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On a bright and unassuming autumn morning, two mysterious figures walk into the village’s local bakery. The taller one—a one-eyed man with strange markings inked into his cheeks—happily drags his companion up to the counter.
“Good morning.” The man beams. “Two loaves of potato bread and a loaf of manchet.”
The baker gives the two figures a quick once-over, taking in the worn boots and the sheathed swords strapped to their backs. “Traveling?” he asks.
Next to the mysterious traveler, his younger companion scoffs. The man lightly elbows the teenager.
Amused, the baker retrieves the requested loaves of bread. He slips them into a paper bag and slides the goods across the counter. In one smooth motion, the man pulls a few rupees out of his wallet and exchanges the money for food. He hands the bag to the teen, who wrinkles his gray nose and shoots a red-eyed glare at the baker.
“Your bread smells like shit,” the teenager says.
The baker lifts an eyebrow at the man. “Your kid is kind of a brat.”
The teen hisses.
“Sorry,” the man says, cringing at the teen’s behavior. “I’m, uh, working on it.”
“S’pose that’s all we can do,” the baker agrees. “I know my kid gets all twisted up sometimes.”
The man’s shoulders loosen. “Teenagers, right?” he says, calling up an understanding grin. “I was a bit evil at that age, too.”
“A ‘bit’ evil?” snarls the teen. “I am more than a bit evil. I am a primordial force of darkness. I am the manifestation of your fatal flaws. I am your darkest secrets, your worst nightmares, your most primal fears. I am not a ‘bit’ evil.”
“It’s a phase,” the man says cheerfully. “Thanks for the bread, kind sir!”
The baker fires off a salute. “Good luck with your kid’s phase!”
“It’s not a fucking phase!” the teen screams.
But despite the teenager’s protests, the man drags him out of the bakery with the same gentle aggression he used to drag the kid inside. The teen is not sure why he protested.
He already lost.
Dark Link kicks in the door to his throne room and strides in, radiating triumph. Eyes bright and smile even brighter, he flares out the cape of his cloak and takes his seat among his minions, throwing his hands in the air in grateful victory.
“Gods be damned!” He jumps into his fancy chair and lets himself relax for the first time in days. The cushion is crushed velvet, stuffed with the softest down (taken from loftwings he hunted down himself). “I’m back! I’m fucking back! Did you guys miss me?”
The monsters do not answer, not that he expected them to. They might understand Hylian (maybe?), but they can’t speak it, since they lack the proper vocal chords. Dark Link doesn’t need them to answer back, he just needs them to witness his evil badassery.
“I thought I’d never get away,” he confesses. Leaning on the armrest, he shoots his highest-ranking lizalfos a conspiratorial glance. “I swear, they were watching me around the clock. I had to poison the Champion to get here. It’s fucking ridiculous.”
No response. Of course. Monster minions aren’t supposed to banter with you, they’re supposed to obey your every order.
“But I’m out!” Dark Link pumps a fist in the air. His voice cracks, and his cheeks ache with how hard he’s pulling his mouth into a smile. “I’m unstoppable!”
Silence.
“Finally, I can do my evil plotting in peace! No need to sneak around! No need to censor myself!”
Silence.
“This is great!” he insists into the void.
Bang!
He shrieks and tumbles out of his fancy chair.
Nine figures, armed to the teeth, burst in through the windows. Stained glass scatters across the throne room, and in a flurry of blood and metal, the intruders systematically demolish the entire monster guard. Before Dark Link can think to draw his sword, someone hauls him up to his feet and grabs his face.
“Dink!” Sky gasps, eyes wide. “Oh, thank the goddesses that you’re okay! You’re not hurt, are you?”
“Why the fuck are you here?!” Dink screams. He shoves Sky as hard as he can and scrambles backward, bumping his back against his throne. “What the shit? What are you doing?!”
“Rescuing you,” Legend calls out from across the room. “Duh.”
To punctuate the statement, Legend fires a sword beam straight into the eye of a hinox. In a burst of black blood, its headless corpse crumples to the ground.
“You don’t have to!” Dink snaps, glaring at the heroes. “You really don’t have to! In fact, you shouldn’t!”
“Hey,” Sky says. He has the audacity to look emotionally hurt. “You’re important to us. Of course we’d come to rescue you!”
Dink doesn’t even know where to begin.
Frustrated into speechlessness, he can only watch as the heroes finish off the rest of his monsters. It’s a bloody, one-sided battle. It’s an embarrassment. And when the last of his minions has fallen, nine Hylian idiots rush in, and he braces himself for the impact—
“Dink!” A body slams into him, but not out of violence. Rather, a pair of arms wrap around him and give him a disgustingly secure hug. “I’m glad you’re okay! We were so worried.”
