Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Pick a card.”

Legend’s ears pick up the faint scratch of paper over leaves rustling, patient but excited hands fanning out a selection of playing cards towards him. He eyes them, notes the poor way they’re fanned out and how some of them are still stacked atop each other, and his gaze trails up to meet the eyes of the sudden wanna-be magician. They are giddily staring back.

He quirks an eyebrow up at Warriors, the action subtle but effective. The Captain pushes his selection of cards toward him farther, a wordless go on in his giddy grin. Occasionally Legend finds himself wondering how the hell this man is meant to be a Captain when he’s currently trying to impress Legend with a goddamn card trick, but he sees the scars and calluses tracing the knight’s knuckles and he supposes they’re allowed to have multiple talents. Card tricks are very low on Warriors’ skill list, however…

Legend eyes the deck as he fiddles with his bowstring stretched across his chest, glances behind Warriors for a quick checkover of their surroundings. Scouting had so far proved to be uneventful; a simple trek through the woods and coming up with nothing noteworthy to report… humoring the guy wouldn’t be detrimental. He idly wonders how Warriors hasn’t figured out how to properly fan out cards yet, and then plucks one from the selection.

Warriors’ grin grows a tad bit as Legend flips it over and notes the number and suit, the Captain nodding as he pulls back. “Okay- remember your card!” he says, and Legend nods as he stuffs it back in the pile, filing it in his memory even as he watches him fumble with the deck almost immediately. A card slips out of his very inexperienced hands, flutters through the air and lands in the dirt by their feet. Legend hears Warriors let out an aw damn while he bends down to pick it up. He loses two others in the process.

Legend smirks as Warriors fumbles - the cards aren’t even fanned out anymore, they’re simply a messy pile with one or two barely staying in there and being held down by their corners. He tries to push one back in and the other falls out, and then his hands move incorrectly when he picks that one up and they all fall out of his grip and into the grass, inconveniently scattered about. The ground is better at fanning out cards than Warriors is.

“Ah shit-” Warriors says softly. Legend can’t help but snort out a laugh.

His face is obscured as the guy ducks down to pick them all up, but from Warriors’ tone Legend can tell he’s grinning. “I haven’t had much practice!”

“Really?” Legend jabs, voice rising an octave. Warriors pauses in his collecting to shoot him a mock-offended glare. The vet crouches down onto creaking knees and too-young-to-feel-old bones to help pick them up. “You can’t hold cards correctly when we play, how on earth do you expect yourself to-”

He pauses, halfway through plucking a third card from the grass. Something in the air changes; the pressure shifts, the air stagnates, and Legend feels a certain jaggedness to the static that enters his ears. He sits up, lightly elbows Warriors’ shoulder guard as his eyes scan the trees around them. The Captain looks up from his card collecting and studies him, studies the way he’s tense and searching, and they both stand from their spots in the grass and watch the shadows, minds linked.

Warriors mouths a silent what is it at him, trusting Legend’s instincts however shot they may be sometimes, and the static that trickles up his arms has his hand darting to his sword. The Captain mimics him; gaze jumping between bushes when Legend mouths an I don’t know back at him.

They instinctively press their backs together, sheaths clinking. There’s no wind in the trees anymore. All the scuttling and scurrying of forest critters have ceased, and Legend notes the smell of sulfur and the taste of dark chocolate and wood on his tongue. The mixture is rather foul, and it brings with it a familiar sort of dread that sparks a primal need to run in him.

Recognition lights up in his head a little too late.

“It’s a Shif-!” Legend lets out, but the world blurs and the trees blend together in a frothy haze and the static in his mind is too loud to yell past. His skin feels like jelly for a moment, bones a poor copy of something real - portals always disrupt his concept of reality, and for a terrifying moment he thinks Warriors is no longer behind him when his elbow phases through the Captain’s scarf. That bitter chocolatey flavor coats his tongue as the magic of the portal crawls through his ribcage and singes his organs; ash in his lungs, sawdust in his throat.

They’re enveloped in a silky haze of colors but everything from the static to the whispers of allurance have him wanting to vomit at the grittiness. Legend is used to dark magic; he’s experienced plenty of it, in plenty of forms. But that doesn’t mean it’s any less disgusting.

Warriors grabs for him, latches onto his free arm. Legend grips the guy’s scarf in return. Their souls tilt; the colors shift. They Shift with it.

It stops rather suddenly. The colors jerk to a halt and he feels like his mind has been stretched like a rubberband; there’s a unique sense of fatigue there that comes with being surrounded by magic, and it takes Legend a moment to right himself and adjust to the lack of it. Warriors stumbles somewhere behind him, chainmail clinking. Legend’s organs stop burning, the heat recedes, and so does the bitter aftertaste of it.

He sees a grey sky, grass, puddles. The deck of cards Warriors had dropped had been stirred by the Shift, fluttering and twisting around them and landing back at their feet. He hears silence for a moment as the static fades and his ears ring from the pressure. The wind tugs at his hair and clothes before his ears can detect it, and then he hears snorts. Bokoblin snorts.

The shing of Warriors unsheathing his sword hits his ears and Legend follows suit quickly, their eyes trailing up to meet trees and bone . The ribcage of a goliath sits in the dirt, sprouting from the ground like the trees - like they’re alive - and hooking around the silhouette of a black Hinox snoring in the middle. Bokoblins speckle the ground at the base of the ribcage, their quiet snorts not enough to awaken the behemoth above them. They mingle in little cliques, some already carrying weapons - some spears, clubs, there’s swords sticking out from the ground in some spots. It all sits on raised ground, slopes that turn rocky and rough encircling the area. Legend hopes they’re not too steep.

A Bokoblin glances up, notices the newcomers; it shrieks and points, jabbing the butt end of its spear into the dirt. Warriors reaches behind him and takes out his shield. Legend joins as the rest of the Bokoblins start swarming.

Legend doesn’t glance at Warriors and he doesn’t have to to know where he’s headed. The Captain locks onto an enemy to the right, leads with a parry like he always does against Bokoblins; little mongrels eager to swing instead of think. Legend pushes the crowd away from Warriors’ left, strikes, lets a spear bounce off his shield, strikes again. Their backs are to each other, sheaths feet apart, stepping on the playing cards that’re getting packed into the dirt. There’s Bokoblin shrieks and pig squeals, spit flying, arrows thunking against metal; it melds together in a familiar cacophony, a song they’ve heard and know the lyrics to by heart. Their swords whistle in the air to the tune. 

Legend hears something else in the grand discordance of metal and footfalls. He hears a thump; a layered, disgusting gurgle that comes from something big and looming. He kicks a Bokoblin body off the end of his blade, blood soaking grass, looks up. There is no bright sun to blot out, no dramatic lighting that frames the brute that’s rolling to its feet; there’s only clouds, only dullness, and yet Legend can never get over the sheer size of a Hinox. A bloodshot eye as big as his fucking body stares at him through the ribcage that cradles the beasts’ nest. Legend stares back.

It takes a lumbering step forward. Legend feels the ground shake.

There are more Bokoblins on the vet’s side- Warriors will weaken the Hinox. Warriors can handle it, and then Legend can flank its other side and finish it off. That’s the plan. Legend focuses on thinning the crowd, cutting through throats, stabbing through chests. A Bokoblin grabs at his ankle and the vet bashes his shield into its head. He ducks under clubs, sidesteps blades; a Bokoblin pounces, lands on his shield, and Legend spins on his axis and tosses it off over the drop that encompasses the field. He steals a glance at Warriors to see how he’s faring, if he needs help weakening the Hinox.

Warriors seems to be avoiding it.

The vet’s gaze darts to the brute, footfalls leaden as it shambles around rib bones and almost steps on Bokoblins in the process. Its eye is on Warriors, wide open and freakish, one-track mind on the bright blue cloth and the shiny metal. The Captain seems to be slowly wading through the crowd in the opposite direction, dead set on getting away, and Legend doesn’t realize why until he spots the notable absence of a bow on Warriors’ back.

The Veteran thinks of the gear they left back at camp during their patrol. Shit.

