Archive of Our Own

Coming home is something that ought to be wonderful. 

The ranch means Malon. Outset means Aryll and Wind’s granny. Ordon is Twilight’s adoptive family. Castletown brings them Four’s mother and father, sometimes a visit to various Zeldas. Legend’s house has Ravio, Skyloft is a promise of a bustling community above and below the clouds, all warm and bright and eager to see them all. Warriors really had even hoping to share a similar experience with his brothers in his own hometown, but it’s quickly becoming apparent that that will not be the case. 

He wanted to show them the markets, the vendors and shops and all the things he’s steadily watched rebuilt after the war. Some of it was there before Tune and Mask had left, but a lot of it wasn’t, and there ought to be more now since the last time he’s seen it considering his absence. He knows not all of them will probably enjoy everything, but there’s still a part of him that wants to show them. He wants them to see his home, to see how far it’s come and how much it’s grown. He wants to show the heroes who come before what it is they’ve left behind, and the heroes who are yet to come what their world can be again. More than that though, he wants his chance to show off everything he loves about the kingdom he’s spent so long serving, just as each of his brothers have. Maybe it’s a bit arrogant, because there’s a part of him that can’t wait for their awe and delight and shock, but even Fi can’t deny him this small bit of pride! 

Fate, however, can. 

The moment he realizes that they are, in fact, in his world, it’s when he’s recognized by a passing soldier, one who starts and stares, doing a double take. Based off of previous encounters, he doesn’t think it’s too far-fetched to assume that the man, stationed out Akkela way and far from the capitol and most of the fighting during the war, is simply just shocked to be seeing the hero with his own eyes. It’s not egotistical if it’s founded in prior experience, and even Fi couldn’t blame him for thinking so. So, really, it’s not a huge shock that the man approaches them as they linger on the side of the road, resting out of the midday sun. 

They'd been wandering about, searching for anything that might tell them what to do or where to go. He’d thought they might be in North Hyrule when he’d seen the plant life around them, but the presence of a stone citadel to their north had been a sure sign to prove it right. He hadn’t known if it was his era upon seeing it of course, considering as the thing was ages old even by his time, but the soldier who approaches is wearing a familiar uniform and not the old style. Furthermore, the man looks directly at him, rather than, as most do, turning his attention to their leader reflexively based off of presence alone. “Captain,” he’s greeted, a sharp salute offered as the man stares down at him. He’s not a tall fellow, but the horse snorting and pawing the earth beneath him helps give him enough to look down on the war hero. 

“Sergeant,” he returns, saluting in kind. It’s not necessary, not standard, but he does it anyway. His men, no matter where they come from, deserve his respect as much as he does theirs. “How goes things at the citadel?” 

The wide eyes stare of the soldier continues, and the longer he looks, the more it becomes very apparent that it’s not wonder that has the young man looking at him so, it’s confusion and something else, something dangerously close to wariness which he doesn’t like. 

“Sir, begging your pardon, sir, but are-” there’s the slightest hesitation, a licking of the lips and then, this time firmer, “Sir, you’ve been missing for three months, half Hyrule is out searching for you, sir.” 

His stomach drops at the words. 

“Well, he’s here now, so how about telling him what’s going on so he can help, yeah?” Thinly veiled ire laces the veteran’s voice as the younger regards the mounted soldier. There’s one ring clad hand hovering just over the bag of items he knows holds more than a small armory would, but quite frankly he’s just glad the younger hero hasn't simply drawn his sword in response to the presence of the soldier before them. He needs to work with the vet on that, at least while in his world, but right now isn't the best of times. 

No, because hero or no, he’s still a soldier before and after all else. A soldier who went missing without first consulting his commanding officer. A soldier who has failed to make contact with any commanding officer in an extended period of time. Three months, the man had said. Three long months during which he’s been chasing monsters and fighting just as he would have had he been with his men. A portal had swallowed him up, whisking him away from his duty though and carried him away without giving him a fair chance to warn his commanders that he’d be absent, much less allow him to consult the princess about taking on this task. He’s stood on the other side of this enough times to know the results of such actions. His name is scrawled on more papers than he’d care to recount, sealed and signed to declare absent soldiers as defectors, deserters, traitors . Those who leave without warning are marked the same as those who willingly turn on their fellows. Hero or no, knighted at Hylia’s behest or bearer of the sword of Evil’s Bane, he’s still a soldier, and soldiers , no matter the rank, are treated the same when it comes to matters of treachery. 

The man before him is as aware of that fact as he is himself, and it’s clear the thought leaves him likewise wrong footed, looking down upon the hero who’s name no doubt has been spread around not in praise these last few months, but rather in ire, seeking him out to answer for his stolen absence. “Sir, I must ask that you return to the citadel with me,” the young soldier shifts his reins, nervous but no doubt summoning his training in the case that the hero before him resists against the order. He’s ready to kick his mount into action to chase, if need be, and they both know it. 

Warriors has no intention of resisting though, although the other heroes don’t seem to have caught onto what’s happening before them. “Sorry, no,” the vet hisses, “we’re headed south.” 

