i am niche but i am free

Ravio pauses in front of the largest painting. Doesn’t turn towards it, refusing to give it full counsel, but no longer can he ignore the way it rattles against the walls. He feels as though he is stuck within its frame himself – caught immobile and shaking with fear.

“How meagre that little crystal you hold… is this all the light the worms are capable of harnessing?” it chitters, dangerously close to knocking the century old oils to the floor. Ravio knows it cannot harm him – the tone of its crowing threatens to shatter his bones all the same.

He does not reply to its taunts. Voice too uncertain, arguing futile and cyclical. This wraith has haunted the castle for far too long for one prey animal to dispel it. He keeps stock still.

The wraith laughs again. “Scared, little rabbit? I have heard the whisperings, you know. The fallings, the famines. This land is crumbling, and – ha! – you’ll be going with it! How perfect!”

“We— We’re stronger than you think, you know.” 

The screeching howl of laughter that echoes through the hall threatens to send Ravio to his knees in fear. He wants to run, he wants to hide – throw himself under the heavy weight of the curtains draperies and shiver until the wraith gets bored and Hilda comes looking. He wants to cower. He wants to give up. 

But if he does, then he knows nobody else will take his place in holding onto the light. 

There’s a creaking, and suddenly his head is jerked to face the painting by ice cold fingers. 

Wide and crazed eyes stare into his soul. The image of the painting stretches and splits around the skeleton of the wraith bulging it out, scattering eye-watering colours out in every direction. Its face is inches from Ravio’s, five times as large, commanding his terrified attention – he can’t hold in the gasp, the image stealing his breath like an ice pick through his chest. 

“WORTHLESS, SPINELESS LITTLE WORM. YOU WILL DO WELL TO REMEMBER YOU ARE A STAIN UPON THE TAPESTRY OF LIFE."

Ravio struggles to get his breath back. The temperature dips, very soul shivering in sub zero, entire body trembling. He desperately thinks of a path of escape, gaze unable to shift from the all consuming horror in front of him.

“YOU THINK YOU CAN WIN? IN A WORLD LIKE THIS, NOTHING IS WORTH HOLDING ONTO EXCEPT THE ASSURANCE OF YOUR DEATH!”

A single mote of oxygen reaches his lungs. Color cannot exist without light.  

“ONE DAY, THE BEAUTIFUL ABYSS WILL CONSUME ALL, AND YOU WILL BE A FORGOTTEN, HAVING DONE NOTHING BUT WASTE YOUR LIFE HOPING AGAINST INEVITABILITY.” 

Shaking fingers slowly rise to the dangling cord in his hand—

“YOU ARE A FLEETING, FLAWED AND DISCARDED IMAGE WORTH NAUGHT BUT THE CARRION THEY HARVEST FROM YOUR SOUL—”

The light is snuffed out, and with it the wraith disappears. Ravio crumples to the floor. 

He sucks in desperate, gasping breaths. Hands firmly planted to the floor to assuage the shaking as much as possible, the darkness clinging to his back like sweat. The pitch black consumes his shivering form. 

He lets out a pathetic sob, entirely ashamed. Walking these halls at night for his princess is a routine, he should be stronger than this, he must not cower so– pathetically. The wraith's words are merely a taunt, Ravio knows, but even still they ring in his ears like a funeral bell. They’re inevitable carrion. 

But they’re not there yet. 

With a final deep breath, Ravio picks himself back up and continues down the hall. Unseeing in the pitch black, unnerved with the threat of a second appearance, still trembling with fear. But standing once again. 

The guard at the front door – a spry young woman, straying from the pack to pledge a hesitant devotion in the wake of their new light – looks up in surprise from her slumped post when Hilda pushes open the doors. 

“Y-Your highness! What are you doing out at such an hour?” Hilda looks at her strangely for just a moment, the comment on what she’s allowed to do stinging her ears, before she realises its truth. It’s just past ten, per the clock in her office, but any excursions are usually done in the afternoon where the light is brightest. The sun still struggles to reach, some days. 

Hilda forges past any surely required politeness, and refuting the claim that she has to abide by some fake rules she herself did not set. “Where is Ravio?” 

“That funny rabbit– I mean Ravio, your highness? I have not seen him since the two of you returned last.”

Hilda sighs. It was as she thought. Ravio is awfully sneaky, when he wants to be. But she will find whatever he is hiding from her.

“Thank you. Remain at your post, I am heading out for a while.”

“Are you sure you should be going out on your–?” Before she can finish her sentence, Hilda’s scepter is in hand and with a flick of her wrist, Sabrina is summoned. The giant obsidian bird ruffles its feathers, turning to look at the guard as she flounders. 

“If Ravio returns before I, tell him to stay put and that I shall return shortly.” Hilda mounts Sabrina, taking one single moment to pet her flank and wait for acknowledgement. 

“Yes, your highness."

Without another word, they take off for the village. 

Flying over the still decayed ruins of Lorule, the tension curls deep in Hilda’s gut. Every second, every flap of wings, it climbs, his absence a cavern even as she flies over mountains. It tumbles down into the abyss and tempts her to follow it. Her thoughts certainly do, all shouting for attention at once. How dare he! How could he? He promised he wouldn’t leave without word, again. He promised. Has something happened? He would’ve told her. 

Would he? 

For all the time they spend together, Hilda likes to think she understands Ravio. His quirks, his quips and quibbles and quakes. How he dances, and wrings his hands, how he sings and how he shivers under her gaze the second she sees fit that he deserves to be scared of it. How he stands against her barrage, how he holds her amidst her tears, how he sits in her silence. And yet, that is all simply what’s within her view. That is all how he reacts to her, and nothing inherent. How much of their push and pull of affection and affliction is entirely him falling to her hand? She’s not a fool to the fact that he faces all of her ugliness. And she’s far from fooling herself that she’s seen all that's behind that hood.

But he promised. Surely that still means something, even in a world like this. If nothing else, Ravio should know that of anyone, he is the one she loves.

Hilda digs her nails into Sabrina’s feathers. Perhaps he doesn’t. Perhaps he couldn’t. She’s done a rather shoddy job of showing it, she supposes.

The village comes into view, crumbled buildings jagged teeth upon the landscape, and Hilda steels herself. Those in the village are indifferent to her at best, and actively hostile at worst. The only thing that keeps them placated with her presence is Ravio’s right beside her, a current lacking that feels like a spear through her gut. She absently wonders if any of them are people Ravio would consider friends. She wonders if that’s something that still exists here. 

Sabrina lands just outside of the direct view of the people, and Hilda elects to enter with her hood up to try and find Ravio discreetly. It’s not like he’ll be hard to spot, should he be around. If not, well, these people like to gossip. She’ll hear of him if he was here recently. 

This place is, as usual, an almost ghost town. One of the first things she did post reinstation of the Triforce was use a fraction of its power in tandem with her own to banish the vast majority of the monsters from any area where people lived. That’s helped with the literal ghost problem, but the buildings still need to be reconstructed, and community to be fostered. Currently, the people are still split between those of the thieves guild, and those of the masked denizens. Arguably the masked have taken her actions the worst, accusing her of killing their identity as monster allied peoples, and threatening their beliefs. She doesn’t understand how they cannot see the new safety of the town as a good thing, and their masks now unnecessary, but it is not her place to call their one perceived guarantor of survival a fool's errand. She has hid behind her own masks, after all. Masks that instead of keeping anyone safe, nearly destroyed another world.  

Ravio would reassure her she doesn’t need to be so hard on herself. Ravio is not here right now.

She stares down the doors of the milk bar, and hopes against every logical idea that he’s just drunk off of his face at ten in the morning, and simply didn’t make it back to the castle last night. Then maybe the thing that feels more and more like betrayal boiling behind her ribs will seem more justified. Causing a scene is not what she wishes to do, though, so to avoid directly entering, she instead peeks through the window while feigning a casual walk by. 

No purple in sight. Glancing past the building to the plaza yields no violet hues either. A window in the back of the building is open, so she leans against the wall just beside it, hoping to overhear anything. 

“Still not going back?” Someone asks. She doesn’t recognise their voice, or the harsh laugh that responds to it. She listens anyway.

“Fat chance. I don’t care how good that princess’ new ideas are, I don’t care about her new magic, the royal family lost all my good will long before that damned sorcerer started actively making everything worse. No woman who lets her counsel do all that can be trusted when she all of a sudden, what, feels bad for herself?” Hilda swallows. It’s one of the few knights that did not retreat to the beast in the dark palace, and instead stayed protecting the people of the village even through their denouncement of the crown.

“Why’d you join in the first place then? Grandma said they’ve always been bad. ‘Crumbling before she was born’, or something.”

