Work Text:
Rain splattered gently against the windowpane, a nearby bush swayed rhythmically in the light wind. The sun set an hour before, making it impossible to see more than a few feet outside. Candles flickered and kept the room warmly lit. The room was a bit on the chilly side, Link shivered and rubbed his free arm in an attempt to warm himself.
He dipped his pen in the inkwell and brought it to the paper, he frowned when he pressed too hard and made a large spot on the page. Link would never consider himself an artist, but he prided himself in his penmanship. During the war there was no time for fancy scripts and long words, his fellow captains were lucky if they got more than three lines of cucco scratch. Calligraphy was something he picked up later, he loved the way words flowed on paper.
But now, his hands betrayed him.
The once beautiful words were wobbly, more akin to a young child’s script. Ink blots marred the pages, and there were noticeable indents where he pressed the pen nib too hard. Years of practice meant nothing, the pen acted of its own accord in his feeble hand. Much to his displeasure, another drop of ink fell from the pen and marked the paper. He set the pen down with a quiet sigh. This would pass.
His fingers were a bit more puffy than normal and they throbbed dully like someone stuck pins in them. Maybe it was from the rain. Perhaps he over exerted himself. Most likely it was a combination of the two. He shook his hands out in an attempt to wake them up, but relief never came. The compression gloves he wore did a decent job of helping his stiffness on a good day. This was not a good day.
He brought his hands together, as if in silent prayer to the goddesses. The base of his fingers couldn’t touch, as much as he tried. Link glanced at the window and to the storm beyond. In his younger years when this issue first reared its head, he assumed Farore inflicted this upon him as some sort of test. Or maybe retribution. He knew now that she had no sway over this any more than one could control a storm.
Link stood and stretched, he knew sitting in one place for too long invited the stiffness in. The prickling sensation remained steadfast much to his disappointment. Sleeping might help, the storm front would likely be gone by the morning. But he wasn’t done writing, he wasn’t sure if he could rest well with so much on his mind. Putting words on paper was his outlet for relieving stress. It gave him a sense of structure and normalcy.
He sat back down and picked up the pen once more, he had to rest it on his fingers in a bizarre way that would most definitely make people stare at him with judgment. It was the only way he was able to hold it with his fingers curling in on themselves. He wouldn’t strain himself too much, he wasn’t exactly writing poetry here. Just enough to recount his day, then he would go to bed.
His first inkwell was nearly empty, so he decided to grab his new one. He tried to open the cap, but a tinge of pain traveled up his arm like a bolt of lightning. Rather than give up, he set the bottle on the table and attempted to open it with the hem of his tunic over the cap. Still nothing. No. He grabbed the bottle and vigorously tried to open it.
Link always assumed he’d meet his end in battle. He fought valiantly for his people. His friends. His new family. Kids always crowded up to him, proclaiming they wanted to be just like him. The people saw him as a resilient beacon of hope. His friends and family relied on him to be a strong leader. And yet, here he was. Defeated by a bottle, of all things.
He didn’t remember doing it. One moment, the inkwell was on the desk. The next, it was shattered on the floor. He blinked and remained still.
A knock on the door startled him out of his thoughts, he looked over but stayed silent. Maybe they’d think the noise came from somewhere else.
“Hey Captain,” Legend’s muffled voice came through the door, “everything alright in there?”
He didn’t reply. Every instinct told him to stay quiet, lest he be pitied and seen as fragile. A second knock sounded, this one more urgent than the first. At this rate, Legend would barge into the room to make sure nothing nefarious was happening. He should reply to ensure that didn’t happen. Lie. Lying was easy.
“You can come in,” his traitorous mouth said instead.
The door opened and Legend popped in with a heavy scowl, though his expression softened when he realized there was no danger within. He looked at the spilled ink and glass shards curiously, then back to Link.
“It’s not what it looks like,” Link explained quickly.
“Oh yeah?” Legend asked, putting on a light smile and tilting his head, “looks like a broken inkwell to me.”
“Right. It is what it looks like, then,” he replied and quietly added, “it fell.”
“I’m sure.” Legend wasn’t buying it, but his comforting demeanor remained the same.
Link fell quiet again, he didn’t know how to explain himself. When people found out about his affliction, they tended to treat him differently. Like he was a delicate porcelain doll. He lost count of how many times someone would take something out of his hands to open it for him, without prompt. Or when they would try to grab his arm under the pretense of helping him cross a road. It made his skin crawl. There was a snapping point, one that made its way to the ears of gossipmongers. Not his proudest moment but at least people finally left him alone for the most part.
He feared he would fall into that cycle again with his brothers. They would coddle him, they would think him incapable of taking care of himself. Their help would come from a place of well-being, at the cost of his autonomy. He would inevitably snap, he might even hurt them. The imagery of it made him sick.
Legend moved past him and carefully picked up the glass shards. He said something, but Link was still too lost in his thoughts to process the words.
“What was that?” Link asked once he brought his focus to Legend.
