#pre-lu

Casualties of war were a common phenomenon.

Link knew that. He understood that. As a leader and as a man, he understood that in war, bloodshed was inevitable.

It meant that good men and women were going to die on the battlefield and he could do nothing about it. Link couldn't be everywhere all at once, he couldn't protect everyone. It was not possible, especially given the traitors they'd caught among their ranks.

Despite this internalized understanding, Link still found himself standing over a table, eyes trained on the letter he had just written. 

To the family of Brin,

I regret to inform you that your son has passed in battle.

May you and him find peace. 

Captain Link

It was simple. Perhaps a bit too simple for a letter meant to inform a family that their son had passed away.

But this was the army. What was he going to do? He couldn't know every soldier, especially not as the captain of a company that veers on the larger side. Not with how many of their numbers shift each and every time there's a battle. By now, he's learned that knowing these soldiers hurts more.

And yet, here he is, wishing he'd gotten to know this one man. Just so he could at least give more than what he had to the family that would now have to grieve a soul he'd failed.

Taking in a shaky breath, Link gripped the letter in his hand before carefully folding it, placing it in the package that was to be delivered to the family. A package containing the personal items as well as what they could salvage of the man's uniform. It was set to be sent the next day. Looking at the address, Link figured it would take about two weeks for it to reach the family.

Breathing out, Link ran a hand through his blond hair as he heard someone shift open the flap of the tent. Glancing behind him, he saw Mask, one of the kids that had been summoned by Cia in the midst of the world's merging. And yet another person he's been failing.

Mask and Tune were heroes of a distant time, and yet he couldn't help but feel as if he'd failed them by getting them dragged into this whole mess. They were too young for the horrors of war. Despite their individual statuses as heroes, war was something else entirely.

"Evening Sprite... where's Tune?" Link asked on principle, knowing in his bones that Tune was doing something ridiculous- amusing, yes, but ridiculous. Link would honestly rather deal with Tune's antics than writing condolence letters. Even Mask's usual scowl was more comforting than the letters he'd been writing since they'd arrived at this Hylia damned camp.

"I dunno. Doing something dumb," Mask said with a shrug. Despite Mask's attempts at nonchalance and indifference, Link could tell he had a heart of gold. This so called indifference was built on something closer to exhaustion than actual indifference. Hero or not, Mask was still a child, one who was beginning to feel the weight of his role, if Link had to guess what weighed on kid's mind.

Link himself found the weight of being a hero exhausting. Everyone expected him to have all the answers, to always know what to do next, to always come out on top. He could only imagine what it would do the mind of someone as young as Mask. At least Tune was spared from the feeling. For the time being.

It simply reminded Link why he had to continue to work, no matter the cost to himself. So that Mask and Tune could get a break from... everything. Especially Mask. The poor kid was really feeling more like an old man than a nine year old kid. 

"Of course he is..." Link muttered before he turned back to Mask, shaking his head. "Did you need something?" Link questioned, raising an eyebrow.

"You need a break," Mask said bluntly, eyes staring directly at Link as if daring the older of the two to challenge his words. The tension he always held was there, the awkward sort, born from Mask's... less than social tendencies. It sometimes made it difficult to take the kid as seriously as he wanted to be taken.

"What makes you think that?" Link questioned with a raised eyebrow. Despite the simmering despair underneath his skin, he couldn't help but feel better with Mask around. Even if Link wasn't sure how comfortable he was confiding in a nine year old (Link's sure there's age behind those eyes, but that's besides the point...), he found that having Tune and Mask around livened up the camps and his own mood. The war was more bearable with the kids around. Horrible as it was for them to be there in the first place.

Though, each time he was reminded they were both heroes, he was subsequently reminded of Cia, who'd likely watched these two through their journeys as she was watching his... and wasn't that an uncomfortable thought? 

"You're here. You've been in this tent since the deaths were counted," Mask retorted as Link sighed. 

"It hasn't been that long," Link protested.

"You're in denial old man," Mask retorted, using that mocking nickname that Tune and Mask called Link due to Link always calling the two kid. 

"I'm not that old," Link scoffed. 

"You're deflecting."