“Fuck off, Rancher,” Dink snarls, spit flying from his mouth.
“Okay, give him space,” Warriors orders. “Don’t crowd him. He’s probably scared.”
The good news is that Twilight lets go. The bad news is that Dink hates being babied.
“I’m fine,” he grumbles. He shoots Warriors a withering glare. “No thanks to you guys.”
“Oh,” Wild says. A look of devastation crosses his face. He stumbles forward and reaches out a hand—but stops before he can touch Dink’s shoulder. “M’sorry.”
“What the fuck.” Dink flinches back at the sight of Wild’s dilated pupils. “Those were cursed mushrooms. There was enough to kill a windfish. Aren’t you supposed to be dead?”
“Good stomach!” Wild slaps his gut, as if Dink needed to be reminded of where his stomach was located. “Feelin’ kinda funny! Everythin’s all wobbly. Sorry ‘bout you gettin’ kidnapped on my watch.”
Dink twists his mouth in horrified resignation. “You’re high, aren’t you.”
“Very!” Wild announces, almost proud of the fact.
(He’d forgotten that Wild eats raw monster guts for fun. He should’ve tripled the dosage.)
“Well, I’m glad you’re okay,” Time says, stepping forward. He flicks some of the monster blood off his sword, splattering it on Dink’s brand-new carpet. One knowing eye scans Dink up and down, cataloging every minor cut and bruise. “I swear, you’re kidnapping bait. How many times have we broken into this castle to rescue you?”
“Six,” Dink snaps. He knows this fact intimately, because he had to file five claims to dark insurance to replace all the dark stained glass and get dark money to hire new dark guards. Later tonight, he’s going to have to start his sixth claim. It’s probably going to get dark denied.
“Maybe they’ll stop trying to kidnap you after this one!” Wind offers. The young pirate walks up to Dink’s throne and stabs his sword into the stuffing, sending loftwing feathers into the air. “I bet if we cause enough property damage, they’ll realize it’s not worth it to kidnap you!”
Dink feels like crying. The worst part is that Wind is right.
“It’s my castle,” he tries to explain, desperate to hammer the truth into their thick skulls. “I’m your enemy, and you need to stop rescuing me. You realize I’m trying to kill all of you, right?”
Hyrule lets out a horrified gasp. “That sounds like self-depreciation!” he says. He walks up, clamps his hands on Dink’s shoulders, and forces eye contact.
Dink squirms. Hyrule has such intimidating eyes.
“Please don’t talk badly about yourself.” Hyrule phrases it as a request, but it sounds more like an order. “Say it with me. ‘I have worth. I have value. I have friends.’”
“I also have enemies,” Dink supplies.
Hyrule’s eye twitches, but he manages to maintain his toothy smile. “We’ll work on that.”
In what can only be described as ‘the universe’s most cringeworthy misunderstanding,’ Hylia’s dream team expands from nine heroes to ten. Well, nine heroes plus one villain. But if you ask anyone other than Dink, it’s ten heroes, because Hylia’s dream team is a bunch of fucking idiots.
Dink—no, Dark Link, he will not succumb to that stupid nickname—has been trying to escape for weeks.
But every time he does, the Chain assumes he’s been kidnapped. No matter how rude or insulting Dark Link acts, they cannot comprehend that he is the bad guy.
That’s fine. Further escape attempts would wreak havoc on his dark finances, but Dark Link is flexible. He can change his plans.
Two days after his sixth failed escape, he breaks Twilight’s sword arm during a spar.
“Ordona, slaughter me,” Twilight screeches. His face looks like it’s trying to turn inside out with how screwed up it is.
Warriors rolls his eyes. He splints the break with military first-aid and a half-assed prayer. With every round of bandage, Twilight turns a new shade of red.
“Why are you making it so tight?” Twilight despairs.
“It’s supposed to be tight!” Warriors snaps. “You want the bone to heal in a zig-zag?”
“I want to have fingers!”
“Shut up, you’re fine.” Warriors pressed down on Twilight’s hand until the skin goes white. Then he pulls his finger away. The color floods back in. “See? Circulation. Stop being such a loser.”
In response, Twilight shakes off Warriors’ grip, spits at the dirt, and rises to his feet.
Not only has Dark Link taken out the sword arm of one of the Chain’s most capable fighters, but he has also sown the seeds of discord between two of their leaders. He can already feel their rage simmering in his gut. Damn, he’s good.
“Guess that means you can’t spar anymore, huh?” he asks with a gleeful smirk.
Twilight blinks. He turns away from Warriors and tilts his head, previous anger forgotten. “No, I can still spar with you.”
“But—” Dark Link gestures to his splinted arm.
