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“I’m home,” Link called out to the empty cottage as he stepped through the gate, locking it shut behind him.
The ivy had wound its way up the fencing again, though he far preferred it to the thorny blackberry brambles which had held his gate hostage last summer. Though, despite his halfhearted attempts at keeping them at bay, the vines and petite flowers had grown on him; they made his little ramshackle cottage feel a little more lived in, a little more like a home.
A little more like a place to crash, after unexpectedly spending the better half of the day traipsing through the woods.
His unplanned absence hadn’t seemed to disturb the cuccos, as they continued to peck around their pen—unperturbed by his presence. He whistled a tune of greeting which none of them paid any heed to. Though Fern, his pluckiest hen, glared at him from her perch upon an old tree stump. She still didn’t trust him, even after three cycles of chicks.
Animals could sense monsters, to a point. It was how even the staunchest and wiliest of bokoblins and lizalfos never managed to scare the woods to emptiness. Akin to foretelling terrible storms and ill-tempered folks, animals knew when to flee. They could sense something not-right about monsters and those which aligned with them—which included Link.
It was no matter. Time had allowed Link to worm his way into most of his flocks’ hearts, or, at the very least, their stomachs. A few of the nearby villages’ stray cats had grown to trust him as well, allowing Link to get close enough to scratch behind their ears—only after several moons’ worth of scraps and tentatively inching closer. The dogs still held out on him, growling when he slunk too close and attempting to bite if he dared go within reach. There were several reasons Link didn’t dare stray near the guard tower; the ever-present and persistent watch dogs were one of many.
His cottage was well hidden within the woods. Nestled behind a series of hills, with a babbling creek a short ways away—which meandered and eventually led to the larger river that bordered the town—and surrounded by thick trees and brush. Any sort of paths, aside from those made by the wildlife, were few and far between this deep into the woods. A relic from another time, perhaps some old hermit or woodsman’s place of rest—Link had built it up from the shambled ruins in a series of trial and error. It had been a steep learning curve. The roof still leaked at times, and in the winter months the doors never shut right, but it was his.
—a hollow stump—tucked inside the limbs of a towering tree—a thatched roof and stone walls which he helped his uncle patch—
Link left the cuccos to their own business, and went inside. A humble abode, fit for one, but it was more than enough for him. Enough space for a table and chair, a patchwork collection of pots and cutlery, a variety of plants in various stages of life, his bed tucked into the corner, and the hearth was ample enough that he could practically curl up next to the embers.
The bag of herbs and mushrooms he had nabbed during his impromptu trip went on the counter next to his most recently abandoned attempt at making bread—he was better off going to the market. His hat and well-worn cloak went on the hook by the door. Ducking to avoid the wandering heartleaf dangling from the rafters, Link started the kettle with a snap of his fingers.
Sometimes, a little bit of magic went a long way. In this case, starting a pot of tea without bothering to fetch wood for a fire.
Without taking his boots off, Link collapsed onto his bed. He rolled over, letting out a hum of contentment, as he wrapped a patchwork quilt around him and breathed in the care and gratitude woven into it—a gift from a family whom he’d saved from monsters.
There had been a torrid storm, and their cart had been washed astray down a hillside, right into an encampment. Link had heard the monsters’ excitement, even through the thunder and lightning. Lightning had lit up the night as Link had distracted the assortment of bokoblins and led them away, while the family rushed to safety.
The very next day, he came across them in town. They had insisted on rewarding his efforts, no matter how hard Link objected. Eventually, the matriarch had pressed a large basket of baked goods, covered with a quilt, into his arms, and the patriarch had issued a blanket invitation to their table.
It was one of the few gifts he had. After the universe seemed to have had enough of him, spitting him out only to have another call upon him yet again, there was little direction to be had for a creature who had spent most of its existence under another’s control. Years of wild wandering and searching had taught him little of etching out a life, aside from appreciating the things around him. Nature had been a kind teacher, as there had been no talking trees or long-winded owls or magic hats to guide his way. The nearby village and its people had sought to help him in any way they could. They saw him as one of their own, despite his appearance. Where Link had little in terms of money, he offered in skill and willingness. Protection during travels, a helpful hand, foraging from the forest, and all else he could do.
Which, for that matter, did not include herding goats. The remnants of heroes’ lives did not aid him in such a task. One mistake Link had learned the hard way. Standing before the horned beasts, Link had realized that his plan—if it could even be called that—relied on experience he did not have. The goats had been split between running from his presence and ramming him. It had been a stroke of luck that none had been around to see him vwoop them back into their pens, instead of leading them along the path.
