Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Got you!

Dark Link, in a practiced swipe, swiftly bottles the anti-fairy. The little creature pings angrily off the inside of the glass as he corks the top closed, her red aura bubbling and flickering in irritation. She hisses and pops in agitation, her normal chimes changed by her current form. In a bittersweet way, he is glad she doesn’t currently have wings; or else they’d be terribly bruised by the constant ricochet.

Smiling, he cradles the bottle close to his chest, hushing her gently. After a while, and some soft whistling of half-remembered songs, the corrupted fairy calms. Her skull-like form stares at him with hollow and sightless eyes, yet Dark is certain she can see him.

Don’t worry, he tries to convey, smoothing a thumb over the glass, I won’t hurt you.

She must sense something, because she settles slightly. With a slow spin around her new and temporary home, the anti-fairy bobs down to the bottom of the bottle and, presumably, falls asleep.

Dark huffs. Of course, the tiny thing just gets to nap after all that nonsense she put him through. The former fairy had given him quite the chase, running him around half the building before finally getting caught in an old, thankfully empty, skulltula web. Dark had gone through and rid the place of the eight-legged creatures and any other monsters months ago, when it became apparent that he’d be staying here a while.

“Here” being an ancient and forgotten Temple, its purpose long lost to time. Any traps and puzzles present had been solved long ago, the place merely an obstacle to conquer to a determined hero. Of that, Dark can sympathize.

Dark isn’t certain what the Temple’s original purpose was, or what it may have represented. The only remaining hints come in the form of owl motifs, cracked with age and covered in moss, that appear frequently throughout the place. Statues, pillars, and almost every doorway has some of the winged animals carved above it. Whatever meaning they once held is a mystery to Dark.

He pays them little mind as he weaves his way through the well-remembered paths, his weathered boots crunching through dried leaves and steps occasionally softened by grass and other foliage that had grown over the floors. Dark takes care not to accidentally trod on any flowers or mushrooms that bloom between the stones. Occasionally, he has to climb over piles of rubble where the ceilings or walls have collapsed. Very carefully, now that he has precious cargo in the form of his flighty friend.

The overgrown forests and maze-like paths feel familiar to him in a way that makes his soul ache. Still, he picks his way through the place, before ducking into a small alcove off to the side of the central atrium.

A camp waits within, weary yet welcoming. Tucked between the broken slabs of stone is a small firepit, smoking softly with the embers. A dented kettle is spilled on the ground next to it, hastily left behind when Dark had ditched it in favor of diving after the fairy.

Wedged in the corner, shielded from the worst of the drafty cracks and crevasses, is a tent. More akin to a lean-to, really; a well-patched cloth tied up with a thin rope, with a pile of equally worn blankets inside. The stone floors suck up heat like nothing else, so Dark ended up pillaging any and all fabric he could find. Old banners or formerly decorative cloths from around the Temple were quickly repurposed. Most of them were brittle and moth eaten, but some fabric had magic woven into the threads that made them last much longer than they normally would have. They were clearly supposed to be more than mere bedding, but they keep him warm on the more bitter nights, so Dark tries not to let the defamation of historical artifacts bother him.

Next to his tent is a chest and rectangular slab of stone he calls a table. The chest was dragged in from elsewhere in the Temple, from behind a hidden illusory wall, and had originally contained a single red rupee. It still does, as Dark doesn’t have a use for them as currency anymore, but now also holds all of Dark’s spare blankets, empty bottles, and other tools that he doesn’t want to carry on his person.

Welcome to my home, he wishes to the anti-fairy, before gently setting the bottle down on the cracked and crooked surface of his “table”. Dark thinks it might have once held an owl statue, but the rubble he’d cleared away when making his camp hadn’t given him enough clues to tell. Regardless, the former fairy doesn’t seem to mind.

Dark smiles at her, exhausted yet satisfied.

This fallen Temple had been rife with corruption when he first travelled here. Having been exposed to the elements and its original magical protections long withered, the Temple had become filled to the brim with monsters and dark magic.

Such magic had attracted him, too. A dizzying and seductive call - power, blood, battle, let go let go, destroy all within your sight - but instead of steeping in it like one would expect, Dark had other plans.

Suffice to say, the Temple is now empty. Not a single monster remains.

Aside from himself.

And the anti-fairies, but he’s loathe to compare them to such things like stalkin and moblins; creatures that crave nothing but destruction. The most anti-fairies want is magic. Sure, they can be a little… bitey, sometimes, Dark’s fingers are still bandaged from his previous arduous battles with the little fiends, but that’s hardly within the same realm of something like a skulltula.

He has found six fairies so far within the Temple, each as elusive as the next. His most recent catch was no different.

Well worth the trouble, he muses to himself as he digs through the chest for the rest of his supplies. Magic Mushrooms, bottled fairy fountain water, mortar, pestle, an empty pouch, all of which get piled onto the table next to the anti-fairy.

She floats forward within the confines of her bottle, inspecting the small hoard, and hisses inquisitively.

Dark has no way of telling her what he’s doing, so he simply pats the top of the bottle gently. Patience, he tries to reassure.

Making Magic Powder is a process that takes some time, after all.

Six anti-fairies he has caught in this Temple, before her. Six fairies now fly freely, no longer bound by the corrupted dark magic that had once consumed them. A dash of Magic Powder is all it takes for them to return to their natural state, to feel the wind beneath their wings, to chime and dance and play with their siblings, to return to the Light.

This is not the first Temple Dark has liberated, and he doubts very much that it will be the last. Temples are usually left to rot after their purpose is complete, after a hero comes and goes, becoming a prime location for creatures that hylians regularly regard as unwanted. Anti-fairies, though once thriving Light spirits, are no different.

Temples are not the only places with anti-fairies, but they are the most common. Through all of Dark’s travels, through all his many years, he always takes the time to cure them.

None of the fairies are the one he’s been looking for, but he loves them all the same.

Dark Link whistles an old lullaby, and sets to work.

Outside of the Temple, a triangular rift rips open.

Chapter Text

Dark Link startles, his head jerking up.

Like a chilled wind, a foul twist of magic cuts through his senses. The peace vanishes in an instant; the anti-fairy cowers to the bottom of her bottle, the birds cease their chatter, bugs stop buzzing. The Temple itself seems to shiver, holding its breath in fear.

Something evil approaches.

Dark stands, abandoning his half-finished Magic Powder. The mushrooms in the mortar glow, having been ground into a paste and suffused with fairy fountain water. He needed only to let the paste dry, then grind it down once more for the powder to be complete.

But that will have to wait, because Dark refuses to let such evil infest this Temple again.

His hands are digging through the nearby chest by his next breath, prying out his sword from the bottom. After he’d cleared out the Temple months ago, he had stored it away to keep it from weathering. It had slowly become buried under his potion making supplies, the art of healing taking precedence over the art of killing.

The same goes for his shield, which he unburies a moment later from beneath a bundle of blankets. There had been nothing left to defend himself from, except for the cold.

Until now.

He’d have called himself complacent, not having a sword or weapon handy during this time of peace, except-- 

His eyes flick into the distance, as if seeing through the walls and puzzles and wild growth, to track the acidic aura burning towards his home. It seethes with malice, like a poison slipped into a vein racing to the heart.

--Dark can sense dark magic. All magic, really, but he is particularly attuned to dark magic. Especially when it’s so… corrosive.

Such senses usually give him ample time to prepare for situations like this. On the rare occasion that it doesn’t, Dark has other ways to defend himself. These options all involve using dark magic himself, which he dislikes doing for many reasons, so he usually saves it as a last resort. 

With any luck, he won’t need any of that today.

With his sword and shield now equipped, he turns to face the approaching threat. The stance he takes is steady and strong, taken up many times over many years, worn and familiar. Like an echo, something spoken long ago, whispered into his bones.

Protect, it says. Defend others from evil no matter the cost.

Have courage, Hero.

Before he can get very far, a small ping! sound catches his attention.

He looks back to the anti-fairy, who has forsaken cowering in favor of rattling around in her bottle. Her red aura fizzles and snaps; agitated, anxious, afraid. Even without her wings or chiming words, her expressions are easy to read.

She’s worried.

He pauses, setting his sword aside for a moment. Dark does not mind the delay if it means to help his friend. Kneeling down to meet her worried gaze, he offers a small smile.

Don’t worry, he tries to convey, patting the bottle and whistling that same soothing song that had comforted the fairy before. He taps his shield next, then points to her, as if to say: I’ll protect you.

Unlike earlier, the tune does little to calm her. After a short pause, where her hollow eyes follow his gestures surprisingly keenly, the anti-fairy goes right back to attacking the glass. Apparently, whatever she decided he was saying did not satisfy.