The soldier’s jaw tightens, hands stilling and gaze slipping off of himself for a moment to trail to the brother at his side, who’s already making to draw his sword in the case that the mounted scout will push his point. No doubt, such a thing will happen too. They’re trained to never take ‘no’ as an answer when it comes to giving orders, and resisting orders without a very good reason is out of the question. Still, he’d rather not allow it to come to that point. He doesn’t need resisting arrest added onto his list of crimes here, not when this is something that no doubt can be cleared up quite easily. 

Her highness understands time travel, to an extent. She has, like him, watched the confused refugees of the war struggle with finding themselves dropped for seemingly no reason in the midst of a land and a time that is not their own. Last he knew some of them were still in Hyrule, still seeking ways home. They’ve never had the displacement occur in the reverse yet, but if he’s the first case then so be it, it’s still a valid answer to why he hadn’t been reporting for duty or notifying Impa as to his required absence. It’s shameful, yes, to need to be marched back to an outpost like a miscreant, more so when all there will know perfectly well who he is, but it’s the thing that’s got to be done. 

“Put your blade away, vet.”  

Dark eyes lift to him for a moment, wary and startled at once, darting between himself and the strange knight with a guarded sort of look as the vet awaits his explanation.  

He sighs, settling a hand on the shoulder of the younger, guiding his arm down again, hands empty for the time being. “He’s following procedure.” 

“What for?” Sky questions, because he doesn't know . Sometimes it’s easy to forget, as they’re both knights, but these laws and standards won’t have been established in the eras of some of his brothers. Explaining it fully to them isn’t exactly something he has time for though,  

Instead, he stands straight and tall, proud as a hero ought to be and slipping easily into everything his men know him to be, everything that’s expected of him as a leader; his ‘captain’s stance’ Wind calls it. “Listen, I need you all to do me a favor,” he doesn’t want to ask, but he doesn’t trust the postal system or the speed with which the citadel commander may or may not elect to notify the queen of his ‘capture’. Fortunately, his brothers are all ears, tense and confused, but listening closely. “Head up towards Castletown and seek out her highness. Sky has the Master Sword, so you’ll be allowed in to see her. Tell her what’s going on here.” 

“And what is that?” Hyrule hisses, not harsh, not yet, but uncertain and highly uncomfortable with that factor. 

He wishes he could smile, something reassuring and warm, but it won’t come. Instead, he’s left to only bite back a sigh as he meets snapping green eyes. “The Hero has been arrested for abandoning his post.” 

- 

None of them had taken his words well, but, thank Hylia, Time had had the good sense to hold them in check. It’s been years for the man, but he still remembers, apparently, all the times that men had disappeared or left behind their stations, resulting in chaos in camp both during and after the war as they were sought out and punished. It wasn’t pretty then. The princess had been missing and the council was too busy to try cases regarding deserters, all things considered. Many had fallen into the purview of the sheikah, and few of them had survived after that. He’s lucky that now there’s more of a chance to explain his actions, and more so that he’s already got the good standing to back up his words, but that’s not enough to stop him needing to march back up to the citadel beside the scout. 

The others had continued to protest, of course. He doesn’t blame them either and honestly, it’s touching in a way that they care so, but there’s nothing he can do. He can’t grant them access to the citadel as his own power is most certainly frozen on account of his current status as a defector, and even if one of them was to come with him rather than accompany the others in seeking out the princess or Impa, there’s no promise they could enter, much less find safety in the walls of the citadel. Most of the treachery had occurred in central Hyrule, and by now has been weeded out, so he doesn't suspect foul play will be as likely this far north, but in the case that it occurs, he'd rather have the rest of the heroes well out of its way all the same. 

He goes alone. 

He’s spared being bound, be it out of trust that he won’t leave or respect for his person, he’s not sure, but it’s maintained until they reach the gates and he’s handed off to the commander of the place. Unlike the young scout, unfortunately, the woman has no interest in letting titles, honors, or past actions affect how she handles deserting soldiers. His blade and uniform are confiscated, shoes and belt quickly following; as in accordance with procedure, and it’s not long after that he finds himself locked up in a small cell, just the same as hundreds of men before him have seen under his command. 

It’s fine, he promises himself. It’ll be a few days, but the rest will arrive at Castletown and find the princess. He knows Zelda wouldn’t be willing to believe he’d just leave behind his duty to the kingdom out of the blue. He knows not even Impa would think it of him, even as suspicious of people and doubtful of their good intentions as she can be. No, the two will be willing to listen, it’s just a matter of lasting until he’s either summoned, or someone is sent here for him. He just needs to give his brothers time to reach the castle and then things will be cleared up in no time. 

- 

Time seems to drag by. 

