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It had been there since he had first been dragged into the twilight and had not changed, not even when Faron had met his once again human eyes and declared him the destined hero. But there had been no time to reflect on it until tonight…
Tonight, lying awake in a spare bed in Kakariko’s sanctuary.
Link should be asleep now. Tomorrow he had to head back to Ordon, talk to Bo, tell Pergie and Jaggle and Hanch and Sera and Rusl and Uli that their children were safe; then he had to find a way to convince the Gorons to let him enter the mines and search for the Fused Shadow.
But sleep wasn’t as easy as it used to be.
Link felt the faint light of the moon drift, interspersed in shadow, across his face. The world was all cool silver, and he was still awake.
He raised up a hand in front of his face. It was all there, clearly outlined in the moonlight—the minute scars from his lessons on swordplay and mishaps with equipment all exactly as he remembered, the callouses each correctly placed. And yet it was all wrong—the skin too soft, the muscles gliding too smoothly over bones less brittle than they should have been. The strength was not his own familiar hard-won power; it was uncanny and strange. Heartbeat too steady within the sanctum of his ribs, slow and paced and perfectly measured. Breath came too easily; it felt like a habit, as if perhaps in this new hour and this body it was hardly needed at all.
He felt as if his soul had been coaxed from its own hallowed grounds and eased into a copy of himself but in marble rather than flesh and blood and bone. Only the Triforce, glowing faint and familiar on the back of his hand, was right.
Sleep was not coming, and it seemed he needed less of it, these days. It was not as pleasant as it used to be, and that was frustrating.
Link stood—too quiet in the quiet of the night, the creaking of the floorboards hushed and muted—and walked to the window. He pushed it ever so slightly open and stood in the gap, breathing in the cool, sweet night air.
Tomorrow, he’d pretend to forget all these cluttered imaginings of things that were all too real and ride back to Ordon and smile as if he hadn’t been dressed in clothes that weren’t his and faced toward a fate he didn’t understand.
“Link?”
Link spun on his heel (much too smoothly) to face the door. Colin stood in the open doorway. The moonlight did not quite reach him and his expression was hard to read. “Is something wrong?” Colin asked.
Link shook his head. “No, nothing’s wrong,” he signed. “I just can’t sleep.”
Immediately, Colin climbed onto the bed, shoving back the sheets. Just like Link used to do for him when Colin was little and couldn’t sleep.
Obediently, Link crossed the room and lay down with his back to Colin, who threw an arm over him. Link prepared himself for the rest of the night sleepless, but at some point, he finally managed to drift off.
Once the shock and pain of the curse, the fear for Midna, and the grief for Zelda finally faded, Link lay down under the protection of Faron to sleep. He did not dare sleep in the Lost Woods. Little remained to tell him what awaited them there aside from rumor and myth, but what he had heard and the whispers just outside his hearing told him that he should not risk sleeping there.
Over time, the old wrongness had become familiar, like an old friend. He got used to the slower breaths and pulse, the strange calm of fey strength, the aftertaste of magic sharp and acrid under his tongue. It never felt right, but it was at least no longer quite as strange.
Now that he had time to reflect, it had all changed again. The wrongness of wolf and the wrongness of human had become all jumbled and mixed. Zant’s curse had felt like he was being transformed for the first time all over again and forced down into a corner, compressed into a space too small for him. It took him precious minutes to remember how to breathe again. Then he was running, stumbling over his feet as he hadn’t since trying to escape the dungeons of Hyrule Castle.
He’d been on his feet in a whirl of nonstop motion since Lanaryu had sent them forth from their spring—he a wolf, Midna gravely injured.
Midna patted his shoulder. “All right, Link?”
He couldn’t talk like this, couldn’t even really nod. Instead he simply ducked his head.
Midna placed a hand on the deep fur between his ears. “I’ve got a rupee for your thoughts when you can tell me again.”
Link huffed gratefully. Thank Din for Midna’s optimism.
“We should sleep,” Midna said. “We’d be awake in an instant if any more shadow beasts came, and nothing else will dare come here.”
Link huffed in assent. He lay down, automatically circling to find the most comfortable spot. Midna lay against his back, using his mane as a pillow. “Good night, wolf.”
Link glanced up at the familiar constellations one last time before closing his eyes.
Link recognized the Master Sword immediately on seeing it. He had never seen it before, but still he remembered—a shaft of light through the high windows of a temple shifting down to strike the hilt, a gleaming blade raised skyward.
He couldn’t resist it, even if he knew it would always mean blood and sweat and tears. On hesitant paws, he swayed forward, pulled in by the sword’s gravity. His head bowed under its own weight, bent to touch the rough icon of an eye to the cool steel of the blade.
He was being unmade and remade into something new yet again. It was nothing new to him this time.
It still hurt. He was being molded, unfolded and crushed all at once, unravelling into something Other for a moment before he was re-woven into human form. The cool metal against his forehead was the only thing that made it bearable.
When he returned, he was leaning on the blade. He still didn’t feel right, but the Master Sword soothed the wrong. Link stood up shakily.
Not entirely of his own volition, he reached for the hilt.
After the transformation, the Master Sword gave way gently. Link closed his eyes and held it up. Somewhere, a voice was singing words he did not know. His heart sang in return, finally centered in his being once again.
As he opened his eyes, Link caught a glimpse of his reflection in the blade. Lines like faint charcoal tracings echoed the strange marks that adorned the brows and muzzle of his wolf form.
Ah, Link thought. That makes sense.
He still wanted to cry.