"No I'm not."

"You need a break."

"No I don't."

"Yeah you do."

Link sighed, exasperated by Mask's insistence. Was it a hero thing to be so insufferably stubborn? It seemed to be. "Okay, and if I do need a break, what am I going to do with all this work? Leave it to you?" Link responded with an unimpressed expression as Mask's face scrunched up in the way it always did when Mask was annoyed or disgusted by a suggestion or idea. It always made him smile, even when they're bickering. 

"Ugh. No. No. Doesn't matter, it'll get done at some point, right now you need a break. Like, right now," Mask said, tugging at Link's scarf as he scoffed in return. 

"Kid-"

"No arguing with me. I'll get Tune," Mask declared and Link gave in readily. Not because he needed the break, but because Tune was the master at playing his age to his advantage. Dumb puppy eyes always got him no matter how hard he tried to resist. It worked on Link like a charm every time and Link was beginning to wish he wasn't so fond of the damn kid.

"Fine..." Link grumbled as he followed Mask in what was probably a very comical scene. The captain being dragged around by the strangely terrifying kid that appeared out of the portals. 

"Good," Mask said, clearly satisfied as he dragged Link away from his work. 

Despite the eye roll Link gave, he felt a warmth in his chest. Even with everything that Mask had been through, he always managed to find some way to care. It warmed his heart in a way he wasn't entirely unfamiliar with. 

Green stared at the plain, lichen-stained bricks, counting them for what must have been the hundredth time. Anything to distract him from the sobbing boy curled up against his side. Green gave Red a half-hearted squeeze. He had given up on trying to cheer up his brother long ago. All he could offer now was a shoulder to cry on.

They had been appointed as smiths for Ganon's new kingdom. They were given two meals a day, a workshop, and two cots with megar blankets.

The second cot had barely been touched since they arrived. Although it was irrational, Green couldn't help but fear that his brother would disappear the moment they let go of each other. He knew Red felt the same.

“At least we have each other,” Green mused. Vio and Blue weren't that lucky. Neither of them had seen Blue since they were captured, and whenever Vio visited it wasn't really Vio. Thoughtful purple eyes were clouded over by an opaque red. Red still believed that Vio was in there, and maintained the hope that maybe, if he tried hard enough, he could break through the spell. Green knew better. Ganon was smart. If Vio was in there, he was buried deep. Their meager connection told him that Blue was upstairs somewhere, and absolutely furious most of the time. The times when he wasn't was when Green worried most.

Green had been mad at Link in the beginning. As time went on, however, he began to realize the futility of it all. Red didn't blame Link, because of course he wouldn't. Eventually, the anger faded and melted into the endless void of numb sorrow.

Red let out a few soft sniffles, having finally cried himself to sleep. Green sighed softly, shifting until he was able to lower Red onto the cot. He needed to finish an order of moblins spears. When he tried to stand, the hand on his arm tightened.

“D’nt leave…” Red mumbled, tears slipping down his cheeks. Green glanced to the workshop, then back to his brother. With a sigh, he lowered himself back onto the cot. Red was already back asleep by the time he brought the blanket over the both of them. Green would just have to finish the spears in the morning.

Late that night, something strange happened. A boy dressed in red shook his brother awake, pointing to a glowing portal in the middle of the workshop.

A boy in blue spat blood onto the arena sand, glaring up at his monstrous audience. Ganon only smiled cruelly, raising his hand to signal the next wave of monsters. The gate began to screech open.

The boy in blue braced himself, only to feel a rush of strange magic appear behind him. He spun to face it, snarl turning to shock when he came face to face with a divine portal. A grin split his bloody face. 

The boy wasted no time. His raised middle fingers lingered when he disappeared into the portal.

A boy in purple walked along empty halls, back straight and eyes glowing red. He carried a set of four identical swords. His eyes widened ever so slightly when the floor disappeared underneath him, and within seconds, he was gone. The portal winked out of existence after him.

Explanation: A few months after FSA (I'm basing this off the manga), Link got really lonely and depressed. In desperation, he pulled the four sword, thus releasing Ganon. Ganon kidnapped the colors and put them in the predicaments you see here. Shadow is dormant for now...

