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There are many ways in which Captain Link Taylor is jealous of his brothers. Most of them are small, some are petty, but perhaps the most prominent, at least at the moment, is how much he wishes he experienced the world as they do.
Out of nowhere, Legend or Twilight will pause, exchanging a glance with the other, and when asked, it’s because they caught something so far off that no one else in their party could hear, sharp ears tuned for the slightest of sounds. Just the same, sometimes Twilight or Wild will call a halt, noses sniffing away like a pair of pups as they track ahead, even while Legend’s own scrunches, usually in disgust at whatever they trail. Wind and Sky have eyesight keener than any others in their party, and from a distance can spot things long before others do. Four, in a direct contrast, is the best at noticing the minute details of what surrounds them. Hyrule knows the touch of a magical presence before even the vet, and while Time’s own senses aren’t as strong as those younger (though his sight was once startlingly keen) he still knows the nature of magic on first touch or brush to his senses.
Such gifts abound with his brothers, their senses sharp and aware, and where weak some place, they are far stronger in another. Wild’s scarring leaves his fingers unfamiliar with sensation, but by taste alone he can identify near anything of the natural world. Legend spends evenings with spectacles balanced precarious on his nose as he mends or draws, but even Wolfie isn’t so aware of the spectrum of sound that surrounds them.
He, meanwhile, has no such blessings. He's wondered, at times, if it was because he was meant for a different field as a hero than those in his current company. Where they dodge through forests and defeat dungeons, the battlefield has always been his home. And while there was a time before when he was sharper, he, not unlike a blade, has been dulled by the wear and use of his service. Cannon fire leaves his ears ringing and soft sounds unheard. Burns make sensation a stranger, and after endless waves of smoke, blood, and ichor, his nose can’t catch more than the sharpest of smells on the air any longer. His vision has always been sharp, be it to see that close or far off, but now...
Now a single mistake has taken even that.
He tries not to blame the sailor. Indeed, with better precautions, better strategy, more thought and more time taken, all this could have been avoided and the sailor still saved. But the fact remains that they’d had no such time, had no plans, and only desperate worry had driven both he and the veteran in searching for their missing youngest, uncaring of the cost.
And Wind is safe now, he’s alive and, by the telling of the infirmary keeper, only minimally wounded. A stab wound and some bruising, all quickly tended with a potion and with nothing long lasting save an ache that won’t die for a day or two. It’s hardly the worst the boy has seen, and easy to overcome. The moment his mind was still enough to ask, Holly’s reassurance of as much had been a main source of his comfort after the news that the doctors had left him with.
Blinded.
The damage too great for their skills to attend, and the best they could offer only being to dress the injury and do what they could to prevent infection. He’s not sure what he expected though. The knife of one of Wind’s captors had been aimed with purpose at once royal blue, and though the image of Legend with a blade raised to strike the man down was the last he’d seen before the world was painted black with pain; it wasn’t enough to stop the strike landing. It wasn’t enough to save his sight.
The captain takes a shuddered breath, labored though it is by the weight on his chest.
After their confrontation yesterday, and the following attempts to rectify matters between himself and the sailor, things had been a bit blurry. He remembers he’d allowed Holly to give him something to help him sleep right before Wind had burst into the room, and maybe it had taken hold somewhere after the sailor had gone to let said healer back in .
He’s not sure, but what he does know is that now, coming awake, when he moves to open his eyes and take in his surroundings, he can’t, but what he can do is feel is a weight atop of him, and the puff of breath on his collar from what he supposes must be a body.
When he brings his arms up around the other presence, he finds rough wool under his hands, and a form slighter than his own but no less strong. The weight is right for the vet, tucked somewhere between on top of and beside him, and the captain huffs something like laughter when he remembers how the other man had passed out nearly the moment Wind and he had dragged him down into an embrace.
To be fair to the vet, they’d had a long day. He’s been out all night but Legend had been searching since midnight for their missing sailor. It was past noon when they’d found him and the remains of the afternoon were spent dealing with his captors and getting the three of them all back to safety. Most everything after that is a blur of shouts, screaming, pain, hands holding down his own as Legend’s voice had shouted and strained, begging him be still and allow his injuries to be tended by men he couldn’t see and has not, in years now, trusted.
He’s not sure, in all honesty, had it been anyone else, if he would have complied.
