Chapter Text
Link sits at the edge of a town tonight, hoping no one will take notice nor care of a small traveller taking shelter under the maple trees. There are few trees in Hyrule now, but in some settlements there are people willing to nurture them by hand rather than let them fall to the harsh climate and myriad diseases that have long since taken the forests of old.
He usually avoids people when he can, but after a day wading through the swamplands he couldn’t bring himself to spend the night out in the wilderness again. He is too tired to keep one eye open tonight, and he craves the soft layer of fallen leaves over the ground, hard and dusty after months void of rain.
He sighs and stretches, rests his aching back against the tree trunk. He removes one worn shoe and then the other with the toes of his opposite foot and crinkles his nose at the small stream of viscous swamp water that trickles out, congealing with the dust on the ground.
There is a cut on his hand where he snagged it on a rock earlier. It may be small, but a drop of blood is enough to bring devastation beyond compare, and it is worth the energy it takes to heal it. It glows red, like a light is shining through the hues of his blood, beneath the flesh, and then it is gone, leaving a small, barely noticeable scar in its place.
He relaxes.
The days are long in this region; in the west, the sun would have long since set but here the sweltering heat lingers like it is still midday. He settles back, arms wrapped tightly around the bag with the few belongings he owns, the handle knotted around his wrist so no one will be able to steal it without waking him.
A leaf falls in front of him, fluttering in its descent, brown and dead. A glance upwards shows that the maple is missing a large chunk of its leaves, and though it is not surprising, the sight still saddens him. His magic is half drained from fighting and healing today, but he places his hand on the tree trunk all the same. His life spell flows from his fingertips–the same magic he uses to heal his own flesh–and the tree blooms once more, leaves growing rapidly from dilapidated stems.
Hylians, plants, they are all the same in a way; all lonely life in a dead world; all in need of healing.
He leans back and rests, but through the veil of his closed eyelids he notices a shadow loom over him, large and man-shaped. He tenses, left hand ready to flit towards his sword, but he keeps his eyes shut, hoping the facade of sleep will lure them into a false sense of security.
He wouldn’t kill a man. They are the cruellest of beasts, crueller than the Moblins or the River Zora, the Lynels or the stupid little Peahats, because unlike the so-called monsters of Hyrule, men have consciences, and to harm in spite of that is worse than anything the mindless beasts have done. But he wouldn’t kill one, because it would make him just as bad as those who steal, maim, rape, and kill.
It doesn’t mean he won’t hurt one though.
“Excuse me?”
Those words alone are enough to startle him to action, and even before he has processed what was said, he is on his feet, knife pressed to the other man’s throat.
“Woah,” the man says, his hands raised to show they are empty.
He is taller than Link, though not by as much as most, and from his close proximity pressed up against him, he sees light blond hair and clean, unweathered skin. His clothes, though worn, are too vibrant and bold for him to be commonfolk.
“You’re from the castle?” he asks, his voice hoarse and quiet. He learned speech from the wizards when he was young but truthfully he has little use for it. More beneficial are battle cries and the ugly noises he makes in the back of his throat to scare other travellers or lesser monsters.
“Yes,” says the man. “Or, I mean, sort of.”
Link presses his sword harder into his neck. It was a simple question and he doesn’t like that he didn’t get a simple answer. Castlefolk are never out to harm him despite neglecting him back then, throwing him out on his ass even after saving two of the princesses. He resents them a little, but he trusts they won’t stoop to robbing or killing him.
Commonfolk are less predictable.
“Woah, woah, I’m sorry!” the man cries as a small drop of blood trickles from beneath Link’s blade and onto his deep blue scarf. “Yes, I’m from the castle.”
Link holds his blade there for a moment before loosening his hold and slipping the sword from his throat. He steps away and holds it pointed towards the man’s chest instead.
“What do you want?”
The man rubs at the small cut on his throat. He looks a little scared—wary—but he makes no move to defend himself.
“I thought— You looked dead. I wanted to check and see if you were okay.”
Link feels a spark of anger and spits at the man’s feet. He doesn’t like liars.
