Chapter Text
The first thing Link learned was that he was different.
The Kokiri children moved through the forest as if they were part of it. They ran between the trees without hesitation, jumped over roots hidden beneath moss, climbed branches that looked impossible to reach, and always seemed to know what was happening around them. Link watched them carefully.
He had always been good at watching.
When he was very small, before he understood why he was different, he believed everyone experienced the world the way he did. The forest was not silent to him, he could feel it through his whole body.
Link felt the shaking of the ground when someone ran nearby. He felt the gentle trembling of leaves when the wind passed through the branches. He felt the vibration of trees when something large moved against them. He felt the warmth of sunlight on his skin and the cool touch of moss beneath his fingers. He knew when rain was coming because the air changed. He knew when animals were nearby because the ground carried their movements.
He knew when someone approached him from behind because the earth whispered it to him.
The forest spoke a language that did not need sound and Link understood that language. But other people seemed to understand another language he could not reach.
Everyone in the Kokiri Forest had a fairy. That was the first difference. The other children carried their fairies constantly.
Link waited for his own fairy. Every morning, he searched the trees. Every evening, he looked between the flowers and mushrooms.
He thought maybe his fairy was simply late or maybe it was lost. That maybe tomorrow it would finally find him. But tomorrow always came, and there was still no fairy.
The other children noticed and thought there was something wrong with him. Link did not understand why a missing fairy had to mean something was wrong, it was only a missing fairy.
But then he discovered the other difference. The one that separated him from everyone else.
Link could not hear.
He had never heard anything. The word itself existed in books and in other people's hands when they tried to explain.
Sound.
People seemed to carry invisible things with them. Things that left their mouths and traveled through the air. Things that could call someone's name from far away, that could warn someone of danger before they saw it.
Link understood the idea, but not the experience. It was like trying to imagine a color that did not exist. Without seeing it, the explanation was always incomplete.
Sound was like that.
The children tried to teach him, they pointed at their mouths and showed him that their mouths created something that carried meaning.
Link watched carefully the shape of their lips and the movement of their tongues. He tried to copy them. Every day, he stood in front of a mirror and practiced. He moved his mouth the same way they did. But something was missing. The children had something invisible that completed their words.
Link did not.
He could make his throat move and could feel vibrations inside his body. He discovered that if he hummed, his chest and throat trembled in a pleasant way. He liked that feeling. Sometimes he hummed quietly to himself without realizing it.
But he did not know how loud it was. He could feel a vibration but could not hear the sound it created.
A happy surprise could make a loud cry escape from him and a moment of fear could create a sharp scream. A laugh could suddenly burst out, much louder than he expected.
And every time, the other children froze and covered their ears. At first Link did not understand. He thought perhaps he had done something wrong, so he tried to make the sounds smaller. He had learned that the sounds he made without thinking were strange to others because he could not hear them himself. He watched the other children carefully, trying to understand what made a good sound and what made a bad one. But nobody could explain it.
They did not know how to explain something they experienced naturally. To them, sound was everywhere. To Link, it was a mystery he could only touch.
Once, he became excited while playing near the forest edge. A butterfly landed on his hand, and he laughed, because the butterfly's wings were beautiful. But when he looked up, the other children were staring. One child stepped back, another whispered something. Link did not hear the whisper, but he saw the fear.
Link did not understand what he had done, but after that, he became quieter. He learned that his voice could push people away, so he stopped using it.
The Kokiri children had their own ways of communicating with Link. They used gestures, pointed and pulled his hand toward things. Sometimes they invented signs, but those signs were simple.
They could show:
"Eat."
"Come."
"Go."
"Look."
"Stop."
They could not show what Link truly wanted to share. He could not explain dreams or ask complicated questions.
He could not tell someone:
"I feel lonely."
"I don't understand."
Some children wrote. At first, Link loved it. He could see and understand the words. Nobody had to slow down their movements so he could read their lips. But eventually, Link noticed something.
Writing was very slow.
A child who wanted to tell a friend something exciting usually only needed a few moments. They could turn toward each other, move their mouths, and the conversation would flow.
For Link, writing every thought down was like trying to run while carrying a heavy bag.
If someone asked:
Do you want to play near the river?
By the time Link wrote:
Yes, but can we go after I finish drawing the flowers I found because I want to show them to Saria?