The bubbling of the water caused Link to stir from his self-made cocoon, and he rose with a stretch. Link rustled through his meager shelves to find the tin of leaves, whistling a half-remembered tune, and dropped them in the kettle to steep.
Assorted herbs and mushrooms from the day's journey were sorted through, several placed aside to take to town and others strung up to dry. The sugar water he had left on the sill appeared untouched, though Link knew the fairies were unlikely to visit with him so nearby. Still, the thought of catching a glimpse of one was a quiet hope at the end of the day.
Link kicked off his boots and collapsed into bed once more, resting his eyes for a moment, only a moment, while his tea steeped.
Vwoop.
The quiet thrum of magic, of the absence thereof, and Link awoke with a start. Through sleep-crusted eyes—he had slept through the rest of the day and then through the night, apparently—he saw the swirling edges of another goddess-damned portal.
Directly in his doorframe.
Link eyed it with distaste. Whatever entity had decided to harass him was making out to be quite a bother.
Two moons ago, the first one had shown up, large and encompassing, swallowing half of his cottage with its width. It was unlike anything he had ever seen—not time-twistedly steeped the way the zealous sorceress’s had been, nor pure and infinite as that desolate water-ridden temple, nor blinding with golden power.
Despite it clearly having some sort of magical origin, there was nothing Link could make of them. They were but a void to his senses, visible to the eye, but little else, as they hummed a note just out of range and stilled the air around them. Creatures moved around them, ants trailing around the edges and birds swooping to the side. Though items placed in its path were left unharmed, Link had lost his best kettle, a basket of apples, a cord of string, and several stones to it. The kettle and apple basket had been tossed in, well, self-defense. The several stones had been part of a series of trials, as Link sought to figure out where they went. The string had been fed to the portal and never showed a sign of slack until, eventually, the portal ate it all.
They appeared with no rhyme or reason, no sense of pattern between their visits, and only disappeared if Link strayed far enough from them. Hence, yesterday’s flight to the woods.
For one to show up the following day was worrisome. While there had been no method to them that Link could discern, aside from attempting to catch him unawares, they never showed up one right after another like this.
Troubling.
Nevertheless, Link had a garden to tend to.
Herbs spilled out of their planters, covering the trodden paths and poking through his fencing. Wildflowers had sprung up alongside his carrots, and the villagers assured him they did no harm, so Link left those strange spots of color. Twine and rough-hewn branches make up the borders and frames of it all, ramshackle but his own handiwork. Near the cottage wall, a patch of silver-leafed flowers climbed upwards. Link recalled finding them in the woods, afar off, and bringing a snippet of the lace-like plant home. He does not recall learning to care for them, or their name, but he tends to them with gentle care all the same.
The cuccos were mostly independent, relying on him only for the shelter he provided and protection from common predators. But the garden—taking up most of his fenced-in area—on the other hand, seemed to crop up new problems every time he was away. Whether that be the mint sprawling into other patches, the tomatoes being overrun with spots, or something else—it kept him busy.
Link swung himself out of bed and winced as the mid-morning sun hit his eyes. With care, he straightened the blankets and pillow, then shoved on his boots and headed outside.
Luckily for Link, his windows were wide enough that he could exit with ease without nearing the swirling void in his doorway.
One stupid portal wasn’t going to ruin his day.
On second thought, the portal posed a significant obstacle.
The portals had a habit of appearing wherever they liked, but the one in his doorway was proving to be an annoyance. Of course, today would be the day he kept forgetting things inside and had to go back and forth. First it had been his spade, then his gloves, and eventually Link had realized that yesterday’s tea was still untouched. Surely sitting out overnight hadn’t done much damage aside from steeping it extra long. That had thrown him off course significantly as he attempted to salvage it.
Going through the window once was one thing, but straddling the sill and struggling to avoid the sugar water again and again was getting to him.
Aside from the obvious issue, the portal was a nuisance. The thrum of it drove Link mad, an itch he could not scratch, as it attempted to draw him near. A hum that set his teeth on edge despite it making no audible noise. No matter how he tried, Link could not ignore it.
Link had managed to wrangle the ivy so that it climbed his fence but did not make his gate unusable. The weeds had been pulled and subsequently fed to the cuccos. He had tended to the tomatoes, trimming the lower leaves and buds which were unlikely to bring any fruit. The green pepper trellises had fallen down again, bending from the weight—Link would have to make new ones, or else the peppers would rot and attract pests. The sun beating down on him was cooled by a light breeze, and Link could almost ignore the thrum from the portal.