“There’s nothing in my bag,” he says. Nothing of use to a Castleman anyway.
“No I— I wasn’t going to steal from you,” the man replies, stumbling over his words. “I just…” he trails off and his eyes flicker to his surroundings and back again like he’s looking for a way out, somewhere to run. “I’m looking for the hero. Do you know where I can find them?”
“There is no hero,” Link growls, thinking of the old legends and the way Hylia seemingly abandoned them somewhere along the line. “Look at this land. There is no hero.”
The man does look. He looks at the three single trees amidst the wasteland, and the makeshift buildings made of old, rotting wood. He looks at the rubbish that lines the streets, the corpses of cats and rats and dogs and the flies that swarm them. He looks across the Wasted Plains to the south, lifelessness as far as the eye can see.
“He saved the princesses,” the man continues stubbornly, fixing his hard gaze back on him. “Link is his name.”
Link almost stumbles backwards in surprise. No one ever knows his name; he thrives on being unknown.
“Who are you?” he hisses.
“My name is also Link, though you can call me Warriors.” He speaks calmly and slowly, and it is a manner of speech foreign to Link. “I am not from this world, though I also hold the triforce of courage.”
Link shifts so that his hand is covered by his sleeve, panic striking through him like lightning. The triforce is a secret he has kept close to his chest too long for a stranger to know he has it. This man can’t be anything but an agent of Ganon.
“I’m not stupid,” Link tells him. “You can’t fool me.”
The corners of the man’s—Link, or Warriors’–lips curl upwards slightly.
“You are Link then, I assume.”
Link curses, and Warriors’ smile widens.
“I’m not surprised,” Warriors says. “Fate always seems to bring us all together in the end.”
“What do you want?” He is gripping his sword hilt with a white-knuckled grip now. He is, admittedly, scared; he prides himself on his knowledge of all enemies and it makes him terrified that he doesn’t understand this one.
“I’m sorry,” Warriors tells him, all of his former stumbling gone from his words, “I haven’t gone about this the right way at all. We have food and a warm fire; would you care to join us so I can explain further?”
The longing he feels at the thought of warmth and a full stomach is traitorous and he pushes it down deep where the temptation can’t reach him. He knows better than to trust kindness freely given.
When Link doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move from his position with his blade pointed outwards, Warriors tilts his head, something unreadable in his eyes.
“I promise I’m not going to hurt you. Neither are my friends.”
“ I don’t believe you ,” Link growls through gritted teeth.
His eyes are trained to notice every movement, and though Warriors’ hands are still held up above his shoulders, he has to stop himself from flinching at every minute twitch of his fingers. He is distracted somewhat, however, when a small ball of light appears in the corner of his eye, bright despite the evening sun. Warriors notices it too, and he chuckles softly, the corners of his eyes crinkling in yet temporary crow’s feet.
“I haven’t seen a fairy here yet. I was beginning to think there weren’t any.”
To Link’s astonishment, the fairy flutters over and hangs right by Warriors’ ear, hovering there as she looks directly at Link as if to tell him ‘ Hey, look, this man is trustworthy.’
He doesn’t lower his sword, but his grip slackens, and he relaxes slightly, only now realising how taut each and every muscle in his body had been. Perhaps he was harsh to judge; ignorance is fear, and oftentimes misconception, and he usually tries his best not to be a slave to it. There are so many unknowns in the world that there comes a point where you must battle your way through it regardless.
“They don’t usually stray this far from the springs,” he says distractedly. Not many people in Hyrule get to see the fairies; they tend to hide from all but a chosen few.
Her light winks at him playfully, and he wishes he could hear her voice in this state so that perhaps she could explain who this man is and what he wants. He doesn’t like to transform these days; the dangers of the world increase tenfold when he is small, and his delicate wings can be crushed with such little force.
Her clear trust in Warriors, however, is permission enough for him to perceive him in a different light.
“You have food?” he asks uncertainly.
Warriors nods.
“Plenty.”
“I don’t have anything for you in return.”
“We don’t expect anything.”
