Archive of Our Own ^beta

They’re scouting, well they’re supposed to be. In practice, it looks like Warriors walking backward along a ridge line, gesturing wildly as he talks, while Twilight watches the tree line and quietly makes sure neither of them is about to walk straight into an ambush.

“You know,” Warriors says, pointing down toward the valley, “in my Hyrule, this would absolutely be crawling with monsters by now, there’s never a moments peace, honestly!”

Twilight snorts despite himself. “Then maybe your Hyrule needs a more vigilant hero…”

Warriors laughs. “Hey, I’m plenty vigilant.”

Twilight hums, eyes flicking over a shadow that shifts too slowly to be just wind. He adjusts his footing, automatically placing himself half a step ahead of Warriors without thinking about it. They’ve fallen into this rhythm easily. Warriors is loud, unguarded, bright in a way Twilight once would have found exhausting. Now it’s… grounding. Predictable. Safe.

“You always this serious while scouting?” Warriors asks, glancing at him sideways. “Or am I just distracting you?”

“Both.” Twilight replies dryly.

Warriors grins. “Wow. Honesty. I like it.”

They move on in companionable quiet for a moment. Twilight listens to the sounds of the forest, distant birds, the low whisper of wind through leaves, the faint creak of leather and metal as Warriors shifts his weight.

“So.” Warriors says eventually, unable to help himself. “You ever miss it?”

Twilight arches an eyebrow. “Miss what?”

“War.” Warriors says lightly. “The big ones. The kind that change everything.”

Twilight considers that. He always does, when someone asks. “I miss knowing what I’m supposed to do.” he says at last. “Not the fighting.”

Warriors nods, thoughtful. “Yeah. I get that.”

They crest the ridge. The land beyond stretches wide and quiet, sunlight spilling across open ground. Twilight pauses, scans it, then relaxes by a fraction when he finds nothing out of place. Warriors takes that as permission to talk again.

“I’ve seen some wild stuff.” he says. “Different wars, different eras. Allies I never thought I’d fight beside. Enemies that didn’t stay enemies for long.”

Twilight listens. This part, he’s good at. Letting other people fill the silence.

“There was this one battle.” Warriors continues, eyes distant now, voice slipping into storyteller mode. “Everything went wrong. Terrain shifted, magic misfired. Thought the world itself had turned against us.”

Twilight’s attention sharpens, curious despite himself. “What happened?”

Warriors chuckles. “Shadows. Everywhere. Thick enough you could trip over them. Honestly thought I’d stumbled into some cursed realm.”

Twilight’s hand tightens around the strap crossing his chest. Shadow magic is broad. Common. He tells himself that immediately, firmly. This doesn’t mean anything.

“But then,” Warriors says, “someone stepped out of it. Like she belonged there.”

Twilight keeps his gaze forward. The forest feels closer now, branches leaning in, light dimming just enough to prickle at the back of his neck.

“Short.” Warriors says, smiling faintly. “Sharp tongue. Looked at my entire army like she was deciding whether we were worth the effort.”

There is a strange sensation in Twilight’s chest, not pain, not yet, but pressure. As if something long dormant has shifted, unsettled.

“She fought like she ruled the place.” Warriors goes on. “Like the shadows listened to her.”

Twilight slows. Just a fraction. Barely noticeable. His breath is steady. His heart is not.

“And she did rule.” Warriors adds. “Whole realm. Twilight-ish, actually. Funny coincidence, huh? With your name and all.”

The word coincidence feels wrong. Too neat. Too careless. Twilight stops walking. Warriors keeps talking for another step before he notices.

“Midna.” Warriors says. “That was her name.”

The world does something quiet and catastrophic. There is no sound at first, not really. Just a sudden absence, like everything important has been pulled too far away. Twilight’s vision sharpens unnaturally, every leaf and shadow etched too clearly, while his thoughts scatter, slipping sideways into places he hasn’t let himself enter in years.

Midna.

He tastes the name like blood on his tongue.

The last time he heard it spoken aloud, it had been wrapped in urgency and trust and a smile that hurt to look at. The last time he said it, it had been goodbye. He hadn’t spoken it since. Hadn’t dared.

“…Midna?” Twilight says. His voice doesn’t shake. That almost makes it worse.

Warriors turns, concern flickering across his face. “Yeah, you heard it?”

“How.” Twilight asks. The word comes out clipped, precise, like he’s bracing it with iron bands. “How was that possible.”

Warriors hesitates, sensing something he doesn’t quite understand. “Oh. Uh. One of my friends did it. Lana. She’s… good with portals. Between worlds. Opened a path for a bit.”

For a bit. Twilight doesn’t react outwardly. Years of discipline hold him upright, breathing, composed. Inside, something fractures. He had accepted the mirror shattering because it was final. Because it was Midna’s choice, and respecting it had felt like the last thing he could give her. He had built a life around the certainty that there was no going back. And now… Now there is the unbearable knowledge that maybe there had been. Warriors is still talking, explaining, filling the space Twilight no longer occupies. Twilight listens, because he always does. But somewhere deep inside, a grief he thought he had finished mourning opens its eyes and remembers how to hurt. Warriors keeps talking. That’s the worst part. “Oh, yeah, Lana’s like that.” he says, waving a hand as if this is all mildly amusing. “Rules are more like suggestions to her. She opened the path, we coordinated the fight, then she closed it again before anything destabilised. Clean job, all things considered.”

Twilight nods. The motion is automatic. A reflex honed over years of listening without responding, of absorbing information without letting it touch him. His body knows how to perform normalcy even as something vital inside him slips its moorings. Clean job. For a bit. Closed again. Warriors talks about the battle, how Midna moved through it like she already knew the outcome, how she never stayed in one place long, how the shadows seemed to curl protectively around her. He laughs when he remembers her insults, the way she called him “overdressed” and his generals “stiff.”

“She didn’t linger.” Warriors says. “Had somewhere to be. A realm to run. But she made sure we’d be alright first.”

Twilight’s chest tightens. Of course she did. That was always the pattern. Midna stepping in, fixing what needed fixing, and leaving before anyone could ask her to stay. She had taught him that duty came first, that some choices hurt because they have to. He had learned that lesson well. Too well. He had taken her goodbye and folded it carefully into himself, turned it into something bearable. This is permanent, he had told himself. This is what moving on looks like. He had grieved in silence. Had let the ache dull with time. Had stopped imagining her voice in the back of his mind, stopped turning toward shadows that no longer spoke. He had healed. Now Warriors is saying she crossed worlds. Now Warriors is saying the door wasn’t sealed shut, just closed.

Twilight’s thoughts spiral, tightening into something sharp and relentless. If it was possible then, why not before? If a path could be opened, even briefly, then the mirror shattering wasn’t the end of all ends. It wasn’t the universe drawing a hard line. It was a choice. Hers. Deliberate. Controlled. The realisation doesn’t feel like hope. It feels like betrayal, not by Midna, but by the certainty he built his life on. He had told himself that wanting her to stay would have been selfish. That asking her to reconsider would have cheapened the sacrifice. That loving someone sometimes meant accepting that you would never see them again.

But if the goodbye wasn’t as final as it seemed… Then maybe he hadn’t been noble. Maybe he’d just been afraid.

Warriors laughs at something, a memory, a joke Twilight doesn’t quite catch. The sound feels distant, like it’s coming from underwater.

“Anyway.” Warriors says, stretching. “She was impressive. You’d have liked her.”

Twilight’s breath catches. Liked. As if she were a stranger. As if she weren’t the person who had rewritten his understanding of partnership, of trust, of what it meant to fight beside someone who saw you completely and chose to stand with you anyway. He says nothing. Inside, the moment of the mirror’s destruction replays itself with merciless clarity.

Midna standing tall, crown gleaming. The way she smiled, brave, resolute, final. The unspoken understanding that this was goodbye. He remembers how he hadn’t reached for her. How he’d stood still and let her go, because asking her to stay felt like asking her to be less than she was. Because he hadn’t realised she was leaving for good before it was too late.

I’ll be alright, he had thought then. This is the right thing. Now that belief crumbles under the weight of a single, unbearable question: If there was another way… why didn’t she tell him?

Warriors is still talking, filling the silence Twilight can’t. “Lana said reopening it again would be risky. Takes a toll. And Midna, she didn’t seem like she’d want that kind of instability long-term.”

Twilight’s hands curl slowly into fists. Of course she wouldn’t. She had always been the one to choose stability over comfort. Realm over self. Duty over desire. And he had loved her for it. He still does. That’s the real cruelty of it, the real undoing. Not that Midna might be reachable, but that Twilight now has to live with the knowledge that she chose to leave knowing she could return. The goodbye wasn’t permanent because it had to be. It was permanent because she decided it should be. And Twilight realises, with a hollow ache that spreads through his chest, that he never healed from losing her. He healed from believing there was no alternative. Warriors finally stops talking. Notices Twilight’s stillness. The way his gaze has gone unfocused, fixed on nothing at all.

“Hey.” he says more quietly. “You sure you’re okay?”

Twilight draws in a careful breath. “Yes.” he says, because that is the answer he has always given. Because it is easier than explaining that something long-accepted has been torn open again, raw and bleeding.

He starts walking. Warriors follows, still unsure, still unaware that a single offhand story has undone years of careful, silent acceptance. Behind Twilight’s eyes, the idea takes root, dangerous, persistent, impossible to ignore. If it happened once… And for the first time since the mirror shattered, the thought of Midna is no longer something he can safely leave in the past. They walk back, Warriors filling the silence and Twilight drowning in his own thoughts.

The camp settles the way it always does. Someone starts a fire. Someone else complains about the smoke. There’s laughter, the clink of cookware, the easy choreography of people who have done this together often enough that it barely requires thought.

Twilight sits apart from it. Not far, never far, just enough that no one expects him to contribute. He crouches near the edge of the firelight, elbows braced on his knees, hands hanging loosely between them. His shoulders are rounded, drawn inward, as though he’s trying to make himself smaller without quite realising it. The flames don’t feel warm. He watches them anyway. The way they consume, the way they reduce everything to something lighter and easier to carry. He has always understood fire. Always trusted it to be honest. Behind him, Warriors laughs. Someone asks him to repeat a story. The sound hits Twilight like a physical thing, sharp and sudden, and for a split second he thinks, irrationally, that he might hear her voice threaded through it. A sharp remark. A laugh edged with mockery and fondness.

He doesn’t. The absence is worse. He closes his eyes. And the past rises up to meet him, uninvited. He is standing in the ruins again. The air is heavy with magic and finality, the kind that presses down on your chest and tells you there will be no undoing this. The mirror looms behind her, fractured, dangerous, humming with power that should never have existed at all.

Midna stands before him. Whole. Regal. Herself. She looks at him like she always did, seeing straight through him, past the hero, past the title, to the person underneath. There is pride in her expression. Relief. And something carefully restrained that he hadn’t known how to name then. She tells him this is goodbye. Not cruelly. Not even sadly. Just… certainly. Twilight remembers how still he had gone. How the instinct to reach for her had flared and then been smothered beneath something he mistook for maturity. Respect. Love. He remembers thinking: This is what it means to care about someone properly. So he nods. He accepts it. He lets her shatter the mirror, he had no option regardless, it was done by the time he had registered what was happening. At the time, the sound had been deafening, glass and magic and possibility breaking all at once. Final. Absolute. A line drawn cleanly between then and now.

He opens his eyes. The campfire crackles softly. Someone hands around food. The world continues to exist, stubborn and indifferent. Twilight’s chest tightens. Because now, layered over that memory, is Warriors’ voice. Casual. Unthinking. A path for a bit. Opened, then closed again. The mirror hadn’t been the only way. The realisation twists the memory into something unrecognisable. He replays the goodbye again, slower this time. Sees the places where he could have spoken and didn’t. Where he could have asked, not demanded, not begged, just asked. Is there another way? Could we visit? Will I ever see you again?

He hadn’t wanted to burden her. Hadn’t wanted to make her choice harder. Hadn’t wanted to be the reason she hesitated. And so he had been silent. The silence had felt noble, once. Now it feels like cowardice.

His fingers curl into the fabric of his gloves, gripping tight enough to ache. He breathes through it, steady and controlled, the way he always does. No one is looking at him closely enough to notice. They rarely do.

What breaks him isn’t the idea that Midna left. It’s the understanding that she left knowing she could return, and chose not to. Not because she didn’t care. Because she did. Because she trusted him to live with it. Twilight presses his forehead briefly against his knuckles. He had learned to move on by believing the door was gone. That the world itself had enforced the separation. That there was no point in wondering what if when never was the only answer. Now that scaffolding is gone. In its place is a far more painful truth: she chose finality because she believed he could bear it. And maybe he could. But bearing something isn’t the same as surviving it unscathed.

Across the camp, someone calls his name. Asks if he’s hungry. If he wants to join them.

“In a minute.” Twilight says. His voice is steady. Reliable. The same voice that has carried him through wars and losses and endings he never let himself linger on. He stays where he is, hunched at the edge of the light, watching the fire consume what it’s given. For the first time since the mirror shattered, Twilight allows himself to think the thought he never dared before.

If it wasn’t impossible…

He doesn’t finish it. Some thoughts, once completed, change everything. And Twilight has already lost enough to know how dangerous that can be.

Someone laughs behind him.

“Wow.” a voice says, light, teasing. “You planning on brooding out there all night, or are you finally going to grace us with your presence?”

Twilight opens his eyes. He hadn’t realised he’d closed them. He turns his head just enough to see Warriors standing a few paces away, hands on his hips, expression easy and familiar. Firelight catches in the silver of his armour, makes him look warm. Approachable. Alive in the middle of things.

“Come on.” Warriors adds. “You’re starting to look like some kind of lone wolf cliché.”

A few others snicker. Someone tosses a stick into the fire. It cracks and pops, sparks leaping upward. Twilight exhales slowly through his nose.

“Yeah.” Hyrule’s voice chimes in. “You should come sit!”

Usually, Twilight would shrug. Offer something dry. Deflect. Tonight, the words don’t come easily. He pushes himself to his feet anyway. Habit. Compliance. He crosses the short distance to the fire and settles where there’s space, folding himself down with careful precision. His posture is wrong, shoulders tense, gaze unfocused, like he’s bracing for something that never quite arrives.

Warriors drops down across from him, grinning. “There we go. See? Much better.”

Twilight doesn’t answer. The firelight dances across his face, but there’s no warmth in it. His eyes keep drifting, not to the people, not to the food, but to the shadows just beyond the circle of light. The place where things blur and soften and hide. Conversation rolls on without him. Someone cracks a joke. Someone else groans. Warriors launches into another story, gesturing animatedly, voice rising and falling as he paints the scene.

“And I swear,” Warriors says, laughing, “she just looked at me like I was the dumbest man alive. Didn’t even blink. Just…” He tilts his head, mimicking a sharp, unimpressed stare. “…‘Try not to get killed. It’d be inconvenient.’”

There’s laughter this time. Real laughter. Twilight’s jaw tightens. He hadn’t been looking at Warriors, but now he does, really looks. The easy familiarity with which he recounts it. The way her mannerisms sit so comfortably in his mouth, like something he’s allowed to remember out loud.

“She had a way with words.” Warriors continues dryly. “Not exactly subtle, but—”

“Stop.”

The word cuts through the air. Too sharp. Too loud. The laughter dies instantly.

Warriors blinks, thrown. “What?”

Twilight’s heart is pounding now, hard enough that he can feel it in his throat. Heat floods his chest, not anger, not exactly, but something hot and sour and unreasonable.

“I said stop.” Twilight repeats.

There’s a pause. The fire crackles. Someone shifts uncomfortably.

