Chapter Text
Link’s chest thundered. He felt his pulse ricochet off his ribcage, heard it blaring in his ears. He had not told anyone the details of how he obtained the Master Sword—he allowed his reputation to stifle any questions pertaining to his personal life. The whispers that circulated around the castle wondered where he discovered it, if it was indeed the real holy blade… but none of these speculations were ever presented directly to him. As with everything else, he met any hearsay that floated around the fringes of the halls and corridors with lips as straight as the edge of his steel.
He knew the sword was authentic, it told him itself. It greeted him as master as he pried it from its pedestal. For his eyes only, it glowed with a blessed light, a glaring reminder that he, and only he, could slay the demon containing the power and malice to destroy the world. Man and monster had equal weak points, even a single slash to the throat or stab through the chest could take down either, releasing the hot gush of vitality. But a Calamity—he prayed often for his sword and his strength to be enough.
Having lived through countless incarnations of death and rebirth, the sword could recognize the signs of Ganon’s arrival. At times, even Link was certain he could sense a low rumbling coming from the deep recesses of Hyrule itself. From pre-adolescence, the blade haunted him with visions of past lives and warnings of possible futures.
“Master, stay vigilant.” “Master, that strategy will prove inadequate against Ganon.” The dry, direct observations of the weapon permanently elevated his heart rate, widened his eyes and polished his movements, like he was a predator on an endless hunt. He became an instrument of the sword, a vessel of duty, as hollow and silent as the sheath which stored it.
He was—would be—the hero, and nothing more. He would live for Hyrule, live for Princess Zelda, despite the glares and remarks she used to cast towards him. Stay strong, stay vacant—don’t let anyone know what you’re thinking. He was the face of Hyrule, carved out of hard, smooth stone, formed by the pressure of expectations, only to be molded and shaped by a warm touch.
Alas, a warm touch eluded him most of his teenage years; it was replaced by cold protocol of business at the castle. As other children laughed and played, he trained and toiled, always with the reminder of eyes watching him, of his country depending on his practice and skill. With the unearthing of the Master Sword, Link further confirmed the prophecies of doom. The sword presented it in flashes, Hyrule dying over and over again, screams turning to ash, hopes squelched by a raging inferno.
It was easy for him to ignore scenes of triumph and elation, obscured in the shadow of evil’s plague. Two things in his life were certain: he would fight Calamity Ganon, and shield Princess Zelda until his last breath. The certainties left room for many variables—would he succeed, would Hyrule fall, when would the demon strike? The questions were a tempest in his mind, churning infinite times, always resulting in a void of answers. He simply did not know if he would succeed or fail.
The thread of fate, stretched throughout eternity, tied knots in his stomach, tied his shoulders tight, his back straight, his eyes forward. In place of madness, he was driven to silence.
As he stood in the doorway of his liege’s study, he recognized she felt exactly the same. While he was deemed the greatest swordsman in all of Hyrule, the power of the Goddess evaded her. Hordes of monsters grew in might and number, a general unease settled over the castle, signs of the Calamity approaching, readying its fist to pummel the palace doors to rubble, and she had not yet summoned a single spark of magic. The Goddess could be cruel, too.
Looking at her curved spine, her shriveled posture, sunken eyes, Link could tell she was clawing at the same question, trying to peel back any hints of the future. They would not know until they knew. In her desperation, she was still a researcher, comparing notes, studying facts, testing hypotheses. With years and years of failure behind her, she still grasped at a solution, forever slipping through her fingers. Why had fate been kind to Link and not her?
Urbosa’s words reverberated in his head. He was thankful he often walked behind the princess, so the sword could not taunt her further—the sword fabricated by the Goddess that ignored her pleas. And why? There were no answers to be revealed in the cold blade of evil’s bane, there was no why, only how. Yet, he would tell her the truth.
Link’s eyes fell to the stone floor, drawn down by the weight of her question: How did he find the Master Sword? He swallowed hard.
“I was… a knight-in-training, staying at the Military Training Camp for an extended stint.” He lifted his cobalt gaze to her, stepping forward, stopping a few paces before her.
He could recall his boredom during those couple weeks. Every time he visited the camp, it was mostly a formality, a hollow gesture lacking any real substance. Knights he was assigned to train with would steadily drift away from him due to his superior prowess, leaving him to scrub armor and weapons. The little action he would participate in usually resulted from amply flowing booze and misplaced ego.
Some nights, he would be on patrol rotation. He barely stuck to his post, often trading duty to venture out of bounds of the campgrounds or to shuffle around the soldiers’ supplies, determining what could go missing without anyone noticing. Just as he felt when the sun was out, he was bored, so he entertained himself by learning every corner of the camp, picking through others’ gear and training with weapons that did not belong to him, shrouded by inky skies. It gave him a rush that he so lacked, except when he sparred with his father, or on the rare occasion when he could call another member of the Royal Guard his opponent.