And, well, there was surely more he could—the weather was quite nice—but Link was done.
And so, he donned his hat, cloak, shouldered his bag, and, as an afterthought, equipped his sword and shield. Though Link had seen nothing of the sort himself, there had been tales from travelers of oddly vicious monsters which had grown bolder in recent times—it did not hurt to be prepared.
Link took one last look at his cottage—wretched portal aside—at the ivy-covered walls, flower-studded fencing, the cuccos content in the sunshine, yesterday’s findings blowing in the light breeze as they hung from the window frame, and breathed in the scent of mint and thyme.
Hm.
Home.
Link smiled and turned to leave, shutting the gate once more behind him.
It was a lovely day out, even if Link had wanted to spend at least one afternoon at home without those blasted portals getting in the way.
Perhaps once he entered town he would buy more thread to complete the strand of ivy he had embroidered around the rim of his hat. It had started quite unrecognizable, though Link had been assured that such mistakes were common and easily lost amidst the larger piece.
While Link had not cared what fabric was used to patch his tunic, his hat had been the focal point for his most recent project. Learning how to sew, to do more than stitch together wounds and patch clothes. Color-matching the black was nigh impossible, so it had been whatever scraps at hand that had patched up the holes and tears from whatever misadventures he’d been through.
Amidst the patchwork mends were rows of vines, strings of constellations, and a particularly misshapen horse which had been intended to be a bunny.
Thread, a few colors would do, and he should talk to the farmer about the tomatoes and ask the blacksmith if they could make some better trellises.
And—
Oh no—
Link missed a step, falling into open air—
His hands caught his bag before it flew away and—
Nothingness—
Swirling and whirling and twirling and—
Tingling in his fingers, numbness in his legs, a piercing pain when he tried to open his eyes—
Piercing and blinding and burning—
Void.
And then, just as suddenly as it had left—Link found the ground beneath him.
Or, rather, the ground found him, as Link promptly tripped and ate a mouthful of dirt.
He sat up, spitting out grass, and whipped his head around to see the void of magic blink out of existence right in front of his eyes.
No.
No.
No, no, no—
Link stood up and spun in a circle, hands in his hair—these weren’t his woods, this wasn’t any field he knew, the sun was too high in the sky, those accursed goddesses and their schemes, and that wasn’t his wolf—
Wait, wolf?
A wolf, drenched in magic, not-light and not-dark, with strange markings upon its head, stared at him.
Link stared at the wolf.
Was the wolf to blame for—
No. Ridiculous. Whatever the portals had been trying to do, they had succeeded and now—
The grass was soft against his knees, tall enough to cover his head as he curled into himself.
His home, his garden and tea and even the cuccos, and oh, the villagers would wonder where he went—
Where Link went—
A choked cry wrung its way out of him.
Everything he had worked for and treasured and cared and tried and—
Wet.
What.
The wolf had shoved its nose in his face. If animals could look concerned, this one did.
Link stilled, waiting for it to do as other animals did—to flee or to fight—and it did neither.
It lay down in front of him, and rested its head on Link’s knees, letting out a low whine.
“‘Ello?” Link tentatively reached out a hand, and the wolf sniffed it, then nudged its head under Link’s hand. “You want—pets?”
Big, baleful eyes stared up at him, and Link petted the wolf.
Its fur was soft and thick, and Link tried to breathe as he ran his hand through it.
First things first, whatever had brought him—here, did not seem to be present. There was no king nor sorcerer to order Link around, only the wild wilderness. Second, all of his belongings still appeared to be with him, and he was still clothed in his clothes. Clumsy stitches and shoddy patchwork jobs included. The splinter-scar on his palm from fixing the door, callouses from tending to his garden, pinpricks from a needle, long-healed scratches along his shoulder from the soldiers' guard dogs—those injuries which hadn’t occurred in battle nor been brought on by another—were still present. His appearance was his, what he had made it, not yet melded to another’s.
Perhaps this was not to be a—no, that was as feasible as the wolf causing those portals and—
Link looked down at the wolf.
“Do you know—where I am?”
No answer, typical.
“I do not know where I am and—” nope, don’t think about it, “—what brought me here. Did you see the portal?”
The wolf pushed his hand once more, or perhaps that was a nod—or, more likely, Link was imagining things in his desperation.
“It brought me here. I do not want to be here.” Link scoffed. “Looks like all the efforts paid off.”
The wolf tilted its head and made an inquiring sound.
“The portals, they kept appearing—nuisances,” Link spat. “Would not leave me alone. Took my kettle. And my apple pickings.” Link stopped petting the wolf to cross his arms, letting his petty frustrations take precedence over the dread which threatened to choke him once more.