There’s a heavy sigh that Hilda feels in her bones as much as the next words out of his mouth. 

“I was young, and foolish. Thought I could make a change.” 

Hilda pushes herself away from the building by force. She cannot linger any longer – she must find Ravio. Before she spirals out of control. ~

She spirals out of control.

The village turns up empty, so Hilda takes to the skies once more and does a bird's eye pass over nearly all of Lorule. It’s both a depressingly familiar sight and wholly new. Seeing it in the new light of their sun, the first spots of true green against grey yellow of their deprived grasses – it's beautiful. But each beautiful patch is broken up by a hoard of monsters not yet eliminated, crumbling buildings, and the deep fissures glittering with its exposed veins against pitch black. It’s the only home she’s known, and wholly foreign to her. The deep seated itch of it shouldn’t be like this broken up by you were a fool to think you can heal a world when all you know is decay. 

She doesn’t see Ravio. 

Hilda lands in a few places, momentarily abandoning Sabrina to wander around, checking as many nooks and crannies as she can. Her dress gets soaked in the snow of their mountains – she wonders, will it melt now they have more sun? Or is it still too high? How much of the world she knows is actually natural? – and then the sodden fabric grabs all of the odd sand blowing overtop the swamps. With every step, she gets more desperate, and by the end of her search every time she hops off of Sabrina she practically sprints around the area. Her heart beats in her chest, checking over every ledge and around each corner for the slightest hint of purple. Did he fall? Will she have to bury an empty casket? A tumble into the depths below is an unfitting end for someone like Ravio – he deserves something much grander. A reward for his final act of greatness, something to honour his heart. Something fit for the one she loves the most. 

When she returns to Sabrina for the last time, her feathered friend pushes her beak into Hilda’s shoulder. Hilda sinks into her plumage, gripping feathers loosely, and tries not to sob. Perhaps they just missed him. She should take another pass of the area. Of Lorule. Fly out beyond, for a bit, maybe he invented something that allowed him to pass the edge that separates their broken land–?

No. Ravio loves Lorule too much. He may be right to leave Hilda, but he’d never abandon Lorule. 

But he isn’t here. 

Hilda pauses. If he did leave, there’s only one place he could’ve done it.

She mounts Sabrina again, hoping it’s the last time it’ll be on her own, and heads for the back of Lorule castle. ~

To enter the Sacred Realm, you must state your intentions at the barrier. The staircase leading to it is crumbled at its edges, but the proximity leaves the broken bricks floating just out of reach instead of falling to the darkness. Despite its unstable look, Hilda knows it’ll carry her to the barrier. She dismisses Sabrina to approach it alone.

With each step, she steels herself. She has not seen the Triforce in full since it was first returned to them – only calling upon it in abstract, its power answering the worthy of wielding it. She never questioned why it came so easily, simply knowing it is her birthright, but now she wonders what it sees in her. Dismisses the thought a moment later, knowing it sees nothing. It is simply power. 

She wonders if Ravio would be answered as worthy should he call it. If it’d answer him before her. 

State her purpose. The barrier commands. What does she seek? 

Her heart answers for her– she does not meet resistance in any capacity– the cool light of the Sacred Realm washes over her. 

She does not know what Hyrule’s Sacred Realm looks like, but she always thought the dawn of Lorule’s was uniquely beautiful. Like every beautiful morning the world could witness in one place – the light of hope, burning eternal in cool blues. 

The Triforce looks quite small amongst it all. It rests where the tablet between worlds once stood, elevated by its own power yet still within reach. Almost humble, how close it sits to mortality. What stands out in its presence is its golden glow, so stark against the blues of dawn. Hilda didn’t know something could look so bright – when it was first granted to them, she thought it an effect of its summoning. Now, completely stationary and prepared for it, it still almost feels like she shouldn't look directly towards it. So she doesn’t. 

As Hilda searches for any indication of Ravio, she runs her hands along each crumbled pillar. Even if they rebuild all of Lorule, even if the fissures in the ground slowly heal, she knows this place will remain untouched. They could fix it, this realm malleable and accepting of human intentions, as is the Triforce, but she will choose not to. There must be something to remind those next of the consequences of meddling with gifts given freely. There has to be something left behind. 

There’s nothing Ravio left behind. 

The search is over. There’s nowhere else to check, lest she exhaust herself and her mount circling the entire kingdom for hours. The realisation is a chill that foretells the storm. Once again, she finds herself at the cusp of breaking point in front of the Triforce. And this time, she’s well and truly alone.

Approaching it with a guilt upon her shoulders, Hilda kneels.

“I don’t suppose you can tell me where my dear rabbit has hopped off to?” She does not look up at the Triforce, does not touch it – voices her question to the open air beneath it more than to it, just so when the wind echoes back the empty reply it doesn’t feel so definitive. Doesn't feel like it really counted.

The Triforce simply sits there. Hilda chokes back a sob. 

“I apologise. I believe I simply was not as good as you thought I was. And now, I have gone and driven away my better half.” 

The wind whistles through the ruins. 

All the energy leaves her, and Hilda ends up on her side curling into herself at the foot of the Triforce. So unbecoming of a princess, of a ruler, of a leader, but she doesn't find it in herself to care. She is alone, now and forevermore, and it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks of her. 

“I can teach you! C’mere,” Linkle hops out of her chair, patting the back rest and looking at Lana expectantly. She hesitates for a single moment, before slipping out of bed and approaching. 

Linkle grabs her hairbrush once Lana is sat down in the chair. Gently, she gathers Lana’s hair in one palm, and begins pulling the brush through it. Lana tries to keep her head perfectly still, her shoulders held down firmly and resisting scooting up as the hairs tickle at the back of her neck. She cannot stop the blush rising to her cheeks, or hide it from Linkle if she ever looks up. 

“I’ll do it for you first, but then I can show you how to part your hair for a simple low plait down your back. Then, you can practice on your own! Though probably a small one at the side of your face, or doing the big one over your shoulder, would probably be easiest if you don't want to do something somewhere you can't see at first.” 

The brush running through Lana’s hair makes a soft noise, and the feeling of it against her scalp soothes Lana so much she almost misses what Linkle is saying. Her hands in her hair, her presence at her back, watching her work in the mirror – Lana feels entirely enveloped by Linkle’s care for her. 

They’ve been dating a few months now – meeting up in between Lana’s duties and Linkle’s questing. Sometimes their dates are Lana joining Linkle on her adventures, learning how to make a fire and cook over it, leaping across streams and climbing hills together. Other times they just spend an evening indoors together, talking about nothing and everything, curling up in bed side by side in their pyjamas. Either Linkle shows Lana the world, or Linkle becomes Lana’s world. Lana doesn't know what to do with it – all the care she is being given so soon. All of the overwhelming love she feels. Especially now, as Linkle separates her hair into three even sections and begins weaving them together slowly, letting Lana take in the movement of her hands and how she holds each piece. 

With Linkle, Lana feels at peace. 

“Is there a hair tie on my desk?” Linkle looks over Lana’s head, and Lana follows her eyes from the mirror, searching for one. Looking amongst the braided cords of her necklaces and bracelets – one in particular matches the blue gem she always wears around her neck – comes up empty, and moving over a small hand carved statuette of a cucco yields nothing either. Then she spots something poking out from behind an old frame of a photo of a young woman that looks like Linkle. 

“That’s a very pretty lady,” Lana comments as she passes the hair tie back. Linkle pauses for a moment, before smiling. 

“That’s my grandma. She taught me how to braid my hair actually, when I was a kid.” Lana watches her eyes wander the ceiling from the mirror, “It took me so long to get the hang of doing anything besides the front bits of my hair, and back then I had hair longer than yours, so she’d still do it most of the time I was learning. I’d fidget and fiddle, sitting on the floor in front of her, but she never complained. And she always finished it off with a little kiss, just like—” 

Linkle leans down, breath caught in Lana’s throat as Linkle’s lips are pressed firmly to the top of her head—

“—That! And I’d run right off to get messy playing in the village.” 

Linkle’s face is bright with a smile when she leans back and ties off Lana’s plait. All Lana can do is sit wide eyed in the chair, staring at herself in the mirror. Her cheeks darken, shoulders tense and chest unbreathing, heart pounding so loud in her ears. Then Linkle makes eye contact in the mirror and for one more moment remains innocent. 

“...Goddesses, I didn’t mean to do that!” Linkle covers her face, her shoulders curling up into her ears.

“It's okay! I don't mind it!” Lana turns her head so quickly her plait smacks her in the chin, but she pays it no mind amongst the feeling of her heart still trying to evict itself from her ribcage.