Welcome to Your Fate 

“Whether a parting be forever or merely for a short time… that is up to you.”

TW– mentions of a n*ose.

“I only keep you around because you’re useful,” the sound was harsh against his ears. He knew it was true. Anyone following this… creature could understand that there was no compassion in this man’s heart. Perhaps there had been, once upon a time, before the curse took its hold, gripped hard onto the soul and mind of this man. Today, however, all that was left was a shell of the stern and wise king. All that was left was a man with goals of destruction and a thirst for revenge against a child. 

He knew what he’d gotten himself into when he’d decided to join him. Hylia did he know, but that didn’t stop him from hating it. Each moment he spent in this lair surrounded by filth and gloom and all that could possibly be called evil, it grated on his nerves, each of his senses crying out to destroy this place and its inhabitants. 

Even so, he had to be patient. His revenge would come. Patience, he thought like a mantra as he was dismissed from his master's presence. Wandering through the malice soaked halls, he carefully danced around the patches that threatened to swallow him whole, avoiding the shadows that grew too big, the hands that stuck just out of the pools of gloom. 

The sound of bare feet against what could only be described as a hard, almost stone material echoed through the long yet empty hallways. Lined with nothing but gloom and despair, he continued to desperately claw his way out. While he had long since forsaken the one who’d blessed him with such senses, they did not leave him. She apparently still had use for him, he supposed. Even then, he did not wish to do Her bidding. She was cruel as the one he currently called master, but She hid it behind benevolence. Sending children to do what She Herself could not. Instead of awaiting adulthood, She commanded Her children to go and fight Her battles. Children who had lives, or perhaps didn't, but still children who should have had the chance to be children longer than they did. 

Regardless of the fact that it's needless violence. Perhaps a child’s blind trust in authority figures, particularly ones like Her, were why she chose children. An adult may have a life, a family, people they care for and love- and are less likely to recklessly throw themselves into a problem than a child with orders and ideas of grandeur. 

It made him sick merely thinking about it. Sicker than the damned pools of gloom and malice that haunted his every movement in this Hylia forsaken place. 

So, he made his way out of the hallways and breathed in Farore’s air. It was fresh and brushed against his aches and wounds, soothing him in ways he could never find in anyone else. Much less any other deity. No one was like Her, the gentle goddess. 

Taking a moment to just breathe, he closed his eyes, opening them up to the sky above. His crystalline eyes reflected blue in the light of the vast sky above. Sometimes, he found himself wondering how She had felt when She had orchestrated everything. What had She been thinking when She created this miserable fate? Was everything Her plan, or was She fallible as any other mortal? Closing his eyes, he sighed. 

When he reopened them, he was gobsmacked to find that he was not where he’d been a moment ago. One moment he had been standing on cold, stone-like material, surrounded by an illness he couldn’t purify, surrounded by an echoing silence. The next he found his feet touching dirt, surrounded by the cries of babies, the shouts of a marketplace, the sounds of a city. 

Quickly, his eyes darted around wildly as he tried to figure out where (or when) he was. With that quick glance, he was able to gather a bit about his location. He was in a city, the path was dirt with some stone patches, the buildings were damaged and old, the people held gazes of distrust. A woman passed by him, holding her baby closer to her chest as she eyed him carefully. 

“...What in the world is this?” He mumbled as he ducked into the nearest alleyway, finding it to be the least populated area possible. There was a man sitting in the corner, seemingly lamenting his life. Shaking his head, he looked around for any prying eyes or devices that could possibly reveal to someone his location. Finding nothing but the man sitting in the corner of the alleyway, he sighed softly. 

Despite his allegiance to his master not being public information (not many even knew of his master in days of peace), he could never be too careful. In a quiet blaze of flames, his appearance changed. After a moment, he tossed a coin to the man in the corner as he tugged at the newfound fabric wrapped around his neck. Dressed in a red scarf that hung on his neck like a noose and a cloak that weighed like a guillotine on his shoulders, he walked out of the alleyway, eyes carefully scanning the streets. 

It had been much too long since he’d worn clothes like this. Not since his days as a hermit, not since he’d given up on Her the way She had given up on him. 