“One night, I was stationed to guard the north side of the grounds and—towards the end of my shift, I started to hear voices… coming from the Great Hyrule Forest.”
That night, he had perfected his charge attack. He could flawlessly focus, build, store and release his own energy, his own fighting spirit, in the form of a glorious whirl. It was electrifying, still is electrifying, to perform that move, to be able to level an army in one fluid motion. He felt static bouncing over his skin, his breath heating the dark air, and he heard the whispers. The voices were indistinct in meaning and origin… Some phrases sounded as if they were spoken by entire crowds, yet always incomprehensible.
What do they want?
He sauntered to the entrance of the forest, his heart sprinting as he clutched a borrowed blade at his side. The whispers coalesced, erasing the trill of crickets, shimmering of leaves or any coherent thought in his mind. He just knew he needed to be here, he felt as if his legs moved autonomously. Without a light source, he could not proceed under the thick canopy of ancient trees that blotted out any existence of starshine. He would have to return with more preparations.
The morning after, he asked the other, higher-ranking guard on duty if he had heard anything during the night. He received his answer in the form of a lecture on vigilance. Over the next couple of days, Link procured a torch and some flint. He snuck into an officer’s quarters and altered the patrol records and schedule (causing his superior to doubt his own sanity), allowing for another round of exploration.
The evening he would make his second attempt to breach the woods came. He arrived at his post, the air humid from the day’s rain, moisture clinging to his body. He lingered, waiting until any light originating from the barracks was extinguished. Then he broke, grabbed his provisions, previously tucked away in an unmarked closet, and snuck out, dense ribbons of constellations winding above in the twilight sky.
Should I stay back? he thought. Doubt seeped into his consciousness, but he shoved it down, compacting any negative thoughts into a corner of his mind. In his time meandering outside of military grounds, he had never even seen a bokoblin hobbling over the plains. He recalled recent sleepless nights with ghosts of words in his ears; whatever was happening, it was for him, and he had carved out an infallible opportunity to discover it.
“I followed them… and they led me to the sword.”
He stood where a dirt path led to an opening of the forest. The trees wrapped around the road, arms of the forest hugging the world beyond its wooden boundary. When he was certain he was out of sight, covered by the flora, he struck the flint, placed above the torch on the dirt path. Entering the damp forest, his breath was as shallow as the puddles he splashed through. He clenched his fist wrapped around the handle of the torch to prevent his arm from shaking as he slowly stepped forward.
Mist enveloped him immediately, wrapping the earth in a cloud, blotting out the world beyond three paces ahead. He steadily waved the torch in front of him, a tail of embers whirling in the air behind it. The light revealed thick tree trunks rising all around him, and infinite trails he could pursue. Frantically, he looked around, whispers flooding his ears, overpowering his senses. He shut his eyes tight, gasping for air before clenching his jaw. A single word escaped the tangle of noise: “torch.”
He pried open his eyelids, and like a moth, his pupils were drawn to the light. Although he felt no wind, not the slightest tickle of a breeze, the peaks of fire atop the torch were pulled eastward by an undetectable current. He obeyed the light, his feet mimicking the path created by flame. It felt… right. Was he sure he had never been here before?
He was positive. He would have remembered.
Labored breaths exited his mouth as he trudged through tall grass and milky air. His boots were wet, he trembled from the cold, yet burned with apprehension. Any thoughts that formed in his mind faded away, disappearing like the swirling fog around him. He became accustomed to his surroundings, no longer jolting at the sounds of a branch snapping or an animal bellowing.
He traced his eyes over the tendrils of mist, the countless trees, drifting into a trance. He felt… taller? No, shorter. Glancing at his legs, he thought they looked the same.
Was someone with him? Did someone just laugh? Was he trapped? Could the forest free him? Was he younger, chasing his friends? Or, was he being chased?
Gasping, he peeked at his torch and bolted. He no longer needed the guidance of the flame, he was close. The path was familiar, he felt like he would eventually meet his own doorstep, but even home is not free from strife. Launching himself forward, his boots ricocheted off the earth, barely stamping the wet grass. His lungs burned with each stride as the air he gulped pierced his throat. If he had not been panting, he would be screaming.
Then, the air cleared. His footsteps slowed, he lowered the torch. The trees thinned, opening up to a cove. Wading through shallow pools, his eyes swiveled around the enclosure, drinking in his new surroundings. His mind stilled, lulled to peace by soft jingling sounds that came from the brush. A single beam of moonlight pierced through the treetops, cascading a pale glow upon a single sword jammed into a stone pedestal.
A stampede pounding in his chest, Link strolled towards the blade. It was… beautiful. He had never seen anything like it. Sturdy yet one-handed, edges that could slice with a soft touch, expert craftsmanship, like it was forged by the gods themselves. His feet moved, his mind blurred; he was standing in front of the pedestal, as if led by a cosmic pull.
Wide-eyed, he stared down the steel. His thoughts went against all instinct, logic disappeared—why would he want to pluck the sword? Whose was it, he would certainly be caught? Had he ever been told not to snatch a lone sword in the woods?