The other child was already bored. Most children did not want to stand still and read a whole page when they could simply talk. Writing became useful for things that could fit on a small piece of paper.
Come here.
Where are you?
Are you hungry?
Be careful.
But it could not replace the feeling of sitting beside someone and sharing thoughts easily. Or replace the way the other children talked while running through the forest. Link watched them sometimes and wondered what it felt like to have words that moved as quickly as thoughts.
Then Link found the book in the village storage.
The Kokiri children kept that place for things they found in the forest. Sometimes travelers passed near the woods and lost belongings. Sometimes strange objects appeared between roots and bushes. The Kokiri collected them because they found the forgotten items interesting. Items like old tools, broken jewelry, books, pieces of clothing. Things that belonged to a world beyond the forest.
Link liked searching through the storage. He thought they were pieces of another world. One day, beneath an old blanket and a cracked wooden box, he found a book. The cover was faded, pages smelled old.
Inside were drawings of hands in different positions. Hands creating meaning. Link sat down immediately and turned the pages again and again. This was not like the gestures the other children used. This was a real language made with hands instead of voices.
For the first time in his life, Link felt like he had found a door. He learnt every day and every night. He practiced until his fingers moved naturally. His hands could carry thoughts. And for a little while, he was happy.
But most of the Kokiri children did not want to learn. They learned enough to understand what Link needed and to ask simple questions. But they did not want to spend time learning a whole language. They had their own conversations. Their own games and friendships.
And Link was always slightly outside of them, never completely included.
Only Saria truly tried.
Saria sat with him beneath the trees and practiced. She laughed when she mixed up signs. She asked him questions and waited patiently for his answers. With Saria, Link felt normal. But Saria was only one person and she could not always protect him. Especially from Mido.
Mido was the chief of the Kokiri village and acted as if his position made him important. He acted as if being different made Link less. He pushed him whenever he could, took his things. He blocked his way.
And because Link could read some words from people's lips, Mido's insults hurt even without sound.
Link saw every word, the shape of his name being twisted into cruelty. He saw laughter around him and children deciding he did not belong.
The forest that once felt endless started becoming smaller, until one day, it became unbearable. After another day of being pushed and mocked, Link returned to his small place and sat quietly.
He looked at his belongings: sign language book, notebook, his crayons and drawings, slingshot. He packed everything into a small bag.
He did not know where he would go. The Lost Woods were dangerous, people entered and sometimes never returned. Legends said that Kokiri children who lost themselves in the forest could become Skull Kids.
A small part of Link wondered if that would really be so bad. Maybe becoming a Skull Kid would be better. Maybe being lost forever would be better. Anything was better than staying somewhere that looked like home but never felt like it.
Link looked toward the village one last time. Toward the place where he had spent years trying to become someone they would accept.
Then he turned away, tightened the strap of his bag and walked into the Lost Woods.
He did not know where he would end and if he would ever return.
But for the first time in a long time, Link felt peace. Because even if the forest swallowed him whole...
Even if he disappeared forever...
At least he would no longer have to beg a place to accept him.
Phantom Ganon did not have a beginning.
There was only darkness, then awareness. One moment there had been nothing. The next, he existed.
He knew things. He knew how to stand, how to move. He knew magic and battle.
He knew obedience.
Knowledge had been placed inside him like tools in a chest. He did not remember learning them. They simply existed, waiting to be used.
His first awareness was the cold stone beneath his knees. He was kneeling and efore him stood Ganondorf, his creator and master.
The dark chamber around them was filled with the smell of magic and old stone. Shadows moved along the walls, twisted by flames burning in iron holders.
Phantom lowered his head. He did not know why he did it, the knowledge inside him told him:
"A creation bows before its creator.
A servant lowers itself before its master."
-Raise my shadow. -Ganondorf commanded. -Raise Phantom Ganon.
Phantom obeyed, his body moved before thought existed. Ganondorf looked at him, like someone admiring a reflection.
A satisfied smile appeared on his face.
-You are honored to be my copy, -he said. -My shadow.
He stepped closer, studying him.
-I have to admit... I did an excellent job.
Phantom remained still. He understood the words, but he did not understand the possesion behind them.
Ganondorf tilted his head slightly.
-Yet do not become too confident because of that.
His expression hardened.
-You are still only a shadow.
