Beneath the Weight

by ThatKika

Summary:

Link is used to surviving. He has to—Zelda is waiting. The people of Hyrule are waiting. But survival doesn’t always mean living.

Exhausted, injured, and burdened by the ghosts of the past, he barely makes it to Hateno before collapsing in the rain. He wakes in his long-abandoned home, trapped in a body too weak to carry him forward and a mind too stubborn to let him rest.

But when a well-meaning shopkeeper and a patient scholar step in, Link is forced to face a truth he’s been running from: he can’t save Hyrule if he destroys himself first.

Notes:

Hello, Zelda fandom! It took me ages, but I finally bought Breath of the Wild. I’m very late to the party, but I couldn’t help but write something about our wild, feral swordsman.
Please enjoy Link trying to convince himself and everybody around him that he’s fine.

Please take note: English is not my first language. I sometimes sound alien, but I swear I’m human. I even drink water sometimes.

Chapter 1: Late Customer

Today felt like the day he died. 

 

 His boots skidded through the slippery grass as an arrow the size of his torso whizzed past him and struck the ground with a muted twip. The black moblin - driven by anger after receiving the sharp end of a shattering weapon - roared through the rain, already drawing another shot. With nothing to shield himself with, the champion made a sharp turn left, and behind a tree much too thin to save him. He just needed a few seconds…

 A club slammed into his face.

 

 Pain snapped through his skull, and he hit the mud face-first. Before he could recover, even consider running, a much smaller shape, all teeth and angry eyes, lunged forward; a Bokoblin. Not much of a threat for someone chosen by a sword that seals the darkness, but he’d lost that. Just as everything else. 

If he held on that day... If he had fought just a little longer. He could have stopped the Guardians, saved Zelda, and destroyed Ganon. Saved everyone. All those people, the ones that burned in the horrors of the Calamity - crushed beneath the razed remnants of their homes. The ones that tried to fight back, not knowing they couldn’t win, and the ones that lost hope the moment it all started. 

 

The moblin fell to the ground with a final groan as the sparks of a Sheikah bomb sizzled in the chilly air.

 The smaller monster, only a few steps away, roared with new-found anger and swung the club around in a dangerously uncoordinated arc. He sloppily dodged one swing just to be caught by the next square. He staggered, breath hitching, but forced his body up. Faster. Forward. 

He hit the bokoblin like a battering ram, and together, they fell into the mud.

 

He wrested the club from its hands, and his knuckles turned white as he brought it down.

 

Once.

Twice.

Again.

 

A blur of wood and blood and tears.

His chest heaved with wrecked, shuddering sobs.

 

Today felt like the day he died.

 

---

 

Pruce closed the last window of the shop just as the storm started to kick in. 

The howling wind and thundering rain aggressively drummed on the old facade, water flowing in cascades down the front entrance overhang, and he couldn’t help but frown at the unusual hostility of the elements in the otherwise calm village climate. It was as if something was trying to get in and disturb his evening peace. 

 

He stepped one foot towards the fire, as the brightly-burning embers waved at him in promise of a quiet night waiting for unlikely customers. The chair seemed inviting—far better than standing in the path of the cold draft sneaking through the cracks. Deep in his middle-aged heart, he wanted to plop down and relax, but something wouldn’t let him fully turn away from the outside view and the natural chaos. 

 

Beyond the weak flickering of a shop's lantern across the street and the vague shapes of a wooden post and waving tree, something… Something tall and vaguely horse-shaped appeared from under the hill and slowly moved closer towards the shop. 

 

A customer! 

 

Despite the storm, the Goddess has decided to smile down upon him. 

At least, it seemed so before the horse, and a dark figure on it - hunched over, swaying side to side - changed directions and headed left instead. 

 

His heart leapt.

Left?

 

The inn was right ahead. Warm, inviting, and the only logical destination for a traveler like them in weather like this. Right ahead was rest, warmth, and potential business with the fairest shop in town. 

To the left was away from the village, the path that led towards the little bridge and the abandoned house. Or rather, the house someone only recently purchased.