Change of plan. Legend darts between Bokoblins, slipping through cracks in the crowd and searching for a good point to sheath his sword. He sets his sights near the rib bones, the land there slightly elevated, so it makes for a good vantage point to shoot his bow. He twists around, sees the Hinox start to loom over the Captain; Legend curses and whistles so loudly it hurts his own ears.

The Hinox turns its ugly head. Legend sheaths his sword, takes his bow out, aims. Fires. The arrow hits its mark, right in the eye. The brute gurgles, stumbles back, falls. Legend doesn’t need to watch to know that Warriors takes the chance to slash at its flank while it’s down.

Legend turns his head just in time to see an arrow pointed at him. Panic shoots through him and he yanks his shield up - he hears it thunk, and he quickly aims his own arrow at the offending Bokoblin. He barely gets to shoot it before he sees another archer in his peripherals; there’s a second one to his right, a third farther away, a fourth behind a rib bone. Legend darts behind one himself, taking a moment to breathe. Great. Fantastic.

An arrow thunks against the rib bone that Legend is just small enough to coware behind. This will be difficult.

The vet does his best to alternate. He shoots an archer, he fights off a couple of Bokoblins that swipe at him, he tries to get the Hinox in the eye, and repeats. There’s a few slip ups - he gets nicked in the leg, there’s a gash on his hip, an arrow barely misses his head, but overall he’s doing quite well for someone who’s got their attention in so many places. He sinks into the rhythm he’s curated - shoot, swipe, block, shoot - and the crowd thins after a while; the archers almost gone, the group of Bokoblins swarming him looking unthreatening, the Hinox thoroughly caught in their collaborated trap. It’s looking manageable. None of these enemies are black-blooded, and Legend is grateful for that.

It’s going well, that is, until Legend shoots the Hinox one more time and it seems to be the breaking point for the creature. It gurgles, lets loose a series of disgusting, guttural snorts that reverberate against the rocks around them, and then its ugly eye snaps to Legend. Something cold trickles through his veins, roots his legs to the soil. The Hinox is a simple silhouette, a simple creature, even - it doesn’t have armor and it doesn’t have weapons, it doesn’t even have speed on its side. And yet Legend is always reminded of how fucking small he is compared to it. Its nose is the size of his torso, his body is the size of one of its fingers. There’s a memory from an island that never existed in his mind - giant hands squeezing his ribs, throwing him into bricks and throwing him again before he even has a chance to get up. Footsteps that shake and crack the dungeon walls; an eye the size of the sun in his vision.

The Hinox turns toward him and steps on a Bokoblin with the first stride it takes; Legend watches its eyes pop out, hears the squelch of the blood that bursts from all openings. The brute takes another step, lifts its foot. Legend nearly vomits when the Bokoblin sticks to it for a moment.

He yanks his shield up again when he spots an arrow being nocked. There’s a moment of panic that splits his focus; there’s a behemoth stomping toward him, there’s arrows grazing his legs, there’s clubs swinging from an incoherent horde of spit and teeth- it’s too much, and for a moment Legend does nothing but stumble back and dodge. He hears a whistle across the field and he knows Warriors is desperately trying to grab the Hinox’s attention, to pull it away from Legend and give him some room to breathe, but the eye is still staring at him and the vibrations of its footfalls are still getting closer. It doesn’t seem to care; not when the little guy who keeps shooting him is here for the taking.

Legend backs away, ducks under swords, jumps away from arrows. He takes out another archer and then aims for the Hinox again; he shoots, but the ogre brings a hand up and covers its eye, bellowing like it’s funny, like Legend is foolish for even trying it. The vet curses, ears ringing from all the noise, the squeals and the ear-grating scrapes of metal; the wind tugs at his hair and his tunic and it adds to the overwhelmingly scratchy static enveloping his head. Legend swings at the horde encompassing him, a bit of frustration fueling his hands. He ends another archer - there’s more than when he started, and the small victories now feel infinitesimal.

Warriors is shouting now, voice straining over the noise. Legend can’t hear the words over it all, but he knows from the tone that the Captain is scrambling for a solution with a touch of panic under the collected. He sees him in the background, fighting to get closer- he thinks he spots a club in Warriors’ right hand and wonders when the guy started stealing shitty weapons from Bokoblins. Perhaps he’s desperate; Legend sure is.

An arrow narrowly misses his arm. He’s getting tired. A sword clatters against his shield; it’s getting heavy. He can’t hear the blood pumping through his ears anymore because it’s started to harmonize with the melody of death; it sings with the whistles of blades cutting skin, hums with the flow of movement. Legend swings until he hits something; it’s all he can do.

Somewhere in the symphony, at some point in the chaos, he looks up at the Hinox and it’s no longer looking at him. The brute has stopped near the ribcage, has removed its hand from its eye, and Legend nearly takes that as a wonderful sign to keep shooting, but then its hand wraps around a rib bone that sprouts from the ground.

The Hinox pulls. The bone snaps in half - maybe erosion had made it fragile - and Legend stares in horror as it’s ripped from the rest of the ribcage like a weed being pulled. The Hinox holds this rib bone belonging to a goliath in its hand and gurgles, spit dripping from its chin as its arm pulls back. Legend hears the movement in the air- hears the quiet swoosh it makes just from the sheer size. The Hinox’s eye lands on him once more.

He hears Warriors scream. Legend bolts for it, and he sees a rib bone flying through the air toward him before his shoulder explodes in agony and everything turns white.

The song disappears and so do his senses. There’s nothing for a moment, nothing to latch onto, nothing to process, so he simply floats for a few beats. Not even the ringing of his ears disturbs it; it’s simply a stretch of emptiness, an expanse of nothing. It lasts but for a few beats in reality, but for Legend it’s a fraction of his life and yet an entire eon all the same.

An outer layer of fog clears, and the ringing returns. It’s all he hears for a moment, just incessant ringing, and he thinks he makes an effort to groan but he doesn’t feel it leave his throat and he doesn’t hear it either. Heavy thumps enter his ears soon after- it reminds him of a heartbeat, but it’s much too sporadic and physical. He feels it in his cheek, his face. He feels grass, on his face. It’s wet.

Legend cracks an eye open, clamps it shut again and winces at the light he sees, and this time he hears a groan - it’s echoed, distant, and he still doesn’t feel it leave his throat and it makes him wonder if it was even him. He hears a shriek and it bombards his senses, overloads them immediately. He thinks he hears a voice- a familiar one, between the distant squeals and footfalls. He doesn’t know what they say. Legend tries opening his eyes again.

It’s to brightness and incoherent swirls of color. Legend’s head immediately throbs, the vague shapes moving around in his peripherals already slurring together and creating a kaleidoscope that’s hard to follow. The colors ease after a moment, the vet blinking away the blurriness and the swirls, and Legend sees the back of Warriors boots.

There’s dirt in his vision, grass blades obstructing his view. He sees Bokoblins beyond them, kicking up dirt and leaping somewhere Legend can’t see; there’s something shaking the earth in rhythm with the pounding of his skull and Legend groans again.

And then the rest of the pain comes.

It starts in his shoulder and it starts slowly, but once Legend picks up on it it fucking explodes. He’s suddenly aware that his shoulder is no longer shaped how it should be - there’s a bulge where there shouldn’t be bone and yet there is, absolutely screaming at him, screeching with an intensity that almost makes Legend black out again. It shoots through his back, trickles into the bones of his spine and he finds himself putting most of his weight on his face as he tries to roll over without the use of one arm.

The noises around him echo again, and Legend takes a moment to breathe and simply stare at the fluttering of Warriors’ scarf at the top of his vision. The Captain’s boots dance with each swing he takes, positioned above Legend in a protective watch over him, snapping at offenders and blocking arrows that try to pierce Legend’s skin. He thinks Warriors is saying something, shouting something down at him with a shakiness in his voice he hasn’t heard before, but he can’t be sure of the words.