“You… don’t?” Linkle slowly peeks out from between her fingers. There’s hope in her eyes, and Lana clings to it. Maybe…

In all of the months of them spending time together, they have not shared a single kiss. Held hands a few times, snuggled for warmth or just comfort in tents and inn beds and Linkle’s own, but nothing more. Lana wanted to do this – the two of them – properly. Wanted to do right by Linkle, without her desires twisting what they could have into what her lonely heart wanted, and to her that meant not trusting any of it. She let Linkle take every hesitant leap, let herself be held gently when Linkle offered yet not a moment before, and never asked for anything further. She’s wanted to, of course she’s wanted to – but fear kept her docile.

Now, there's an opportunity in front of her. Perhaps… she could be brave. Since Linkle looks so pretty when she's blushing.

“I… don’t. I wouldn’t mind any kiss, I don’t think.” She can’t look at Linkle as she says it, heart now solidly in her throat. It feels like her words hang in the air, dense and threatening to come crashing back down—

She hears Linkle take a deep breath. When Lana looks back up she cannot stifle her giggle. Linkle has leaned down to be eye to eye with Lana, but her eyes are scrunched closed, lips pressed outwards to a pucker. She’s still bright red. It’s so adorable. 

She leans forward and presses her lips gently to Linkle’s. It’s awkward, and short, but it’s perfect all the same. Gentle and earnest and everything that Linkle is. 

Lana pulls back slowly. Linkle keeps her eyes closed for several seconds – Lana watches her face relax as she finally exhales the breath she was holding, eyebrows unpinching and lips returning to resting. And then, into the biggest smile Lana has ever seen.

“Lanaaaaaa!” Linkle squeals. She immediately launches herself over Lana’s shoulders into a tight hug. Lana embraces her just as tight back – ignoring how the chair back between them digs into her chest, or how they all tilt dangerously close to toppling from the force Linkle hits her with. None of that matters – she just kissed Linkle. 

What is it about my work that makes me so… unimportant? Why were the ones before me never remembered? Why must we be forgotten by the time we seek to watch over? I wish I could be remembered, too.

What a horrendous wish it was, in retrospect. Lana laughs bitterly. If this is how the Guardian of Time is to be recorded in history, she’s sure they wouldn’t wish it now. A flawed, guilty immortalisation – all of their faults and follies on show to the world, their selfish crime of wishing to be forgotten no more. 

Or, perhaps they would. Perhaps the part of her that was willing to take what she wants, that strength that lives within Cia, is finally happy with their place in the story, simply because it is one. Is Lana not happy with her place? Knowing the heroes, one of them, herself?

She stares at a doodle of Link. It’s wonky – nobody else would be able to tell it was him, if it wasn’t for the signature scarf around his neck, crudely smudged blue amongst the black ink. Lana knows what she meant to draw, though, and can see each little detail. Her efforts to capture his expression, his stance in battle, and his light. This one in particular used to bring her so much joy. But it isn’t actually Link – it’s the Link that she wanted to know. The real Link is much, much more than this little doodle and a lonely woman’s imagination. 

And that leaves Lana back to where she started – her blank page.  

Lana feels the urge to get up and walk, and so she does. Circles the perimeter of the building, jumping onto the smaller crumbles of wall and balancing along it. She’s been trying to spend more time alone, lately – an effort to stop vying for others' attention in the way that makes her stomach churn. They’re not your toys, she tells herself, you don’t get to just play with them like you belong here. Spending all that time watching from the outside, desperate to be a part of it – it had felt so good, to finally be here. Now, it just makes her upset; the guilt is so hard to shake. It doesn’t help that the wanting is still clawing up her throat like a desperate animal. Yet she simply doesn’t know what to do when she’s alone. If she doesn’t have anyone to talk to, to help, then what is she even doing here? What good is pushing out the scraps of supposed good out of something and forming it into a person if they aren’t going to do anything good with it?

Lana stops, shaded from the sun by the tallest standing wall. Who… what even is she meant to be? 

“Hey, Lana!” A voice calls out from down the hill. When she looks over, Linkle is waving to her.

Oh, Linkle.  

Now there is where the guilt rests the heaviest, on some nights. Lana doesn’t know Linkle at all. They’ve fought together, a couple times, when Linkle has stumbled into battles – she’s a marvel to behold on the field, her speed and command of the very landscape’s attention with her presence captivating to Lana, too – but that’s it. She comes in, does something amazing, then is off again, determined and eager. Not one of their registered soldiers, not someone from across the eras. A hero, completely separate from both the war and history. 

The guardian of time never once took notice.

Lana thought someone escaping the guilty gaze of their loneliness would be a good thing – but, truly, how dare they? How dare they be so caught up in their little story, their fantasy of Link and Zelda and those attached to destiny that they neglected such a beautiful soul? Completely disregarded someone else who shone so bright, just because they weren’t deemed important. How cruel, Lana now knows. How selfish. 

Linkle was forgotten just like she was. And Lana cannot change that, now. All she has is her own regrets and an empty shell. 

The despair must be written all over her face, because when Linkle comes jogging up the hill, she stops to tilt her head in sympathy. 

“Hey, are you okay?”

All of a sudden, Lana is sniffing – she presses a smile to her face. “Yeah, I’m fine!” She pulls her book close to her chest, like a shield. The weight of everything inside of it presses into her chest. “Just got a lot on my mind, I suppose.”

Linkle leans up against the wall beside her. Lana mirrors her, instinctually. The cool stones press into her back, shadows curling over her shoulders. She hunches and pulls the book closer.

Lana doesn’t know Linkle, but she’s heard about her. Zelda mentioned someone had joined Midna in her rescue, when she took a solo mission that went wrong – describing a heroic woman who reminded her of Link. Fi, once, spoke of someone who wasn’t exactly her master, but held similarities. She didn’t speak any statistics – it seemed that she was a little perplexed about who exactly Linkle was. Some soldiers had whispered about a girl going about claiming she's the hero, even though we already have Link. It makes Lana wonder: does Linkle know? Does she know about destiny, about the Triforce, about why the story is the way it is? Why, or even if, there’s a story at all? Linkle says it's her compass that tells her she is the hero of legend, but Lana has never heard of any compass. She can’t tell if it’s even magical. Surely someone has mentioned this all to her. Surely she has to know that she’s wrong? That she isn’t the hero? That she isn’t important? 

“How, um– how has your journey been, so far?” Lana has to ask. She has to know how Linkle does it. How she lives with being unseen, unvalued. Linkle tries so hard despite it all – Lana doesn’t understand how she keeps going. (If Linkle can still be good, why can’t she?)

Linkle’s entire demeanor alights. “It’s been great! I’ve been meeting lots of people, fighting a whole bunch. Haven’t got to the castle yet to formally sign up, but what I have done seems good to the princess, so!”

“You can always travel with the returning platoons back to Hyrule Castle, y’know.” If the castle is her goal, there are plenty of signs and maps to help her get there. She should’ve arrived weeks ago, surely? 

“Oh, I don't need to worry about that! My compass will show me how to get there.”

“Right…” 

Lana bites her lip. Linkle seems so content with what she’s doing, so happy and determined. So… free. This life really was made for her. The blank page in Lana’s book feels glaring, empty, and hollow. They’re supposed to be the same age, thereabouts, if Lana was a real girl and not a rejected fragment of someone else. If Linkle can find her place within this mess of a story, why can’t she?

She has to know.

“What do you think about Link?” 

Linkle sighs, looking out across the valley. Looking down towards where the army has made camp, across the rolling hills. “I heard the soldiers talk about how I'm not really a hero, because of him. Do you think they’re right?”

Lana flounders, feeling a bit sick. “No, not at all!” Linkle is so wonderful, brave and bright, and glowing, of course, she is a hero. But Lana isn’t – she’s done too much wrong, made too many mistakes. She just wants to know how Linkle did it. If there’s any hope. “I was just wondering, is all, because of the Triforce. It’s usually what decides someone is the hero of legend. How do you know, if not that?”

“Well, I don't need anything to tell me what I already know.” 

She says it so simply, so truly, that Lana can only stare. Linkle holds her compass in her hand, pressing it to her chest. 

“I have my compass, and what my grandmother told me – but even if I didn’t, I know I’m a hero. Maybe not the hero, now, maybe not the most important one, but – I know because I’d do it either way, y’know? When I heard of the attack on the castle, I just knew it was my destiny. I knew I had to fight. That if I didn’t, I’d miss my chance to act. So I set out right away!”

“So you… chose it?” There was nothing that made Linkle leave home. She could’ve just hoped for the best at the castle, waited until it reached her, defended her community. Waited for the gods to come down and tell her to do it. But she didn’t – and when she was faced with hard evidence that it wasn’t supposed to be her, she kept going anyway. 

Linkle didn’t need to be part of the story to be happy. She chose to do what would make her happy.