Warriors’ grin fades, replaced by something more cautious. “Hey.” he says slowly. “I was just telling a story.”

“I know!” Twilight snaps.

The word comes out harsher than he intends. His hands curl into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms again, grounding him just enough to keep him upright.

“I know.” he says again, quieter, but no less tense. “Just… just shut up, okay?”

Warriors’ eyes widen a fraction. Hurt blossoms on his face, not fully, but enough to sting.

“Oh,” he says. “Twilight, I didn’t mean…”

“You got to see her.” Twilight says. The words spill out before he can stop them. Ugly. Bare. Charged with something he hasn’t let himself feel in years.

“You got to stand in the same space. Hear her voice. Watch her fight.” His voice tightens. “You talk about it like it was nothing.”

Warriors opens his mouth, then closes it again, confusion splashed across his face. “I didn’t say it was nothing.” he says carefully.

Twilight laughs, a short, breathless sound that surprises even him.

“You talk about her like she was a curiosity.” he says. “An oddity. A story.” His gaze drops to the fire, then snaps back up, sharp and unguarded. “She’s so much more than that.”

Silence crashes down around them. Warriors’ expression softens immediately, guilt bleeding through the confusion. “I didn’t know.” he says. “If I’d known you knew her… I…”

“That doesn’t change it.” Twilight cuts in. Because that’s the truth, and it hurts more than anything else. You didn’t know. And it still happened.

Still, Warriors crossed a line Twilight had spent years believing was impassable. Still, he stood where Twilight never thought anyone could stand again. Twilight realises, with a sick twist in his gut, that the jealousy burning through him has nothing to do with Warriors at all. It’s about the fact that someone else got to see her after the goodbye. Someone else existed in a world where Midna was still… reachable. He pushes himself to his feet abruptly.

“I’m tired.” he says. The excuse is thin. He doesn’t care. It’s silent, everyone stares. He feels their gaze crawl across his skin like insects.

Warriors stands too, concern written all over his face. “Twilight—”

“I’m fine.” Twilight says automatically.

He isn’t. But he’s learned how to walk away from fires before they burn too deep. As he retreats back toward the edge of the camp, the warmth fades quickly, swallowed by shadow. Behind him, conversation starts again, hesitant and subdued, unsure. Twilight doesn’t look back. Inside him, something sharp and ugly twists tighter. Not anger at Warriors. Not even anger at Midna. Just the unbearable knowledge that the world had moved on in a way he hadn’t known was possible, and left him standing in the aftermath, wondering how many years he spent healing from a wound that was never as closed as he believed.

He walks. Twilight doesn’t go far. He never does. Just far enough that the firelight thins into something dull and indistinct, far enough that the voices blur into noise instead of words. He settles at the base of a tree, back pressed into rough bark, knees drawn up, forearms resting on them like he’s bracing himself against impact. His hands are shaking. That’s new.

He curls his fingers slowly, deliberately, forcing the tremor to still. Breath in. Breath out. Count it. Control it. He has done this before, after battles, after losses, after waking from dreams that didn’t know how to stay in the past.

This should be familiar. It isn’t. His thoughts won’t settle. They keep circling back to the same impossible point, worrying at it like a wound that won’t scab.

Warriors saw her.

The fact sits in his chest like a weight.

Not the idea of Midna returning, not even yet. Just the knowledge that she existed again in the world, tangible and real, and Twilight wasn’t there. That someone else stood where he once stood. Heard her voice. Watched her move. Laughed with her. The jealousy is sharp and ugly, and he hates it almost as much as he feels it.

It isn’t fair.

Warriors didn’t steal anything from him. Warriors didn’t know. And yet Twilight’s mind keeps returning to the image of him standing across from her, easy and unburdened, with none of the history that makes the thought feel unbearable. You talk about her like she was a story. The memory of his own voice makes his stomach twist.

He presses his forehead into his knees, breath coming shallow now. He had built his healing on certainty. That’s the truth of it, stripped bare. The certainty that the mirror was gone. That the door was sealed. That Midna was alive, somewhere beyond his reach, and always would be. That there was no choice left to make, and therefore no regret to gnaw at him in the quiet moments.

Now that certainty is ash.

If it was possible once, it might be possible again. And that thought terrifies him. Because wanting answers means reopening something he spent years carefully closing. Because knowing more means risking the realisation that he could have reached for her, and didn’t.

A presence settles beside him. Twilight registers it distantly at first, a shift in the air, the faint creak of leather, the sound of someone sitting without ceremony. He doesn’t look up.

Time doesn’t speak. That, more than anything, is how Twilight knows it’s him.

They sit like that for a while. Long enough that the shaking in Twilight’s hands eases. Long enough that his breathing evens out, though the ache in his chest remains, dull and insistent.

Time has always been like this. Steady. Patient. Unmoved by silence.

Finally, he speaks. “Do you want to talk about whatever that was back there?”

The question is gentle. Not accusatory. Not curious in the way others might be. Just… offered.

Twilight swallows.

“No.” he says immediately. The word comes out automatic, reflexive.

Time hums softly, accepting that. He doesn’t get up. Doesn’t push.

Another stretch of quiet passes. Twilight stares at the ground, at the way the earth is worn smooth beneath his boots. His jaw tightens.

“…I didn’t mean to snap at him.” he says, eventually.

It feels safer than the truth.

Time nods, once. “I figured.”

Twilight exhales, long and slow. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”

“And yet.” Time says mildly.

Twilight’s fingers curl again.

“And yet.” he repeats under his breath.

He hesitates, then forces the words out, one careful piece at a time. “He talked about her like she was… recent. Like she wasn’t something that ended.”

Time doesn’t interrupt.

“She was final.” Twilight continues. “That’s how I survived it. Knowing it was final.”

His voice tightens despite his efforts. He hates that. Hates how close it is to breaking. “If it wasn’t,” he says quietly, “then I don’t know what I did all that healing for.”

Time’s gaze stays forward, fixed on the darkened tree line. “You healed from what you believed was true.”

Twilight lets out a bitter huff of breath. “And what if it wasn’t?”

The question hangs between them, raw and unanswered. Time is silent for a long moment.

“Then,” he says carefully, “it means you’re human, you’re you.”

Twilight laughs once, sharp and humourless. “I don’t feel very heroic.”

“You never do.” Time replies, not unkindly.

Another pause.

Twilight’s voice drops. “He said a friend of his opened the way.”

Time glances at him now. “A way where?”

Twilight doesn’t answer immediately. He stares at the ground, jaw clenched, weighing the danger of saying it aloud. “…the Twilight Realm.”

Time doesn’t react. Doesn’t flinch.

“I don’t want to go.” Twilight says quickly. “I don’t want to undo anything. I don’t want to ask her to change her mind.”

His chest aches as he says it, like his body doesn’t quite believe him. “I just…” He falters. Swallows. “I need to know what it meant. If the goodbye was always meant to be permanent, or if I just… let it be.”

Time studies him quietly. “That sounds,” he says after a moment, “like wanting answers.”

Twilight closes his eyes. It does. And that’s the problem. Because answers mean choice. And choice means reopening a door he once believed had been sealed for both their sakes. Because somewhere inside, beneath the resentment, beneath the jealousy, beneath the fear, a dangerous, fragile need has taken root. Not to bring her back. Just to understand why she left when she didn’t have to make it forever. Twilight opens his eyes again, staring into the dark. “I don’t know if I can live with what I’ll find out.” he admits.

Time doesn’t move. Doesn’t leave. “I’ll sit with you.” he says simply. “While you decide.”

And for now, just for now, that’s enough to keep Twilight from breaking completely. Time shifts slightly beside him, adjusting his weight against the tree. The movement is small, deliberate, a reminder of presence, not pressure.

“You know,” he says eventually, “it’s possible this isn’t something meant to be revisited.”

Twilight stiffens. Time continues before he can react, voice calm, even. “Not everything that can be reopened should be. And from what Warriors said… there’s no certainty it could be done again. One mage opening a path once doesn’t mean it’s repeatable. Or safe.”

Twilight exhales through his nose. “I know.” he says.

The problem is that knowing doesn’t dull the pull. It just sharpens it into something more dangerous.

Time’s gaze stays forward. “You’ve lived with this ending a long time.”

“Yes.” Twilight says immediately. Too quickly. He presses his back harder into the tree, as if he could anchor himself there. “I made peace with it.”

Time tilts his head, just slightly. “You made peace with believing it was final.”

The distinction lands cleanly. Painfully. Twilight’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t argue, because he can’t. The words sit too close to the truth.

“I don’t want to unravel everything.” Twilight says. “I don’t want to chase something that might not even exist anymore. If it was just… luck. If it was just timing.” He swallows. “If it can’t happen again, then this is pointless.”

“And if it can?” Time asks, gently.

Twilight’s fingers dig into the fabric at his knees.

“Then,” he says quietly, “I don’t know how I’m supposed to live with the fact that someone else got there first.”

The resentment flares hot and immediate, no longer something he can pretend isn’t there. He sees Warriors again in his mind’s eye, relaxed, smiling, telling the story like it’s an anecdote meant to entertain. No weight to it. No sense of what it cost.

“He didn’t mean to.” Twilight says, voice tight. “I know that. But he talks about her like…” He stops, breath catching. Tries again. “Like she was accessible. Like she wasn’t something I lost.”

Time listens. Always listens.

“He stood in front of her.” Twilight continues, anger bleeding through now, sharp and unguarded. “And he didn’t have to wonder whether speaking would make it harder for her to leave. He didn’t have to decide whether wanting her was selfish.” His voice drops. “He didn’t have to watch her walk away believing there was no other choice.”

The unfairness of it makes his chest ache. Warriors didn’t earn that moment. Didn’t suffer for it. Didn’t even know what it was worth. Twilight hates himself a little for thinking that.

“I’m not angry at him.” Twilight says, immediately contradicting himself. “I’m angry that it happened at all. That the world just… moved on without me knowing.”

Time nods once. “That happens.”

Twilight lets out a breath that borders on a laugh. “It shouldn’t.”

“No.” Time agrees. “It shouldn’t.”

Another stretch of silence settles, heavy but not hostile.

“You don’t owe him forgiveness tonight.” Time adds after a moment. “Or answers. Or action.”

Twilight stares at the ground.

“I don’t want to want this.” he admits. “I don’t want to need to know.”

Time’s voice is quiet. “But you do.”

“Yes.” Twilight whispers.

Because now that the idea exists, that the goodbye may not have been enforced by the universe, but chosen, he can’t put it back. He can’t unknow that Midna may have crossed worlds again, stood beneath another sky, fought another war. He can’t unknow that Warriors stood there and he didn’t.

Time watches him for a long moment. “Then maybe,” he says carefully, “the question isn’t whether you should pursue this.”

Twilight looks up at him, startled despite himself.

“Maybe it’s whether you can accept not pursuing it.”

The thought lands like a weight on his chest. Twilight looks away again, back into the dark. He tries to imagine letting this go. Tries to imagine returning to the certainty he once had, patching over the crack and pretending it never happened. The image doesn’t hold. Not now.

“I don’t know if I can.” he says.

Time nods. There’s no judgment in it. Just understanding. “Then don’t decide tonight.” he says. “Let it sit. Let it hurt. See what’s left when the anger burns out.”

Twilight closes his eyes. The anger doesn’t feel like it’s burning out anytime soon. It coils tighter instead, tangled with jealousy and grief and a need he doesn’t want to name. But beneath all of it, beneath the resentment toward Warriors, beneath the fear of reopening old wounds, there is one simple, devastating truth he can no longer escape. He wants to know that letting her go meant what he believed it did. And until he knows that, the past will not stay buried. Time remains beside him, silent and steady, as Twilight stares into the dark and wonders how long he can pretend this isn’t already changing everything.

Time shifts again, the movement subtle but deliberate, like he’s bracing himself for what he’s about to say. “Twilight.” he says.

There’s weight in his voice now. Not command, concern. The kind that comes from someone who has watched too many choices spiral out of control. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Twilight huffs a soft breath. “That’s a wide category.”

Time doesn’t smile. “You know what I mean.”

Silence stretches between them, thick and heavy.

“You’ve already made peace with this.” Time continues. “You lived with the ending as it was given to you. You survived it. That matters.” He pauses, choosing his words with care. “Some things are meant to stay in the past. Fate closes doors for a reason.”

Twilight’s fingers flex against his knees.

“Let it go.” Time says gently. “As it was intended.”

The words are reasonable. Sensible. They carry the authority of experience, of someone who has seen what happens when heroes refuse to accept endings. Twilight doesn’t argue. He doesn’t agree, either.

“I hear you.” he says instead.

It’s a non-answer, and they both know it.

Time watches him closely. “That’s not the same as listening.”

Twilight’s mouth curves into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Isn’t it?”

Another pause.

Then, quietly, too quietly to be accidental, Twilight asks, “Could you?”

Time blinks. “Could I what?”

Twilight doesn’t look at him. His gaze stays fixed on the dark beyond the camp, where the firelight can’t reach. “Could you live with never seeing Malon again,” he asks, “if someone told you there was a chance you might, but you shouldn’t take it.”

The question lands with surgical precision. Time doesn’t answer. Not right away. The silence is long. Long enough that Twilight wonders if he’s pushed too far. Long enough that the night seems to lean in, listening. Time’s jaw tightens. Just a fraction. “Thankfully that isn’t the case.” he says finally.

It isn’t an answer. Twilight nods. That, too, is telling. Because in the quiet that follows, in the space where Time doesn’t speak, Twilight understands something with devastating clarity. Peace is not the same as indifference. Acceptance is not the same as lack of desire. And if Time, with all his wisdom and restraint and hard-earned understanding of fate, cannot say yes… Then Twilight already knows the truth about himself. He doesn’t say it aloud. He doesn’t need to. Inside him, beneath the fear and the anger and the careful arguments he’s been building to justify restraint, there is something simpler and far more dangerous. If there is even the slightest chance, the smallest, most fragile possibility, that he could see Midna again… He would take it. Even if it broke everything he’s rebuilt. Even if it cost him the peace he fought so hard to earn. Even if it killed him.

Time exhales slowly, as if he’s come to the same conclusion and doesn’t like it. “I won’t stop you.” he says at last. “But I won’t help you tear yourself apart either.”

Twilight finally looks at him. “I wouldn’t ask you to.” he says.

It’s the most honest thing he’s said all night. They sit together in the quiet, the campfire crackling distantly behind them, the future unspoken but no longer uncertain. Some doors, once revealed, cannot be unseen. And Twilight knows, with a calm that frightens him more than panic ever could, that he has already crossed the threshold in his mind.

The past is no longer content to stay where fate left it. And neither, it seems, is he.

Time is the one who breaks the stillness.

He looks back toward the camp, toward the low sprawl of bedrolls and half-burned firewood and the quiet shapes of heroes finally giving in to exhaustion. Most of them are asleep now, curled in cloaks, armour loosened, weapons within reach out of habit rather than necessity. The kind of sleep that only comes when danger has eased enough to be postponed until morning.

“They’re out.” Time says softly.

Twilight follows his gaze without really seeing them. The sight feels distant, like something happening in another life. Still, the implication settles in his chest, the reminder that the world hasn’t paused just because something inside him has cracked open. Time stands, brushing dirt from his gloves. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t loom.

“We should get some rest too.” he says gently. Not an order. An offering. “Whatever this is… it’ll still be there in the morning.”

Twilight nods. Again, not agreement. Just acknowledgement. He pushes himself to his feet, joints stiff, movements slower than usual. The night has settled deep into his bones, and with it the weight of everything he hasn’t said. As they turn back toward the fire, Twilight becomes aware of something, a gaze, lingering and uncertain.