He could put it back. He could lift the blade, swing it a couple of times, and put it back. Before further consideration, his fingers were wrapped around the hilt, palms pressed hard against it. He spread his legs, bent his knees, his thighs seared as he fought against the steel embedded in stone.
This HURTS!
But, it budged! The pedestal emitted bursts of brilliant light—it was working!
An intense sharpness surged through his body, stabbing pain flaying his every nerve. He felt like his head would split, like he would retch and collapse from the punishing sensation. His shoulders jerked violently with uncontrollable spasms, more flares of light spurted from the pedestal. With his jaw locked, he shuffled forward, grunting and groaning and spitting and…
‘HEEEEEAH,’ a baritone yawn erupted from the massive tree before him. ‘You’re here? It must be time again.’
Lurching back, Link gripped the sword tightly in his right hand. It felt like an extra appendage, crafted to fit seamlessly against his flesh. The trial was complete; the blade no longer inflicted its torture.
“The Great Deku Tree told me about the sword—our purpose.”
‘Hello. It’s been a while, I don’t imagine you would know who I am. You can call me the Deku Tree.’
With rapid breaths, his chest throbbing, Link could only blink in understanding.
‘Young man, can I assume your name is Link?”
The boy nodded, his gaping eyes locked on the ancient tree, mouth ajar.
‘Young or not, you have great strength within you. I’d bet you're reminded of that often.’
Link’s eyes dashed to the side before returning to the wise wood.
‘Do you know whose sword that is?’
Tearing his eyes from the tree, he craned his neck down towards the blade, as if to say, ‘This sword?’ He gazed at the steel, swimming in exhilaration from the cool touch of the hilt.
His eyes rose, and speechlessly, he shook his head. He tensed, expecting a wallop on his back, a smack on the wrist, or—
‘It’s yours.’
The shock numbed his body, desiccated his throat. Breath fled his lungs, his mind swirled—Mine? Lifting the lengthwise sword to his chest, he swiveled his head to examine its metal figure. His eyes dragged across the perfectly straight edges, detecting no fault, just smooth, lustrous ore. He stared into his own eyes, reflected off of the mirrored surface.
What did he do to deserve such an awesome creation? Could he really take it with him? His father would be so pleased. This sword could tip the scales of their balance, making Link the undeniable victor between the two during spars.
The Great Deku Tree’s next words smothered his excitement like a deluge upon a forest fire.
‘You are the knight, chosen by the sword forged by the hands of the Goddess. You will use it to extinguish Calamity Ganon. ’
Link’s heart froze, he choked on his breath. Heat flared from his chest, engulfing his blood, spreading throughout his body. He was not even a knight yet, he was a knight-in-training! Blinking hard, he gulped for air. There was no way… The tree must have been lying. How would a plant know?
He gripped the sword with both hands, rotating the tip towards the earth.
‘There’s no use in fighting fate. You will wield the Master Sword with honor and might. I recommend you prepare yourself.’
Despite the Deku Tree’s insistence, he remained standing, trembling, prepared to return the sword. A single tear streamed down his cheek.
I won’t show anyone. No one will find out.
“It was right before my thirteenth birthday.”
Zelda’s brow scrunched, a whisper of life returning to her tired eyes. “Thirteen? But,”—her emeralds crawled to the ceiling—“I remember you didn’t present the blade to the castle till… Were you fifteen?”
Curling his lips inward, he nodded slowly. “I hid it… I—.” His heart jolted. There was a great friction in his mind, his mouth resisted the pull of his heart. The words grated his throat, dammed up against the back of his teeth. If he admitted he had ever been anything less than a hero, an unbreakable bastion, he feared it would mean the end, that he would realize Hyrule’s inevitable demise.
He glanced at Zelda, saw her a warrior on the verge of defeat, battered by her duty, her court, her own father. She fought so hard, her devotion only to reap contentment and distrust from those around her. He filled his lungs. He needed to tell her.
“I was afraid.”
Zelda’s expression warped, no longer locked in despair for her own unanswered prayers. She was sympathetic… She did not hate his confession, she did not hate him.
They looked at each other’s eyes, Link conscious of their equal efforts to remain sturdy, to not crumble under their burdens. Their years of training for the purpose of being paraded in front of audiences only allowed for slight cracks of light to peek through their facades, only to be plastered over by their own discipline, their resistance to simply be. Any chinks in their armor were immediately smoothed in order to continue the show.
Maybe one day, we can shatter this front, Link thought. When all this is over.
That thought, a seedling, grew rapidly, blossoming into a brand new motivation. To be friends, unreserved, allowing their connection, and nothing else, to dictate the course of their relationship, wherever she may lead. To let the fate of mankind slip off their backs, leaving the two of them together, able to laugh and cry without the fear of the world falling to pieces.
He decided, if they survived the Calamity, he would then be selfish.