 

Pruce narrowed his eyes in suspicion. Could it be the lucky new owner returning home late or a thief looking to rob the place blind of its new treasures? Their overall shady appearance could be proof of malice alone… The warmth of the fireplace could no longer hold Pruce still. 

 

Grabbing his coat from the peg, Pruce shrugged it on and bravely pushed the door open. Immediately, he was hit by the sheer coldness of the fat droplets and savage wind. Curiosity had its grip on him, however, and no hurricane or frost could stop him from stalking behind the horse, which by now reached the bridge and started crossing over. 

Just as he managed to catch up and reach the bridge himself, the crack of the old wood loud beneath his boots, the horse stopped, and the figure moved. 

 

His heart thundered in the rhythm of the rain. 

Did the figure hear him? In his haste, he forgot to grab anything to defend himself. Perhaps he could outrun them? But… no. 

 

It looked like the movement was just another sway. 

Then, suddenly - far too suddenly - they slumped sideways, slipping from the saddle. Their body hit the ground with a dull thud. The horse stood still, head low, ears flicking in irritation from the rain, and snout sniffing curiously at the fallen rider. 

 

Pruce hesitated before approaching the steed and giving it a calming pat on the side. He crouched down and reached a cautious hand towards the figure. 

They seemed oddly familiar. He recognized the Hateno-made traveler’s outfit.

 

The hood had slipped askew, revealing damp, tangled blond hair. And that face—mud-streaked, pale, but familiar.

Link!

 

Chapter 2: Stumble

Notes:

Enjoy Link being stubborn!

He woke to quiet.

 

No shrieking of blood-thirsty monsters, no sound of a coming thunder ready to strike him, no howling wind. Only the subtle pattern of water dripping down the window glass. Calm.

For a moment, it disarmed him.

The last time it was this quiet, he hid in a cave from the harsh cold of the Hebra mountains, a song of slowly melting ice filling the hollow space. Even then, relatively safe from monsters and the murderous mountain itself, there was a feeling of constant pressure on his mind. As if something could jump out at him from the long shadows and swallow him whole. Experience certainly proved that even darkness could be deadly.

Not now.

 

The only shadows were the soft browns and greys of the blanket covering him, his dark, dirty socks sticking underneath it at the end of the bed. Hardly deadly.

Though the memories of his journey here were a blur, he vaguely remembered heading up the hills and towards Hateno in need of his supplies. The home was a cold husk, only a table, chair, and a bed to provide any hospitality, but the space under the stairs was private enough for the many junk he collected along the road. As blurry as it was, the memory of that recent fight burned hot in his chest, still.

I’m not leaving without strapping all of my spare swords to the horse, he thought, before snickering quietly.

 

He sighed, feeling exhausted.

Shining brightly through the window to his left, the sun hung high in the sky. It was noon.

With a familiar heaviness in the sore muscles, he slowly swung his legs and set them on the floor, staring at those terribly dirty socks and willing the pain to go away already. His side was stiff and uncomfortably warm, his right leg ached at the ankle, his lungs were unable to take a full breath, but I didn’t matter at all. He didn’t deserve to stop, not when Zelda was fighting Calamity right this moment, waiting for him to move his ass and help her already.

 

Move, you idiot.

He pushed himself off the bed.

 

Walking felt like being repeatedly struck by shock arrows. It took him much too long to reach his tunic and even longer to dress, a process during which even his self-berating couldn't expedite. He nearly stumbled into the wall a few times when trying to fasten the leather straps, before giving it up, and leaving them half-hanging.

His hands were shaking.

 

You can’t stop. She’s waiting. They are all waiting. Come on.

 

He grabbed the worn wood of the banister as he stepped forward, his vision sharpening and dulling in turns. The Sheikah slate burned hot against his hip, a silent reminder of the many quests still unfinished. Yet, despite this responsibility resting on his shoulders, he couldn’t will his legs to support him properly.

 

Oh, Goddess — why am I so weak?

 

His arm stiffened as it supported all his weight going further down the stairs. His balance was totally off, knees constantly locking in place, just like the time he walked out of the Shrine of Resurrection and almost landed face-first into the ancient stone.