Dark sighs, disappointed. It was worth a try.

Should he free her, he wonders? She’d be able to flee, if she wanted to.

That said, it is safer for her in the bottle. The glass, like all the bottles he uses, has been enchanted to protect whatever they contain from outside forces. Weapons, magic, the decay of time; all is muffled from within. So long as the cork remains sealed, very little could harm the contents. It’s not impossible to break through the enchantment, but it would take a particularly determined foe to do so, and not without risking breaking the bottle itself and setting the anti-fairy free anyway.

Considering the amount of dark magic pouring out of whatever monster approaches, Dark is hesitant to risk her being further corrupted. He refuses to let her get hurt again.

With that in mind, he gives the bottle a final pat in another vain attempt to soothe the anti-fairy, and stands. The only true way to keep her safe and ease her fears, is to remove the cause.

With a sword in hand, a shield upon his arm, and an echo of courage in his chest, Dark Link departs to defeat the encroaching evil.

The fairy’s worry follows.

The central atrium is a vast and beautiful space.

Massive columns reach towards the heavens, supporting two additional levels of complex rooms, hallways, and secret corridors. The main floor is covered with a large intricate mural, the lines weaving into a depiction of plants or feathers. Nature has crept in, gently caressing the stones, pillars, and floors with moss, vines, and flowers. The stonework itself is steeped with spells, the magic belonging to bygone days, giving a whisper of life to the structure that most buildings don’t have. It’s faint, this life, but present all the same.

Overlooking the atrium is a towering statue of an owl. It dominates the room, soaring higher than the tallest pillars. The second level of the Temple is locked behind this rotating monolith, at least to those with normal means of traversal, deterring intruders from trespassing further.

A fact that Dark Link resolves to make sure remains true for the next.

He lies in wait within the shadow of a pillar, running a whetstone over his blade. It’s already sharp enough to sever stone, but Dark finds the action soothing. He’s not fond of fighting.

Yet fighting finds him, always. It’s only ever a matter of time.

Dark sets the whetstone aside with a weary sigh, his eyes flicking to the main entrance. The intruder isn’t far away, now. In a few moments, Dark’s fighting skills will once again be put to use.

The Temple is eerie and still in the night, where the warm daylight hours usually fill the room with a welcoming, if vacant, feeling. Far above, a faceless moon watches, the cold moonlight cutting through the open ceiling to provide a pale, baleful light. Whatever approaches seems to dim the light further, the dark magic the entity exudes eating away at the Temple’s already thin protective magics. Dark, having spent the last several months coaxing the corruption from the stone, can’t help but feel irritated at this. His hard work is being threatened right before his eyes. If this monster remains, if it’s left to fester within these walls, the Temple would once again fall to ruin.

Dark hears the creature before he sees it. An odd clanking of metal echoes down the main hallway that leads to the atrium, followed by staggering and scraping steps. Whatever it is moans quietly, with agonized wet breaths.

It sounds… injured. Dark frowns, some of his irritation bleeding away into concern.

Perhaps it’s unwise to think of healing every horribly corrupted creature he comes across, but, well… as a formerly corrupted creature himself, Dark can’t help but to consider the option. After all, that’s why he’s here in this Temple: To remove the dark magic. Eventually all of it will be gone, except himself, then Dark will leave, too.

Not everything can be cured, he knows. Some monsters are just that: monstrous. Destructive and malignant, gaining strength from the dark magic they consume.

Others are like the fairies, who were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Those who have been consumed by dark magic and lost themselves to it.

The corrupters and the corrupted.

Dark waits to see which kind this one will be.

With another rattling step, a metal boot appears in the doorway. Then another. Then a leg, two, a torso, arms, an axe… and still Dark is confused as to what in the Sacred Realm he’s looking at.

It’s… an Iron Knuckle. Sort of. The size and armor are similar, however it appears to have been melted from the inside-out. The large outer chest plate and helmet are both missing. Its head, little more than a withered skull, is coated with a viscous black substance. It leaks from every shivering joint, the drops of… blood? It’s too thick to be blood… sizzle as they splatter onto the floor, leaving a trail of pain painted down the path behind it.

The creature is definitely wounded. Whatever or whoever dealt this much damage had no intention of leaving it alive.

Dark doesn’t either, if it proves to be a threat.

Searing red eyes, which Dark refuses to compare to his own, survey the room. It studies the exits, the levels, and the owl statue with varying degrees of interest. Dark isn’t sure what it’s looking for, but decides to intervene before it gets any ideas.

Temporary it may be, but this Temple is his home. Not this creature’s new lair.

Dark Link makes no sound as he approaches, appearing a short distance behind the Iron Knuckle. Not close enough to be within reach of its greataxe, but close enough to feel the corruption rolling off of it. The dark magic is so thick that it coils off the skin like steam. Still, depending on how corrupted the Iron Knuckle is, it may yet be saved. Dark has his doubts given how evil the aura it exudes is, but he resolves to try.

If it attempts to avoid him, like the anti-fairies, it may yet be saved. If it becomes aggressive, or tries to corrupt Dark or the Temple like the moblins or stalkin had, then there is nothing Dark can do besides stop it. Until then, his sword rests at his side, held as non-threateningly as possible.

He isn’t certain what to expect once it sees him. Surprise, certainly, since he did appear suddenly. Maybe fear, as Dark knows that he looks frightening to most.

He wasn’t expecting the thing to do a double-take, then scream.

Dark jolts, sword and shield snapping up to the ready. The monster staggers back in shock, armor clanking and black blood splattering. Not much expression shows on its melted face, except for those lidless red eyes. They’re wide, glowing with a strange combination of anger, fear, and… recognition?

Does this monster know him? Have they fought before? Dark doesn’t remember encountering such a creature, but maybe he can still resolve this peacefully. It clearly has intelligence, so—

He gets no further with the thought as the massive battleaxe cracks the ground where he once stood.

His boots land atop the blade, Dark having flipped up and back to dodge the deathly blow in a practiced move. Those wild red eyes are much closer now, and the fear in them has reformed into pure fury.

So much for peace, Dark thinks, as he leaps backwards off the axe. He brings his shield up as he lands back on solid ground, just in time to block the next blow. The force reverberates up his arm, the sound of metal on metal echoing in his ears. He grits his teeth and stands his ground, boots scraping slightly against the smooth stone floor.

Hm. Iron Knuckles are notoriously hard-hitting, but this one is particularly powerful. Despite being injured, the dark magic it has been drenched in has given it unnatural strength.

Dark considers himself lucky that it is already half-dead.

Lucky, and disappointed. He’d truly hoped this monster could be helped. Given the sheer amount of bloodlust being directed at him, Dark doubts anything can be done. He steels himself, preparing to end this fight as quickly and painlessly as he can.

The Iron Knuckle raises its axe far above its head, aiming to carve Dark in half, and then… stops.

Dark pauses, confused. Why has it stopped? Had he judged the situation too soon? Can this creature yet be saved?

Then, it smiles.

A rictus grin of razor-sharp teeth cut through the black sludge of its melted visage. The hollow sockets of its eyes glow bright with sudden understanding, latching on to Dark with cold calculation. Appraisal. Greed. Like Dark is an item on a shelf in a shop, waiting to be claimed.

Disturbed, Dark backs further away and raises his shield. Nothing good ever came from a look like that.

The Iron Knuckle lifts a hand from the hilt of the axe and reaches out. Palm up as if offering, or taking, something. Nothing is visible, and Dark has a brief moment to wonder what it wants, when a sudden crack of magic makes him flinch.

The area above its hand rips shreds tears, twisting the light and chilling the air as it solidifies into something wholly unnatural to this world. Malice and hatred pour into the space, burning at Dark’s senses as if he’d dipped himself into the magma of Death Mountain. It pricks behind his eyes, burns his throat, chokes his lungs, sears his veins.

Despite this, when the magic finally settles, all that remains is a small, unassuming triangle.

It floats there, like a dark mockery of a piece of the Triforce, leaving Dark more bewildered than before.

The Iron Knuckle had attacked him, changed its mind, and then… summoned a triangle?

Dark is no fool – there’s definitely something more going on with it. The artifact the Iron Knuckle wields holds enough power to make a lesser sorcerer swoon. It makes Dark twitchy, reminding him too much of blackened fields and burning skies and crumbling castles. Of a man, a monster, that caused the world to fall.

Ganon.

Why does an Iron Knuckle have such a thing? More importantly, what does it do?

Dark Link, unfortunately, finds out very quickly.

