Chapter Text
“Man shouldn’t be able to see his own face – there’s nothing more sinister. Nature gave him the gift of not being able to see it, and of not being able to stare into his own eyes.
Only in the water of rivers and ponds could he look at his face. And the very posture he had to assume was symbolic. He had to bend over, stoop down, to commit the ignominy of beholding himself.
The inventor of the mirror poisoned the human heart.”
― Fernando Pessoa
Link
When he opens his eyes, the first thing he notices is the dampness on his skin.
His teeth grind from the chill and his muscles tighten over bones that seem to ache from deep within. Everything feels too close to his body, forming together into an overwhelming discomfort. The blue light of the room seeps into him as his mind whirls while he blinks the blur from his eyes. His hair drips cloyingly down his back, grown to his waist and sticking to his bare skin. Getting up, he feels unsteady as he walks to the strange pedestal glowing ominously and he flinches when he hears a voice tell him to take what she calls a Sheikah Slate.
The feminine voice is gentle and calming, and he tries to form his mouth around the words she tells him. His tongue feels like…like a sweet, sticky substance he can’t quite remember has glued it to the roof of his mouth.
Honey. He’s thinking of honey…made by buzzing bees, the comb gleaming golden in the sunshine.
His head aches.
Arms tremble as he dons the clothes that rest inside an ancient chest, moth holes cutting through the fabric and leaving him susceptible to chill. The trousers don’t quite reach his ankles. He wonders who they were for, if not him. His entire body shudders as he walks through a deep puddle of water to then climb a cragged rock, and while his muscles immediately scream at him for his effort, he knows immediately that he is skilled at this…was. His fingers remember a grip his mind has forgotten, and his shoes scrabble at rough stone as he climbs, hauling his tired body over the edge with a winded grunt. He kneels then, breathing deeply. He looks up.
The sunshine reaching into the cavern he has crawled out of warms him to his core. He hadn’t noticed how far the cold had settled into his bones. He unclenches his jaw for the first time as he walks forward into the light, his hands stinging just a little from the climb—he lacks the callouses he would do well to have. He notices himself swaying with the wind that brushes through the grass as he exits the mouth of his resting place, a precipice calling to him off in the distance that seems to stretch into nothing but blue sky. The soft give of the earth feels foreign beneath him as grass crunches under his soles, and the desire to take off his shoes to sink his toes into the ground is almost overwhelming.
But something pulls him forward, until the world is sprawling before him. His chest goes tight as he looks out across the land, a sort of tugging behind his ribs persistently whispering that he should know this place.
She called him Link. This is his name.
Why doesn’t he remember his name?
His confusion is short lived as a few steps down a set of carved stairs brings him to an alcove that shelters an old man who talks to him with an uncomfortable sort of familiarity. He says they have never met. For some reason Link feels this to be untrue.
Time becomes disjointed as the woman guides him to yet another pedestal upon a tower that bursts forth from the ground in a terrifying display of violence and force. For a moment after it is done, he cannot breathe. He lies flat against the smooth surface until his vision clears and he can look out over the carved edge, over the plains and hills.
She tells him he has been asleep for one hundred years.
His fingertips go numb as he sees the curling, reaching monstrosity that materializes as if out of thin air, the great form of a boar’s maw snarling with its sharpened tusks to pierce the sky. He thinks this should feel something other than fear at this. The knowing doesn’t make it true.
Climbing down is harrowing with his body feeling so weak, but he succeeds. The relief that washes over him when his feet touch the earth once more is momentous.
He is hardly given a moment to breathe.
His tongue still sticks uncomfortably when the old man tells him of the trials he must complete, and his knees threaten to fold as he then climbs over walls and cliffs and fells trees for their warmth in the bitter snow. He does not sleep. He eats, though his stomach ties in knots. He quickly learns what foods serve him best, boosting his lacking strength even as he wonders if he knew all of this before only to begin again as an infant would from the womb.
Cryonis, stasis, magnesis. He practices their names quietly behind closed lips as he makes his way to the ruins the old man had called the Temple of Time. The grass is softer here beneath the crumbling ceiling, moss coating forgotten stone. The statue of the Goddess looms over him and he feels empty, the new sting of shame curling around his shoulders and bowing his head low as he approaches to offer proof of his ability to her. She asks what he wants and he finds all he would ask for is sleep—but he would never dare. He has slept for long enough.
He learns the old man is instead a king who calls for him to pick up his quest where he dropped it, lying at the feet of the king’s daughter where Link failed her. He learns her name. Zelda. The ghost’s otherworldly eyes are kind but Link hears the disappointment behind his plea and so Link believes what he says. Though Link still has not let slip a single word, he nods—of course he will do this, he doesn’t have anything more pressing. There is a prophecy that came long before him. It doesn’t matter whether he thinks it true or not.