He wished the ancient civilization would have foreseen all of this and prevented evil from taking control of Hyrule’s future. Instead, the one guy tasked with returning everything to normal was going to fail the second time because of four meters of stairs.

 

He stumbled.

 

His muscles seized before he could even properly register what was happening. Barely more than a wrong shift of weight was all it took for his body to give up completely and buckle under Link’s weight before sending him falling down the few last steps. His shoulder struck wood first, the jolt sending a sharp, electric pain down his arm and effectively stopping him from reacting as his back skidded down and soon hit the bottom, hard.

Vision blurred, he surrendered to the dizzying turning and twisting of the world around him, dropping his head to the ground and wincing at the way it now ached, too.

 

Great going, champion, he could imagine Rivali saying, it's a wonder you got chosen in the first place.

 

Who was the person chosen by the sword? It couldn’t have been him and his feral personality. The few memories he unearthed of the time before Calamity were like watching a different swordsman, one with real honor and real skills. That Link wouldn’t have fallen off a tiny set of stairs.

 

“Oh!” A voice cut through the fog in Link’s head.

 

He felt the rough edge of a door hit his foot as a fresh breeze swept into the room. The distantly familiar voice of a man rang out somewhere from the same direction, the person pushing in further and letting in bright sunlight with him. His eyes hurt from its shine, and a sudden headache forced him to squint.

“I’ve got to say, kid - this is a terrible way to welcome guests.” the man signed, his voice nearing as careful steps reverberated through the uneven planks beneath him. Opening his eyes again slowly, Link’s gaze fell on the tiny mustache, huge forehead, and thinning, dark hair.

 

“P-r-u-c-e?”, he signed slowly, the movement of his hands sluggish and stubbornly uncoordinated.

The man reached down towards him, frim hands supporting his back and shoulders, before heaving his entire weight upright with a grunt well fitted for the older shopkeeper he met nodding off on the counter only a week before. He tried helping, urging his legs to support him too, but the hands swatted the attempts away.

 

“Don’t fight me, boy,” Pruce muttered, lifting him towards a chair. “Just let me—yeah, there we go. Goddesses, you’re heavier than you look.”

 

The world was caught in a vortex even more now that he was upright again; it took a moment for his vision to catch up to reality. Wood pressed against his back, back which now hurt as bad as the rest of his body. He willed himself to focus and not fall forward again. Pruce was watching him with a careful, studying expression and one hand supporting his weight in case he did.

“What are you doing in my house, Pruce?” He signed.

 

Pruce blinked slowly.
Once. Twice.

 

“Didn’t expect you to be up,” He said, squatting down in front of him with a scrutinizing frown. “Figured you’d be out for at least a day.”

“I’m fine. I have to leave now. Why are you in my house?” He asked again.

 

The man squinted.
The way he looked at his hands reminded him of the way people looked at him sometimes on his journey. Lost.

 

“Can you understand me?” He tried, purposefully and slowly. Familiar frustration was flaring in his chest.

Pruce crossed his arms. “Yeah, I don’t know what that means.”

 

Link clenched his jaw, muscles tensing. He repeated himself, sharper this time, but the shopkeeper only sighed, rubbing the back of his head with a guilty look.

“Look, kid, you could be asking me the time or telling me that the moon is falling, I still wouldn’t know the difference,” he said, not unkindly. “I don’t speak - uh, whatever you’re doing with your hands there.”

 

Link let out a slow breath through his nose, gathering all the semblance of stoicism his face could muster and schooled his expression into an even look. He nodded. Time was wasted trying to communicate. He appreciated the concern, but he had to leave. Every moment sitting down could be used getting closer to the princess.

 

He pushed himself upright.

 

Pain lanced through his side, his ankle, just everywhere, hot and biting as hard as an angry coyote on a bad day. His knees, only halfway to standing straight, locked in place again, entire body swaying before he could even make one step towards the door.
“Oy!” Pruce shouted, trying to react in time to him lurching forward and somehow catching him in time. He shoved him, rather forcefully, back down into the chair.

 

“None of that, boy. You’re as pale as a snowman’s ass.”, the shopkeeper complained. “You shouldn’t have thrown yourself down the stairs, I was two minutes away.”