The Iron Knuckle, already grinning in victory, activates the artifact. A pulse, a call, a song, echoes through the atrium, into his soul, and oh… how it sings. A sweet and melodic magic caresses his mind, relaxing his muscles and easing his worries. This magic isn’t evil, no. How could he have ever thought it evil? Or the Iron Knuckle that holds it? Such power is to be coveted, and those that wield it followed and protected. Of course, everything makes sense now. Dark Link should have been obeying the Iron Knuckle from the beginning.

Together, with it as his master, they could conquer the world—

There’s a thud, wet and metallic.

The song cuts off abruptly, like the hand that now lay on the Temple floor, and the triangular artifact fizzles out of existence from where it had hovered above twitching fingers.

Dark’s sword drips with black blood. It sizzles against the stone, burning only half as hot as his fury.

This thing would try to take him? His mind and soul? To use him to destroy this world that he holds so dear?

No.

Never again.

The Iron Knuckle stares blankly at the stump of its wrist, momentarily stunned, then down to the lost limb currently melting into a puddle on the ground.

It screams, recoiling away from Dark in shock and abject horror. He gives it no time to recover, pressing forward with a flurry of attacks that the Iron Knuckle couldn’t hope to block. Chunks of armor clank and clatter as they join the hand on the floor. Chainmail hangs in tattered ribbons, torn and useless. Black blood pours in rivers, following the lines of the murals etched into the tiles.

The greataxe swings around in a desperate and pitiful attempt to fend him off, but Dark Link is long past caring. He is single-minded in his vengeance, having abandoned defense for a pure offensive assault. Somewhere in his mind, beyond the anger at the attempted mind-control, he knows this to be foolish. He also knows that this monster needs to die, as quickly as possible, before it can try to corrupt anything else.

Despite the shield on Dark's arm being forgotten, the Iron Knuckle doesn’t manage to hit him once. He is swift, where Iron Knuckles are slow. Besides, if the axe ever does get too close, he can always use a little bit of dark magic to slip through the shadows for a quick escape.

He doesn’t need to. The axe begins to flail around less and less, the monster’s strength being whittled away with every slice of Dark’s sword. Soon, it clatters to the ground, followed by the Iron Knuckle. It lands in a heap of its own blood and armor, where it groans in misery and defeat.

Dark Link stands over it, glaring down at his enemy. The Iron Knuckle glares back, infuriated.

Its mouth creaks open.

“Mercy,” it pleads, voice like shards of glass scraping over rust.

Dark pauses. Part of him is irritated this thing would dare to ask that of him after it tried to enslave him. The other part listens, and considers his options. A swift death is usually the only mercy he can offer to beings as evil as this, but maybe he could draw out the corruption, bit by bit, and—

Hot, searing pain bites into his side.

A shriek rips from Dark’s throat, short and choked. He stumbles back, looking down to find a large wound torn through his tunic. From it, red drips down onto the floor, where it mixes like oil and water into the viscous black blood.

The Iron Knuckle laughs, gleeful and vindictive. The greataxe is gone, replaced by a sword that glows red with malice, held in the monster’s one remaining hand.

“Fool,” it hisses, grinning through bloody teeth. “You should have joined me when you had the chance.”

Dark glares, clutching his side. The wound burns.

“You haven’t won, little wretch. Not in any way that matters,” the Iron Knuckle continues, as Dark feels the heat from the wound spread further throughout his body with every heartbeat.

What is this? Poison? A curse? Another type of corruption?

It laughs again. Hoarse and weak, yet full of hatred. “I shall enjoy knowing you suffered in death.”

With one last rattling cackle, the Iron Knuckle collapses. Dark steps aside as its body bursts into black blood and smoke. Left behind is nothing except for a stain upon the stone, broken bits of armor, the strange sword, and more questions than Dark Link could ever hope to answer.

The anti-fairy is waiting for him when he staggers back to camp.

He whistles a wavering greeting, though the sound may have been the wheezing of his lungs, and tries to pat the bottle in welcome. He misses, tries twice more, and thinks this would be a lot easier if the bottle stopped moving so much. The fairy inside flits in anxious circles, the motion making Dark dizzy. ...Well. Dizzier.

But she’s safe now. That’s the important part.

The strange, probably cursed, weapon is unceremoniously dropped to the ground along with his own sword and shield. Once he feels less like his insides are caving in, he’ll attempt to analyze it. The Iron Knuckle had somehow shape-shifted it, he’s sure, from the greataxe. Which is fascinating, and Dark absolutely wants to learn more about it, but he mainly needs to know what kind of curse is embedded in it. And his side.

But that’s for later. For now, Dark stumbles over to his tent and promptly collapses into his nest of blankets. Sleep now, then study the weird sword when he wakes up. Maybe make some bandages and medicine, too, if things get bad.

Something about that strikes him as backwards, but he’s too tired to care. He rolls over, huddles further into his blankets, and prays nothing else arrives that could attack him while he sleeps.

The sun shines far overhead when nine more figures step through the portal.

“It’s in there?” one asks.

“Without a doubt.”

Chapter Text

He knows that face.

The man (or is he just a boy? Too young, too young, holding a sword almost too heavy to lift) turns towards him. Eyes, sharp and wary, look around the space as confusion knits his brow.

The door had not opened. It had never opened for him, either, no matter how he clawed or struck at it. Now all that fills the room (too small, too vast) is cold water, endless mist, and…

“Watch out!”

The words snap him to attention, the same as his doppelganger. A small fairy flits in close, her pale blue glow making his hollowed heart ache. He wants to reach out, to let her hover over his fingers, to feel the warm hum of magic flutter from her wings. He wants to play a song alongside her chiming voice, to chase her through long lost places, to fall asleep in the sway of trees.

Instead, his sword and shield snap up.

The hero mirrors him, and strikes.

Dark Link snaps awake with a choked scream, flinging himself away from the blade. His back hits something thin, like stalfos bones or deadwood trees, and his already foggy world becomes suddenly darker. A heavy weight collapses overtop him, thick and oppressive, and Dark drowns and drowns and drowns—

Ping!

He struggles. Fights. It’s all he knows, all he’s ever known to do. Even as swords clash, strength fails, and defeat looms—

Ping!

Everything hurts. Pain lances up his side, cutting between his ribs. The blade had burned with holy light, but… it shouldn’t. It shouldn’t burn him, yet it does. He gasps and wheezes, the sound barely audible over the sound of water—

Ping!

—and something else. Something smaller. Familiar. But nothing in the room ever sounded like that before, so why… Dark slows his frantic movements, trying to listen. At the same time, he manages to grab hold of the thing on top of him, throwing whatever it is off, out of his face, so he can see and breathe and—

…oh.

There is no hero. Nothing to fight. No small, infinite room filled with water and fragmented memories.

There’s a tent, now collapsed. A dented kettle, spilled and dry. A burnt-out fire. Bits and bobs of his things, like his potion-making supplies and bottles. A row of tiny clay figures no taller than his thumb dot the flat edge of a broken pillar, depicting people and fairies molded from half-made memories. Plants, dried or drying, are tied up on a thin rope above his worktable; more ingredients for cures he hoped to make. On the table is the half-finished Magic Powder, and—

Ping!

—The anti-fairy, furiously bouncing around the inside of the bottle.

He stares at her, and his home, and tries with every shuddery breath to feel safe again.

It doesn’t work. Theres a lingering sense of dread, something wrong wrong wrong, that clings to his senses. It takes him several long minutes just to breathe properly, and several more to figure out what had happened.

He’d… fought a monster. An Iron Knuckle so corrupted by dark magic that it had bled black. The substance was thick, viscous, and had no business being anywhere near his Temple. Dark had killed it… but not before taking a blow himself.

Dark peels away the blankets, tangled from when he’d flailed about, with a shaky hand. He fingers don’t want to grip, but he manages to shove the fabric off to see…

Red.

So much red.

Blood soaks his side, pasting his clothes to his skin in half-dried layers of fabric and flesh. The size of the cut is almost the length of his hand, carving into him under the edge of his ribs. Clean and straight, like most sword wounds, with no ragged edges or tearing. With each heartbeat, too fast, too strained, a beat of scarlet magic pulses through it.

As if acknowledging the wound was all the permission it needed, pain stabs into him, bright and fresh and burning. He curls up where he lay, letting go of the edge of the tent so that it flops back down, as if hiding the wound from view might make it disappear. This, unsurprisingly, doesn’t work, and the light weight of the fabric brushing over the inflamed skin feels more like he’d dragged a barbed net full of coals over it instead. The moan that escapes him is one of pure misery.

Heal. He has to… heal himself. Fix up his side, somehow. The poison, curse, corruption, wrong wrong wrong – he needs to get it out.

