Archive of Our Own ^beta

It was a mistake; he shouldn’t have agreed with her so obediently. 

He should have talked her out of sending him back. He should have begged her to let him stay. Or, goddesses, he should have stolen the Ocarina from her hands, making her chase after him to the end of time. It didn’t matter what he needed to do; he shouldn’t have let her send him back to seven years ago.

“Now, go home, Link. Regain your lost time!” Zelda had said. “Home… where you’re supposed to be… the way you’re supposed to be.”

But that’s the funny thing, isn’t it? 

Was this not his home? Where he had grown into who he was now, the place he had helped reclaim from Ganon’s hands. 

Was this not the way he was supposed to be? A warrior, a fighter, a soldier, a boy fighting for his kingdom? 

He had fought so hard to reach her, and now she said this was wrong: he wasn’t supposed to be here; he wasn’t supposed to be like this. 

Then what was he supposed to be? Was he supposed to be the young boy who had never left the woods and believed he was something he wasn’t? Was he supposed to be the only Kokiri—which he isn’t even that—who doesn’t have a fairy? Was he supposed to be the boy in a green tunic who was always the odd one out? Was that the way he was supposed to be?

What about his home? Where was his home? Was it in the Kokiri Forest where he was constantly reminded of being an outsider? Was it when his prime concern was the fact he didn’t have a fairy and not how much closer he was to defeating Ganon? Was his home the place where he felt the most alone and abandoned? Was that where he was supposed to be?

Link didn’t know, and he wished he didn’t have to think about it. Except he couldn’t do that now; he was already there, seven years in the past, at the beginning of it all. The friends he had made along the way never knew him. Zelda never knew him. His time spent chasing after a demon with the Blade of Evil’s Bane had gone up in smoke the moment her lips touched the Ocarina, weaving time itself to swallow his adult self and spit him out in the past, in an already unfamiliar child’s body.

Link left the forest shortly after his return, charting a course for Hyrule Castle to convince the king of Ganondorf’s wickedness and Zelda’s prophecy; and maybe to meet Zelda again. What he didn’t expect was the twinkle of unfamiliarity reflected in her eyes when she saw him. And how much it hurt him to see her fail to recognise him as more than the boy she saw in her dreams.

Link had tried to coerce Zelda to remember. Detailing the future she saw in her dreams with what he experienced, hoping that it would make her remember— know the future. Know him . But her powers could only do so much; all she received were vague fragments of a future that wouldn’t happen. Hope plummeted to the pit of his stomach. 

It took him a month, before he could so,mewhat face Zelda. A time spent in agony over having to reintegrate himself anew, of hurting over losing what he once had in his hands, of knowing how she would look at him and only half-recognise him—never whole, never the same way she did seven years in the future. An ashy thing that tasted like fury seared his tongue. 

Still, Link wanted to give it a chance. To try to fit himself into a timeline far different from his old one. He’d talk to other children his age (ten years old) and sneak his way into Zelda’s garden to play like what the young him did the first time. 

It ended far sooner than he expected. Though, thinking back, Link should have seen it coming. How was he supposed to blend in with other children when it was all a lie? He was as much an impostor among them as he was among the Kokiri. He may look the same as them, but they knew all too well he was different in a way that matters. His mind was too mature, too broken by seven yeaat coiled on a spool wound tight. Any connection he tried to build couldn’t bridge the abysmal gap between their lives.

Not even with Zelda, as she gazed at him with wide blue eyes full of confusion when he entered a topic too deep. The bridge built between them was no sturdier than one made of rope; thin, unsteady, and having a large possibility of snapping. And maybe, it just took him too long to realise that despite her wisdom, Zelda was a child . She was something he couldn’t be—not any more. That child died in the realm of time supposedly a month ago (if he let history repeat if he selfishly let the nagging something pull that sword off its podium for a taste of familiarity, but he didn’t ).

So, one morning, Link told her of his plan to find a fairy he would probably never reunite with and took off, a familiar smooth blue Ocarina in his hands and a letter penned with her signature for his return in his pocket.

Link stared at his arms. Some time had passed since that day. He had grown taller now, limbs longer, but his arms were still not the same length as his adult self. Still growing, almost there but not quite, something incomplete. Time moves painfully slowly when one lacks purpose or a means to control it. He lost track of it around a year ago (or two), not bothering to remember the passage of time other than the changing seasons in front of him. 