 

His rugged hands briefly left his shoulders as the man reached behind him to a round thing covered in checkered-pattern fabric sitting on the ground. It was a bowl, contents steaming in the slightly chilly air and a mountain of Hylian rice towering inside it. The meal was promptly shoved into his hands, its warmth making him realise how cold he felt. “Eat something before you collapse again.”

 

Link shook his head, before resting the bowl on his lap instead. “I have to go.”

Maybe Pruce didn’t understand Sign, but the last movement - a finger pointing towards the door - was clear enough to get the message across.

He scoffed. “Yeah? And how do you plan on doing that?”

 

The champion gritted his teeth and exhaled harshly through his nose. He laid out a hand flat in front of him and walked two fingers of his other hand on it. Pruce didn’t look impressed.

 

“You can’t even stand.”, he pointed out, before giving him a hard, flat look. “You don’t have a choice.”

 

The words struck deeper than they should have.

Link’s hands curled into fits.

 

Zelda didn’t have a choice. Neither did any of the other Champions, fighting for their lives against an enemy specifically engineered to destroy them. Losing those lives to cruel fate and evil. The people who burned in Castletown, hundreds of them at the mercy of the machines that were supposed to protect them.

But he does. He does have a choice. He could still fight, and he fight he will, should the Kingdom have any hope of surviving.

 

His body had different plans. As he held onto the bowl, his hands trembled weakly, exhausted from the weight of a single serving of buttered rice, dragging down like lead. Side throbbing, he had to shift to scare off the deep, warning pangs of pain in his back, and the hazy edge of his vision, that made everything just a bit too blurry. He hurt, like a tired guy in a chair, not a hero.

Pruce sighed, grabbing his attention again.

 

His brown eyes were watching him closely, but the expression he wore on his face conveyed something deeper than just persistence.

“You know,” he said, voice lighter, almost absentminded, “I used to work myself sick when I was younger, too.”

 

Link’s brow furrowed.

Pruce grabbed a blanket, a spare lying with the rest of his stashed items underneath the stairs. With the swords, the shields, his endless supply of sticks.

 

“Not for the same reason, obviously,” he continued. “You’re off doing - what, saving the kingdom? I founded a tiny shop in a tiny town, in the middle of nowhere, stressing over counting inventory and cursing apples for rotting too fast.”

He huffed, shaking the ratty, blanked out slightly, before throwing it on the champion's shoulders in a rather fatherly way. His eyes meet him again, staring with the intensity of a man, wishing to be understood.

“I was twenty-five by then, kid. Experienced, with a family, already slightly balding,” he huffed. “You’re what? Fifteen? Sixteen?”

 

“One hundred seventeen.”

 

“Yeah, I still don’t understand what you’re saying.” Pruce shook his head with a serious expression but continued anyway: “Point is, it doesn't matter what you are doing - if you don’t stop once in a while, your body’s gonna make you stop. Be it on your way to the door, or in the middle of nowhere, with no one to help you out.”

Link shook his head.
Not knowing what to think, his head brewing with passing anger, a bitter tinge of frustration, and the ever-present guilt, he hung his head low before signing, mostly to himself: “This is different.”

Pruce, seemingly done with the lack of understanding between them, barked a short: “Stay put!” before turning toward the door. “I’ll get someone who speaks your language. Don’t move.”

 

Watching the door close with blurred eyesight, hands still trembling, eyes weighing heavier than his cloak on a rainy day, he wasn’t sure he could move again. The blanket was warm against his aching shoulders, the rice relaxing his aching fingers.

 

He wasn't supposed to be here. He wasn’t supposed to be resting.

But he also wasn’t sure if he could reach the door.

Notes:

Last chapter will drop on 11th of March 20:00CET (this time exactly at 20:00, not 1:30 whoops)

Chapter 3: Toasty Mushrooms

Notes:

Sorry for the delay, work is kicking my ass!
Enjoy the last chapter!

 

It was a gentle touch of a hand on his shoulder that woke him.

 

Startled, he bolted upright.