Warriors is still awake.

He sits on the opposite side of the camp, back against a log, sword laid carefully beside him. The fire has burned low enough now that it throws long shadows across his face, but Twilight can still see the expression there, guilt written plain, bravado stripped away. He looks like someone who knows he’s done something wrong and doesn’t know how to fix it. Like a kicked puppy. The sight tightens something unpleasant in Twilight’s chest. Their eyes meet. Warriors straightens instinctively, like he’s about to say something, an apology, maybe, or an explanation, or another clumsy attempt to bridge a gap he didn’t know existed an hour ago.

Twilight looks away first. Not out of spite. Out of self-preservation. Because the resentment is still there, coiled and sharp, and he doesn’t trust himself not to let it bite again. Because part of him wants to demand answers Warriors doesn’t even know how to give. Because another part of him wants to grab him by the shoulders and ask him to describe her again, in excruciating detail, just to prove she was real. He hates that part most of all.

Time notices the exchange. Says nothing.

They settle near the edge of the camp once more, close enough to be counted, far enough to be left alone. Twilight lowers himself onto his bedroll, movements careful, deliberate. He lies back and stares up at the canopy of stars breaking through the branches overhead. Sleep does not come. Behind his closed eyes, the same thoughts circle endlessly, not the goodbye anymore, but what came after it. The years he spent building a life on the certainty that some endings are absolute. The fragile peace he told himself was enough.

Across the fire, Warriors shifts, clearly still awake, still watching. Twilight can feel it like a weight between his shoulders. He doesn’t look again. Not tonight.

Time settles beside him, close enough that Twilight can feel the steady presence, the quiet vigilance. No more words are exchanged. None are needed. Around them, the camp breathes, heroes sleeping, fire dying, night deepening. And somewhere between resentment and longing, between acceptance and defiance, Twilight lies awake and understands that rest is not the same as peace. Morning will come.

And with it, the knowledge that whatever he does next, he will not be able to pretend this never happened.

The portal spits them out into heat and noise. Warriors’ Hyrule is always like this, too bright, too loud, too alive. The air hums with latent magic, like the land itself refuses to sit still. Twilight blinks against the sudden sunlight, hand lifting instinctively as his eyes adjust. Ahead of them, Warriors exhales. Not a sigh exactly, but something close to it, tension loosening and tightening at the same time. He rolls his shoulders, already scanning the horizon, posture shifting into something more alert, more burdened. Home.

“There she is.” Warriors says quietly.

Twilight follows his gaze.

Artemis stands at the edge of the clearing, flanked by guards who relax the moment they recognise the group. She’s radiant in the way Warriors’ Zelda always is, composed, powerful, carrying her kingdom like a second spine.

Warriors’ expression softens immediately. It’s subtle. Anyone not looking for it would miss it. But Twilight sees it, the way his shoulders ease, the way his attention narrows, the way relief and longing tangle together in his eyes like something carefully restrained. Hopeless. Not in a dramatic way. In the quiet, enduring sense.

Twilight looks away. He knows that look too well.

Warriors moves ahead to greet her, voice warm, easy, a thousand unspoken things sitting just beneath the surface. Twilight lets the moment exist without intruding on it. He’s learned when to step back from other people’s almosts.

The chain starts moving again shortly after, filtering into familiar paths. Warriors takes point without thinking about it, falling into the role like muscle memory. Legend slots in beside him, immediately launching into commentary.

“So…” Legend says, glancing around. “Let me guess. This is the part where something explodes?”

Warriors snorts. “Give it five minutes.”

“I’m serious.” Legend insists. “Your Hyrule has vibes, and you watch it like you expect the ground to swallow you whole.”

“That’s called ‘vigilance’.” Warriors replies. “You should try it.”

Twilight trails a few steps behind them, watching the exchange. The banter is easy, automatic, the kind that comes from having done this too many times to count. He notices how Warriors keeps glancing ahead, mentally tracking threats, escape routes, contingency plans. He also notices how carefully Warriors doesn’t look back. The awkwardness from the night before lingers like a bruise, not raw anymore, but still tender. Twilight has felt it all morning, a quiet awareness at the back of his mind. He doesn’t blame Warriors for keeping his distance. He does blame himself.

The path narrows slightly. The group slows.

There’s a lull, a natural pause in conversation as Legend stops to poke at something suspicious and Warriors waits, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

Twilight exhales.

Now or never.

He steps forward.

“Your Hyrule smells like smoke.” he says mildly.

Warriors startles, just a little. Turns. “Uh, yeah. Forge district’s active today.”

Twilight hums. “Figures. Was wondering why it felt like I was walking into a battlefield that forgot to happen.”

Legend snickers. “That’s one way to put it.”

Warriors blinks, then laughs, the tension easing out of his shoulders. “You’re not wrong. I swear, if something doesn’t go wrong here, I get nervous.”

Twilight tilts his head. “Explains a lot.”

Warriors grins, then hesitates. “Hey. About last night…”

Twilight shakes his head slightly. Not sharp. Not dismissive. Just… done. “Forget it.” he says. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Warriors studies him, searching for cracks. “You sure?”

Twilight meets his gaze steadily. “Yeah.”

It’s not the whole truth. But it’s enough.

Warriors exhales, relief plain on his face. “Good. Because I was worried I’d permanently offended you.”

“Please.” Twilight says dryly. “You’d have to work harder than that.”

Legend looks between them. “Wow. Is this you two reconciling?”

“No.” Warriors says immediately, jokingly.

“Yes.” Twilight says at the same time.

Legend grins. “Called it.”

Warriors shakes his head, smiling despite himself. “You know, for someone so reserved, you’ve got sharp teeth.”

Twilight’s mouth curves faintly. “Only when necessary.”

The moment passes naturally after that. Conversation picks back up. The path widens. The chain moves on. Twilight falls back into step, the tension between him and Warriors eased, not erased, but softened. Something workable again. As he walks, he glances ahead once more, catches Warriors stealing another look toward the distant spires of the castle, toward the figure he’s already reassured himself is safe. The longing is still there. Twilight understands it now in a way he hadn’t before. Not as weakness. But as proof that some attachments don’t fade just because you learn how to live without them. He says nothing. But as the group moves deeper into Warriors’ Hyrule, Twilight knows this much with quiet certainty: Things between them are fine. For now. And sometimes, that’s the only kind of peace you can manage, the kind you choose, deliberately, even when everything inside you is still unresolved. They continue onwards towards Castletown, easy and light.

Lana is easy to spot. Not because she’s loud, she isn’t, but because the air around her feels… bent. Magic doesn’t cling to her the way it does to others, it moves, restless and alert, like it knows she’s paying attention. Twilight notices her before Warriors points her out. She stands a little apart from the others near the courtyard, staff resting against her shoulder, posture relaxed in a way that feels earned rather than careless. She’s laughing at something one of the guards says, eyes bright, expression open, but Twilight can see the calculation beneath it. The constant awareness. The kind that never really turns off.

A mage who opens paths between worlds.

Twilight slows without meaning to. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t stare openly. He just… recalibrates, attention narrowing until everything else fades into background noise. The sound of boots on stone dulls. The chatter of the chain recedes. This is the hinge point. Not a reunion. Not even a conversation. Just the sight of the person who proved, accidentally, carelessly, that the impossible might not be. He watches the way she gestures when she talks, the faint flicker of magic at her fingertips when she laughs. He files it away automatically, cataloguing details like he does with terrain before a fight. If he’s going to do something stupid later, he wants to understand the ground first.

“Don’t.” Warriors mutters.

Twilight blinks, attention snapping back just enough to register Warriors at his side.

“Don’t what?” he asks, defensive. 

Warriors tilts his head toward Lana, expression carefully neutral. “That.”

Twilight follows the gesture belatedly, then stills. “I’m not—”

“You’re staring.” Warriors says. Not accusing. Just… cautious. “Look, I don’t know what your deal is, but Lana’s…” He hesitates, frowns. “She’s not exactly great with complicated emotional situations.”

Twilight exhales slowly. “I’m not interested in her.”

Warriors snorts. “Sure doesn’t look that way.”

Twilight glances back at Lana despite himself, the way she’s turned slightly now, attention shifting, eyes sharp as if she’s sensed something. He looks away again immediately.

“That’s not what this is.” he says.

Warriors studies him, brows drawn together. “Then what is it?”

Twilight considers lying. It would be easier. Safer. He’s good at it, when the lie is omission rather than invention. But something about the weight in his chest, the careful, coiled restraint, makes him choose honesty instead.

“She’s the one who opened the path.” he says quietly.

Warriors’ expression shifts. “Oh.” he says. Then, after a beat, “Oh.”

Twilight nods once. “I just wanted to see her first.”

Warriors scratches the back of his neck, guilt creeping in around the edges. “I really didn’t mean to drop all that on you like I did. If I’d known…”

“It’s fine.” Twilight says automatically.

Warriors doesn’t look convinced.

“You want me to introduce you?” he asks. “She’s… a lot, but she means well.”

Twilight shakes his head. “Not yet.”

Warriors watches him for a moment, then sighs. “Okay. Just…” He hesitates, then adds, “Just don’t go in expecting answers you might not get.”

Twilight’s gaze drifts back to Lana, unseeing now, thoughts far away. “I’m not expecting anything.” he says.

That part, at least, is true. What he is doing, what he can’t stop himself from doing, is measuring the distance between himself and the person who unknowingly unraveled years of careful acceptance. Warriors misreads the silence, the tension, the way Twilight’s attention keeps drifting back. He claps a hand lightly against Twilight’s shoulder. “You know, for what it’s worth, she really is brilliant. Just… dangerous to get attached to.”

Twilight’s mouth curves into something sharp and humourless.

Twilight doesn’t answer. He keeps watching Lana from the edge of the courtyard, not with longing, not with interest, but with the quiet, lethal focus of someone standing at the threshold of a decision he hasn’t admitted to himself yet. Because this isn’t about her. It’s about the fact that she represents hope. And Twilight has never been very good at walking away from hope, even when it threatens to undo him.

Evening settles over the barracks like a held breath finally released. Someone’s found a table sturdy enough to withstand abuse and is already dealing cards. Laughter ricochets off the stone walls, armour discarded in untidy piles, the clatter of boots and mugs filling the space with easy noise. It smells like oil and metal and cooked food, familiar, grounding.

The chain has claimed the space quickly, effortlessly. This is what they do. Wherever they land, they make it liveable. Twilight sits on a bench near the wall, back against the cool stone, one knee drawn up, arms folded loosely over it. He’s present enough to answer when spoken to, to accept a mug when it’s passed his way, but he doesn’t join in. His attention keeps drifting, not outward this time, but inward, caught on a tight, looping track. Across the room, Warriors laughs too loudly at something Legend says, the sound bright but strained around the edges. He keeps glancing over, quick looks he probably thinks are subtle.

They aren’t.

Eventually, he exhales and excuses himself from the game, weaving his way across the room. He stops a few steps from Twilight, rocking back on his heels like he’s trying to find the least invasive way to do this.

“Okay.” Warriors says. “I’m gonna ask, and you can tell me to mind my own business if you want.”

Twilight looks up at him. “…Alright,” he says.

Warriors rubs the back of his neck. “You’ve been off since we got here. Like, really off. And I don’t think it’s just because you’re not a fan of my home décor.”

Twilight’s mouth twitches despite himself. “It’s… loud.”

Warriors huffs a laugh. “Yeah. That tracks.”

He hesitates, then pulls up a chair and sits, elbows braced on his knees, posture mirroring Twilight’s without him meaning to. “I’m trying to put pieces together,” he admits. “and I’m not great at puzzles that involve people.”

Twilight says nothing. Lets him continue.

“You’re the Hero of Twilight.” Warriors goes on. “That much is obvious. Shadow stuff, wolf thing, the whole… vibe.” He gestures vaguely. “And Midna ruled the Twilight Realm. Shadow magic. Different world.”

He glances sideways at Twilight. “So I figured… you knew each other. Worked together. Something like that.”

The understatement of it almost hurts. Twilight’s gaze drops to his hands. He watches his fingers flex, the faint scars there catching the light. “Yes.” he says quietly. “We did.”

Warriors studies his profile, expression careful. “Partners?”

The word lands softly. Not presumptive. Not probing. Twilight nods once. “Yeah.” he says. “Partners.”

Warriors exhales, slow. “Okay. That… explains some things.”

Silence stretches between them, not uncomfortable but weighted. The noise of the barracks rolls on around them, a cheer from the card table, someone complaining about unfair rules, the scrape of a chair.

Warriors frowns, thinking. “So when I talked about her,” he says slowly, “that wasn’t just…”

“No.” Twilight says.

He lifts his head then, meeting Warriors’ eyes. There’s no anger there now. Just exhaustion. Something old and deep-set.

“No.” he repeats. “It wasn’t.”

Warriors’ shoulders slump. “I really didn’t know.”

“I know.” That’s the part Twilight is certain of.

Warriors drums his fingers against his knee, clearly struggling with what to say next. “For what it’s worth,” he says eventually, “she never talked much about you. Not because…” He stops himself, grimaces. “That came out wrong.”

Twilight shakes his head slightly. “It didn’t.”

Warriors blinks. “It didn’t?”

“She wouldn’t.” Twilight says simply. “Not like that.”

Something in his voice, not bitterness, not pride, but quiet understanding, makes Warriors pause.

“…You care about her.” Warriors says.

Twilight considers correcting him. Care feels insufficient. Too small. Too safe.

“Yes.” he says instead.

Warriors leans back, sighing. “Okay. So. I may be completely off base here, but…” He hesitates, then pushes on. “Is this about her… not staying?”

Twilight closes his eyes. Just for a second.

“Yes.” he says.

Warriors winces. “I’m sorry.”

Twilight opens his eyes again. “I’m not.”

The words surprise them both.

“I don’t regret that she chose her realm.” Twilight continues, voice steady. “I regret that I believed there was only one way for that to end.”

Warriors goes quiet. “Oh.” he says softly.

Twilight looks away, back toward the room, toward the noise and life and motion he can’t quite bring himself to join.

“I’m not angry at you.” he adds. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”

Warriors shakes his head. “I was. A little.”

Twilight exhales, something easing between them. “You don’t need to be.”

They sit there a while longer, side by side, just two heroes carrying very different versions of the same weight.

Eventually, Warriors stands. “Hey. If you ever want to talk to Lana,” he says carefully, “I can make that easier. Or harder. Depending on what you want.”

Twilight glances up at him. “I’ll let you know.” he says.

Warriors nods, accepting that for what it is. He hesitates, then adds, “And for what it’s worth… I think she trusted you. A lot.”

Twilight watches him walk away. The noise of the barracks washes over him again, unchanged. But something inside his chest loosens, just a fraction, not because anything has been resolved, but because someone finally saw the shape of the wound, even without knowing its depth. He stays where he is, quiet and withdrawn, but no longer quite as alone as he was an hour ago. And for tonight, that is enough. He observes his comrades, his friends, his… brothers. The sight of them eases him. No matter how alone he feels, he isn’t really. He notices it by accident. He’s watching the room the way he always does, not focused on any one thing, just tracking movement, sound, balance. Warriors has drifted back toward the far side of the barracks, near the doorway that leads deeper into the keep. Time is with him.

They’re talking. That, on its own, wouldn’t matter.

But then Warriors glances over. So does Time.

Not openly. Not obviously. Just enough that Twilight catches it, the flicker of attention, the way their conversation shifts, bodies angling subtly away from the room and toward him instead.

Something cold settles in Twilight’s chest.

They look away when he meets their eyes. Too quickly.

