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Twilight woke up in the middle of the night.
He wasn't sure what roused him. The pain, maybe. His head was swimming and felt full of cotton, so he could barely perceive anything else. It was pulsing in hot waves all across his flank, bleeding from the incandescent centre of his side. His limbs were trembling with weakness, cold shivers running all across his body in a weird contrast to the heat of the pain.
Around him, all was quiet. Time was slouching on the chair next to the bed, head falling forward on his chest; his hand was limply resting close to Twilight's own. A candle's flame was still flickering on the chest of drawers behind him. Even in sleep, misery was written all over his face.
Maybe Twilight should call to him. His mentor would have wanted to know he was awake. Maybe he could have given Twilight water, or a potion, which despite its inefficiency at healing him did manage to reduce the pain. Usually Twilight wouldn't even have considered the idea; using such a precious healing supply for such a frivolous thing was wasteful. But right now he longed too much for the relief.
He didn't say anything, however. Even if he'd tried, he knew he wouldn't have been able to breathe in, open his mouth and expel air strongly enough to produce voice. He felt exhausted just thinking about it.
His throat closed up, as though it wasn't already hard enough to breathe. He swallowed, desperately tried to get the oxygen he needed among the pounding in his head.
It wasn't the pain that caused that particular reaction, but fear.
Maybe that was just him not being completely lucid – and wasn't that a scary thought all on its own, but it seemed like shadows were encroaching on him, moving to seize him. The drumming in his ears was a cacophony, too loud, too loud and implacable among the fire trapping him without an escape. He held on, terrified and desperate, but there was nothing for him to grasp.
And yet all this seemed to happen at a distance. He looked at his own fear and breathed, and wondered how long this would last.
Death. That wasn't a new thought, not with the life he led. He'd had more than his fair share of close calls already. But never had it felt so inescapable, so implacable.
He remembered Warriors' heavy gaze on his wound, when he'd thought Twilight was too busy coughing to see him. He remembered Time's hushed whispers while they were riding on Epona, trying to keep him awake as he started losing his grip on reality; he remembered the mourning already etched on his features.
There had been rage then, helpless franticness to live. He couldn't leave like that, pitifully taken by surprise by their enemy. This couldn't be how it all ended, a blow he should have avoided, a wound his body should be able to heal.
Ever since he'd nearly collapsed in the woods, the thought had been there, nagging, but he had rejected it with all the violence he was capable of. He hadn't wanted to believe it. With or without a fairy, I'm not going to die from a scratch.
Now, alone in the quiet of the night, with nothing but his thoughts and the debilitating pain, he finally understood he didn't have a choice.
He wasn't sure how long he had left. All the images he'd envisioned his future to be – Ordon, Ilia, Colin growing up, helping Rusl defend the village, his friends all over Hyrule, the frequent visits in Castle Town – were fading out into nothingness, crushed by the knowledge he wasn't going to see any of it.
Maybe I won't even see the sun rise.
Somehow, out of everything, that was the thought that hit him the hardest.
His breath hitched, a new wave of pain all over his body tearing a whimper from him. Unconsciousness was beckoning him again, heavy on his limbs and heavy on his chest, promising sweet respite. He knew sleep was important for healing, but he fought it off nonetheless, too afraid that if he went down he would never wake again.
He wasn't ready.
Was someone ever ready for something like this? There were so many things he still needed to do, so many things left unresolved. He didn't want Time to wake up to his corpse. He didn't want the others to be told of his death in the morning, to hear fresh out of their beds that he wouldn't rise from his again.
He didn't want to leave Wild behind without so much as a goodbye, without telling him not to burden himself with guilt that didn't belong to him. He didn't want Wind to never lay eyes on Wolfie and know it was him. He didn't want to let them fight the Shadow without him, didn't want them exposed to the same poison he was succumbing to. Were they even all hale and safe after their fight, or was he not the only casualty?
And what were they going to do with his body? Was he going to be buried or cremated somewhere in this era that wasn't his own? Would Rusl and Uli, and Colin and Ilia and the whole village be bereft of even a grave to remember him by? Would they even be told of what befell him, or would the heroes never stumble upon a portal to his era, and would his family be left waiting for his return for months and months after his passing, before simply assuming what must have transpired?
Death was unfair, he thought. It struck without a warning, and all of a sudden your time was running out, everything left unfinished.
He swallowed, staring at the ceiling above him. Grief overwhelmed him, grief for all those who loved him and who he would never see again. It was always worse for those who remained, he knew. More than anything else, he desperately wanted for them not to have to go through this.
Already he felt detached from this world. Most of their group was barely a few rooms away, and Time was dozing on his chair, so close to him. But they all felt so far away from him. Despite all their support, this was a journey he must undertake alone.
He was glad he'd woken up, even though his chest burned with his wound and with his sorrow. He was glad for this time of self-reflection, for this chance to come to terms with it all, for this last little burst of life instead of slipping away without even noticing it.
He stared again at the sleeping Time next to him. Regrets were crushing his lungs, and for the first time, he thought he understood the Hero's Shade.
If only he'd been able to keep his mentor from becoming it. Time was such a good man and he had been through so much. He deserved peace. Twilight regretted not being able to give it to him.
But in the end the Hero's Shade had moved on. Grief always became dull, bearable. Life went on, and so it would even after he left it.
The melancholy of dusk gave way to the night, but dawn always, always rose after it.
Twilight intertwined his fingers with Time's in a last gesture of affection, hoping his mentor would understand at least some of the gratefulness and the well-wishes behind it.
Unexpectedly, the hand squeezed back. Time opened his eyes, shifted on his chair, leant forward.
“Hey,” he whispered in the quiet. “What's wrong?”
His other hand came up and cupped Twilight's face, his thumb tenderly brushing his wet cheek. Twilight smiled, new tears bursting from his eyes.
He was still too weak to speak. Had he been able to, he wasn't sure he would have been able to put all his feelings into words, so jumbled and incoherent they were in his exhausted mind. So he tried to convey all of it through his eyes only; all his reassurance, all his thanks, all his desire for Time's happiness even after this.
Time must have understood some of it, for his face crumbled. For a fraction of a second he seemed to fight with himself; then he swallowed it down and smiled, too.
“You should rest,” he said. “Give your body energy to heal.”
It was a lie. That much was obvious from everything in his behaviour. But those simple, false words touched Twilight beyond what he could tell.
Rest sounded good, he guessed as he gave in and closed his eyes. He hoped the others managed to find some.
Sleep took him away with the last sensation of a kiss upon his brow.