He traces the movements of Warriors’ legs in a delayed fashion, the colors burning together when he moves too fast. Why are his boots so stupid…

Legend’s gaze moves to stare beyond the Captain’s flashy scarf and nonsensical boots, and he sees the Hinox coming for them, a second sun in the sky staring down at them with bloodshot rage. The coldness shoots back up his body, fear and adrenaline absorbing some of the pain that spasms his muscles. A primal need to run washes over him, lighting up parts of his brain and clearing bits of the fog; Legend hears a distant, echoed mimic of his own grunt as he tries to lift his knees and gain purchase on the ground.

Getting to all-fours is a task; each movement feels like it takes a decade, and when he’s finally holding his weight on one arm he has to fight to keep his injured one from dangling painfully. He’s gulping in air, clenching his teeth and seething through the bouts of agony trickling along his nerves, but he’s up. He hangs his head low, giving himself just one more beat of peace, and then his eyes meet the medallion chain that dangles from his neck.

The gold gleams in the dull sunlight, the wind catching the medals and gently tugging this way and that; Legend stares at the Quake Medallion nestled in the middle as something wet and sticky trickles down his face. His vision blurs. He looks up at the Hinox, has to crane his neck to see its ugly face.

Legend straightens, ignores the pops of pain in his spine at the movement. He pulls his good hand back, fixes his fingers around his sword’s grip - it feels strange, holding it with his right hand. He unsheathes it, sticks the blade in the ground and uses it as a crutch to stand. His legs wobble. His vision doubles. It feels like he might vomit.

The world tilts, rights itself again, swirls. He stumbles past Warriors and he hears the Captain shout for him, something along the lines of what’re you doing?! bouncing off the walls of his skull. Legend glares up at the Hinox, tightens his grip on his sword, and then plunges it into the soil as hard as he’s able.

The smell of sand and wet dirt fills his head immediately, magic rushing up his one good arm and making it numb with the sensation. A pulse shoots out from the point of impact and Legend is glad Warriors is behind him - otherwise, he would’ve been disintegrated by the blast like the rest of the Bokoblins. The patterns carved into his Quake Medallion immediately ignite, glowing from the chain around his neck and shooting a burst of crackling energy right down his blade. The earth underneath them lights up, golden and hot, a fissure where he’d struck the sword already forming and growing - it spreads, cracks weaving along the ground and shining like they’re about to burst with energy. He thinks Warriors shouts from behind him but he barely hears it over the sound of the earth splitting apart.

The fissure widens. Another pulse bursts from the blade when Legend sends more energy than he thinks it needs through it; there are stars dancing in his vision, creeping into the corners, and the sound of the earth snapping in half is muffled and faraway. His peripherals are fading, swapping out for a myriad of black dots that dance and sway with his heartbeat. His legs woggle again. He fights against the fog that clings to his mind.

There’s a beam of light that shoots from the chasm in the dirt and Legend can no longer see the Hinox, as big as its silhouette is. He hears it bellow though, over the snaps and cracks of rock; it’s pained, it’s loud - Legend can feel it in his skull, can sense it shoot up his ankles and rattle his ribcage. The vet squints through the light show and he swears he sees the Hinox being cut in half.

The brute sinks to its knees. Legend does as well.

The familiar fizz that comes with large magic spells foams at the edge of his consciousness; he lets himself slump and lean against his blade as the lights from the cracks slowly cease. They dim, they disappear; the smell of sand and damp earth dissipates from his head and leaves it cottony. The world stops rumbling, and soon there’s nothing left but a chasm in the earth and a Hinox’s body that’s already decaying and turning to dust; he watches the particles get grabbed by the wind with an odd, numb brand of relief. It’s suddenly so silent that his ears ring from the lack of chaos; there’s no Bokoblins left except a few that lie in the grass, waiting to bleed out. No enemies. No fighting. They’re done.

The pain of his shoulder leaks through the last of the adrenaline rush. Legend gulps in air and rests his head against his sword’s hilt.

The jingle of chainmail comes toward him, hurried and quick, and there’s hands hovering over him in an instant. The vet’s gaze flicks up to see wide eyes staring at Legend’s left shoulder that he himself refuses to look at; the Captain lets his sword thunk against the dirt as he crouches.

“Don’t move, don’t move,” Warriors whispers when Legend starts to tear himself away from his sword. “Lemme see…”

Legend stares numbly as a gloved hand hovers over his shoulder, another one tilting the vet’s head up to look in his eyes. Warriors has blood in his hair. There’s a deep cut across his cheek that blends in with old burn scars. He sees blood soaking through his pants in a straight line across his thigh. His scarf is dirty; one side of it slathered in mud along with parts of his tunic. Legend turns his gaze up to the Captain’s, tries to make it look as though his eyes are focused enough.

“The corner of that rib bone got you good,” Warriors breathes, eyeing his shoulder that’s bent forward unnaturally. Their gazes meet and Legend sees that film that goes over Warriors’ eyes sometimes - it pops up every now and then and it obscures most emotions damn near flawlessly, and yet Legend can still tell by the twitching of his fingers and the chewing of his lip that he’s worried. They stare at each other and they both know what comes next; Legend dreads the process, feels sick at the thought of bones moving where they shouldn’t. “Lie down, I’ll try to be quick.”

Legend hears a crack. His eyes dart to the source, to the fractured earth before them. He ignores Warriors’ Ledge, it’ll be quick, okay? , shushes him instead, trains his ears on the silence that stretches afterward. He senses Warriors turn his head, probably to follow Legend’s line of sight. They wait. They listen.

Another crack. The crumbling of rock, the low rumble of dirt moving. Legend watches in horror as the crevices in the ground before them start to expand, shooting across the field like lightning bolts, shaking the earth beneath them again. Legend’s sword tilts to the side in the crack it’s nestled in and he dives for it, snatching it up and sheathing it with his good hand before it has a chance to get stuck in there.

“Shit- move move!” Warriors shouts and there’s hands around his waist that’re pulling him up. Legend staggers, stumbles, rights himself again, and as soon as he starts running there’s pain in his shoulder that makes his vision blurry. Every footfall and every thump against the ground sends a new jolt of agony up his bones - Warriors grabs his good arm and drags him to the end of the field and Legend follows as best as he can, ignoring it all for the moment.

They stop at the rocky edge and Legend nearly groans when he sees that, yes, the incline is rather steep and he’s only got one arm to climb with. Warriors instantly climbs over a rock and slides down, turning around to help Legend half-fall, half-climb down right behind him. They alternate and Legend greatly appreciates the firm grip the Captain has on Legend’s good shoulder - the shaking of the ground makes it hard to keep good footing, and if it weren’t for the dire circumstances, Legend would’ve been teasing Warriors for how he jerks forward to hold Legend steady each time the ground shudders. Right now, the vet is simply grateful.

They slide and scrape and stumble over rocks in an odd dance that’s mostly falling with style, and Legend thinks they’re going to make it. He can see the foot of the hill, can hear the rocks tumbling down behind him but there’s some distance in between that brings him an odd brand of comfort.

And then the ground shakes again. And Legend falls.

He hears a shout from Warriors while the world is blurring before his eyes and he feels the impact of his landing; his injured shoulder collides with rock and he feels pain so loud and so hot that he thinks his mind might be shutting down from it. The world goes white again, then goes black for a moment; he hears nothing, sees nothing, feels just the faintest ghosts of hands dragging him along. He attempts to move his legs to help the process; he doesn’t know if they cooperate.

Everything stops for a beat and it feels like he’s skipped ahead a moment or two in time. The next time he opens his eyes they’re at the foot of the hill, Warriors holding his upper half in his lap as the hill above them collapses and breaks apart. Legend brings his gaze up to watch the mini avalanche that trickles down the rocky incline, loud cracks and booms and snaps making his head throb harder. They watch in numb silence as the last of it settles - it all comes to a stop and Legend can still see some of the larger crevices he’d made in the earth through the rocks. There’s a moment of swelled silence, and then he feels Warriors’ body sag underneath him.

That is why Legend hadn’t used the Quake Medallion earlier.

Warriors moves and gently pulls himself out from under Legend, setting him down in the grass with careful movements. “Are you with me?” the Captain asks, peering over him and already searching for injuries again. He’s breathing heavily, hands a bit shaky. Legend finds it in himself to nod.