He couldn’t remember his age anymore, jumping between ten and seventeen despite knowing both were wrong, knowing he was in between, but not accepting it. It was why he isolated himself in a little cottage in the depths of the Lost Woods, at the border between Hyrule and Faron. The beasts and monsters in the woods couldn’t care less about his age or how he acted older than he should. And if he were to flinch and draw a weapon at every hint of movement beyond his vision, that was merely well-placed caution. Only a dead man could have their guard down while surrounded by uncertainties.

“Heroes aren’t needed during peacetime,” Zelda had told him. 

But wasn’t the past also peacetime? What difference does it make to send him back, other than reverting his body to a child’s? 

One thing was for sure, it certainly hindered him. Everything fit wrong: his legs were too short, his hands weren’t big enough, his voice too young, and myriads of other things he found mismatched, like puzzle pieces on a too-big frame. Not enough, never reaching.

As the sun dipped into the horizon, Link chopped some firewood and occasionally relented to Epona’s pleas for a snack. His inventory was waning, he noticed, but the branches near his cottage were far from suitable to warm him and Epona up for the coming winter, judging by the crisp air. Link sighed. He would have to visit town soon. Dread filled his belly while a speck of anticipation budded in his heart. He couldn’t tell which he preferred. Both spiralled into a headache, anyway. 

Sometimes, when he was in the nearest town stocking up on supplies, he would hear rumours about the princess. They’d talk about how she had flourished into a fine woman, about how proficient she was at politics, and—the ones he dreaded the most—about who her next suitor would be. Each time he heard it, the letter she wrote for him burned in his pocket, still tucked as neatly as the day he received it. 

The last time Link had set foot on the cobblestones of the castle—courtesy of that letter—was to return the Ocarina Zelda had lent him. She had greeted him and invited him for tea in her garden. He had had no reason to reject it. So, the maids had set up a table, matching chairs, an umbrella, and an assortment of tea cakes in the garden that afternoon. Zelda had been pouring him tea when she’d asked him how he’d been. He’d told her he was the same. She had caught the implications more than he’d thought she would.

( “I’m leaving again. Tomorrow,” Link announced, eyeing a tea cake before plucking it from its stand.

There was a stutter in her movement; the slightest clink between ceramics as she poured herself a cup of tea. She filled it to the brim.

“Is that so?” she hummed.

He munched on the powdered snack, its buttery sweetness invading his tongue with a fierceness he hadn’t experienced. Link scrunched his nose a bit. It didn’t fit him. He was more used to something bitter, like potions or the metallic taste of blood rolling between his gums.

“Do you have a destination in mind?” Zelda asked, inhaling the scent of the tea.

“Not yet.” He breathed in the tea’s aroma as well. It smelled of burning. It smelled familiar.

“I came to return the Ocarina of Time,” he said, reaching for the instrument sitting comfortably in his pocket. He tuned out the sharp pierce of his heart regarding the prospect. 

Zelda brought her cup to her lips. 

“It’s alright. You can hold on to it.” She took a sip of tea.

Link’s hand froze mid-reach; he stared at her incredulously. 

“Why?”

“You need it far more than the kingdom does.” She set her cup down with finality, an all-knowing smile playing on her lips. It reminded Link of the Zelda he knew.

Link’s hand fell limp to his side. The tension he had ignored was seeping out of his shoulders. He knew how he actually felt about handing over the Ocarina. It was the one anchor that made the memory of his adventures less of a dream and more of an erased reality. It was wrong how he couldn’t leave it out of his sight, Link understood that. How not spotting the instrument in his sight would elicit panic and how he was already toeing the line of paranoia. But he found that to be better than having nothing at all.

“Alright,” he sighed more with relief than exasperation.

Zelda, who seemed content with his pliancy, took a sip of her tea. Her lips ghosted a grin that could only be classified as triumphant. He wanted to laugh at her childishness—a part he knew the Zelda of the future had left—the divergence between his two worlds drawing attention to itself at that moment. But something stopped him, stealing the breath from his throat and leaving him dry with a mouthful of ash. 

So, instead, Link took his cup to his mouth, saw his nearly unfamiliar face reflected on it, and drank. It tasted the same as it smelled. For once, he relaxed into familiarity, wrapping himself in it as much as he could; trying to drown in it even as he felt himself resurface to reality when the taste left his mouth.

