Work Text:
You've been here before.
You aren't sure how you know that, but you do. You remember this place, or at least, you remember remembering it. A lot of places make you feel that way. Maybe you always feel that way.
There is grass, and sunshine, and birdsong, and it should be peaceful. It should be pleasant. It should be nice.
The hollow echoes of missing memories leave you unstable and uncertain, the hands of ghosts sliding up your spine to rest at the base of your skull and pluck at the fragile threads of thoughts there. It hurts.
It's daytime when you dismount your horse and step into the sunlight, but halfway through blinking, the sun sets and moon rises. Fortunately, it's pale and white, blanketing you in a soft light below a starless sky. Your skin hurts. You think it's burned. You don't know where your horse is.
Impa calls it ‘losing time,’ but it's more like time is losing you. You feel slippery, three feet sideways of your body. You think you've been here before.
You remember this. You aren't sure when or how long ago, but you are sure, you are sure, you dreamt of this happening, of standing beneath the moonlight wondering where your horse is. Maybe it was a dream. Was it a dream?
You remember remembering this. You’re sure of it.
The moon begins to shimmer red, the land writhing as if in pain. In the distance you hear the roars of monsters, reborn.
You unsheath your sword. You don't have to remember this part. It never stops being familiar.