dope still alive

They had fallen into a simple comfort with each other easily, and that had been what he needed most in the aftermath. It had grounded him, and gave him direction when he wasn’t sure where to go or who to be after his entire life had rotated upon it’s head. He did not have to shy away from explaining the things he had seen. She had seen enough of her own. Handled enough of her own. Even when she had been held captive and subjected to her own pains and traumas from the shadow invasion she had remained hopeful through it all. He relied on that hope. He relied on that unwaveringness that was entirely her.

Castle life had been something he had, had to adjust to, but he was more than willing if it meant he could stay by her side. He was still awkward and hesitant with court politics. Always cautious to avoid causing her to have more on that ever growing plate of hers as she ruled her kingdom. When she had bestowed him a title—not just any title, it was that of a Duke—he had wanted to decline but knew he could not. He was not seeking such gifts from her. Just her and her time were enough. Their time spent together was something he longed for after having been away from her for so long. Those whispers they shared deep in the night as they laid half asleep in comfort with one another. The feeling of her fingers as they danced across his calloused hands. Always soothing. Always tender.

Even as he accepts that he will do whatever she asks of him he cannot pretend there isn’t frustration lingering below the surface and etched across his brow. This keeps him away from her longer than he had expected and prepared for. It’s the longest he’s been away from her since the invasion, and while he appreciated some time away to visit loved ones in Ordon he was more than ready to return to her side. He dare not admit these frustrations aloud nor give her any way to know they’re there. He wants to be of use to her when situations like this arise. Anything at all within his power to prove his continued usefulness to her beyond their title of lovers. It doesn’t lessen the longing he has for her after weeks away, though.

The rain soaking him to the bone does not help these frustrations nor the longing. They only sour his mood and paint a scowl upon the corners of his lips. The fog and rain clouding his vision has him squinting following the path that is meant to lead him there. She had promised she would have his accommodations handled before he arrived and there’s no doubt she’s been thorough in her requests on his behalf. She’s always overseen that he was taken care of. Never left wanting even as he dared not ask for much.

Gates come up on him quicker then he expects making him pull on the reigns tight. The puffing of his cheeks is subconscious and the breath he lets out is filled with fatigue. He knows if he is this tired there is no way Epona isn’t also, even as she handles his sudden pull with no complaint. The gates are large and even with the fog what little he can see of estate that lies behind them is equally impressive. It’s lavish and extravagant. He is not in need of such expense but he knows she just wants to make him comfortable. It takes a second to see someone rushing to get him at the gate. They’re quick to let him trot in and just as quick to give directions to the stable to get Epona taken care of.

There’s a stable hand there to take her once inside but he declines their assistance choosing to see to her care himself. There is no doubt they know what they’re doing but he does not want someone he doesn’t know tending to her. She is his horse and he will see to her needs. As if to not be deterred the stable hand chooses to linger and watch him work at drying her off from a distance. There’s no stopping his teeth from chattering and his body from trembling as the cool air washes over his thoroughly soaked being. The fat wet drops of rain that fall from his hood and hair into his eyes don’t make it any easier as he gets her settled.

Completely waterlogged the sopping mess he drags inside with him has the maids scurrying to clean up behind him. Puddles are quickly collection onto the floor as he waits to be directed. His wet clothes make his movements stiff, and the water inside his shoes only furthers his discomfort as the liquid squishes within his soles. A quick introduction from an aid, and then his host closely behind them has the maids directing him, moving him, cleaning him, and feeding him.

Overwhelmed doesn’t begin to cover the way he feels after being pushed and pulled since he walked inside their home. He doesn’t want to be rude after she had set things up for him so he doesn’t say a word. He keeps them locked behind firm pressed lips, and just accepts whatever direction he’s pulled to next.

The first few days of his stay are less overwhelming and more uncomfortable. That feeling stays tucked deep into the bottom of his stomach as they wait on him. He had been attended to at the castle but this feels different. Different in the sense that it’s obvious they know he hails from a backwards village and they don’t understand how he got his hands upon a Duke’s title. There’s judgment and scrutiny when they think he is not looking. Those subtle glances they make at him nettle him. It makes the progress he had thought he had been making in the castle seem small and nonexistent.