His eyes flicker to the fairy again and she bobs up and down a little, encouraging. Finally, he lowers his sword, sheathing it by his side and telling himself he can unsheathe it at any time if things start to look hairy.
“If you try anything, I could beat you in a fight,” he warns. He doesn’t know for sure if that is true, but he has found over the years that he wins most battles he attempts to fight. His magic thrums beneath the surface of his skin, dangerous and eager to be let free.
“I don’t doubt it,” Warriors tells him easily, then turns, motioning for him to follow. Link glares at the back of his head, wondering if Warriors means the turning of his back as a threat, a way to signal that Link is so far beneath him that he need not be wary of him, need not even look at him. But with another glance at the fairy who waves a small farewell, he shoulders his bag and picks up his shoes, choosing to carry them in hand rather than suffer the discomfort of putting them back on. Perhaps there will be a place to dry them by the fire.
Warriors leads them across the outskirts of town where the buildings are most dilapidated; crumbling husks of houses, their windows long smashed in and boarded up, wood black with rot and porches piled high with waste. The stench of rotten meat hangs heavy in the air, waves of it causing Link to wrinkle his nose in disgust.
This town is one of many sores on an already hideous landscape and the buildings are far from suitable for living, yet firelight flickers from a handful of them. Their inhabitants are silent, though; there is no conversation or laughter, just utter quiet, the stifling sound of hopelessness.
The houses gradually grow sparser, and eventually they join the old road connecting this town to the next. For a stretch, the land is flat, hard, and dusty with a few odd growths of stubborn, yellowing grass dotted here and there, then the path narrows to wind through the cliffs. Link has travelled this road many times for the bluffs are riddled with monsters who hide out with the intent to pounce on unwitting travellers. His attempts to wipe them out are futile, really, as they seem to come back twice as strong even after days spent trying to slaughter them.
“Where are we going?” Link asks after a while.
“It’s not far now. About a third of a klick up here.”
Link doesn’t know what a ‘klick’ is and being kept in the dark irks him. He has no intention of revealing his ignorance to Warriors, though.
“Where are you from?” he asks instead. He has travelled just about the entirety of Hyrule and he has never heard an accent like Warriors’ before. Perhaps if he can pry more information out of him, he can figure out what he wants.
Warriors give a huff of a laugh.
“That’s a more complicated question than you might think.”
“No, it’s not,” Link grates, tired of his refusal to give straight answers.
Warriors stops in his tracks, and the movement is sudden enough to have Link reaching for his sword.
“Perhaps it would be better to explain before you meet the others,” he says, unfazed by the hand hovering over Link’s weapon hilt. He looks at Link directly in the eye. “I, along with five others, have been brought together from different times and worlds to defeat a new darkness. We are all named Link and have all held the triforce of courage at some point in our lives. I believe you are supposed to be part of our group.”
Link blinks.
“That’s impossible.”
Warriors chuckles wryly.
“I assume you haven’t had the pleasure of witnessing travel between different dimensions, then? Never experienced the joys of time manipulation?”
The absurdity of such concepts are wild to him, and again, he is struck with the fear of his own ignorance. Those words, about dimensions and time, are largely foreign to him though; more pressing on his mind is the second reference to the triforce. He holds it still, all three pieces of it, and as far as he knows he is the only one to be cursed with it for generations. Not since the last hero whose story hangs on tapestries on the barren walls of the castle.
“Show me,” he orders.
Confusion blooms on Warriors’ face, but only for a moment, then he nods and slowly flips his palm around, so the back of his hand is clear for Link to see.
“It’s faded now,” he says, and he’s right; it’s like a long-faded scar and Link has to squint to make it out, but there is no mistaking it for what it is.
“As I said,” Warriors continues, “I’m not from this time nor from this place, but I know well the weight of the responsibilities this mark inflicts. I think you do too?” He raises one eyebrow expectantly.
Link doesn’t know what makes him do it (he has always been far too impulsive and something in Warriors’ words strikes a chord with him) but he nods once, almost imperceptibly. It doesn’t escape Warriors’ notice though, and he smiles again, making Link bristle at the arrogance in it.