But Legend would kill for him, no questions asked- has done so in his sight, and even with pain clouding his mind and panic at his lack of sight overtaking so much else, he’d known to trust his brother, to do his best to obey. When ringed hands had restrained him, he’d known it was for his own good. He can only imagine that his wrists must be bruised from the grip of the other, from his flailing against it, wonders if any blows dealt in panic and fear might have left similar marks on the veteran, but he can’t see them for himself.
What he knows though is that all of it had no doubt worn Legend far past weary, to the point that the moment the vet was forced to be still, he’d slipped away in but a breath and, apparently, slumbers still beside him.
Wind, in contrast, does not.
He's not sure where the lad is, but there’s no train-boiler-snoring in the room to say he’s sleeping close by, and there’s no eager questions or worrisome wonderings at his first motions upon waking.
The captain huffs into the head of hair resting just below his own.
Beyond the bed and the figure resting on it beside him, he knows next to nothing of his surroundings. There's a door somewhere on his left, beyond his feet, and if this is the room he thinks it is, a window on his right in the center of the wall, one Mask had employed for access even when forbidden by the infirmary keepers. Other than that, however, he can be sure of nothing. It irks him, has him feeling wrong footed and wary as he lays, unable to so much as sit up on his own, and reaches out with weak senses to try and determine anything about his current circumstances.
Legend is still asleep, which could indicate that all is well and safe, or simply that the man had driven himself into the ground the day before. It’s quiet beyond the huff of breath that puffs against his collar, a warmth on linen-bound skin. When he lifts a hand though to cradle close the head of his brother, long ears twitch even in slumber, an indicator that there’s something to be heard, somewhere, but which he can’t sense himself.
Beyond that though, he can’t find anything else.
No, just as before, in the pub, along the streets, and even under the care of the dreaded doctors, Legend’s his only anchor, and all else swims unknown around him.
His voice comes in rough when he summons it, and it makes his chest and throat both ache when he tries calling out. “Holly?”
Down by his legs, he feels a shift. Someone had been kind enough to them both to remove Legend’s feathered boots, and a knee drags over his own as the figure beside him curls a bit tighter at the sound of his voice, as though warding off a call to wakefulness in favor of much belated slumber.
In answer, he smooths a hand through disheveled hair, a silent apology for the noise. He’s careful to mind the ears though; he knows better than to dare, knows full well how Legend hates it, endearing as he finds the reaction from the other. Right now, in all honesty, hearing a laugh from his brother, the unbridled bray that’s so desperately hated by the vet, would be a huge comfort. Still, again, he knows better. He keeps his hand in strawberry hair and minds where he knows long ears fall flat in answer.
“Link?” There’s a stirring somewhere on his left, down past his feet. He’s not certain what to label the sounds, but he can recognize the creak of the door and the cautious step of his once-neighbor and now the only woman in all this dratted infirmary he actually trusts: Holly. Her voice comes in a sigh when next it sounds, fond but tired. “You’re awake.”
“Yes,” he sounds to the ceiling. There’s rather no point in craning his head about and straining his neck when he can’t even see her by doing so.
An ear brushes his hand, twitching briefly- irritated, he thinks, as the figure beside him curls even tighter, and there’s a tightening of the fabric of his shirt as a ringed hand, raised near level, he thinks, with Legend’s nose, curls tightly into the material.
As though sensing, or maybe seeing, the vet’s displeasure, the voice of the healer lowers, near a whisper. “How d’ya feel? Can I git ya anythin’?”
He debates that a moment. His mind spinning.
His whole body is one throbbing ache, even where warmth seeps through the blankets from the body beside his. His throat aches, so he should ask for water, or tea- would coffee be possible? Is he allowed to drink coffee right now? Does he care enough to let her refuse him on the matter? Can he even drink anything right now? Lying down it would just make a mess, but getting up means disturbing the vet, and after all he and Wind both had put the other through yesterday...
“Since y’are awake,” her voice is soft, quiet, and so he can hear the scuff of her shoes on the floor, drawing closer, he thinks, but staying near the foot of the sick-bed, “I should prob’bly check yer wounds and change them wraps.” She pauses, breath harsher a moment, and the image of her far younger, when they were kids, appears in his mind; her chewing her lip, eyes near crossed in consideration. He can’t feel the weight of her eyes though.
Legend, at his side, shifts again, the head under his hand stirring, shaking back and forth as he feels a nose rub against his collar-bone, an irritated little puff escaping. It feels hot, which means the room is colder than he realized.
