Chapter Text
It started with an ache. Or, many aches, really. Aches and fatigue: submerging his muscles, saturating his joints.
Maybe that's why he didn't notice. After all, remnants of pain such as that—those vestiges of years upon years of injury—weren't exactly new to him. Anything could make them flare up. Over-training, an approaching storm, a developing cold.
A simple, old, Bad Fucking Day.
So, when his drills with the Master Sword began to be followed by hours, days, even weeks of unrelenting, dull pain that would leave him dizzy and drained—Link thought nothing of it.
They were coming up on six months now. Six months since he, Zelda and the Sages had wrenched Hyrule from the clutches of the Demon King. Six months since Sonia and Rauru's spirits had come to him in the aftermath, offering up the last of their spiritual power to bring Zelda back from her draconic fate. And six months since Purah, the Sages, everyone had insisted that their Princess and Hero take some time away from everything else; indulge in a long-overdue, and desperately needed, sabbatical.
It made perfect sense at the time. The Upheaval had marred them both: left behind dark stains not all that dissimilar to those that could now be found scoring the earth where gloom used to be. A little time off, a little respite, would do them both a world of good.
That is, if either of them knew how to rest.
Zelda could still be found hunched over her desk through all hours of the night, poring over each and every missive sent her way. She would scour through maps and old documents; cast her eye over diagrams and blueprints; write up work proposals, resource requests, and all sorts of other important correspondence, sealing them up and sending them out to touch every corner of Hyrule.
It'd taken very little time for her to settle into the study Link had added to their house above Tarrey Town. One week in, and the organised chaos of a scholar at work had spilled well beyond the bounds of the small room: reams on reams of letters, charts and illustrations. At the rate the pile seemed to grow, Link was beginning to wonder if the kingdom might be facing a paper shortage in the near future.
For his part, Link spent most of his days training. He was still far from peak condition, his right arm all but useless in a fight now—its muscles torn through and rotted along the path the gloom had taken. While theoretically, a simple swap back to his natural left-handedness solved that problem, it did little to combat the tides of frailty that ebbed and flowed through the rest of him. Some days his body simply refused to cooperate with the tasks he'd set out for himself: joints that would complain if he stood too long, lungs that struggled to keep up with even the slightest bit of exertion.
Other days, it was his spirit that refused to cooperate.
He pushed on anyway; he had to. A new disaster could strike at any moment. The next, inevitable darkness was sure to be looming on the horizon, ready to cast its shadow down onto Hyrule. Link couldn't let himself be taken off guard. Not again. He simply had to shrug off the pain, the exhaustion, everything—focus on getting his strength back.
So, he trained.
Dead leaves had pooled under the crimson Akkala trees over the past few weeks. They tumbled over the hillside, carried by a frigid breeze that negated any warmth from the afternoon sun. A couple unlucky ones slipped under Link's boots as he stepped through his conditioning drills—crushed into the damp soil.
His wrist twinged on the final flourish of the set, and he nestled the lightweight, sparring feder under his armpit as he rolled the cramp out. Further aches took his pause as an opportunity to rear their heads. A burn, far beyond that which came from normal efforts, had settled deep into his shoulder and was crawling a fire-fingered path down to his spine. His head throbbed, pain gathering in the space behind his eyes and a heavy, invisible shroud falling over his frame.
He shook it off. He rolled out his shoulder and walked to the side of the house where the Master Sword was waiting, propped up against the wall. He swapped the feder out for it, the lighter blade slotting into the hollow of dirt left behind.
Master Sword now in hand, Link stepped to the worn circle of grass he favoured. He adjusted his gloves, fixed his posture, and pulled the sword from its scabbard.
It started with an ache.
It ended with a faint.
A blade of grass cut through the fog first, tickling his cheek. A voice, muffled, settled on him from somewhere above. The ghost of a warm hand squeezed his shoulder. Link opened his eyes to the view of an overcast sky, currently interrupted by a golden-framed silhouette.
A few blinks, and Zelda's form took proper shape. Her brow furrowed with concern, and her lips parted, carrying more words that sounded too far away to make sense of.
… What just happened?
After testing his limbs—both arms seemed to still be there, at least—Link pushed himself up. Zelda moved the moment he did, one hand sliding along his back to help him sit.