His jaw tightens.

It’s irrational. He knows that. They’re allowed to talk. Allowed to be concerned. Allowed to try and make sense of things. But the sense of being discussed, catalogued, assessed, quietly managed, crawls under his skin. He drains the rest of his drink and sets the mug aside with careful precision. Then he gets up. He doesn’t announce it. Doesn’t draw attention. He slips out of the barracks and into the adjoining corridor, the noise dimming behind him until it’s just stone and torchlight and the echo of his own footsteps.

He hears Time follow him.

Not immediately. Just… eventually. Like he’s giving Twilight space to decide whether he actually wants company.

That, somehow, makes it worse.

“Why,” Twilight says without turning around, “are you talking to him about me?”

Time stops a few paces back. “I wasn’t.” he says calmly.

Twilight turns on him, sharp and sudden. “You were.”

Time meets his gaze evenly. “We were talking. You came up. That’s not the same thing.”

“It is when you keep looking at me like I’m a problem to be solved.” Twilight snaps.

The words come faster now, edged with something brittle and hot. The anger has been building for hours, days, and it finally has somewhere to go.

Time exhales slowly. “I was checking in.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“No.” Time agrees. “You didn’t.”

The corridor feels too narrow suddenly. The torchlight too harsh.

Twilight laughs, short and sharp. “Right. Of course. You never wait for that part.”

Time’s brow furrows. “That’s not fair.”

“No?” Twilight steps closer, voice low. “Because it feels like you’ve already decided what I should do. What I should accept.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.” Twilight says. “Let it go. Leave it in the past. Trust fate.”

He scoffs. “Easy advice from someone who’s already lived their life.”

That lands. Time stiffens, just slightly.

“I know you mean well.” Twilight continues, words spilling now, each one cutting because they’re half-true. “And I know you see yourself as some kind of…” He stops, breath hitching, then pushes on anyway. “…father figure.”

Time’s expression changes. Not anger. Something quieter. Something wounded.

“But you’re not.” Twilight says flatly. “So stay out of my business.”

The words echo in the corridor, ugly and irreversible. For a long moment, Time says nothing. When he finally speaks, his voice is steady, but it’s thinner than before. “I never claimed to be.” he says.

Twilight’s chest tightens. He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t expected the absence of argument.

“I look out for you.” Time continues quietly. “Because I recognise the way you’re standing on the edge of something that can swallow you whole.”

“That’s my choice.” Twilight says immediately.

“Yes.” Time replies. “It is.”

Another pause.

“I didn’t talk to Warriors to control you.” Time adds. “I talked to him because he was worried. Because he didn’t understand what he’d stepped on. And because you won’t talk when you’re hurting.”

Twilight clenches his fists.

“That doesn’t give you the right—”

“No.” Time says gently. “It doesn’t.”

He meets Twilight’s gaze, unflinching. “But neither does pushing everyone away.”

The anger falters, just for a heartbeat. Twilight feels it, the crack in his resolve, the place where regret might slip in if he lets it.

He doesn’t let it.

“I meant what I said.” he tells Time. “This is mine.”

Time nods slowly. “I know.”

Silence settles between them, heavier now. Changed.

At last, Time steps back, giving Twilight space, real space, this time.

“I won’t interfere.” he says. “But I won’t stop caring, either. You don’t get to take that away from me.”

He turns to leave, then pauses. “Just… don’t confuse concern with control.”

Time walks away.

Twilight stays where he is, heart pounding, the echo of his own words ringing in his ears.

 I know you see yourself as some kind of father figure but you’re not.

He drags a hand down his face, breath shaking despite his efforts. He hadn’t meant to hurt him. He just hadn’t known how to stop feeling like he was being pulled in two directions, between the life he made peace with and the one that’s threatening to open again. The corridor is quiet. Empty. Twilight leans back against the cool stone and stares at the ceiling, anger draining away and leaving something worse behind.

Not guilt. Recognition. Because even as he tells himself this is his choice, his pain, his past, his mistake to make, he knows, with a clarity that makes his chest ache, that Time saw exactly where this was headed. And said nothing. Which might be the cruelest kindness of all. 

He begins his walk back to the room he had been given. He can’t go back in there. Can’t face the wounded look he knows will be on Time’s face. The castle is quiet at night. Not empty, never empty, but subdued, its sounds softened by stone and distance. Twilight walks its corridors alone, boots echoing dully against flagstones worn smooth by centuries of passage. Torches gutter in their sconces, light wavering across banners and carved reliefs he doesn’t really see. He knows where he’s going, at least.

His room is small. Functional. A soldier’s space, not a guest’s. Bed neatly made, armour set aside with habitual care, a narrow window cut into the far wall that looks out over the inner yard. He closes the door behind him. The latch clicks into place with a finality that hits harder than he expects.

Twilight stands there for a moment, hand still on the handle, forehead pressed lightly against the wood. He breathes in. Out. Tries to let the tension drain the way it usually does when he’s finally alone. It doesn’t. His shoulders sag instead, the strength bleeding out of them all at once. His grip slips. He turns, back sliding down the door until he’s sitting on the floor, knees drawn up, head bowed.

The silence presses in. Here, there’s no one watching. No one expecting composure. No one to manage, reassure, placate.

The control he’s been clinging to all day finally gives way.

His breath shudders, once, twice, sharp enough that he has to bite down hard to keep it quiet. His hands curl into the fabric of his tunic, knuckles white, like he can anchor himself there if he just holds on long enough. It’s not one thought that breaks him. It’s all of them. The mirror shattering. Warriors’ voice, casual and fond. Time’s silence when Malon’s name was spoken. The look on Warriors’ face when Twilight snapped. And threaded through all of it, Midna. Not as she was in the end, regal and distant, but as she had been with him. Sharp laughter. Trust traded without question. The way she’d leaned on him when no one else was looking, just for a second, just enough to admit the weight she carried.

He presses his fist against his mouth, breath coming ragged now. “I didn’t know.” he whispers to the empty room.

The words feel useless the moment they leave him.

He hadn’t known there might be another way. Hadn’t known the door wasn’t sealed forever. Hadn’t known that his acceptance was built on an assumption that could be wrong.

And now he doesn’t know how to live with that.

A tear slips free despite him, hot and sudden, tracing a line down his cheek before dropping onto his sleeve. He scrubs at it angrily, then freezes when another follows. His chest tightens painfully. He’s fought monsters. Gods. Armies. He’s stood in the face of endings that reshaped the world. This… this quiet, internal collapse, feels worse. Because it isn’t something he can fix with a blade or a choice made in the moment. It’s the slow, dawning understanding that the peace he built was fragile all along, dependent on a truth that might not exist. He lets his head fall back against the door, eyes squeezed shut.

“I let you go.” he breathes, voice breaking at last. “I did everything right.”

The room offers no answer.

Twilight draws his knees closer, folding in on himself, shoulders shaking now despite his efforts. He cries silently, the way he always has, breath hitching, face pressed into his sleeve to muffle the sound. This is the cost of restraint. Of always choosing endurance over expression. Of believing that surviving something means it no longer has the power to hurt you. Eventually, the storm burns itself out, leaving him hollow and aching. He stays where he is, slumped against the door, eyes burning, throat raw, chest sore from holding too much for too long. Outside, the castle sleeps. Inside, Twilight sits alone with the truth he can no longer escape: He doesn’t know how to want this without breaking. And he doesn’t know how to stop wanting it now that he knows it might be possible.

He stays there until the floor grows cold beneath him, until the tears stop coming, until all that’s left is the steady, painful beat of his heart and the knowledge that tomorrow will demand choices he isn’t ready to make. For now, though, he lets himself be human. Just this once.

If anyone notices Twilight’s red-rimmed eyes the next morning, they don’t say anything. The sun is already high when the chain gathers in the courtyard, light spilling across pale stone and catching on banners that flutter lazily in the breeze. The castle is awake in the way only a capital ever is, guards changing shifts, messengers weaving through clusters of people, the distant clang of steel echoing from somewhere deeper within.

Warriors moves through it all like he was born to it.

He’s halfway down the steps before anyone can ask him anything, already rattling off instructions to a harried attendant, pausing only long enough to accept a stack of documents with a weary sigh. He looks mildly stressed, which, for him in his own Hyrule, is the closest thing he has to relaxed. “Don’t let the quartermaster reroute the supply lines again!” he calls over his shoulder. “And if the council asks, yes, I did approve the reconstruction funds.”

Legend whistles low. “You ever consider taking a day off?”

Warriors doesn’t slow. “Every day.”

Twilight watches him go, posture still, expression carefully blank. He feels wrung out, like he’s been hollowed and stitched back together overnight. Everything is sore, his chest, his eyes, the space behind his ribs where grief settled and refused to leave.

Time stands on the opposite side of the courtyard. He doesn’t look at Twilight. Not pointedly. Not coldly. Just… not at all. His attention is fixed elsewhere, posture composed, hands folded behind his back like a statue carved from patience. The distance is worse than anger would have been.

Twilight swallows.

Regret sits heavy in his stomach, thick and immovable. The memory of his own words, I know you see yourself as some kind of father figure but you’re not, replays with cruel clarity. He hadn’t meant them the way they sounded. He’d been angry. Cornered. Afraid. That doesn’t change the damage. He doesn’t know how to fix it. So he doesn’t try. Not yet.

He drifts toward the edge of the courtyard, leaning against a low wall where the sunlight is warm but not oppressive. He watches shadows move across the stone, letting his thoughts stay unfocused for once.

Someone steps into his periphery.

Wild.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just lingers nearby, shifting his weight from foot to foot like he’s unsure where he’s allowed to be. Twilight feels his presence before he looks, the familiar awareness settling in.

“You okay?” Wild asks eventually, voice light but eyes sharp.

Twilight considers the question. Weighs it carefully. “Yeah.” he says.

Wild squints. “That sounded like a lie.”

Twilight exhales through his nose. “It usually does.”

That earns him a small, crooked grin. Wild rocks back on his heels, then leans against the wall beside him, close enough to be companionable without crowding. He fiddles with the edge of his sleeve, gaze flicking occasionally toward the others.

“You’ve been quiet.” he says. “More than usual.”

Twilight hums noncommittally.

Wild hesitates, then adds, “You wanna… talk? Or do you want me to stand here and pretend we’re just enjoying the weather?”

Twilight glances at him. Really looks. There’s concern there, plain and earnest. Not prying. Not demanding. Just there.

“…The weather’s fine.” Twilight says.

Wild nods immediately. “Cool. Great weather.”

They stand in silence for a while, watching a pair of guards spar near the far wall. The clang of steel is rhythmic, grounding.

Wild sneaks another glance at him. “For the record,” he says, carefully, “you don’t have to be okay all the time. Even if you’re good at it.”

Twilight’s throat tightens. “I know.” he says quietly.

Wild smiles, soft, reassuring. “Just checking.”

Across the courtyard, Warriors disappears through a side door, another stack of parchment under his arm. Time turns away a moment later, moving toward the far end of the space, still giving Twilight the distance he asked for. It hurts. It also feels deserved. Twilight closes his eyes briefly, letting the sunlight warm his face. He breathes in, slow and steady. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do yet. About Midna. About Lana. About the fragile peace he’s been holding together by sheer will. But for now, he stands in the courtyard with the chain around him, unspoken understanding doing the work of words. And when Wild shifts a little closer, shoulder brushing his arm, Twilight lets it happen.

For now, that’s enough. 

Wild stays.

Not hovering, he’s learned better than that, but present in a way that feels intentional. He nudges Twilight’s boot with his own, light and almost playful, like he’s checking that Twilight is still anchored to the moment.

“So…” Wild says after a while, eyes on the courtyard. “You wanna help me decide whether I should absolutely not be allowed near Warriors’ kitchens?”

Twilight snorts before he can stop himself. “That bad?”

“Worse.” Wild says cheerfully. “I saw three doors marked Authorised Personnel Only and now I feel personally challenged.”

Twilight shakes his head, the motion small but genuine. “You’re going to get banned from an entire castle.”

“Worth it.”

They lapse into silence again, comfortable this time. Wild hums under his breath, tuneless, absentminded, and Twilight realises how much he’s missed this particular kind of company. No expectations. No pressure to explain. Just someone choosing to stand with him.

“You know,” Wild says eventually, quieter now, “you don’t have to tell me what’s wrong. But if you ever want to, I’m good at listening.”

Twilight glances sideways at him. Wild’s expression is open, earnest in that way that makes it impossible to doubt his sincerity. He reminds Twilight painfully of himself, once, before responsibility calcified into habit.

“…Thanks.” Twilight says.

Wild grins. “Anytime, big guy.”

Across the courtyard, it’s becoming increasingly obvious that something is off.

Sky has stopped pretending not to notice. He’s standing near the fountain with Four and Legend, gaze flicking repeatedly between Twilight and Time. Each time Time looks away, deliberately, pointedly, Sky’s brow furrows a little more.

He leans toward Hyrule. “Did… did they argue?”

Four winces. “I think so.”

Sky’s shoulders slump. “Oh no.”

Legend squints. “They’re not bleeding. That’s usually my metric.”

“That’s not a good metric.” Sky says faintly.

Time, for his part, keeps himself busy, inspecting the courtyard perimeter, exchanging quiet words with a captain, adjusting gear that doesn’t need adjusting. He does not look at Twilight. Not once. Sky notices that too.

He drifts closer to Twilight and Wild, hands clasped anxiously behind his back. “Morning!” he says, a little too bright.

“Morning.” Twilight replies, significantly less brightly.

Sky studies his face, the faint redness around his eyes, the exhaustion carefully contained, and his expression softens immediately.

“You didn’t sleep.” Sky says, accusatory but worried.

Twilight exhales. “I slept enough.”

Sky opens his mouth, closes it again. Thinks better of pushing. He glances over Twilight’s shoulder, toward Time’s retreating figure.

“…You wanna talk about it?” Sky asks.

Twilight hesitates.

Wild watches him closely, ready to deflect if needed.

“Not right now.” Twilight says at last.

Sky nods immediately. “Okay. Okay, that’s fine.”

He shifts, awkward, shoulders twitching. “Just… you know, you don’t have to carry everything alone. You’re allowed to… lean. Sometimes.”

Twilight’s chest tightens.

“I know.” he says quietly. It’s becoming a refrain.

Sky smiles at him, tentative but sincere, then flutters off again, clearly still fretting, clearly already planning to check in later whether Twilight wants it or not, he’s already over to do the rounds on Time, who watches his approach with visible dread, clearly equally as unwilling to open up to Sky.

Wild watches him go. “He worries.” he says.

Twilight huffs softly. “He always has.”

“But he’s right.” Wild adds, gentler now. “You don’t have to be the strong one all the time.”

Twilight doesn’t answer. He watches Time instead, the careful distance, the restraint, the respect that somehow hurts worse than anger would. Regret curls tight in his chest, sharp and persistent.

“I messed up.” Twilight says suddenly.

Wild doesn’t react outwardly. Just listens.

“I said something I shouldn’t have.” Twilight continues. “And I don’t know how to fix it without making it worse.”

Wild considers that. “Sometimes,” he says slowly, “you don’t fix things right away. You just… stop digging.”

Twilight lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “You’re wiser than you look.”

“Hey.” Wild says, offended. “I look extremely wise.”

That earns another quiet snort from Twilight. Around them, the chain continues to move and exist, Legend complaining, Hyrule mediating, Sky hovering anxiously, Warriors vanishing and reappearing under the weight of his kingdom. And in the middle of it all, Twilight stands with Wild at his side, surrounded by people who can tell something is wrong but choose patience over pressure.

Time does not look at him.