“They were good apples too. I wanted to make something with them. I do not know what, but a portal ate them before I could. And—”
Link stood, and the wolf stood too, head tilted as it watched Link pace back and forth.
“—it was rude. It was—” dreadful and dreading and sunk a horrid pit in Link’s stomach.
—the moon, the clock was ticking, the moon—he was running out of time, he was too late, again and again—his uncle was—he failed, they failed, and yet, and yet, he could not fail again, could not, could not—
Link gasped where he lay flat on his back, staring up into the blindingly blue sky, and the grass waving in the wind above him. The force of the not-memories, and still reeling from that goddess-cursed portal, had caused him to collapse.
The wolf nudged at his arm, a low keening sound emitting from it.
“Sorry, sorry.” Link struggled to sit up and console the wolf, wiping tears from his eyes. “I am not—not hurt. Do not worry. Please, not on my behalf.”
The wolf looked skeptical, which was, well, fair.
Okay.
Link stood up once more and attempted, once more, to take stock of his situation.
Well, what was the worst that could come from wandering about?
Crouched upon the steel edge of the Biggoron Sword, Link stared into the stern face of the Hero of Time.
The worst had happened, as it turned out.
Well, let’s back up a bit, shall we?
The field where the portal dumped Link was bordered by woods—and there was little to tell where he had ended up. While there were no signs of approaching forces nor power-hungry beings, Link did not think the portals had been purposeless. Somewhere, something had been trying to ensnare him for quite some time. It was only a matter of time before they realized they finally had.
But until then, Link wandered the woods. The wolf stayed by his side, and while the situation was tumultuous and dire, Link was comforted by its presence. Woods were woods, whenever one went—though the misstep of familiarity ached in his chest. These were not his woods.
The sound of chatter caused him to still, holding up a hand to stop the wolf.
“—think letting the pirate off was a good idea?”
“Oh, don’t get your scarf in a twist.” A voice scoffed; Link could hear the sound of someone else sighing. “Kid would’ve done it, no matter what the old man said.”
“Yes, but Wild shouldn’t have—”
“If you’re so worried, then go chase after him. I bet he’d love that, especially after that stunt you pulled back in—”
“Boys.”
Link knew that voice.
—endless infinity in a little box, a barren tree never to bear fruit, water which never bore his reflection, a trial, conquer yourself—
No.
It couldn’t be.
But the other two were familiar as well—a captain on the battlefield with a visage he could never replicate, and grim determination and too much magic packed into such a small body.
No, no, no—
The wolf padded forwards, and Link reached to grab its fur—
“Don’t,” he hissed.
The world narrowed down to his shallow breath, the fur beneath his fingers, and the sound of their voices.
He dared to peer between the gaps in the trees, catching sight of half-propped tents, weapons and gear laid aside, the start of a campfire, and—
Gold-gilded armor with steel plating, dripping with fairy magic, a face split in two by scars and deific markings—his face, older, perhaps, than Link ever would be.
The Hero of Time.
Link closed his eyes tight and pressed himself close against the wolf with shaking breaths.
If he was seen, they would do what they had done before, again and again.
Link had to leave—before they caught sight of him and decided that once-thrice-four times was not enough. For whatever purpose they were here—
Or perhaps, why he was here—
No.
Not yet.
Link's fingers tightened in the wolf's fur and as he shifted one foot back, then another, only to settle on open air—
A tear in the universe opened up behind him, and Link could only grasp at empty air as he fell back into—
Nothingness—
Holy and bright—
Blinding and burning—
Void.
Pain flashed through his shoulder and hip as Link hit the ground, rolling to find his feet beneath him. The ground barely steadied; he felt rather than saw the portal wink out of existence as quickly as it had come.
As he raised himself on shaking arms, he found himself cross-eyed at the sight of a sword in his face.
Whatever little breath he had vanished.
Link could see his own dismal reflection in the blade, narrowed red eyes and too-sharp teeth bared.
Up and up he looked to see—
The Hero of Time.
Link scrambled backwards, uncaring of the embers and rocks scraping his palms, only to hit—
A swirl of magic assaulted his senses, the mismatched enchantments from half a dozen different items permeating the air around him.
Witch-hero.
The rounded end of a fire rod pressed into the small of his back as Link had scrambled out of reach of the Hero of Time’s blade, only to be checked by the Hero of Legend.
Through his layers, Link could feel the heat as he threw himself upright, only to dodge the oncoming strike from the Hero of Warriors.
