Teamugly

The economy in Hyrule was never incredibly robust.

Sure, you could sell potatoes or milk and make enough to scrape by, but being a merchant in a world where the currency could be found in any convenient clump of weeds was generally seen as a very strange hobby. It was likely why the weirder wares were always sold by… weirder people. 

Legends told of merchants who scored big, raking in rupees like autumn leaves, retiring to islands named after them, having their faces added to the annals on history. But to make legendary money you needed… a legendary hero. Heroes accumulated treasure and heroes needed equipment, and that essential exchange led to the sorts of fortunes they sing about… well, that merchants sing about.

Beedle didn’t live in one of the more fortunate eras, blessed with a world ending disaster that led to a hero to make him rich. No, Beedle was doomed to a life of making arrows for hunters and reselling potions his grandmother made. Every so often he would sell a few extra nuts he had gathered, or a roll of bandages to a careless farmhand. But all in all, his life was far too dull. He dreamed of far-off places, castles and princesses and making real money. Clearly, that would never happen.

He was sitting by the inn door, fletching some arrows, when he heard the commotion of too many feet tramping up the lane. Beedle glanced up to see a troupe of men and boys coming up the road, wearing bright colors and the oddest styles of clothing. He raised an eyebrow. The circus? In his little village?

One looked at him in surprise. “Beedle?”

He stared. “I’m sorry, have we met?”

The man smiled, tugging at his collar. “Ah, I suppose you just look like someone I know. My mistake.”

The group filed into the inn, the youngest staring at him with wide eyes. “He looks just like him, doesn’t he?”

Beedle peered into the window. The man with a scarf was talking to the innkeeper while the others lounged by the fire, chatting and pulling off their boots. Actually, they had a lot of swords and weapons, come to think of it. Strange thing for circus performers. Maybe they juggled them?

Beedle resumed working on his arrows. If he lived in an era with a hero, he’d be making a fortune instead of more arrows.

“Excuse me?”

He looked up. The tallest of the performers, a man with lurid tattoos all over his face, was standing in the door frame. Beedle slapped a smile on his face. “Helloooooo. Can I help you?”

“I’m sorry, but do you happen to know anyone in town who sells potions?”

“Ah, yes, yes! I can help you with that!” He quickly reached into his box, pulling out one of his grandmother’s elixirs. “I have ones for health, for stamina, even one that’s supposed to be magic!” That last one, he was pretty sure, was one of his grandmother’s little jokes. “What are you looking for, sir?”

The man’s single eye traced over the bottles in his inventory. “Hm. I will take six red potions, and three green.”

Beedle winced inwardly. That many health potions? He knew circus acts could be dangerous, but were they really getting hurt that much? And worse, that many potions would cost well over 200 rupees! There was no way a circus performer would have that much on him! 

“Er, are you sure? That’s going to be–”

“The safety of my friends is worth any cost.” He reached into his pouch, looking for his wallet. Beedle watched in horror as he took out a handful of green rupees. “Let’s see… it is… 200 rupees? I should have that. One… two… three…” He placed each one in the box as he counted.

“Sir–” A few fieldhands passing by on their way into the inn had noticed the giant and had slowed down to watch him.

“Fifteen… sixteen… oh, a blue one! That’s, ah…” The man tried to count this out of his fingers, but as he did not have sixteen plus five fingers, this quickly caused him some trouble. His lips moved silently over and over, mouthing the numbers.

“Twenty-two!” suggested a milk maid who had joined the growing crowd watching the performer attempting to buy a potion. The man’s mouth quirked downward.

“... Twenty-one?” Beedle suggested meekly. 

“Twenty-one.” The man nodded. “How many more did you need?”

Beedle’s head reeled. “A-a hundred and… and eighty… no, uh… seventy-nine rupees?”

The man’s eyebrows scrunched up as he dug around in his wallet again. There was a scar over one of his eyes, Beedle realized. Perhaps that was why he was so eager to have healing potions, trying to prevent another accident? 

“Thirty… thirty-one…” The rupees clinked as they dropped into the box. “Thirty-four… thirty-five…” The man frowned. “Oh dear.”

“I-if you don’t have enough, I can just give you fewer–”

“No. I need them all.” The performer stared at him, hard. “Can you make change?”

Beedle gulped. “Ch-change?”

“My wife gave me some money, but I want to be sure I have the change to give back to her.” He leaned forward, staring with a blank expression. The crowd all sucked in a breath. “So can you make change?”

“Uh. Y-yes?”

The man visibly relaxed. “Good. This should cover it.” He then removed two gold rupees from his wallet and handed them to Beedle. The crowd went mad, chattering and pushing to see the rupees, openly speculating on their authenticity, on why he had them, who was this man–

Beedle looked up into the guileless face of the possible circus performer, at the tattoos and the sword and the two gleaming rupees, and decided that if crime was occurring, he was not questioning it. “Uh. That’s… that’s too much.” He pushed one back. “Th-they’re worth 300, and… and the potions you wanted are only 250…”

The man smiled without teeth. “Then I supposed I’ll take all your stock.”

“B-but… your wife’s change…”

“I shall just have to be in trouble.” He picked up the crate. “I will bring this back once we take the potions out. Thank you.” And without another word, he walked back into the inn. Beedle stared at the gold rupee in his hands, ignoring the crowd jostling him to look or asking who his customer had been.