Warriors lets out a sigh, leaning back for a moment to breathe. “Hylia, that was one hell of a spell,” he chortles, tone teetering on the edge of hysterics, and Legend mimics him, staring at the dull skies above them. A raindrop lands on his nose. His shoulder throbs. He feels lightheaded.

The Captain mumbles an okay to himself, breathy and tired as he scoots to sit behind Legend. “Okay, kid,” he mumbles louder, unraveling the scarf from his neck and bunching up one end of it. “You can bite on this. I’m gonna try to be quick, okay?”

Warriors holds the bunched up end of his scarf over him and Legend takes it with his good hand and clamps his teeth around it. It tastes like dirt. He breathes for a moment and then nods; he’s been adventuring for years, and yet broken and dislocated bones still make him queasy. It doesn’t matter how many times you experience it - it still hurts like hell.

He feels Warriors’ hands on his shoulder, touch featherlight. The Captain takes his wrist and Legend tries to zone out, tries to focus on the occasional raindrop that hits his skin - he counts backwards, he tries to identify shapes in the clouds above him, but his thoughts always return to the movement of his shoulder and the agony that’s stretching across his entire arm. He feels himself tense and he hears Warriors say to relax, you have to relax your muscles, and Legend tries, he really does. He does his best. He clamps down on the scarf as a substitute. He hates that it only works a little bit.

Legend feels like he might be sick as Warriors raises his arm up closer to his head and starts twisting it. He grips a fistful of grass and tries his hardest not to tense up at the pain shooting along his arm. He hears Warriors say something along the lines of almost done it’s okay I’m almost done, but Legend can’t be sure anymore. He feels the world tilt and spin lazily. He bites the scarf harder.

Legend feels the joint slip back into place. He screams.

+

In Legend’s opinion, the brain’s autopilot feature is occasionally rather useful. Sometimes it does a task wrong, sometimes it takes his body down the wrong path in a forked road, but other times it saves him the hassle of having to think. It saves him from having to deal with the aftermath of a fight, at least for a little while. He doesn’t often welcome the emptiness that comes with it with open arms but occasionally, he seeks the vacantness for just a bit.

Legend falls into the familiar threshold of consciousness where his body does most of the work for him while his mind takes a break. Funnily enough he feels like his body is the one that needs the break more, but sometimes you have to lose a little strength to gain a little sanity. His muscles are tired and his limbs feel leaden, like they’re not quite functional anymore (could be the minor concussion), but his mind is in a state of comfortable-uncomfortable numbness. He doesn’t think about much, doesn’t ponder much of anything. The world feels slow, hollow; there’s a vague disconnect between Legend’s feet and the ground he’s walking on.

The autopilot stutters as his legs shake from fatigue. He feels Warriors’ hand on his good arm, gently guiding him along when he stumbles. Legend follows.

The speckles of water he’d felt earlier have evolved into full fledged rainfall; they’re both getting soaked, and Legend has to be careful as he steps in muddy spots lest he slip. The sun has long since set, nothing but dull mist and dark clouds blotting out moonlight. Warriors’ scarf is slung around the vet’s neck and wrapped around his bad arm in a makeshift sling; the side that was slathered in mud earlier is unfortunately resting against the back of his neck, but as this point the whole thing is dirty from the rain spreading the mess around, so Legend tunes it out and listens to their footfalls instead. He notices something irregular in the noise, and he looks up at Warriors; he hates that the simple action costs him more energy than it’s worth.

The Captain is limping. He’s favoring his right leg, letting the other drag along in the mud a bit. Legend looks at the gash along his thigh, at the red stain that’s been dragged downward by the rain. It doesn’t look like it’s bleeding much anymore. That’s one good thing tonight.

Warriors looks a bit naked without the scarf; it feels wrong to see the shoulder guard and the chainmail and the baldrics without the symbol of who he is around his neck as well. Legend silently promises to help clean the scarf when all of this is over. He knows Warriors loves that thing to bits.

The rain is washing away most of the blood on the Captain’s clothes, leaving soaked stains that spread and drip. His perfect hair is no longer so perfect plastered to his forehead like that, though most of the blood has been rinsed away by the weather. His eyes are set ahead, glued to the path and the surrounding bushes, brows furrowed, lips set in a tight line, but the hand around Legend’s good arm is gentle, there to make sure the vet is staying upright and following along. Any other time, Legend would be vaguely offended at the gesture, at the insinuation that he couldn’t keep up by himself, but right now he’s simply tired and in pain. He appreciates the hand on his arm; there’s something comforting about it. Something grounding.

Warriors gives a gentle tug a bit to the right and they speed up their pace. Legend looks up and sees a wooden lean-to through the rain, settled beside the path and free for any traveler to seek shelter under. They beeline for it; it’s a slow beeline, both of them bedraggled and dragging their feet, but it’s a beeline nonetheless and the moment Legend no longer feels raindrops on his skin is the moment he wants to collapse. They coware under the wooden roof as soon as they get there and the steady pitter-patter of rain changes as the wood muffles it. Legend basks in the difference of the sound.

He doesn’t quite know how he gets there, but there’s hands on him and he’s suddenly settling down against the rock the lean-to is built against. He looks up at Warriors, who’s already turned away to start a fire with the wood that’s oddly already sitting there, and Legend sits up defiantly.

“I can help-” Legend starts, but Warriors interrupts with a nope before he can even finish. Legend tsk s, using his good arm to push himself up. He sees Warriors eye him from where he’s crouching in front of the logs.

“I’m not gonna-” the vet growls, but before he can get anything of substance out there’s a hand on his good shoulder, gently pressing him back. His shoulder blades touch rock, and Warrior's gaze reminds him of cold slate.

“You are going to rest,” the Captain says, short and to the point, clipped, and yet there's something in his tone, some waver in the words that makes Legend think there's something else a bit more vulnerable there. A bit more visceral. It's a command, but Legend feels like it's more of a plea.

Legend sits up again and they glare at each other for a beat, a beat that's vaguely heavy in the way tension tends to press on you, and then Warriors defaults to tactical explanations, just like he always does when he spots a flaw in his captainly demeanor. “You're injured, you have a concussion-”

“A minor one-”

“A concussion is a concussion, Legend,” he fights back, a bit of frustration seeping into his tone. “And I don't want you injuring that shoulder further. Just let me start a fire. If you really wanna help-”

Warriors raises a hand, pushes against Legend’s chest until he’s sitting back against the rock again. He spends a beat keeping the pressure on him, as if the Captain is afraid he’ll squirm away and escape. “-you can sit here, and rest. Please, Legend.”

The vet studies him for a moment, has the argument on the tip of his tongue that Warriors is injured too, he's tired too, it shouldn't all fall on him, and yet when he really looks at Warriors he finds himself sagging back against the rock. The Captain stares at him, something like hope in his eyes when Legend goes quiet, and if the vet can't see the blatant worry in his gaze, then he can certainly see it in everything else; in the nervous glances to his shoulder and to the bags under Legend's eyes, the hand that's habitually coming up to fidget with a scarf that's no longer there, the chewing of the lip, the tense posture. Legend feels the exhaustion clinging to his bones. Maybe it's better if he sits this one out.

The rain patters, the sky starts to rumble. Legend slumps against the rock fully, glancing away as a spark of shame rushes through him, but he catches Warriors breathe a sigh of relief and he finds that it was worth it.

He sits there and listens to the rain for a while, lets the song of Warriors' rustling lull him into a liminal space devoid of any real thoughts or stresses. He floats, hears the rain drip from leaves, feels the beginnings of heat coming from a flame. The vet watches without really following the movements, too tired to put names or reasons to actions; he simply stares through Warriors' silhouette - edges now illuminated by fire - and feels his peripherals morph into static.

At some point, his mind lifting from the fog for a moment, his gaze drifts to their severe lack of supplies that would typically sit near the fire to dry off. He thinks of all the weapons they could have right now, just from Legend’s bag alone. He thinks of all the fairies and the rings and capes and the canes they could have at their fingertips. He ponders their lack of potions with muted despondency. His shoulder aches. He’d take the bitter taste of red potion over this any day.

