Chapter Text
Night draped over the camp like a heavy, suffocating blanket. Tents clustered under makeshift lanterns, and the distant rumble of warfare never truly ceased. Somewhere beyond the trees, death on mechanical wings prowled the night sky. You couldn’t sleep. There were always wounded to tend to, but tonight—tonight you slipped away from your post by the fire.
The scent of pine and damp earth clung to everything. Your tent sat at the edge of the camp, half-hidden behind stacked crates of supplies and piles of rolled canvas. You paused at the entrance, braced yourself in the dim glow of a single lantern. And there he was—Link—lean and almost spectral in the pale light, silently closing the flap behind him.
You didn’t speak—not yet. He never spoke at first. He stumbled in, stripped off his battered armor and placed it with quiet reverence. The weight of the campaign was etched in every dent and scar. You stepped forward, heart thudding in your chest, knowing exactly what came next.
“Let me,” you said softly.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he sank onto the cot, pulling his shirt off in a single fluid motion. Bruises bloomed across his ribs, three particularly deep scars running down his shoulder—evidence of another close call. Your healer’s instinct took over. You knelt before him, the lantern light falling on your hands.
They always shook. Your skills were steady—herbs, poultices, sewing torn flesh—but your heart hammered like a wild thing whenever you touched Link. There was nothing rational about it. He looked up at you, half-concealed in shadow, and offered a small, resigned smile.
You drew a deep breath and pressed your palms against his side. The wounds were raw, inflamed—but not bleeding. No fever yet. You drew out the stitches, cleaned the tracks with a cool cloth, applied ointment.
His breath hitched when the cold touched him. Then more when your fingers traced the old scars, running past tender new ones, lingering at a knot of pulled muscles. His response was a shiver. You kept your voice calm—quiet for both your sakes.
“Better stay still,” you murmured.
He closed his eyes. His eyelashes brushed his cheeks like wings. You could have watched him all night. But you finished dressing the wounds, pressed your hand over the bandages, and watched him inhale, releasing tension you hadn’t known he was holding.
When you stood, you caught his gaze—searching, vulnerable, and it shattered you that night.