“I’m ambidextrous,” Twilight supplies. Just to prove the point, he picks up his sword right-handed and twirls it through the air. “We can pick up where we left off. Sorry for switching to hand-to-hand without warning you—that’s why you broke my arm, right? I get it.”
This is bullshit.
“Aren’t you supposed to tell him to take it easy?” Dark Link demands, whirling on Warriors. “You just splinted his arm!”
“Kid, do I look like a healer?” Warriors curls his mouth into an offended scowl. “I’m in the army. If you can hold a sword, you can damn well get up and fight.”
Twilight grins and shoots Warriors a finger gun. Warriors wiggles his eyebrows and returns the gesture. The gob of angry spit from earlier sits on the dirt, forgotten. Why are heroes so nice to each other?
“‘Sides, it’s good practice,” Twilight adds, turning back to face Dark Link. “Been a while since I fought right-handed. I wouldn’t wanna get rusty. You wanna help with that?”
Dark Link closes his eyes and sighs. The problem with being an enemy to heroes is that he can’t pray to the Golden Goddesses. Maybe that’s the issue. Evil Farore never answers his prayers.
“Yeah,” Dark Link says, miserably caving to his fate. “Let’s spar.”
When they’re back on their feet, weapons in hand, Dark Link throws all his frustration into the fight. His swings have more power than is appropriate for a spar. But every time he knocks the blade out of Twilight’s grip, Twilight only blames it on him being ‘out of practice’ with his right arm, and he picks up his sword with a good-natured smile. The whole time, Warriors mercilessly criticizes Dark Link’s technique from the sidelines.
Life sucks.
So causing a hero severe bodily harm was not enough to convince them of his evilness. Thus, Dark Link needs to escalate. And we all know what that means.
Dark Link needs to murder.
In between side quests, the Chain takes a day off to rest. Dark Link takes the opportunity to stick his head into his backpack and search for the remainder of his cursed poison mushrooms. A full two minutes into the task, he pulls his head back out to get some fresh air—
And promptly slams his forehead into Wild’s chin.
“What the fuck?!” He nurses his new bruise and shoots Wild a scowl. “Were you just sitting there?!”
Wild’s kneeling close enough that Dark Link can feel his body heat. In response to the question, he nods his head hard enough to make his bangs fly into his eyes. “Yeah!”
“Why?”
“I wanted to!”
Okay. That one is on him for asking. No one in this crew has a brain cell, except for maybe Four, but even then it only shows up once in a blue moon. And spoiler alert: it has nothing to do with whether Vio’s fronting.
Wild blinks at Dark Link. Kind of. He blinks one eye at a time, like his body is experiencing input lag from his brain.
“Did you need something?” Dark Link grumbles.
“Your cursed mushrooms,” Wild replies.
“What about my cursed mushrooms?”
“I want them.”
Dark Link opens his mouth, then closes it. He stares at Wild. Oh no.
“Are you high?” he demands.
“No!” Wild flails his arms around in denial. “I’m just like this!” As he moves, he whacks Dark Link on the nose.
Dark Link hisses at the contact and rubs his face. “You realize those mushrooms are poisonous, right?” he asks. “You realize they can kill you?”
“Just—hear me out!” Wild insists. “While I was… indisposed…”
“You mean high.”
“Indisposed,” Wild repeats, loudly talking over the truth. “I lost feeling in my stomach.”
“Yeah. Because the mushrooms are poisonous.”
“I think we can use them for medicine!” Wild declares.
What.
Wild beams wide, showing off all his crooked teeth. “Eating your mushroom felt like eating monster guts.”
Dark Link pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a steadying breath. “Monster guts are similarly poisonous, yes.”
“And I figure—I can make medicine out of monster guts. So I can probably make medicine out of your cursed mushrooms.”
Okay: amendment.
No one in this crew has a brain cell, except for maybe Four and Wild. Wild, despite all his idiocy, is actually a logical person. It’s all cause and effect to him. The only issue is that he’s running on a year’s worth of memories, so what most people call ‘stupid’ is what Wild calls ‘science.’
“No,” Dink says.
“Pleaaaase?”
“I’m not giving you cursed mushrooms.”
First of all, Wild probably won’t die from the mushrooms. He has an insane tolerance for food of dubious origin—the guy snacks on rocks—so the likelihood that he could off himself by consuming poison is annoyingly low. Second of all: if Wild actually succeeds in making medicine out of his mushrooms, then Dink’s presence here would become an overall positive to the chain, and he can’t have that.
Wild flops over in disappointment and tosses an arm over his eyes. “You sound like the geezer,” he complains. “‘Raw meat is bad for you! Stop putting tektite shit in your mouth!’ I’m amnesiac, old man! Maybe I didn’t know it was tektite shit, did you think of that?!”