His eyes drift, catching on the worktable and storage chest. There are a couple health potions among his supplies; he always makes sure to have one or two on hand as he travels to heal wounded animals or uncorrupted creatures. He has found that if a creature has been corrupted for a long amount of time, they’re often weakened after the dark magic is removed. Health potions help to get them back on their feet.

Whether or not a health potion can help with horrifically painful dark magic wounds afflicted by strange swords, however, is a different question entirely. His intuition says no, but the tiny voice of optimism tells him his luck can’t be that bad.

…He hates to break the news to his optimism, but his luck betrayed him ages ago.

Regardless, there are other supplies available. Herbs, Magic Mushrooms, Fairy Fountain water, among other things. All of it collected or cultivated for curatives. At the very least, he knows some can help with the pain.

Dark moves, or tries to. The last dregs of adrenaline that had woken him from his fitful sleep has all but burned out. Standing is out of the question, so he opts to simply drag himself across the floor instead. Dark gets an arm under his torso, managing to prop himself up on his elbow, and pulls.

The world lurches, his home tilting and turning in sickening motions. He stops, the solidity of the stone beneath him acting as his only anchor in the maelstrom. He breathes through the agony, he has always been good at that, and waits for the blackened spots in his sight to recede. Then, he pulls. Stops. Breathes. Pulls, stops, breathes. Pulls— The camp he can usually cross in four or five steps feels as if it has become the length of Hyrule Field instead.

Then, thump. His head bumps into something hard and unyielding. When he drags his eyes up from the floor, he finds that he has reached his worktable. One last pull has him slumped against the side of the slab of stone, his body trembling from the effort.

The surface is covered in a messy scatter of items. He has never been the most tidy crafter, leaving everything out in a pile of organized chaos as he worked. He knew where everything was, but to an outsider it probably looked like he’d accidentally set off a bomb flower.

It doesn’t help that he’d been interrupted. The Magic Powder, currently more like Magic Paste, was as he left it in the mortar with the pestle stuck halfway into it. He must not have been asleep for very long, because only the very top layer has dried, leaving the glowing surface with a crackled texture that reveals the still-wet mixture beneath. Next to it are small piles of mushrooms; whole, chopped, and diced. A small knife, measuring tools, and other mixing utensils are placed nearby, having been used in the process of making the Magic Powder.

Past all of that, and far more important, is the anti-fairy. Her aura still fizzles and snaps with distress, but she had thankfully stopped her frantic ricochet when she saw him moving towards the table.

Dark whistles to her. Or tries to. His body just doesn’t want to work right, he’s exhausted, even his lips don’t want to purse. He gets it after a few tries, a short and warbling note. It sounds strange through the hum in his ears.

She hisses in reply, short and worried. Dark finds he doesn’t have the energy to reassure her.

Instead, he reaches past her to the storage chest, moving carefully to not anger his wound any further. The chest is almost in worse disarray than the table, due to his hurried dive inside to fetch his sword and shield. The health potion he grabs had tipped over, though thankfully hadn’t leaked due to a sturdy seal.

A seal which he regrets making so strong, as he struggles to pry it free. The weakness in his limbs and fingers make it almost impossible to open. After another brief moment of struggle, he gives up the standard method and sinks his teeth into the cork and yanks. It comes free with a satisfying pop sound, a small amount of potion splashing his tunic. At least the red color blends in with the rest.

Dark spits out the cork and downs the potion in one go. He always found the flavor odd. Overly sweet and salty at the same time, like apples dunked in garlic. He makes a mental note to make some strong tea, or else the taste would linger in his mouth for hours. Which is usually tolerable, a health potion sometimes meant the difference between life and death, after all. Better than bleeding out.

…Is what he would say, if the heath potion actually did anything.

Dark peels his tunic off to find the cut is still there. Still bleeding. Still cursed. Not healed at all.

He tries the Fairy Fountain water next. There’s only a half a bottle left, the other half used in the making the Magic Powder. He hates to use such a rare and precious resource on a chance, but… he drinks it. A temporary, hope-filled, surge of magical energy lights within him like a candle wick… only to be snuffed out a moment later.

Dark stares grimly at the empty bottle, his mind racing. The wrong wrong wrong feeling hums under his skin like spite.

The cures had worked. The curse had simply worked better.

It’s no great wonder why the Iron Knuckle had been so gleeful after it had struck him. For someone to be unable to heal from the simplest of wounds… Even if it weren’t alive to see it, that one strike would all but guaranteed its victim’s death.

Clever. And cruel. If he survives this, Dark is going to start work on a cure immediately.

Then again, maybe he already has? Dark’s eyes snap to the Magic Powder. It has many effects if applied in different ways, but what he mainly uses it for is cleansing corrupted creatures of dark magic.

He looks back to the cut on his side, which is definitely infected with dark magic, then back to the powder. He hesitates, the knowledge that it was intended to be used for curing the anti-fairy gnawing at him. There’s no guarantee it would counter the curse, the powder isn’t even finished, and it could take weeks to make another batch if he used it. He could bottle up his remaining mushrooms to preserve them, but he’d still need to find another Fairy Fountain for water. The thought that the fairy would be bottled the whole time…

The anti-fairy glares at him from within the glass. She hisses loudly, and although there are no chimes or words, it’s the most distinct “don’t be a dumbass” he’s ever heard.

Dark uses the Magic Powder.

He scoops the paste onto his fingers, trying not to feel guilty about it. However, aside from the fairy’s ire, his common sense comes in to remind him: he needs to be alive to be able to finish the powder for the fairy. If he dies, she’d be stuck as an anti-fairy, possibly forever.

The cooling effect on his fingers is promising. The paste is drawing out the dark magic from his skin like frost over flames. The feeling is subtle, muted, and Dark is certain that if he let the powder finish steeping that it would be much more effective. Dark doesn’t think he has that much time, however... He’ll have to use it as-is.

Tentatively, he touches it to the wound.

Like a shot from an ice arrow, a stab of cold pain shoots right into his ribs. When he looks, he half-expects the skin to be frostbitten, but this is a good kind of pain. One he recognizes, and knows like an old and familiar friend: light and dark, endlessly fighting. In this case, the dark magic from the curse, and the light magic in the paste, clashing with one another. Dark is the unfortunate battlefield.

Better that than being consumed again. If this hadn’t worked, he’d have needed to take more… drastic measures.

He applies the remaining paste and wraps the wound with bandages. The dressing is sloppy, uneven, but he’s too tired to make it better. It’s mostly meant to keep the Magic Powder paste in contact with the wound, anyway. The thin strips of fabric glow faintly with magic.

A spare blanket is pulled from the chest. Dark drags it over himself, knowing that he doesn’t have the energy to clean or remake his tent. If… when he wakes up, he’ll have so much cleaning to do. He looks out over his small camp, feeling even smaller. Alone.

A short hiss from nearby reminds him how wrong he is, and he turns to give the anti-fairy a small, grateful, smile.

He hesitates, then gently lifts the bottle and, when she doesn’t protest, hugs her into the fabric at his chest. Her hisses and snaps turn deliberate, like the notes of a song. The aching loneliness fades.

He sleeps.

Is this a dream?

All the rooms are the same, or so similar that he can hardly tell the difference. Stone floors, stone walls, stone doors, stone pillars. Metal torches or braziers dot the rooms. Sometimes the floor is riddled with holes and pitfalls, or square carved blocks.

Something in him wants to move the blocks. Shoot the burnt-out braziers. Dive deeper into the depths of this mysterious place. But he has another task. What it is, he isn’t sure. Something called him here, far louder than his desire to explore.

Ahead of him, a young man shoves a block into place. A door opens.

Dark follows.

The man turns. His face is familiar, yet not. So is the sword.

Is this a dream?

Dark wakes up, groggy and confused, but alive.

His mind snags on snippets of memories; flickers of flames, flashes of cold steel, shouts of defeat over and over and over—

He shudders. He’s no stranger to nightmares, his years spent consumed by corruption occasionally clawing to the surface of his mind as he sleeps. It’s not something he likes to think about while awake, but sometimes… sometimes his mind drags him back, just to make sure that he doesn’t forget.

Dark will never forget.

He shakes off the lingering regrets as best he can, though he finds the feeling doesn’t disappear. It never does, really, but this is different. It’s wrong wrong wrong… Clinging. Cruel. The curse?

Dark looks to his side. The wound throbs with every heartbeat, the corruption continuing to burn under his skin like a fever. The Magic Powder paste seemed to have helped, but the effect had worn off as he slept. Cracked and dried, the remnants flake off like dust as he removes the bandages, the magic within spent.

It worked, but not enough.

Drastic measures it is, then.

The anti-fairy hisses worriedly at him as he sets her bottle aside, perhaps sensing his intent. There is one other way he knows of to remove dark magic. However, he usually uses it for objects, not people. Things that aren’t alive. Things that can’t feel pain.