His soul weighed heavy, and it felt as if he was accepting Her– going against what he had vowed. Going against everything that had brought him to where he was today. Yet, he couldn’t allow people to recognize him, if any soul was to know who he truly was, he may be truly doomed. 

Swallowing down his grievances, he wandered down the street, eyes trailing over each and every person he took notice of, keeping an eye out for any pick pockets or anyone that could prove dangerous to him. 

Not that he found much. 

From what he could see, this city was… normal, as normal as any city could be. He seemed to have landed in the slums, surrounded by beggars, the poverty stricken, and various other “unsavory” folk that were certainly rejected by common society. Each time he turned a corner, he seemed to pass another beggar, another mother unable to care for her child, another child left with nothing but raggedy clothes. Gritting his teeth, he tried not to cave… but it seemed his virtues hadn’t entirely left him. 

Sighing, he dropped coin to a few of the beggars he passed. Even if he scowled and grumbled, he couldn’t go against his good sense telling him to take at least some pity on these unfortunate souls. Just enough for some bread, enough to last for a day at least. Sure, their next day wouldn’t be great, but he wasn’t sure what else he could do at the moment. 

As he wandered through the streets, he noticed they seemed to get emptier and emptier the further into the slums he got. More and more people eyed him with suspicion, though he found that to be… rather normal, all things considered. He was dressed relatively decently, which meant he was probably from some better part of the city, and not the slums these people trusted (in a twisted way, he supposed). Besides, it was better to be suspicious in a place that happened to be a breeding ground for all that was shady, illegal, or generally not socially acceptable. 

He ignored them in favor of wandering further, unsure of where he was going, but knowing that he needed to get somewhere. His feet led him more than his mind. 

Eventually, he reached a small home– it was obviously abandoned, but there was a kid there, dressed in old, weathered clothing that looked like they could use a wash, and a needle. The boy was young, he appeared to be around ten years old or so, with eyes set with blazing determination. It reminded him of something, or well, someone he hadn’t seen in a very, very long time. 

It was clear to him that this boy had something worth resolving himself over. A family, most likely, or perhaps he was incredibly determined to achieve his dreams, or he was doing it to survive. Held in the boy’s tiny hands was an equally tiny sword. The sword was carved from wood, and clearly, whoever had carved it had no clue what they were doing, the boy was bound to have splinters if he continued swinging that blade. In fact, he could see some showing up on the boy’s hands now. 

The boy seemed to see it too… and yet, he just kept swinging that sword. Over and over, again and again. 

“Your form is off,” he said suddenly, unsure of what impulse he was acting on, but feeling the need to help this boy. That was unusual. He can’t recall the last time he’d done something with a real sense of compassion. 

It was probably nothing. 

“Your form is off,” a voice came from behind him, sudden and unexpected. 

The boy immediately startled, arms shaking but face pressed hard in determination as he looked up at the stranger. Meeting the man’s eyes, he was met by haunted blue eyes, a figure cloaked and weighed down. As he looked up at the stranger, he found something in him clawing, gnawing away, telling him that whoever this man was, he was important. He was to be trusted. He was someone. Unlike him.

His gut was telling him this, so it must be true. Everything his gut told him, he trusted. This morning, he had a feeling something was going to happen today. Was this what his gut had been telling him about? Was this the person he had prayed for? His mind raced with thoughts before he recalled what the man had said… so, he attempted to reposition himself– attempted to get himself into the correct position. What he hadn’t expected was the man to snatch the wooden sword he’d been using to practice. 

As he opened his mouth to protest, he was quickly shushed when he watched the man sit down and begin whittling away at the sharp edges of the wood. 

Soon enough– before he could really comprehend what was happening, the wooden sword was placed back in his hands, which had been bandaged and cared for by this strange man. 

“There. Now, let's try again. Stand with your back straight, and your legs like this,” the man instructed, demonstrating with a real, steel blade. He’d only seen the knights with those sorts of blades! Mom had told him once that swords were real expensive because they were made by skilled people who needed the money to survive, just like them. 