“I think you’ll find companionship in my friends,” Warriors tells him. “We’re an eclectic bunch, but we share a lot in common when it comes down to it.”
“If you’re from a different world, how did you get here?”
“A portal. They’re kind of intimidating to look at, but I’ve had experience with them before. I can’t say I understand how they work, but most of us have had stranger things happen to us during our adventures.”
Link lets out a noise of disgruntled affirmation. He has learned over the years to take what comes in his stride; it is better not to dwell on the why’s and the how’s —they get you nowhere.
Warriors starts down the path again, motioning for Link to follow, his scarf trailing behind him like a waterfall dispersed in the wind.
Link does follow, stewing all the while in the possibility of there being a group of people who know the burden of the triforce first-hand. ‘Companionship’ isn’t something he has ever had. The wizards that reside in the caves he takes shelter in sometimes perhaps come close; they often give him food and let him sit by their fires, but their conversation itself is cold and wary. Many of them are old enough to have known the kingdom before Ganon’s curse completely took over, when the forests still lived and food wasn’t a luxury, and there is something about watching a world die that darkens them in a way the people who grew up knowing only the wasteland can’t understand.
He has never had a family, blood-related or otherwise. He has always fended for himself and mostly been well for it, but sometimes, when he lies alone at night in the cold and the dark, he longs for one with a desperation that frightens him.
“Our camp is just around the corner,” Warriors says, breaking him from his thoughts. Sure enough, as they near one of the larger bluffs, he hears the murmur of conversation and the crackling of fire. They have made camp near the foot of the cliffs, far enough away so that any stray boulders or crumbling rocks won’t fall on their heads, but close enough that it gives some shelter from the wind. Link’s stomach gives a loud rumble at the smell of cooking meat (who knows where they got it; the clifflands are mostly deserted but for the occasional lizard and scorpion).
The people who sit around the fire are, just as Warriors had described, an eclectic bunch. In looks they are reasonably similar, with hair colour varying from blond to light brown and their skin from pale to dark tan. But their clothes are unlike any Link has ever seen; a jumbled assortment of styles with colours ranging from deep, rich reds to blues as vibrant as the midday sky itself.
As they approach, Link eyes their armour and their swords and thinks how easy it would be for them to overwhelm him, how quickly they could strike him down. His fingers once again hover by the sword on his right hip.
Once they notice Warriors and Link, the group fall silent and each one of their gazes fall on the newcomer. The attention doesn’t help Link’s anxiety. One of them, the oldest by the looks of him, decked out in golden armour and marked by an impressive scar through his left eye, stands to greet them.
“Link?” he asks, looking first at Warriors and then at him. His eye is a scrutinising deep blue.
“It’s him,” Warriors confirms, and the man smiles, holding out his hand. Link eyes it warily, confused at what he wants him to do with it. If he is asking to take his weapons from him, he is sorely mistaken.
The man’s smile falters slightly, though only for a moment, and he takes back his hand.
“I’m the hero of time,” he says. “Though everyone here shortens it to simply ‘Time.’”
Link narrows his eyes.
“You’re the hero of time?” he repeats disbelievingly. Time nods, his smile a little tighter than it had been before.
“You have heard of me?”
There are, of course, tales of the hero of time, the hero who ultimately failed to defeat Ganon and doomed Hyrule to the terrible curse. The story is vague and never the same each time it is told, but it has not been completely lost. Hyrule had always put it down to idle myth.
“Perhaps,” he mutters. If what Warriors said is true and they really have travelled through time (stranger things have happened) then the stories may be true, and this hero of time might just be the same one who condemned his world hundreds of years ago.
Time doesn’t push further, and Link is glad for it.
“Come,” Time says instead. “Sit by the fire, you look hungry.”
Fuelled utterly by his stomach, Link does as he says, sitting on the ground far enough away from the strangers as he can while still able to feel the warmth of the fire. Time and Warriors sit down on a log opposite.
“Here,” one of the others says, the one with a patchwork tunic of colours, two of which Link is fairly certain he hasn’t ever seen before. He reaches over to hand him a bowl of steaming, slightly charred meat which he sniffs warily. It smells fine, and he has long since learned how to seek out poison or sleeping agents, but he is suspicious of where it has come from.