The cell he’s been left in isn’t a large one, just four paces this way and that. The lighting’s dim, and none of it is natural, so he’s not entirely sure what time it is anymore. Torches line the hall outside but one of them spluttered out even before he came, and while there’s evidence that there was once an outer window to the cell, it’s been closed off. If he had to guess the work was done during the time of the war. More likely than not, a commander had wanted to prevent escape from within, and while he’s never actually heard reports of prisoners escaping through the tiny windows that there sometimes are in cells, there’s no telling what desperate men will do. He’s heard and read enough reports to know that for sure. 

He's not a desperate man though. He’s a soldier that was taken from his post by forces outside of his control. While he’s not sure that Hylia specifically had cast the portals, especially when all evidence currently suggests that the shadow had done so, he does know that such an event would probably qualify as being an “act of Hylia” and thus absolutely something outside of his control. 

He’s not even sure why he’s nervous about all this. It’s terrible that it’s happening and he hates that there will be any word among the people that he’d left them behind or otherwise fallen so far as to leave them on purpose , but it’s a simple misunderstanding! One that can be cleared up with one simple conversation with the princess, or even just with Impa, which is far more likely. He only needs to explain how he’d come to leave and where he’s been, give a full report on his actions and the measures taken, and more likely than not his absence will be pardoned, his record struck clean and- Hylia’s will be done- his pay reinstated. 

Yes, he is at no fault for this. So then why does he feel the urge to pace restlessly up and down the brief length of the floor? Why are his eyes already darting up towards the door? His brothers won’t be back for a while! 

The trip to Castletown will take the rest of the heroes several days at least. The exact length differs of course, but the current weather, by his approximation based off their time here so far, will be mostly cloudy, with some rain, but not enough to slow them significantly. If they rent horses at the nearest town, it will take less time, but the quality of available horseflesh will make a significant difference. Even under the worst conditions though, his brothers can’t take more than a week to reach the castle, and that’s accounting for monster attacks, bad weather, and a lack of horses! Impa can send word back within a day or two if she calls on a rito messenger, and knowing the woman as he does, she likely will. She makes no betrayal of feelings towards him but it’s undeniable that she wouldn’t leave one of her people in a bad spot if she can help it, especially not one important to the princess. 

He forces himself to stop pacing, to instead sit on the thin bunk provided in the cell, hands rubbing dow over his face. He only needs to wait a week. How bad can that be? 

- 

It’s bad. 

The thing about a week is that it seems to fly by when you have duties and battles and travel to attend to. Left i a room with only a bed and a bucket, he doesn’t exactly have very much to keep him occupied and the time seems to crawl past. In camp with the others, he’s always doing something, be it writing up reports to give to the princess once he’d returned home (reports he’s now entrusted to Wind for delivery), tending to hir gear, training with one of the others, scouting, hunting, foraging- there's always something to be done with the other heroes, and it’s early always accompanied by the sounds of life. 

  Wind’s feet scuff the earth as he walks, more accustomed to ship and sea than to rolling hills and long, stretched out fields. Legend hums softly to himself, singing sometimes when the younger ones encourage him. There’s always someone whispering or talking aloud to someone else, and the tapping or rubbing of fingers fills in the small gaps between voices as they all fiddle and fidget for lack of anything other than walking to be done. 

There’s always a continual stream of feedback and information, in the sounds of their voices and the feel of the wind, the weather and the world around them. Sitting still now, with nowhere to go but four paces that way and four paces this way is strange, as is the absence of anything other than grey stone, a colorless tick of a bed and the faint orange glow of the one torch in his area. 

The captain sighs, running a hand through his hair. 

Patience. He needs to have patience. How many times has he reminded Mask to remember that same thing? How many times has he reminded Legend? The thing is out of his hands, he’s just got to trust someone else will handle matters for once, and until the he’s got to wait. 

But he hates waiting. He hates sitting back and doing nothing, and however many hours he’s spent here already highlights that fact. Still, he’s got nothing to do! There’s no reports to read or write or hear, no forms to be filled out or documents to file, to dig through, to read. He’s got no men in and out of the room with questions and reports and demands, no fellow heroes asking him questions or in desperate need of teasing and laughter. There’s no sword to sharpen, no armor to clean, no letters to write or- or anything! He’s got a straw tick and a bucket! Neither of which he feels particularly keen on touching. 

In the end, he ends up deciding to meditate for a bit. Impa had suggested it to him when he started stressing too much after the war, and she’d said it would offer help in repairing his connection to the sword, or at least could, if he did it right. 

- 

Meditating is the most boring thing on the face of the earth. 

- 

It feels like hours have passed, maybe a day? He's got no way of knowing for sure. A meal had been dropped by a while ago, but the man who’d left it hadn’t spoken so much as a word to him in the two minutes it took to slide the food in and leave. 

Warriors gets the distinct impression that the soldiers are under orders not to speak with or to him. He can’t name why he thinks so, precisely, but it’s there. It’s there and he’s left stewing over it as he eats the food. A runny stew and a tough roll. It’s better than many a meal he’s had, and for garrison food, it’s on the better side. During training, their bread had been stale or moldy half of the time, and the soup wasn’t even necessarily hot. Here, it is, and it’s a small comfort as he eats and then leaves the tray back by the door where it was placed. 