Dink spreads his hands. “Champion,” he says slowly. “I categorically refuse to give you poison.”
“Because you’re a buzzkill,” Wild whines.
“No, because I’m evil,” Dink corrects. “Go bother the Veteran if you want something poisonous.”
“The Vet?” Wild perks up in interest. He rolls over onto his stomach, pushes himself up on his elbows, and yells across camp. “Vet! Vet! Hey, Vet!”
Several feet away, Legend looks up from where he’s teaching Wind how to play the ocarina. “What?” he yells back.
“Do you have anything poisonous for me to play with?”
“Ask Dink!”
“Dink says no!”
Wind sits up and jumps into the conversation. “Tell Dink that if he doesn’t give in to your demands, then we’re gonna cook spicy chili for dinner tonight!”
“Oh, good plan!” Wild turns to Dink. “The Sailor says—”
“Ugh, fine,” Dink snaps. He rubs his temples in a futile attempt to ward off the oncoming migraine. “You can have one mushroom!”
Wild lets out an elated whoop.
It is with great reluctance that Dink—Dark Link, his name is Dark Link—allows Hyrule to drag him on one of his quote-unquote ‘adventures.’
As they wander the forest, Dark Link goes out of his way to stomp on every twig he can see. Each one breaks with a satisfying snap under his boots. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend that he’s breaking the spines of all nine of his traveling companions.
Hyrule, in contrast, meanders: vaulting over fallen logs, crawling in between bushes, and taking the most unintuitive path he can find.
Dark Link breaks another stick and wrinkles his nose. “Why are we doing this?” he asks. They’d already hiked up a volcano and back down. They’re out of side quests to chase in this particular world. All he wants is to sit back at camp and plot murder, but Hyrule decided that it was exploring hour, and Legend blackmailed Dark Link into accompanying him.
Why did he let Legend get blackmail on him.
“You don’t like adventure?” Hyrule replies, cartwheeling over a puddle.
“Truthfully, I haven’t gone on any.”
Most of Dark Link’s hazy existence has consisted of taunting heroes and subsequently getting struck down by them. He’s done it for forever. Across eras, across timelines, across universes. But a lot of it was reduced to one-on-one duels, and he can’t remember much. No adventures for him: all he knows is attack hero and die.
“You do give off shy shut-in vibes,” Hyrule muses.
Dark Link scowls. Hyrule responds with a mischievous grin.
“But seriously.” Something stings Dark Link’s neck, and he slaps at it. His hand comes away with the bloody remains of a mosquito, and his lips curl in disgust. “I really don’t get the appeal.”
A beat. Hyrule somersaults off a log, lands on the ground, and fills in the space next to Dark Link. “It’s an experience,” he says, as if that answers the question.
Dark Link side-eyes him. He’s not cut out for this sentimental bullshit.
Hyrule breathes in:
The sting of an open wound. A stab of fear.
For a moment, Dark Link feels the phantom pain of a traveler lost in the wastelands of Hyrule. His mouth is desert dry, his whole body aches, and in the distance, he hears the baying of monsters who have caught his scent.
The moment ends.
“I’m not gonna lie and say it’s always fun, because it’s not,” Hyrule says. He bites his lip. “Don’t get me wrong, adventure is fun. But it kinda sucks, too? Sometimes you’re shivering alone in the dark, on the verge of death, and the entire world is out to kill you.”
Dark Link shakes out his wrist, letting Hyrule’s memory bleed away. “Hm.”
“I’m not even going to say that the good times cancel that stuff out,” Hyrule admits. “I mean, the good times are nice. But to say that you can just gloss over all the bad stuff is a bit naïve.”
“You’re really selling me on the whole adventure thing.”
“Yeah, but can you imagine the alternative?” Hyrule faces him with wide eyes. “What if I never broke a bone? What if I never tasted Saria Town’s too-salty soup? What if I never solved a single puzzle? Every day I learn something new. Sometimes it’s good, and sometimes it’s bad—but I’d rather learn bad things than be bored.”
Dark Link squints at Hyrule. “Have you ever heard of attention deficit hyperactivity disorder?”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
They lapse into silence. Dink snaps another stick under his boot. The sound is satisfying, but not as satisfying as the split-second when the wood gives under his weight.
“Oh, crap!”
Dink looks up just in time to see Hyrule fall out of a tree.
The Traveler lands on his ankle and yelps. Dispassionate, Dink watches as Hyrule struggles to a standing position. When he tries to put weight on his ankle, his face scrunches up in pain.
Dink smirks. “Having an experience, are you?”