Bright and shining, the epitome of knighthood, with a purpose to strike down creatures of darkness.
Link whirled around, surrounded by the heroes. There was only certainty in their gazes, assurance that they would vanquish the threat once more.
The Hero of Warriors swung his sword once more as Link threw himself sideways.
Steel cut through the space where his head had been. He hit the ground rolling and scrambled upright, but there the fire rod awaited.
Link jerked backward, the blast of heat searing the space he had been but a moment before. Link twisted away from the next burst of blazing fire, boots sliding against the grass.
As Link stumbled back, feet finding purchase as his heart hammered out of his chest, he ducked through the slimmest of gaps between the two heroes only to find—
A sword, longer than he was tall, swept towards him—
And Link leapt—
The sword passed beneath his boots as he landed upon it.
Link crouched, balanced atop the Biggoron Sword, one hand resting upon the flat of the blade to steady him.
The Hero of Time stared at him, his own face.
A mirror, though the hero bore scars and marks of adventures after Link’s time, of a life which had passed for the hero—when Link’s own had been stolen out from underneath him.
Link’s breath hitched; he opened his mouth—to say what, he did not know, but his throat had closed.
Link kicked off the blade as he threw himself backwards—his hands catching the ground as his legs swept overhead—and landed hard several paces away.
There were shouts behind him, meaningless to Link's rabbit-fast heart as he bolted.
He tore through the camp, knocking aside a pack and sending someone's discarded shield spinning through the grass. Behind him came the unmistakable sound of boots and the scrape of weapons. Someone swung at him, and Link ducked without slowing, the blast cutting through his cloak instead.
The near-miss only fueled his adrenaline as Link plunged between the trees with abandon.
Branches clawed at his face. His boots slipped on damp earth as he caught himself against a trunk, shoved off, and kept running.
Link felt his scabbard be torn from its place at his hip, some errant blade or blow having severed the belt—lest he wished to turn around and face their blades, he was without a weapon now.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears, and as Link ran, he caught sight of a flash of light—sunlight on water, a drop in the treeline—and changed direction without thinking.
A riverbend.
The ground sloped sharply downward, and his boots slid as he threw out a hand and caught a branch. It snapped, and he scrambled for another, catching purchase on a tangle of roots.
Link stumbled down the riverbank, boots skidding over slick earth as he clawed at the hanging roots for purchase. Loose soil crumbled beneath him, sending him sliding toward the dark, rushing water below. He caught himself, barely, only desperate need allowing him to hold himself steady.
While his hasty steps left sunken prints along the sandy bank, Link knew the shallow cleft formed by the years of ebbing water would cover his tracks. Between the trees clinging to the water's edge and the plentiful shrubbery, there was little to show for his presence. Little for the heroes to find.
The sound of thundering footsteps echoed from somewhere above—causing Link to flatten against the ground, face pressed into the grit—voices called out in the distance, and faded as they went further away. Somehow, in his mad dash through the woods, Link had managed to give the heroes the slip.
Slowly, Link rose from the reeds. Between the portals, the pestering wolf, and the lot of them—today had been far more eventful than planned. Link had thought he had put that life behind, as much as a creature like him could. Formed himself a new life, something he could call his own—not a trial to overcome or an enemy to defeat.
And then—that blasted thrice-cursed portal.
Dropping him in, perhaps, the worst place Link could be. One hero was a trial, a challenge—determined but possible, however slim. But three or four? If he ever had any misconception about the golden goddesses being on his side, Link definitely did not now. If not for his desperate flight, if he had attempted to fight, Link would have been cut down quicker than—well—than lightning.
Nevertheless, Link crept along the river bank, blinking the spots of terror out of his eyes, as he looked for a place to recoup.
The bank leveled out as he walked along the river’s edge, his shadow hidden from any passing figures by the trees and tall grasses which grew by its side.
There.
A gnarled old tree, bowed over the current as if watching over the river, with twisted branches winding and full of life. And at the base of it, where the water had worn it away, a hollow. A crevice, full of damp leaves and tangled reeds, remnants of driftwood and fish bones, still wet from recent rain and whenever the river had swelled last.
Still, Link had been in far worse places. The hollow of a tree was far from many of them. Link curled into the welcome reprieve of shadows, letting the tree swallow him whole. Sunlight beat down on his face as the river lapped at his boots, not quite reaching him where he sat.
Tilting his head back, staring up at the sky between the speckled leaves, he could almost ignore the pressing issue of heroes out there with his name on their swords and magical artifacts. But Link could not, not fully, not when he did not know where he was.