Eating, at least, gives him something to do, and he takes his time with it for the first time in ages. The food is gone after a while though, and then he’s left with nothing again, just the empty room and a fervent need to be doing something. 

Well, since he doesn’t want to go back to trying to reign in his thoughts, perhaps mastering something else will be different. He’s heard many soldiers say that the best way to serve out time in the guardhouse or otherwise in temporary lock up is to just work out, and while he hates push-ups with a fervent passion, it’s not like there's anything better to do. 

- 

Push-ups suck. 

When his arms are sore enough that he knows pushing will leave him unwilling to move at all in a few hours, he stops. It was later in the afternoon when he’d been brought in, and while he’s not sure if the meal earlier was meant to be dinner or an early soldier’s breakfast, he’s not slept yet. Not that sleeping in a small space is ideal, but if he curls up tight enough on the straw tick and puts his face to the wall, he can almost imagine he’s back at the old house in Hebra. It’s not nearly as cold here as it was there, although Akkela isn’t warm by any means and dungeons by nature are chilly, but it’s easy enough to pretend. There’s a prominent lack of little sisters climbing over each other, whining and fighting and whimpering at the cold, no little bodies clinging close to try and leech heat off of their big brother, but it is what it is. 

Mother once showed him that pressing a fist over your heart can simulate the weight of a small child’s head, and it’s strangely soothing when he tries it. Not as soothing as holding an actual infant, but it settles a small part of his mind that he can at least stop thinking so hard. Instead, he can stare, listless, at the stones, tracing the way their mottling seems to make strange pictures and faces. 

He must drift off like that eventually, because he wakes sometime later with a sharp start, but nothing to startle him. It’s disconcerting, not knowing how long he’s been asleep, but stranger still is the fact that he slept at all in a strange place and without the promise of someone watching his back. Sure, the cell is barred, and no one had come at all before he’d drifted off, but that doesn’t mean no one ever will. 

He kicks himself, mentally, for dropping his guard that much, but honestly, with nothing and no one around, not even the sounds of footsteps, he knows how he’d done it. 

Unfortunately, being awake comes with the return of the ceaseless need to move to go to work at something, and the area around him hasn’t changed at all since he drifted off. He’s not sure how long he was out either, although by the way it’s hard to pull himself up again he knows it was probably several hours at the least, although, again, he’s not sure how many. Time would know. Time always knows and although he’s asked a good dozen times, usually teasing but sometimes not, he’s still not sure how the younger hero had managed that. 

Or- no, Time is older than he is. At least, he is now. He wasn’t before, but since meeting again he is- most certainly- older than the captain. It’s strange, and sometimes, like now, it catches him off guard that the kid he used to toss over his shoulder like yesterday's washing is now big enough to throw him across Hyrule field. 

The mental picture makes him grin, chuckling softly as his head taps against the stone of the wall behind him. Time probably would never actually throw him, but even just the idea is something he thinks would make the rest of the boys laugh and tease.  

Gods, he misses them! It’s been only a day or so, he thinks, and already it feels like forever ago. They’ll be back soon though, or else he’ll be headed back to them. Whichever the case, if they come back for him personally, if he heads to Castletown to meet with them, or if they meet him halfway, he’ll see them soon. A week, he tells himself, just a week or so. He can last that long. He survived a war, he can survive sitting alone in a cell for a week. 

- 

The week can’t be over soon enough. 

He’s got no way to track the time, having no idea when or how frequently the meal trays will come, but four have been dropped so far. All of them hold the same fare, and while a canteen of water is provided- one that he doesn’t have to return until it’s empty apparently, or at least which he’s not asked to return- it still doesn’t make anything any easier. 

He’s not starving, although the food isn’t filling either. He’s not sure if the meals are once, twice, or thrice a day, and not knowing is making him restless. Well, it’s not the only thing making him restless but it’s certainly not helping either! He needs a way to be able to track the time, to know how long it’s taking between one thing and the next, but there’s really nothing. There's no sound of patrolling guards, no light save the singular torch, and even that has begun to splutter and fade. He can’t track time by how long the torches take to burn out either, because they’ve been there longer than he has. 

He has one tell-tale sign though, and he hates it: he needs to shave. 

It’s not bad just yet, just a faint stubble. Still, that’s a lot more than he’s used to. Mother used to ask him if he’d grow a beard, but expectations of the hero are a well-kept sort of person, and honestly speaking, shaving is easier than up-keeping a mess of hair any day. He's never fancied himself a person to go around with facial hair, especially since it’d been so patchy when he was younger.  

The Hero’s Curse, he’s learned, is that none of his brothers seem to be inclined towards decent facial hair. Unless of course they are fervently against it, like Four. The smithy has every hope that he doesn’t, considering if one even spares a glance at the men of the short hero’s family, they can see quite easily how well off Four would be, should he wish. He doesn’t seem too though, much to Time’s relief; their old man has little chance of ever adopting a decent beard, and Warriors would have said the same of himself if he wasn’t being met even now with evidence otherwise.  