“Shut up.” Hyrule rolls his eyes. He hobbles over to a tree and leans against the trunk. “Shut up and get me a stick crutch or something!”
Dink scans the forest floor. There is a long trail of broken sticks left in his wake.
“Huh,” he says.
It occurs to him that he could leave Hyrule here. He could walk away and never look back. And just to be extra thorough, he could stab Hyrule and then walk away and never look back. It would be very easy.
“Dink?” Hyrule asks, blinking innocently.
But that would be too easy. He wants to fight for it. He wants to struggle. He wants to topple the dominoes, to trap the heroes in a checkmate. He wants to relish in the satisfaction of exertion.
Maybe that was what Hyrule meant. It doesn’t matter whether he wins or loses. It’s about the experience. After all, isn’t that when he felt the closest thing to what heroes call adventure? When he was fighting for his life?
Isn’t that why he’s here?
“Dink?”
Plus, Legend still has blackmail on him, and he can’t have that getting spread around.
“I’ll grab you a stick,” Dink sighs, and he pulls out his knife and starts sawing away at the nearest good-sized tree branch.
It’s late, and it’s cold. Cold enough that his cloak dampens with dew, cold enough that his breath spirals out of his mouth and into the starry night. He lies against the bench, the stone like ice against his back, and his hands are folded over his stomach. High above, the moon stares down at him. Waning, if he’s reading it right. A waning crescent—one step closer to absolute darkness.
“Dink?”
“What?” he snaps. His blood rushes through his ears; his fingertips tingle. This is it. This is the moment he’s been waiting for, when they finally realize, when they finally kick him out—
“The Smithy wants to talk to you,” Time announces.
His thoughts screech to a halt.
“What.”
“The Smithy wants to talk to you,” Time repeats.
Dink sits up straight and faces Time head-on, one part disbelief and one part challenge. “You’re just gonna let that happen?”
Time shrugs. “Should I not?”
“You’re an idiot,” Dink snarls. He surges up to his feet. “You’re all a bunch of fucking idiots.”
He shoves past Time and storms into the inn. Knocks over a little girl. Rages down the hall, ignores the quiet looks exchanged by the other heroes. Kicks in the door.
Four, the fool, lies flat on the bed. His bandages are fresh, but his eyes are sunken in, and the metallic scent of blood lingers in the air.
Four calls up a weak smile. “Hi, Dink.”
“Why the hell are you still alive?” Dink demands.
A light laugh. “We’re lucky I was carrying the extra potions, huh?”
“Shut up,” Dink spits. He stomps his way over to the bed, relishing in the way Four flinches at every step. He looms.
“Whoa.” Four frowns at him. “What crawled up your ass? You’re acting like somebody died.”
“You should be dead!” Dink cries. He wrings his hands through his hair. “I stabbed you! I stabbed you in the gut with a rusty knife and kicked you into a mudhole! You should’ve bled out! You should’ve gotten tetanus!”
“Yeah, but I didn’t.”
“I’m so fucking useless!” A frustrated scream tears out of Dink’s throat. He drops to the ground and slumps his back against the bed. “I can’t do anything right!”
“Hey, don’t say that,” Four protests.
Dink can hear the sheets shifting around. If he were a good person, he would tell Four to sit down and stop agitating his stab wound, but he’s not, so he keeps his mouth shut instead.
“It was an accident,” Four says. “We were all caught off-guard by that ambush. And you usually fight on your own, right? I know you’re not used to the chaos of a ten-man-melee.”
“You don’t even know what I was trying to do,” Dink snaps.
“Well, no,” Four admits. “But you’ll do better next time, right? I can practice with you. I’m pretty good at team coordination.”
So fucking stupid. The fight leaves Dink’s body, and his voice comes out devoid of feeling. “Because there’s four of you, right?”
“Yeah—hey! How do you know that? Did we slip up?”
“I’m the personification of the darkness within your heart,” Dink deadpans. “I know everything.”
“The personification of the darkness within my heart is dead,” Four replies.
“Look.” Dink huffs and turns around to face Four. “I’m obviously losing my touch. You need to kick me out of the group so I can recenter myself and return to my default state of evil badassery. Tell everyone you feel unsafe in my presence. Let me go.”
Four’s nose scrunches up. “We’re not giving up on you, dumbass.”
Dink lets out a strangled cry and buries his face in his hands. No one ever listens to him.
“It’s fine,” Four promises. He reaches out and ruffles Dink’s hair. “It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine. I forgive you.”
“You shouldn’t,” Dink mutters. Despite himself, he can’t quite muster up the energy to push Four’s hand away.
Eighteen days into executing the ‘try and kill the Chain from the inside’ plan, Dink experiences a midnight crisis and runs away to join an Eldinian monastery.
