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It had been weeks and less than an hour since the new hero of Termina first embarked on his quest. The happy mask salesman knew this. Of course he knew this. The sky is blue, the grass is green, and he himself had sent a child on a never ending, impossible task on pains of… well, the end of the world.
But those were frowning words! He was the happy mask salesman. He knew of Link’s determined nature. He knew of his previous feats. As was already established, time was not an issue when it comes to knowledge. In addition, it was hard to lose when you could warp away from failure.
Slowly, sluggishly, the wooden doors of the clock tower were pushed open.
Blond hair and blue eyes peaked through the sliver of light let in. The boy slipped into the clock tower quieter than if he’d worn the stone mask (though the stone mask only makes any noise unremarkable). A fairy on one shoulder, a leather strap holding a sword on the other, the weight of the world on both; Link scuffed his boots towards the mask salesman. He took out the bunny hood and tugged it on, looking expectantly.
“That's the Bunny Hood, isn't it?” he smiled, as always. “That is a fine thing. It is filled with kindness towards animals. You’ve done good work…”
‘Good work’? The poor boy was worked to the bone. The hero swayed back and forth on his feet. He looked pallid and dripped saltwater onto the floor. The yellow ears on his head were far brighter than any light in the boy. His eyes were cloudy and dim.
“Do you… Have other masks to show me?” the mask salesman asked tentatively, mixed between wanting the boy to stay somewhere in which time is paused for mere moments and wanting his mask back ever so desperately. It was obvious that Link didn't have Majora's mask. There would've been joy and triumph, singing and dancing, not a falling moon and a tired child.
Link's back cracked like burning wood as he reached into his pocket to pull out another mask. As he tugged out the bremen mask—a mask the salesman had already been shown—he stumbled. The boy's knee buckled and, as the other leg tried to adjust, it also crumpled beneath the hero. He fell to the floor, asleep.
The happy mask salesman smiled as always, and sighed. Exhaustion does get to the best of everyone.
Leaving the boy under the watchful gaze of his also sleeping fairy, the salesman dug through his backpack for any sort of blanket or cloth that would similarly suffice. A dry tunic for the soaked child would be useful, but the salesman had nothing that would be comfortable for either of them for Link to wear. The blanket was near the top of the pack–being more useful than the other contents: more masks.
When he turned back around, the fairy had pulled the boy's tunic around itself and nestled into his chest like a cat. When the gears stopped groaning in their movements, you could hear the fairy's chiming purr in time with the hero's breathing. Link had curled into the shell of his shield as much as the straps and buckles allowed, shivering in his uneasy, uncomfortable sleep. Subconsciously, he had cradled his arms around the fairy. The salesman briefly wondered about the kokiri children, but refocused on the passed out child.
Thank the goddess of time that he was used to travelling with such a weight, or the salesman wouldn't have been able to lift the sleeping boy. Curled up in a shield that was heavier than the wielder, Link looked… frail, for lack of a better word. His arms looked brittle, his legs were pencil lead, his tunic had no protection to be seen. And this child was forced to be a hero. Forced by the happy mask salesman to be a hero. Suffice to say he had been more than angry at himself after.
Link shuffled. The salesman froze. Slowly, he settled again, and the salesman continued moving him closer to the piano.
Nearer to the piano was cleaner. After he had followed Link to Termina, he had settled into the clock tower nicely. Of course, it smelled of mould, mildew, and who knows what else, but his bedroll wasn't a mushroom culture yet, so all was fine.
Uncertainly, he laid Link onto the bedroll. Truthfully, the mask salesman had very few hobbies that were quiet. The piano was too loud, and echoed uncomfortably in the clock tower. While some find the scratch of wood being carved soothing, it was still noisy. The salesman settled for slowly smoothing an unpainted mask with his pumice stone. The rock was hard to find, and death mountain was very unpleasant, but his masks were less likely to leave splinters in a lender's eyes now. Which was nice.
It was an indescribable amount of time later that the boy woke up. The salesman was alerted to this by the bleary yawn and then quick unsheathing of a sword when Link realised he was defenceless.
"Relax, hero. You are safe here." The salesman smiled, partly because he had to and partly because he could finally smooth his mask at a faster and louder pace.
This was apparently not a comfort, as the salesman found the great fairy sword closer to his neck than he'd like and a fuzzy glare aimed his way. There was a flash of anger but that was quickly tamped down as he pinched the central ridge of the sword and moved it aside.
"You are tired. You do not need to be wary of me. I will not hurt you." The wording was specific, because, truthfully, he had hurt the hero. He could only promise not to hurt him again.
The boy sat back down onto the bedroll beside the salesman, who was perched upon the piano stool. Above, the clocks groaned, in front of him, the pumice stone ground away flakes of sawdust, beside him, the boy soundlessly yawned.
Link peered with wise eyes unlike his godly blessing. It was a scrutinising stare, as if the salesman would snap the second he turned his back. It hurt, but the poor boy had gone through enough for it to be warranted.
Small hands tugged the salesman's vest. With a careful clarity, Link pointed to himself and rolled his hands around like there was a ball between them.
The salesman nodded knowingly. "It's good that you've learnt to sign here in Termina. I can't imagine they know Hylian sign."
Link signed, "Can I help with your masks, please?"
The salesman chuckled, shining at the politeness, but clutched the mask he was holding to his chest. "Maybe when you're older."
The boy looked indignant, "Next week, I'll be nineteen-" his hands fell to lap.
"Did you get used to being older, dear hero?" The salesman asked.
"I needed to." Was the forlorn reply.
Some anger comes in waves that crash too quickly. Some anger is a wind that swirls and swirls until you can't walk straight. The salesman's anger is putting your hand into boiling water. It's not registering the heat and thinking your hand is cold before it burns you. It's the flash freezing and flash fire of confused nerves. The moment of cold when Link's signing registered in his brain, and the scald of rage that followed.
The boy raised his shoulders up to his neck in fear, protecting where the salesman had grabbed him before.
So the salesman breathed. In... Out… He picked up the pumice stone he'd thrown in a fit. He carefully checked his almost smooth mask for any dents or scratches. He slumped back down on the piano stool, humming the song of healing under his breath.
"I… apologise for my outburst," he rocks back and forth as he waits for the hero's reply.
The boy's hackles are still raised, but he signs "It's okay," anyway. It's not okay. But it cannot be fixed in the time they have.
Mumbling, the happy mask salesman explained how he created his masks. How he made them truly joyful. For they were not mere pieces of wood. They were hard work, patience, paint, and maybe a bit of magic. Some paints had to be stored as dry powders, or they would mould and split in irreparable and expensive ways. Some wood was too soft to simply be placed randomly in his bag, so it was wrapped in thick fabric to avoid denting and odd compressions. Using oils of similar consistency to red potions would make the masks waterproof, but they could interact badly with certain paints, so it only worked for masks that had exposed wood. He continued his muttering until Link was slumped against the piano stool and wrapping blankets around himself again.
"I, perhaps, have not proved it," the salesman winced and chuckled, "but you are safe here, hero. Time does not pass here."
The hero of time blinked, and closed his old eyes.