“Thinking of myself as a hero doesn’t mean anything unless I prove it, right? I make myself the person I am.” 

Lana has made mistakes. Lana has made wrong choices. Everything up to this point has been motivated by her own fear of being alone again, grasping and scratching at those around her in desperation. Leaving horrific marks on the story that she just wanted to be a hero in. How does she make herself into something that isn’t just everything wrong she’s ever thought? How does she fill the hole with anything else? That blank page?

“What if… you didn’t know what kind of person you wanted to be? What if you didn’t have your grandmother's stories, or your compass?” Lana feels like she's falling apart. Desperately clinging to her book, and the conversation. How? How does she do it? She doesn’t want to go back to that isolation, go back to being forgotten. But how does she get past everything she and Cia have done? What else could she be, if not this? This shambling mess of rejected kindness and good intentions, twisted into manipulating everyone around her, because what, she was lonely? She was scared? 

Linkle looks at her. Really looks at her; Lana feels exposed under her gaze. What is she looking at? What is she seeing? There’s nothing there. Lana is a hollow shell of a woman. What would be inside for Linkle to perceive?

Linkle holds out a hand towards her with a small smile on her face. Scared, unsure, curious, Lana stares at the appendage outstretched. 

She doesn’t want to be lonely anymore. 

Lana takes it.

Linkle leads her around the cottage, up onto one of the smaller remains of the structure. Together, they step across it, mapping the shell of the building with their feet, climbing onto higher and higher walls until they stand atop the tallest one, the one they were cast in the shadow of a few moments before. When they are still, Linkle takes both of Lana’s hands in hers – Lana has to put her book away to hold them. 

The evening sun is close to setting now, and Lana’s eyes are shielded by Linkle’s body blocking it. The light pours out from behind her, hair glowing gold, wind blowing her plaits across her face like ribbons. Lana’s own hair tugs from it, errant strands tickling her cheeks. She doesn’t remove her hands from Linkle’s grip to push it out of her face – doesn’t take her eyes off of Linkle for even a second. 

“I used to doubt it, when I was younger. Sometimes, I thought that my grandmother was just saying that she believed in me, that she just wanted me to be brave, and used fairytales to get me interested.” Linkle smiles to herself fondly, looking out at the valley again. At the world. “It isn’t destiny that makes me a hero – it’s love. I love Hyrule, and I want to protect it. I don’t mind getting lost, because I get to see more of it, and help more people.” She looks back at Lana. “Being lost is okay. As long as you try to be kind, and try your best – you’ll always find where you need to be in the end.” 

Lana’s breath catches in her throat. There’s nothing she loves more than Hyrule. That’s what all of this is – she loves Hyrule so much, took it as her job to look over it; but she wanted to live in it, too. She wanted to feel the love that she has for it, even if just a little fragment. 

For the first time, held gently by Linkle – Hyrule’s hero, not by destiny, but by choice – Lana thinks she feels it. 

Linkle squeezes her hands, letting go so that Lana can wipe her eyes. She paws at her face desperately, embarrassed, not even realising she had teared up in the first place. It’s all a bit overwhelming. Linkle takes pity on her – she’s offered a moment of privacy with Linkle jumping off the wall, landing on the grass below, back into the shade with a soft thump.

“I originally came over here to ask if you wanted to join me and Ravio in testing out some new weapons of his – it’d be nice to have magical eyes on them! We’ll be over in the training fields if you want to join us.” Linkle looks up at her one last time, hand shading her eyes from the sun now behind Lana, her smile lit up. “I hope you can, it’ll be fun!” 

Without further ado, Linkle is skipping away back down the hill – bounding off for a new adventure just like always. Lana watches her go in a bit of a daze. Then, she takes a deep breath that she lets out slowly. Lets herself take in the moment, feel the wave of her emotions settling, the gentle breeze wrapping around her. The warmth of the setting sun on her back. 

Taking out her book once more, Lana sits down atop the high wall, opening it to that blank page and summoning her quill to finally write.

The birds sing somewhere nearby. Her clothes are drying again, and the first true rays of the sun press into her. There’s a couple shadows distantly to her left, and for the first time she notices the smell of straw and animal excrement. Must be in some sort of pen. She wonders what kind of animal she decided she was no better than, in her state.

As if hearing her question, a cucco comes into view. Linkle is leaning over her, the bird cradled in her arms. Ah. That’s where she is.

“Hi,” Lana croaks, and there are all the cracks ricocheting down. Her chest hurts, stomach and head spinning in tandem, eyes watering as the alcohol on an empty stomach and the argument and the everything of the tavern slam into her.

“You’re in my coop,” Linkle states. Lana blinks back up at her, dumbly.

“I’m sorry,” is all she can think to say. Apologising for her presence seems the most appropriate.

“I don’t think the cuccos mind, don’t worry. Can you get up?”

Lana heaves herself to roll over, almost immediately faceplanting back into the grass. Her head feels like it's going to roll off of her shoulders – instead she just groans and shuffles back until she's semi upright on her knees. Linkle sets the cucco down somewhere and begins helping her to her feet slowly. The touch is electrifying, and tensing is the only thing Lana can do to stop from recoiling.

“Are you injured? What happened to you?” Linkle loops Lana’s arm over her shoulder, and then they’re walking into the house together. Lana does not answer her.

Of course, Lana returned to her duties as Guardian of Time after the war. Cia safe and back in her reach, her purpose fulfilled, she returned to what she was before she was her.

They were meant to be whole again. The Guardian was restored. And she couldn't want anything else, shouldn’t want anything else – that’s what Lana was made for, after all. The discarded scraps of kindness given new purpose to rescue her other half. With her duty done, she should be content. Lana thought she’d just peacefully drift away, join Cia in entirety, or at the least, they’d fit back together more neatly. Except they didn’t. And she was still here.

What happened to her? Well, nothing, really. That is exactly the problem. What do you do with yourself, when you still linger past your use?

Linkle leads her into a humble cottage – mostly just one room, each corner of it a different purpose: kitchen, bedroom, lounge. It’s cosy, with blankets draped over the backs of chairs and trinkets of her adventures on every shelf, a couple feathers fallen to the floor from her bird friends. Lana is sat down on the sofa, and she keeps her eyes down, observing the cushions and not looking at Linkle.

“I’m gonna get you some water, okay? Just sit tight,” Linkle says softly, like approaching a scared animal. Lana nods, but still doesn’t look up.

Lana shouldn't have come here. She shouldn't even be here. In Linkle’s house, blanketed in her kindness – it’ll just become another image warped by her selfish desire.

In returning as a Guardian, she had the opportunity to rectify their past faults in not recognising Linkle’s heroism and value. Write her into the story, or simply bring her into the observations paramount of the Guardian’s role. She’s a hero, it's what she deserves, right? That same recognition that Lana knows the absence of all too well. Yet Lana knew she could not. The indignity of it, of that observance, it wouldn’t be right. She cannot halt in her duties to the Triforce, and those connected to it, but she could give Linkle the peace of being forgotten, even if Lana cannot forget.

Instead, Linkle and all that she is has become the unwilling fascination of Lana’s dreams. Became a yearning that Lana simply doesn't know what to do with. There’s this fire inside of Linkle that Lana sees, that she covets to have for herself. She’s distantly aware that’s what she’s chasing in every stranger she meets – yet as much as she hates herself for it, she simply can’t help it.

The affection the Guardian had for Link was so quickly tainted by darkness, the loneliness and desperation grasping the first target to latch onto, leaving them vulnerable. It wasn't love, it wasn’t a crush. This? Is this not the exact same, the rotted and fetid root that let the corruption take hold in the first place?

It makes her sick.

In fact, she might be sick. All of a sudden, the panic of fear overtakes her, desperately looking for something solid as saliva gathers in her mouth. She throws a hand over her mouth, a garbled “Linkle…!” whining out from between shaking fingers, squeezing her eyes shut.

A bucket is placed in her lap just in time as last night's regrets eject from her system.

“Oh, Lana…” Linkle rubs her back, keeping her hair out of her face, and Lana clings to the way Linkle’s voice moves around her name. Tries to imagine there’s something other than pity behind it, something like genuine care. She wants it to be genuine.

Lana read into it. Romance books, bards’ tales, chased it in strangers and booze and drugs and monsters – this wanting, caustic inside her, shuddering down her throat and leaving her scratching at her chest as it burns. Her empty shell, the forced contentment, it’s all consumed by the violence of it all. An incurable violence she knows will only leave her crashing and burning and vomiting up all her guilt again, and again, and again – but it’s something, and thus the emptiness crows for it.

It’s not something that should be taken from Linkle, though.

Lana is sick of should.