Phantom felt an uncomfortable feeling inside his chest. Before he could understand it, Ganondorf snapped his fingers, summoning his magic.
A skull mask appeared over the upper part of Phantom's face. The sudden weight startled him.
Ganondorf looked satisfied.
-Much better.
He reached out and adjusted the mask on his servant face.
-Cannot let you think that you are a person.
Again, that strange feeling appeared inside Phantom.
Ganondorf turned away.
-You will go to the Forest Temple and conquer it.
His voice became colder.
-Acquire its power. If there is a forest sage, kill them. Stay there until I summon you.
He looked over his shoulder.
-In a few years, I will invade Hyrule. You must be careful, however.
Phantom listened.
-The legendary Hero of Hyrule may appear. The Hero will be dangerous. If he arrives...
Ganondorf smiled slightly.
-Destroy him. You may leave.
Phantom opened his mouth.
-Yes, master.
The words formed, but no voice came out.
Ganondorf paused, then he sighed.
-Ah. I almost forgot.
He snapped his fingers lightly, as if remembering something unimportant.
-When I created you, I did not give you a voice.
Phantom stared.
-You will not need one.
Ganondorf turned away.
-After all...
His voice became amused.
-A shadow should be seen... not heard.
Phantom stood alone in the darkness after his master left. He touched his throat and tried to use voice.
Nothing.
The knowledge inside him told him he was supposed to communicate, but the tool was missing. His hand slowly lowered. He did not know the word for the feeling inside him, but he only knew that something was wrong.
But he was created to obey.
The entrance to the Forest Temple was hidden deep within the Lost Woods. The journey through the labyrinth did not challenge him. The knowledge and magic inside him guided every step.
Eventually, he found the enormous staircase leading upward. The temple appeared beyond it at the top of another smaller staircase. Once, it must have been magnificent place of worship, but now it was abandoned. The halls were cracked, the walls were covered in vines. Dust covered everything.
Phantom stood in the entrance hall. His master had ordered him to stay. So he would stay. Perhaps he would hide inside one of the paintings. He would wait silently for years. And when the Hero arrived...
He would emerge and destroy him.
Simple.
Then monsters began entering the temple. Creatures that wandered the ruins, that followed his magic and strength. Phantom allowed them to stay, because they were useful. They could protect his territory... his master's territory.
Days passed and Phantom explored the abandoned halls alone. Then he heard a strange noise. Nothing he ever heard in this temple. He heard... a sneeze?
Phantom turned. Behind him stood a small blond Kokiri boy.
Both of them froze and for several moments, neither moved. The child looked scared of him. Phantom wondered, should he kill him?
The master's order was simple. Destroy enemies and protect the temple.
But the child did not attack. Instead... he child waved in a small, uncertain greeting. Phantom stared. The child became embarrassed. Slowly, he pointed at himself. Then he touched his ear, then he shook his head and his expression became sad.
Phantom watched carefully, as the meaning was unclear. Then the child repeated the gesture. His ear, then shake of the head.
Phantom understood.
No hearing.
The child then pointed at himself again, touched his throat, and shook his head again.
No voice.
Phantom became still.
The child could not hear.
And the child could not speak.
Just like me.
For the first time since his creation, Phantom felt curiosity. He raised his own hand, touched his throat, then shook his head.
No voice.
The child's eyes widened and suddenly, he became excited. His hands moved quickly, then the child stopped and his small shoulders lowered, as he realized Phantom could not understand his gestures. Then, suddenly, he smiled, opened his bag and pulled book out. Phantom stared, as the child walked closer without fear. Boy held the book toward him.
The cover showed two words:
"Sign language."
Phantom looked at it, then at the child. The boy opened the pages and showed pictures of hands making different shapes. Those hands... were speaking. Phantom slowly lowered himself to the ground and the child sat beside him. He pointed at a picture, then showed the movement with his own hands.
-Hello.
Phantom looked at the child's hands. Then at his own. The child had found another path to speak. He had cheated and found a way around what was missing. The child had been given silence, but had created a voice from his hands. Phantom looked at the small Kokiri child.
The order had been: Conquer the temple, destroy the Hero.
But this... was not the Hero. Phantom looked at the book again, then at the child's hopeful expression.
For the first time in his existance, Phantom had a desire that did not come from his master.
A thought that belonged only to him.
I want to learn.