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Link, tired and soaked from the heavy rains of Hyrule Fields, stumbled under an overhang and collapsed on the soft grass. He remembered how he made the jut in the cliffside all those years ago; the distinct, harsh smell that the bombs emitted, completely new to his young, inexperienced nose. He remembered the aching muscles he donned as he threw the explosive into the obvious crack, the excitement at the small treasure that lay buried in rock. The way the blue rupee glistened in the noontime sunlight as he rushed back to Castle Town, overjoyed at the prospect of finally having enough for a new shield.
Was it weird how he both missed those days and wished they never happened?
He longed endlessly to be a child again; not just to be in a child’s body, but to be an actual youth again. Before destiny was brought into any of this. He yearned to be innocent, his eyes virgin to the sight of bloodshed or death or pain. To be a Kokiri was boring, yes, but Link had a hunch it would’ve caused less pain and trauma than being shoved into the Goddess’ game of chess. The lives he took, those he almost lost, those he did lose… it was all too much for a mere child to handle. Castle Town in ruins, Termina on the verge of destruction, all his responsibility because he was chosen as Farore’s plaything.
And here he was, eight years later, bearing not only the mark but the both mental and physical scars from both endeavors.
Link brandished a dagger and examined it. He remembered the day it was given to him, his real seventeenth birthday. Sheik, er, Zelda, had given it to him. He recalled the way the handle was gripped in Zelda’s right hand, how her kind eyes burned crimson with respect at bearing the oncoming task to Gerudo Desert. The slight, almost unnoticeable hitch in her voice as she spoke. For protection, she had said, Though I have a feeling it won’t be needed. Link had simply nodded somberly in response; there was, as usual, nothing for him to say. He took the sheathed knife from her hands and slipped it into a belt loop with a simple and quiet Thank you. He saw the way she looked at him; respectful, kind… fearful. Whether it was fear for him or of him was an enigma he hadn’t figured out, even after a year.
A bolt of lighting jolted Link from his nostalgic daze. The thunder echoed soon after. He whispered curses under his breath as he tried to get his heart back into a steady rhythm. The fear of loud noises never left him, not since the falling of Hyrule Castle and, barely a year later, the near-fall of the moon. The way those noises echo and shake, as if threatening or challenging other sounds. He gripped the dagger tighter for a sense of security. He couldn’t care less if the impractical rhombus of crimson ruby dug into his hand; in fact, he hated and refused to admit he liked it. He pushed those thoughts out of his head. He was alive and happy. More than what he could say for some he knew. But a question burned in his mind:
Was he happy?
He jumped at loud noises. He had frequent panic attacks. He sobbed and clung to the sheets if he woke up without Malon. And the emptiness? The numbness that occurred all too frequently? Was there an excuse for that? The thoughts he had when he was alone? How the little voice in the back of his head telling him he deserved all of it sounded like both Zelda and Malon?
Just do it. Link had noticed these… frequent longings, as he so kindly put it. The urge to put the damned dagger to his arm and slice had accumulated and grown over the months. He had resisted. Every time, he resisted. Every time, it got worse. Was it time to just give in?
No! Foolish, oh so foolish! He couldn’t! He could work through it some other way. He would work through it some other way.
Right?
This was just a new challenge. He would overcome it. He always did. The memories were still with him.
Then again, so were the scars of his countless failures.
He held the knife to his forearm. He searched for a reason not to, an emotion or memory stopping him. He tried to remember what stopped him those other times. He tried to remember anything to keep him from digging the blade into his skin.
Alas, his numb, unfeeling mind came up short.
At first, Link winced. He felt his eyes flood with tears ready to fall. The crisp edge of the knife sliced cleanly into his skin, as it was intended to. Link pressed harder. He felt tears on his cheeks and tasted them on his chapped lips. He sliced across his wrist, a clean gash following like a crimson ink on a soft, fabricky parchment. A twisted smile formed on his face as he felt the blood flow freely. He relished the sting as rainwater mingled and maneuvered its way into the gash. He took in the wonderful smell of iron, how it went perfectly hand in hand with the nitrogen that hung freshly in the air from the rainfall.
He remembered his first time wielding a sword, how he accidentally cut himself on the cheek while practicing a spin attack. He had laughed it off, as it caused no real harm. He felt the lighthearted happiness of being ten again, just in a new, unexpected way. He was finally free. Free of the burden of being the perfect, stable hero.
Link cut his arm again with a wild grin. He hated hurting by the hands of others, but found a sick pleasure in doing it himself. He gave a sharp, crazed cry that sounded like a half-laugh, half-sob. The new wound gushed freely, dripping scarlet down his arm and soaking into his undershirt. Malon will hate washing this out.
Link stopped. His grin fell.
Malon.
What would she say, to know her beloved was hurting himself? Link swore and tried to cover the damage with his leather gauntlets. The ever-growing bloodstain barely stayed in the confines of the glove. He wiped his face and stood up, deliberately leaving the bloodied knife behind. It was a one-time thing and nothing more.
This one-time thing would be remembered.