The acrid vomit eventually slows to nothing but trickles of acidic bile, and Lana cautiously swallows what she hopes is the last of it. If the night hadn’t exhausted her, this did; she places the bucket down on the floor and gingerly rests herself against the back of the sofa. Linkle’s hand moves from rubbing circles in her back to gentle up-and-down motions across her arm.

“Has it passed?” Linkle’s voice is so soft, tender, as she looks at Lana. A second threat of vomit stirs just slightly from remorse alone. Instead of facing it, Lana simply closes her eyes, slowly nodding her head.

Linkle leaves her for a moment, returning with the promised glass of water. “Small sips, or just to wash your mouth out – into the bucket if you wanna spit.”

“Thank you,” Lana says, in place of sorry. Linkle has done enough, now – Lana does not need to burden her with the task of reassurance. “I’ll get out of your hair in a minute.” But she just couldn’t help fishing for more, could she?

“You can stay as long as you need, Lana. You’re not well – but don’t worry, I’ll look after you!”

Most disgusting of all, it works like a charm. Lana’s wreck of a heart settles to match her stomach – under the surface, crying out but muffled and under control. Soothed by a single breath of enough for now. You’re not left alone right now.

Linkle isn’t chasing the why. She’s not concerned with the mess, the smell, the state of Lana. She’s not even hesitating. Lana is welcomed. It’s cloying, overpowering the taste still lingering on her tongue.

Lana finally opens her eyes, looking at Linkle. She can want what she's being told she can take, right? This time, she’s allowed to have as well as observe?

Lana knows she should not. Lana knows a lot of things. Lana knows she wants.

Slowly, so as not to upset her stomach, she shifts until she can rest her head in Linkle’s lap. Immediately, hands come to card through her hair, and a tension that hasn't left her shoulders since the fight with Cia finally abates. The body heat of Linkle’s legs under her cheek soothes the rest of her. The night’s events fade from her mind, the itch for any touch she can get scratched by finally having one she wants. For the first time in a while, her empty vessel feels like something she could maybe tolerate.

----

Travelling with Volga has been… interesting. There’s many things Link is unfamiliar with, when it comes to dragons, which are slowly being revealed over the course of their adventuring.

They’re more curious than one would assume – motivated to find out all the answers once they become fixated on something. Their sense of smell is more finely tuned than a hylian’s, able to pick up on what any other would miss. And they're awfully, irritably, stubborn.

All things that are incredibly inconvenient to Link at precisely this moment.

They’re standing in the stairwell of an inn. Volga stares intently at him, unmoving, as Link flounders. He’s bright red, he’s sure of it, but there’s no mirror to check or any way to stop the blood flowing to his cheeks.

“You can’t just– ask someone that!” he splutters out, looking at Volga incredulously.

“Why not? You humans seem to talk of copulating, and the results of, all the time. If you’re having needs, then you simply are. Dragons mate too, you are aware?”

Volga had smelled that he was horny. Because of his fucking t shot sending him into overdrive, and the long days of travel leaving him with no opportunity to deal with it. And now the dragon is staring him down, waiting for a yes or no to whether he is in heat.

“Well yes, it’s a thing that happens, but– it’s personal! You don’t just drop in casual conversation that you’re in need of a shag, not unless you’re close to someone.”

“I was made aware without you needing to say anything.” For some reason, Volga sees fit to step closer, and Link finds himself almost trapped between the dragon and the wall. Talk about a rock and a hard place. Goddesses he’s so hard right now.

“And why do you need to ask after it? Are you offering to help, or something?” He doesn’t know why he says it. Maybe the lingering looks he finds himself taking in Volga’s direction, the way his body moves in battle captivating him. Maybe because the last time he managed to take some time alone, Volga was in his mind almost the entire time, and it’s getting harder to ignore in his current state. Maybe because Volga is leaning even closer, crowding him, and he can feel the warmth of his presence and the way he looks down at Link with narrowed observing eyes is hot, damnit.

“You are my travelling partner. I said if you quested with me, your needs would be met. I am not backing down from that now.”

Link sucks in a breath. It could make things awkward for the rest of their journey. It could also be the best lay of his life.

Fuck it.

“Okay,” he says, and Volga immediately leans in for a kiss. He dodges to the side. “Not here, bloody– follow me.”

Link grabs Volga by the wrist and drags him up the stairs to their inn room. He follows easily, not even resisting Link’s grip, all the way through the door and into the room. He has a dragon bowing down to him, being led when he’s always been the one in front. Because he’s going to meet Link’s needs.

When they first met on the battlefield, all those years ago, he certainly wasn't expecting this.

It seems Volga would only fall in line for so long, because the moment the door is closed and locked behind them, Link is being pushed up against it. Volga’s hand cups the nape of his neck and their lips are locked together not a moment later. Volga’s mouth is warm. Everything about him is warm, even through their layers, and Link sinks into it immediately. His mind falls away to the pleasure rolling into his brain from the heat of their kissing, captivated.

When he tries to reach out to touch Volga, all Link finds is hard metal, and he reluctantly pulls away again to gasp, “We should get undressed.” Now it’s actually happening, his mind is shouting the long sat urge to see what Volga looks like bare from the rooftops, and he’s desperate. Desperate for some skin to skin contact, desperate to be fucked, and that requires much less clothing than the battle ready armaments they possess.

Thankfully, they’re both quite quick at putting armour on, and thus taking it off again. In under a minute they’re stripped to their underclothes, which for Link is a binder and boxers, and for Volga is an extremely tight fitting, black bodysuit. That leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination.

“Like what you see?” Volga smirks, subtly flexing as he watches Link watch. His eyes are no longer shadowed by the helm, hair loose and cascading down his back, and Link stares without any attempt to hide it. Volga might just be the most beautiful man he’s ever seen in his life. And he’s big. Taller, of course, by about an entire head and a half, and his muscles are large and powerful. But Link can clearly see his bulge, too, and it’s just as impressive as the rest of him.

Volga steps closer again. Link licks his lips. Volga is looking him over now, too, and he can’t help but feel a little bit like a prey animal caught in a snare. It only turns him on more. When he’s close enough to touch, Volga reaches out and tangles his hand in the back of Link’s hair. He’s perplexed for all of a second before his head is being pulled back, and hot breath is against his throat.

Sharp teeth scrape ever so gently against the column of his throat and Link moans. He can feel Volga’s smile pressed up against his skin in response, half humiliated that Volga could feel it vibrate up his throat and half waiting with delirious anticipation as to what he’s going to do next. He kisses down Link’s neck, hot tongue poking out every other press, until he gets to the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Then he bites down, hard.

A strangled cry claws its way out of Link’s throat, the pain mixing with the heady warmth of Volga pressed up against him into intoxicating pleasure. His arms shoot up to grip onto his shoulders, whether to push away or hold close Link isn’t sure. Volga’s tongue tends the bite, tasting the beads of blood that spring from the wound where it broke skin, warmth soothing the sting. Then he’s moving up to press his nose to the juncture of Link’s neck and jaw.

“Your scent has been catching my nose for days,” he murmurs into Link’s ear, and Link shivers. Volga’s free hand tucks itself into the waistband of his boxers. “Dragons also have needs. I was unsure how much longer I could last.” He grinds his cock against Link’s stomach, and Link’s hands shift to tangle into Volga’s long hair.

“Well, what are you waiting for?”

Their lips crash together again, desperate and rough, as hands work Link’s boxers off of him. The moment they're down and kicked to the side they’re both stumbling to the bed, still kissing, uncaring for gracefulness in the face of their lust. Link falls backwards, and Volga follows. Volga’s hands trail down Link’s body. Dragging blunt nails across his stomach and sides, teasing the crease between stomach and leg, until they reach his thighs, giving them a firm squeeze. Then he spreads them apart and leans back from Link’s mouth.

Link lies under the dragon's stare. He quivers with arousal and the tiniest twinge of anxiety, watching Volga look at him, what was left unexplained hanging in the air – and then warm fingers are pressing between his folds and Link is throwing his head back with a moan.

“Such a perfectly sculpted warrior… your beauty rivals my own,” two fingers press inside, “And clearly, your body begs for mine. Yes, a perfect match.”

Link spreads his legs further apart as Volga starts to move inside of him. His back arches, and he reaches up to cover his mouth in an attempt not to make any particularly embarrassing noises – the walls of the inn are undoubtedly thinner than ideal for such activities. He doesn't know how much self control he’ll have when Volga finally takes him, but he wants to at least try. A task that’s getting harder and harder as the moments pass and the dragon’s pace increases. He pants against his palm desperately, squeezing his eyes shut.

A third finger joins the other two, stretching him open, and a whimper makes its way past his hand unbidden. Volga makes a noise, a low rumble that drives Link mad – then he’s pulling out.