Gods, he needs a razor! He may be a prisoner for the time being, but is it really so much to ask that he at least be allowed some hygiene? Even as the thought leaves his mind he sighs. He sounds like a city boy alright. Gosh, he hates how Twilight is right about these things. He’s never telling him though, not in a thousand years. 

- 

Seven trays.  

It feels like he’s losing his mind. 

He hasn’t actually seen anyone save the hand of the guard that leaves and takes his trays, The bucket in the corner stinks and he feels like a caged animal, left pacing the cell, four steps thus way and four steps that. It's three steps from door to the back wall, and the stoned up window has never looked more spiteful and taunting. 

It’s days, he’s certain. The trays have to be once daily, there’s just no way they aren’t. There’s no way that it’s been anything less than a week already and it’s beginning to feel like more than that too. The idea of the lieutenant feeding her prisoners once daily doesn’t sit well with him, but the cells around him are quiet and after this long a time, much of which is either spent working out or leant against the door, he can say for a fact that there is no way that there’s anyone else in this small dungeon. There’s not even so much as a rat, which is honestly just a little depressing.  

Somehow, the little torch across the hall is just hanging on. No one’s changed it out, but he’s a little scared that too swift a motion from the singular guard that comes at mealtimes may be enough to snuff it out entirely. Warriors has never considered himself a coward, but with everything he’s faced in this life, he thinks he has full grounds for fearing the dark. Being left alone in it for the next few days sounds miserable. 

It stinks. He stinks. He smells like sweat and he desperately needs a bath. The little straw tick smells terrible and quite frankly, sleeping on the floor with his arm as a pillow is far better than trying to curl up on the thing anymore. He thinks the straw might be molded. 

There was a leak earlier. Water trickling in from above. Rainwater, if he had to guess, considering where the citadel is. It’s made the cell even colder, and there are damp places on the floor that seem to refuse to dry up. It makes slipping easy, working out difficult, and sleeping miserable. He’s given up altogether on trying to meditate. Maybe it’s good for you if the world is spinning around you, but everything seems so much slower if he’s also not moving, and elongating his time here is a maddening thought. 

- 

  He lost count of the trays. 

  It’s either been ten or eleven, but sometimes he thinks it might have even been twelve. He’s got no way of knowing, and guessing at anything makes him uneasy. If he settles on more than he’s being too hopeful, but if he determines it’s less than the fear that it will take even longer for something, for someone, to return overcomes him like a thick black fog. 

  He needs out. 

  He needs out yesterday, or a week ago. Pacing is only driving him mad and by now he’s taken to sitting with his back to the door, desperate for even the softest of footsteps to tell him there’s even another living being in the area. 

  He was told he’d be held until her highness summoned him, or else the courts. From writing so, so many reports, he knows that there are so many more people in line for both of those things. His brothers will have found the princess by now though, they will! They’ll have told her and it’s only so much longer before word is sent that he is to appear in Castletown. He doesn’t care if he’s marched there or allowed to ride back on his own. Gods, he’d swim back if he had to! As long as it meant getting outside again! 

  He sighs at the thought, throat raw. The silence is maddening, more so than the stink and the feeling of being filthy. He’d tried to fill it by talking to himself, humming one or another of those ditties that Legend likes to sing while they’re walking, or even the ones Marin would share over the course of the war. He has no ear for music, but he’s heard most of them enough to remember bits and pieces, and there’s hardly anyone around to get mad at him for screwing up when he does, again and again. 

  Hylia, he misses the others. He misses the road and long days and dust. It’s wet in here and it’s dark and it’s worse than even the longest night out in Faron woods. At least in the woods there’s light, flashes of it and large, booming sounds that echo off of the rocks, rather than just the raspy sounds of his own breath in the tiny, cold, damp space he’s been sitting and stirring inside of for what feels like forever. 

- 

  A full grown man he might be, but when the torch gives out, Warriors can’t even find it in himself to feel shame at the tears he sheds. 

  It’s dark, so very miserably dark, and the room feels ever so much smaller without the light peeking into it through the bars in the door’s tiny window. Without it, he can’t see where the puddles lay or where he’s set the canteen. Not that feeling about doesn’t tell him perfectly well, but that doesn’t help anything. He needs to see. His hearing is shit and they all know it, his nerves in one hand are near shot from the burns that trail up his arm. He needs sight more than he needs touch or he needs sound, especially in a place like this where there’s nothing to hear and nothing but stone and rotting straw to touch. 

  He curls in on himself, choking back the urge to sob. 

  Just a little longer. They’ll be back soon. Just a bit longer and then the lights will come back. He’ll get out, just hold on just a moment more, Link. 

- 

  When his guard comes with the next tray, the man is carrying a torch. The light catches his attention quickly, has him standing and watching it approach with overwhelming relief. Only, once the tray is changed out and food is left, the light flickers away again, carried off. 

  No one makes an effort to change out the torches. He’s left in darkness. 