"Slowly," her voice finally broke through; a whisper of breath by his ear. "Don't strain yourself."
Upright, Link had a better view of his surroundings, though nothing among them provided any further light on the situation. The unsheathed Master Sword was by his side, but there was no indication that a fight had taken place. No blood, that of a monster's or his own, was splattered on the ground. No crude weaponry had been broken and abandoned in the field. The only stains marking his clothes were the green of wet grass.
So, how did he…?
A gentle finger on his chin had him turning to face Zelda. She drew close, her eyes searching his as the back of her hand came up to rest against his forehead. She held it there for a few seconds, moved it to his cheek for a few more, and Link, finally, caught on.
"I'm not sick," he told her.
Zelda's fingers slid down to the pulse in his throat as she gave him a look that said: I don't believe you. Which, Link supposed, was fair enough. He had promised her he'd take it easy whenever he was feeling sick, but it wouldn't have been the first time he'd stretched the boundaries of that promise. While Zelda would've preferred to sequester him to bed at even the hint of a cough or sniffly nose, Link, more often than not, would push himself far closer to the other end of the scale. Actual nausea, actual dizziness, actual pain.
Or—actual fainting.
But he wasn't trying to toe that limit, not this time. He had truly felt alright all morning—at least, alright within the bounds of the new normal he'd accepted for himself. Even now, nothing seemed that off. No fever, no sense of being sick to his stomach. Just… tired.
A perplexed crease pinched between Zelda's brows, and she dropped her hand from his throat. "Did you get enough sleep last night?"
"I got more than you did."
"And how much have you eaten today?"
"Zel, I'm fi-" No. 'Fine' was a lie. 'Fine' had been a lie for years. "I'm okay."
Zelda's lips pressed into a tight line, but she gave him a nod. "Well, I was coming downstairs for a pot of tea, anyway," she said. "Care to join me?"
Link stared down at his hands, and his lower lip found its way between his teeth. There was no time for a pot of tea. No time for fainting or being sick, either—if only his body would get that clue. Incoming evil was not about to pause its approach in order for him to get his shit together. He needed to be ready for it.
The moment he thought about picking up the sword again though, his hands trembled under his gaze. Perhaps seeing this, Zelda clasped them in her own. She massaged his knuckles, and Link felt the twisted tension that had wrapped around his bones unravel under her touch.
"Okay," he sighed.
She continued to hover as he pushed to his feet. Link had the dull sense that he should've been frustrated at that, but as more of his weight shifted onto his legs, it seemed Zelda was probably wise to err on the side of caution. His knees had developed a wobble during his time on the ground, and it somewhat contradicted his assurances that he could stand on his own. Nevertheless, he waved away the hand she offered and took an experimental step forward.
He didn't fall over. That was as good a sign as any.
The Master Sword still lay on the ground, grass flattened under its weight as Link bent over to pick up its scabbard. He brushed both dirt and dew from the cool, metal throat, and stepped over to the sword.
He reached down once again, curled his fingers over the hilt, and his consciousness snapped. His limbs slackened, and he felt himself topple forward, but, almost as quick as it had begun, his momentum was halted. A soft, soothing warmth wrapped around his waist—cushioned his cheeks. Link let himself sink into it. It, the shadows crawling over his vision, and everything that lay beyond them.
Zelda's voice was the one thing his drifting awareness could find purchase on. It was hushed and frantic, and Link tried desperately to focus on it. "Link, let go. Let go of the sword."
The… sword?
Right. He'd been picking it up, hadn't he? Zelda's breath was panicked by his ear, and Link could feel her tugging at his fingers, trying to pry them off from something. He willed them to fall limp and Zelda threaded them through with her own—slowly, carefully, easing his hand up and off from the sword.
As she did, the tide of darkness ebbed and flowed away.
He accepted Zelda's help this time; any confidence he had in his own feet snuffed away by the second faint. With one arm wrapped tight around his waist, she led him inside, steadying him over the porch steps and sitting him down at the kitchen table.
The Master Sword, she left in the entryway. She rested it up against the wall, where it sank into their hanging coats.