He stares at the empty spot in the grass, thinks there’s something especially off about it other than the fact that they’re lacking any supplies, and then it hits him. It’s not something shiny that catches his attention, it’s rather the lack of it; Warriors’ sword is nowhere to be found. His eyes search the grass and then they trail up to glance at the Captain’s back. The sheath is there, snug against the shield he hasn’t removed yet, but no hilt sitting where it should be. Legend swallows, raking in the strength to speak.

“Where’s your sword?” Legend croaks, words a bit more slurred than he means them to be. Maybe he’s more tired than he thought.

Warriors spares him a glance for a moment, gaze lingering on him for just a beat. Legend pretends not to notice the worry in his eyes. “I lost it,” the Captain admits. “Didn’t have time to grab it before the avalanche.”

The rain hits the wood above them and fills the silence, and Legend slowly, slowly considers this. He’s not sure just how attached Warriors is to his sword, but Legend knows that if he himself lost his he’d be distraught. Even if he weren’t attached, losing your main weapon is never a good thing.

Legend listens to the hum that trickles in between his shoulder blades; it comes through the sheath on his back seldom, and it’s always quiet and subtle when she does speak, but Legend listens and understands. Even the small rumble that reaches up his spine is godly, divine; it’s pure gold and white silk, pretty voices and “perfect” beings. These are all things Legend has come to hate, but over time - over long long years of adventuring and having this sword by his side - Fi has come to be the only creation of the gods that Legend has ever been fond of.

Legend slowly, slowly considers this. He sits up, ignores Warriors turning around again and bickering at him to rest, and unhooks his sheath from his baldric. The faint hum rumbles the tips of his fingers as he holds it out for Warriors to take; Fi says she trusts him. Legend mentally promises she’ll be back with him soon.

Warriors stares, slightly dumbfounded. Legend prods the conversation along. “Take mine.”

The Captain sits there for a beat, and then shakes his head. “W- no. No, I am not taking-”

“Take her,” Legend says, tries not to grit his teeth in the process. “I can’t fight, and you need a sword. It only makes sense.”

Warriors blinks, regards the sword in Legend’s hand like it’s treasure locked in a tomb. The Captain knows how much this sword means to him; he moves to take it, and the hesitance in the action is loud. He picks her up with slow hands; steady, careful, gentle. He wraps scarred fingers around the grip, just to test; his hand isn’t burned, nor did either of them expect it to happen, and yet the feeling of seeing somebody else hold the Master Sword is always so… surreal. So impossible. So dreamlike.

The Captain’s eyes do a onceover of the intricate designs in his hands, and then they make it up to Legend’s face. “I’ll take good care of her.”

Legend studies him. I know you will, is what he wants to say. “You fuckin’ better,” is what he says instead.

It breaks the tension. Warriors huffs out a chuckle and he nods a bit messily; Legend grins a little in response, something warm replacing the familiar buzz of Fi’s voice in his bones. The vet leans back against the rock and stares at the wooden roof over them while Warriors gently sets the sword by the fire and adjusts the logs. His ears tune most everything out as soon as they can - his body desperately wants sleep, and then Legend’s mind wanders to the others, and how they’re faring.

A bit of worry sparks somewhere deep in him, but he reminds himself that they’re all experienced and they know how to survive alone. He hopes some of them Shifted near a town; that’s about as lucky as you can get when you’re split up from your team. He hopes they didn’t run into a hoard of Bokoblins and a Hinox like they did. He hopes they’re safe.

At some point Legend senses Warriors moving closer, and he flicks his gaze from the roof to see the Captain sidling up next to him against the rock to sit. He doesn’t remember it happening, but apparently Warriors had removed his shoulder guard and his baldric, and he looks even more bare than before. He looks tired, Legend idly thinks. Somehow, part of him thinks it’s his fault.

Warriors settles, body pressed against Legend’s for heat and maybe for comfort too, and they both stare out at the rain and watch the little streams of water run along the dirt. The fire’s pops and clicks blend in with the pitter-patter of water hitting the roof, and it warms them and makes the air a little less unforgiving.

The Captain suddenly shifts, leans to the side to dig through his pockets, and Legend stifles the grumble that’s in his throat at the movement. Warriors settles again but Legend can sense eyes on him; the vet turns his head and Warriors is holding something in his hands, looking at him expectantly. It takes a moment to click, but then Legend’s attention flicks to the Captain’s hand and a healthy dose of incredulous bafflement replaces his exhaustion for a moment.

There are playing cards in Warriors’ hands. How he managed to salvage even a few is beyond Legend, but maybe he’d already had a few in his hand by the time they had Shifted. Either way, they’re here, and they’re looking rather pitiful; there are only a few, definitely not enough to play most games, and the ones on the top of the pile are either wet, smeared with blood from Warriors’ wound near that pocket, or straight up ripped and torn in places. Legend stares at them, soaks it in, and then looks at Warriors like he’s insane.

The Captain, to his credit, has become rather immune to that specific Legend Look. He carries on flawlessly. “Game of War?”

Legend blinks. Honestly, he thinks Warriors is the one with the concussion here. “Wars that’s like five cards,” he manages to get out.

“Uh, first of all it’s eleven so get it right. Second of all, you can still play War without the full deck,” he defends a bit sassily, thumb bending the cards back and flipping through them with rhythm - the sound is rather pitiful with so few cards in his hands.

Legend stares at him, looks at the “deck” and stares at that for a while. To an outsider it may seem weird that Warriors has suddenly switched from rest, go rest, to let’s play cards, but this is far from the first time he’s done this- distracted them with a game, he means. Warriors is good at that; pinpointing the ones in the group that are thinking too much or that can’t sleep despite exhaustion, and he’s even better at giving people a break from it. People go to Sky and Hyrule for a comforting hug and a gentle it’ll be okay. People go to Time and Four to talk about their problems and get to the root of the issue. People go to Warriors for a fun game and a nice chat to take your mind off your troubles.

Warriors is looking at him like he hopes he says yes. Legend thinks, slightly amused, that for a so-called stone-faced Captain, the guy really has become rather easy to read.

Legend holds out a hand. Warriors grins, a bit young and playful, as he splits up the deck and gives the vet his share of cards.

Warriors goes first, brings out a three and places it on his thigh. Legend lays down a Jack on his own. He takes them, the corner of one card slathered in blood. They go again; Warriors a five, Legend a two that’s frayed and ripped at the edges. Ooooo you’re runnin’ outta cards, Warriors says despite the exchange being equal and Legend can’t help but snort and lose his composure for a moment. This is absurd.

Warriors lays out a seven. Legend places his own seven down. They look at each other, look down at their cards. They start laying them out in sync, i, de-, clare, war, but Legend pauses when Warriors lays down a card that’s literally ripped into several pieces; he watches the Captain struggle to keep the torn paper together, pinching the edges and laying it down very gently, and something about it, something about these circumstances just makes Legend lose it. He bursts into chuckles and knocks his head against Warriors’ shoulder and he hears the Captain dissolve into giggles too, the absurdity of the situation hitting him like a truck. He shoves his face into Warriors’ tunic by habit and laughs into the fabric, the shaking aggravating his shoulder but he can’t find it in himself to care at the moment. He simply laughs, and Warriors laughs too; he thinks the Captain tries to defend this shitty, shitty game of War, but his words are interrupted by so many giggles that it’s hardly intelligible and it just makes both of them laugh harder.

His last memory of the night is him and Warriors absolutely losing it over a dumb game of cards. Not a bad way to end a shitty day if you ask him.

+

The rain doesn’t stop the next morning. Legend is woken up by Warriors gently nudging him, the Captain still huddled next to him with a thigh pressed against him for warmth and a comforting weight. The morning is quiet, but comfortable; they sit under the lean-to and watch the rain while they eat breakfast - a quick forage for food resulted in bananas, and Legend is grateful for at least something to hold him over for a while. He gives the Captain his bow over breakfast as well - “it’s not like I can use it,” - and thankfully he doesn’t put up much of a fight over it. The bow doesn’t have nearly as much presence as the Master Sword does, after all. Warriors nods, takes it gently, slings it over his back with care. He can’t help but notice that the Captain looks exceptionally alert this morning, gaze darting to every little movement in the bushes. He doesn’t leave Legend’s injured side. The vet doesn’t comment.

