Chapter Text
Wild wakes to a head full of fog and a distant, dull stiffness caught up in his body, and he knows right then and there that it’s going to be a bad day.
He breathes, shallow and light, and keeps his eyes closed, even though the light of day presses up against the thin skin of his eyelids. A heavy draping of warmth radiates across one shoulder blade, running heat up his neck, pooling in his hair- it’s too hot, dizzyingly hot, and there’s sweat tickling at his temples, an exhausted heaviness weighing down his head; as though the sun has turned its very touch into something thick and vicious, the weight of honey with all the heat of molten stone, letting it seep into his skull, pinning his body to the bed below him.
It’s nothing to do with how much he slept, and everything to do with why he doesn’t dare move a muscle; why he fights against himself to keep his limbs loose and relaxed and still.
If he can just- go back to sleep. It would be okay to- this isn’t the road, with monsters lurking in the shadows, with the risk of an ambush always in the air. This inn’s a rickety old thing, salt-beaten and weather-worn, and the elderly widow who runs it had been half-singing, half-humming a rising-falling tune in rhythm with the rolling of unseen waves. She’d laughed in delight when Wind, face unerringly turned towards the sea and eyes half-lidded, had quietly sung the next verse when she’d stopped in order to greet them, startling the little sailor from his state of walking dreams, and he’d been sheepish for all of two seconds before they’d both launched into excited chatter at one another, their accents sliding down thicker and heavier in mirror of one another the longer they spoke.
By the time they’d all been shooed into their rooms, they’d long gone past the point where Wild stopped being able to understand a word in three, Wind and old woman alike caught up in their rolling version of Hylian that smoothed out the edges so much it was as though they’d started speaking another language entirely. When Wild had closed his eyes, it was to the dual sounds of the old widow and the sailor’s voices, winding in through the cracks in the worn-out walls, singing a song that ultimately lulled him to sleep.
There’s no danger here. They’ve all been on the road long enough. If he manages to fall back asleep, no one will bother him- there’s enough of their number that does the same, taking the first day in a town to catch up on true, deep sleep, rather than the spotty, restless slumber of travel.
The waves, in the distance, still roll. There’s the sound of people moving around beyond his door, but not many- a clatter of wood-on-wood. The gentle fragrance of plumeria, of salt water, of a slight hint of smoke, slipping into the room to tease at his nose. Beyond- crying gulls. Someone laughs.
His next breath is just a little too deep, and it shudders on the exhale.
Inadvertently, his foot twitches.
And sets everything awake.
The gasping hiss, hitching in the middle, punches its way out of his chest without his control as his leg and hip break from stiff stillness to the unrelenting press of pain; it doesn’t help, it never does, to draw it up, to cradle his leg as close to his chest as possible, the movement setting off his side, his other leg, his shoulders and his bad arm, flaring all the way up his neck, breaking white sparks in his jaw as it clenches, the thick weight, the dizzying fog in his head growing thicker as he squeezes his eyes shut hard-
And breathes.
Sharp. In. hissing through his teeth, shaking with the strain; cold, and isn’t that funny, considering how warm he is, how the world is melting around him.
And out. Breaking and jumping; forcing it out anyway, leaving his lungs limp, leaving sparks dancing in his head, filling up all those empty places where memories once dwelled; filling them with light, light, light, thoughtless and spinning.
Again.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
In…
…Out.
One more time.
One more time.
…
…
…
…
Okay.
He unfolds himself from the little ball he’s curled into- stretching out his legs flat once more, biting the inside of his cheek as another shudder catches on the edge of an exhale; forcing fisted hands to relax; uncurling the protective huddle of spine and ribs twisting up around his core to lie flat once more.
Wild licks his lips, and tastes salt and pain, sweat and sunlight; lets his fingers dig into the mattress below- all rustling dry sea grass, that dusty, sweet fragrance, stirred up from the force of his grip, mingling with the scent of the clean, sun-bleached linen under his face, with those last whispers of storage herbs clinging still to its weave. One more moment to indulge his pain; one more moment, with every old wound crying out to be noticed all at once.
Well.
So much for going back to sleep.
It will pass , Wild reminds himself, as another breath sets off another shudder, the strain against his ribs flaring alive the scars sprawling up his chest in wailing protest. It will pass. An endless mantra, one he’s told himself a hundred times over since the start of his world, the rebirth of this body, the first sunrise to his counting. There is comfort in the familiarity. There is exhaustion. It will pass.
It always does.
On the bedside table: the Sheikah slate, asleep and dull across its face. It’s in reach- or it was, when he fell asleep last night, perfectly in reach of his arm. But at some point in the night, he moved, and now, to set his hand on it, to wake it up, he’s going to have to move closer- his arm, as it is, inescapably falling too short.
Inside the slate lies a carved wooden box, and inside the carved wooden box lies a neat line of corked glass bottles, filled with thin, bitter medicine, a potion brewed just for him, a swallow per glass. In a little bag, nestled in with the glass bottles, is a jar of salve- sharp, potent, and spicy, a lick of shiver-cold cream against skin before it melts into numbing warmth.
He needs the both of them. The medicine, to settle the ghosts screaming through his bones back down to something manageable. Salve, to numb the pain down until the medicine does its work, to let him try to sleep through the worst of it.
But to do that, he’s going to have to move.
Wild breathes. Deliberately, intentionally, relaxes his jaw, and opens his eyes to the pale, weathered-wood ceiling; to the strands of shells, strung across the open shutters in the windows; to the little shelf right below, with its cheerful bundle of bright flowers and greenery, tucked in a crooked little vase, drinking in the sunshine.
Salve. Medicine. Sleep.
That’s all he needs. All he has to do. A few moments of sharper pain, spent to send the rest of it on its way all the swifter.
It’s only a few moments.
From somewhere outside, there’s a clatter of wood; still, the rolling of the waves, the sound of the sea. The old widow’s voice, indistinct, picks up in a distant melody.
Just a few moments of movement, and then it’ll be over.
Best not to dwell on it.
He pushes himself up onto his elbows, and grits his teeth against the ache, the pressure, dull and agonizing and unrelenting, flaring up like a bed of coals in his marrow; a starburst of pain, sharp and bright and white, breaking in his jaw from the strain.
It will pass, Wild reminds himself, as his arm, shaking, fighting to stay in the air against the pull of stiff, heavy scar tissue, strains up against the weight weakening it as he reaches, the smooth, cool surface of the slate, just barely, kissing against his fingertips.
It will pass.
It will pass.