But Twilight knows, with a certainty that aches, that when he finally does, things will not be the same.

And maybe that’s what scares him most of all.

Lana appears at the edge of the courtyard like a shift in pressure.

Twilight doesn’t see her at first, not consciously. He feels it instead: the subtle prickle at the back of his neck, the way the air seems to tilt, magic folding in on itself nearby. His attention sharpens automatically, instincts dragging his gaze to the source before he can stop himself. She’s standing near the base of one of the towers, staff tucked under her arm, deep in conversation with an attendant. She’s dressed simply today, hair loose, posture relaxed in a way that suggests she’s exactly where she expects to be. At home in her power. At ease with it. Proof, walking and breathing.

Twilight goes still. Not frozen, just paused, like his body has reached a crossroads before his mind has caught up. The noise of the courtyard dulls around him. Wild’s presence at his side fades to background awareness. All he can see is her.  The one who opened a path between worlds without meaning to tear one apart. The one who turned never into once. His chest tightens. His hands curl reflexively, then relax again as he forces himself to breathe. 

He becomes aware, distantly, of another gaze.

Time.

Twilight doesn’t look at him at first. He doesn’t need to. He can feel it, the quiet, steady attention, the weight of someone who already knows what this moment means. When Twilight finally turns his head, their eyes meet across the courtyard.

Time doesn’t speak.

He doesn’t gesture. Doesn’t warn. Doesn’t encourage.

He just looks at Twilight, calm, sad, understanding, and in that look is the acknowledgement of something inevitable.

So this is where you choose, it says.

Twilight’s jaw tightens.

For a heartbeat, he considers turning away. Letting the moment pass. Letting the door stay closed, even now that he knows where it is. He thinks of the night before. The floor cold beneath him. The words he said to Time that he can’t take back. The fragile peace that has already cracked beyond repair.

If he walks away now, he knows exactly what that will cost him.

He exhales.

Then he steps forward.

Wild straightens slightly, noticing the shift. “Hey?”

“I’ll be back.” Twilight says quietly.

Wild watches him go, concern flickering across his face, but he doesn’t stop him.

Twilight crosses the courtyard with measured steps, every movement deliberate. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t hesitate. He passes beneath banners snapping softly in the breeze, past guards who glance at him curiously and then look away.

Lana turns just as he reaches the base of the tower.

Their eyes meet.

Recognition sparks there, not personal, not yet, but aware. Assessing.

“Can I help you?” she asks.

Twilight inclines his head slightly. Respectful. Controlled. “I was told this was your tower.” he says.

Lana smiles faintly. “It is.”

“I’d like to speak with you.” Twilight continues. “Privately. If you have time.”

She studies him for a moment longer, gaze flicking over his stance, the tension he’s holding too carefully, the shadows that cling to him not as magic but as memory. “…Alright.” she says at last. “Come on.”

She turns and leads the way inside. Twilight follows. As the tower door closes behind them, cutting off the sound of the courtyard, he feels the weight of the choice settle fully into place. He doesn’t know what he’s going to ask yet. He doesn’t know what answers he’ll get. All he knows is that he is walking toward the truth, and that whatever waits for him at the top of the tower, there will be no returning to the certainty he once lived with. And somewhere behind him, in the open light of the courtyard, Time watches the door shut and does not try to stop what has already begun.

Lana’s tower is quieter than the rest of the castle. The stone walls curve inward as they ascend, dampening sound, muting the world below until the courtyard might as well belong to another lifetime. Sunlight filters in through narrow windows, catching motes of dust that drift lazily through the air. It smells faintly of parchment and ozone, magic at rest, but never asleep.

Lana leads him up without speaking.

Twilight follows, steps measured, hands clasped loosely behind his back to keep them from betraying him. His heart is steady. Too steady. He’s learned to recognise the difference between calm and restraint; this is the latter. At the top, she gestures him inside. The room is circular, cluttered but not chaotic, shelves heavy with books and artefacts, diagrams chalked half-finished across slate boards, a window thrown open to let the light in. This is a place of possibility, not comfort.

Lana turns to face him fully now. “You don’t look like someone who came here for pleasantries.” she says lightly.

Twilight inclines his head. “No.”

She studies him for a long moment, gaze sharp and perceptive. “Alright.” she says at last. “Then tell me what you came for.”

Twilight breathes in. This is the moment where he could still stop. Still turn away with what little certainty he has left. He doesn’t.

“I was told,” he begins carefully, “that you once opened a path to another realm.”

Lana’s expression shifts, not surprise, but recognition. “I did, well a part of me did.”

He doesn’t pry. “To the Twilight Realm.” Twilight adds.

She doesn’t answer immediately. Her fingers tighten slightly around the staff she’s holding, knuckles whitening just enough to be noticeable. “Yes.” she says. “Briefly.”

Twilight nods, absorbing it. Confirmation settles heavy and real in his chest. “I’m not asking you to do it again.” he says immediately.

Lana arches an eyebrow. “You’re not?”

“No,” Twilight says. “I’m asking you to help me understand what that meant.”

She watches him more closely now.

“How dangerous was it?” he asks.

Lana exhales slowly. “Very.” Not dramatic. Not exaggerated. Just honest.

“The realms weren’t meant to touch that way.” she continues. “It took precise conditions, a stable anchor on both sides, and constant correction. I wouldn’t have kept it open longer than I did.”

Twilight nods again. Files that away.

“Did it hurt her?” he asks quietly.

Lana shakes her head. “No. Not physically.”

That distinction doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Did she hesitate?” Twilight asks.

The question costs him something. He keeps his voice steady anyway.

Lana looks toward the window, thinking. “Yes.” she says. “Not because she was afraid. Because she was… weighing something.”

Twilight’s chest tightens. “Did she know it was possible?” he asks next. “When she shattered the mirror.”

This time, Lana doesn’t answer right away.

When she finally does, her voice is softer. “I don’t know, but I suspect.”

The word lands gently. Devastatingly. Twilight closes his eyes. Not because he’s overwhelmed, but because the truth has finally arrived, and he needs a moment to stand with it. So Midna shattered the mirror knowing there were other ways. Not because she had to. Because she chose to. When he opens his eyes again, the world feels sharper. Clearer. More painful.

“She didn’t want instability.” Lana continues. “Not for her realm. Not for you. She trusted that finality would be kinder.”

Twilight lets out a slow breath. “I believed.” he says quietly, “that there was no alternative.”

Lana meets his gaze. “You believed what she wanted you to believe.”

Silence stretches between them. Twilight doesn’t fill it.

After a moment, Lana speaks again. “If you’re wondering whether reopening a path would endanger her, it could. If done recklessly. If forced. If done for the wrong reasons.”

Twilight nods. “And if done carefully?” he asks.

Lana considers him.

“Then it would still be a risk.” she says. “Just one taken with consent.”

Twilight absorbs that too. He straightens slightly, resolve settling into something quieter and heavier than desperation.

“I needed to know.” he says. “Whether letting her go meant what I thought it did.”

“And now?” Lana asks.

Twilight looks past her, out the window, toward a sky that isn’t his and a world that doesn’t know how close it came to breaking him.

“Now I know it was a choice.” he says. “On both sides.”

He turns back to her.

“If I ever ask you to help,” he continues, voice steady, “it will only be because I understand what I’m risking. Because I know she won’t be harmed by it. And because I accept that the answer might be no.”

Lana studies him for a long moment. Then she nods.

“That,” she says quietly, “is the right order to ask things in.”

Twilight inclines his head once more. Gratitude. Respect. Nothing more. He turns to leave. At the door, he pauses.

“If,” he says, without turning back, “I decide not to ask… does that make this pointless?”

Lana smiles, not gently, not cruelly. Honestly. “No.” she says. “It means you’ll finally be choosing with your eyes open.”

Twilight steps out into the stairwell. The door closes behind him. The possibility remains, terrifying, fragile, unresolved, exactly as it should be. And whether he ever follows through or not, Twilight knows one thing with absolute certainty: The story has already moved forward.

Because he chose to know. Twilight doesn’t leave.

He stands in the stairwell for several heartbeats, one hand resting against the stone wall, head bowed. His breath is steady, but only because he’s forcing it to be. The truth Lana gave him sits heavy and undeniable in his chest. She knew. She chose finality.

He thought understanding would be enough. It isn’t. He turns back.

The door creaks softly as he opens it again. Lana looks up from her desk, surprise flickering briefly across her face before sharpening into awareness.

“Twilight?” she says. “Did you forget—”

“Can you do it for me.”

The words come out low and even, so controlled they almost don’t sound like a question.

Lana stills. “I told you…” she begins carefully.

“I know.” Twilight says. He steps fully back into the room now, closing the door behind him with deliberate finality. “I know everything you said. I understand the risks. I understand what it could cost.”

His hands curl slowly at his sides. “That doesn’t change this.”

Lana studies him, expression unreadable. “You said you weren’t asking for action.”

“I wasn’t.” Twilight says. His voice tightens, just barely. “Until I realised I can’t live with this hanging over me.”

Silence stretches. He takes another step forward, stopping well short of her, respectful, restrained, but close enough now that she can see the strain etched into his face.

“I let her go because I believed it was unavoidable.” he says. “Because I thought wanting more would be selfish.”

His breath hitches, the first real crack in his composure. “But now I know it wasn’t fate.” he continues. “It was a choice. And I don’t get to unknow that.”

Lana doesn’t interrupt.

“If there is even the smallest chance,” Twilight says, voice dropping, “that I can see her again, not keep her, not trap her, not undo what she chose… just see her.” He swallows hard. “Then I have to try.”

Lana’s grip tightens on the edge of her desk. “You’re asking for something dangerous.”

“Yes.”

“Unstable.”

“Yes.”

“Something that could cost you more than you’re prepared to lose.”

Twilight meets her gaze, eyes burning with a quiet, desperate resolve. He exhales, sharp and shaky. “I will give you anything.” he says. “My service. My sword. My loyalty. I will be forever in your debt if that’s the price.”

Lana’s eyes widen slightly. “That’s not…”

“I don’t care.” Twilight cuts in, immediately softer. “I don’t care what it costs me.”

The words hang there, frightening in their sincerity.

“I just need to see her.” he says, barely above a whisper now. “To hear her voice knowing what I know now. To know that letting her go was something we both chose with open eyes.” His fists tremble, control finally slipping. “I can’t go on knowing it’s possible and doing nothing.” he admits. “I can’t carry that.”

For the first time, Lana looks shaken. “Twilight,” she says quietly, “this isn’t a favour you can repay. This isn’t a debt you can balance.”

“I know.” he says. And then, devastatingly honestly. “I would still ask.”

The room is utterly silent. Magic hums faintly in the walls, restless, aware of the shape this conversation is taking. Lana closes her eyes. When she opens them again, her gaze is steady, but heavy with the weight of what she understands.

“You’re not asking because you want her back.” she says.

“No.”

“You’re not asking because you think she’ll stay.”

“No.”

“You’re asking because not asking is destroying you.”

Twilight doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. Lana exhales slowly, pressing her palm flat against the desk as if grounding herself.

“If I do this,” she says, “it will be brief. Controlled. And she must consent to the contact. If she says no…”

“I’ll accept it.” Twilight says immediately.

“If it destabilises—”

“I’ll step back.”

“If it hurts her—”

“I won’t let it happen.”

Lana searches his face for a long, silent moment. Then she says the words that tilt the world on its axis, “…I can try.”

Twilight’s breath leaves him in a rush he can’t quite control. His knees threaten to give, just for a second, and he has to brace himself against the back of a chair to stay upright.

“Not now.” Lana adds quickly. “And not without preparation. And not without understanding that this may change everything.”

Twilight nods, eyes shining, jaw clenched tight. “I understand.” he says.

Because standing here, on the edge of something terrifying and fragile and real, Twilight knows this much with absolute certainty, If Midna appears, even for a moment, nothing will ever be the same again. And even knowing that… He would still choose this. Every time.

The first thing Lana does is make him sit down.

“Before you regret what you just said,” she tells him briskly, already moving around the room, “or before I do.”

Twilight sinks into the chair she gestures toward, legs feeling faintly unreal beneath him. The adrenaline hasn’t faded yet, it’s buzzing under his skin, keeping him upright, alert, painfully awake.

Lana begins clearing space.

Books are moved. Chalk is wiped from slate. A low table is pulled into the centre of the room, its surface etched with old, careful sigils that glow faintly when her hand passes over them. The air thickens, pressure building in a way Twilight recognises instinctively.

Magic being considered.

“This is not a summoning.” Lana says without looking at him. “And it’s not a doorway. Not yet. What I’m preparing is… a test. To see whether the connection can even stabilise.”

Twilight nods. “Okay.” His voice sounds steady. He doesn’t trust it.

She glances back at him sharply. “If at any point I tell you to stop, you stop. No heroics. No noble sacrifices.”

“I won’t interfere.” Twilight says. “I promise.”

Lana studies him for a beat, then accepts that at face value.

“Good.” she says. “Because if this goes wrong, it won’t be dramatic. It’ll be quiet. Subtle. And by the time you notice, it’ll already be too late.”

That should scare him. It does, distantly. What frightens him more is how calm he feels.

Lana draws a circle on the table with chalk infused with magic, movements precise, practiced. Symbols bloom into faint life beneath her fingers, lines interlocking like a puzzle slowly assembling itself.

“This will only show me whether the Twilight Realm responds.” she explains. “Not whether it opens.”

“And if it does?” Twilight asks.

Lana hesitates.

“Then it means the connection still exists.” she says. “Dormant. But intact.”

Twilight’s throat tightens.

“So she…”

“Is still anchored.” Lana finishes quietly. “Yes.”

The word settles into him like a weight and a balm all at once.

Lana steps back from the table. “I need a stabilising presence.” she says. “Something the realm recognises.”

She looks at him pointedly.

Twilight straightens. “Me.”

“Yes.” she says. “But not your power. Your memory.”

He frowns slightly. “I don’t…”

“Close your eyes.” Lana says. “And don’t overthink it.”

He does. The room falls away. At first there’s nothing, just darkness, the echo of his own breathing. Then, slowly, images begin to surface, unbidden.

Orange light filtering through fractured glass.
A sharp laugh, edged with warmth.
The weight of trust, exchanged without words.

His chest tightens.

“Focus on her.” Lana murmurs. “Not the ending. Not the mirror. Her.”

Midna as she was. Perched on his back, smirking. Standing beside him, fierce and unyielding. Watching him with that knowing look that always made him feel seen and measured and chosen all at once. Something shifts. Twilight feels it like a pressure change, the air growing heavier, shadows lengthening at the edges of his awareness even with his eyes closed. The memory sharpens, becomes vivid enough to hurt. He swallows hard.

“I’ve got something.” Lana says softly. 

Twilight opens his eyes. The circle on the table glows now, not bright, but deep, a muted, twilight hue that pulses slowly, steadily, like a heartbeat. It’s not open. But it’s listening.

Lana exhales, a mix of relief and apprehension. “The realm remembers you.”

Twilight’s hands tremble. “Does that mean—”

“It means,” Lana says carefully, “that if I push further, it might answer.”

Might. The word hangs between them. Lana steps back, dispelling the glow with a practiced flick of her wrist. The light fades, leaving the room abruptly ordinary again.

“That’s all for today.” she says firmly. “You don’t push magic like this in one sitting. Especially not when emotions are involved.”

Twilight nods slowly, forcing himself to unclench his jaw.

“Thank you.” he says. The words feel inadequate.

Lana meets his gaze. “Don’t thank me yet.”

A knock sounds at the door. Both of them tense.

Lana waves a hand, magic dissipating completely. “Enter.”

