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Midna is gone.
What a useless thought, for all that it does to reform the shattered mirror fragments crunching underneath the soles of his boots.
Zelda is talking, her voice mixing with the sound of the wind. Link can barely hear either anyway, over the dull roar inside his head. Moments stretch into eternity as they stand side by side.
They make it down the many stairs. He counts them all, tries not to think about paws on the same rough stone and a familiar weight on his back. He fails, mostly.
Zelda goes back to Hyrule, and Link goes back to Ordon. It’s familiar, in the way that a treasured piece of clothing from childhood is. Loved and ill-fitting. At first, he convinces himself that everything will be fine. He tends to the goats, he has dinner with Rusl and Uli. He wrangles the village kids and takes Colin fishing. He tries to escape the sensation of falling into a place from which there’s no return.
Weeks pass, all filled with the same activities and the same routine. He takes to shutting all his curtains as soon as the sun goes down, a weak barricade against his grief. There is a yawning emptiness inside of him, a hollowness that sits tightly behind his ribcage, a perfect fit in a now well-worn hole.
He knows that he’s worrying people, and he does feel sorry about that, in the limited capacity that he feels anything nowadays. When Rusl comes by to check on him, he makes an effort to smile, to tease or tell stories. He doesn’t ever mention the way that fatigue pulls on him incessantly, or that he hasn’t been up to the ranch in days.
Somehow, Link always thought that there was some sort of divine guarantee that he would be content after his adventure, like it was owed to him for his sacrifice. He understands why Midna made the decision she did, and he cannot resent her for it. But he thought that there would be something more, somehow. Some kind of relief. The idea that he has a right to happiness is a joke, but he never feels like laughing about it. He never feels like doing much of anything, these days.
Days blur together, soft and sticky like honey. It’s getting hotter, summer approaching with a gentle kind of insistence. He considers finding a new purpose, a new adventure, but every time he tries to get up he finds his limbs lax and unwilling. He wouldn’t be surprised if there’s an indent in the oak flooring in the shape of his miserable body.
It’s hard, witnessing his slow downward spiral, an aching defeat in the face of all he’s conquered, but the footing is slick and crumbles away. He’s not even trying to go anywhere anyway.
He’s lying on his bed in a strange state between sleep and wakefulness when knuckles rap on his door. He starts a little, looks around blearily. Rusl and the kids never knock, not anymore. He eyes the sword leaning in the corner, blade dull from disuse. Several moments pass, and the knocking repeats. He thinks he can hear murmurs of multiple voices beyond the thick wood.
He turns over and goes back to sleep.
The next morning arrives with the same unforgiving pace as always, and he heaves himself out of bed. What is there to do, but keep living? There is nothingness and he is making his breakfast, and his eyes prick with tears but he is doing the laundry, and he wants to scream and he is sitting, silent, on the floor.
Around noon, the knocking returns. He’s lying on the floor again today. This time, he can make out the deep voice that accompanies it.
“Link? Hello?”
There’s a hissed conversation, some muffled thumps. Did he lock the door? He doesn’t think so.
“Hey! We know you’re in there, and we need to talk to you. So quit ignoring us and answer the door.”
Another voice calls out, sharper and more insistent than the first. Link ignores them both equally. Something is stirring within him, a spark of curiosity, and he doesn’t like it. There are too many other emotions tangled up with it, things he can’t face right now. He’s gotten rather comfortable where he is.
A third voice joins the other two, softer. “That’s it, we’re going in anyway. What if something terrible happened, or he needs our help? Wind, do you have your lockpick? It shouldn’t be too - oh.”
The door creaks open, a pale stripe of sunlight cutting across the darkened room. Link squints a little and pushes himself up onto his hands. His eyes dart to the sword once more, but the voices don’t sound particularly violent, so he leaves it. For now.
A face peeks into the room, all soft blue eyes and features that look almost startlingly like his own. Their eyes meet, and the door is quickly pushed open the rest of the way, more people spilling through the entrance. Some of them are more on guard than others, a mixture of shrewd distrust and charged concern.
There are eight of them in total, ranging in ages, and he feels a thrum of panic at the number and their weaponry, but he pushes it back down until it sinks back into the void inside of him.
They’re studying his home, studying him. He knows what they see: the rumpled clothing littering the floor, the scattered potion bottles, the tightly drawn curtains. He hates the pity in their eyes.
None of them seem to know what to say until a boy with a lobster on his tunic peers closer and says, “Alright there? Why’re you on the floor?”
Link frowns at him, and he knows he should be wildly more concerned with these people bursting into his house, worried about what they’re doing in Ordon at all, but he doesn’t care as long as they continue to not pose a threat to the village. If anything, it’s a welcome distraction.
Right, he was supposed to be answering a question.
“I’m fine,” he replies, ignoring the way his voice is made of rust and grit. “Who are you, and why are you in my house?”
They seem to be already getting in the habit of ignoring each other’s questions, since a boy with brown curly hair steps forward and says, “You are Link, right? We asked around in town and they said you would be here, and this house is pretty recognizable and so are you, but it’s probably for the best that -” His breathless rambling is cut off with a gentle hand on his shoulder from the oldest among them, who watches Link with something heavy, something knowing. Link bristles.
“We apologize for coming in uninvited,” he begins, his one-eyed gaze never leaving Link. “But we need to speak with you. Do you want…would you be willing to hear us out? I know this might not be the best time for you, but I’m afraid it really can’t wait.”
What can it hurt, at this point? There is nothing else but the waiting and the aching and the consuming grief.
The group is flitting around his house by now, like they can’t help themselves. One of them, short with a multicolored tunic, is nudging an empty bottle with the toe of his boot. Another with a red tunic and a pink streak in his hair is holding a curtain between his fingers and glaring at it like it had wronged him personally.