The days that come after those start to eat away at him. It’s less the judgment and the attending and more everything surrounding him. The bed is somehow awkward and difficult to sleep in even though it is clearly luxurious and well maintained. They’re always quick to clean his room and sort his bedding before he can even finish putting his, thankfully now dried, shoes on to head out for the day. The sheets smell clean but even with that when he tries to press himself further into its comfort it just makes him twist and turn. He had not struggled to sleep in Ordon. He always sleeps comfortably in his room at the castle, and especially in her bed. Yet, he struggles each night in this bed.

The food is not any better. The taste is off and it has been hard adjusting to these new flavors they’re presenting him with. It takes self control to not make a face as he spoons the soup into his mouth, or have his brows pinch when he takes a bite of the meat. The food leaves a lot to be desired compared to Ordon and compared to the castle. The grease on his tongue afterwards leaves a gross feeling inside his mouth that he immediately seeks to remedy after each meal.

The feeling of those eyes following him every time he comes and goes crawls over his skin. None of them dare to look him in the eye as that would be above their station regardless of how much they think he has risen above his—he has and he knows it but he also knows that this is what it means to stand beside her so he will do as he must. The glowering of the stable hand is more obvious than the rest when he takes Epona out and brings her back, clearly personally affronted because he does not allow him to handle her. It had not been as personal as he’s sure it feels but he does not bother trying to work it out. He does not need to explain himself or his preferences. He won’t be here long enough for it to matter when everything is said and done.

Annoyed and out of place is the only way he can explain this feeling building in his chest as he continues to try and handle the problems that brought him here. The nobleman has given him a small handful of men to take with him on his excursions to clean up his territory. They’re not the worst he’s fought beside nor against, but they leave a lot to be desired. They listen well and take command from him. It’s the only thing that feels like it’s going well when compared to everything else.

It’s late when he comes back one night in specific. The temp has dropped and he’s exhausted. He’s coated in grime and bokoblin insides. The maids look at him in disgust at the filth he brings inside their walls but make no comment as they rush to prepare him a bath. They haven’t adjusted to the disorderly state he comes back in after killing the monsters plaguing them. Maybe they never will. He doesn’t make it far before the aid is calling after him. Two words is all it takes. Those two words make his steps falter suddenly, no where near as tired as he had been just seconds before as they bring him a letter.

Royal Mail.

His fingers snatch it, far too aggressively and crude for his new title, from the aid. An apology doesn’t even come to mind as his pulse quickens and his feet have him heading back for the door and to the stables doused in a rushed tense energy. He’s on autopilot as he works to open it, eyes tense because if something has happened to her and he was not there he will never forgive himself. There will be no stopping him, no matter how desperate the nobleman and his territory might be for assistance, that could keep him from riding to her through the night if she called for him.

Feet root to the ground and fingers grip the parchment tightly crinkling the side of it. The abrupt stop has the aid slowing his own brisk pace after having tried to keep up after him. This isn’t an urgent letter. Nothing has happened to her. She is fine. She is fine and there’s a flood gate of relief that washes from his shoulders at reading there is nothing wrong. This letter is personal. She writes to him out of wonder, asking after his well being and how his trip had gone. She desires to know if the weather has been kind to him and if he is eating well. What had rooted him to the spot more was the last line at the end. It’s not long nor overly elaborate. It’s actually quiet simple.

She misses him.

Zelda misses him, and yet he is not there. He is a days ride from her stuck in an uncomfortable estate playing hero. Painted in the remains of bokoblin that dare to terrorize her people. Far from her in a place where the beds are uncomfortable and the food leaves much to be desired.

There’s the hum that radiates from him at her feelings of longing for him. It makes a shuddered breath escape him and his grip upon the paper relax. Three words and it has his heart beating for an entirely different reason—because he is not alone in his longing to see her soon.

She feels it too.

But then there is frustration prickling upon his skin. Fingers dig themselves within his hair line before the glide down to his mouth cupping over it. That heat on his cheeks is unmissable as his heart dances between elation and frustration. The tense breath that escapes his nose as he inhales an attempt to simmer that frustration. He does not want to leave her waiting nor wanting. Those are things he never wants her to be left with.

He misses the way she bends forward so she can look up into his eyes. The slight tilt to her head as she speaks with him in a hushed whisper.