Ah, the healer’s gaze isn’t on him. It’s on the vet. “I’m afraid wakin' her isn't an option."
Warriors pauses, although he doubts Holly notices his surprise. Has... has the woman thought all this time that Legend is... Gods, why does he even question these things anymore? He knows the answer. The only real question is: does he want to be the one to do something about it, or does he ignore it and move on?
Blessedly, the choice is taken from him with another huff of air as he feels the body beneath his hands shift, rolling on one side and off of him with a groan. “No need,” Legend’s voice is thick with sleep but tinged with ire, “already ‘wake.”
“Sorry,” he tries, even as the same sounds from by his feet.
There’s a rustle of the bed-covers, some motion he can neither feel nor see, and Legend huffs into the air again. He's facing upwards now, and there’s no gust of air over the captain’s open collar this time. “’s fine.” And then the bed dips slightly, somewhere in the space beside his head, and warmth lifts away from his side as the vet must push himself somewhat upright. “What time is it?”
“Late mornin’, miss.”
The vet only sighs. He doesn't correct her. Warriors decides that means he doesn't need to either. If the vet doesn't care, then he won’t either.
Another shift of the bed, the vet sitting up properly, he thinks, as the weight pressing down near his face is suddenly absent, and there’s only a small groan as, he thinks, he hears rough skin slide over softer; the vet rubbing his face perhaps? His neck? They all have that tick, and Legend does both frequently.
A snapping and cracking a second later though is easy to identify: Legend rolling his shoulders. They all know the sound, and it never gets any less concerning.
He can’t see it, but he can almost hear Holly wince. “Would ya like that looked at, miss?”
“Already have. ‘s fine.” Another series of pops, louder: the hands. “Do you want help with...” the other must make some sort of gesture, he assumes to him, in order to complete his sentence, because there’s no request for clarity from the healer and no attempt to finish the question from the vet.
”Prob’bly best,” rough shoes click closer, “he seems to perfer you- understandably!” She’s quick to add.
He’s not going to ask, and either Legend’s of the same mind, or too tired still to even turn his mind to the words. Instead, the vet is turning to him- he’s not sure how he knows but he can feel a hand settle briefly over his shoulder, warm and firm, the same as Legend’s been this whole ordeal. “Link,” because nick-names draw questions from those outside their group, “can we check your injuries?”
“Is that the best idea?” He’s not sure how much the bandages cover of his face, but he cocks a brow all the same. “You don’t handle blood very well.”
“I’ll get sick later.”
“You didn’t eat yesterday.”
“All the less to vomit,” the hand twitches, but there’s a lightness that touches Legend’s tone that says he’s quirking something like a smile.
Holly, however, seems to focus immediately on Warriors’ words. “You didn’t eat?” There’s movement from where she stands, a shift to the air; turning to face the vet?
There’s movement again, warmth drawing away completely as a scuff sounds on his right, on the floor. He’s not sure, but he thinks it’s the vet’s feet landing and finding purchase, although it’s muffled some. Is Legend wearing socks maybe? The vet hates socks in general, but boots without are... yeah... so, probably. If someone took his shoes off while he slept, they probably didn’t bother about the socks, which means it was Holly and not Wind, because Wind would have known that. At least, he thinks the sailor knows that?
Warriors frowns to himself, is that common knowledge?
Unknowing of his thoughts, Legend answers the healer’s query. “We were looking for Tune,” he’s quick to adapt to the name she’ll know, “and after that we came straight here. Hard to snack when you’re bleedin’ out, y’know.”
There’s silence a moment, another of those loaded things that says someone’s doing something, with face or body, but he can’t freaking see it. Eventually though, when he sighs, Holly apparently determines it time to speak. “I’ll send someun’ for a meal fer you both once we’re done here.”
Rough fingers land on his hand, his left one, so that means it’s the vet. "Thanks." And then Legend must turn to him because he’s being addressed. Not by name, but there's a shift in tone and the words sound clearer, like violet eyes are actually turned on him and not the woman by his feet. “Can Holly and I help you with your shirt, or would you like to do it yourself?”
“He prob’bly shouldn’t,” the healer fusses, but she goes ignored.
Thank Hylia for Legend, he finds himself musing as he gives permission. He doesn’t know why, or how the vet is aware of how to avoid his triggers, but the man dances around them with ease, and navigates the unavoidable ones with more grace than a good many people in his life do.