This Temple was once riddled with dark magic and monsters. Dark had liberated it of both, with the help of this… spell, though that’s not quite the right term. There are no words or music to cast it like a witch or sorcerer would. He doesn’t need a staff or magic rod. It’s an ability, a lingering effect of his corruption long ago, that he retained after he broke free.

Dark is drawn to dark magic, and it to him.

It’s how he finds these fallen Temples. With some extra effort, it also helps him to free them from the dark magic corrupting them. Pulls it away, collects it, condenses it into a form separate from which it infects. Something easily discarded or hidden in a chest.

Or snacked on.

Dark isn’t a normal Hylian anymore. He doesn’t need food or water to survive, though he can eat or drink of he wants to. What he does need is magic. Usually there’s enough ambient magic in the environment, Hyrule practically hums with it, but if he ever needs more, he can condense it and save it for later.

In other words, he can create rupees.

If he draws enough dark magic from buildings or fallen foes, the magic collects into a black gem. Harmless and contained, though he did make the mistake of storing one in a chest with a different colored rupee, once. They’d neutralized each other, both gems vanishing in a blink, leaving the box empty. Apparently, light and dark don't get along even among magic crystals.

Sometimes, if a creature is heavily corrupted but still has strength, Dark can draw the dark magic out in small portions. Each attempt creates a black rupee. It’s risky and painful, and something he only uses as a last resort.

He would never use it on an anti-fairy, for example. Their entire bodies are made of magic, to draw it out would mean there would be nothing left. For them, the Magic Powder is the only safe way.

Dark is also a magic being, but he has a mostly-Hylian body. He should be fine.

Probably.

He hovers his hand over the wound and reaches out his senses. His own magic answers first, weak and fluttery. All around it roars a poison, a burning malice wanting only to devour.

Dark latches onto it, and pulls.

It clings to him like briars, thorns digging in and refusing to let go. It tears through, ripping up his magic, his memories, his mind. Defensive, as if causing him agony would get him to stop. He doesn’t. Every fight flickering behind his eyes, every loss and aching regret, he knows them. Has accepted they happened. Knows what hurt he caused. Such things still haunt him, of course they do, but that won’t stop him from living.

A black gem clatters to the ground.

Dark follows.

The room is dark.

Fabric folds down the walls like flowing water. Behind him, on a dais, a young woman slumbers. He would think this a strange place to sleep, if he wasn’t so preoccupied with it also being a strange place to fight.

His shield comes up, blocking a swift stab. Is he defending her, he wonders? She looks different than what he remembers, but that’s fine. He’d defend a stranger, too.

Dark returns the stab, catching his attacker just under the ribs. Red flows freely. For a moment, he thinks he might actually win this fight.

But the man can heal himself.

Dark can’t.

When he falls, he wonders why the blood pouring out of him isn’t red.

Dark wishes blood wasn’t so difficult to clean.

He scrubs his hands, freeing the last bit of red from his greyish-black skin. He avoids looking at his reflection in the water as he works, only catching glimpses of red eyes and silver hair. Sometimes, he swears they flicker into other colors. Pale skin. Blue-grey eyes. Blond hair. He finds it best to ignore it.

The air is cold and damp from the constant flow of water through the room. He had, thankfully, disabled the spike traps in the water when he first explored this Temple. It was now his main source of water, though he isn’t certain of exactly where it comes from. There are trace amounts of magic in the water, but it’s so faint that he can’t tell if it’s from the spell used to pump it here, or naturally occurring. Hyrule’s magic runs deep, down to the world’s very foundation: Nayru’s gift to the land during its creation.

Next to him is a pile of neatly folded cloth. He had spent the last hour scouring the blood from the fabric of his blankets, tunic, and the tapestry that made up his tent, thanks to the mess he made of his camp.

He brushes his fingers, numb from the cold water, over the top-most piece: the tapestry. There’s still a stain. A faint mark, like a scar, left behind upon the woven threads. It disrupts the design, botching over a beautiful and abstract collage of wings and feathers. Stitched among them is a complex swirl of lines depicting an owl with large golden eyes.

Nayru, the Goddess of Wisdom.

Dark stares at the stain upon her tapestry, and wonders if she knew how corrupted her gift could become. How easily evil could take root, grow, and consume.

He wonders if she, or any of the Golden Goddesses, care.

They had made the world, instilled it with life, potential, purpose, and then… left. Abandoned their work. Mostly. Dark does believe that they hold some influence, or are at least aware of Hyrule, but it’s a distant sort of love. Like placing a piece of art on a shelf to be looked at and appreciated, only occasionally cleaned when it gets too dusty or dirty.

Dark folds the tapestry over, the eyes of the owl disappearing from sight. Still there, still present, but hidden from view. He scoops up the pile, his side pulling painfully beneath the bandages as he stumbles back to camp. It’s no longer festering with corruption, but is plenty happy to remind him that he has done far too much moving around for someone with a barely-healed sword wound.

He ignores it for a while longer, making sure all the blankets are hanging up to dry. The heat of the fire would steam away the worst of the wet within a few hours. In the meantime, Dark sets his dented kettle near the coals to make some tea, and sits down nearby to soak in the warmth.

He wakes to war.

Movement. Quick and chaotic and everywhere. Bodies surge, scream, and fall. Hylians and monsters lay in a scatter as far as he can see. Walls crumble. The sky burns. The dirt goes sticky and red. All around him is noise, loud and deafening or short and choked. Flashes of light blind him from bursts of magic or explosions.

He doesn’t know why he’s here. He hadn’t been here a moment ago.

The man before him spins around to face him, his blue scarf swirling.

Nearby, a woman laughs. “The darkness nurtured within you shall be your undoing!”

Is that what this is? Why nothing makes sense? Why he’s trapped in this endless cycle of fighting?

Dark Link falls.

He wakes to war.

Another nightmare.

At this point, Dark is certain the visions have something to do with the curse. He is used to having nightmares occasionally, but not to this degree or frequency. Not to the point of reliving his deaths every time he closes his eyes. The curse had been out to claim his life, burning away at his body and mind both. Had he been a normal Hylian, he has no doubt it would have succeeded.

Dark picks up the sword the Iron Knuckle had used. The sharp edge of the blade flickers with scarlet light, calling for blood to match the color. The most it gets is a glare from Dark’s red eyes.

You’ve taken enough of my blood, you little fiend, Dark thinks at it irritably.

As interesting as this blade is, he’s still curious about how it shapeshifts, it may be best to destroy it. The only purpose of the curse seems to be to cause suffering, or a slow and anguished death. Hyrule would be better off without it.

A surge of magic ripples through the Temple.

Dark staggers to his feet, the fate of the sword momentarily forgotten. It’s coming from the entrance again. Another monster, like the Iron Knuckle? But no… the magic is different. In fact, there’s barely any dark magic at all. Instead, it’s a blinding kaleidoscope of elements and enchantments.

That, and a lot of light magic.

Confused, but determined to defend his home, Dark scoops up his shield and stumbles down the hall. It had better not be more monsters; he doesn’t think he could survive another fight like before. He’s over halfway to the atrium when he realizes that he’s holding the cursed sword instead of his own, and mentally swears. He can’t fight with this. Even if it’s monsters that he’s facing, he refuses to inflict such a cruel curse on another living being.

He'll look first, he decides. If the intruders are a threat, he’ll go back and grab his actual sword. For now, he continues forward. Slowly. Much slower than he’d like, due to the exhaustion and injury. By the time he reaches the atrium, the intruders are already there.

The area is bright with the noonday sun, the open ceiling letting in large streaks of shimmering light. It’s beautiful, and Dark much prefers it over the cold shadows cast by moonlight from the night before. The only thing marring the space is a large smear of black over the tiles in the center, where the Iron Knuckle died. Even from here, Dark can sense the dark magic lingering in the stain. He’ll have to draw it out soon, before it soaks into the magic of the Temple.

That will have to be later, because surrounding the stain are nine people. All of them are fully armed and armored, their equipment layered with so many different types of magic that Dark’s senses don’t know what to focus on first. He settles on their faces, which turn to look at him as he enters. He freezes.

Heroes. People he has fought, some that he has not. None that he had ever wanted to see again.

“Get him!”

He runs.

Chapter Text

Get the fairy and run.

Get the fairy and run.

Get the fairy—

An arrow whips past his ear.

—and run very, very fast.

Adrenaline is a lovely thing. It makes fleeing for his life with a half-healed wound in his side far less painful. Oh, he’ll certainly regret it later, but he’ll also be alive to add it to his pile of regrets, so that’s fine.