The tilt of his head as he takes in the moon has his hands falling against his sides. Chilled air fills his lungs as he takes a minute to close his eyes and truly release this frustration and come to grips. He cannot disappoint her over simple longing. He cannot let his discomfort keep him from doing what he knows is right. This is a temporary situation not an eternity. There’s a chiding within his head that this momentary flare of temper was ridiculous. Embarrassing, if he were honest. After all, any wonder he might have if she misses him has been answered. That should be enough to keep him euphoric for days.

Deep blue fall from the moon back to the parchment within his hand. There’s heat upon his cheeks as he stares at her elegant script. The twitch of his mouth is subtle as he clears his throat turning to look back at the aid who clearly is seeking to be told what he needs after having received such mail.

Yes, he is here to do a job and it is only for that reason he is staying here. If he just buckles down and takes care of the issues that plague this man’s territory he can return. Perhaps even sooner if he cuts out any leisure time. The letter he writes back to her after his bath is short. He fills it with soft white lies that his travels went well, and that the arrangements she’s set him up with are wonderful. Technically the second portion of that is not a lie. They do take exemplary care of him—doing exactly what they are trained to do. It cannot be on just them that it is riddled in awkward tension as they cannot determine what it is that he actually needs or wants to make him more at home. He’s also never asked for anything in specific with regards to his preferences having wanted to avoid adding to the inconvenience of his stay.

There is also nothing they can do about his desires to head home to her. After all, that’s entirely dependent on how long he takes.

It’s also not a lie when he tells her he is healthy and feeling fine, even after the amount of chill that had soaked into his bones. The warm baths help ease such things and the soups are hearty with nutrition even if they lack in taste. The lie comes in when he doesn’t admit to his frustrations and discomfort. The lack of mention of how annoyance has been lingering just below the surface at not being home and being delayed from her side.

He doesn’t lie when he tells her he’ll be home soon.

The days that follow after her letter blur together. He no longer makes an effort to play at courtly courtesy with the host. It takes up too much time that could be better spent making those that live in this territory feel safe. He requests his breakfasts to be mobile and not messy so he can eat them as he and Epona ride out. The men he was given aren’t prepared for the ramp up he’s made. Their yawns loud and the tire around their eyes obvious. That frustration is finally finding a proper outlet as he takes it out on the group of bokoblin they find. The swings he makes are far more aggressive then they need to be and he knows he’s over doing it, but he does not want to be overly cautious anymore. He just wants things done. The eyes of the men who are there to help him are clearly uncomfortable with this new approach of his—one even going so far to mutter what exactly he might need them for when he’s clearly got it under control.

Each night he comes back more coated and more stained than the last. The smell of what he’s killed wafts off of him. The maids at this point refuse to even turn their heads in his direction, tired of being squeamish. The dinners he should be having with his host he has sent to his room to eat quickly and then force himself to sleep. It’s entirely single-minded. Pure in its systematic efficiency. He will not stay even a day longer then he has to.

By the time her next letter slides into his hands he can feel the strain on his muscles. He’s overexerting himself and it’s felt in his arms and especially his calves. There’s confusion decorating his brow as he stares down at it. It hadn’t been that long since he had sent his reply and it makes no sense for him to have heard from her again so soon. The lift of the wax seal is soft and it takes a few minutes for him to grasp that this one is personal as well, but on behalf of another—his host has clearly reached out to her with some ‘concerns’.

Teeth sink into his bottom lip as he realizes that had he just played courtly courtesy this letter would have most likely never occurred. The nobleman evidently believes he has somehow offended him, and that must be why he changed his urgency in completing this task. He has no choice but to adjust how he’s handling things. The last thing he wants is for her to be worrying over him, and clearly this man is not shy in sending his own letters to her Majesty when he’s become, as she put it in her elegant script, ‘scared’.

Placating the nobleman is easily handled by making sure he has at least breakfast with him before he heads out, and a thorough reporting at the first opportunity if his host is asleep when he returns. It only takes a few days to see the man’s shoulders relax to how they were when he first arrived. He does not need this man nervous let alone scared of him. That benefits no one, least of all her Majesty. Having to play at these courtly pleasantries is time consuming, though, and it’s easily noted how he’s not making as much progress by having to fill in multiple hours of the day with keeping his host happy.

