Chapter Text
Sir Arwel Haywood, loyal knight of Hyrule’s royal guard and proud father of two, has never considered himself a particularly religious man. Ask anyone living in this region of the kingdom and their response is sure to be the same, as it is almost universally understood that offers of worship to the ancient goddesses that shape their world’s vast history are just as naïve and fruitless as demanding that Time itself stand still. Hylia… the golden spirits Din, Farore, Nayru… they simply don’t convene with such common folk like them, anymore. It’s best then, for one’s own sanity, to treat them no differently than any other force of nature: unapproachable, unyielding, and eternal.
All that stated however, recent events have filled him with such a nauseating aura of dread that he’s seriously considering throwing out all sensibility he has left and doing something truly desperate. Drinking all his anxieties away at the nearest tavern until he blacks out and his wife has to drag his sorry ass back home, perhaps. Or else, failing that, crumpling straight to his knees in prayer like the foolish, hypocritical man he is and begging— no, demanding— that the goddesses reconsider the latest threads in their design:
For he does not fear anything as childish as eternal damnation or the fathomless dark, but he does fear the deity that would condemn a mere child to such a perilous fate.
Rebirth. It’s a season of new beginnings, of melting snows and blossoming wildflowers.
For Arwel, it’s also the season he rotates out of the night shift and returns to a far more sustainable dawn to afternoon schedule. Thank the goddesses. He’s been looking forward to reclaiming his evenings for a while, now. In all fairness to the crown, being commissioned to guard the royal family amidst the twilight hours is considered one of the highest honors a knight can achieve… but it’s a rigorous and sobering role. The last four years have brought much sorrow to his Majesty after all, with his queen passing in her sleep after a long battle with illness, mere days before their daughter’s seventh birthday. The royal family suspects it was a deliberate poisoning, something slipped into her food when no one was watching. Some days Arwel isn’t sure how a man could bear to trust anyone after such dreadful tragedy. Given such circumstances, he should consider it very fortunate that he’s earned the king’s unquestioned favor. Regardless, the end of this guard rotation means he’s once again free to spend his late afternoons socializing with fellow knights over a tankard or two in the cozy canteen set up at the back of the guard’s chambers.
It’s a welcome change of pace.
He’s nursing a spiced ale, the somewhat nutty flavor of which he’s decided he isn’t particularly fond of, when one of his chattier young colleagues— Sir Telyn, his name is— swiftly commandeers the barstool next to him and begins to paint the town with all the latest flim-flam and gossip the five nations of the lands can provide. Most of it is the typical drivel one would expect to see published in the latest issue of Rumor Mill… some nobody nobleman had an affair with who? King Rhoam to soon outlaw the use of all Sheikah magic? The Gerudo chief was sighted working alongside the dreaded Yiga?
One of his stories, however, stands out from the others like a golden rupee found abandoned in the grasses at roadside.
“So hear this, will ya’— and hold on to your ale, this ‘ere’s a really juicy one,” Telyn says, his eyes gleaming with zeal as his fingers rap rhythmically against his own tankard. “You’ve heard me talk about Oslo, right? Rito, private reporter? Famous for leaking the excavation plans for all those ginormous Sheikah relics before the king could announce them himself? Well, in confidence, he passed me some information today I think you’d be quite interested in…”
“Mmm-hmm…?” Arwel hums with dulled interest as he continues to sip at his drink, residual foam catching on the tawny blonde of his mustache.
“…which is—”
At that moment, the man pauses abruptly, taking a few seconds to pass a few dramatic, sweeping glances around the canteen to make sure no one else is actively listening in. He can’t see how it matters though, given the sun has barely set and Telyn is already flapping his lips. Seemingly satisfied with the lack of nosiness he’s found, the gossip-monger leans in close to whisper his secret in secondhand confidence.
“Supposedly,” he says with unbridled glee, “that magic sword sleeping in the woods up north has finally chosen its wielder!”
Arwel’s brow creases. “The Master Sword?”
“Yes, the very one! Oslo says he picked up this scoop while flying circles high above the latest troop of boys ol’ Rhoam sent. They’re on their way back, now… but word on who this supposed hero is remains… vague. No one’s sure why,” he shrugs. “Perhaps the king’s ordering everyone to silence until he can make a pronouncement to the whole kingdom.”
“Perhaps,” he agrees with a nod, finding the whole possibility intriguing given the legends, but not ascribing a high likelihood to it. There’s rumors about the discovery of a new reincarnated ‘hero’ every passing week, after all. This one is sure to end up the same… nothing but a passing rumor. He takes another timid sip of his ale.
And then, a fond smile crossing his lips: “Y’know, my son’s in that troop.”
“Link?”
“Mmm,” he confirms. “He just recently became a page. A year earlier than usual, mind you. This… was his first time traveling away from home without me.” A heavy sigh commands his body as he solidly sets his tankard down on the table and wearily presses his thumb and forefinger against his brow. The faintest of headaches is threatening to bloom from behind his temples. Tsk. Only thirty eight, and yet he’s already beginning to feel like ancient history.
Telyn, for all his previous social blunders, is nonetheless in-tune enough with the moment to provide genuine sympathy.
“Aw, hell,” the young knight mutters with a frown. “Empty roostin’. That’s never easy.”
Arwel shrugs, passing him a wry smile. “Eh, I’ll be fine. Kelra and I have a daughter at home, too. I’m more worried about him, y’see. He’s… a sensitive boy. Rarely talks.”
And who is now surrounded by dozens of squirrelly, boisterous young Hylians who would likely have no qualms against bullying him if he so much as deviates from what they consider normal, is what he doesn’t say. In his heart he tries to remind himself that Link’s tremendous swordsmanship will speak volumes to anyone who dares consider violence— it is, after all, what won him the rank of page so soon— but a father can’t help but fret anyways.
He inhales deep and then stands from his stool, smoothing out the front pleats of his uniform. “Well, no matter. I’m sure he’ll have quite the story to pass along when he’s back no matter how the trip turned out. Thank you Telyn, for the company.”
He drops a handful of rupees on the table next to his quarter-emptied tankard before he leaves, already anticipating the excitable greeting he’ll surely get from his sweet Aryll when he arrives home for dinner.
Goddesses above, he can’t wait to pour that same level of affection upon his son when he finally returns to them, safe and sound in his arms once more.