He just has to, well. Survive, first.

Not very likely, with nine Heroes on his tail.

…How the hell are there nine Heroes all in one place? Why did that place have to be here?

And why are they so pissed?

The searing heat of flames brush his back, and he dives into a connecting hallway to dodge it. The only thing saving him right now are the narrow hallways, which make it difficult for more than one or two of them to attack him at once. The clatter of heavy boots and armor echo after him, and Dark thinks fast.

He absolutely cannot lead them to his camp. The anti-fairy is still corrupted by dark magic, and as Dark can personally attest, Heroes have a tendency to stab things like that.

But he needs a weapon he can use, not this horrid cursed sword. Without that he has no hope of defending her or himself, if it comes to a fight.

He really, really doesn’t want it to come to a fight. As his recent nightmares have so kindly reminded him, facing off against a Hero only ever meant defeat and a painful death. To face off against nine of them at once only meant that death would be his fastest yet.

Dark skids into the next room, which happens to be the water room. He’d much rather be doing his laundry again than fleeing for his life, but alas. He leaps down the stairs and splashes into the ankle-deep water, an idea forming frantically in his mind as he sprints through. He might not have a useable weapon, but the Temple itself has some defenses of its own. He’d already deactivated the traps in this room, but that doesn’t mean he can’t switch them back on.

Should he, though? He doesn’t actually dislike any of the Heroes, and intentionally causing them injury feels unnervingly similar to their previous encounters. It’s definitely self-defense this time, but he doubts the Heroes would be able to tell the difference. Or care to.

An arrow pins his hat to the wall, and he thinks that maybe this is an “act now, apologize later” kind of situation.

Dark dives, hatless, through the door and smacks the trigger for the traps. The door slams shut behind him, cutting off the sudden sounds of blade traps, Sparks, and shouting as chaos erupts within.

…They’re probably fine.

Dark doubles over, heaving for breath and clutching his side. He can’t stop for long. A simple trap room like that wouldn’t hold back a single Hero worth the title, let alone nine.

He staggers forward, using the wall for support. Unfortunately, the route to his camp isn’t complicated. A few split paths, but nothing that would slow down a small horde of angry Heroes for a significant amount of time. Which means Dark needs to get the anti-fairy and get gone. Heroes are like the worst persistence predator, never giving up until the task is done.

The task, apparently, being Dark on the end of a sword.

He'd be more amazed at how quickly things went to shit, if that wasn’t the basic definition of his life.

Would this be the last time he walked these halls? He’d grown so used to living in this Temple that the thought of leaving makes his heart ache. He knew that he’d move on eventually, but this is different. Sudden. Unplanned. He wants to be able to wander through the rooms one last time, see all the delicate carvings, statues, and puzzles. He wants to keep the place free of dark magic for a while longer, to take care of the plants that grow between the tiles, to work on more potions on his messy table.

This is his home. He doesn’t want to leave.

With the Heroes hunting him down, however, he doesn’t have another choice.

Fighting them is out of the question. He could hide, he supposes… Dive deeper into the depths of the Temple and hope they don’t find him. The thought doesn’t sit well with him, to hide like a coward. He doesn’t like running away, either. If he believed he could actually survive a clash with all nine of them, he’d raise his sword and face them. No hesitation.

But previous experience has taught him the chance of surviving such an event is non-existent, so if he wants to live long enough to cure the anti-fairy, fighting them isn’t an option.

Dark’s camp comes into view, the warm light of the campfire he’d left burning welcoming him back. On the table, the fairy flits in frantic circles in her bottle. He winces, regretting leaving her behind to fear the worst, especially after he’d done the same the night before and returned half-dead. He scoops her up, whistling a short sound in apology, then hurries over to the chest. There is only one other thing he needs, aside from his sword and the anti-fairy. All else, he can leave behind. Mushrooms can be re-gathered, bottles re-enchanted, potions re-made.

But this…

Dark lifts out a small pouch. It’s probably the most unassuming thing in this entire Temple, and designed that way on purpose. Dark usually carries it on his person, but sometimes… sometimes the weight of it is too much. The edges too sharp, despite the soft fabric and layers of protective spells. He honestly wishes he could leave it behind.

For now, he tucks the small bag into his boot. He does not want the Heroes finding it, no matter what. Best to keep it on his person.

He tries to ignore the pressure against his ankle as he fetches his sword. His actual sword, not the nightmare-inducing thing writhing with corrupted light in his hand. He shoves it into the sheath he uses for his normal sword. It doesn’t fit right, rattling loosely as he slings it over his shoulder. The malice itches across his back. Unlike the pouch, leaving the corrupted sword behind is an option... However, he still wants to try to counter the curse or, at the very least, destroy the weapon entirely.

Later. He has to get the fairy, and himself, to safety first.

Dark looks over his camp for what is likely the last time. The anti-fairy’s aura simmers, quiet and sad, perhaps sensing his emotions. The clay sculptures, his blankets, his potion supplies… he’d take it all with him if he could.

He sets his sword aside for a moment to pick up the kettle, partially filled with lukewarm tea, and brushes his thumb over the dent. It’s just a kettle. It shouldn’t matter.

It does.

He sighs, knowing he can’t linger any longer. The Heroes could be here any moment.

Distractedly, he stretches out his senses, checking on their progress through the Temple. He expects to find the kaleidoscope of magics wandering the maze-like paths, a decent distance away from his camp.

He is not expecting them to be practically on top of him.

Dark jolts, panicked. How did they find him so fast??

A clink of chain and a growl answer him.

When he whirls around, two bright blue eyes greet him, glowing in the darkness outside the light of his fire. Surrounding them is fur, pointed ears, and teeth.

A wolf.

Dark has a brief moment to wonder why the wolf has the same magic as a Hero, how the hell it got in here, and who dared to put a chain on its ankle, when the beast lunges.

He yelps, flings the kettle at it, and flees.

Dark skids into the hallway, feeling a little bad about the metallic clang and yip sound behind him, and promptly realizes just how screwed he is. The anti-fairy hisses in alarm from where he has her bottle clutched in the crook of his elbow, behind his shield.

“Going somewhere?”

For a moment, Dark sees double. The Hero of Time standing before him, and his own reflection in the Mirror Shield he carries. The edges of his vision fill with mist, and his feet feel heavy as if weighed down by ankle-deep water.

The illusion is broken by the Biggoron Sword slamming down. The giant blade carves a line into the ceiling, which Dark notes as he flips back to land on the blade. His instincts, thankfully, saving him from being cut in half. He stares at his doppelganger from his perch and debates if this is better or worse than fighting the black-blooded Iron Knuckle.

Worse, he decides a moment later as he leaps back, when he sees the other Heroes gathering behind the man like a small army, wearing expressions more unforgiving than Ganon. In their hands are weapons of all sorts: magic rods, bows, swords, boomerangs, and other tools he doesn’t recognize.

Dark has nothing. His sword had been left behind by the campfire after the wolf had snuck up on him. He has a cursed weapon he can’t use, a few scraps of dark magic that wouldn’t get him anywhere, and a really, really dumb idea.

He goes with the dumb idea.

In a moment, his hand is on the hilt of the cursed blade.

In the next, it clatters to the floor.

His shield follows, along with every prayer he can manage in between the panicked swearing in his mind. The problem with this plan, a desperate surrender, is that it relies entirely on Heroes being too damn nice for their own good.

And maybe forgetting that he tried to murder some of them in the past.

A minor detail.

The far more important detail is that he doesn’t get murdered now. Running hadn’t worked. Activating the Temple’s defenses had only delayed the inevitable. Fighting was never an option.

So… surrender, it is.

He holds his hand up, bare and empty. His other hand still clutching the anti-fairy’s bottle to his uninjured side, unwilling to part with her or leave her entirely defenseless. If the Heroes decide mercy isn’t an option, he’d protect her with his life. His fingers twitch towards the cork, willing to free her even if it meant her living on with corruption. It’s not a good option, but it’s better than being dead.

The Heroes stare at the sword. They stare at him. Dark stares back, and waits.

“Did… did he just surrender?”

Dark nods emphatically, then attempts not to wilt into the floor at the attention.

“Uh,” the long-haired one continues, clearly baffled. “Can he… do that?”

One of the shorter ones, a kid in a long blue tunic with a crab embroidered on the front, shrugs bewilderedly. “I… guess?”

Okay. Okay, this might be working—

“No,” Blue-scarf corrects coldly, just like the hostile wars Dark so regretfully endured with him. Or rather, against him. This Hero - a captain, he vaguely recalls - has cut him down many times, thanks to paradoxical time-magic. It seems he remembers it just as much as Dark does, and bitterly so. “No, this has to be a trick. There’s no way Dark Link would surrender.”