Warriors keeps asking if he’s okay, if his shoulder feels alright, if his head feels clearer, and something in the vet that would normally be irked at such questions is sedated today. He just nods, tells the Captain he’s fine, that it aches but he’s okay. He thinks Warriors knows that it’s only a half-truth.

After breakfast they hit the dirt trail that sprawls along the grass; it leads to a rather grand looking tropical forest and as they crest the mini hill that hides it, Legend can’t help but be sad that such a small mound of dirt was hiding such a magnificent view all night.

Waterfalls upon waterfalls cascade into and on top of each other, light bouncing off sprinkles of water and making it adopt the look of shiny scales. Tropical trees fan their leaves out, waving hello to the newcomers and catching little droplets as they fall. There’s a massive bridge built atop the lake the earth cradles; trees and their branches sneak up from under the water and wrap around the planks, holding them up to let roots mend with the moss. The air is damp and humid, and Legend feels uncomfortably sticky, but it does nothing to ruin the sight for him. He doesn’t even notice the gentle hand Warriors has on his good arm to make sure he doesn’t fall off the bridge out of clumsiness or concussion-caused dizzy spells - he just stares, and stares. Even after all his years of adventuring, he’s still consistently surprised by Mother Nature.

They’re crossing a bridge built by Hylians, passing stone structures that look ancient but overall human in design, but he feels something… otherworldly in the air. Nothing but nature and evidence of human life resides here, and yet Legend feels something crackling in the empty space, buzzing at an almost eerie frequency. The sound of the waterfalls competes with the sensation in his eardrums, but if he focuses he can hear the hum, tranquil and yet jumpy, excitable and yet majestic. It zips, it snaps, it cracks and arches around them, never quite making it to the bridge they stand on, but rather poking the planks, zapping the leaves, testing the waters but never following all the way through. There’s something very young about it, despite the feeling that it’s been here for ages. He doesn’t know how he knows that. He just does.

Legend asks Warriors if he can feel it. The Captain says feel what? Legend stares at the tallest waterfall, listens to the clicks and the zings that enter his skull, and mumbles a nevermind. He chooses not to acknowledge Warriors’ worried stare.

They cross the bridge and Legend solemnly bids the beautiful view a farewell; the roar of the waterfalls fade away but some of it is left behind in the river that follows them along the trail. They step over roots and brambles, listen to distant caws of birds and the rustle of leaves as they trek. The ache in Legend’s shoulder is strong, but he’s dealt with worse - he makes his steps lighter and does his best to not jostle his arm when navigating through the shrubbery. The headache from the concussion is thankfully a dull one, and while the dizzy spells are frequent they’re not horrible, though Warriors has to steady him once or twice after a stumble or two. The vet can really sense the growing need in the guy to make him take a break; Legend already has a sarcastic line queued up in his head for when the moment comes.

He must’ve zoned out at some point, because there’s suddenly a hand tossed up against his chest to stop him, and Legend brings his gaze up, a bit dazed as he blinks the fogginess from his mind. Warriors keeps his hand out in front of him while his other goes to the bow on his back. The vet follows Warriors’ gaze and through the thick greenery and the fanned out leaves, Legend spots an Ice Wizzrobe happily prancing in loose circles above the foliage. Its smile is sharp and rather eerie - part of him is glad they’re not close enough to hear what he’s sure is creepy giggling.

He idly wonders what an Ice Wizzrobe is doing in such a tropical place, and then he promptly worries that it’s black-blooded. Normal Wizzrobes can really screw you over in the strangest of ways depending on the spells it uses, but they can be taken out pretty quickly. Black-blooded ones on the other hand…

“Go around?” Legend suggests in a whisper, and he really thinks that the Captain will agree since he’s typically dead set on avoiding enemies when they have an injured party member, but after a beat Warriors shakes his head. The vet watches him slowly pull the bow over his shoulders and fix his grip on it; he nocks an arrow, aims.

“It’s got an ice rod,” Warriors whispers back, flicking his head as a gesture for Legend to step away in case the shot fails. “You need a weapon.”

Legend blinks. He supposes Warriors has a point - he could certainly use an ice rod with his non-dominant hand, and it would be safer for him since it has long-range capabilities. He’s vaguely surprised that Warriors would resort to snatching weapons from monsters, but he supposes the Captain knows when to not be picky with quality. He thinks of the image of Warriors holding a crude looking club, back during the Hinox fight. He doesn’t comment.

The vet barely remembers to nod before Warriors pulls back the bowstring and fires; the single arrow hits its moving mark and pierces the Wizzrobe’s face easily, and the monster shrieks and falls from its invisible perch in the sky. The body disappears into the foliage.

They wait. They listen. Legend expects it to pop back up and prove its black-blooded strength.

Nothing.

Warriors waits another beat, and then weaves through the leaves to collect their prize. He comes back with an ice rod in his hand, and Legend does his best to push the giddiness down of seeing a new weapon with his own eyes.

The Captain twirls the ice rod around in his hand and offers Legend the grip. He takes it, dimly noting the way it’s slightly off balance and a bit top-heavy, but he mostly just admires the designs and pulsing glow of the snowflake carvings that make up the rod.

“There,” Warriors says, and there’s something in his tone that denotes relief. Legend looks up at him and almost sees a tangible weight being lifted off his shoulders. “Now you have a weapon. Let’s just hope you don’t have to use it.”

Legend studies him for a moment, then looks back down at the ice rod, studies the glowing patterns on it instead. “Thanks,” he nods, tests the weight of the rod in his hands simply to occupy himself. Having a weapon in his hand certainly makes him feel safer, and Legend can’t help but feel like Warriors knew that. The Captain knows he sleeps with a dagger under his pillow. Of course he knew that.

Warriors grins and commits the sin of ruffling Legend’s hair. He squawks in response and starts planning murder immediately. “Not a problem at all, kid,” he smiles, promptly ignoring the swipes of Legend’s good arm. He releases him from his prison and Legend spends a moment fixing his hair and tending to his ruined dignity.

The Captain chuckles, smile a bit crooked where the old scars on his cheek don’t let the skin stretch. “Hopefully that’ll last you until we find the others, and then we’ll have more protection. Not to mention supplies,” he tacks on dimly. “That staff won’t last you too long, it looks a bit-”

The Captain stops mid-sentence and Legend barely has time to look up before Warriors is shouting his name and shoving him back. The vet stumbles a few paces and hears thunks somewhere in front of him. He rights himself, and then blinks wide-eyed at the two arrows that are suddenly embedded in the tree next to them.

Three more arrows come from the forest. They all nearly miss Warriors by a hair.

There’s movement in several places at once and Legend is careful to focus on the unknown instead of Warriors unsheathing his borrowed sword. He squints through the greenery, spots a Lizalfos- no, two. Three, four. The number keeps going up and Legend stops counting, fixes his grip on the ice rod instead. The arrows seem to be focused on the Captain - Legend doesn’t have time to be concerned about that, because it seems the monsters with the close-quarter weapons are coming after him.

Several Lizalfos zigzag across roots and under leaves, their target the Veteran, who can’t help but stumble back. Legend sees the glint of boomerang blades, the sizable horns protruding from snouts- he glances at Warriors, sees he’s occupied with the archers and a few of his own close-quarter enemies. Legend’s feet skitter back across the dirt, the dance of a fight wobbly at best as he flings out a beam of ice at his offenders. It gets one of them in the tail, stops it only for a moment.

One of the Lizalfos scuttles up to him, footsteps heavy for such a nimble creature. It swipes at his head with a jagged blade the size of his torso. Legend ducks, and then runs.

He hears them shriek and start to follow and the knowledge that these Lizalfos are one hundred percent faster than him doesn’t stop him from running. The staff in his hand is meant for long-range combat- it’s not built to withstand being thrown at monsters or stabbed into scaly flesh. He secures his grip on it and lets it dangle by his feet as he runs - he hears the tight crackling of ice, an artificial glacier crawling along the path he takes. He knows he can’t outrun these things- there’s no sense in hiding. But making it slippery may help, and it doubles as a breadcrumb trail. Warriors will find him eventually. Legend just hopes he’ll find him alive.