“What is this meat?” he asks. His voice is starting to hurt from speaking so much.
“Venison,” the one with the colourful tunic says. “We had some left over from when we were in Sky’s world.” He falters. “Warriors explained the time travel thing to you, right?”
Link nods, though he is more interested to know what a venison is. There certainly aren’t any around here.
“You’re a lot calmer about it than I was,” he continues cheerily. “I’m Four, by the way. That’s Sky, Wind, Legend, and you’ve met Time and Warriors.”
As he speaks, Link commits the names to memory while picking up the steak and taking a first bite. Then all else is forgotten as he takes another, and then another. It is the best thing he has eaten for a very long time.
“Slow down,” drawls the one with a streak of colour in his hair. Legend, Four had called him. “You’ll throw it back up again if you’re not careful.”
Link promptly ignores him.
“I’m glad we finally found you, we’ve been looking for you for days!”
The exclamation comes from the one called Wind, younger than his own sixteen years, wide eyes filled with a brightness Link has rarely seen from the people of Hyrule on his travels.
“How did you find him?” asks Legend to Warriors.
“We stumbled across each other on the outskirts of the town,” he replies. “It was all luck really.”
He doesn’t mention Link’s hostility, and for that he is grateful. From what Warriors said, this group is close; who knows what they would do if they knew he had a blade to their friend’s throat not so long ago.
“Nothing about this is luck,” Time says darkly.
“Are you sure he’s the one?” the one called Sky asks quietly. He doesn’t speak with suspicion, but Link edges away from them all ever so slightly. “Fi doesn’t recognise him.”
Four shrugs nonchalantly.
“She doesn’t recognise me either, it doesn’t mean he’s not the hero.”
“He says he has the triforce,” Warriors tells them, and they seem to be appeased somewhat by that. Link still hides his right hand in the confines of his sleeve; he has learned to hide away the mark on his skin from everyone he meets lest they figure out who he is and report back to those with less than moral objectives. Though he is mostly convinced by Warriors’ story by now, they have not earned his full trust just yet.
“Have you ever used the Master Sword, Link?” Sky asks, and Link debates saying yes just in case this is some sort of test, but he doesn’t like to lie, so he shakes his head slowly. He has never heard of such a sword.
Luckily, they seem to look more interested by his answer than angry.
“What about the sword you carry?” Four asks. “Can I see it?”
Link leans backwards, grasping his sword hilt protectively. It is a nice sword, one of the only nice things he owns. He has been through everything with it and it has saved his life on countless occasions; it is more a companion than a weapon or a tool.
“I don’t have to touch it or anything,” Four amends quickly. “I could look at it from a distance.”
Link, despite every particle in his body warning him against it, can’t think of a reason why he shouldn’t, so he acquiesces, sliding it from its sheath and holding it in front of him.
“Huh,” Four states, narrowing his eyes at it discerningly. “That’s a nice sword.”
“I know,” Link agrees.
“Where did you get that?”
Link flinches at Legend’s sharp tone and Time looks at his friend disapprovingly, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“A wizard gave it to me,” Link tells him defensively.
“Woah, you’ve met a wizard?” Wind asks eagerly. “What were they like? Is your sword magic? Does it have cool powers?”
“He was kind,” he replies. “And no, but I know how to shoot fire out of it.” That is something he is endlessly proud of, and he feels his lips twitch upwards at the look on Wind’s face.
“Are you serious?! That’s so cool!”
“That sword holds no magic.” Legend looks at it like it as if suspicious of it, like it is a riddle he can’t quite decipher.
“No,” Link agrees. “The magic is my own.”
Legend looks at him sharply.
“You wield magic? Without the aid of enchanted objects?”
He nods.
“The wizards taught me that too.” He puts defensiveness in his tone, suddenly unsure. He has known people in the past who have shunned him for using magic; he knows such unkindness stems from fear, which is why he had thought these people, who have each held part of the triforce, might be different.