Evading the heroes’ notice was a priority—perhaps they were to blame for the blasted things—and then he would find his way home.
The sound of quiet chatter drew him from his motley thoughts, and then—
BOOM.
The sound shook the tree, birds startling in flight, and Link scrambled out of the tree hollow—cursing up a streak to whatever deity had it out for him today.
“See, fish!” A young Hylian in a blue tunic called out to whoever he was talking to—though perhaps, if they were the maker of the explosion, their sanity could be in question. “Wild’s idea worked! The old man was just being—”
They cut themselves off as they caught sight of Link.
Blue eyes widened.
Gleaming red eyes, grey-tinged skin, a patchwork tunic akin to the Hero of Time’s—
“Oh, did I startle you? Figured no one was around here.” His eyes cut from the tree and back to Link again. Some form of thought whirring behind those too-wide eyes. “Do you need help?”
What.
Well, if they did not see Link as the evident monster he was—he would take what he got.
Ah.
Blue eyes, blond hair, tunic blue instead of green, no hint of that too-familiar spirit—but still.
Link scowled; the stranger was steeped in the phantoms of oceans and wind, with the faintest hint of that accursed golden touch lingering upon him. There was no call to reflect, reveal, to prove. If not a hero himself, then one who traveled with them—though that time-touched sword on his back left little doubt. Of course there were more of them. And, of course, this one had the wariness of a highland sheep.
“No—go away,” Link gritted out—the sound of his own voice cooperating with him surprised him—as the sight of the chosen heroes often dried up his words.
“Are you sure?” The hero asked, hands raised as to pose no threat.
Link scuttled back as he padded closer. It was obvious the hero was unlikely to go away without some task to distract them; unerringly helpful to a fault. But it was not like he had some errand for them to run, unless—
“No—maybe? I fell. Into a portal.” Link shrugged, and the hero stilled. “And now I am—here.”
“A portal?” A birdlike tilt of their head. “I didn’t think anyone other than monsters or us could travel through them—and the postman and Epona, of course.” The hero seemed to be mumbling mostly to himself, pacing in a circle and fiddling with a blue-stone necklace. “But, maybe, wait—” he jumped to face him, excitement on his face, which made Link wary, “—is your name Link?”
What?
“Why?”
“Because, if you came through a portal and your name is Link—then you’re probably meant to join us!”
At this, Link considered his chances of making a break for it. Though, with how his day was going, he would only end up running into yet another hero.
“Wind, who are you talking—”
A short, multicolored figure clambered down the bank, their eyes widening and stumbling steps quickening as they caught sight of Link.
“—Shadow?”
Their face was drawn and pale, eyes a swirling mix of colors, and their appearance caused a prickle of not-memories to beckon at the back of his scalp. Link pushed them back down, as he did not have time for that now.
Link’s skin itched, the call to meld to another’s appearance—to shorten, to shrink—and he bit back the urge. Whatever the goddess’s plan was, they wouldn’t take what he had made his.
“How are—what—dramatic bastard—you’re here—” They caught themselves before falling flat on their face, an arm’s reach away—too close for Link’s comfort. They took in Link’s apparel with a keen eye, mouth twisting in disappointment, and shook their head. Red, green, blue, and violet swirled and faded to a grey. “You’re not—who are you?”
“Link, not a shadow.”
The multicolored hero frowned at that, and Link frowned back, but before they could say a word, the young hero—Wind, presumably spoke up.
“You must be another hero then.” Wind reached out to grab his hand, and Link stepped back with a hiss. Wind rocked back on his heels, undeterred. “Oh, come on, the others will need to meet you—maybe you’ll give us the edge we need over the black-blooded monsters.”
“Are you a hero?” Blue-violet eyes stared at him; the multicolored hero had a look on their face that Link couldn’t parse out.
Before Link could even attempt to answer that—a cold nose shoved its way into his palm.
Startled, Link turned and stared at the strange marked wolf that had found him again.
“Wolfie?” Wind bounded up beside him, ruffling the wolf’s fur. “Find any monsters?”
They named the wolf Wolfie?
“If it were anything he couldn’t handle, he’d lead us to ‘em,” Four said. Wolfie huffed and sniffed at Link, nuzzling his head under his palm. “But we should probably go catch up with the others; they might be concerned if they heard the bomb.”
“My fish—” Wind wailed as he whirled around and ran to the river bank, collecting what few fish had not drifted down the current.
“You’re not Shadow, are you?” Link occupied himself with petting the wolf. He crouched down, letting Wolfie be a barrier between him and the two heroes, and refused to catch the shorter hero’s off-putting eyes.