The number of bokoblin sightings are dwindling. That single-minded effort wasn’t completely in vain. He’s also used those idle chatter sessions to discuss the idea of asking her Majesty to send someone after he’s left to help train more men so that the next time they begin seeing them they can get them under control before it gets to this point. It’ll benefit those this man resides over to be able to defend their farms instead of having to wait for the castle to send men out to help purge the problem.

Alone in the dark of this room that remains uncomfortable and remains not her bedroom he wonders if she’s still up. If she’s getting proper sleep. Fingers brush his hair back from his eyes as he tries to will himself asleep. He did not write her back. He should have, but he would prefer his response be in person when he’s made his way back. There’s also some certainty that his host has most likely reached out to thank her for her letter as he seems more relaxed now that he’s been placated.

When the nobleman informs him that there has been a large group citing roaming about an hour away from the estate he doesn’t hesitate to rise from his chair and grab a piece of bread to finish eating on his way to the stables. If he were to handle this large group and managed to chase them back he may be able to head out in as little as a couple days. There’s no reason he should not seize this chance to have this finished and taken care of.

Those that live nearby the latest sighting are quick to give any information they have to him and the men he still brings with him. It doesn’t take them long to come up with an agreed plan with him taking the most dangerous position. They’re being cautious and he prefers that be the case for everyone but himself. There is no reason for these men to be reckless with their lives.

The problem is that he has been too reckless in this overzealous drive to push them back. —no one says a word as the side of his tunic blooms with blood.

While their plan had succeeded there’s no excitement just tension. There’s clear hesitation as they watch him ignore the way it’s painting deep and dark against the fabric. A shake of his head though has them falling in line not daring to question him. The ride back isn’t far but it’s far enough that he’d rather them get back in before night to stitch himself back up. When they arrive back he still doesn’t depend on the stable hand to handle Epona. He takes care of her like he does every time he brings her back in that same methodical sense he always has with her. Whether this is him being stubborn or him prolonging the reality that this wound is more severe than he would like to admit he’s unsure. Deep blue sliding off the floor as he walks in the door makes it clear it may have been the latter. Those eyes of theirs look at him with abject horror more than squeamish. Its enough of a startling reaction that he subconsciously presses his hand against his side only to pull it back and see it painted in red. Confusion coats him as he stares at it for much longer than is necessary as if trying to piece together how it got on his hand and why there is such an abundance of it on his hand. He had barely even felt it when it had happened. Clearly the product of riding the high of adrenaline in the moment. The flutter of his eyes is involuntary as a bead of swear slides down to his chin. Everything he does in these next moments are mechanical as he feels himself pushing to make sense of why there is just so much blood.

Fingers fumble to make sense of his belt that chooses now to be complicated and difficult to remove. It would be so much easier if his belt would stop swaying in his vision. The movement has waves of pain echoing out from his side and more sweat collecting on his brow. Where he stands and the amount of eyes on him in this moment are completely forgotten melting into the background. There is nausea bubbling in his stomach as he finally drops the belt onto the ground letting it clatter and smack against the floor as if it was too heavy for him to even hold. The sound it made had been strangely muffled as it hit his ears.

He needs to see how bad this really is so he can determine what to do next.

Whatever adrenaline has been keeping him standing and keeping him moving will not continue to last. Every second in this moment counts even as his thoughts choose to drag themselves along instead of run. He has no trust in these maids who scurry and scatter like rabbits nor this man who is so easily frightened to be able to care for him, let alone give him stitches. Pulling his tunic and chainmail from the wound and up his chest is done with ginger gentle hands as it sticks to the wound. The grunt he lets out is more of a puff of hot air meant to breathe him through the pain. Pinched brows come as the waves of pain that courses through his torso and down his arm has him letting out a whimper of protest. The wound is deep as he eyes it squinting and blink through the sweat that’s now coating his skin. He’ll need something to bite and a mirror as he works on himself. It would all be so much easier if he could just think. He knows what to do but his thoughts feel like they’re trudging through sludge as he tries in vain to piece together where to do this and how to do it. Everything feels like it’s moving so slowly and then as if dazed he slides his eyes from his would and up to see his host has at some point arrived and is clearly in a state of panic whilst issuing commands. Words are definitely coming out of this man’s mouth but he cannot even hear him. No, he can only hear his heartbeat which is far too fast and note finally that he stands in this man’s doorway pulling his shirt up and out of the way of his wound with zero regard for his lack of modesty.