  Somehow, eating sounds miserable without light to see by. He forces himself anyways. At least it’s something to do and at least the soup is warm still. He’s getting rather tired of the taste of barley though. 

- 

  It’s been too long. They should have been here by now.  

  He’s given up trying to track the time, but it feels like it’s been forever since he’d told his brothers to head to Castletown. They should have reached it ages ago, should have already sent back something. He knows her highness will understand and he knows he has no reason to doubt that, so why has it taken this long? 

  Have the other heroes been attacked? Did the shadow catch them when they were short of their tactician and injure someone? Have they become wrapped up in surviving so much that there is no hope of slipping back to the castle to seek help for him, who’s still alive, still breathing, and still safe, even if he is locked up in a dark cell? 

  He curls in on himself, tucked into the corner and sweating against the stone after far more push-ups than he was capable of when he last saw the rest. He shouldn’t entertain such thoughts but they ring about the silent room so loudly. 

  What if a portal appeared and whisked his brothers away? What if, for some reason, they’ll never get word to the castle? Will the lieutenant send word? Will anyone realize that the captured deserter up in Akkela territory is their hero? Will anyone bother telling Zelda? Or perhaps, because he’s only a soldier, the same as anyone else, will they simply put his name down after so many others to be dealt with once they get to him? 

  The thought is a terrible one, but the longer time ticks past, silent and cold and dark, the more it seems likely. 

  He just hopes his brothers aren’t dying out there without him to watch out for them. 

- 

  When light peeks down, again, he doesn’t bother rising. He moves away from the door of course, but he’s given up trying to lock eyes with his guard, or say anything, or even bask in the light when it does come. It hurts honestly, at this point. The brightness that was very welcome before is now too bright, eyes having adjusted, and he hates that he has to shield his face in his arms when the flames dance and flicker just beyond his door. 

  There’s the faint fumble of keys. 

  His guard usually is more elegant with the heavy ring, but maybe today he’s just a bit off. 

  There’s a curse, soft, hissed. The voice is not the rough sound of a soldier. It’s a youthful voice, one that has him raising his head just enough to prick his ears towards the door.  

  “Din bless, I’d be better off picking this dratted thing!” 

  He hasn’t heard a voice in what feels like forever, and while his mind wants to say it’s familiar, he doesn’t dare entertain such hopes. There’s no promise of anything anymore, but the sound of jostling keys and a rattling door are very much real, as is the sharp light that comes pouring in when at last the thing is opened. 

  “Gosh!” He’s too busy shielding his eyes from the light to catch sight of the figure, but he hears them stumble back. “Heavens, what a stench!” 

  Yes, well, no one was exactly changing out the bucket. Also, he thinks mold is growing in here. 

  “Wars?” And his heart jumps up into his throat at the nickname, “you in here?” It’s quickly followed by, “so help me if it’s some random shmuck in here I’m gonna-” 

  It doesn’t get further than that. He can’t see past the glaring presence of the light, but even if his hearing is shit, he knows that voice, he does, and it has him wanting to bawl and throw himself at the form of his brother. “Vet...” His voice breaks, from tears and lack of use, but he doesn’t care, “oh, thank Hylia.” Thank Hylia he’s here, thank Hylia he’s alive, thank the goddesses all that he’s here with keys and a lamp! 

  The light in the room fades, the wick of the lamp turned down to the faintest of glows and with it he finds he can lower his hands, eyes still burning a bit in the presence of light, but it’s worth it. It’s worth it because it shows him dark eyes that glint red in the faint light, one swollen nearly shut and with blood still spattered over the younger’s features, but Legend is all familiar long ears, filthy cap and freckle dusted cheeks, watching him, wary and worried, from where he kneels by his lowered lamp. His brother is here, here at last, and here in (mostly) one piece. 

  A desperate sob catches in his throat, preventing anything further. 

  Brows furrow, the one eye not swollen mostly shut narrows at him as the lamp is finally set on stone, carefully out of the water that’s only just started to dry up again, and Legend hisses soft between his teeth, voice dropping to a near whisper. “You look like shit.” 

  He smells like it too. 

  That doesn’t stop the younger making his way over to him, surprisingly slow with his motions, like Twilight when the man approaches a strange cat, crouching low and reaching out slowly, watching him closely and listening for anything to give concern. 

  Warriors doesn’t wait for his brother to close the distance, instead catching that hesitant hand and squeezing. Legend squeezes back, and then, face twitching with something dangerously close to worry, the youngster darts in, wrapping arms around him for a moment, shoulders tight and face still furrowed in a frown. “You’re going to be alright, cap, I promise. We got you out.” 

  In the moment though, out isn’t his concern. No, the living, breathing form of a brother, cast in faint and flickering light in the dingy cell, smelling like forests and blood and yet somehow still carrying the scent of fresh apples, is right here in front of him. Here where he can hear another breath, hear a voice, see someone else, someone who’s talking and sees him and- 

  He doesn’t care if desperation bleeds through his motions as he catches ahold of his brother, but he holds tight until Legend shifts away, and even than he’s hesitant to let go. It’s not missed, but the younger hero doesn’t tease, instead staring at him with one of those long, hard to read, considering looks, before stretching out a bejeweled hand. He takes it without question, letting himself be pulled to his feet and guided towards the door. 