As he continued to drink, tasting the bitterness he was so deeply acquainted with, he realised the thing clogging his throat was that same fury that once seared his tongue. 

Link asked for another serving of tea.)

It was different now. He had no rhyme or reason to set foot on the castle grounds to meet her. Not when he couldn’t even tell her where he would go or when he would return. The Ocarina of Time and her letter would never leave his side—she wouldn’t let it. An invisible rope she had tied to keep him from running blindly off the face of the earth. To keep him from wiping his existence from memory like she knew he would— like he knew he would .

They were a collar, a bond wrapped around his neck to keep him grounded. He should feel mad, enraged by how she was trying to keep him tethered like an animal. Instead, he clung to that thought almost desperately. He cradled it to his chest, close to his heart, reinforcing the rope’s hold as if it would breathe meaning into his life. To be held in place means to be wanted; you wouldn’t put a collar on an animal you didn’t want to keep. And he found he had no qualms about being chained in her palm.

However, wherever assurance lay, there would always be the fear of losing it. It was one of the reasons Link couldn’t bring himself to return. The Ocarina and the letter were the only things leashing him to her endlessly. If he were to return, he would have to surrender the Ocarina to the kingdom, while the letter was easily dismissible with a single word whenever she wished. There would be nothing tangible keeping him in her grasp should she grow bored with him, and the thought terrified him greatly.

So, he ran. He ran after magic, and monsters, and anything that could give him a semblance of a reason to keep his collar. As Zelda had said the first time he had tried to return it, “ You need it far more than the kingdom does, ” and Link intended to. Another monster to slay meant another day to keep the Ocarina, another magic to learn meant another week of the letter’s validity, and another danger to the country meant he could keep both longer in his possession indefinitely.

That wasn’t the only reason, though. Link wanted to test her. He wanted to see how long this pointless game—which they both knew he was playing—would last. He’d run around searching for an outlet for his surplus of adrenaline and extra vigilant observations, and she’d forget his existence until he had the sense to visit for a cup of bitter tea. Until finally, her patience would wear thin. She’d demand the Ocarina back and revoke his pass. Or maybe forget about him entirely and flag the Ocarina of Time as missing. Both were plausible. All because he was a coward —funny how contradictory it was to his supposed namesake—who couldn’t turn to face the present after living in a non-existent future. 

So, there he was, playing a fool’s game of dashing away from the post she had tied his leash to and seeing how much longer until she decided he wasn’t worth it and cut him loose. If curiosity killed the cat, then Link had been dead ever since his legs took him away after that tea party, with the Ocarina snugly resting in his pocket. And unlike the cat, he doubted satisfaction would bring him back.

Link glanced between Epona and the sorry excuse of storage he called a shed and decided they could survive the winter without a trip to town just fine. He pretended not to notice how he hadn’t visited her for more than a year (at the least). As he chopped more wood, the air bit his skin harsher. 

It was snowing when Zelda paid him a visit. The seasons had changed three ( Six? Twelve?) times. Not once in that timeframe had Link set foot anywhere near Castletown. After the first time he decided not to visit, a new game was born—a sequel to the first. He wanted to see how far he could get away with it. Testing the length of his rope with time as his distance. Waiting just how much further he could sprint before she pulled on his leash. Or have it cut altogether. Link expected both indiscriminately.

She had stepped into the woods dauntlessly, a dark purple cloak draped over her features and a well-groomed mare at her side. Whilst Link was painting the snow on his porch crimson with the blood pouring out of a fresh cut on his flank. Perhaps the fates were trying to communicate something, not that Link could try to figure it out with how much blood he’s losing. Which brought him back to his earlier predicament: the blood.

“Well,” the sound left his mouth before he could think about it, “if I had known beforehand, I would have presented myself better.”

That seemed to prompt Zelda to move. She dashed to his injured side, pushing back the hood of her cloak to assess his wounds. Link stared mutely. His vision skittered with stars and the occasional white flashes when he leaned wrong on the gaping hole in his body. She was saying something, her lips moving in frantic motions, but everything was muffled by the snow wedged in his ears and the distant crackle from somewhere. Thus, Link continued to stare. 