Pushing up to his elbows, Link looks up just in time to watch Volga peel his bodysuit over his head. Link thinks he might drool at the sight. Then he looks down at Volga’s cock, large and standing at attention, and one sliver of rationality returns to him.

“W-wait, hold on,” he holds a hand up, stopping Volga from leaning in again. “I’m gonna uh. um. Fuck…”

He shifts up to his knees, and gestures for Volga to sit in the centre of the bed. When he does, Link moves to straddle him – hands meet his waist immediately, Volga looking up at him for the first time. The change in angle doesn’t disguise the fact that he looks like he’s going to gobble Link up whole. Link chuckles nervously.

“You’re gonna have to let me set the pace here. You’re, uh. Big.”

“I’m aware. Go ahead,” Volga grins up at him. The smirk is arrogant, something boastful Link has gotten used to over their quest. He crashes their lips together again. He tries to ignore just how much Volga’s attitude drives him mad with lust, and instead pushes his hips down to grind against his cock.

Link adjusts the angle until his cock is pressing against Volga’s, letting his own slick assist the movement as he becomes almost frantic. He could get himself off like this just fine. The knowledge in his mind is as sure a fact as the sky is blue. But no, he wants more. He wants the hot press of a dragon spearing him open, and he wants it now. Slowly and with clear hesitation, he pries himself off of Volga until he’s just perched over his hips. Volga’s hands stay steady on his waist, keeping him close, but letting him adjust. He takes the large cock in hand and presses it to his entrance. His blood burns in his veins, blush high on his cheeks, as he takes a deep breath and finally sinks down.

The warmth that immediately fills him is almost overwhelming. Even just an inch inside, Link whines, speared open and so full it almost drives him to the edge immediately. He takes more, then more, sinking lower until he’s taken as much as he can, heat pressing against his walls deliciously and leaving him panting. It feels so good.

Volga’s nails dig into his hips, clearly just as undone as Link is, and when they make eye contact his gaze is smouldering.

“You are,” Volga gasps, “a masterpiece.”

Link leans down and captures his lips once more. This time it’s wet, desperate, both of them only holding on by a thread. They moan into each other's mouths when Link even minutely shifts his hips. Link knows he won’t be able to last too long once he starts properly moving, and he knows Volga won’t either. But he can’t drag it out any longer. He needs to be broken on this man’s cock, finally.

Without pulling from Volga’s face, he shifts his hips until he’s taking just the tip, and slowly sinks back down again. Each inch pressed back inside him makes him almost delirious. He can’t help but chase the pleasure – each subsequent drag gets faster and faster until he’s bouncing on Volga’s cock, open mouth pants against his lips. Link braces on either side of Volga’s head, fucking himself on the dragon beneath him, entirely lost to the feeling of it.

Volga’s hands slide until one rests on Link’s waist and the other is upon his thigh, and then he pistons up into Link. The last sliver of coherence leaves him – he lets Volga take control. He falls down onto Volga’s chest, face pressed to his neck, unable to do anything but gasp and moan.

“You take me so well…” Volga mutters around a groan, “We’re alike both in battle and bed it seems… what a glorious performance you give.”

Volga fucks him hard and Link tries to move to match his pace, sloppy and uncoordinated and borderline needy. He shoves his hand between them, pushing against his cock desperately. He’s close. He’s so close, almost there, please—

Link comes tight and fast on Volga’s cock, cry caught on his lips. His whole body shakes and twitches and he can’t help but fall entirely limp as he’s fucked through it, the grip on him unrelenting.

A few moments later, floating through his orgasm, he feels Volga pull out and something almost scorching splash across his back. He just presses his face further into his neck.

It isn’t until a few moments later when something gently brushes against his shoulder that he finally looks up.

“Satisfied?” Volga gently grabs his chin, observing him. Link nods.

“Fuckin’ fantastic.”

In an almost uncharacteristic show of affection, Volga nuzzles his nose against Link’s, before trying to shift out from under him. Link pulls himself up enough to let him free, and promptly flops back down onto the bed with his face smushed into the pillow.

He listens as Volga putters around the room – lets him take a towel to his back, wiping the cum off of it, before it’s being laid out next to him and Volga is perching on the edge of the bed with a brush in hand.

“Now I do not know how long human heats last,” Volga begins brushing his hair, “but a dragon’s can be… more than one time needed. Should we book this hotel another night?"

Link looks up from where he’s begun to clean himself up with the towel. “Huh? Oh, that comment about heats earlier. We don’t have stuff like that, we just… get horny sometimes? It’s not that serious, just um, can be frustrating.” He didn’t think he’d have to explain arousal to another adult, but, well, he just fucked a dragon, so perhaps anything goes in his life.

Volga stops brushing his hair. “...I fear there has been a miscommunication. I apologise for crossing a boundary.” He looks at Link with genuine remorse in his eyes, and Link’s heartbeat spikes.

“Huh? What did you do?”

“For dragons, heats are quite overwhelming. A way to soothe the nerves – and bring the couple closer biologically – is a bite of the neck, it is an… important area in dragon biology. You got even more worked up after, so I thought… I apologise. Those that tend to bed dragons know what it entails.”

Link goes bright red. His hand presses against the bite immediately – without the euphoria of arousal, it stings against his neck and shoulder. Closer biologically…

“You mean you aren’t just a bit kinky and into blood?”

He's not... mad, at Link. Well, a little, but it's less directly at him specifically. That man has a bad habit of not caring about his own needs, and it hurts Ravio to watch him hurt himself for other people. Especially when they don't even appreciate it, or care about him at all. He's breaking his back for people that want it broken, and it pisses Ravio off! But he knows it isn’t his fault. It’s something that has been drilled into him for years: he’s not as important as what he can do for others. Ravio just… wishes Link were a little more eager to take him up on the chance to be free of it.

Clock ticking over to thirty minutes late, Ravio sighs to himself. It seems it is time for plan B: drag Link out of that office himself.

The castle isn’t that far off from the restaurant – paid for by half-decade late reparations for those dragged from other eras, Ravio had decided to treat them to nothing but luxury – and the guards recognise him easily when he walks up the steps to enter. It’s a well worn path, at this point. Walking between the offices, the meeting and strategy rooms, and Link’s small home in Castletown West – almost as easy as breathing. Before long, he finds himself standing in front of the door to Link’s office.

Ravio knocks on the door. Nothing. Knocks again. Nothing still. Then…

“Come in…” The voice is subdued, unnaturally gravelled. Concern swirls in Ravio’s gut.

He creaks open the door, and what he sees truly is a sorry sight.

Link is almost slumped over his desk – both elbows rested up on it, eyes tired as he stares down at the paper in front of him, his head propped up on his hand like it’s too heavy. He barely glances up at Ravio when he walks further into the room, instead rubbing at his eyes almost absently before blinking up at him when he’s right at the desk.

“Oh, Ravio, hi. What’re you doing here?” Link smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes at all – hollow. Ravio’s concern climbs.

“We had our reservation today, remember?” He tries smiling back, keeping the mood light. He doesn’t want Link feeling guilty.

“Oh yeah, it’s in about an hour, or so? Right…” Link glances at the clock, and his intake of breath is so sharp Ravio is half worried he’d choke on it. “Oh goddesses, Ravio, I’m so sorry, I completely lost track of time–”

Link stands, and Ravio’s heart jumps into his throat when he wavers, eyes distant and unfocused. He’s at his side in an instant, steadying Link as he puts his hands to his desk to avoid toppling back over.

“I’m fine, jus’… gimme a minute…” Link’s eyes scrunch up, pulling in measured breaths, and Ravio guides him to sit back down gently.

“How long have you been feeling bad?” He pushes his hand up to cup the base of Link’s head, both a comfort and to check for fever. There’s nothing, but it doesn’t ease the ache in Ravio’s heart. Link rubs at his temples, eyes still closed, and Ravio bites his lip to prevent the anger spilling out of his mouth. This isn’t fair. How do they ever expect their Hero of Hyrule to do his job if they keep running him into the ground at every given chance? He’s about to go on another quest to save the world, isn't that worth resting to prepare for? Hasn’t he done enough?

“I um, woke up with a headache,” Ravio ignores how he kept that piece of information to himself when he shouldn't have, “but I thought it would go away after a while. I don't know… why I feel this shit.”

“You didn't have lunch.” Ravio doesn't pose it as a question. Link’s eyes open, but he stays staring off into the middle distance.

“...I was busy.”

Ravio sighs a truly over dramatic sigh, bringing his hand up to card through Link’s hair. He leans into it almost immediately, closing his eyes again with a soft breath, and Ravio’s heart clenches at how easily he gives into the comfort. “What am I going to do with you, huh?”