“There’s nothing wrong with it,” Time tells him gently, and Sky adds a quiet and affirming, “it’s impressive.”
“You can’t learn magic,” Legend counters abrasively. “You’re either born with it or you’re not.”
“I was born with it, then,” Links replies, stating the obvious. “The wizards just taught me how to use it.”
Legend doesn’t seem to have a retort for that, and with one last biting glance at Link’s sword, he stands up.
“I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”
“Don’t worry about him,” says Wind when Legend is out of earshot and aggressively unfolding a bedroll, “he’s been acting weird ever since we got here.”
“That said, it is getting late,” adds Warriors. “We should all be heading to bed soon.”
He turns to Link.
“Are you staying?”
“For the night, or for longer?” Link asks, because he suspects he means the latter.
“You have no obligation to join us,” Time tells him seriously. “I don’t know how much Warriors has explained to you, but truthfully, we know very little about the evil we have been sent to face. However, we cannot pretend it won’t be formidable, to need heroes from across Hyrule’s history to defeat it.”
“I go where I’m needed, wherever that may be,” Link tells him. “But I’m no hero.”
There is no point in pretending. They seem to have assumed he carries the title ‘hero,’ and it will not be long before they find out it is a word that has never been directed at him.
Four frowns.
“We went to the castle before, to look for you, and then to several towns and villages along the way. From what the people of this world have said, you saved two princesses, correct?”
Link nods.
“And you defeated Ganon?”
Link nods once again.
“And since then, you have been travelling all over Hyrule to the places most affected by monsters to kill them, saving the people of this world in the process?”
“Yes.”
“How, then, does that make you anything other than a hero?”
“As I said,” Link replies quietly. “I go where I’m needed. I’m just a traveller, but if I see that I can help someone or someplace, of course I do. Most would.”
He hears the doubt in those last words before he feels it.
“You really believe that?” Four asks. “Because we’ve been travelling around your world for days and not one person has offered even a morsel of kindness. We saved a mother and her child from a Moblin yesterday and we didn’t even get a ‘thank you.’ In the villages we’ve passed through, we’ve received nothing but open hostility and the people at the castle were cold and sent us away the moment they could.”
His tone gets more heated the more he speaks and there is a fire in his eyes that is reflected in most of the others’ too. This is clearly an anger they have been holding onto ever since they got here.
“No one, not one person ,” Four continues, “has painted you in a good light despite it being clear you have done nothing but sacrifice yourself to help this kingdom and the people who live here. We figured out what you have done for them through implications hidden under their scorn. So no, Link, I don’t think most would help if they could.”
It is a strange thing to have the true basis of his miserable existence laid out in front of him and spoken with all the resentment he has tried so hard to suppress. It is even stranger to have someone be angry on his behalf, to be on his side for once, and it takes all he has to be flattered rather than defend the people of his kingdom—the view he has forced upon himself over his life.
They fall silent after Four’s outburst, and the smallest Link looks a little abashed, like he hadn’t meant to lose control. Wind fidgets, though it is more sad than awkward, and Sky has a solemn look that seems to dishonour his soft features.
“It takes great strength,” Warriors says eventually, “to do what you do and receive nothing in return. I’m not sure I could do it.”
Link shakes his head, feeling an urge to explain away their compliments and their anger.
“I don’t do what I do for the people. I do it for Hyrule, so that someday the plants might grow again, and the birds will sing like they do in the stories. When that happens, maybe the people who live here won’t have to fight anymore. Maybe then they’ll have time to be kind.”
There is another silence after that, and they all look at him with expressions Link’s limited knowledge of social cues doesn’t let him decipher. It makes him uncomfortable, like he is being scrutinised and unravelled under their gazes. It makes him wonder if he said something wrong. Then Time speaks.
“Hyrule,” he says contemplatively. “After the land and the kingdom you swear to protect. I think that is a suitable nickname for you.”
And there is something very special about being given that nickname, like he is part of something. Like, finally—maybe—he has somewhere to belong.
“I’ll stay,” he decides. “And not just the night. I’ll go with you to defeat the darkness.”