“Not a shadow,” Link muttered, “m’Link.”
“Wolfie trusts you.”
“And you?”
Link looked up to swirling eyes—blue-violet to red-green to grey again. Four hummed and seemed to have a staring contest with the wolf.
“We don’t know yet.”
“I wouldn’t,” Link said with a shrug.
Wolfie, seeming to have had enough of it, padded off to where the younger hero had strung the fish along a particularly sturdy-looking branch. Link mourned the loss of his furry conversational shield and sat back on his haunches.
“We should probably go find the others—see if they set up camp without us.” Four looked at Link as he turned to follow after Wolfie, with that searching gaze. “You coming with?”
Link scoffed.
Look at me, he wanted to say, look at me and what I am, how can I be anything less than a monster in your eyes—stop pretending—
“Bad idea.”
“We can think of a few worse ones.”
—a moonlit forest—freezing cold—their stares piercing as it burned around him—a towering figure ‘neath a pyramid—lava and betrayal and betraying and brotherhood and shadows and—
Link shook off the not-memories with vehemence, clutching his chest, gasping as the chill of doubt-fear caught in his lungs.
Violet eyes stared at him.
Four turned away.
“Don’t be stupid.”
What.
Farore accursed heroes.
Link wanted nothing to do with them.
Okay, okay, maybe Link would just go live in these woods. What he had seen in his aimless wanderings and fight-filled flight seemed akin enough to the woods he was familiar with. Woods were woods, and Link had made his way through worse situations.
—a temple, endless years waiting—a tether in his gut—poised and arranged and not-right and his face staring back at him three-four times over—
Link stared at the river, his right hand combing through the pebbles and soil. The sound of the two heroes talking and bickering was distant. He let the water lap at his feet and the sound wash over him.
It was soothing.
He would go in the opposite direction of these horrid heroes and their meddling and sword-pointing.
From the mismatched horizons and absolute mix of heroes and everything else that pointed to some divine intervention or torrid sense of humor, traversing time was one of the possibilities. Though it hurt to think of, Link was no stranger to such temporal conundrums.
Maybe he’d build his cottage anew, before he had ever set foot there. Or find the ruins—and his long-forgotten tea—and build it up once more. Once more he would find travelers and townsteads that did not shy away from him. Tend to a new flock of cuccos, or perhaps goats.
No, not goats.
But, perhaps, he could convince a cat to stay. In the warmer months there were often plenty of kittens to be found for every farmhand and child, and surely raising and tending to a kitten was something he could manage.
“Hey!”
Link’s head snapped up to see Wind—heavily laden with fish strung along a branch over his shoulder.
“New-Link, let’s go,” Wind called, halfway up the bank with the other hero and the wolf. “If we hurry, Wild might make something fresh.”
There was a razor-sharp grin on the younger hero’s face, more Zoran than Hylian.
Link eyed the river—but despite all the time he’d spent surrounded by water, swimming was not a skill of his.
“Come on!”
The wolf stared at Link with those big baleful eyes.
Fine.
It wasn’t as if his aimless wanderings had gone well enough before. Perhaps following along with whatever twisted sense of humor the divine had would get this over with already. If the universe was set out to string him along and get him stabbed, then so be it.
Red-green eyes smiled at him as Link stalked towards the three.
“Where to?”
“Not much of a talker, are you?” Wind said, as if Link hadn’t asked, and let the wolf lead the way.
Wait, what.
Maybe the wolf was more than just a friendly wolf.
—a hat, a bird, not a mouse—an assured voice, cool and analytical—his fairy, did she go?—alone he was alone but for the ghosts—a sharp-tongued imp that was his only hope—
Wind had barely paused for breath, and Link’s feet had moved without him as the not-memories swept over him like a wave, echoing voices and hope-hurt that weren’t his.
“—not the only one. Wild uses the Slate sometimes to talk, though it’s his Zelda’s voice that talks. He put Twi’s voice in there, to talk about the black-blooded monsters and us. Do you know sign? Though Wars says our signs are different, and the goddesses only do so much, somehow he knows Legend’s and—”
It had been several long minutes of Wind talking, with little interjection on Four and Link’s part. The wolf had seemed to take part at times, huffing and knocking his head into Wind’s side at particular statements, locking eyes with Four as if to say ‘can you believe this?’
Link was no longer certain the wolf was an ordinary wolf.
Perhaps that should have been more obvious, given the general way it reeked of magic.
Hylia forgive him; for there were more pressing concerns on his mind than the magical beast.