Boots pound against the dirt and he’s careful not to trip over brambles; the Lizalfos don’t seem to be perturbed by the ice trail and they’re already ahead of him, moving in closer, trying to work out the best time to jump in and take the kill. A tail comes out, thwacks at his legs; he sees the bushes move in time and stumbles over it, rights himself, keeps moving. Every pound against the earth sends pain up his shoulder, makes his head pound harder. He keeps going, shoots ice at any Lizalfos he sees in the shrubbery. They're too fast. He doesn’t hit any. 

He can’t win by running in a straight line, so he stops making an ice trail and starts zigzagging. He weaves between trees and sprints around bushes, takes a left, takes a right. It slows him down but between the plethora of tree trunks and the thick greenery, he hopes it makes it harder to lock onto him. It works, for a moment. He doesn’t hear nearly as many footsteps behind him.

It’s a game of hide and seek, of cat and mouse; of desperate, heart pumping dodges and the gritty, visceral feeling of being hunted. Legend is used to the feeling of being smaller, slower, less equipped, disadvantaged; he’s used to hiding, to running, to praying to a Goddess he knows will not reply. He doesn’t even have the comforting hum of Fi on his back, he doesn’t have his shield, he doesn’t have his rings except for the ones on his fingers- he has a single fucking ice rod and a single fucking hand to use it with. He has one weapon, his legs, and a concussed mind that’s extremely scattered.

He’ll make do.

A game of hide and seek indeed, and Legend does his best to dwindle down the seekers. His weaving between trees and bushes had certainly confused the bastards, because now they’re spread out and uncoordinated and he takes advantage of it. It’s a dance of stepping behind trees, shooting ice at offenders that lose his trail, and doing it all again, and despite the shakiness of his shots and the pain in his shoulder at quick movements, he thinks he does quite well. There’s something satisfying about picking them off one by one; he shoots - five left, then four after a quick scurry and deep gash across his ear. Then it’s down to three after dodging a tongue and freezing a lizard mouth. It’s going well- the foliage is giving him good cover.

And then he stumbles out onto an open road, where trees are cleared and there’s no shrubbery to hide behind. Legend curses, whips around; one of the Lizalfos bursts from the bushes right after him, another one hot on its tail. One of them swipes their blade, another wraps its tongue around his good arm. He’s yanked to the side and the boomerang blade slices the other way, cuts right up his torso with jagged metal. He stumbles, falls, nearly screams at the agony that shoots along his skin, but the blade comes down again and he has to roll to dodge. He aims his ice rod up blindly - the ice beam hits his offender square in the face, and the Lizalfos shrieks.

His shoulder screams at the pressure as he leans on his left to get up. The adrenaline masks it well enough, and he kicks at the Lizalfos who has his good arm wrapped up in a sticky, saliva covered mess. He kicks, thrashes, tries to aim his ice rod at its face but his arm keeps getting yanked and twisted and Legend momentarily fears that this one is going to get injured too.

He grits his teeth as he’s dragged across the dirt, the muscles in the Lizalfos’ tongue contracting and tightening like a snake strangling its prey. He yells and kicks up at the tongue instead- that does it and the Lizalfos makes a noise that makes Legend’s ears ring. It lets go, they both fall. Legend drops his ice rod.

The Lizalfos screeches, little clicks from its throat layered underneath the noise, but Legend focuses on getting up instead of listening. He stumbles, falls again from a dizzy spell, watches the dirt double and blur. He looks back at the creature and it’s already mostly recovered, a protruding eye flicking to him with malice. Legend’s unfocused gaze darts to his ice rod.

It’s too far. Legend scrambles to stand instead, and he runs the other way.

Footsteps patter up behind him, zigzagging along the path in that freakishly quick way they always pursue. Legend doesn’t know where he’s running and he knows for a fact he won’t outrun this thing, but his legs won’t stop and he’s certainly not going to stop them now. There’s a shallow stream up ahead- a bridge spans across it and Legend beelines for it, stumbles a bit when dizziness takes hold of him again.

He hears something- well, the lack of something, and he notices there’s no more footsteps. He realizes all too late that the Lizalfos had pounced when he feels the weight of a creature twice his size land on his back.

They fall. They land in water.

All noise is drowned out by an underwater roar, and Legend is a bit busy recovering from getting his face smacked against rocks to fight against the weight on top of him. He struggles to get a sense of where he is- he’s facedown in a stream of water with a giant lizard on top of him, and the rocks underneath him are slippery and he can’t gain purchase to lift himself out. He pushes, twists, claws at the scales of the monster blindly- rocks are digging into the gash across his torso and he screams bubbles into the water and writhes at the feeling. His blind flailing eventually pays off because he gets a solid grip on a rock and lifts his head above the water.

Legend sucks in a desperate breath, twist around, and punches the fucking lizard as hard as he can.

He catches its chin and its head snaps to the side; Legend takes advantage and grabs the horn that protrudes from its skull, yanks it down as hard as his fatigued muscles can let him. The Lizalfos fights back, snaps at him, cracks its tail at any part of Legend it can reach. It becomes a scramble to gain the upperhand, both parties rolling around in the water, bruising themselves on rocks, pinning each other under the surface. He’s so disadvantaged that it almost seems hopeless, and it becomes quite clear when the Lizalfos eventually has him pinned again, claws digging into his chest.

Legend screams and his mouth fills with water as half of his face is showered by the current. He coughs and sputters, kicking out and grabbing any part of the creature he can get to. There’s something cold in the back of his mind, something dreadful, and he knows it's the imminent fear of death weighing him down like lead. He’s no stranger to it, but it freezes him up regardless, makes him face the fact that he could very well die here today. Some very pitiful part of him wishes he were simply back with Warriors under that little lean-to, or even back with the others in general. He misses feeling safe.

The vet grits his teeth. He’s not dying in a fucking shallow stream of water.

Legend gulps in a breath and lets the Lizalfos pin him fully under. He hopes against the odds that this works, reaches behind him, and undoes the knot Warriors had tied in his scarf to keep the sling secure. It unravels and Legend nearly loses the thing in the current; he holds it tight with his injured arm, tests his grip on it for a moment. There’s a mantra repeating in his head - this is a bad idea this is a bad idea - and he promptly ignores it. It’s this, or drown.

Legend struggles against the Lizalfos, tries to get his face above the water. He breaches for a moment, and then he puts all the strength in his injured arm as he can, flings the scarf around the Lizalfos’ neck, and squeezes.

Its pained shriek is cut short and it starts squirming, thrashing about in a desperate, animalistic show of teeth and claws, and Legend scrambles to gain the upperhand. He climbs and elbows and kicks and eventually he’s on top, holding onto this Lizalfos with one arm as it tries to throw him off with wild movements. It’s a dance- a jerky one, with slip-ups and stumbles and no real rhythm or beat. Legend nearly gets thrown off and finds that he needs two hands to make this work. He grips the scarf with his left hand and finds that putting any force on that arm hurts like hell.

Legend can’t keep this up- he’s getting tossed left and right and it’s making him almost too dizzy to function, he can’t apply enough force to actually choke the damn thing out, and the Lizalfos’ armor is scraping against the gash in his torso and making him wanna scream with every movement. He feels like he’s going to vomit. He feels sick, weak- there’s blood covering this creature’s back and he’s pretty sure it’s all his. He needs an out. He needs a window to-

The Lizalfos stumbles and slips on the rocks, splashes into the water and it nearly sends him flying overhead. The armor on the lizard’s back catches the edge of his blade wound and he fucking screams, vision blurring, nearly turning white. He holds on with all his might, blinks to clear his vision. He sees rocks.

Legend blinks. Rocks. He feels the Lizalfos scrambling to get up, to buck him off. Legend gulps, braces himself; he fixes his grip with the scarf with his bad hand, holds on tight, and darts for a rock with his other. Pain explodes in his shoulder, and he’s tossed off to dangle by the Lizalfos’ side within seconds.