Nevermind, this is definitely not working. He takes a wary, half-step back.

“Don’t move,” Pinky snaps at him. Dark freezes again, though his muscles remain ready to run. This is another one he has fought before, though he doesn’t recall the Hero’s hair being that… vibrant. “Put the bottle down and get down on the ground.”

That involves moving, you contradictory jerk. Dark glares, but slowly, very slowly, complies. He bends down, eyes locked on the rather unnecessary number of pointy objects directed his way, and sets the bottled anti-fairy on the floor. She chitters anxiously, pressing against the glass closest to Dark. His lips press into a thin line, and he has to force himself to pull his hands away so he doesn’t hide her away from the attention, the one thing the enchantment on the bottle can’t protect her from.

He stays low, bending his legs so they fold beneath him. He sits back on his heels with his hands raised and empty.

There, see, horde of Heroes? He’s just kneeling here, defenseless. Harmless. No need to stab something that can’t stab back, right?

His heart thumps heavy in his chest. Sweat drips down his neck. His side aches.

He waits.

Swords remain steady, bows taut, and magic primed. None of them seem to know what to do, Dark least of all. He stays put, trying to keep his heart from breaking out of his chest, as the Heroes spread out to surround him.

“Kinda looks like he is surrendering,” Long-hair points out to the bewildered captain.

The man just can’t seem to comprehend it. “But why??”

“That is the question, isn’t it?” The Hero of Time steps forward, finally breaking out of his battle stance. He’s tall enough to loom, and does so quite effectively with the heavy armor and giant sword. Dark takes note of the distinct tattoos on his face and scarred over eye, new marks that weren’t there the last time he saw him. He’d have been perfectly fine never knowing they were there, or ever meeting this man again. “Why do any of this?”

Dark has the distinct feeling the Hero is not talking about him surrendering, anymore.

“That was a question,” the captain reiterates lowly as he approaches, sword drawn and very sharp. “Best get used to them, because we have a lot for you.”

That… might be a problem.

Firstly, because he has no blessed idea about the “any of this” the Hero of Time is referring to. Dark had been happily living out his days in a forgotten corner of the world healing fairies until a giant goopy axe-wielding monster tried to murder him, followed by nine Heroes (plus a mysterious dog) who also tried to murder him.

Secondly, because he doesn’t speak.

He can whistle. Grunt, or make other inarticulate sounds. Sometimes screams wake him from nightmares, or escape him when he’s hurt.

But his voice, his words…

Those broke when he did, all that time ago.

Now, in the present, he almost wishes his voice would return, if only to give the Heroes one less reason to stab him. He hadn’t planned much further beyond surrendering, not having expected it to work as well as it did. He supposes it would have been too easy if they just let him go.

“Well?” the captain prods, his blade twitching in irritation when he doesn’t answer.

Before he can even try, the wolf pads over.

Dark watches warily as it gives him a suspicious sniff. It looks up, studying him with oddly expressive blue eyes, then tilts its head as if confused. Dark mirrors the gesture, equally baffled by this strange dark magic dog. At least it’s not trying to bite his head off now.

“Twilight?” The Hero of Time prompts, with what Dark assumes is the name of the wolf.

Dark jerks back slightly as a sudden surge of dark magic occurs in front of him, his eyes widening as the wolf dissolves into fractals of shadow. The animalistic silhouette shifts from four legs onto two, the fur changing into dark green tunic and leather armor. The magic settles, the shadows flickering away until all that remains is a crystal hanging from the neck of a man, and Dark belatedly realizes why the wolf’s magic had felt like a Hero’s.

Twilight stares him down, the dark magic sigil on his brow furrowing. “Something ain’t right.”

Thank you, weird wolf man, for stating the obvious.

“What do you mean?” The Hero of Time asks.

Twilight shakes his head. “He don’t smell right.”

…Excuse me?

Pinky blinks, clearly thrown off. “What?”

“The scent of the Shadow smelled like ashes, metal, an’ death,” Twilight explains, wrinkling his nose in disgust. He gestures to Dark, and his expression eases into confusion. “This guy smells like a potion shop.”

Given the sheer number of herbs, mushrooms, and questionable magical substances Dark regularly has his hands in, that makes sense. He’s not sure how he feels about walking around smelling like potions though, knowing what all goes into them. Some ingredients are a lot stranger than mushrooms and fairy fountain water.

“So, he’s…. not the same guy?” someone behind him says.

Swords and bows drift down, and Dark tentatively considers this to be going better than expected, even though he still has no damn idea what’s going on. His heart continues to flutter behind his ribs, too fast, but he allows himself to relax minutely.

“Why run, then?” another asks.

Because you came at me with SWORDS, he tries to convey via a heated glare.

That, and trauma. Can’t forget the trauma.

“He’s been running from us this whole damn time,” Pinky grouches. “Or did you forget the grand chase that ended up with Twilight nearly cut in half?”

Cut in what? Dark breaks off his glare to blink bewilderedly to the wolf-Hero. He looks intact. Maybe a little pale, but that could simply be his complexion. He was healthy enough to transform into a giant wolf and try to tear Dark’s head off too, so… he’s probably fine.

But what chase? The only chase he’s been in recently was the one the anti-fairy led him on.

“He coulda done the same this time, if he wanted to,” Twilight replies. “He had the weapon.”

Dark’s eyes widen, then snap to the discarded sword.

Oh. Oh, shit. They think he’s the one responsible to hurting the wolf guy? That’s why they’re so pissed??

But why? He got the cursed sword only last night, and before that it was held by an Iron Knuckle. He doesn’t look anything like that weird goopy bastard! Not to mention the fact that he hasn’t attacked any Heroes since becoming a wandering hermit, and none of them were part-time wolves.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Pinky snatches the cursed sword up by the sheath strap, and Dark realizes he’d been staring. He returns the dirty look with a scowl of his own, all while hoping the Hero isn’t dumb enough to touch the blade directly. He doesn’t have any more Magic Powder paste to help if he gets cursed, and Dark doubts he’d be keen on allowing Dark to draw the magic out of him.

“Are we sure that it’s the same weapon?” A different voice asks. Dark turns his head to look, and wow, that tunic is certainly a choice. Or rather, it looks like the kid couldn’t choose what color to wear. Dark, who came to the conclusion a long time ago that he looks awful in any color aside from black, white, or grey, is a little jealous.

Pinky pops the blade out of the sheath, inspecting it. “Seems to be same sword, before it changed to the greataxe,” he concludes, before turning his sharp eyes back to Dark. “You want to explain that?”

He wishes he could. Shapeshifting weapons would be both useful and badass. …If it doesn’t try to kill you, that is. Dark shrugs.

Pinky narrows his eyes, unhappy with the non-answer. He opens his mouth to complain about something else, when someone interrupts.

“This doesn’t really look like a Big Bad Evil Guy’s hideout,” Long-hair remarks. He had walked over to the edge of Dark’s small and weathered camp, apparently bored of threatening a person that isn’t fighting back.

“Search it,” The Hero of Time orders. “There may be plans or clues hidden within.”

An amused snort escapes him. If they were looking for plants, not plans, then sure.

“You got something to say, this time?” Pinky glares down at him.

He just shakes his head, his humor quickly fading into irritation as he watches the Heroes start to rummage through his things. They gut his tent, toss around his freshly folded blankets, dig through his painstakingly reorganized chest. His herbs and mushrooms are mostly left alone, though Long-hair tries to lick several of them, muttering something about spices. The one with the white cape and… is that the fucking Master Sword?? studies his small clay sculptures like they hold the secrets of the universe.

“Can Shadow Link even talk?” Crab-kid asks. He, Twilight, Color Wheel, Pinky, and the Captain stayed behind to watch Dark as the others went to search. One of them, the Hero he once stabbed in the stomach, finds the red rupee he’d stashed in there a while ago. He then finds the black rupee where Dark had dropped it in a spare bottle, and both the red and black rupee vanish in a blink. The Hero shouts in shock and despair, and Dark smirks.

“Yes,” Color Wheel replies, with a long-suffering expression. “Quite a lot, actually.”

Dark tears his eyes off his ransacked camp to regard the Hero with confusion.

First, by the name. He goes by Dark, not Shadow. Although, it’s not like he ever introduced himself to the people he fought. They may have designated him other names, unbeknownst to him. “Shadow” isn’t too much different than “Dark”, he supposes.

Second, by him speaking. Dark hasn’t spoken to or met either of these two Heroes. He remembers every encounter he has ever had with the others, in painful detail, and none of them were that short.

Third, and far more worrying, is the horrible thought that there might be more people like him.

