Work Text:
Wild was in the middle of a storm. Not physically, like the rain in which soothes his twisting scars and muscles, the mental kind. The one that pounds so hard, it begins to flood faster than you can get to high ground. What would it do anyway? The hills have been flattened, the ground pressed and straight, destroyed yet regrowing the taunting grass that sways for miles upon the common eye. But as others ignited fear, of being alone nowhere forever, he saw the swords and bloody faces of dead loved ones. The one small drip, pooling to cover up the grass in blood, reeking of long dead rotten flesh. Wild always reeked of dead flesh. Because he was meant to be dead. A ghost, in the body of a man. The shadows, whispering, the light, forever ending. The glow of the blood moon lights up his soul, leaving no room for peace. Something grabs his arm and his voice comes out in a gasp, jerking upward. Nothing except the night sky and the eight other links sleeping around him. Alternate timelines, the ones who succeed. He didn’t. His movements, quiet as he stood up, years of skill and practice. With no bother to put shoes on, he tip toes past twilight, wavering shining grass tickling at his ankles, keeping him awake as he walks along the cliffside. Silence, except for the occasional rustle of an animal. Silence, unlike his mind. To the naked eye, all they would see is a scrawny figure walking along. But to a closer look, is a man with his hand on the hilt of a royal broadsword and wild darting blue eyes. Stay on your feet, blend in. Lessons upon lesson, lie upon lie, beating and beating replay in his mind. It’s never quiet in the wild unless something is wrong. Or dead. A faint noise. His ears perk up. The promise on the wind, a calling. A waterfall. And with that small little promise, his legs pump, and he’s running through the woodlands. Like a fox, his feet hit the ground silent, bare feet strong against the stones and rough dirt. The deer and elk alike turn their heads, not out of fear but out of curiosity. They wonder who this broken wild child is, spreading invisible flower seeds as he darts through their terrain. And as the moon raises past its halfway mark in the night sky, the boy skids to a stop in front of a waterfall, loudly cascading off a cave in a small covered grove. Stripping off everything, except his under tunic and shorts with the Sheika slate and a knife strapped to his thigh, he walks along the little ledge towards the cave. The moss is the only thing keeping him steady as he moves, stopping him from slipping off. The rain. The spray of the waterfall reminds him of the rain. The storm. His hand launches out towards the wall, grabbing it as he swing out into the waterfall, half hanging out of the cave. And he could feel the water beating down on his head, swiftly coming to the realization something was in its way. Wild didn’t care that he was getting soaked. And all too late, wild didn’t know he was slipping. His hands scramble to grab the Sheika slate as he fell backwards. And he found it, a moment before hitting the water below him. The snap and creak of his paraglider echos through the stone walls, a save that he almost missed. Something that almost slipped from him, like how his bloody body slipped through Zelda’s arms. And then it’s cold. The current is fast, but he’s faster. He knew better than to trust. To hope. Clenching, his hand as he pulls himself onto the dirt. He’s been stuck in water before. The difference now, is that he can get himself out. A hundred years taught him that. It doesnt hurt when he climbs back up the cliff. Blisters have healed over before. His hands hold no pain. If only he could teach his heart the same. Fall after fall after fall. The difference now is nobody will save him. Nobody will heal him. He’s alone. He always will be. Because he screwed up. And he always will. His body strains as his arms pull him over the cliff edge. And again he’s met with the sight of the waterfall. Nothing stops him from swinging out again. Again the water rushes over his head. Over the stone that it can’t move. Over the storm that will never stop.