Tears prick Legend’s eyes as he holds on for dear life with his bad hand, water engulfing his bottom half. He hooks a leg around the Lizalfos’ back for support, manages to keep his grip tight on the scarf. He pulls his good arm back, impromptu weapon in hand.

And then he starts fucking bashing the creature’s head in with the rock.

There’s armor covering the lizard’s skin, so he aims for the eyes, and he loses count within the first four strikes. He doesn’t know how many times he does it; it feels like he disconnected with reality before the first hit ever took place. It’s a shaky, wobbly image of blood and a caved in skull and bruised fingers from getting them caught under the rock too many times, and then it’s silent. It’s silent, with a limp body of a Lizalfos underneath him in the middle of the stream, and him collapsed on top.

He breathes, gulps, lets out a noise that he doesn’t want to admit was a deranged sob but it certainly sounded like it. Legend lays on the Lizalfos for a moment, catching his breath, letting his arms rest, and he stares at the water that flows by and ignores the fact that most of it is red. It’s blue. It’s blue water.

Legend lifts his head after a long, long moment, and gathers the strength to get up; he makes a point not to look in the direction of the lizard’s head. He’s still got a grip on Warriors’ scarf and he drags it out from under the body. He holds it close to his chest and doesn’t really care if it’s soaked in blood and caked with dirt. He bundles it up and holds it close, and stumbles out of the water stream.

He thinks he fell, because he’s suddenly looking at grass and wet rock, but he doesn’t have it in him to get back up. He’s out of the stream, he’s not going to drown. He’s okay. He’s okay. He can rest for a moment.

He plops his head down in the grass. Time slurs.

He’s not sure when, but eventually he hears voices. They’re distant but loud, hurried; commands being thrown around, people shouting. He thinks he hears his name, and he gathers the strength to force his eyes open. He doesn’t feel fully connected like he should. The world feels distant, foggy. The grass he stares at is doubled. He lifts his head.

He sees boots coming toward him. Several pairs. Legend sees Warriors’ stupid ones in the mix, and he feels a bit silly for the wave of utter relief that engulfs him.

There’s hands on him, someone crouching down next to him, uttering his name in a worried tone. He knows the voice anywhere- the Captain says something about I’m so sorry kid I’m so sorry I let us get split up and lifts him up a bit, gets him into a sitting position. It takes a moment of perseverance on Legend’s part, but the worst of the pain subsides once he’s leaning his weight against Warriors.

He hears the Captain give commands to the others, and Legend looks up to see Time, Sky, and Twilight as Wolfie scramble to dig through their bags for something. He assumes potions. Legend stirs, holds onto Warriors to gain purchase so he can stand. The Captain works against him, letting out a woah woah, easy easy, but Legend manages to stand upright fairly well. He sways for a moment and he only stops because Warriors steadies him with a hand on his shoulder, but he counts it as a win.

The others stare at him, all wide-eyed. Sky steps forward, voice soft as always but a bit grated with stress and weighted with concern. “Ledge you should really sit down, you need medical attention.” He fidgets with the hem of his sailcloth.

Legend blinks. “M’ fine,” he slurs out. They all watch him as he sways, as his legs tremble. He thinks Time is about to tell him to sit down, but Legend makes the first move. Unfortunately, the black dots in his vision grow and creep to the middle at the same time.

He takes a single step forward-

-and he collapses.

+

The first thing Legend hears when he emerges from the black is the shuffling of paper.

It’s quiet, rhythmic, and the sound fades in and out with his consciousness. There’s a leisurely beat to it, an occasional louder thunk that interrupts the softness, but Legend thinks he’s awoken by the hiccups in the rhythm rather than the volume. It lags sometimes, stops mid-beat and there’s shuffling and the creaking of wood and then it resumes. There’s fumbles and some beats are slower than others. He thinks he hears something light drop to the floor, and somebody whispers out a gentle curse.

Legend cracks his eyes open.

He sees warm tones, brown and red swirling together in his blurred vision. The vet blinks, clears away a bit of froth clinging to the edges of his consciousness. He stares at cloth above him, moves his gaze around and recognizes the interior of a stable in Wild’s Hyrule. He hears conversations outside, distant laughter and quiet mumbles. Legend recognizes Wind’s high-pitched giggle, Hyrule’s soft voice, Time’s deep tone, all muffled behind the wood and tarp. He feels fabric rubbing against him and the familiar feeling of the loose threads catching on stitches in his skin. It sends pinpricks of pain up his torso; he stirs to stop the sensation.

There’s movement to his right and he hears his name- it’s happy, relieved, and when Legend turns his head he sees Warriors leaning forward in a chair beside the bed he lies in. The Captain smiles, sets whatever he has in his hands on the floor by his feet.

“Hey, kid,” he says, voice hushed as he scoots the chair a bit closer. He’s got a bandage on the cut across his cheek, and his hair has recently been washed. There’s no blood in it, no grime on his skin. His clothes are fresh - Legend wonders who’s cleaning his precious scarf, and if they’re doing it well enough.

Warriors hesitates, opens and closes his mouth for a moment. “Can you hear me?”

Legend moves his tongue but it doesn’t quite form the syllables he wants to, so he resorts to nodding. Warriors sighs and his tense shoulders relax a little.

“Good, good-” the Captain lets out, chewing on his lip as he takes in Legend’s form. “How are you feeling?”

The words enter his ears but his mind doesn’t really register them for a moment. He feels… tired. Unnaturally weak, and he thinks it’s much more the blood loss than it is the concussion. He does feel that, though. Every flick of his eyes sends pain through his skull, and he gets a dizzy spell while lying down and he has to close his eyes for a moment to not feel sick. Legend blinks them open tiredly, tries moving his mouth in a way it’ll cooperate. “Shitty,” he mumbles, the two syllables slurred together in one mess of a word, but Warriors understands regardless and gives him a disquieted, sad smile.

“That good, huh,” Warriors chuckles a bit dryly. There’s a moment of silence where it looks like he wants to say something else, where the Captain’s eyes stray to the bandages and the bruises that are probably settling into Legend’s skin. He opens his mouth, clicks it shut; he stares at Legend’s injured shoulder and the gash in his torso that’s covered by a blanket and there’s so much obvious regret in his gaze that it permeates the air. He’d never admit it aloud, but something in Legend’s soul hurts at the sight.

Warriors suddenly perks up like he just remembered something, and that remorseful look is replaced with something softer, happier. “Oh- hold on,” he says and bends down to pick something up from the floor. He raises it gently, and once it makes it over the crest of the mattress he lies on Legend can’t help but smile.

Warriors holds his Master Sword with a gentleness the Captain has never handled his own, and even though Legend puts a lot of energy into the maintenance of his main weapon and it’s almost always clean, he can tell it’s recently been polished. The gold designs on the scabbard reflect warm lights of lanterns in the stable, and Legend feels like the straps and buckles might’ve even been cleaned as they dangle and shine in the candlelight. Warriors carefully sits her next to Legend’s bed, props her up against the frame.

Legend hears her hum a warm greeting. He hums back and grins tiredly. “Thank you,” Legend says to Warriors, and he means it. Fi hums again. He chuckles, winces at the pain the movement brings. “She said you’re soft.”

The Captain grins, smile lopsided. “She said the same about you.”

Betrayal, Legend thinks dramatically. He chuckles and rests his eyes for a moment. Unbelievable.

He hears that creak of wood again and he peaks an eye open. He sees Warriors pick something up from the floor, and it takes a moment to realize that it’s a deck of playing cards; new ones that aren’t torn or bloody or missing. The Captain looks at him, giving him a knowing look.

“Wind let me borrow his deck,” he grins. He holds them up like they’re a prized possession. “I’ve been practicing.”

Legend stares at him, unimpressed, as the Captain takes a selection and starts to fan them out. The process is slow and his entire hand is tilted for some reason, but he manages to fan them out quite well this time. Warriors is sticking his tongue out, hyperfocused on his task like it’s a fucking surgical operation and not a card trick. He holds out the selection toward Legend, just barely starts to say pick a card, and then he tries to resituate his hands into a more comfortable position and several cards slip out and fall onto the floor.

Warriors fumbles. He loses all the others. “Ah shit-”

Legend cackles.