“The complete absence of the sun can’t be helping this whole situation,” he grumbles, moving to pull the curtain back.
“Legend,” the one with the curly hair hisses, batting his hand away.
Link finds himself agreeing to hear the man out, and he sits and listens as the man tells their tale. He speaks of timelines, and portals, and black-blooded beasts.
Maybe in a different life, one where Link had never known the impossibilities beyond the world he knew as his own, he would have scoffed and turned them away. But that was before he could draw Twili symbols in the dirt by memory, before he knew that the world had more to offer than Ordon. He accepts the tale in numb silence, a creeping sense of dread seeping past the barriers he’d built as he realizes where they’re going with this.
How could he anticipate anything else?
The one with the blue scarf crouches next to him, close but not touching. His face is mostly impassive, but Link can read the pinch of concern between his brows. He realizes that he hasn’t actually responded to anything the one-eyed man had said.
“Are you alright? You look really pale. When was the last time you ate something?”
Huh. He doesn’t really remember the last time he ate anything substantial. His kitchen is a few paces from his bed. Immediately accessible; entirely out of reach. He just stares at the strange intruder instead of answering.
The boy with the lobster tunic is poking around like the rest of them, and he’s reaching for a small box with swirling designs on the outside. Something she gave to him.
“No!” he cries, surging to his feet. He’s immediately hit with a wave of dizziness, static pushing out every thought in his brain. He sways. Black spots fill his vision with viscous efficiency, and his legs buckle, muscles trembling and disoriented.
Blue-scarf is suddenly in front of him, gripping his elbows and lowering him to the floor. He holds on for just a touch longer than he has to before kneeling in front of him.
“Wind, do not touch anything. You know better than that,” the man barks at the boy, even as he’s gesturing over another of their group. The rest of them inch closer together like a herd of startled goats, moving away from walls and precious possessions.
Link is still blinking the spots out of his vision, trying to breathe past the swooping sensation of weakness and chill. He’s gasping a little, staring at the box still sitting untouched on his table.
“Are you injured anywhere?” Blue-scarf’s voice is quieter now, serious but not demanding. Link manages to shake his head. It’s getting harder to push away the knot of emotions in his chest.
They don’t let him get up until he’s eaten an apple, courtesy of the boy he’d brought over, with long hair and piercing blue eyes. It tastes like ash in his mouth, but he eats it anyway.
The man with a white cape around his shoulders, the one who had initially opened Link’s door, approaches next.
“You’ll feel better,” he promises softly, pushing a waterskin into Link’s hands. He drinks.
They sit quietly for a while, half of the group sneaking back outside, though whether out of boredom or discomfort, he isn’t sure. He appreciates the space all the same.
The one-eyed man comes over again. He looks upset - Link doesn’t know why.
“We expect the next portal to come soon, so we need to get moving. I hope it doesn’t come as a shock to you that we’re hoping you’ll join us on our quest. I wish we could even truly give you the option to refuse, but Hylia will find a way to make you comply.” He says the last part with a hint of bitterness.
“Will you join us?”
Hesitation sits heavy in his chest, reluctance that stems mostly from the fatigue threatening to drown him. It sounds like a lot of work, helping save Hyrule again. Getting off the floor.
“I don’…know. Maybe.”
“If you come with us now, the portal transition will be a lot easier, and we can help you through it. We can help you. Ok?”
“Ok.”
He feels nothing. He is nothing. He is Arbiter sand in an empty room, sifting downdowndown.
He pulls together a few meager possessions - his traveling pack, his winter pelt that he wears no matter the season, his blunt and likely useless sword. The group is waiting outside for him; he can hear their chattering and laughter.
He closes his door, and he wishes it felt like hope, but it mostly feels like weariness.
A month passes, and Link - now Twilight - starts to understand his place among these heroes.
He keeps the shadow crystal hidden, but he can’t deny the comfort he gets from feeling Wind or Wild draped over him in his wolf form, their fingers curled into his fur. It keeps her closer to him.
The burn in his muscles from battle feels good after so long going unused, his feet slowly remembering the practiced dancing that is battle. Warriors and Legend both corral him into sparring with them often, citing that they need to practice. They’re mercifully silent when it’s Twilight who always ends up with his hands on his knees, panting and trying to focus.
He’s forced into routine and action. Wild makes it his personal mission to ensure he’s fed, gives him snacks or fruit when he can’t bring himself to eat anything else. The relentless pace they travel at is hard for him to keep up with, and his boots feel like they weigh a thousand pounds, begging him to lie down. He ends up keeping company with Sky at the back of their group, and his steady presence is a gentle balm. They don’t always talk, but sometimes they do, and he starts to untangle some of the knotted mess around his heart.
“I jus’...get so sad,” he whispers one day, the admission torn from a throat raw with emotion and a heart raw with hurt. “N’ there’s not even a good reason, not anymore, after all this time…but it feels like I’m drowning and I’m too tired to even float, n’ I just lie there…”
Sky nods, his expression mirroring the grief and despair Twilight knows is on his own.
“I know,” he says quietly, and Twilight knows he does. He would be surprised if every hero in their party didn’t know.
“I think,” he continues, pulling Twilight into a gentle side hug, “that you just have to take things day by day. And do the best you can that day, and then do the best you can the next day. Even if you don’t think your best is very good. And sometimes…you just have to keep holding on. No matter how hard it gets, you just keep going.”
His eyes are bright in their intensity.
“I don’t have all the answers. I don’t think anybody has the answers. But I’m here for you, okay? That’s what matters. That I’m here and I’m holding you and you’re going to make it to tomorrow.”
Twilight closes his eyes briefly, can feel tears tracking slow and sorrowful paths down his cheeks. He leans further into the hug.
“Thanks,” he whispers, and he means it.