It’s only now it clicks for him. He might be poisoned which is a whole different problem then just stitches.

Passing out is not an option in this. He doesn’t fight the hands that grab him roughly and pull him quickly. They’ve already figured out what he had been stuck on—a room for treatment—and they’ve evidently called for a doctor. When had they done that? He knows everything around him is loud but still it all falls upon deafened ears. The swirling of colors in his vision is not helping as he watches this man hand him a bottle of something. He cannot even taste it as his sense are too chaotic and too all over the place.

The scream he lets out and the shove he makes of one of the men holding onto him is something he’ll have to apologize for later as the stitches begin. It takes more of them then it should to keep him still as he desperately seeks air into his lungs. His face is wet and he cannot grasp if those are tears or if it’s how badly he’s sweating. This room is too warm, the lights are too bright and the yell he lets out is guttural and hurts his throat as the doctor continues what he can only assume is more stitching.

Zelda.

It’s her name he says without any proper title and in front of god knows how many people. Then there is something lodged inside his mouth. The roll of his eyes comes and then he feels weightless suddenly.

The violent crashing of thunder and the overly bright lightning that turns the world white yanks him back into consciousness. Pain seizes him immediately making him curl into himself and wrap a hand across his bandaged side. Whatever poison had gripped him has finally released its hold thanks to whatever the doctor has given him. Throat dry and parched has his voice raspy as he dares to reach out and pull the bell for a maid.

He cannot stay here. Not like this. Not in this state. He is too vulnerable. Too Weak. Too untrusting. Like a wounded animal. A wounded wolf.

He needs to go home. Needs to go where she is. Where he can be vulnerable, and safe.

The tremble of his arm does nothing to alleviate these fears. The maid that enters does nothing to hide how rattled she is at finding him gasping for air in an attempt to breath through the pain as it crawls through every nerve in his body. Sweat has already begun to build upon his skin with every attempt he makes to move. It’s his body giving all of the right signs that he needs to stop. When he asks for help in getting dressed she looks at him as if he’s not human. Wide doe-eyes and mouth parted. She doesn’t move immediately and it’s with a shaky voice she dares to ask if he’s sure. It only takes a look from him to make her begin assisting him without further question.

His belt rubs against his wound making him grimace and pull it down further than it should be over his tunic. The steps he takes he hopes are strong even as he feels himself try to relieve pressure and keep himself from stepping to hard on his injured side. That maid is brisk in her movements carrying his pouches to follow him to the stables.

Clearly someone has seen or heard something as his host is running out to him. He didn’t even know that man could run let alone knew how. There’s calls for his attention and clear begging for him to wait. He’s desperate and hoping that by asking to just let him reach out to her Majesty for a carriage it’ll get him to reconsider these very unwise next actions.

His voice is weaker than he had hoped it would be, “Do not say a word to her. I’ll inform her when I arrive.”

Hoisting himself up Epona is much more difficult than he expects with how natural its always been to him. The hiss that escapes his lips sends his host frantic and approaching even as he pulls the reigns trotting himself forward. Pain vibrates in waves with every step Epona makes. Air fills his lungs as he stops them just long enough to pull the hood of his cloak forward. He thanks his host for having treated him and cared for him. He can tell this man wants to tell him he cannot leave. That he does not have permission. Both of them are more than aware that he cannot stop him no matter how much he may want to—or so he hopes in such a vulnerable state.

The gust of wind that blows through makes it clear he needs to leave now while this storm has yet to pour over them violently. Regret in having not replaced his cloak so weak to the elements is useless at this point. No matter what happens he will make it home. Thunderstorm or not.

Epona is quick to understand he does not wish to dally having started to step outside the stable and onto the path to the gate. He has no idea what time it is but he’s certain based off the attire of his host that its deep in the night. Leaving in the middle of the night should have him there no later than nightfall. He knows this will have consequences before this is over, but there is hope that this stubbornness he’s riding the high of will keep him afloat long enough to just get back to her and home.