His shoulders burn beneath the onslaught of his body being carried by the wind for the first time as he jumps to what feels like his death, or his rebirth, and upon landing he acquires his first sword. Within the ruins of the long-dead, he kills his first enemy. He doesn’t think these creatures know what or who they follow, but they stand in his way and so he cuts them down. He feels nothing at all about it.
On his way to Kakariko village a man asks him to not throw away his life so casually as he crosses a bridge that has seen better days and Link doesn’t understand. Does this man not know how much was given so that Link may live? What their princess has succumbed to so that the world may continue on? Link is bludgeoned for the first time with the thought that perhaps his waking was a mistake. His task seems insurmountable and the world has continued on in his absence. A thought nags at him, dark and incomprehensible, though fleeting. He chooses not to worry about it. He hardly knows up from down himself, after all.
He keeps walking.
Another tower and three shrines. He sees the blue and orange of them glowing brightly in his exhausted leave of consciousness that finally overcomes him against his will. His slumber brings nightmares he does not understand and he knows then that this will be the way of it; moving until he absolutely cannot anymore and falling where he may. It seems the correct course of action even when he comes upon a stable with soft-looking beds and cheerful people. He doesn’t mean to recoil from them, but even so, he can’t help it.
There is a young woman here who finds him interesting, and when she sits across from him around the fire and he does not speak, she shows him how with his hands. He is a quick learner. She is kind, and as soon as he knows how to thank her, he does. She tells him he is handsome and that his hair is striking. He cannot help how his stomach curdles, and he cannot look at her again. He leaves at dawn.
By the time he sees the carved posts that herald Kakariko village, Link’s body does not feel right. He sways dangerously atop his saddle and his legs ache. His hair is tangled to an unknown degree and he is cold—he isn’t sure he has felt warm in all this time.
When he sees the main house, knowing somewhere within his heart that this is where the first leg of his quest ends—this is where he will find the woman he was tasked to locate. Impa was her name—he hardly registers the suspicion in the guards’ eyes before the world is fading and he is falling. His shoulder connects with the ground painfully and he only hears himself let out a small cry of pain before everything sinks into blessed, perfect blackness.
He goes happily, the first of his tasks completed.
Impa
When they bring the boy to her, Impa doesn’t bother containing her shock.
With steady hands, she directs the guard to lay Link down on the soft surface of one of the extra beds within the sprawling halls of the estate. Once she has asked that they bring her warm water and rags, she stares for what feels like a long time. The boy is sunburned and yet pale, his breaths deep from exhaustion. She places thin fingers at his wrist and his pulse races beneath chilled skin. It has rained the past number of days and the nights have been cold; he is not dressed for it in the slightest.
“Paya, bring blankets and fresh clothing,” Impa calls, knowing the girl’s curiosity will bring her close by. Flashes of Link’s past self and his well-appointed outfits lie in stark opposition to the visage he presents now. This child looks helpless, frail. His past self appeared competent even from afar, his shoulders squared and head held high—were he conscious, Impa suspects this current Link would cower. Her confusion and anger are close at hand at the sight of him, though not toward him. This boy she has been presented with is not prepared, that much is certain, and so the fault must lie with her, at least partially. She is not the only one tasked with supporting the Legend of old, though it seems she has been called upon first. She has much work ahead of her. She will accept it with grace.
They dress him in clean clothes and wipe his skin of sweat and grime. He will need to bathe, and the hot springs will do wonders for his body, but rest is of the utmost importance for now. Turning his head, they begin on the length of his hair, detangling it and removing the detritus that traveling in the wilds brings with it—sticks and leaves and clumps of dirt. How could the boy not care enough to take simple responsibility for this, Impa wonders aloud. Paya shifts her eyes away, unwilling to answer as she blushes and so they continue in silence. Impa tries to avoid the memories that have begun to flood back with seeing the boy again—her own youth brought to mind—but finds herself mostly unsuccessful. She thinks of him, newly appointed as a Royal Knight with a sword at his back and her stomach dips painfully. Impa has been fortunate enough for her body to grow old and her mind to strengthen with the passage of time.
Link has been robbed of one hundred years. The grief of such a thing will be hard to put into words for one as quiet as he.
She sighs.
Placing his hair into a manageable bun atop his head, she looks deeply at his face. She can’t remember him ever looking so young and she feels suddenly out of space and time as if they are within a separate world of their own, where minutes are days and eternity comes swift. With a whisper of a touch, she runs her fingers along his brow. She will smear a paste made of Hyrule herbs and chillshroom on his skin to combat the redness in a moment. For now, she simply stays close—he has been alone for long enough.
She informs the village of who has come to them and why, though they suspect all on their own. They have awaited his return for as long as any of them have been alive, their purpose passed down by generation.
Impa watches over The Hero of Hyrule.
When he wakes, they will have much to talk about.