The door opens to reveal Wild, hovering uncertainly in the doorway.

“Uh,” he says. “I was looking for… oh. Sorry. Am I interrupting?”

Twilight looks at him, really looks, the concern plain on his face, the way his gaze flicks immediately to Twilight’s expression, searching for damage.

“No.” Twilight says. “You’re fine.”

Wild relaxes a fraction. “Okay. Good.”

His eyes flick to Lana, then back to Twilight. “Time sent me.” he adds awkwardly. “He said…” He hesitates. “He said you didn’t need space anymore. But you might want company.”

Twilight’s chest tightens. He nods once. “Yeah.” he says quietly. “That’d be… good.”

Lana steps aside, already reclaiming her desk. “Get some rest.” she tells Twilight. “And don’t make this harder than it already is.”

He almost laughs. As he follows Wild back into the corridor, Twilight feels it, the difference. Nothing has happened yet. No reunion. No answers beyond possibility. And yet the world feels subtly, irrevocably altered. Because the door is no longer hypothetical. It exists. Dormant. Listening. Waiting. And whether Twilight chooses to open it or not, he knows now, with a clarity that leaves him breathless, that the next choice will not be made in ignorance. It will be made with his eyes wide open. And that changes everything.

Hope is a dangerous thing. Twilight has known that for a long time. He’s lived long enough to understand how easily it curdles into recklessness, how quickly it convinces you that survival is guaranteed just because something might go right. That knowledge does nothing to stop it. It sits in his chest like a live ember as he walks beside Wild through the castle corridors, small, bright, impossible to ignore. Not relief. Not joy. Something sharper. More volatile.

The realm remembers you.

The words replay again and again, threading through his thoughts no matter how hard he tries to focus on anything else. The connection exists. Dormant, but intact. Not a fantasy. Not a hypothetical.

Real.

“—and then Legend said it was ‘structurally unsound’.” Wild is saying, gesturing animatedly with both hands, nearly smacking a passing guard. “Which is rich coming from a guy who once tried to fix a bridge with— hey. You listening?”

Twilight blinks. “Hm?”

Wild stops short, squinting up at him. “Wow. You’re gone gone.”

“Sorry.” Twilight says automatically.

Wild snorts. “Uh-huh. That’s what you said last time too.”

They keep walking. Twilight matches Wild’s pace easily, body on autopilot, boots finding stone without conscious thought. The castle feels different now, not hostile, not welcoming, just… charged. Like the air before a storm. Wild keeps talking anyway, undeterred. “I mean, I get it.” he continues. “Big castles do that to people. Lots of history. Lots of bad decisions trapped in the walls. Kinda messes with your head.”

Twilight hums, noncommittal. His mind is elsewhere, back in the tower, watching the faint twilight glow pulse like a heartbeat on the table. Listening. Responding. Waiting. If he lets himself follow the thought too far, his pulse spikes uncomfortably. If I push further… He clamps down on it hard. Not yet. He’s learned, painfully, that wanting something too much makes you sloppy.

“Hey.” Wild says again, softer this time. “You sure you’re okay?”

Twilight looks down at him. Wild’s expression has shifted, the easy grin dulled into something more careful, more searching. He’s trying not to pry, trying not to hover, but the concern is there all the same.

“I’m fine.” Twilight says.

It’s reflex. Habit. The lie slides into place without effort. Wild doesn’t buy it.

“…You look like someone just handed you a loaded Sheikah Slate and said ‘don’t touch anything.’” he says.

That almost earns a smile. Almost. They reach a balcony overlooking the inner courtyard. Sunlight spills across stone and banners, bright enough to make Twilight squint. He stops there without quite meaning to, hands resting on the railing as he looks out over the space below.

Everything looks the same.

And yet, he can’t shake the sense that something fundamental has shifted, like the ground beneath his feet has subtly realigned and he’s the only one who can feel it.

Wild leans against the railing beside him. “You don’t have to tell me.” he says quietly. “Just… don’t be a stranger, okay?”

Twilight’s grip tightens on the stone.

“I won’t.” he says.

The dangerous part of hope isn’t that it promises happiness. It’s that it convinces you the pain will be worth it. Twilight stares out over Warriors’ Hyrule, thoughts racing, heart unsteady, every instinct pulled taut toward a future he hasn’t chosen yet but can no longer pretend doesn’t exist. Wild keeps talking, about food, about training, about absolutely nothing at all, a steady, grounding presence at his side. Twilight hears the sound of his voice. He just can’t quite hear the words. Because somewhere deep inside him, beneath discipline and fear and hard-earned restraint, something fragile and reckless has taken root.

And for the first time since the mirror shattered, Twilight doesn’t just remember Midna.

He imagines seeing her again.

And that thought, bright and terrifying, threatens to consume everything else. Hope almost carries him away with it. Twilight is leaning over the balcony, eyes unfocused, the noise of the courtyard reduced to a distant murmur. Wild is still talking, something about rations, or training schedules, or a horse that kicked someone, but the words slide past without meaning, lost beneath the steady, dangerous drumbeat in Twilight’s chest.

The realm remembers you.

He doesn’t realise how far he’s drifted until something shifts.

Not sound. Not movement.

A feeling.

He straightens slightly, the haze snapping just enough for him to notice the weight of someone’s gaze on the back of his neck. He turns his head.

Time is standing across the courtyard.

He isn’t close. He hasn’t approached. He’s simply… watching. Not with judgment. Not with anger. With worry. It’s written plainly across his face, the tightness around his eyes, the stillness of his posture, the way his hands are clasped together like he’s holding himself in check. He looks uncertain in a way Twilight has rarely seen before, like he’s witnessing something he knows how to fight but not how to stop. Like he recognises the look in Twilight’s eyes. The haze fractures instantly. The heat in Twilight’s chest cools, sharp and sobering. The future he’d been spiralling toward snaps back into focus, no longer a distant dream but a cliff edge he’s been leaning far too close to.

This is how people get lost, he thinks suddenly. This is how heroes stop noticing the cost.

His fingers loosen on the railing. He draws in a steady breath, grounding himself in the present, stone beneath his palms, wind against his face, Wild’s voice beside him.

“—and then Sky nearly fell off the—” Wild stops mid-sentence, frowning. “Hey. There you are.”

Twilight exhales.

“Sorry.” he says again, this time meaning it. “I spaced out.”

Wild follows his gaze and spots Time. His expression softens with understanding. “Ah.”

Twilight doesn’t look away. Time meets his eyes across the distance. There’s no reprimand there. No I told you so. Just a quiet plea. Be careful.

Twilight’s chest tightens. He nods once. Not an apology. Not yet. An acknowledgement. Time relaxes, just a fraction, then turns away, giving Twilight his space again, trusting him to hold the line on his own. The weight of that trust settles heavy and real in Twilight’s gut.

Wild bumps his shoulder lightly. “You good?”

Twilight straightens fully now, the dangerous edge of hope dulled into something more manageable, l still there, still burning, but contained. “I will be.” he says.

And for the first time since he stepped into Lana’s tower, that feels like a promise he might actually be able to keep, at least for now. He glances once more toward where Time stood, then back to the courtyard, back to the present, back to the people grounding him here. Hope remains. But it no longer owns him. Not yet.

And Twilight knows, with a clarity that steadies rather than unravels him, that when he finally chooses what comes next, it will be with his eyes open and his feet firmly on solid ground.

The war memorial sits at the far edge of the courtyard, half in shadow even at midday. It’s eye catching, and Twilight’s gaze is drawn to it. It isn’t ostentatious. Just a long sweep of dark stone set into the wall, polished smooth by time and touch. Names are etched into it in tight, orderly lines, too many of them, stretching farther than Twilight expects when he first turns toward it. His steps slow without conscious decision.

Wild keeps talking for a few seconds longer before trailing off, noticing where Twilight’s attention has snagged. He doesn’t follow. Just lets Twilight go.

The closer he gets, the quieter the world becomes.

Twilight stops in front of the memorial and exhales slowly. He’s seen lists like this before. In villages. In ruined keeps. In places where the dead outnumber the living and memory is the only thing left to offer. Still, the sheer volume of it makes his chest ache. Allies. Soldiers. Civilians. Names from other worlds, other eras, etched side by side like the war didn’t care where anyone came from. He lifts a hand without thinking. His fingers brush the stone, tracing letters worn smooth at the edges. Some names are deeply carved, sharp and certain. Others are lighter, added later, like the carver didn’t quite know how to fit them into the space that remained. This is the cost, he thinks. Not the battles. Not the victories. This. He reads slowly, line by line, eyes scanning out of habit more than intent, until they stop.

Midna.

The name is unmistakable. His breath catches hard enough that he has to still himself, palm flattening against the stone as if to keep from swaying. For a moment, everything narrows to that single word, etched among hundreds of others. She fought here. She stood on this ground. Bled here. Was remembered here.

Twilight closes his eyes.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there before he senses someone behind him. Not approaching loudly. Not interrupting. Just… present.

Warriors stops a respectful distance away.

“I wondered if you’d find that.” he says quietly.

Twilight opens his eyes but doesn’t turn. His thumb traces the edge of the carving once, reverent.

“You didn’t tell me.” Twilight says. Not accusation. Just fact.

Warriors exhales. “Didn’t feel like my place.”

That’s fair. Twilight nods faintly.

“She insisted.” Warriors continues. “On being listed with the others. Not as a ruler. Not separate.”

Twilight swallows. Of course she did.

They stand in silence for a moment, the names stretching between them like a shared confession.

“I didn’t know her like you did.” Warriors says eventually. “But… I saw it.”

Twilight’s hand stills. “Saw what?” he asks.

Warriors shifts, choosing his words carefully. “The way she looked at me. Sometimes. Like I was someone else, a distant memory.”

Twilight finally turns. Warriors meets his gaze, expression open, unguarded.

“There were moments,” he says, “where she’d go quiet. Distant. Like she was listening to something no one else could hear.” He gestures vaguely toward the memorial. “I used to think it was the weight of her realm. Or the war.”

He shakes his head. “Now I think she was seeing you.”

The words land softly. Precisely.

“It makes sense.” Warriors adds. “The way you talk about her. The way you don’t.”

Twilight looks back at the stone.

“I didn’t know she was here.” he says. His voice is steady, but thin. “I thought… I thought the goodbye meant she stayed away.”

“She didn’t.” Warriors says gently. “Not from the fight. Not from the people who needed her.”

A pause. Twilight lets out a breath that trembles despite him. His fingers return to the stone, resting over Midna’s name, not possessive, not desperate. Just present.

“I see it.” Warriors says quietly. “You and her. It fits.”

Twilight huffs a faint, humourless breath. “It wasn’t simple.”

“No.” Warriors agrees. “It never is.”

They stand together before the memorial, two heroes from different wars, united by the same quiet understanding: that love doesn’t end just because worlds do. Behind them, the courtyard continues to live and breathe. Voices rise and fall. Somewhere, Wild laughs at something ridiculous. Somewhere else, Time watches without intruding. But here, here, at the edge of memory, Twilight lets himself stand with the truth etched in stone.

Midna was real. She was here. She mattered. And whatever he chooses next, he knows now that he is not reaching for a ghost. He is reaching for someone who lived, fought, and was remembered. That knowledge settles in his chest, heavy, grounding, and quietly unbearable.

Warriors doesn’t speak again. He doesn’t need to. He just stands beside Twilight, honouring the dead, and the living, with the respect they deserve.

Twilight stays still for a long moment after Warriors finishes speaking. Then he turns. Really turns this time, not the polite, surface glance he gives most people, but a careful, assessing look, the kind he reserves for battlefields and truths he’s trying to understand. He studies Warriors’ face in the light reflected off the memorial stone: the familiar confidence, the easy posture, the faint smile that never quite leaves. And beneath it all, the strain.

“You know,” Twilight says quietly, “you’re not as subtle as you think.”

Warriors blinks, surprised. “About…?”

“The womanising.” Twilight continues. His tone isn’t accusing. Just observant. “The jokes. The flirting. The way you lean into it like it’s expected.”

Warriors’ mouth opens, then closes again. He lets out a short breath. “Wow. Didn’t realise I was being psychoanalysed today.”

“I’ve had time to practice.” Twilight says faintly.

His gaze flicks, just briefly, toward the far end of the courtyard, toward the direction of the castle interior, where Artemis disappeared earlier. When he looks back, there’s something softer in his eyes.

“I’ve seen the way you look at her.” Twilight says. “When you think no one’s paying attention.”

Warriors goes very still.

“That look doesn’t belong to a man who doesn’t care.” Twilight continues. “It belongs to someone who’s already decided he can’t have what he wants, so he pretends he wants everything else.”

The words land carefully. Not sharp. Not cruel. True. Warriors laughs under his breath, but there’s no humour in it. “You always this perceptive, or am I just having a day?”

Twilight doesn’t answer immediately. He turns back to the memorial, fingers resting once more over Midna’s name.

“I thought wanting more was selfish.” he says quietly. “I thought letting go was the right thing, because it hurt less than asking.”

Warriors’ expression tightens.

“I was wrong about part of that.” He looks back at Warriors then, eyes steady.

“Nothing lasts forever.” Twilight says. “Not wars. Not peace. Not chances.”

Warriors swallows. “You don’t know that.” he says.

“I do.” Twilight replies. “I’ve lived long enough to learn it the hard way.”

Silence stretches between them, thick but not uncomfortable.

“You don’t have to choose recklessly.” Twilight adds. “But don’t tell yourself you’re sparing her pain by doing nothing. Sometimes all you’re doing is sparing yourself the risk.”

Warriors stares at the stone for a long moment, jaw working.

“…That’s rich.” he mutters. “Coming from you.”

A corner of Twilight’s mouth lifts, just barely. “I know.”

That earns a quiet huff of laughter, real this time, if subdued.

Warriors straightens, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking off something heavy. “You ever notice,” he says slowly, “how easy it is to give advice you can’t follow yourself?”

“Yes.” Twilight says. “Constantly.”

They stand there together, two men bound by different versions of the same fear. Warriors glances once more toward the castle, longing flickering across his face before he schools it away out of habit. “…I’ll think about it.” he says. Twilight nods. That’s all he was aiming for.

As Warriors steps away, Twilight remains by the memorial, the weight of stone beneath his hand grounding him. He doesn’t know yet what he’ll do about Midna, whether he’ll open the door Lana warned him about, or learn to live with the knowledge instead. But for the first time since this all began, he feels something other than fear or desperation guiding him. Clarity. And as he turns back toward the courtyard, toward Wild, toward Time, toward the fragile present, Twilight carries that clarity with him, steady and hard-won.

Nothing lasts forever. Which means some things are worth risking, before they’re gone.

The feast is loud.

Not raucous, not yet, but full in that particular way only a kingdom can manage when it believes itself safe for a night. Long tables stretch the length of the hall, laden with food and drink and the kind of excess that only comes after survival. Torches blaze high along the walls, banners unfurled, musicians tucked into alcoves where their sound can carry without overwhelming. This feast is not for the chain. It is for Warriors.

The Hero of Hyrule returned, not as a myth, not as a name carved into stone, but alive and present and unmistakably real. People crowd the hall for a glimpse of him. Soldiers who fought under his command. Nobles who owe their lives to decisions he made years ago. Citizens who only know his face from tapestries and stories.

Warriors sits at the high table beside Zelda.

Not beside her in the way a consort would, there is space, careful and deliberate, but close enough that the connection is undeniable. He wears formal armour tonight, polished to a gleam, the silver catching the firelight every time he moves. He smiles easily, laughs when spoken to, lifts his cup when toasted. He plays the part perfectly.

Twilight watches from below.