 

His body protested, breath hitching, but the familiar buzz of adrenaline chased the sleepiness away momentarily, readying him for the fight to come. Only… there wasn’t any yelling of monsters or beastly snarls; the world around him was as quiet as before. The only unusual sight was the man peering down on him behind familiar square glasses. 

 

“ Hey there, Link, ” Symin greeted him in perfect, fluid Sign. “ Can I check your temperature? ” 

 

The champion exhaled tensely, his mind lagging behind. The man entered the room, walked up to him, and stood close, and yet it was a hand on his shoulder that woke him. His instincts, exaggerated by living out in the wilderness, spending nights half awake, should’ve warned him at the slightest threat, but they didn’t. 

 

Confused, he nodded at the man.

 

Symin slowly pressed his hand lightly to Link’s forehead, his fingers cool against the overheated skin, causing the boy to shiver. What little adrenaline he felt before was already gone, leaving his body heavy and mind leaden. He watched with exhaustion as the scientist nodded, lips pursing slightly. 

 

“It’s obvious even without medical equipment - you’re burning up,” he explained aloud, worry clear in his tone of voice. “I understand you’re been found passed out in front of your house?”

 

He didn’t remember that. He was traveling on horseback, tired, well on his way to Hateno. The rain was pouring, and the chill was causing him to sway. How he landed in bed after that, he wasn’t sure. The shopkeeper’s invasion of his hide-away was certainly one possible explanation, and his mind was too slow to supply any further. Not that it mattered.

 

Through the door behind the man hovering above him, he could see the gentle, warm light of a nearing sunset. Exactly how long has he dozed off for? He shook his head slightly, pushing himself up from the chair and away from the hand resting on his forehead. 

 

Symin didn’t react as expected. 

 

He made no move to stop him and didn't touch him further. Standing a comfortable distance away, he was watching him with gentle eyes and a worried dip to his eyebrows, but let Link stand on his own, despite the obvious tremble to his limbs. Confused and feeling slightly timid at the lack of protest, he supported himself with one hand on the chair and signed with the other: “ I have to leave, now. Thank you for checking up on me. ”

 

 The scientist continued to stand still, watching him shrug the blanket off his shoulders and slowly make his way to the equipment. His legs thankfully obeyed the order to march forward, despite his ankle protesting subtly. The nap, however time-wasting , did make it easier to move about, he’d admit that. When exploring, he barely had time for naps. The frequency at which he felt like a bag of beaten potatoes was so high that feeling rested was an exception.

 

No matter. It was time to go. 

 

Reflected in the blade of a royal broadsword, Symin was observing as Link packed his things together, wrapped them into the Slate, and turned to face him again. He stopped. 

 

Despite the lack of protest from the man, his presence in the room made Link feel uneasy. He wasn’t doing anything, just resting his hand on the chair the champion sat in previously, absentmindedly tapping it with one finger, and just looking at him worriedly behind those square glasses. Perhaps he was also judging him, or maybe just waiting for him to make a move to the door to follow him out, but the lack of answers bothered him. Worse yet, he felt the need to explain himself. 

 

“I’ll be fine. I’ve had worse.” He signed.

 

Symin nodded in understanding, but the look of concern didn’t leave his face. It looked as if he was vividly imagining what kind of “worse”, and that thought didn’t seem to make him any happier. 

 

It was probably because of that, when Link was about to cross the threshold, he finally said:

“I’m afraid that’s exactly the issue.”

 

Link stopped.

 

“What do you mean?” He asked, curiosity getting the better of him. 

 

He sighed.

 

“You’re shaking.”

 

Was he? 

Sure enough, when he looked down, the palm of his hand, though resting on his belt, was visibly trembling. No, not only that; his whole arm was shaking where he slowly lifted it. 

 

He shook his head. This meant nothing. 

 

“I’m not going to try and stop you.” Symin shook his head, taking a careful step towards him. “I probably couldn’t if I tried. But please, consider this; you are unwell.” 

 

“I’m well enough.”, Link argued.

 

“You fell down the stairs, did you not?”

 

Unable to help it, Link blushed slightly, his hands freezing momentarily. 