He actually gets close enough to see the smoke from Din’s Eternal Flame. But that’s when he imagines having to dress in red silk instead of his standard all-black ensemble, so, in shame, he turns on his heel and heads back to the inn instead. Agitated, he circles the building, trying to remember which window leads to the room he shares with Hyrule and Twilight.
After unsuccessfully trawling his memories, he chooses one at random. He tip-toes up to the window, puts his hand on the latch, and looks up—
To see a white-faced Sky staring at him from the other side of the glass.
“Um,” Dink says intelligently.
Sky yanks up the window pane and moves his hands in rapid-fire sign. “What are you doing?”
“What are you doing?” Dink counters. Everyone knows that Sky needs eight hours of sleep because if he gets any less, he turns into a raging dick.
Sky shakes his head. He climbs out of the room, footsteps silent on the window sill. Once he’s out, he pulls it closed, careful to leave a crack open for the return trip. Then he grabs Dink’s hand and pulls him away.
“You alright?” Sky asks out loud, once they’re far enough away from the inn.
“Why are you awake?” Dink demands, ignoring the question. “Didn’t you drink three cups of chamomile tea?”
“I’ve built up an immunity,” Sky says. He narrows his eyes. “Why were you outside? You have your backpack on.”
Dink flinches and fiddles with the straps of his pack. “Uh, midnight snack?”
It’s a horrendous lie. He needs to get away from these people and relearn the art of evil.
The corners of Sky’s mouth twitch in amusement. Dink scowls and tries to step on his foot, but Sky’s reflexes are too good, and he steps out of the attack with the gentle grace of a godkiller.
Then Sky starts walking. His sailcloth swishes behind him, and there’s a sort of melancholy slump to his shoulders. A few steps later, he pauses and looks over his shoulder. “Aren’t you coming?”
Dink’s feet answer for him.
They end up sitting on a boulder near the edge of town. It’s a cloudy night—no stars to gaze at, no moon to shine down upon them. But a potter lives nearby, and Dink can see the glow of their kiln. They’re probably making replacements for all the pots they broke today.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Sky says, finally offering up an explanation for his late-night escapade. “Figured I’d take a walk and try to clear my head.”
“Yeah, uh. That happened to me, too.”
Sky frowns at him. Looks at his bag. Frowns harder.
(Dink crosses his arms. He will confess to nothing.)
The silence that follows is unbearably awkward. Normally Sky radiates a quiet camaraderie, but whatever is in the air tonight warps the atmosphere into a miserable miasma. Something heavy settles in Dink’s stomach, and his throat tightens. It takes a while for him to put a name to the feeling. It’s suffering—not his own, but the suffering of the hero sitting beside him.
By the time Sky starts talking, Dink already knows what he’s going to say.
“I had a nightmare.” Sky’s voice is soft, barely audible. His knuckles whiten as he grips the edges of his sailcloth.
A strike of lightning. A stab of horror.
His breath is labored, and his nerves spasm in erratic intervals. It’s over, it has to be over—but a curse interrupts that blessed relief, and what should be a moment of triumph turns into another regret.
“There’s something that I did before. No—something I failed to do.” Sky swallows. “I was too weak. Too slow. I couldn’t stop it in time. And now we all have to pay the price.”
It’s Demise. Sky has a lot of nightmares about Demise, but the frequency has kicked up ever since meeting the other heroes. The setting changes from dream to dream, but wherever it takes place, the area is in ruins, and the dialogue always remains the same.
My hate never perishes.
Sky lowers his gaze and stares at the dirt. “I don’t know how to fix it. I’m sorry that you had to suffer because of me.”
His voice is weak with a year and an eternity’s worth of guilt. It’s a pain he’s suffered in silence, a burden he cannot and will not put down.
This, Dark Link thinks, is familiar territory.
“You want to be hated, don’t you?”
Sky flinches at the question.
“They’re all so nice,” Dark Link says quietly. “So brave, so strong. But you don’t deserve their friendship. You’ve left so much destruction in your wake. It’s your fault— you’re the reason why they suffer, you’re the reason why they bear burdens no one should ever bear.”
Beside him, Sky sits, frozen in place.
“It’s exhausting, huh?” Dark Link feels like he’s being quiet, but his words are needles stabbing into his eardrums. “For all the jokes and good food and campfire stories—you’re not one of them. You’ll never belong. You can push them away, you can accept it, you can twist yourself into something unrecognizable, but there are things you can’t change.”
Sky’s breath hitches.
