#implied zelink

The house is full of ghosts.

They paint the walls, the last pieces of tangible proof that they ever were alive are rotting unnaturally as they hang in their frames.

He should never have come here.

Link stares at the bed.

His bed. Zelda’s bed. It’s interchangeable. Sometimes they sleep alone while the other is busy, sometimes they’re side-by-side. Her face pressed into his back. Or his arms around her. Close. Warm.

Safe.

He realises he hasn’t been in here since before they left for the castle.

The bed is still half-made. His attempts at being a good homeowner pushed aside for an excited Zelda as she bounced on the balls of her feet in the doorway, unable to wait a moment longer to explore the depths that had been long forgotten and longer forbidden.

His heart hurts.

The once vibrant flowers in the bedside vase are now withered beyond saving. A thin layer of dust has settled over Zelda’s diary- still open to her most recent entry. Written months ago, now.

The Master Sword weighs heavier on his back than ever.

He tears his eyes from the bed, from the desk, and they land upon the photograph of the Champions. The one Kass had given to him.

His memories are still foggy, he still doesn’t remember everything from his previous life. But he remembers them. Their personalities, their voices, how they were all so, so alive.

He remembers them, and he aches for them.

What he wouldn’t give for one more laugh with Daruk, one more piece of advice from Urbosa, one more round of banter with Revali, one more chance to smile at Mipha when she knocked him down again in a training bout and pretend not to notice her blushing.

Before now, he (and Zelda) had their weapons, and sometimes- when they thought the other wasn’t looking- they’d take one from the case and simply hold it.

A reminder that they were real and not just faraway dreams.

These days, Link was too afraid to even look at them.

The decay ravaged those which should have been untouchable. The Champions were gone, their souls departed, and- in Link’s eyes- their weapons should have been considered Holy the same way the Master Sword was.

Even Urbosa’s shield and Revali’s bow had not been spared- even though it seemed common bows and shields had been left unscathed.

He doesn’t want to look at them. He has lost too much of the past to amnesia, to failure, to Malice and hatred and evil, and he is terrified that looking at them too longingly might shatter what’s left of them.

He hates the photo on the wall.

Everyone had been cracking under the pressure. Terrified of the unknown future ahead of them. And they had all lied about it until the very last second.

Those S-O-S calls still echo in Link’s head to this day. How can a series of mechanical beeps, sent a hundred years ago by people he (at the time) didn’t know, cause his head to spin in anger and fear and regret.

He will never get the Champions back.

Even if he can stop the Demon King, there’s no certainty that their equipment will recover.

And Zelda…

He hasn’t slept since he retrieved the Master Sword.

He thought coming back here would help.

His own bed; his own house.

Safety.

A familiar matress and a portrait of old friends to keep him company.

But the house is cold.

The hearth remains unlit.

Ghosts of people he only can partially remember linger and crowd around him.

The photograph; the diary; the weapons decaying more and more by the second.

Some higher power is mocking him.

He leaves the house abruptly, and barely remembers to lock the door behind him.

The sun has fully set as he reaches the woods below Hateno.