Probably for the best. Even now, in spite of his tremoring limbs—and better judgement—a part of Link ached for it. His fingers twitched, begging him to pick it up, get back to work.
He crushed them in his lap.
Zelda left him, moving for the kitchen, and Link turned his attention to the table. A collection of paper was piled up next to his elbow, and when he peered down at them, he noted the haphazard scrawl that usually came with Zelda's brainstorming. New ideas, then—new sparks of inspiration. The rate at which they came to her hadn't changed in the least since the Upheaval. Link imagined there was nothing that could slow that torrent.
The rate at which she seemed to be tearing them from her journals, however…
Link brushed his finger over a ragged edge. "Come up with anything interesting today?"
There was a pause in the movement behind him, the sound of the pump coming to a halt. "Nothing worth pursuing," Zelda said, before he heard her top up the rest of the kettle and set it down on the stove.
Link frowned at the stack of notes. That was another change the Upheaval had wrought: she hardly spoke of her ideas anymore. At least, not to him. Before, she would ramble constantly—hours on hours of voicing her thoughts until she'd put them in order and Link to sleep. Now, though…
Now most, if not all, of their conversations revolved around him. How was he feeling today? Was he in pain at all? What could she do to help him? And on and on and on.
Link wished she would go back to rambling. He wished he had the words to articulate how much he needed her to.
Zelda swept the collection of paper out from under his gaze, with no care for the fact that she was crumpling them all up. She marched the pages over to the fireplace and, as the kettle’s whistle grew to a wail, tossed them into the tinderbox. Her precious, ingenious words fluttered down, burying themselves amongst winter logs and spare kindling.
Link bit down on his lip.
A filled cup was pressed into his hand, and Zelda settled into the chair next to him with her own. The scent of tea passed up to Link's nose, light and fragrant. He warmed his fingers on the porcelain and tracked the fragments of leaves that swirled around within.
Zelda was watching him: he felt her searching stare through the steam that floated up from their cups. Silence stretched between them, and Link found himself both desperate for her to break it and terrified of what she was going to say.
"Link…"
A knot formed in his gut. He forced himself to face her, but Zelda's eyes had already shifted away. She was looking past him, and when he followed her gaze, he landed on the Master Sword. The shape of it was hidden almost completely, engulfed by the heavy coats. Its presence, though…
The knot tightened. Link looked back at Zelda, and he could see the words she was about to say. The notion she wanted to bring forth: the one he was unable to face. She inhaled. Her lips parted—
"It's probab—" Link's tongue stumbled, tripping on the words. He took a deep breath, gripped his cup and croaked: "I probably just need to see Yona again."
Zelda's eyes narrowed on the sword.
"I'd noticed you've been quieter than normal of late," she said, turning back to Link with an observing tilt to her head. "Has the pain come to be that bad?"
Link let his fringe fall over his eyes, mumbling, to his tea, "It's been… flaring up more often these past few weeks."
One of Zelda's hands came down to the table. Her fingers tapped on the wood; a delicate, little drumbeat filling the dead air.
"Do you think it might be the lower temperatures we've been having?" she asked, already searching for a contributing factor—a possible solution. "It wouldn't be the first time the cold has given you trouble."
"Maybe." Link shrugged. "I don't know." He'd stopped trying to make sense of whatever it was the gloom had done to him ages ago.
As far as most were concerned, the evil of the gloom had been eradicated alongside the Demon King. No longer did it spread itself throughout the kingdom, rotting away anything that dare stand in its path. Even the depths had been freed of its poison. The underground was downright pleasant now, if Purah's letters were to be believed.
The scars it left behind, however, were harder to erase. Grass would not grow in the spaces where the gloom had once been. Animals refused to draw near. And the bodies of those unlucky enough to have received their own personal dose of the poison had been left exhausted and enfeebled in extensive—and maddeningly inconsistent—ways.
So, sure: the upsurge of pain may have been due to the cold weather. Or, it may have been that the weather wasn't cold enough. Shit, maybe it was just because the wind today had been coming in from the north when yesterday's had been from a more westerly direction.
Link no longer had it in him to try and figure it out.
Zelda's hand settled on the small of his back, rubbing soft, slow circles around a knot close to his spine. "Alright," she said, "I'll write to Yona tonight—see if she and Sidon can receive us in a week or so."