“This one doesn’t seem very chatty,” Crab-kid notes, watching Dark with more curiosity than murderous intent, which is nice.

“No, he doesn’t,” Color Wheel agrees, then his tone shifts to something oddly disappointed as he adds: “He’s different from the one I knew.”

“Yeah, he doesn’t look like the one I fought either,” the kid says casually, like he isn’t actively giving Dark another crisis. “How many are there?”

“A lot,” the Captain replies irritably, and Dark cringes. Whether that is because he fought the Heroes multiple times or that there might actually be other versions of himself out there suffering in similar situations, Dark thinks both options are a terrible fate.

Another horror to haunt his thoughts, if he survives this. He continues watches miserably as his camp is all but dismantled. They aren’t threatening his life at the moment, but they sure are walking all over it.

Twilight picks up the kettle Dark had thrown, which features a conspicuous new dent.

“What’s in it?” Pinky asks. “Poison?”

Twilight sniffs the contents. “It’s… mint tea.”

A confused pause.

“…Do evil people drink mint tea?” Crab-kid asks.

Dark gives him the flattest, most disappointed look he can manage while actively being held hostage. Is he serious?

“Not unless several of my friends back home are also evil,” Twilight remarks dryly. “And one of ‘em is Zelda, so I’m gonna say tea preference ain’t a good indicator.” He pauses, rubbing at a bump on his forehead. “…Projectile tea, though…”

Yeah, Dark is not apologizing for that unless Twilight also apologizes for trying to take a bite out of him first.

Not that that’s going to happen. The Heroes seem more interested in accusations and looting, more than anything.

“Well?” Pinky prompts, as the others wander out of his camp… or what’s left of it.

“Nothing,” White-Cape-with-the-damn-Master-Sword replies.

He’s right. There’s nothing left of the home he knew. His little corner of the world is torn apart; tent flattened, blankets dirtied and pressed flat under heavy boots, his herbs and potion-making supplies stolen. The last embers of the fire flicker out, dead.

Dark had been ready to leave it, escape and restart elsewhere in safety, but now… seeing it in ruins… The loss feels like a physical blow. He doesn’t regret surrendering, it was the only way he could think of to get them to stop hunting him or potentially hurting the fairy in whatever bizarre crusade they’re on, but he does regret thinking these Heroes would be kind about it.

If they think they can simply attack someone in their own home, rob the place, and still think they’re justified, they’re not Heroes at all. They’re monsters.

If they think they can get away with it, they’re fools.

“Except, like, a million bottles,” Long-hair adds, holding his prize. The six bottles, hardly a million, clink and clatter in his arms. Some of which have very rare or difficult to obtain herbs and mushrooms within.

“Almost enough for all of us to have one, if we dump out the weird stuff,” says Formerly-Stabbed. Soon to be Stabbed-Again, if he follows through with that statement. Dark hisses warningly, but they ignore him.

“Why so many?”

“Stolen, I guess?” Like they aren’t actively stealing from him.

“Make that a million and one.”

A pair of hands pluck up the bottled anti-fairy, and Dark snarls before seeing who it is or giving himself enough time to think that maybe threatening them might be a bad idea. The immediate press of blades against his skin cuts short his lunge, several biting into his skin. Scarlet stains steel, but the small wounds are nothing compared to what he’d do should they harm her.

The Hero of Time pauses, regarding Dark with an indecipherable look, before continuing. He brings the bottle up to his eye and peers in. The former fairy, clearly furious, attempts to bite him through the glass.

“An anti-fairy,” Pinky answers the unspoken question, with a wary eye on Dark. “They’re fairies corrupted by dark magic.”

The Hero of Time’s eye widens, appalled at this information. “That’s terrible!”

Where is his fairy, Dark wonders? His companion, his guide, his friend? She had been present back in the room of fog and endless mist, and would have stayed with him through all the Hero’s adventures long after Dark had been defeated, so why isn’t she here now? Did any of the other Heroes have fairy companions? He thinks the blue-scarfed captain might have, during the wars. Regardless, none are here. Apparently, fairies aren’t allowed in whatever paradoxical nonsense is going on that gathered nine Heroes together in his home.

If they were, maybe they’d be able to talk some sense into the Heroes’ thick skulls.

“He probably corrupted it,” the captain mutters disdainfully. Dark hisses again at the accusation.

“Did you?” The Hero of Time asks, his single eye pinning him in place.

Dark glares back and slowly, deliberately, shakes his head no.

“Of course he’s going to say no,” the captain refutes, and Dark kind of wants to strangle him with his own dumb scarf. “Any other answer would get him killed.”

Like he isn’t currently under threat of being stabbed from so much as twitching the wrong way.

“He surrendered, Warriors,” the Hero of Time reminds, as Dark tries to wrap his head around the grammatical nightmare of having the plural ‘Warriors’ as a name. “And we haven’t found anything incriminating, other than this fairy.”

“And the sword,” Pinky adds, holding up the cursed object.

“He doesn’t smell the same,” Twilight argues. “And do you really think he’d just surrender? After all that?”

“I do, if it’s some sort of trick,” Warriors confirms stubbornly. “A way to get us to lower our guard.”

And then what? Surprise attack all nine of them with only his fists?

Twilight throws his hands up, and Dark belatedly realizes that he’s the only Hero to not have drawn a weapon on him. “And do what? Attack all of us alone? In case you didn’t notice, this place is empty. I couldn’t smell a single monster in this Temple, aside from the short trail of the Shadow at the entrance.”

Another mention of The Shadow... Do they mean the Iron Knuckle? Dark really wishes someone would tell him what in the Sacred Realm is going on. And give him back his anti-fairy. The longer the Hero of Time has her, the more he wants to test the durability of that fancy armor.

“It doesn’t matter,” Warriors decides. “Dark Link is too dangerous to let live.”

All this, and they still want to kill him?

Well, fine, then.

If peace was never an option, then he sees no reason in continuing with the illusion of it now. His original plan of “get the fairy and get out” wasn’t great, but it’s better than sitting here waiting for the Heroes to play executioner.

He tenses, planning out the route to the anti-fairy that involves the least amount of instant death. The Heroes are quick. Dodging will be difficult. Maybe he should try disarming some of them, or stealing one of their swords. Fair’s fair, right?

Dark doesn’t get the chance to try.

A deafening roar echoes through the Temple.

He flinches, along with most of the others, his head snapping in the direction of the source: the atrium. Sound can travel far in the Temple, bouncing off the empty walls, but that scream had to have been loud to have made it this deep.

Worse, is a horrible, familiar, burn of malice.

His eyes widen.

Is that…?

“The hell was that?!” someone screeches.

“Whatever it is, it ain’t happy,” Twilight replies darkly.

“No shit,” Pinky swears.

The Hero of Time stares back the way they came with a grim expression. The anti-fairy in his grasp grows even more distressed, and Dark tears his eyes away from what is definitely, somehow, that damned Iron Knuckle reforming in the distance, to refocus on the immediate threat.

“This conversation will have to wait,” the man decides, urgent. “We need to find out what that was.”

Then, much to Dark’s horror, the Hero tucks the anti-fairy into his bag. She chitters in fear, looking to Dark and pleading for help as the enchanted fabric swallows her whole.

Dark sees red.

He snarls, lunging for the bag. This action is met by swords, and rather suddenly, a shield. A parry to the face makes him stagger backwards, and a few more moves have him face down on the floor, groaning, with somebody pinning his hands behind his back. This presses against his wound, and he hisses in pain.

“What happened to surrendering,” Pinky gripes.

Dark glares, struggling against the hold. His cooperative surrender ended when they kidnapped his friend.

Broken, cackling laughter echoes down the hall. Quieter, but no less evil.

“We need to hurry!” Color Wheel presses.

“What about him?” White-cape asks, gesturing to Dark.

“He comes with us,” the Hero of Time decides. “Make sure he’s restrained.”

“It’s too risky,” Warriors argues. “We should just—"

“No,” the man cuts him off, then reasons: “I understand your worries as much as I trust Twilight’s senses, however the point remains that we need answers, and Dark Link may have them.”

Except Dark doesn’t. In fact, he probably has more questions than they do.

Regardless, Dark is unceremoniously trussed up and hauled down the hall, away from his home. He struggles futilely against the bonds. They’d taken no chances however, using thick chains from a longshot to wrap around his wrists and torso. Tightly. Every breath presses against the cut in his side, sending a stab of agony between his ribs, forcing him to breathe shallowly. The brisk pace they set doesn’t help.

He keeps up anyway.

They have his fairy, and he will get her back.

The atrium is bright when they reach it, though Dark finds no welcome there.

Instead, the black stain at the center of the room is gone.

In its place, a portal waits.