 

“You are also thinner than I last saw you.” He frowned, eyes analysing him like he was a broken piece of tech, not a person. “Worn-out. The bags under your eyes hint at severe exhaustion, and those fresh scars on your forearm...”

 

It didn’t matter. He had to leave.

 

Determined, he turned towards the door again, willing the shaking in his hand to stop. 

He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t sleep, not when people needed him now. Damned be trembles and aches. He’ll find a few lizards and cook himself an elixir. He’ll be fine. 

“It seems like your body has already made its choice.”

If Symin was able to see it, perhaps he did let it go too far lately. He could still fight, but at night, when everything hurt, he wished he could just close his eyes and drift away. He couldn’t.

 

“If I stop, she’s going to die.”

 

The man smiled, not unkindly, and looked to the ground in thought. His eyebrows fell even further downwards as if his musings brought him to a sad conclusion. 

 

“Princess Zelda survived one hundred years of fighting. She’s far stronger than you think.”

 

“Her ability doesn't excuse me from abandoning her. ” Link argued, chest feeling slightly constricted. His legs were shaking anew. 

 

“You seem to believe that your continuous suffering is the only way to help her.” Symin hummed in thought.

 

“It’s not like I’m purposefully trying to get hurt, Symin. I know that if I die again, I’ll fail again. ”

 

Again, the man smiled softly, shaking his head. His eyes rose to meet his, the weight of his gaze heavy, especially when Link’s vision was stubbornly greying out on the edges. 

 

“Your death wasn’t a failure.” He said.

 

“That’s your belief,” Link huffed instinctively. His breath was coming out in short huffs. “The people who perished in the Calamity wouldn't have to meet their end if I held on.”

 

“Are you personally responsible for the ancient evil that has plagued us since the beginning of time?”

 

What if he was?

 The goddesses bestowed the land with an ancient hero for a reason. Unlike other people who walked Hyrule untied to the tightly woven strings of destiny, his fate was pre-written by a deity with the good of millions in heart. From the moment he became the wielder of the sword that seals the darkness, or perhaps even from the moment he was born, his destiny was to give his life for the good of the kingdom. 

 

“Yes.” He answered.

 

Symin quietened. 

 

He sighed deeply before walking closer, closing the distance between them. 

 

Then he hugged him.

Link didn’t expect the gesture. Symin’s arms came up so suddenly, gently grabbing his back and resting there with a steady warmth. He was taller than the champion was, towering above him slightly, his head cradled into his shoulder and away from the blinding sunset’s light. 

 

The trembling in his limbs quietened. Something deep within his chest shuddered. 

 

He tried breathing normally. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Control was wired into his brain. When he couldn’t think, survival instincts kicked in and took care of emotional baggage, however tall the order. 

 

Calm down, he thought. 

 

In through the nose. Out through the mouth. 

 

His breath hitched painfully, tears blurring his vision. 

 

In and Out.

Everything was under control. He was going to walk out of here, find Zelda and save everyone.

 

In and Out.

He will push himself to do what he must. The chosen hero, wielding the chosen sword.

 

In and Out. 

Everything was fine.

Link gave a quiet sob. 

 

Symin held on tight.

---

Pruce opened the door of East Wind with his elbow. 

 

In his arms, he was carefully balancing a bag of roasted Hylian mushrooms, a wrapped serving of freshly baked bread, several slices of apple pie on a small tray, a basket of carrots, and one capped jug of fresh milk hanging on by his pinky. He was incredibly impressed by his ability to carry so many items and get only a couple of questioning gazes as he slowly walked up the hill and towards the small bridge off to the side. 

 

Beyond the creaking old bridge, basking in the sunlight was Link’s house. 

 

He carefully maneuvered around the supporting beams of the entrance and gave a light, short thud to the door with his foot, hands too full for proper manners. Despite it, upon opening the doors, Symin seemed cheerful, giving him a warm smile and a nod as a greeting and welcomed him in with an open hand. 

 

The table in the middle, freshly brought in by Bolson just this morning, was perfect for dumping the food off, which Pruce did with great satisfaction, wincing at the way his arms were stiffened. He’d ought to get a vacation soon and give his aging body some reprieve before the only thing he’ll be able to carry will be a cup of root beer.  