“No matter how they treat you, the truth is that you are not worthy of their love.” His voice cracks, rising in volume with every word. “It’s inherent. It’s inevitable. You will never be the person they think you are. You are a reflection of everything they hate about themselves. You are their darkest secrets, their worst nightmares, their most primal fears. If they knew the truth, they would abandon you without a single regret. You should just give up and die.”
Gasping, Dark Link clutches at his chest. He pants, desperate to reclaim the oxygen he had so carelessly wasted. His knees are shaking. He doesn’t remember standing up. When did he stand up?
“Dink?” Sky rises to his feet and grabs him by the shoulder. His eyes are wide and blue, brimming with equal parts horror and concern. “Dink, are you alright—?”
“Fuck off!” Dark Link snarls. He rips himself out of Sky’s grip, shoves him away, and takes off running.
Conquer yourself!
The hero takes the opening. A burst of light shoots out of the sword and strikes him in the chest. He flies back, and his whole body burns—
Conquer yourself!
The hero swings their sword and slashes open his tunic. He slams against the ground, and the water seeps into his wound, washing him away—
Conquer yourself!
The hero lunges forward and wrestles him to the ground—
The hero raises their blade—
The hero learns.
Dark Link is not a hero.
Shhhk. Shhhk.
Dark Link lifts his sword away from the whetstone and inspects the edge with a critical eye. It’s a perfect edge, with no chips or cracks to mar the surface of the metal. He taps the blade. His finger comes away with a clean line sliced into the fingerprint.
Some distance away from his position, a man steps on a leaf. His footsteps are hesitant, but obvious. It’s a warning message. He’s giving him a chance to run.
But he can’t. There’s no point. He already lost.
With a scream, Dark Link bursts out of the tree and goes for an overhead strike.
Time rolls out of the way. Dark Link’s sword hits the dirt, missing the old man by a hair. Snarling, he yanks his blade out of the earth and whirls around, eyes glowing with bloodlust.
“I guess we’re doing this,” Time says, and he raises a Hylian Shield. The scabbard on Time’s back is empty.
“A shield?” Dark Link stares at him in disbelief. “You brought a fucking shield to a sword fight?”
Time lifts an eyebrow. “What else was I supposed to bring?”
“I hate you!”
Dark Link raises his sword and swings.
Clang! Time parries the strike, knocking Dark Link off balance. Dark Link stumbles, but the old man takes a step back and waits, refusing to press his advantage.
Offended beyond belief, Dark Link spits at his feet and goes in for another attack. Lunge forward—catch yourself—feint, try and go for the opening—
His sword hits the shield with another clang! The impact sends painful vibes up and down his arm. His hand tingles, but he ignores the way his nerves twinge, and he forces himself to tighten his grip on the hilt.
Before him, Time rests on the balls of his feet. His eyes are sharp, and he stares Dark Link down with inhuman patience.
“What is wrong with you?!” Dark Link steps closer and tries to trip Time with a sweep, but the attack is easily dodged.
“You good?” Time asks.
“Stop asking me that!” He picks up a rock and chucks it forward as hard as he can. It bounces off of Time’s shield and ricochets into a tree. “Why are you all so stupid?!”
Swing.
The shield comes up, and metal hits metal. Dark Link’s ears throb, and his sword rings in protest. He spent so much time sharpening it just for this battle. Time is the worst.
“You done?” Time asks, peeking out from behind his shield.
“No, actually!” Dark Link points an accusing finger. “I know you! You’re a bitter, paranoid asshole who’s seen too much and hates his life! You know where all your teen angst ended up? It’s me! I’m your teen angst!”
He aims for Time’s knees. The stupid shield blocks his path. Again.
“Every regret!” Dark Link screams. “Every dark moment! Every feeling you’ve ever repressed! There’s enough of that shit to make a whole person!”
Time winces. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize!” He goes for another overhead strike.
Dark Link burns and bleeds and breathes, the air heaving in and out of his aching lungs the way a river floods during a storm. Every attack is a loose thread: questions without answers, grief without closure. Time won’t let him win, but he won’t let him lose, either, so all he can do is swing and stab and scream insults until one of them hits home.
“Nobody trusts you!”
Time rolls out of range.
“Nobody loves you!”
Time sidesteps.
“You don’t deserve anything!”
Another parry. Dark Link hisses and winds up for another strike. “Stay still, old man! I’m gonna stab you dead!”
He swings, Time dodges—
And Dark Link’s sword slices straight into a tree trunk. The blade sinks into the wood, sinking in far past the point of no return. Desperate, he tries to pull it out, but it’s lodged tight and refuses to budge.
“Woah,” Time says, impressed. “Lots of power in that swing!”
Dark Link spins around and flings his hands through the air. The fucking audacity—
He leaps forward and tackles Time, hard enough that they both fall over, and he wrestles the old man blindly across the ground. But he’s too angry for technique, and he wasted all his energy on screaming himself hoarse. Within three seconds, Time shakes him off.