“I’m really sorry, I didn't mean to work through the reservation–”

Ravio cuts him off. “Nope, none of that. No apologies, just fixing this whole mess.” When Link looks up at him confused, he continues, “I think it’s about time we went back to yours – we can make a lovely homemade meal instead, and you can rest.”

“But–”

“I’m not hearing it. If you want to make it up to me then you will come home with me.”

Ravio can be stern when he wants to be, and he can see in Link’s eyes that they both know this is one of those moments. With an absent nod of his head, Link (slowly, this time) rises from his chair. Then he begins to gather some things on his desk together.

“A-ah! No work, only yourself.”

It doesn't get past Ravio how easily Link gives in – he really must be feeling awful, if he’s not even trying to argue the self-sacrifice – but it makes his job a whole lot easier, so he doesn't mention it either way. Just coaxes Link to the door with an outstretched hand to hold, and squeezes every time he seems to falter on their silent trek back home.

When they finally get in, Ravio sends him off to the bedroom to take his armour off and get cosy in bed right away, while he sets about getting some food together. They don't have much – though, still a whole lot better than what Link had in his pantry before Ravio got here – but it’s enough to whip up a good hearty stew, which is exactly what he does.

Link does not reappear at any point while he’s cooking, and Ravio is glad for it. It seems he finally decided to let himself rest – with any luck, he’ll be curled up asleep in bed in half an hour’s time. Once Ravio gets this stew in him, of course.

He serves up two portions in bowls, shoving a spoon in between the fingers of both of his hands to carry it all through in one go, and heads to the bedroom.

It’s dark when Ravio nudges the door open with his hip. He can just about make out the lump in the bed from the light coming through the doorway, and a place to set the bowls down nearby. Link’s desk in here is just as cluttered as the one in his office, and one of these days Ravio will need to lecture him about separating his spaces out better. As it stands, he puts the bowls and spoons on top of the shortest stacks of papers, and sits down on the edge of the bed.

“Got us some stew, gonna fix you right up! How are you feeling?”

The Link-shaped lump groans, then blonde hair is poking out of the quilt and tired blue eyes staring up at him.

“I’ve been better, I suppose,” he murmurs.

Ravio runs his hand gently through Link’s hair again, watching the knot between his eyebrows loosen as his eyes close. “Would you mind if I lit a candle so we can eat?”

Link shakes his head slightly, shifting to sit up, and Ravio moves to do just that – shielding the initial flame from Link’s eyes with his hand to let him get used to the light. Then, he’s retrieving the stew and settling cross legged across from Link on the bed.

“Eat up! I made it with extra love,” Ravio winks, beaming when he gets a small, fond smile in response.

They eat in silence. Link nearly devours his whole, getting three cautious spoonfuls in before clearly realising how hungry he is, while Ravio takes it a bit slower. He doesn't want to give himself a tummy ache – by the time he thought to warn Link of the same, he was already done. When they’re both done, Ravio gathers the bowls and sets them on the bedside while Link leans back against the headboard.

The food definitely helped. Even so, Ravio can see the exhaustion still set deep into his bones. Link presses against his temples again, and Ravio just sits there, not sure what more he can do. He’s taken Link home, got him fed and resting, but he can’t take the stress away completely. He can’t solve the root cause. He can’t… stop the gears of destiny.

Ravio looks down at his hands. At the bracelet still around his wrist. This is his fault. The future version of himself told him it would only be done together, how everyone working as one is how the goal is achieved, but he was still the one who initiated it. Came early, meaning Link was stressed out before he had to be. And all he can do is sit there and watch, once again a witness to the cruelty to the cycle.

“...I’m glad you’re here.”

Ravio’s head snaps up. Link is looking away, down at his own hands – but when his head picks up, there is an easing of the crease of his brow in the way he smiles at Ravio.

It had been too long since Ravio had last seen that smile. It lifts the guilt off of his shoulders, just a bit.

“Me too. I missed you a whole bunch, y’know.” Ravio smiles back.

Link’s potential next words are cut off by a yawn, and Ravio huffs and slips off the bed to let him lay back down. “It’s time you got all cosy again, I think! Let me know if you need anything.” He leans over and blows out the candle, the blanket of darkness descending upon the room, and makes his way to the door. Just as he reaches out for the handle, Link’s voice calls out.

“Can you stay? If you want, of course. If you have something else to do, then—”

Something changed in the valley. For the first time, it was as if the full weight of the legacy of every one before him was felt upon his shoulders. Figuring out how to carry it feels monumental. But, beyond that, a clarity has reached his eyes that he doesn’t quite know how to reckon with.

There is a story. Link is aware of it, now. Destiny is less a singular road he’s forced to walk, and more a story written in a pen larger than any one mortal author. He sees it everywhere – the roles everyone takes. The costumes they wear, the names they hold. This story has been told before, over and over and over, in new ways each time, but it is still told. And he has no choice but to see it through.

Link has wondered, in the quiet moments such as now, how much of it he had inadvertently written himself.

Since the realisation, there have been little rebellions. He has discarded the overconfident wielder of the sword of evil’s bane – instead settling into a quieter courage that gets the job done. He… talks to people, more. Braves the looks of his voice bare and undisguised without Proxi’s presence claiming it as hers. Asks pointless sounding questions, a bid for connection. Agitha’s favourite colour is pink. Impa likes scrambled eggs more than the average person. Midna’s wolf is special to her in a way she would not elaborate, but it was a conversation not centred around a mission or his duties, so it felt good.

Link’s duty may try to turn him and those around him into tools, but he won’t let it.

Dissecting the image of the princess in his mind has been hardest. Not because he doesn’t believe her to be her own person, but because so much of his character is dependent on an almost worship of hers. Link is not supposed to know the princess, he is to serve her – a closeness seems almost taboo, in such rigid structures. The only stories where that was escaped were ones in which she was no longer the princess.

Link thinks about Sheik. The time they spent together before it was revealed the man and the princess were one in the same was brief, all things considered. A couple weeks of travel between destinations, the (now he knows Impa knew almost the entire time, displaced) anxiety of a missing monarch on his shoulders the entire time. But there was something about their interactions that settled brighter in his mind.

Their sparring, for one. How equally Sheik seemed to match him, the almost playfulness in their taunts, how Link could see a smile under the mask even as he knocked the other man to the ground. How, those moments pouring over maps and plotting with the navigators, their minds seemed to become one, bouncing ideas off of each other and following fingers across diagrams like they’d been doing it their whole lives. Sitting just the two of them at the campfire, Link’s back turned so Sheik could enjoy his soup in Link’s company without revealing his face – from behind him, Sheik’s gentle laugh at his jokes melting against his shoulders.

Link felt like in those moments, he got to see Zelda so much more than she’s ever been afforded as princess.

Which led Ravio to where he is currently. When Link was satisfied with the shopping, Ravio told him he was going to hang back – and he had joined the shadows to wait for the witching hour market. Then, when the other stalls opened and the early vendors packed up, he had perused the items deemed not for casual eyes, and got some items that would have some real punch (as well as a few fancy baubles for his own projects). It went well, too! He’d never see so many wonderful items, all from the corners of this still unknown world. It didn’t just serve their stocks, but also his own personal curiosities as to what magic exists here. 

…He really didn’t mean to get into a scuffle on the way out. He had worn his hood, iconic but disguising, kept away from any bigger groups or particularly mean looking buyers, and made sure to keep his coin purse tucked away and only pull out the necessary rupee instead of it all. But it seems there was something about him that caught their eye – too new, too bright, too good at haggling, whatever it was – and he got into a spot of trouble.

Ravio rolls onto his back with a groan. His face is all busted, blood dripping down onto his chin from his nose – not that he’d be able to tell, with how much blood was already in his mouth. He thinks he might’ve swallowed a tooth… at least none of his items were stolen. They’re safely hidden away in a small expanding pouch he sent Sheerow off with as soon as he clocked the advancing assailants. They of course didn’t believe him when he said he had nothing on him, which led to him beaten up in an alleyway, but at least the trip wasn’t for nothing! Sheerow’s likely got the items back to his inn room by now; Link would have let him in through the window when he knocked against it.

Oh, man, he’s gonna have to face Link looking like this… he’s probably worrying, with only Sheerow returning and not him. Ravio can already hear his concerned voice, can imagine how he’s pacing around their room debating getting a whole search and rescue party together versus just running out into the night on his own. Sheerow should tell him he’ll be alright – Sheerow knows that this isn’t the first time something like this has happened, and Ravio can usually handle it – but he knows it would not convince him. In fact, the Link voice in his head raises an octave at the information, and if his chest didn’t hurt so much, Ravio would laugh at it. He’s always so concerned when Ravio tells him about how he lived in Lorule, gets this soft sad look on his face any time Ravio tries to laugh it off. It is sweet how much he cares about him. But really, he is used to it!