With her other hand, she took a sip. "I might see about getting some of our winter linens sent up from Hateno, too," she continued upon setting the cup down. "It won't be long before we need them anyway. Unless…"
The hand on Link's back shifted, and he watched as it returned to the table to start up its drumming again. When he looked to Zelda's face, he caught her frowning off into the middle distance, deep in thought. Had she just had an epiphany over one of the ideas she'd been working on earlier? Or had she come up with a new idea? Would she tell him?
The drumming came to an abrupt halt. "How would you feel about spending the winter in Hateno?"
Oh.
Zelda turned to him, resting her chin on her hand. "I was already thinking about making a trip myself sometime soon," she said. "Pick up some things from the house, check in on how Calip's been settling into the school. But…"
She sighed, and Link had a fairly good idea of the thing she was unwilling to say. It hovered in the air between them: But I didn't want to leave you here.
He pressed his lips together and stared down at his cup.
It hadn't escaped his notice: all the invitations Zelda—or really, both of them—had received over their break. From all sorts of folks; from all over Hyrule. Invitations that Zelda had rejected, ignored, or simply set aside to deal with later. All because she was worried about Link. Link, who couldn't even bring himself to join her on her weekly walks into Tarrey Town.
"Just a thought," Zelda said. "It would save us from having to prepare this house for the season. And we'd be a little closer to town there, too. It might make things easier. You know, on the rougher days."
He wasn't sure if the 'rougher days' were simply in reference to the weather, or any other factors that could make a day 'rough'. Regardless, more people… being closer…
If nothing else, it would make Zelda happy.
"Okay," Link said.
"Are you sure?"
He looked up at her and gave her a nod.
Her face brightened then, the sight of it soothing his aches better than anything else ever could. "In that case, I have more letters to write. Oh, I should make a list of things for us to pack, too." She pushed herself up from her seat, planting a kiss on Link's cheek as she stood. "You should finish your tea before it gets too cold. I'll be right back."
He watched as she made for the stairs, scampering up them two at a time in a beeline for her study. Once she'd disappeared, however, his gaze wandered elsewhere. Past the edge of the table, towards the corner of the room and over to the fireplace to where it at last came to a halt—settled on the tinderbox.
His tea was already cold, anyway.
Zelda was making a right racket upstairs, hunting down her journal, her letterheads, and whatever other writing implements she needed. By contrast, slipping out of his chair and padding over to the fireplace, Link made no sound at all. He crouched by the tinderbox, peering at the torn-out pages of journal that were nestled within.
More shuffles from upstairs, now partnering up with the sound of Zelda's voice, muttering something or other to herself. Clearly, still occupied.
Link reached a hand into the box, carefully fishing out each and every sheet. He bundled them together, making as little sound as possible, and held the pile of tattered, dirty papers close to his chest.
By the time Zelda made it back downstairs, he was once again sitting at the table. The cup in front of him was empty, the remains of cold tea swallowed up—by the kitchen sink, if not him. And, by the leg of the table, was a small, suspicious lump under the rug.
As long as he didn't move his feet, it should, hopefully, make no rustle.
A cramp erupted from the base of Zelda's wrist, vicious and rude, and she dropped her pen. Ink spurted out from the nib. It splattered all over the page before her, smearing her words into a meaningless mess.
Not that they hadn't been meaningless already.
Shaking the cramp out from her right hand, Zelda reached for the ruined letter with her left. She ripped it from the pad, ink staining her fingers as she crumpled it up and tossed it away to join the collection of other papers—other failures—that haunted the corner of her study.
She wiped off her hands, cleaned her pen, and dipped the nib into the pot of ink.
Purah,
Thank you for your latest update. I'm pleased to hear that the lizalfos camp near the Central Mine is no longer giving you trouble. And I agree with your assertions on the great frox northeast of the mine. As long as it keeps to the territory it has dug out for itself, I believe there is no reason to disturb it at all.
On the topic of the constructs you found—
Zelda paused. Her pen hovered above the paper, trembling in her grip. Purah's letter had been so excited about the discovery; so keen to dive into experimentation with the artificial workers. Why couldn't Zelda muster the same?