The sound of Wind and Four arguing faded in and out beneath the trees as they followed the riverbank—something about the properties of bombs and what they’d have to ask Wild—with Wolfie padding easily ahead of them.
Link kept several paces behind the two, as he had no desire to walk alongside the heroes—friendly as they seemed, for now.
The trees thinned.
Ahead, voices rose through the branches—with the comfortable ease of familiarity and kinship. The faint clatter of weapons and gear accompanied them, along with the smell of smoke and something cooking.
Camp.
Wind brightened immediately and quickened his pace, running ahead of the wolf. Wolfie looked back at Link once more, before vanishing into the underbrush.
Link stopped before the break in the trees.
Link stared at the cluster of tents and figures visible beyond the trees and felt a familiar sinking sensation settle into his stomach.
It was always going to come to this, no matter how he tried to run.
“You remind us of someone. You’re not the same, but—he was good. Or, well, he tried to be. Once we saw past the surface, once he was given a chance. We made a mistake then, and never again.” Four glanced back at Link; grey eyes somehow more piercing than any of the colors before. “We will not let the others hurt you.”
“You certain?”
“You have my word.”
“A hero’s word.” Link scoffed. “Not worth much.”
“Doesn’t hurt to try,” Four said with a shrug, and Link raised his eyebrows, quite familiar with trying—the singed hole in his cloak evidence of one too-close encounter already.
But he had tried to run before, and had only ended up in the same spot—surrounded by heroes.
“Fine. But you enter with me.”
“Fine by us.” Red-violet eyes grinned at him. “Wanna hold hands?”
“No.”
Four passed through the break in the trees first, Link on his heels.
Link's stomach dropped.
For one awful heartbeat, he saw the campsite in pieces—a scruffy traveler reeking of fae laying out a bedroll, a figure crouched beside the campfire steeped in the echoes of wilderness and otherworldly blessings, a white-caped hero writing a letter whilst the Master Sword sat by his side. The heroes who had chased him earlier were scattered amongst the camp as well—the witch-hero was rustling around in a bag, while the other two were conversing between themselves.
All bearing a hint of Farore’s favoritism, some fainter than others, but still present.
Wind had bounded up to the campfire, gesturing wildly to the seated figure as he handed them the stick of fish—Wild, presumably.
And—there—out of the woods walked a hero wearing a wolf pelt, whose eyes searched the camp before locking eyes with Link.
There was no way—
There was a beat, and then several of the heroes turned to see Four—and Link—enter the camp.
Several snapped to attention, hands reaching for their weapons.
Link suddenly, desperately, wished he had chosen to hold Four’s hand.
“What in the world is—”
“It’s back—”
Wind was saying something—probably attempting to introduce him, judging by the way he gestured toward Link—but the words dissolved beneath the sudden scrape of steel leaving sheaths.
The white-caped hero was closest, letter discarded where he stood, wielding the Master Sword—pointing it at Link—
A crystalline chime.
The Master Sword sang, the hilt bursting with light as the white-caped hero dropped it with a yelp.
The heroes stared.
“—told you, he’s a hero—” Wind’s voice cut in through the ringing in his ears. Link stood with shoulders hunched, hands raised, eyes darting about for some sort of escape.
“Fi insists,” the white-caped hero said, reverence in his voice.
“Please,” Link croaked, barely to be heard over the din of the heroes’ clamor and confusion.
But he felt it—the stench of something other, the stumbling gait of a creature with a taste for flesh—and Link grabbed the nearest weapon and swung—
Steel cut through the flesh of a monster with ease.
Bokoblins, three of them—a moblin lumbering behind them.
Hobbled at the knee, it screeched and swung at Link with his club. Link blocked it with his blade as another came behind him—
Four stepped in before it got too close, felling it with one well-timed swing of his sword.
The others scrambled into play, the white-caped hero backpedaling as the Hero of Time and Warriors took care of the blade-wielding moblin, their strikes causing it to bleed black.
Wolf-pelt strode forward and shifted, form melting into shadows, and Wolfie—he knew that was no ordinary wolf—leapt at the last bokoblin.
Four and Link cut at the moblin’s heels, causing it to stumble as the Hero of Time disarmed it with a chop to the arm.
As quickly as it had started, the battle ended.
Link stared down at his hands, where the Master Sword rested loose in his grip.
Oh.
Oh.
The blade which sealed the darkness, the bane of evil—was in his hands.
“We knew it.” Four beamed at him—eyes aswirl.
“Told you!” Wind said with a fist pump.
Chime.
Found you, a voice seemed to speak somewhere behind his eyelids. Welcome, hero of the darkness.