there’s a quarter of the queen regent’s watch over the dunes of the gerudo desert left when it starts.
a crease of his brow, once peaceful in sleep. the twitching of a pointed ear. this close to the fire, his features are cast in dark shadows.
his lips part, furrow now pronounced, and a short syllable escapes. it’s sleep-ridden, but that doesn’t stop the ihl from being heard. and then: the mih. and then, again: mih. mihd. and his body twitches, a full-soul flinch, his hand flying up as if to shield himself but never quite making it to his face. it falls into the sand, fingers grasping at weapons that aren’t there.
all at once, link sits up, a harsh gasp wrenched from his throat. his hand flies to his shoulder, sand falling between his gloved fingertips, searching for the hilt of his blade. it isn’t there, and he grasps again and again, feeling the mud of panic seep into his lungs, making it harder to breathe – gods, oh gods, breathe – he does so, raggedly, and quickly –
she almost does not notice when it starts. so lost
is she within bouts of fire-gazing and desert-
scoping, within sleep-addled musings and rueful
thoughts, within WHAT IFs and HOW ABOUTs
and IF ONLY Is — she almost does not notice
when it starts.
it’s a silent whisper, the hiss of sand as something
shifts, but it’s enough to seize her attention.
enough to make her stare turn from ailing
flames to slumbering figure. is he awake
already? she rises and treads closer, mindful of
the way she sinks with each measured step, and
searches for a glint of blue against the backdrop
of shade. no, not awake.
she takes in the faint sheen of sweat ‘pon his brow,
the stretched stiffness of painfully taut thews, the
palpable distress compressed in each huffing
breath.
...not quite asleep either.
(wake him up, the midna within her pules. wake him
up, wake him up, wake him up!)
she crouches beside him then, head stooped and
hands hovering when---
something shatters. (the fire pops.)
link, she tries, but her voice is stuck in the base of
her throat, wet and heavy with a dread she cannot
shake loose. so she reaches for him with her soul
instead — softly, carefully, chanting prayers of
warmth and calm. I AM HERE, it warbles, a cry
she hopes he can hear in the murk of his dreams,
I LOVE YOU, I AM HERE, I AM HERE.
but then the mih comes. mih, mih, mihd.
her soul retreats. (the fire crackles.)
link, she tries again. fails again. watches him recoil
from a sight she cannot see, from a sound she
cannot hear, from a darkness her light cannot
banish.
(the grief does not come gently. it does not come slow.
it swamps her with wave upon rampant wave,
neverending, ever-hurting; it deepens the aching,
gaping pit in her heart, digs and digs until her very
core is struck; it rattles in her stomach, in her lungs,
in her bones, rattles and thrashes and bruises and
batters—)
❝ link, ❞ her throat finally allows. her vision
wavers, her voice wavers, the fire wavers.
(mih, mih, mihd.) ❝ it is but a dream, link.
you--- you are safe here, you— ❞
he jolts awake, grasps at something that isn’t there,
unseeing, unhearing, barely breathing---
(calm, the midna whispers. calm, in-out, deep breaths,
one-two, in-out.)
❝ link. ❞ she’s louder now. firmer. surer.
(the fire flares. her hands twitch towards
him for a brief second before jerking back.)
❝ link, i need you to breathe. ❞
❝ come now, breathe with me: in--- ❞
(mihd, mihd, mihd, mihd---)
❝ i swear, link, you are safe here, i beg of
you, please take my word for it--- ❞
(mihd, mihd, midna, midna, MIDNA, SHE’S GONE,
SHE’S GONE, MIDNA, SHE’S GONE---)
❝ link, please! ❞ the fire erupts and her
shackles snap — quivering hands burst
forth in a frenzy of activity, sweeping across
clammy skin, brushing away straw clumps
of hair, clutching tight to fingers wrought
with hysteria; velveteen rasps against sand
as she scuffles closer, torso barely an inch
away from his and knees pressed into his
side; her face draws close, closer and closer
until all she can see is blue, until all she can
breathe is him.
it is only moments after that she realises what she’s
done. she wants to push him away, wants to
withdraw just as her soul did, wants to tell him she
didn’t mean to shout, didn’t mean to push, didn’t
mean to touch. she didn’t mean to, but it is too little
too late; for her muscles lock up on her last breath,
pinched tight with some raw, terrifying desperation.
she can’t move away. can’t even look away.
(so she does the only thing she can.)