Even as he can feel hands on his skin, fluttering and inspecting, even despite not being able to see them himself, or the face of the person touching him, he can ground himself with a set of ringed fingers holding his own, callused and scarred, bedecked with jewels and still somewhat stained with flakes of what even his ruined nerves know is blood. Legend’s voice sounds all the while, telling him what’s happening, even despite cracking and catching and going out here and again in a way that says his throat is as sore and rough as the captain’s own.
It helps.
He can’t see, but he can still know what’s happening around him, to him, and it helps.
There are moments when he slips a bit, too far in his head without something to remind him where he is, that the hands on his skin are there because he allowed them, that hot breath as Holly rewraps wounds is close only with permission, but then there will be a squeeze on his fingers and a familiar voice, soft with exhaustion, but steady and familiar. “Hey, stay with me, Link. You’re alright.”
It helps. It helps so much.
During the course of Holly’s inspection and work, he thinks he learns every crease and callus over tapered fingers- piano fingers, his sisters would call them- and the shape of every ring of Legend’s left hand. And that hand never pulls away, not for much longer than it takes to help him into a clean shirt; one smelling faintly of violets, which means it’s from home and not his castle chamber wardrobe, bless Holly’s heart! Other than that though, even if ringed fingers do stray, it’s only to fidget here and again with something. Pulling up his covers or helping him get a handle on a mug of blessed coffee. It’s just long enough to fix his hair back loosely for him when he gets tired of it brushing over his face, over his eyes even if they are useless now, or just for a moment to loosen his collar for him since Holly had done it up properly for a soldier, but too close to his throat for his own comfort.
He’s honestly not sure how he could have survived the morning without the vet’s presence.
Which is why when it’s suddenly gone , he finds himself floundering.
Over the course of the morning, Holly had said the other heroes had come by, Wind with them (thank the three!) but they’d been turned away by Holly with the declaration that no guests were allowed- family only. He doesn’t know how to feel about the implications of that , but again, he doesn’t question it. If he says nothing, and Legend doesn’t either, than neither of them have to hear whatever it is that the woman is thinking.
As promised, there had been a meal, one he’d had to have help with, between the normal tremor of his hands and his new inability to see them. After that though they’d been sitting, the vet at his bedside, again, and he in the bed, again , talking. They’d been discussing his mission from the night Wind disappeared, but somewhere along the lines it drifted to be about any old thing that came to mind.
That’s when there’d been a knock on the door, and a familiar hand had slipped from his so the vet could answer. Holly, he supposes, was on the other side, a soldier with her, and when he’d heard Legend make as though to inform the soldier that “Captain Link isn’t seeing anyone”, it had come about that it wasn’t Warriors he was here to see.
Impa and the princess wanted to talk to the vet about what happened.
...In the princess’s office.
“Will you be alright on your own?” The vet had asked, doubt coloring his words as they called to him from across the room. And of course, he’d said he would be, that Legend should attend the princess’s request, and of course he’d be fine. He'd even scoffed and made motions like he was rolling his eyes to push the point home. In answer, there had been hesitation, just like yesterday, but with more assurance from Holly and more insistence from the soldier, the vet had been calling that he’d return soon, and then stocking clad feet had padded out of the room.
Leaving him alone.
It’s alright though, it really is only for so long. Still, the sudden absence of another in the room does leave him abruptly aware, yet again, of entirely how unaware he is.
It is one thing to have somebody beside you who can tell you all you do not know for yourself, another entirely to find you know nothing and cannot alter it. It’s alright though, he knows where he is at the least, and that Holly is somewhere beyond the door, in the infirmary main. He's spent more time than most in this particular room- it’s been confirmed now that it's the one usually used when he's been hurt, and while there are always some changes, he’s sure that there’s a chair now on his left (unused because Legend is stubborn like that), and if he could open his eyes and actually see anything, directly in front of him would be cabinets lining the wall. He's never learned what’s in them exactly, but he’s seen them opened before and understands, roughly, that their contents are primarily lesser used supplies for the healers, things needed less in the infirmary and more so for serious cases and the like; the sort that requires this room.
Beyond that, he knows the layout outside the room, where the beds are and how many are on the other side of the door. He knows what’s outside the window (trees; climbable) and while he can’t see or hear them, he knows the paths of the guards in this part of the castle and where they ought to be at any given time.