From there, the day passed in a flash. The man had been teaching him stances. Which seemed useless, but he could immediately pinpoint the difference. It was so stark that even him, an unskilled kid with nothing to his name, could feel the difference in his posture– even holding the sword felt more and more comfortable as the day passed and he got more and more attuned to the proper stance. The man was a very good teacher. He even managed to make his day feel less exhausting than usual. 

Most of his days were spent working hours and hours, hoping one day he’d be able to become a knight like his father so that he could provide for his family. He wasn’t sure how long mom would last with her illness, and he wanted to give his sister a better life than this. All of this work was in hopes that one day he could bring his mother the medicine that would save her, and his sister the childhood she deserved. If he could succeed, his mother would be able to live her days out in peace and health, and his sister would be able to live a life beyond working at the inn serving people and getting told nasty things and coming home sobbing. 

This strange, kindhearted man (who he still didn’t know the name of) had helped him along the way to do just that. Had done so with no price, had done so without hesitation. Even with his sloppy, inexperienced, and unskilled self, the man waited patiently for him to understand, even tried to reword and rework what he said to fit the way that seemed to stick best. Despite the fact that he doubted he would be holding a real blade anytime soon, he could feel his muscles burning– could feel the way the movements became second nature. 

One day, he would be able to swing the blade, and he awaited that day with open arms and hope in his heart. 

Mother had always said he was a quick learner, and it seemed this stranger had the same opinion. 

“You’d make a decent knight,” the man commented, and he suddenly noticed the scar on the man’s face. It was… ugly. That was the best way he could describe it. The wound looked like it was caused by some uneven weapon or maybe something without a sharp edge at all. From the jagged  lines of the wound that trailed over the man’s eyes, it looked purposeful. 

Staring at the scar, he wondered if the man was a knight. Only knights had those sorts of scars, he’d know, he’s seen knights before. The man even carried himself like a real knight! Just like the ones that would chase him

“R…really?” He asked, stumbling over unfamiliar words. Talking was never his strong suit. Words never seemed to come out the way he wanted them to when they did, and even when he did find the right thing to say, his voice just wouldn’t cooperate with him. 

“Yeah. With time, practice, and a decent meal,” the man said, as if that were the obvious answer. As if he was not just a child with a farfetched dream that was reaching much further than his abilities said he could. 

“Are you a knight?” He blurted out, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he could think about what he had just asked. Yet, his voice didn’t tremble, his words were clear, and he found that he felt… comfortable. He felt safe. It was completely foreign and the feeling reminded him of something– something he couldn’t quite recall and yet knew at the same time… 

“...Something like that,” the man said, his gaze growing distant as he looked up at the sky, light blue eyes reflected in the setting sunlight. “I’ll be back. Don’t go anywhere while I’m gone. There’s still plenty to teach you,” the man said as he suddenly began walking away. Stumbling, he immediately caught the man’s cloak, in the depths of his mind, a voice begged that the man not leave him. Anything but that. A voice begged the man to stay with him and never leave. 

“W–wait! What’s your name, sir?” He scrambled to keep the man close, something telling him to cling and never let go. The man sighed, seeming exhausted, and he felt suddenly very guilty. Had he taken up this man’s time needlessly? Had the man sacrificed his day for him? That didn’t seem right… no, people didn’t do that. The man just saw potential and decided it needed to be honed. Yes. That was it. The man just saw him as a new talent. 

“...You…” the man sighed once again, “you can call me Mishi– but only you, got that? Anyone else you know will call me sir and that’s the end of it.” The man’s voice was harsh, hard, like one of those drill sergeants that he’d heard about. Yet, there was a certain warmth in his chest when the man said he could call him Mishi, and no one else would get to. 

“Sir Mishi… I’m Link! It’s nice to meet you,” he said, stumbling over his words a bit. It had been a while since he’d met anyone new who was willing to get to know his name. Not just the fact that he was some random kid on the streets swinging a wooden sword for a dream that was too far out of his grasp. 

“Just Mishi… and nice to meet cha,” Mishi said with a light scoff, but he sounded genuine. Link wondered if the man was just a bit strange sometimes. 