Ravio pushes himself to sit ever so slowly. He’s lucky no bones were broken, but his entire body feels like one massive bruise. As if on cue, his ankle twinges awfully when he tries to shuffle back to lean against the wall. It’s not twisted unnaturally when he looks down at it, but he doubts that’s any consolation. And, of course, now he's noticed it, it begins to hurt real bad. He lets his aching head fall back to hit the wall pitifully, wondering how exactly he’s going to get back to the inn now. It’s almost dawn, the sky lightening ever so slowly into the coldest grey, but still much too dark to navigate the town safely in this state. Plus, for all he knows, the attackers could still be out there, and take his incapacitation as an excuse for a second round. 

Ravio is used to it, but it doesn't make it any easier. Being weak, feeling… vulnerable. The constant vigilance eats at you, wears you down into a barebones, anxious mess. He manages it, mostly, the majority of days – but it's times like these where the full weight of the fear crashes into him. The fear of what will happen next.

He doesn’t have to wonder for long, in the end. Sheerow comes whizzing around the corner – and with him, Ravio’s saviour. 

Link gasps when he spots Ravio – he’s wearing his armour, likely never having taken it off in the first place, waiting to finally go to bed when Ravio returns – and the way it clangs when his knees hit the floor next to Ravio shakes his head to a pound. Maybe there’s a concussion somewhere in there with the rest of his injuries… 

“Bloody hell, Ravio, what happened? You promised me you’d stay safe!” Ah, yes, he had promised Link that, with a squeeze of his hand and a confident smile. He didn’t mean to not do that, in his defence. He just wanted some more powerful items to help them on their quest!

Link’s hands hover, unsure where to check first, before he sighs and gently cups Ravio’s bloody and bruised face. They spend a moment like that; Ravio’s heartbeat calms now he’s not alone as Link observes the damage. Then Link is grabbing his scarf and bringing it up to dab away some of the blood covering his lips and nose. 

“Don’t get blood all over your scarf,” Ravio mutters, shying away from it. He’d feel awful if it got stained because of him. He’s been trying so hard to not become a burden on Link, on this adventure. Yet despite all his improvements in combat, despite being prepared for it, despite being used to it, he still ended up crumpled on the ground completely helpless – he shouldn’t be ruining Link’s clothes as well as his own, at the very least.

Link just tuts and moves to do it a second time. “It’s seen worse, trust me.” 

Ravio lets him wipe it away reluctantly, closing his eyes and letting the pain take over for a moment. Everything hurts. His head, his ankle, his pride. Usually when this happens, he’s free to lick his wounds privately, nobody any the wiser. He doesn’t have to sit there as a hero fusses over him. He appreciates it – appreciates everything that Link does, is – but it still swirls embarrassment and shame into his stomach.

“I’m sorry…” 

“Can you stand?” Link looks over his slouched body, completely brushing past Ravio’s apology, before glancing back out of the alleyway. “I can carry you on my back if you need. The streets are empty.” 

“I think you might need to, my ankle is, well…” he laughs awkwardly. Link hisses sympathetically, then he’s turning around and getting into position for Ravio to scoot over and get on his back. He hesitates, reluctant to jostle himself, but Sheerow nuzzles into his head, encouraging. 

It hurts, but Ravio manages to get himself draped across Link’s shoulders. He holds on tight as Link stands up, gripping his scarf, and tries to breathe through the dizziness that shakes through his head when they begin moving. 

Just as Link said, they’re the only ones in the street at such an hour. It’s almost too silent, especially after the bustle of the market and the shouts and grunts during the attack. All that’s left is Sheerow's quiet wings flapping, and Link’s armour shifting as they travel. Ravio lets his mind drift off from their surroundings, trying to doze upon Link’s shoulder. This really, really hurts. Link’s armour is so spiky on the outside, and every step shakes his ankle and his head and his ribs hurt and ow. Now he’s no longer in immediate danger, he’s finally letting himself wallow in pity. This sucks! Why him? What did he do to deserve this? He’s an innocent man!

“We’re almost there, wabbit, you’ll be okay soon,” Link murmurs. Ravio just nuzzles into his shoulder and whines. 

When they finally arrive at the inn, nobody but the tired looking bartender is present – everyone either sleeping upstairs, or having left the tavern for the night to their own home. They’re jolted back awake by Link pushing the door open with his foot and accidentally slamming it into the wall, and all Ravio does is sheepishly smile at them as they look at the duo with wide eyes.

“Sorry, uh– had no hands,” Link says as he carefully weaves around the tables to get to the stairs leading up to the rooms. The bartender just absently nods, still staring. It only confirms to Ravio that he looks like a total mess. The worry about his appearance disappears as Link slowly makes his way up the stairs, and each step rocks pain throughout his entire body. 

The relief when they’re finally into their room and Ravio is lowered back onto the bed is immediate. He lies boneless atop the soft sheets, eyes closed and basking in the feeling of not moving an inch. Everything still hurts, but it’s a lot better than constant jostling. Then the bed dips somewhere to his right, and when he cracks open an eye Link is looking down at him with the most wonderful thing held up in his hand. Red potion.

It’s disgusting, of course, but Ravio doesn’t care about that at all right now, drinking it with big gulps. He feels it sink into his chest and spread out to the rest of his body – the pain in his torso recedes into a dull ache, his head stops pounding, and he’s able to wiggle his toes again without agony through his ankle. When the bottle is empty, he flops back onto the bed, finally feeling true relief from the pain. 

The room is silent for several minutes. Ravio lies there, basking in the lack of pain, while Link fiddles with his hands, appearing deep in thought. Ravio’s guilt crawls back in now the pain has receded and all that’s left is the reality of the situation. He made Link worry. Kept him up all night and made him carry Ravio back to the inn after a full day of travel and shopping because he was incapable of doing something as simple as running away faster. And wasted a potion to boot.

“How are you feeling?” Link eventually asks. Ravio stretches out, checking his body one more time for leftover aches and pains, before sitting up. He pushes the guilt to the side, sliding his carefree mask back on.

“I’m all good now, don’t worry! I always bounce back from accidents like this.” He goes for a reassuring grin, but the sorrow on Link’s face wipes it off of him almost instantly.

“I would’ve stayed, if you knew it’d be so dangerous. All you had to do was ask.”

“I thought I’d be fine, honest – I’ve gone to places like that dozens of times before.” Really, he did. And even if he hadn’t been, there’s never been anybody waiting up for him to get back before, nobody to miss him. He would’ve picked himself up eventually, and then carried on like nothing had happened. He’d have survived.

Link doesn’t say anything else, just observes Ravio’s face. He starts to feel a little awkward under the scrutiny – he hasn’t had to hide himself away from Link for a very long time now, but so much direct attention still makes him feel a bit too conscious of himself. Then Link is sighing, and reaching out to take Ravio’s hand gently. 

Ravio would’ve survived on his own… but it isn’t like that anymore. He does have someone waiting up for him – and clearly, he would’ve been terribly missed. 

“Can I tag along, if there’s a next time? At the very least, I’m curious as to what I missed out on,” Link finally asks. The comment on missing out is tacked on at the end, a clear misdirection – the concern still at the forefront. 

All of a sudden, Ravio feels a bit overwhelmed. Not at Link’s request itself, or the interest in the market and the items Ravio acquired – the moment he’s over himself, he is going to tell Link everything he saw, and lay out his spoils, he doesn’t even have to worry – but because he doesn’t think he’s ever quite felt care like this. He knew Link cared, of course he did, yet he worked under the assumption he was alone even so. Why? Link makes him feel so safe, would do anything if it meant helping Ravio out, protecting him from harm. He should’ve just told Link what he had spotted – they could’ve looked at the stalls together, Link would’ve had thoughts on the items he didn’t consider. And if there was still a confrontation, they would’ve been able to make it out together. He wouldn’t have had to be so on edge, so vigilant, so careful. 

Ravio feels so silly. He didn’t realise he didn’t have to be scared anymore. 

He squeezes Link’s hand. “Of course you can. With a big strong guy like you by my side, nobody will get any funny ideas!” Ravio smiles, bright and full of love and appreciation. 

“We can’t have anyone hurting the cutest bunny merchant around, can we?” Link jokes, 

“Ex-actly. Speaking of merchants: you want to see what I bought?”

Sheerow brings the bag over, settling next to Ravio as he scoots back on the bed and begins to lay everything out. He explains what he thought everything could be used for, delighted when Link has his own ideas to input, and the long seated, well ingrained anxiety slowly ebbs out from his body, just for the moment. Everything is okay now. He’s with Link, and he doesn’t have to just survive anymore. He can be safe. He can be cared for.