Not that he has a clock, or generally any way at all to read one.
The curtains are still drawn, so there is no sunlight coming through the windows. It was cloudy yesterday though, so there is a chance that it is today as well. That, then, is no indicator for him of the time. Unlike the rest of the castle, however, the infirmary does not run on a clock, The keepers act when called and what they do with the rest of their time, he doesn’t know. For all he does know, they all sleep the day away until needed; they certainly always seem tired every time he has seen them.
He is too, he finds. He’s also tired.
He's also tense as a bowstring for reasons he’s not totally sure of, so it doesn’t matter.
It’s strange- he muses, rubbing fingers together absently- how the absence of a person can be so blasted loud .
All day today, there has been sound; Legend’s breath, Legend’s voice, his own in answer or even Holly’s, there’s been the rustle of the blankets or sheets or the scuff of feet on the floor. There has been touch; a head resting on his chest when he woke and a hand all but held captive in his own. There's been the faint smell of violets from the shirt, mixing with whatever it is Legend smells of- which is mostly blood still, if he’s bong honest.
Gods, he hadn’t realized until now, but is Legend going to see the princess while all covered in blood?
Not that she’s never beheld such a thing before, but still...
Regardless- he huffs to himself, gripping at the sheets absently, just to feel them crease under his hands- he hasn’t been left so unmoored in all the time since waking. He'd had an anchor to cling to, and yet now, even just minutes after the vet had moved off, he feels he’s already drifting out away from everything.
If there’s birdsong in the trees outside, he’s not sharp enough anymore to hear it. If there's motion beyond the door of the room, he can’t tell. He can’t hear if steps come close or who is where. There’s nothing to hear but his own breath, which is both so quiet and yet so loud with nothing else sounding beside it.
Similarly, all he can feel is linen. Wrapped over his face, binding wounds on his back and chest, even on his arms, at his wrists which are, indeed, rather tender now that he has time to check them. But the bed-clothes are similar material, not as thick, but a similar texture, and that same texture seems to almost encompass him, wrapped close around his lower half even as bandages and a loose shirt cover the upper. It’s the only thing there is to feel though. And attempting to reach back to feel for the wall only brings the singular other sensation to the forefront of his mind: pain.
Gods , he’s in so much pain. It’s still just a throb after whatever draught he’d let Holly give him with breakfast this morning, but it’s there all the same. Leaning back on the cushions makes it spark, but the thought of lying on one side all day is also worse, and the thought of laying down at all is unbearable. It’s bad enough being hurt, worse to make a display of it and to lay about like an invalid. Even propped up, at least he feels somewhat less pathetic.
Regardless of position though, it’s still nothing but linen and bedsheets and his own breath around him. It’s still a dark void beyond that; vague in the sense that he knows what ought to be there but can’t see or picture it. It’s not like being on the road, where even when he can’t sense a thing, he can pick up on cues that it's there anyways. There’s no twitching ears and noses to tell him anything, and there’s no one there to warn him if there’s something he’s missed.
Warriors’ stomach clenches. It feels pathetic, childish, but he wishes the vet was back. Or Proxi, Proxi always did a fine job of keeping him aware, although she’s far too small to make much a difference to anything save his hearing. Neither are here though, so he settles back in the pillows and, though he has neither pen nor parchment, begins to draft, in his mind, the report he’ll eventually need to make to the princess, if only for something else to do, to focus on.
The mission had been successful on all fronts, but he has no doubt Impa will have reported all the details of that. What she won’t be able to report was the part when, while they were headed back, he’d been run into, quite literally, by an ashen-faced veteran demanding to know if he had Wind with him. The answer, of course, had been no, but when he was informed that the youngest hero was nowhere to be found, he’d quickly sought out Impa to tell her as much.
He remembers Legend all but bouncing on his toes, impatient for him to be done so they could keep looking. He remembers that the vet’s face was tinged rather red, and he’d first thought maybe the other had been crying before he’d realized how cold it was and that his brother was standing there still in his undertunic. He remembers throwing his cloak at the other before retrieving a weapon for himself. He remembers marching down the streets with the vet coming up behind, panting and already looking exhausted.