 

A young female voice spoke sharply up the stairs, next to the bed sitting in a corner. 

 

“The notion is ridiculous, Linky-”

 

She was sitting on a tiny stool, looking pointedly up to the bed. 

Covered under a mountain of blankets, looking worn and tired, was Link. 

 

Pruce was quick to follow Symin, as they both climbed the stairs with a bowl each in hand. The boy looked towards them, stopping his sign half-sentence and smiling slightly. He waved to the shopkeeper in a silent but happy greeting before turning back to Purah and her pouty expression. 

 

“Are you trying to change the topic?” the tiny scientist asked, cheeks puffing up in annoyance. She reached towards him, patting the blankets to get more of his attention. “Oy!”

 

The boy rolled his eyes slightly before sinking further into the bed, as if to try and hide away. 

 

“It’s ridiculous to think that you have no limit! Everyone does, even me, and I’m capable of doing anything!” she shouted with renewed energy. 

 

He raised his hands to sign, but before he could say something, she interrupted: “I’d take a fool to think you have no one who cares about you!”

 

Beside him, Symin chuckled to himself, sending Pruce a knowing smile, before carefully handing Link a bowl of roasted mushrooms and a set of chopsticks. 

 

“It’s alright now. He should eat before you continue the lecture, professor,” the scientist smiled softly, helping him up slightly. “Right, Link?”

 

Link nodded readily, perhaps already hungry or maybe just happy at the prospect of not being berated. It seemed to be a mix of both because the speed at which he shoved the food down was impressive. Despite the annoyance, Purah let him enjoy it in peace.

Pruce looked at the boy closer. 

 

It was only yesterday night that he found him out in that terrible rain, but some color was already returning to his cheeks. The bags under his eyes, alarmingly deep before, were slowly thinning out into healthier tones, although he still looked like he needed some more sleep. The trembling quieted - only a slight shaking to his hands as he held the bowl higher for a moment. 

 

From what little he knew, Link was burdened by a terrible fate, destined to correct the mistakes of the hero that perished a hundred years ago. His task was to kill the evil that threatened Hyrule, and his heart was burning bright for that task alone. Anyone with a weight that great on their shoulders would be quick to crumble away, but the tales of his deeds echoed in towns and villages everywhere. He’d done so much for the people already, and he was ready to give more. 

 

Pruce admired him. 

 

He was only a young lad, but he understood how much one single person could change the world. He sacrificed his well-being for others and pushed forward with determination and strength. 

 

“I hope it’s tasty,” he said, sitting down on the end of the bed while the boy continued to devour the food.”I’m not that great at cooking.”

 

To his delight, Link nodded readily, meeting his gaze and stopping the intense chewing to smile. 

 

His hands reached forward, signing slowly and pointedly. Symin leaned in and translated: “He says that he appreciates your roasting technique.”

 

“I’m going to pretend like I didn’t accidentally set them aflame.” Pruce laughed. 

 

“Link believes setting things aflame is usually the right way to go.” Symin translated again, frowning slightly. 

 

The boy grinned from ear to ear at Pruce’s questioning gaze. He sincerely hoped the only things getting set on fire were inanimate and consumable objects, but something told him the options were unlimited. The glint of wildness in his eyes betrayed him. 

 

“He says he recommends experimenting. It’s fun to try and mix everything you've got lying around.” Symin explained.

 

“Well, Prucey doesn't exactly have the biggest assortment of groceries in his shop,” Purah complained. “There’s only so many omelets you can make.”

 

Before Pruce could react to the critique of his shop, however, Link perked up from the bed. Hearing the word “omlelets” seemed to spark something within him.

 

Animated, he set the bowl aside, eyes shining with a glint of something new, alive. His hands flew up, and he started signing, gestures quick and wide, as a smile completely won over the fatigue lines on his face.

 

It was a stark contrast from the boy Pruce hauled up the stairs, cold, shivering, and unconscious. A young, passionate, and lively young man. Someone with a bright future and people who care about him. 

 

He looked happy.

That look suited him well.

 

 

Notes:

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