On the topic of the constructs you found, it is possible that we may be able to awaken them again. While I wouldn't consider myself to have anywhere near the level of expertise on their construction that Mineru did, I assisted her enough in the past that I may be able to provide some insight into the intelligence centres of their builds.
However—
I'm not sure we should wake them.
I'm not sure we should keep researching this technology at all.
I'm not sure I'm ready to see how the depths have changed from the ones I knew.
The end of Zelda's pen found its way into her mouth. She bit down on it, her teeth adding another imprint of themselves into the wood, and cast a sideways glance towards the bedroom.
The room remained dim. Dim, silent and unstirring. She bit her pen once more before continuing.
However, it may be some time before I am able to come down and help. Link's gloomsickness has had another resurgence over the past month. I can't leave him right now, and I won't ask him to accompany me to the depths when he's too unwell to do so.
We'll be travelling to Zora's Domain as soon as we're able, and after that, we intend to spend the winter months in Hateno Village. Please send any further letters you have to the East Wind Store, and I'll reply as soon as we arrive.
Zelda.
Guilt curdled in Zelda's gut. She set her pen down and once again looked to the bedroom. It wasn't a complete lie. The idea of leaving Link alone for any length of time beyond a few hours did worry her—and not just because of the spontaneous fainting spells he'd had earlier that day.
It was simply…
He didn't hum when he cooked anymore.
Such a paltry detail—a tiny change—but the significance of it stood out before anything else. Link had never been a large presence. Quite the opposite, really; he went about life trying to make himself as small as possible—some odd, little effort to balance out the weight of his title. The pleasant tunes he improvised in the kitchen were one of the few ways he actually let himself take up space.
But that quiet constant Zelda had so often relied upon had been snuffed away: a victim of the Upheaval's insatiable cruelty. Link's humming over pots and pans was gone now—his enjoyment in the kitchen as a whole was gone. As was his smile, most of his voice and, heartbreakingly, any desire to reach for even the slightest bit of intimacy. He'd clutched onto her so tight in the immediate aftermath of the Upheaval. So tight, and for so long.
Those few weeks of his open, unabashed affection had been utter bliss, but the further they got from the joy of their reunion, the more Zelda could feel him slipping away. Withdrawing: from her, from their friends, from the very pursuits he'd once loved.
The only impulse he seemed to allow himself now—the one thing that had clung to him through the extinction of everything else—was a desperate, incessant need to train.
Zelda folded up her letter and added it to the pile she would send off the next day. Letters to Yona, to Symin and Clavia, and one to Impa, as well. If they were to pass through Kakariko Village without visiting her, there was no doubt the now-retired chief would have both Zelda and Link's hides for it.
With those out of the way, her gaze wandered over the rest of her desk. The half-constructed checklist of things to pack lay out in front of her, its question of how much work she should bother taking to Hateno—which projects and plans were actually worthy of the honour—glaring her in the face.
There was no obligation for her to take anything, really. The kingdom was running just fine in her absence. Each of the settlement leaders had a good handle on their regions, and Purah was perfectly content taking charge of the Zonai Survey Team and their explorations throughout the ruins, sky islands and depths—particularly now there was no impending apocalypse.
It was an arrangement Zelda was perfectly fine with—on some days, it even gave her hope. The idea that Hyrule could—and would quite handily if the past six months were anything to go by—continue to thrive whether she sat on a throne or not. Sure, she was still asked for her opinion at times, but those opinions were asked not of the Princess of Hyrule, but of Zelda: simple, scholar Zelda.
Not that her scholarly pursuits had been getting anywhere of late.
She looked towards her journal: ratty and emaciated after all the pages she'd torn from it. She would have to start a new one shortly. Maybe then, she would stop wasting paper with half-formed, incomprehensible ideas. Over and over again, it seemed to be happening. She would get that spark—find the beginnings of something that felt so close to brilliant.
And over and over again, she would find herself… stuck.
Staring at her journal—at the mess surrounding it—Zelda once again gave up. It was getting late.
She cracked her neck, stood, and reached for the candle. Its flame threw wavering shadows over the walls: phantoms that followed at her heels and coalesced into a single silhouette when she reached the bedroom and placed the candle on the bedside table. Zelda sat on the edge of the mattress and, through the shadow she cast over him, looked down at Link.