“Okay… you promise you’ll come back, Mishi?” Link asked meekly, still holding on to the man’s cloak, watching as he scoffed lightly. 

“If that makes you feel better, yes. I promise I’ll return,” Mishi said dismissively, but Link got the feeling the man never gave anyone else nearly this much. 

Days later, Link was shocked when Mishi did, indeed return. “You… you came back, like you promised,” Link said, dazed as he was met with the look on Mishi’s face, as if offended he would go against what he’d promised, even if the promise hadn’t seemed like something sincere at the time. 

“Of course, did you think I would be so dishonorable as to break a promise that is so easy to keep? That would be shameful,” Mishi scoffed but eventually sighed, handing Link something. It was a newly made blade– not a real steel blade, of course, it was merely a wooden one, but it was of good quality, and when Link held it in his hand, he found that it was perfectly balanced, not too light as his last one had been, and not as heavy as he expected this one to be. Like it was meant for his hands and his hands alone. 

“It’s… amazing,” Link said, still dazed by the whirlwind of things that had been happening. Mishi was breaking every convention that Link had become accustomed to. He was something brand new in a world where everything was the same and there was never anything new for someone like him. For someone unskilled and unremarkable. 

“It’s just a carving. Don’t think much of it,” Mishi said, gaze on anything but Link. “Come now, we have training to get to,” Mishi said, eyeing Link’s body. He was unclean, Link knew that. Still, the scrutinizing look Mishi sent him made him feel self-conscious of his appearance. 

The day was not nearly as grueling as Link thought it would be. In fact, it was quite… peaceful. Mishi came to his home, awkwardly cooked them a meal with what they had and some ingredients he’d brought with him, and then he’d gone to train Link by putting him through simple exercises. Running, push-ups, sit-ups, simple things that would increase his endurance– well, that’s what Mishi had told him anyway. Link didn’t really understand everything in that statement, but he was quickly coming to trust Mishi immensely. The man was a bit awkward, Link noticed, but he was also kind in a gruff manner. 

Strict but not restricting. 

Warm but not a blazing fire. 

Firm but not cruel. 

It was a nice change of pace. The few other people who’d taught Link things, be it with a blade or with something else entirely, and Link had found them cruel and demeaning. Many seemed to believe themselves to be doing a favor. That they were the hero of the story because they did what would be considered the bare minimum for a teacher-student relationship. None of them, not a single one, had ever bothered to go out of their way to do something he didn’t directly request of them, and they certainly didn’t make meals, or take care of his mother, or play with his sister, or instruct him properly, or try and change their speech to be more understandable. 

They never tried. 

Yet this stranger who he had met completely by coincidence was here, helping him. Day by day, he gained confidence, and Mishi even taught him other things. They tried cooking, but Link was quickly determined as not cut out for the kitchen. Instead, Mishi taught him some survival skills and even tested him on them in real time when they went out into the woods. Of course, Mishi never put him in outright danger, always saving him the moment things looked like they’d go awry. 

Needless to say, it was the best few years of his life, even if Mishi did get busy sometimes and wasn’t able to visit much, he always came back to teach him things. Each visit was spent with good times and Link had come to love Mishi. It wasn’t quite in the same way he loved his mom and his sister, but he loved Mishi all the same. 

Then came the day where Link managed to get into the knight’s program. It was a joyous day that Mishi had baked something called a cake for– a delicacy usually only eaten by the rich and nobility. Link had been in awe of the food, and his sister had gobbled it down. Over the years Mishi had been around, his mother’s health had improved as well! Link wasn’t sure if Mishi was bringing her medicine or had found something else, but he was glad nonetheless. 

“I won’t be visiting anymore,” Mishi said a few days after he’d gotten accepted as a knight. Link was stunned by the proclamation.

“W-what? No– no! You can’t just… just leave,” Link said, stumbling over his words, something he hadn’t done in years. Not since Mishi had taught him to be comfortable in his own skin, even when words couldn’t quite help him, Mishi had taught him how to always feel comfortable in his own skin and his own words. 