The other Links are seated together at one of the central tables, guests of honour, clearly, but still guests. There is laughter there too. Legend arguing with Sky. Wild leaning back too far in his chair until someone kicks it. Time sitting with measured calm, present but reserved. Twilight sits with them, technically. In practice, his attention never leaves the high table. He watches the way Warriors angles his body toward Zelda without meaning to. The way his hand hovers, never quite touching, never quite straying far. The way his gaze softens when she speaks, then shutters again the moment someone else addresses him.

Longing, contained.

Familiar.

Zelda leans toward him at one point, saying something Twilight can’t hear. Warriors’ smile falters, just a fraction, then reforms into something brighter, easier. Deflection. He lifts his cup, offers a charming reply, and the moment passes.

Twilight’s jaw tightens. Nothing lasts forever. He had said it plainly. Carefully. Without accusation. Warriors had heard him. And chosen, for now, to do nothing. A servant passes with a tray of wine. Twilight accepts a cup he doesn’t really want, fingers curling around it more out of habit than desire. The sound of the hall washes over him, laughter, music, the clatter of dishes, but it feels distant, like he’s watching from behind glass. He sees it all too clearly. The mask. The restraint. The choice to wait for a “better time” that may never come.

Warriors laughs again, louder this time, responding to a jest from one of the nobles. The sound rings hollow to Twilight’s ears, not false, but incomplete. Like something vital has been cut out and replaced with performance. Zelda watches him with an expression that is fond, composed, unreadable. She does not reach for him either.

Twilight looks away from them. The irony is sharp enough to sting. He has just risked the stability of worlds to reach for a truth he could no longer live without, and here is Warriors, surrounded by proof of survival, choosing caution over honesty all the same.

Twilight takes a slow sip of wine.

He wonders, not for the first time, whether courage looks different depending on the cost. At the high table, Warriors lifts his cup again as another toast is called, the hall roaring its approval. He stands briefly, offering a practiced bow, the perfect hero returned, adored, celebrated, untouched by doubt. Twilight watches the distance between him and Zelda remain carefully intact. Watches the moment pass. And feels, deep in his chest, the quiet, unsettling recognition that knowing what you should do does not mean you will do it, not when fear wears such a convincing disguise.

The feast goes on. Music swells. Laughter rises. And Twilight sits among heroes, eyes fixed on another man’s unfinished choice, wondering how many moments like this slip away simply because no one dares to break the silence.

Watching them becomes unbearable. It isn’t one thing, not a single look or laugh, but the accumulation of it. The way Warriors keeps choosing distance when closeness is right there. The way Zelda waits, patient and composed, as if she’s learned not to expect more than what’s offered. The way the moment keeps passing, again and again, quietly wasted.

It feels too close to something Twilight can’t name without breaking.

He sets his cup down untouched. “I’m heading out.” he says quietly.

The table stills.

Legend looks up first. “Already? The good stuff hasn’t even started.”

Wild frowns. “You sure?”

Sky’s reaction is immediate. He leans closer, eyes soft and searching, head tilted just so, like a mother bird checking for an injury she can’t see. “Are you alright?” he asks gently. “You’ve barely eaten.”

Twilight forces a small smile. It feels brittle on his face.

“I’m fine.” he says. “Just… tired.”

Sky doesn’t look convinced.

“There’s something I need to take care of tomorrow.” Twilight adds, before Sky can press further. “Early.”

That does it. Sky nods at once, concern still written all over him but respect winning out. “Okay.” he says. “Get some rest, then.”

There’s a quiet chorus of goodbyes as Twilight rises. Nothing dramatic. Just a shared sense of disappointment, of something ending sooner than expected. He threads his way through the hall toward the doors, the noise swelling briefly around him before thinning again. At the threshold, he hesitates, just for a heartbeat, and glances back.

Warriors is still standing at the high table, mid-conversation, smile fixed firmly in place. Then his eyes meet Twilight’s. Twilight doesn’t soften his expression. He doesn’t glare either. He just shakes his head, once, slow and unmistakable. For a fraction of a second, Warriors’ façade cracks. The smile falters. His shoulders tense. Something naked and unsettled flashes across his face before the mask snaps back into place, seamless as ever. But Twilight saw it. And that’s enough. A quiet, bitter vindication settles in his chest,  not triumph, but confirmation. Warriors understands exactly what he’s doing. Understands the cost. He’s just choosing it anyway.

Twilight turns and leaves before the moment can be repaired.

The doors close behind him, shutting out the music, the laughter, the celebration of things briefly restored. The corridor beyond is cool and dim, blessedly silent. As he walks away, the image of Warriors’ cracked composure lingers, proof that Twilight’s words had landed, even if they hadn’t yet changed anything. He doesn’t know whether Warriors will ever act on them. He only knows this: Watching someone else refuse the chance you would give anything for is its own kind of grief.

And tonight, Twilight doesn’t have the strength to carry it as well.

The doors close behind him with a heavy, echoing thud.

For a few steps, Twilight lets the sound carry him forward, down the corridor, away from the warmth and noise and too-bright reminders of things he wants and cannot have. The stone beneath his boots is cool, grounding. His shoulders ease a fraction as the feast fades into memory.

Then he hears it. Footsteps. Measured. Unhurried. Familiar in a way that makes something twist sharply in his chest.

Twilight slows. For a heartbeat, he thinks, Warriors. Thinks maybe the cracked mask mattered more than he expected. Thinks maybe the advice he gave wasn’t wasted after all.

He turns.

It isn’t Warriors.

It’s Time.

Time stands a few paces back in the corridor, hands dangling loosely at his sides, expression unreadable in the torchlight. He hasn’t followed too closely. Hasn’t crowded. He looks like someone who waited until Twilight was ready to notice. The sight of him steals the air from Twilight’s lungs. Regret hits all at once, hot and immediate, flooding his chest so hard it almost hurts. The words he threw in anger the night before rise unbidden, sharp and ugly.

 I know you see yourself as some kind of father figure but you’re not.

Twilight stills, caught between the instinct to retreat and the pull to step closer. His throat tightens.

“I thought…” he starts, then stops. Tries again. “I thought it would be Warriors.”

Time inclines his head slightly. “I know.”

The simple acknowledgment makes it worse. Twilight looks away, jaw clenched. He doesn’t trust his voice yet. He doesn’t know how to speak to Time without reopening the wound he made, or revealing how much he regrets it. Time waits. Finally, Twilight forces himself to meet his gaze.

“I shouldn’t have said what I did.” he says quietly. “About… before.”

Time’s expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes softens, not forgiveness yet, but understanding.

“You were angry.” Time says. “And hurting.”

“That doesn’t excuse it.”

“No.” Time agrees. “It explains it.”

Silence stretches between them, thick and uncertain.

Twilight shifts his weight, restless. “I don’t know how to do this.” he admits. “I don’t know how to talk to you without…” He trails off, shaking his head.

Without wanting to be told what to do. Without needing approval. Without being afraid of disappointing you. Time seems to hear all of it anyway.

“You don’t owe me deference.” he says gently. “And I never asked to be your father.”

The words are calm. Steady.

“But I care about you.” he continues. “That hasn’t changed.”

Twilight swallows hard. 

“I know.” he says. His voice wavers despite him. “That’s why I said it. Because I felt like you were watching me… waiting for me to fail.”

Time steps closer, just one pace. Close enough to be present. Not close enough to crowd.

“I wasn’t.” he says. “I was afraid you’d disappear into something you couldn’t come back from.”

Twilight’s chest tightens. “I almost did.” he admits.

Time nods slowly. “I know.”

They stand there, the corridor quiet around them, torches flickering softly. The distance between them is no longer physical, it’s emotional, raw and fragile.

“I don’t want you to stay out of my business forever.” Twilight says finally. “I just… need room to make my own mistakes.”

Time studies him for a long moment. “That’s fair.” he says.

Relief hits Twilight so suddenly his knees almost give.

“And for what it’s worth.” Time adds, voice lower now, “I was proud of you tonight.”

Twilight looks up sharply. “For what?”

“For walking away.” Time says. “And for knowing why you did.”

The words settle gently, easing something tight and painful in Twilight’s chest.

“I’m still scared.” Twilight admits.

Time offers a faint, almost-smile. “You should be.”

They share a quiet moment, not healed, not whole, but no longer fractured beyond repair.

Time gestures down the corridor. “Come on. You said you were tired.”

Twilight hesitates, then nods. They walk together, not side by side exactly, but close enough that the space between them no longer feels like a gulf.  And for the first time since he left the feast, Twilight breathes a little easier, knowing that even as he stands on the edge of something dangerous and uncertain, he does not have to face it entirely alone.

They walk in silence for a while. The corridor stretches ahead of them, torches casting long bands of light and shadow across the stone. Twilight’s footsteps sound too loud to his own ears, each one measured, deliberate, as if he’s pacing himself through something far more fragile than distance. Time doesn’t rush him. That, more than anything, is what finally breaks the dam.

“Lana spoke to me.” Twilight says. The words come out steady. Too steady to be casual.

Time slows, then stops. He doesn’t turn right away. When he does, his expression is attentive, guarded, not alarmed, but braced. “I thought she might.” he says quietly.

Twilight nods. His jaw tightens, then sets with resolve. “She gave me an opportunity.”

Time’s eyes sharpen. “An opportunity for what, exactly?”

Twilight meets his gaze head-on.

“For a choice.” he says. “A real one.”

The corridor feels suddenly smaller, the air heavier. Time studies him, weighing not just the words but the way they’re spoken, the certainty beneath them, the absence of flailing desperation.

“You’re going to pursue it.” Time says.

It’s not a question.

“I am.” Twilight replies. There’s no hesitation. No apology. “I won’t waste it.” he continues, voice firm. “I won’t rush it, and I won’t pretend I don’t understand the cost. But I won’t walk away from this just because it scares me.”

Time is silent for a long moment. Twilight presses on, the need to be understood burning hot in his chest.

“I lived with the belief that it was impossible.” he says. “I made peace with that. But now I know it wasn’t fate, it was a decision made with incomplete information. And I can’t build my life on that.”

Time exhales slowly. “You’re asking me not to stop you.” he says.

“I’m asking you to trust me.” Twilight replies.

The words hang between them, fragile and weighted. Time looks at him, really looks, and Twilight recognises the same worry he saw earlier in the courtyard. But there’s something else there now, too. Trust.

“Very well.” Time says at last. “Then hear this.”

He steps closer, voice low. “If you do this, do it cleanly. Don’t let hope turn into obsession. Don’t gamble your life because you’re afraid of loss.”

“I won’t.” Twilight says immediately.

Time nods. “And if the answer is no?”

Twilight’s throat tightens, but he doesn’t look away.

“Then I’ll live with it.” he says. “Knowing I asked.”

Time studies him for another long moment, then inclines his head. “That’s all I can ask of you.” he says.

Something settles between them, not agreement, exactly, but alignment. A shared understanding of boundaries, risks, and trust. They resume walking. Twilight’s stride is surer now, shoulders squared. The path ahead is still uncertain, still dangerous, but it is chosen. And as they disappear down the corridor together, Twilight carries the knowledge like a blade at his side, he has been given an opportunity. And he will not waste it. They walk the rest of the way in silence. Not the brittle kind this time, not avoidance or unfinished argument, but something steadier, almost reverent. Their footsteps echo softly through the narrowing halls as the castle settles into night. The torches burn lower here, light pooling warmly instead of blazing, shadows long and unmoving.

Twilight’s quarters are near the outer wing. Practical. Quiet. A door meant to close on the world. They stop in front of it. For a moment, neither of them moves.

Time turns first. “I know this isn’t easy.” he says, voice low, careful not to break what’s settled between them. “And I know you’re walking toward something that could hurt you.”

Twilight nods once. “Yes.”

Time watches him, not as a mentor gauging a student, not as a guardian bracing for disaster, but as someone recognising another’s resolve.

“I’m proud of you.” Time says.

The words land softly.

They don’t strike like a benediction or a command. They simply exist, honest, unadorned, given freely.

Twilight’s breath catches before he can stop it.

“For thinking this through,” Time continues “for choosing with your eyes open. For not letting fear decide for you.”

Twilight swallows. He hadn’t realised how much he needed to hear that, not approval, exactly, but understanding.

“I don’t know how this will end.” Twilight admits quietly.

Time nods. “Neither do I.”

He steps closer, just enough to bridge the space without crowding it. “But you’re not alone.” he says firmly. “Not in this. Not in what comes after.”

Twilight meets his gaze, and something tight in his chest finally loosens. “I know.” he says.

And this time, it isn’t habit or reassurance or something he hopes is true. Time rests a hand briefly on Twilight’s shoulder, solid, grounding, there and gone before it can demand anything in return.

“Get some rest.” he says. “Tomorrow will come whether you’re ready or not.”

A faint huff of breath escapes Twilight. “That seems to be its specialty.”

Time’s mouth curves, just slightly. “Goodnight, Twilight.”

“Goodnight.” Twilight replies.

Time turns and walks away, footsteps fading into the quiet of the hall. Twilight watches him go for a moment longer, then opens the door to his quarters. He steps inside and closes it gently behind him, leaning back against the wood as the latch clicks into place. The room is dim. Still. Safe. For the first time in a long while, the quiet doesn’t feel like abandonment. Twilight exhales slowly, hand pressed to his chest, where fear and hope and resolve sit tangled together, dangerous, fragile, real. He is walking toward something unknown. But he is not walking alone. And tonight, that is enough.

The knock comes sharp and sudden.

Twilight has just pushed off the door, just taken two steps into the room, when the sound cuts through the quiet like a blade. He freezes, heart lurching, then turns back, opening it reluctantly.

Time stands there.

Not composed. Not measured. Not waiting for permission.

He looks… wrong.

His posture is tense, shoulders set as if he’s bracing for impact. One hand is half-raised, like he knocked and immediately regretted it. His expression is caught somewhere between resolve and doubt, a fracture Twilight has never seen on him before.

“Time?” Twilight says.

Time exhales sharply, like he’s already out of patience, or courage. “I shouldn’t have left it like that.”

Twilight’s stomach tightens. “Left what—”

“This.” Time says, gesturing vaguely between them, frustrated. “You. The way you’re standing on the edge of something and pretending that’s enough reassurance.”

Twilight blinks.

“I meant what I said.” Time continues, words coming faster now, less controlled. “I trust you. I respect your choice. But that doesn’t mean…” He stops, jaw tightening. Starts again. “It doesn’t mean I’m not afraid.”

The admission lands heavier than any warning ever could. Time steps fully into the doorway now, then hesitates, like he’s not sure he has the right to cross the threshold. “I’ve watched too many people walk forward convinced they were prepared.” he says quietly. “Heroes. Friends. People who said all the right things.” His voice dips. “Some of them never came back.”

Twilight’s chest tightens painfully.

“I need you to promise me something.” Time says.

The words are abrupt. Unpolished. Almost raw.

Twilight straightens instinctively. “What?”

“That you’ll come back.” Time says. No qualifiers. No conditions. “That no matter what she says, no matter what choice you make, no matter how tempting it is to disappear into what might have been, you come back.”

The silence that follows is thick and fragile. Twilight stares at him. This isn’t instruction. This isn’t guidance. This is fear. Time swallows, clearly aware he’s exposed something he usually keeps locked away. “I know I don’t get to ask this.” he adds, voice lower now. “Not after what you said. But I’m asking anyway.”

Twilight feels something twist sharply behind his ribs. “You think I won’t.” he says quietly.

“I think,” Time replies, just as softly, “that hope makes people reckless. And you’re carrying more of it right now than you realise.”