Suddenly, Link felt himself hoisted up and away from the snow. But he didn’t want that. The snow cooled the shots of pain burning in his abdomen. Link tried to struggle against his captor. He tugged himself away, hoping to fall back into the embrace of the red-tinted snow that was equal parts cool and warm like the edges of spring wading to summer. But the hold on him was firm, and what little strength he had left was no match against it. Link was limply hauled inside his house.

A quick glance over his shoulder reminded him that Zelda had visited him and that she was his captor. The trudge to his front door with him saddled to her side took far longer than he wished. Or maybe the blood loss was messing with his perception of time. (Not that it wasn’t already screwed a couple of years ago anyway.)

Reaching his porch, Link saw that his door was gone. Odd. He could’ve sworn he had a door. 

Wait… 

Right. He broke it the last time he had to hurriedly apply first-aid for a burn on his arm. He hadn’t fixed it yet.

Link shivered from the breath Zelda let out touching his skin. She was saying something again, a bit clearer now. Her voice carried notes of furious exasperation, but her words wouldn’t take shape no matter how hard he tried to comprehend them in his mind. Instead, Link leaned into her hold; Zelda’s grip tightened.

She laid him on his worn-down cot and set about rummaging through his cupboards.

“Far left,” said Link.

Zelda complied, cranking open the broken wood to reveal sloppy rolls of bandages and half-full bottles of potions. She glanced at his mess and gave him a look. Link sheepishly grinned.

“You ought to care for yourself better than this.” This time, Link heard her well.

“I’m still alive,” he stated, like it’s a valid argument.

Zelda huffed a breath, the air emerging as ribbons of white. It made him think of the rolls of bandages in his cupboard: loosely wrapped and tangled. She tended to his cut with precision he thought was lost to another time, and before he knew it, his wound was properly dressed. Why did she take the time to learn to dress wounds in times of peace? Was there a battle going on while he was gone? What enemy had forced their hand to have the princess join the soldiers’ ranks?

“Link,” Zelda called. “What’s on your mind?”

“What’s happening in Hyrule?”

She shrugged. “Nothing much. The winter has brought a shortage of food as it always does, and provisions to give away are dwindling due to unfaltering nobles, but estimations are it would still last ‘till spring.”

Link nodded slowly. The real question itching to be free lodged in his throat. As if sensing his distress, she added, “Other than that, Hyrule is flourishing in its time of peace.”

“That’s good,” he said on a sigh. But then , he thought, why would she learn a skill rarely used?

“Link.” Her hand clasped his. “I have something to say.”

Well, wasn’t this the end of his game? She had finally grown bored with his cowardice and was here to collect.

“Link, I—” She sucked in a breath. “I remember.”

Oh. He didn’t expect that. Maybe this was a fever dream from his wound.

“The battle against Ganon, Hyrule’s state, your bravery, I remember it all.”

“Why?” Just when he had made peace. Just when he had let go that glimmer of hope in a ghost long gone. “Why now?”

Zelda shook her head. “I don’t know as well. All of a sudden, I had a long dream, and then I remembered.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

“Yes, I searched for you the moment I awoke.”

Link hummed non-committally. He could feel the questions surfacing on the forefront of his mind: Why now? Do you truly remember me? Do you miss me? Is it the memories, or is it your own will? 

But in his mouth there’s only ash, harsh and tasted of fury.

“Link,” she put her hand on his, “we need to talk.”

Through the ash and derision, he managed out, “About what?”

“Us.” The squeeze she gave his hand was the snare clamping him down. And like the helpless animal he was, he complied.

Link leaned against the wall. Zelda had propped him up to tend to his less pressing injuries. After she was done with that, she insisted he warm up and pillaged his cottage for a pot to boil water.

“I brought tea,” Zelda said over the bubbling water.

“The extra bitter one?”

“Would you have drunk any other kind?”

He smiled over that one. “I suppose not.”

“Then, luckily for us, it is.”

Zelda moved the pot from the fire and over the counter. “Where are your cups?”

The silence Link filled the room with was answer enough. Zelda gave the slightest shake of her head. “I brought some travel cups we can use.”

“Thank you.”

She waved him off, her other hand going through her pack for the cups. With the cups set, she dug out the tea leaves and portioned them into the cups before pouring the water.

“They’re subpar to the ones in the palace,” she said as she brought them over, “but it’ll warm you up nonetheless.”

Zelda handed him the cup. The warmth prickled his near-frostbitten fingers, but the sensation was distant—almost corporeal, the reverse of phantom pain. As if his time spent living as a phantom had changed him into one. Maybe it did , was the thought he let slip from his subconscious.