  He doesn't release the vet’s hand, focused on it on his skin and the sound of the soft voice caressing his ears. Legend keeps his voice low, as though he knows somehow that noise has become foreign, but he keeps talking as he guides the both of them through the dungeons with the same sort of blind confidence as he takes when leading the way through a time gate. “Her highness signed a pardon the moment we told her what happened, so you’re free. We’re getting you a bath and a meal before we join the others, and whether you like it or not you and I are sleeping somewhere before heading back.” 

  He’s very much not objecting to that idea. 

  The vet pushes on as though he does. “It doesn’t have to be here. All things considered I’d be shocked if you wanted to spend more time here then you have to. I mean you look like the First Hero himself, danggit, but I’m not getting back on the road without a sleep, and quite frankly I’m not keen on running all the way back to Hyrule Castle again today.” 

  Running? 

  Again, Legend keeps talking, glancing back here and again with strange, searching looks, before continuing to chatter as he moves around a corner, hand tight on Warriors’ own, but not nervous. No, he’s assured, confident and collected as he leads the way, talk rambling but with only a faintly pissed air, as though he’s fighting off some sort of ire against something. Warriors has no clue what, but he get’s the feeling it’s not him. If it was, Legend wouldn’t be holding his hand and most certainly would be giving him the silent treatment. 

  “So, bath, clean clothes, food, and then bed. And we’re sharing, by the way, because frankly I’m not letting you out of my sight.” 

  He’s not objecting. In fact, he grips the hand in front of him tighter at the words, a promise that he has every intention of doing the same. 

- 

  When they reach the stairs, Legend stops at the base, turning back to him and lowering his lantern. Light pours down from above, a promise of freedom, but the vet doesn’t chase it. There‘s a part of him that screams to, but he holds back as well, waiting. It’s when he realizes the vet is letting him set his own pace that he does move closer, and then closer again, until he’s stepping up the stairs and his younger brother is darting up in front of him again, hands still joined. 

  The light hurts his eyes. He has no clue how long the torch had been out, but it takes a fair bit to accustom himself to sunlight again as it streams in through a nearby window, sending long shadows across the floor that dance and flicker with their passing. 

  With a spark of relief, he finds himself able to note that it’s evening, and while that means it will be dark again quite soon, Legend hasn’t blown out the lantern either, and it’s flame is still a soft warm little thing behind the glass as the hero before him marches through the halls, looking not unlike the princess on her way to tan some hides on the training fields or in the council chambers. Granted, Legend has more blood on him, an almost concerning amount, but based on stance and carriage, he supposes that it’s not his brother's. 

  Hylia above, he hopes Legend hasn’t killed anyone again. 

  They stop after a bit before on eof the many rooms. He's a bit turned around, head still spinning from light and sound and everything that dark little hell-hole hadn’t had, but the warmth in now clearly violet eyes helps to ground him as the vet turns to him, stopping at a door. “There should be a bath in there and all your things.” A brief nod at the door. “I’m headed to tear that lieutenant a new one for prisoner abuse, but you clean up. I won’t be more than thirty minutes.” 

  Quite frankly, that’s not a very assuring statement. Well, not until the vet pulls a pocket watch out of seemingly no-where and presses it into his hand, closing both his own around the steadily ticking device with a small squeeze. 

  “Thirty minutes.” 

   It’s a promise. 

  He has no clue how Legend could know about the light hurting, about not being sure of the time or even how the other had known without asking that he’d needed the physical anchor of a hand in his own, but he doesn’t question it as the other turns, shooting him a small half smile that's neither warm nor cold, but simply tense, although genuine. The moment the vet’s back it turned on him though, he sees shoulders roll and hangs wring, balling up as a tight line is drawn across the form of the younger and the vet storms down the halls. 

  He’s sorry for the lieutenant, but frankly, he’s not willing to even try and stop the vet this time. 

- 

  The bathwater is divine. Warm, somehow, as though freshly drawn, and he’s surprised to find the fire rod close at hand should he need to warm it again. He does, once, before pulling himself out and dressing. Not before he’s scrubbed himself down thoroughly though.  

  There’s no razor available- either on purpose or by accident, he’s not sure- but he makes do with a comb and some of the other things set out to at least make himself feel somewhat kept again. Untangling his hair would be harder if he hadn’t been careful to work at it each time he woke up, and it’s surprisingly soft to his own fingers in the wake of being washed and clean. 

  Fresh clothes are a blessing too. More so because they are his. Not his uniform, not an old shirt he keeps in his bag as a quick change, but fresh and clean clothes from his own room in the castle, still scented slightly with aftershave and sword polish, smells that wash over him with an overwhelming sense of home. Despite no doubt being tucked in the vet’s bag, they’re only slightly wrinkled, but it hardly matters because they’re soft and comfortable and make him feel relaxed in ways his uniform could never. It doesn't hurt that the light blue color is his favorite either. It feels like a gentle assurance from Zelda herself, one that all will be well very soon. Although, it’s already starting to feel that way. 

