Chapter Text
Probably the worst part of it this time is that it’s raining when he finds the memory spot. The deja vu (nausea, headache, a sharp pain in his chest and scrapes all over his body, his lungs are sore from heavy breathing he hasn’t been doing and he’s the most exhausted he’s ever been) hits all the harder as a result.
Your path seems to mirror your father’s.
Does it, he wonders faintly, focused mostly on the fading image of Her where she sits against the stone. She’s wearing her research outfit this time, instead of that awful prayer dress. He likes to see her in trousers and sensible shoes, covered shoulders and gloved hands. It feels right, better, slides smoothly against the holy crest in his soul instead of chafing against it.
Between one strained breath and the next, she’s gone entirely. Link slumps against the rock, open hand slapped against the place her spine would have touched a hundred years and another lifetime ago. Before she picked up his pieces and made a sacrifice he couldn’t protect against.
He understands her question. What if, one day, you realized that you just weren’t meant to be a fighter?
It’s not really about him. He knows it. He doesn’t know her, not entirely, but he knows enough.
Still. It’s a question he wants to answer, even a century too late.
He picks up a branch that the current storm shook from the tree and settles into the stance his body remembers. Swing down, one knee bent, and let your natural momentum carry you into the spin, your blade moving as part of your body. Strike, thrust, never hold too stiffly or your opponent will knock you down. You have natural talent, son, but don’t let that make you arrogant. Keep yourself fluid. Don’t get stubborn. You could be the best of us all, someday. Maybe you’ll even be chosen to guard the prin—
Link’s knees hit the ground before he realizes they’ve gone weak. His hands are shaking, trembling visibly even while clenched into fists.
It should be pleasant, probably. His father’s voice, guiding him through practice forms. A piece of the person he was, someone with a childhood, a family, people who loved and supported him. His father, a knight of the royal guard. His father, exceptional despite humble beginnings. His father, who is dead. Who likely died in the castle, giving his life to protect its inhabitants. His father, who he failed along with everyone else who has lived and died since his birth.
He barely holds back from throwing up. He remembers more than she meant him to. It’s not her fault.
Would you have chosen a different path?
Link sits down heavily and leans against the stone, mirroring the only person he dares to let himself remember. No, he thinks. No, princess. I’m sorry. This was always the only path for him. His soul calls out to the Master Sword, needs it to feel whole, needs her as desperately as he needs air.
He didn’t really have a choice, in the end. He wonders if that’s better or worse.