Chapter Text
His palm catches on the rough threads of the blanket as he pulls it up towards his chin. The week-old wound has healed sufficiently, but it’s obvious there will be an angry scar forming in its place when another week has passed. The light in the stable is dim, most of the patrons having already retired for the evening. Restless crickets chirp on the other side of the stable’s canvas wall, a soft breeze playing against the fabric, giving the illusion of the whole structure slowly breathing. Link tries to align his own breaths with the sighs of the sturdy fabric, but at his third inhale, a gasp instead catches in his throat, and a tear slips and falls to the pillow.
Gone .
No, not gone. Somehow this is even worse than her being gone.
He hardly even remembers the walk back from the Rist peninsula. His feet had carried him halfway around the spiral, a fistful of silent princesses still in his hand, before realizing he could have warped back to the mainland. But the walk is a welcome distraction. In hindsight, he remembers drawing his sword, the sword, without even thinking, using it to fell the smattering of monsters in his path as he pushed up, back to the road, but at the time he felt nothing.
It wasn’t until he caught the Ulri Mountain Tower in the corner of his vision that he realized he had long since missed the path back to Tarrey Town, his feet moving him down the road without his mind guiding them. The sun was beginning to set beyond Death Mountain, and the exhaustion of the afternoon’s revelations was weighing heavy. Clearly, he needed rest, and Link pulled out the Purah Pad to warp home. He brought his finger to the screen, freezing an inch away from the travel medallion he’d placed at the house overlooking Tarrey Town. How could he go back now? Back to the house he’d carefully assembled with everything a retired swordsman and ever-enthusiastic scholar could need. Zelda was the most brilliant person he’d ever met and he knew it was only a matter of time before she found her way back to him, and he’d been sure she’d have what she needed when she did, just like he’d always done.
But what need did a dragon have for a library or an herb garden? Her golden horse, munching hay in their cozy stall, would no longer carry her to her next fascinating discovery. A creature so divine as she would have no interest in the painting of a silent princess overlooking Lovers Pond that he had hung in the foyer. And if Link was honest with himself, he too had no interest in looking upon it anymore. Any of it.
Where was he to go? How, how could he find peace in slumber knowing he would never see his princess again? The travel medallion at the Hateno home glowed bright towards the bottom of the map, but he didn’t even consider it for a second. That bed had held no rest for him since Zelda had fallen beneath the castle, and returning now would be impossible.
Link numbly clicked off the Purah Pad and returned it to his pouch. South Akkala stable was only just up the road, and it would have to do.
The rough fabric again catches on his palm as he pulls the blanket fully over his head to muffle the sharp gasps that won’t seem to stop. The wound from fighting Phantom Ganon in the Deku Tree chasm had been hastily wrapped and bandaged at the battle’s end, a new moving marker blinking in the Purah Pad giving him no time for rest. The pain was freshly renewed as he held on with all his might as the Light Dragon had flailed in the skies above Hebra. The bandage had bloomed with red from the struggle, but somehow never marred the sacred hilt.
Turning over, face buried in the too-soft pillow, Link reaches from under the blanket where the blade is resting close by, just against the bedpost. A shaky thumb ghosts over the pommel as his fingers lightly brush the hilt. The voice in the sword is quiet, but he desperately wishes it would scream at him instead. Curse him for allowing it to be injured. Blame him for letting Zelda fall. Rebuke him for each and every one of his countless failings since he first pulled the blade over 100 years ago. But the sword was at peace, its purpose had been renewed and Zelda had paid the ultimate price to ensure it.
Careful not to disturb any of the patrons snoring softly nearby, Link grabs the scabbard and drags the sword under the blanket to wrap himself around it. The metal is cold and hard against his cheek and elbow, but he doesn’t care. Tears continue to slip from his eyes, dampening both the pillow and the hilt. Perhaps in the morning, he will worry what the stable owner will think, the famed swordsman clutching his blade to his chest as if fearing it will be stolen away in the night. But for now, under the cover of darkness and a borrowed blanket, he lets the facade fall and he weeps.
Sleep finally comes an hour later, the sword still cradled against Link’s body. High above South Akkala stable, the Light Dragon weaves ever-present through the skies.