have wet hair and clothes plaster to warm skin.
Truthfully, Link isn’t sure if he remembers what it is like to exist for himself. He is a mannequin to hang masks upon, to dress in different costumes for whatever stage the Goddesses wish to thrust him upon. He is Link, but he is also not. He is a lost son, a father who shall never see his children grow, a symbol of comfort. He is all this at once, and Link wonders if it’s selfish to wish to be anything but.
There’s no voice he hears from the mask this time, but Link pays this no mind. It’s possible he’s stopped himself from thinking, to protect himself from words he should never be privy to. He knows this Goron—Darunia, he thinks his name is Darunia—deserves a voice, but Link wishes the only unpleasant thoughts that swirled about were his own.
He’s become bitter, even if Link isn’t fully aware. Or maybe he is, and tries to lose this thought in the tempest that swirls about in his mind. As long as the boy is compliant with destiny, with this fate filled with terrible twists and turns that lead to the end of the world, there may lie a reward.
Snowhead is cold, but Link’s heart may carry a greater chill, not even one the sun can melt that its eternal winter dares to hide.
Spring arrives when yet another mask makes its way into Link’s hands.
He’s as cold as ever.
The old masks fall from his hands, like ashes to ashes, to children who bear the face of the apocalypse. In return, he is granted one that bears an eerie resemblance to himself, hair the color of gray skies. He does not recognize the markings it bears, yet it beckons to be worn.
Link dons the mask, and is imbued with the power of the gods. It courses through his veins like fire, bright and white, ready to smite out the darkness that snakes around Termina’s core. Anger surges through him, roaring like the tides, whispering in his mind to do its bidding. It’s the only voice Link does not mind to hear.
Its cadence matches his own. It reminds him of the weary adult who carried Hyrule on his shoulders, who has taken his sadness and given it a different form.
You want to undo the pain you’ve been wrought.
Link raises his sword.
This land has hurt you enough. It has poisoned you, manifested in your soul and rotted it.
The mask stares into his soul.
He brings it down with a mighty swing, beams of bright magic cutting into the beast's skin, that dares to give itself a name (Majora, it calls itself, as if monsters deserve a title).
Kill it.
Power is a terrifying force. Link’s always seen it as a measure to protect others, to only use his strength when it came to dispelling evil over Hyrule. Now, he’s using it to tear this monster apart with each swing of his sword, unsure if this is the mask’s will or his own. The shrieks it makes are unsettling, but Link rather hear them than the rumbling of the earth that signals the moon drawing ever near.
Anger is a force to match, one Link is surprised to feel. He’s pushed his emotions to the wayside, figuring they’ll complicate matters, that his fear will swallow whole if he stops to think. As much as he’s loath to admit, becoming these masks, these other beings, far seems an easier existence. Link isn’t sure if he’s the same boy without a fairy anymore, nor a hero the Goddesses covet and put their faith in.
Maybe that’s for the best.
As the beast staggers towards him, body trembling and covered in marks, Link raises the sword one final time.
Bid your farewells.
And just like that, perhaps too simple an end for this tale, the beast is struck down. Link wishes for a sense of catharsis, something of pride as he watches the moon be pushed back into the heavens, yet he’s emptier than ever. It’s a foolish hope to think with the masks gone, he’d be free of his troubles, of the hollow feeling that sits inside his chest. While his burdens may not be tangible any longer, they have fused with his consciousness, set to follow the boy no matter where he travels.
He finds himself in the forest once more; the only voice in his head is his own.
The silence feels unnatural.