He was exhausted: she didn't need more light to see that. Whatever had happened earlier, it'd wiped him out completely. He'd shuffled off to bed the moment the sun had dipped beyond the horizon and hadn't stirred since. Zelda would've been relieved at that, once—taken solace in the idea of Link actually allowing himself to rest.
Nowadays, though, his early retreats felt less like an act of recovery and more a confirmation of his increasing isolation.
He didn't move at all as she slipped her legs under the blankets. On his side, facing the wall, and curled up to a degree that Zelda could never fathom the apparent comfort he found in. His hair had fallen over his face in his slumber, and she reached for it, slipping, with a careful hand, under the locks to ease them back and behind his ear.
Hair out of her way, the backs of Zelda's fingers found his cheek. Still cool. Still zero sign of fever. And, other than contorting himself into a huddle he was surely going to regret in the morning, Link seemed… peaceful.
Too peaceful. The irrational thought reared its unwelcome head, and Zelda's hand drew downwards. She stretched her fingers over Link's side, centring herself on the slow flex and release of his ribcage.
Breathing. Not lying frighteningly still in the grass outside their home. Not collapsing in pain under the castle. Not bleeding out in her arms. Breathing.
As Zelda listened to his breaths, her gaze settled on the Master Sword.
Link admitting to feeling unwell was a rare occasion; Zelda wasn't about to take his confession over tea for granted. But the more she thought about it, the more she replayed his earlier collapses over in her head, something about them just didn't sit right with her. She couldn't scrub it out of her mind: the vision of him dropping the moment he tried to pick up the Master Sword.
She had seen that reaction before.
But if she was onto something—if the theory slowly taking root in the centre of her mind was correct—the likely solution for it would be Link giving up the sword. Taking it back to the Deku Tree: back to rest under his watchful eye until the day it was needed once again.
She and Link had already had that conversation. Zelda had pitched the idea to him shortly after the Upheaval, but she'd gotten absolutely nowhere. Link had refused, flat-out. He truly believed he was going to need it again; that the moment he set the sword down, the earth would shatter under their feet. The sky would collapse, or a great maw of evil would swallow them all whole.
Worst thing was, Zelda couldn't even disagree. As much as she wanted to dissuade him of the notion, there was a part of her that believed it, too.
The sword appeared so innocuous, leaning up against the wall of their bedroom. It no longer glowed with its holy light—there was no danger for it to alert them to—and the spirit inside hadn't spoken at all, to either of them since the Upheaval. The last thing it ever said to Zelda was that Link was safe; that he was okay. What a kind lie those words had been.
Zelda sighed, the puff pushing at strands of hair that had ventured too close to her lips. She wished she knew more about the sword. Its history; the other heroes it had aided over the course of its existence. She wished she had something among her banks of knowledge—anything, really; even just one thing that might help her understand whether the nightmare was truly over.
Even just one thing that might help her understand how she could help Link.
But if there had ever been more information out there, it'd been lost long ago. Misplaced, destroyed—like so much of their history. The history of Hyrule before the Zonai's influence; the history of the Zonai themselves; the time of Rauru and Sonia's reign.
The years before the Calamity.
The mattress next to Zelda shifted, and she realised, with a start, that she was digging her fingertips into Link's ribs. She snatched them away as he rolled over to face her. His eyes cracked open, bleary and catching in the candlelight.
"I was just coming to bed," Zelda whispered to him. "Go back to sleep."
Link sighed, grasping for her hand. He caught it in a clumsy grip and, with her free one, Zelda blew out the candle, drew up the covers, and slid herself in beside him.
He pulled her closer the moment she lay down, and Zelda felt all the muscles in her back go taut. She held her breath as Link wrapped himself around her, fearing that the moment she released it, he would wake fully. He would wake, realise what he was doing, and once again pull away from her.
No. No, she wanted to cherish this. The snores being muffled by her chest; the nose squished up against the crook of her neck; the arms tightening around her waist. Zelda kept record of it all, committing each and every detail to her memory as she relaxed, closed her eyes, and allowed the steady rhythm of Link's breathing carry her into sleep.