“I said you can get ready for bed, I don’t mind cleaning this up.”
Link bristled upon hearing that. Did Legend think he was incapable already?
“You don’t need to do that,” Link said, not quite with his commanding voice, but his tone lacked softness.
“You’re right, I don’t,” Legend said while grabbing the last of the glass shards, “but I’ve hardly seen you all day, I need my daily quota of bothering you.”
“You’re not a bother,” he replied tersely with a wince.
Legend seemed to pick up on his sour mood, he stood and made his way back to the door. Before he reached for the knob, he looked at the window with a wistful smile.
“I broke my arm when I was younger, I wasn’t even fighting a monster or anything like that. I fell out of a tree.” Legend sighed thoughtfully like there were some pleasant memories tied with such an unfortunate event and he continued, “it healed just fine. But sometimes on days like these it acts up. I won’t pretend our pains are the same, but I do understand how you must be feeling.”
It was a lot to process. Almost too much. He readjusted himself and ignored the tingling protests in his joints.
“Pain isn’t a competition,” Link said after a brief silence.
Legend blinked at him, then he started to laugh. Not too loud or forcefully, just a genuine giggle.
“How was that funny?” Link asked, confused.
“It was such a you thing to say, is all.”
“I see,” Link hummed, “I’m sorry if I’ve been distant.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Legend said with a dismissive handwave, “I’ll be next door if you need anything.”
Link watched as Legend started to leave. He didn’t know how the younger hero figured out there was something wrong with him, maybe he wasn’t as good at hiding it as he thought. He looked at his journal and the shaky script with a frown.
“Hold on,” Link found himself saying, Legend paused and looked back at him curiously, “how is your penmanship?”
“It’s fine, I guess. Why?”
Link didn’t respond right away. His fear of being coddled was not unfounded, he knew that. Legend hadn’t come up to him demanding what was wrong, nor did he forcibly try to help him. That was appreciated. There was no shame in asking for help, he preferred to ask rather than people assuming he wanted or needed it. After a heavy breath, he set his pen down.
“Will you help me write my logs tonight?” he asked, half expecting to be teased. To his surprise, Legend had no quips to offer.
“Sure thing, Captain,” Legend replied and approached the small desk.
Link stood so Legend could take a seat, he started peeling off his layers of armor so he could rest unhindered. Once he set his chainmail and boots aside, he collapsed onto his bed. It took a while to make himself comfortable, even lying down did not settle the numb and prickling sensations. Still, he felt far better than he did a few minutes ago.
“Write down what I say, verbatim if you don’t mind,” Link said and rested his head on a pillow.
Legend nodded in understanding, he grabbed the pen and dipped it in a new bottle of ink. Link started talking. It was strange, it was nothing overtly personal, but he felt slightly vulnerable nonetheless. Proxi used to do this sort of thing with him back when words were difficult to form, but that was through a mind link, not out loud like this. He pushed through the nerves and spoke steadily.
He mentioned how they stocked up on food and potions, they also found a poster that alluded to black blooded monsters a day’s travel south. Twilight and Wild sparred early in the morning, he detailed their forms and wanted to offer tips and words of praise. At lunch, he found out Wind liked spicy foods, he would have to be sure he asked their cook if some more spicy sides could be incorporated into meals. Epona lost a shoe, they would have to take her to a farrier in the morning for a replacement. A good hoof trim wasn’t a bad idea anyway, they’d been on the road for a while.
The rain started in the early afternoon, causing their group to seek shelter at the nearest inn. His flare up started around then, so he got himself a private room and only left once to eat a helping of vegetable stew. Legend was helping him write his logs tonight, he would have to pay him back somehow.
“You don’t have to do that,” Legend interrupted him.
“Verbatim,” Link reminded him.
Legend huffed, but he went back to writing without protest. It didn’t take long to finish speaking, he never went into great detail with his logs unless it was important.
“That’s all, thank you,” Link said and Legend set the pen down.
“Anytime. Anything else I can help with?”
“No, that was all. I’m ready for bed.”
“Rest well, Captain,” Legend said as he headed towards the door, “I’ll bug you twice as much tomorrow to make up for today.”
This time, Link smiled.
“You’d better promise me that.”
“I promise,” Legend said with a mock salute, he closed the door after him.
Link closed his eyes, now that his logs were done for the day, he felt he could sleep peacefully. Then he realized the candles needed to be put out, he didn’t think to ask Legend to do that on his way out. He swung his legs over the bed and blew them out one by one, leaving the one on the desk for last. He paused and looked down at his open journal.
The first few lines were in his handwriting, they started out normal but quickly turned illegible. Then ink spots of various sizes marred the page. After that was a new handwriting, clearly not from a practiced hand but it was lovely in its own way. Something about it touched him in a way that he couldn’t possibly hope to describe. He folded the corner of the page so he could come back and admire it in the future.
Despite his various dull aches, he knew he would indeed rest well tonight.