He remembers recounting the stops he’d made in the night, remembers Legend climbing up roof-side when he’d let on that he’d taught Wind how to do the same should the need ever arise. He remembers tracking and retracing his footsteps until they’d come to the tavern. They’d exchanged terse words with the keeper, the vet demanding and he rather wary- even now, he’s not sure how Legend knew the sailor was there, but he’s glad the other had pressed the point.
Had his insistence been part of why the man got aggressive? Yes. Had they held their tongues though, he’s rather sure the result would be the same irregardless. After all, no one in all Hyrule has reason to worry about the location of some world-hopping teenage pirate save the man who adopted him, so even without a hero’s scarf or soldier’s uniform, they’d figured out who he was pretty quickly. From there, it had turned quickly to a battle, to Legend darting for the steps while he held them off, and then returning a moment later with Wind draped over is back.
It was all fighting after that. The vet had made off with the sailor, but been back at his side soon after. Impa would want an estimate of the time, of the hour, but the clash of blades and shouting of voices had been both so long and so short a thing there’s no way he could guess. All he knows is that it was near noon when they went in, but then-
Then there was a knife moving for his face, for his eyes, and all had gone dark.
It’s not the first time. It’s hardly the first. It’s happened before, but this is the first time since the war ended that someone had aimed for the face that started the war rather than the heart that dared keep beating after it.
It’s so unlike the last time though. The last time had been when he’s taken a spear through the leg, been wounded enough to be laid up in the medic tent. That time, he’d not expected it by any means, he’d been off his guard. He’d been where he ought to have felt assured no harm would come, but despite all vows to heal and not harm, a blade had still been taken to his eyes in the hopes of ending the war. The doctor’s words then had been that, maybe, he’d hoped, the sorceress wouldn't continue to fight if the prize she sought wasn’t as beautiful as believed.
It’s maybe not a thought he ought to have given voice in his mind. Maybe not the best memory to allow to slip over him. It’s distant now, a faraway thing, but that doesn’t stop, amid the darkness around him, his mind conjuring up visions of that medical tent, the burn of the blade over his face, the agony as his sight had gone for the first time.
The room around him is cold, but he can almost feel blood pouring down his face, yet when he lifts a hand to touch, there’s nothing there. Nothing but the faint feeling of fabric.
It’s like a shroud, all around, bound over eyes and limbs, nothing else beyond it that he can feel or see, taste or smell or touch. The only sound is the sharp gasp of his own breath, and the more he listens for otherwise; for the voice of a soldier, a brother, even the doctors, the more his ears simply ring , nothing to be heard but gasping breathes that are too wet, too sharp, too ragged.
Distantly, he registers that he’s probably slipping again, that he’s heading into what Zelda calls “an episode”, but he can’t summon his voice enough to call to whoever is outside, and there’s no one within to hear for themselves his attempts.
When these things happen, he recalls someone saying something about grounding, about using senses to find your place, to anchor yourself, but reaching anywhere finds nothing but the same fabric as encases him, the only smell is that of herbs and potions, or tools and blood, of too clean blankets and sheets, of medicine, of doctors . There’s not a wit to be seen, not a glitter not a shadow, nothing save darkness that clouds in his mind, makes him falter, makes him sit, chest heaving too fast, and struggle to know where he is, where he sits, is it the tent or the castle? Is it home or with Her?
He feels like he’s stumbling, like he’s been tossed back from his own body, back against a wall as it heaves and shakes and a desperate, wordless shout sounds. He hears the door, but it’s like a faint echo. He hears a voice, and vaguely there is the sensation of hands on him, but they’re Wrong, all wrong.
They’re soft hands, delicate and smooth. There are no calluses, no scars, no rings! The touch is fluttering, not sure, and it touches and moves without asking, without a voice sounding to check, to ask, and again he’s but an unseeing witness as he feels his own hand fly in answer.
There’s a cry. It’s the sharpest thing he can sense, a high, pained thing from the corner after a thump sounds from the same direction.
The hands are gone.
His chest keeps catching all the same.
There’s a scrambling sound, one that is enough, in a way, to make his hands his own, the heaving chest that aches with every breath his, yet again, and the unbridled fear that shoots through him as realization that he is without a weapon settles him all the more coldly in his own body. Feet move, hurried, something rustles, something swishes, there is breath and then there is not.
There is sudden silence, and he is left sitting, waiting.
Goddesses, why his sight? Why the one strength he was blessed with to know where an enemy stands? Why not his hearing, his touch? Both are shot to bits as is, what would he care to lose them? But why his Din danged sight?