Link took a sip of the tea. Zelda wasn’t being modest when she said it was subpar. It tasted like one would expect tea without the refineries. It tasted of the burnt remains of a forest fire; of seven years coiled on a spool with the ends wearing thin. It tasted of the home he lost.

They sat in silence. Link could feel Zelda looking for that gap, the moment between breaths and sips of tea suitable to dig up something long buried. He could hand her the opportunity, create the gap for her, but something selfish in him held the question in place. For once, he wanted to be selfish.

“How are you?” Zelda started. She had phrased it naturally, but the awkwardness still lingered.

Link indulged her a bit. “Beaten, but will survive.”

“What happened?” she asked, brows pinched.

“There were some wandering white wolfos in the forest—probably because of the winter. I miscalculated how many there were, and one jumped on me from behind.”

“...Does it happen often?”

“More than I hoped.”

She nodded, slowly. Then she took a breath. “Link… why?”

He knew what she meant, the thousands of questions underlying such a simple word. That didn’t mean he’d surrender so easily. “What do you mean?”

Zelda’s lips pulled into a deeper frown; Link tried not to let that bother him. 

“Why… are you here?” And not in Hyrule, was the unspoken addition lingering in the air.

Link shrugged, shoulders slumping from an invisible weight. “I just thought it’d be nice, the solace.”

It wasn’t a lie. He wanted that solace, the peace of solitude, to live as if he never existed in the first place.

She was thinking of what to say—or maybe what not to say—now, rearranging the words in her mind, marked by the slight purse of her lips. She hadn’t outgrown that habit, not even then.

“How long?” The question voiced itself before he realised he had opened his mouth.

“Pardon?” 

Link considered lying, considered the other questions he could toss to evade confronting the situation. But Zelda was Zelda. She’d snuff out his lie like candlelight in a blizzard. And Link had the inkling suspicion it wasn’t perception alone that allowed her to read him so openly.

“How long has it been since you’ve remembered?”

Her gaze shifted. The once gentle oceans in her eyes hardened with sternness and resolve. It perplexed him how the iciness of her stare was burning him alive.

“Four years. I spent three of it looking for you.” Zelda inched closer. “Link, why are you here? Why have you hidden yourself so deeply?”

When he gave no response, Zelda pressed further. “Why have you never returned home?”

And just like that, Link was choking on ash.

“Where is home?”

Zelda seemed taken aback by his question. Before she could reply, he continued, “Is it in the Kokiri Forest?

“Is it in Hyrule? Is it among other Hylians?” He scoffed, “Is it by your side?”

Link couldn’t stop the chuckle bubbling in his throat. It left a far bitter taste in his mouth than any tea. 

“No… you know well it’s not. I have no place among peaceful village dwellers nor thriving lands untouched by war. My home was the place I had fought for; the place I had dedicated my life to protect. My home was the place you had expelled me from.”

The cold in her eyes had long faded into something else, but Link couldn’t be bothered to decipher what it was.

“So, instead, I’d like to ask you, why did you send me back? Why did you send me away from my home? Why did you push me away ?” 

All of a sudden, he realised his vision was blurry. His eyes burned while something wet kept rolling down his cheeks. Instinctively, he tried wiping his eyes, but all that did was encourage it further.

Then, something enveloped him, pulling him down, down, down, until his cheek met the warmth of a heartbeat. 

“It’s alright, Link,” said a voice all too familiar. “It’s alright. You can cry.”

Oh . He was crying. When was the last time he cried again? The feeling was something foreign. He’d seen and comforted plenty of people who were in such a state. But to be on the other side of that situation, to be the one seeking comfort, it was a feeling he had forgotten. 

“I’m sorry, Link.” Zelda’s hold around him tightened. “I’m so sorry.”

Link gave up trying to speak when he felt a lump in his throat. Instead, he burrowed deeper, listening to the rhythmic beats of Zelda’s heart. He didn’t try to stop the tears anymore. Somehow, he felt liberated.

Zelda was talking—something about wanting him to have another chance at a childhood and how she never meant to push him away—when he called to her, “Zelda.”

“Yes?”

“Will you stay?”

Her fingertips brushed against his cheekbone, featherlight. “I will, even if you try to drive me away.”

And for now, that was enough.