The weather makes it clear it’s just as displeased with him as his host was, dousing him quickly and thoroughly making him shiver and struggle to keep a firm grip onto the reigns. The rain is loud in his ears drowning out any other possible sound. The only exception the thunder that rumbles the sky, and it takes no effort for the rain to soak through his cloak and onto his wound. He had hoped to keep it dry for as long as possible but with such a torrential downpour that isn’t a possibility. Even if he were to stop and try to dry it he hadn’t thought to ask the maid for extra bandages, and that’s ignoring the very real possibility that the rain has made its way through his bags.

The chill of this rain is crisp making him see his breath with every exhale. The lolling of his head is only making his already poor vision in the rain more difficult. The logical part of him knows he needs to stop. He needs to take shelter and wait this storm out. The wounded and hurt part of him knows that if he must be vulnerable then there is no safer place then in front of her. He won’t be able to quell this anxiety until he is in front of her and safe—she would never let anything happen to him while he recovers.

The slow lift of his lids comes and with it the sudden awareness that he must have passed out from the pain. Epona had not stopped her efforts to get them back. He doesn’t know how he hasn’t tipped over and off her. Her pace is as steady and firm as it was when the rain had come crashing down on them regardless of how the mud caked her. Curling into himself as pain shoots up his side and into his head his breathing becomes heavier. There’s a numbness to his skin against these cold clothes as he forces himself to look forward at the gates of Castle Town. He just feels so cold and that weightlessness he had felt while poisoned is seizing him once again.

The world doesn’t disappear in the dark. It sways and moves with him as his body twists. It’s an out of body experience. He thinks he’s fallen of Epona as he stares up at the sky still angry, and still terrifying with this dark gray clouds. The lightened rain soft as it hits against his face. The breath he lets out is painful, whether from his wound or the tip off his horse he’s not sure, but all he can think is ‘finally, home at last’. The helmet that comes into his sight has him release the tension in his shoulders he hadn’t even realized was there. Eyes rolling into the back of his head has him feeling the world spinning and blurring. Yelling is distant, and he thinks he hears the sound of frantic footsteps echoing off the floor below him. The sway of his body has him wondering more if he’s being carried somewhere. When he does dare to try and open his eyes to figure out his surroundings the candle light sconces are too bright making him clamp them down tight. That fire that had been on his skin when he was first injured has returned against his will making his fingers desperate to claw at his side as if tearing the stitches will make it stop.

Swirls of colors flood his vision as he feels someone grab his hand. There’s fear at who has dared to touch him while he’s like this, and then he sees those pale blue staring down at him. Darkness lingers at the edges of his senses and he thinks the wounded and pained scream he’s hearing might be coming from his own lips. He cannot be sure as his vision abandons him once again.

The next time he opens his eyes the lights no longer hurt. They’re low and soft as it pours out of what he thinks is a fireplace based off the light crackle that whispers in his ears. It must still be night if there is no sun pouring from the windows, or perhaps it cannot with how angry the sky had looked as he laid on the bridge to Castle Town. Fingers flex and then slide across soft sheets and it’s only now he realizes his head lays on thick comfortable pillows.

The glint of something within his peripheral has his eyes daring to glance beside him and its with exhausted effort that he rolls his head just so slightly to get a better look. She is right here beside him with a stack of papers in hand and exhaustion at the edges of her eyes. The fireplace’s light reflecting off her pauldrins. She hasn’t noticed he’s woken up just yet and that’s okay because there is something so calming about watching her when she doesn’t know she’s being watched. That calm washing over him after so much longing, panic and hurt in the days that led him here desperately needed. The urge to touch her is at the tips of his fingers daring him to slide them across the sheets in her direction as if he could possibly reach her.

She’s out of her chair at this movement, the papers she had been reading scattered to the floor as she bends over him, “Don’t move.”

Fingers curl around his hand rubbing soothing circles against the back of his hand. The distress that paints her has him aching to apologize for these foolish actions. He knows he’s the entire reason she looks like this. He should have been more patient. More trusting. He should have heeded that nobleman’s request to wait and allow him to procure a carriage. Yet, he had been so stubborn out of desperation to be injured where he felt safest.

The loss of her fingers on his hand has his lids fluttering closed only to weakly press against the hand that slides against his face pushing the plastered hair against his skin back. They are such a welcomed coolness in contrast with his warm skin and scalp. Her voice is light against his ears after so much painful loudness, “Welcome home, Link.”