He’s left sitting in a room that’s familiar and not, poised for an attack but with no way to defend, listening for a figure he doesn’t know and can’t see .
It’s hell. This has got to be some sort of hell.
Minutes drag into what feels like an eternity. There's another scuffling sound, but if the figure draws closer or further, he can’t tell, just knows there’s a high-pitched noise that he can’t quite decipher- it's not familiar, nor is the voice itself. His ears prick forwards, but it does him little good.
And then the door sounds again.
The door sounds, and steps come with it. Faint and nearly not there, another; strong, confident, sure, clicking slightly with every step, and a third; padding along, almost silent, but scuffing slightly.
He can’t tell if the heavy breathing he hears is his own or that of another, but abruptly, it’s the only sound again. That only lasts a moment though, because then, all at once, there are voices.
“Are you-”
“He’s gone right mad!”
“You’re-”
“ Link .”
The last is his name, the voices almost all familiar, vaguely, but that one really draws his focus. He’s not sure why , but it’s something in the tone, something in the word, not just because it’s his name.
The thought flitters to his mind of names holding power, like all the stories he'd heard as a child would say. They said anyone who knew it in full could hold power over you, and that’s almost what it feels like to hear it spoken.
“Watch yourself, he-”
“It’s an episode, you should-”
“Respectfully,” that Voice sounds again, “everyone shut up.”
And it’s familiar. It’s a sound he knows; that harsh, biting tone, that softness that needs no volume to hold sway. There’s almost a spell to it, a nature he thinks he might know of but has never confirmed, and when it sounds again he can almost breathe easier.
“Link," his name is spoken again, “you're alright. You're safe. We're in Hyrule castle, in the infirmary.” A soft thump on the floor follows the words; a muffled step. “I’m walking towards you.”
Each step is just loud enough to hear, louder than he’s used to though; pronounced, for his benefit.
“Stop!” The high voice again, the unfamiliar one. “He’s lost his darn mind!”
“Clean yourself up and leave us,” is the only answer, “and don’t touch again without asking.”
“I was-”
“I don’t care if it’s your job, he can’t freaking see you, so you should freaking ask . He’s still a person, you dumbass.” The words are harsh, but the tone stays low, gets closer. The steps are slow, wary, guarded, but they’re still loud enough to make out, even muffled though they are.
Warriors’ breath comes in a short gasp.
The steps stop, and just as he loses a sense of where they stand, the voice sounds again. “I’m next to you, so please don’t swing, okay? You’re not the only one still a mess, Big Blue.”
Blue. Blue is his color. The scarf, his eyes, the thing he knows is his, and there’s only one person who uses a color as a name for him.
There’s a brush of fingers over the back of his hand, even as a warning is given that they’re going to do so. They’re callused, worn, tapered, and when he catches then in his own, he finds metal bands, still slightly cool, encircling each finger.
“I’ve got your back, Link, you’re going to be okay.”
Words don’t come when he wants them, but his strength, blessedly, is still his own to summon and tug that hand closer, to hear stockinged feet scuffle on the floor briefly, a sharp hiss of surprise blowing and then warmth and blood-hardened linen is under his hands, muscle and mused hair thudding against him and cutting off both their breath as pain blooms in both from the contact.
When the pain fades though, Legend’s huffing hot against his shoulder, the hand not clutched by his patting his shoulder awkwardly. “There you are,”
“I cannot believe that worked." Impa sounds from the door, tone flat.
Huffing laughter sounds in answer. “ I can,” Zelda snorts.
For the first time in his life, Warriors ignores both women and instead breathes . The scent of blood is muted now, but ever present beneath it, the smell of sweet apples, wild grass, and magic persists, washing over him like a wave. The hand that he holds in his own is familiar and the voice that sounds in his ears, scolding half-hearted and sighing, is grounding, assuring, safe .
He doesn’t need to see to know the expression on his brother’s face, and even if he could, he’s sure his eyes would have fallen closed anyway as he settles his head in the crook of the vet’s neck and sighs.
“You're safe," the free hand settled in his hair, holding him close, “I got you.”
He doesn’t doubt it for a minute, just holds fast as the endless sea of nothing eases, and clings tight to his anchor in its midst, breath slowing again to match what puffs warm against his shoulders.
Thank Hylia for Legend, he muses, he’ doesn’t know what he’d do without him.