  It feels even better though when Legend comes back, knocking gently at the door and then entering when given permission. Dark eyes have eased some, although ire still burns off of the younger as he shuts the door. 

  “Alright, there’s an inn just south of here, not far from where we split up. Do you want to head there for the night or not? Lieutenant Dumbass offered us a room, but considering it’s still under her roof, I thought you’d like a say.” 

  He appreciates it, even finds himself smiling somewhat. “I don’t mind.” 

  “You’re sure-” there’s an arching of one brow, the vet’s good eye trailing over him, still considering, “-you want to spend another night here?” 

  He appreciates the concern, and honestly, it’s quite endearing, but he nods. “I’ve lived in military camps for years. This citadel too, at times. As long as it has a bed, I think we can make do just about anywhere.”  

  The preference of not going back down to his cell goes unspoken, but he hardly has to say it; Legend somehow knows, just like he knew everything else. “Right then,” is his answer, and the younger stoops, gathering his things, and Warriors quickly moves to help him. “We’ll stay here then. Kinda glad honestly, I wasn’t looking forwards to walking more today.” 

  A fair point. Having to walk might explain why it took the others so long, and based off what Legend was saying, it sounds like they’d turned around the moment they had Zelda’s pardon and headed right back here. Although, that does beg the question: “Where are the others?” 

  The vet huffs, shifting his things to one arm and holding out a hand towards him. Thoughtlessly, he takes it. “Back at Castletown. My Pegasus boots could get me back the fastest, so they agreed to have me go back while they waited there. We weren't going to just trust some postman, not after your arrest notice never even reached her highness.” 

  He stops, tugging some on the vet’s hand in the process, and it earns dark eyes trailing back to him for a moment, wordlessly waiting for what’s bothering him. “You ran here?” 

  A faint snort. “I would have run there, only we all needed to be there to make your case and I couldn’t exactly leave the others out in the middle of nowhere.” 

  Legend ran, from Hyrule Castle, to Akkela. “How long?” 

  “Two days,” his hand is tugged gently, boots scuffing the floor as he’s led down another hall, this time upwards to the scanty single rooms that are reserved for officers and visiting nobles. “Took three for us to reach Castletown, and I would have made better time, only I ran into an unholy amount of stalfoes.” 

  He stops short again, this time well and truly pulling back on the vet and sending the other stumbling as he stares. “Three days?” 

  Violet blink up at him. “Yeah. A week, roughly.” 

  “No.” It had been more than that. He’d lost count- but it was much, much more than a week! More like two, more like a month! He’d had no way to keep track but the time was far too much for it to have simply been the one week he’d been expecting! 

  Understanding flashes before him, none of the usual ire or playful smirks to hide it, and the hand still caught in his own squeezes. “Let’s get some rest, yeah?” 

  It’s easy, letting himself be tugged into the room. Watching Legend scour the place, upending the bed and checking the windows, checking the door, locking and relocking the room and then pushing the bureau over in front of it for extra measure. It’s a bitter reminder of the other’s lack of trust in soldiers, but watching tense shoulders relax with the door barricaded stops him asking if the other is okay. 

  The blast from the ice rod, freezing their door shut, actually makes him snort a laugh, earning a roll of the eyes in answer, the vet scoffing.  

  “Get in bed.” 

  He does, climbing up and relishing the softness that he’s missed. 

  He’s no city boy; he and his sisters grew up in Hyrule’s slums and things like goose feather pillows and warm quilted blankets are more of a luxury than most of the others would assume, but he loves indulging in them all the more for that reason. Leaving the warm bath is worth it to climb up into the bed, and while the room is only dimly lit, it’s only a bit more puttering from the vet before there's a fire on the hearth, and the still-lit lantern is set on a hook near the door, lighting the entry point for both of them to see easily. 

  It’s only then that Legend moves over, crouching briefly to kick off his own shoes before popping back up and into sight with a half-smile that’s almost a smirk. “Scoot over, I’m not sleeping on the floor.” 

  Laughing in answer is like tasting freedom itself, but he happily obeys the order, lifting the blankets enough for his younger brother to slide in beside him, warm and breathing and safe. Safe and alive, thank Hylia. Legend’s yawn shows off all his teeth, but the other doesn’t huff at him for his laughter at it. In fact, the vet betrays nothing remotely close to ire at all, instead shifting close, not touching, but present all the same as they settle under the covers. When he reaches out though, he’s not pushed away, and while there’s a token grumble, his move to wrap his brother in his arms isn't resisted. No, instead, Legend wraps his arms around him too, warm and safe and solid. 

  If he cries in relief, in disbelief that it’s over- well, Legend never shows sign of realizing, just nuzzles close against the soft fabric of his shirt, voice hazy with exhaustion. “Sleep well, Link.” 

  He does. For the first time in the longest week of his life, he does.