Dark Link hits the dirt. He pushes himself up and shoots a feral glare in Time’s general direction.
“Wild’s cooking tomato soup,” Time offers.
“Listen up, dickwad!” Dark Link snarls. “I’m not joking, I’m not lying, and I’m not being an insecure loser! My name is Dark Link! I am evil! You are my enemy!”
Time stares him down, unimpressed. “You know we all knew that already, right?”
Something in his brain breaks. “What.”
“We’re all adventurers, here.” Time shrugs. “We all know when someone’s trying to kill us.”
Dark Link chokes on his own breath, shocked out of his rage. He struggles to wrap his mind around the concept. “Then—why did you let me stay?”
“Well…” Time coughs and breaks eye contact, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck. “It was, uh. Deeply hilarious.”
“Fucking slaughter me,” Dink hisses. He scrambles forward and grabs Time by the collar. “You kept me around for entertainment?!”
“You stuck around for murder,” Time points out, gently dislodging Dink’s grip on his shirt. “So I think we can call it even.”
It’s so dumb. It’s so fucking dumb. Entertainment and murder aren’t even close to equivalent exchange. And what’s so entertaining about Dink, anyway?
Time hates himself, and Sky hates himself, and Wild and Twilight and basically everyone except for Wind hates themselves, and Wind hates the entire world. And if they hate themselves, they have to hate Dink, too. This is a fact, because that’s what Dink is. That’s why his name is Dark Link.
“Okay, we did find it very amusing that you suck at assassination,” Time says. “But also—you’re fun to talk to? You’re witty, and you’re weird, and it’s a refreshing change of pace to have someone who will challenge you instead of conceding to Hero’s Wisdom.”
“Challenge?” Dink’s jaw drops open. “I was threatening you.”
“Considering your track record, we didn’t think you would be able to follow through.”
Dink groans. He throws his head back and tosses himself on the ground, drained of energy. He used to be feared. He used to be the coolest boss in the whole game. Now look at him: a pathetic failed assassin who functions as a jester for the people he’s trying to kill.
“You know why I was made?” Dink closes his eyes. “I’m a foil. I’m a lesson. You get one big fight with the physical manifestation of your issues, and then you kill me, and you move on and save the world. But—” he chokes. “I don’t get to move on. I’m trapped in this cycle just like you, but I never get to win. I’m your character development. That’s my whole purpose. And you—” he scrubs at his eyes. “You brought a fucking shield! I don’t even get to die fighting you because you won’t fight!”
Time twists his mouth. Dink grunts and curls up into a ball, trying his hardest to become one with the ground.
“You know, I don’t hate myself anymore,” Time says. “I haven’t hated myself for a while now.”
Yeah, it had been a while since Dink felt any Time-related shit.
“But you know how bad it got,” Time says, pressing his lips together.
Dink shrugs and draws his cloak tighter around his shoulders.
“I bet twenty rupees you can stop hating yourself, too,” Time says.
The answer is immediate. “It’s different,” Dink says.
“How?”
“Because—”
Because I’m everything that sucks about you guys. Because I’m nothing but a failed reflection. Because I’m not a hero.
Because I’m me.
Time drums his fingers on his thighs, searching for words. After a long moment, he opens his mouth. “I don’t hate myself,” he repeats, “so by definition, I don’t hate you.”
“I’m evil,” Dink reminds him.
Time rolls his eyes. “Then why aren’t we dead?”
“I never said I was good at being evil.”
Time stares at him.
The words sink into Dink’s brain, and he winces. What an absolute concept: to be bad at being bad.
But Time has a point. Maybe there was a reason he poisoned the hero with ridiculous poison tolerance. Maybe there was a reason he broke the arm of their only ambidextrous fighter. Why didn’t he kill Hyrule? Why did he stab the hero with the stock of red potions? Why didn’t he run away and join the Eldinian monastery when he had the chance?
There’s a castle somewhere, with shattered windows and dirty carpet and a chair with the stuffing spilling out of its cushion. His minions never tried to rescue him from the Chain. Evil Farore never helped him.
But Warriors criticized his fighting technique, and Wild and Wind made him spicy chili, and in the middle of the night, Sky asked if Dink was okay.
“You don’t have to be a hero, Dink,” Time says. “We just like having you around. It’d be nice if you tried to kill us less often, but we still like you.” He stands up and brushes the dirt from his pants. Grinning, he holds out a hand. “C’mon. Let’s go cause problems for someone other than ourselves.”
“You’re all a bunch of fucking idiots,” Dink informs him.
He takes Time’s hand.