“I… suppose I worded that poorly… I apologize,” Mishi said, sighing. Link’s heart sank and soared at the same time. If he wasn’t leaving forever, then where was he going? His heart raced in his chest and his mind began to spin with what could be the reason behind this. “Since you’ll be with the knights, I won’t be able to train and meet you everyday, but you can send letters. I’ll respond as soon as I can, just put my name on it and hand it to the mailman and I’ll receive it. One way or another,” Mishi explained, voice steady and calm as he carefully threaded his fingers through Link’s hair. It was an idle action that Link had come to understand as Mishi’s way of showing affection. 

“That… I still… I won’t get to see you anymore… will I?” Link said, slumping back against Mishi’s cloaked form. He’d never removed the cloak or scarf despite the years Link had known the man. It was something he’d gotten used to. No matter if it was hot or cold, or even lukewarm, Mishi was always adorned in that thick scarf and weighted cloak. He wore them like burdens he needed to wear for the sake of something. 

“You will, just not as much. I promise I’ll be there to celebrate your achievements, as long as you don’t forget to pen me whenever you get the time,” Mishi said. Back when Link was little, he always recalled Mishi being stiff and uncomfortable with Link trying to hug him, or being in close proximity. Sure, the man was a bit more comfortable now, but even then, Link could always feel him freeze whenever Link got too close. 

Link had learned not to take it to heart. 

Link had not walked this trail in decades. Overgrown flora curled around the worn edges of flattened grass and dirt, tickling and teasing at his booted feet as he traversed.

A gentle hum of magic guided him; though not necessary, his muscle memory of the path was familiar, even with all the time gone by. The hero’s own magic responded, pinging softly in response to the eras old magic.

Let’s go in the garden…

Thick brush gave way to a small clearing surrounded by towering oak trees. Rays of fading sun dappled the ground, dancing as the leaves swayed in the breeze.

The hum became stronger as Link drew further into a clearing towards a flat stone, which sat patiently in the middle of the small area, unbothered and unmoved by time.

You’ll find something waiting…

His magic responded back stronger as he approached the stone, the sunset rays filtering through the canopy, falling onto the item resting atop.

Right there where you left it, lying upside down…

As he kneeled, he reached his hands out and brushed across soft wood, feeling the humming dim to a buzz as his fingers settled on the inside.

When you finally find it, you’ll see how it’s faded…

With a sigh, Link raised his gaze to meet the wooden mask. The inside more worn than it was when he laid it to rest here all those years ago. Gouges, the scars of two different sized fingers and nails decorated the edges.

The underside is lighter when you turn it around…

Link took the mask in a trembling grip, slowly rotating his wrist. He was now eye-to-eye with the freakish copy of his own face, decorated with paint and small nicks.

It was still the same color, the same wear and tear, nothing about it had changed in appearance. No new slices in the wood, no chips in the paint, no smudged dirt.

Everything stays, right where you left it…

The mask had not been touched or moved since his hands last touched it. Magic from both himself and the mask tangled with each other, familiar yet a stranger.

Gazing into the lifeless wooden sockets, Link sighed, bowing his head so his forehead met with the mask’s. His fingers dipped into grooves made from his hands, and snagged on ones from hands too small to wield such power.

Everything stays, but it still changes…

He stood, gently pulling his head away from the wooden face, the item’s very being vibrated with magic in his hold, ancient and lonely.

One hand left the mask, reaching up to his own face, where a half copy of the mask’s markings resided on his skin, on his very being, on his very soul and magic.

Ever so slightly…

Link’s gaze drifted back to the rock, where an imprint of the mask was left behind, from both the sun and weathering over decades. As time shifted and changed, the state of the mask did not.

Daily and nightly…

He turned back to the trail, the mask hooked delicately onto his belt, slotting into place like it belonged there. While it would not remain directly on his person for long, the weight was familiar… It was almost comforting.

A final wash of magic waved over him.

“…Thank you…”

A soft sigh of one so deeply ancient.

“…A new journey awaits…”

Link felt the magic recede like the tides of a lake, for he had no ocean, only heard tales of it from a sailor far ahead of his time. He continued on the winding trail of twining plants back to his residence- with the promise of a new adventure ahead- never giving a single glance back, for there was no need to assure himself any longer.