Twilight takes a slow step closer. He searches Time’s face, the uncertainty, the strain, the care laid bare without armour, and understands, finally, the weight Time has been carrying since the moment Twilight turned toward Lana’s tower.

“I won’t disappear.” Twilight says.

Time’s eyes flicker. “That’s not the same as a promise.”

Twilight doesn’t look away. “I promise.” he says.

The word settles between them, solid, deliberate, chosen.

“I don’t know how this will end.” Twilight continues. “And I won’t pretend I can control everything. But I will come back. To this world. To everyone. To you.”

Time closes his eyes for a brief moment. When he opens them, something in him has steadied, not healed, but anchored.

“Good.” he says quietly.

He steps back, reclaiming a fraction of his usual composure, though it doesn’t quite fit the same way it used to.

“Get some sleep.” he adds, almost gruff. “I expect to see you in the morning.”

Twilight’s mouth curves faintly. “You will.”

Time nods once, then turns away without another word, the door hasn’t even finished closing before it opens again. This time there’s no knock. Time steps forward abruptly, like the hesitation finally lost whatever fight it was putting up. Twilight barely has time to register the movement before a hand catches his sleeve, firm and grounding, and then… He’s pulled in. Not gently. Not carefully. A full, solid embrace, arms locked around him, unyielding, like Time is anchoring him to the floor, to the world, to here. Twilight’s breath leaves him in a sharp, surprised exhale, his hands hovering uselessly for a heartbeat before instinct takes over and he grips the fabric at Time’s back. Time doesn’t speak. His chin rests against Twilight’s shoulder, his hold tightening just a fraction more, as if to make the message unmistakable.

You are real. You are here. You are not leaving without being held.

Twilight freezes at first. Then the tension drains out of him all at once. His shoulders sag. His grip tightens. He leans into the embrace in a way that surprises him, in a way he hasn’t allowed himself to do in years. The solid weight of Time’s presence presses the breath back into his lungs, steadies the frantic edge of his thoughts. He feels the tremor in Time’s hands. Just barely. That’s what breaks him.

“I promise.” Twilight murmurs again, voice rough against Time’s shoulder. “I’m coming back.”

Time exhales, long and uneven, the sound pressed into Twilight’s collar. His grip tightens once more, not possessive, not controlling, just terrified and relieved and fiercely protective all at once.

“Good.” Time says quietly. The word sounds like it’s been held back for far too long.

They stay like that for several heartbeats. Long enough for the world to settle back into place. Long enough for Twilight to feel, deeply and unmistakably, that he is not carrying this alone, that whatever he’s reaching for, someone will be waiting when he returns.

Eventually, Time pulls back. Not quickly. Not cleanly. Like someone letting go only because they have to. He clears his throat, composure reassembling itself piece by piece, though something softer remains behind his eyes.

“Get some sleep.” he says again, more gently this time. “You’ve got a long road ahead of you.”

Twilight nods, throat too tight for words.

Time hesitates, just a fraction, then gives Twilight’s shoulder a firm squeeze before stepping away.

The door closes quietly behind him.

Twilight stands there for a moment longer, heart still pounding, warmth lingering where Time’s arms were wrapped around him. He presses a hand to his chest, breathing slowly, grounding himself in the afterimage of that embrace. Hope is still dangerous. But tonight, it is tempered by something just as powerful. He is loved. And when he finally turns toward the bed, the promise he made doesn’t feel like a burden. It feels like a way home.

A few hours pass.

Not cleanly. Not restfully.

Twilight lies on his back, then his side, then his back again, the sheets twisted beneath him like they’re trying to anchor him in place. Sleep won’t come. Every time he closes his eyes, his mind jumps ahead, to Lana’s tower, to what might happen, to what he’s already promised not to lose himself to. Hope hums under his skin, sharp and restless. The room is dark except for moonlight spilling in through the narrow window, striping the floor in pale silver. Twilight stares at the ceiling, jaw tight, breath shallow, counting it out like he does before battle.

It doesn’t help.

The knock comes quietly this time.

Twilight stiffens.

For a heartbeat, he’s sure it’s Time again, checking, worrying, making sure the tether still holds. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands, rolling his shoulders as he crosses the room.

He opens the door.

It isn’t Time.

It’s Warriors.

He looks… wrecked.

His armour is gone, replaced with simple clothes, hair loose and messy. His usual confidence is nowhere to be found. He stands awkwardly in the doorway, hands clenched and unclenched like he doesn’t know what to do with them, eyes darting briefly down the corridor before settling back on Twilight.

“Oh.” Twilight says quietly. “Hey.”

Warriors exhales like he’s been holding it in for hours. “Hey.”

There’s a pause. An uncomfortable one.

“I—” Warriors starts, then stops. Runs a hand through his hair. “I know it’s late. And if this is a bad time, I can…”

“It’s fine.” Twilight says, stepping back and opening the door wider. “You should come in.”

Warriors hesitates, then nods and steps inside. He doesn’t sit. Just paces once, then stops, shoulders tense.

Twilight watches him carefully.

This is not the man from the feast. Not the hero on display. This is someone stripped down to the truth and unsure what to do with it.

“You were right.” Warriors says suddenly.

Twilight blinks. “About…?”

“Artemis.” Warriors replies. The word is barely louder than a breath. “About me. About what I’m doing.” He lets out a shaky laugh. “Or not doing.”

Twilight leans back against the table, arms folded loosely. He doesn’t interrupt.

“I keep telling myself it’s for her.” Warriors continues. “That staying quiet is safer. That not complicating things is… kinder.” His voice tightens. “But watching her tonight, sitting there, smiling like she always does, like she’s learned how to carry disappointment gracefully…” He swallows hard. “I realised I’m lying.” he says. “To myself. And maybe to her.”

The room is very quiet.

“I don’t know how to want something without risking everything,” Warriors admits. “And you…” He looks up, meeting Twilight’s eyes fully now. “You looked at me like you already know what that costs.”

Twilight exhales slowly. “I do.” he says. “But I also know what it costs not to.”

Warriors lets out a broken huff of breath. “That’s the part I can’t stop thinking about.”

He stops pacing. Finally sits on the edge of the chair, elbows braced on his knees, head bowed.

“I’m terrified.” he says. “Not of rejection. Of being seen. Of saying it out loud and changing the shape of things forever.”

Twilight studies him, the tension, the fear, the honesty laid bare, and recognises it too well. “Nothing stays the same forever.” Twilight says quietly. “You can only choose whether it changes because you acted… or because time took the choice away.”

Warriors squeezes his eyes shut. “You really believe that.”

“Yes.” Twilight replies. “I wish I’d believed it sooner.”

That gets Warriors’ attention.

He looks up sharply. “Is that about—”

“Someone I loved.” Twilight says simply.

Warriors nods. He doesn’t press. He doesn’t need to. They sit in silence for a moment, two men at different edges of the same cliff.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do.” Warriors says at last.

Twilight pushes off the table and crosses the room, stopping in front of him.

“You don’t have to decide tonight.” he says. “But don’t pretend you don’t feel it. That’s how it eats you alive.”

Warriors lets out a breath that sounds like relief and pain tangled together. “…Thank you.” he says.

Twilight nods. “Anytime.”

Warriors stands slowly, steadier now than when he arrived, not resolved, but no longer alone with it.

Twilight opens the door for him.

As Warriors steps into the corridor, he pauses. “For what it’s worth,” he says quietly, “I hope you get what you’re reaching for.”

Twilight meets his gaze.

“So do I.” he says.

Warriors doesn’t leave right away. His hand is already on the doorframe when he stops, shoulders rising with a breath he has to force down. He turns back, expression stripped bare now, no humour, no bravado, just resolve hard-won and a little terrified. “Twilight.” he says.

Twilight looks up.

“When this is over,” Warriors continues, voice steadying as he speaks, “when the quest’s done and we all go back to our own times…”

He hesitates, then straightens, like he’s bracing himself for battle rather than words. “I’m not doing this again.” he says. “I’m not pretending I don’t feel it. I’m not hiding behind duty or timing or fear.”

Twilight watches him closely. Not judging. Measuring sincerity.

Warriors meets his gaze head-on. “I swear.” he says. “When I go home, I will tell her. Properly. No masks. No jokes. No half-truths.” His jaw tightens. “Whatever the outcome is… it’ll be honest.”

The words settle into the room, solid and deliberate. Twilight exhales slowly. “Good.” he says.

Just that. Not praise. Not pressure. Approval, quiet and absolute. Warriors lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been lodged in his chest for years. “I needed to say it out loud.” he admits. “Otherwise I’d convince myself it didn’t count.”

Twilight’s mouth curves faintly. “That’s usually how it works.”

They share a look, brief, understanding, something like camaraderie forged not by war but by vulnerability.

“And you?” Warriors asks quietly. “When you go back.”

Twilight doesn’t answer right away. “I don’t know what I’ll do yet.” he says honestly. “But I won’t pretend I didn’t have the chance.”

Warriors nods. “That’s enough.”

He steps back into the corridor, then pauses one last time. “Thank you.” he says. “For seeing through me. And for not letting me stay comfortable.”

Twilight inclines his head. “Don’t make me regret it.”

A weak laugh escapes Warriors. “I won’t.”

He turns and goes, footsteps fading into the quiet. Twilight closes the door gently and leans back against it, eyes lifting to the ceiling. Somewhere down the line, a confession will be made. Somewhere else, a door may open, or may not. Nothing is guaranteed. But tonight, promises have been spoken aloud instead of buried. And for a man who has learned the cost of silence, that feels like a victory all its own.

Sleep still won’t come. But the night feels… lighter somehow. Because sometimes, being the one who speaks first doesn’t change the past. It just makes the future possible. And for a man who has learned the cost of silence, that feels like a victory all its own.

Morning comes softly. Not with trumpets or urgency, but with pale light creeping across the stone floor and the distant sounds of the castle waking, boots on flagstones, low voices echoing in courtyards, the muted clatter of a gate being raised somewhere below. Twilight is already awake. He lies still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, listening to his own breathing. The night has finally loosened its grip on him, leaving behind a taut, fragile calm. His thoughts are clearer than they’ve been in days, not settled, but aligned. He rises quietly, washing his face in cold water, the shock grounding him fully in the present. When he looks at himself in the small mirror by the window, the red around his eyes has faded, replaced by something firmer. Resolve, maybe. Outside, the courtyard is bathed in early sunlight. The air is cool, fresh with the promise of movement and decisions yet to be made.

The chain gathers gradually. Wild is first to spot him, already halfway through a loaf of bread he definitely didn’t acquire through official channels. He lifts a hand in greeting, eyes scanning Twilight’s face with quick, practiced concern.

“You sleep at all?” Wild asks.

“A little.” Twilight replies.

It’s not a lie.

Sky joins them next, relief flickering across his expression when he sees Twilight upright and composed. He opens his mouth, thinks better of it, and settles for a gentle smile instead. Time arrives last. He doesn’t hover. He doesn’t avoid Twilight either. He simply meets his gaze across the courtyard and inclines his head once, acknowledgment, trust, a reminder of the promise that now binds them. Twilight returns the gesture. Warriors appears moments later, already half-buried in conversation with an aide, scroll tucked under one arm. He looks tired, but lighter than he did the night before. When his eyes find Twilight’s, something unspoken passes between them. A vow remembered. A future claimed. No words are exchanged. None are needed.

Lana’s tower rises above them all, catching the morning light like a silent witness. Twilight follows its outline with his eyes, feeling the quiet pull of what waits ahead, not immediate, not inevitable, but real. The door is still closed. For now. He draws in a slow breath and lets it out again. The day has begun. And whatever it brings, answers, restraint, or the first step toward something that may change everything, Twilight stands ready to meet it, grounded by those around him and guided by the choice he has already made.

Not to rush.

Not to flee.

But to move forward with his eyes open.

The morning light warms the stone beneath his boots. And Twilight steps into it. He lingers near one of the pillars and cannot seem to stand still. He adjusts a strap at his wrist. Lets it fall. Smooths the front of his tunic with his palm, then immediately regrets the motion, as if it makes his unease visible. He exhales, slow and controlled, the way he does before something dangerous.

This is ridiculous, he thinks.

He has faced monsters larger than buildings. He has stood before gods and not flinched. He has crossed into another world armed with nothing but stubbornness and a sword he barely understood at the time.

And yet… What if she sees him and thinks he has aged poorly? What if he looks tired? Hard? Changed in ways she never expected? The thought coils tight in his chest. He hates it. Hates that something so small has him unraveling. It feels childish, indulgent, beneath the gravity of what he’s actually risking. He lets his head tip back briefly, eyes closing.

Get a grip.

It shouldn’t matter how he looks. Not after everything. Not when all he wants is to know the truth, to see her once more with open eyes.

And still… The last image of Midna he carries with him is sharp as a blade. Her true form, tall and radiant, hair like living fire under the light of the fused shadows. The strength in her posture. The sadness in her smile. Beautiful in a way that hurt to look at, because it felt like witnessing something you weren’t meant to keep. She had been magnificent.

Twilight swallows.

What if she looks at him now and sees only a worn-down version of the boy who once stood beside her? What if he no longer matches the memory she carries? The thought makes his chest ache.

He turns, scanning the courtyard, and spots Sky nearby, kind eyes catching the light, expression open and warm, entirely unguarded. Sky notices him immediately, because of course he does.

Twilight hesitates.

Then, because he has already crossed far larger thresholds than this, he walks over.

“Sky.” he says.

Sky smiles. “Morning!”

Twilight pauses. His fingers curl once at his side, then still.

“…Do I look alright?” he asks.

Sky blinks.

“I mean,” Twilight continues quickly, before he can lose his nerve, “not just… presentable. But…” He falters, then forces the words out. “Like someone who hasn’t let himself go.”

Sky’s brows draw together, confusion giving way to something gentler.

“Twilight.” he says softly, full of confusion, “why would…”

Twilight exhales, shoulders dipping. “I know it’s stupid.”

Sky opens his mouth to object, then closes it again, listening instead.

“I just…” Twilight looks away, eyes catching on nothing in particular. “I’m meeting an old friend.”

Sky understands anyway.

“Oh.” Sky says quietly. He steps closer without hesitation, lifting his hands to straighten Twilight’s collar, smooth his shoulder, adjust a strap that didn’t actually need adjusting. The touch is light, familiar, grounding.

“You look like someone who has lived.” Sky says. “And kept his heart intact anyway.”

Twilight’s throat tightens.

“That’s not exactly—”

Sky smiles at him, soft and sincere. “She won’t be measuring you against a memory. She’ll be seeing you.”

Twilight breathes in, then out.

“…So I don’t look ridiculous.” he says.

Sky laughs gently. “No. You look very dashing.”

That settles something in Twilight’s chest, not the fear, but the shame of it.

“Thank you.” he says quietly.

Sky’s smile widens. “Anytime.”

Twilight turns away then, nerves still humming under his skin, but steadied now by something else. Hope, yes. But also the quiet understanding that wanting to be seen, truly seen, by someone who once mattered does not make him weak. It makes him human. And as he walks back into the sunlight, Midna’s last smile lingers in his mind, not as a standard he must meet, but as a reminder of what he once stood beside. And may yet stand before again.

Twilight turns away from the chain before he can lose his nerve.

Each step feels deliberate, measured, not because the distance is great, but because stopping would be so easy. The courtyard stretches wide and sunlit behind him, familiar voices rising and falling in a way that feels suddenly precious. He tells himself not to look back.

He does anyway.

Warriors catches his eye almost immediately.

For a heartbeat, Twilight expects concern. Or tension. Or that same guarded uncertainty from the feast the night before.

Instead, Warriors smiles. It isn’t loud or charming or meant for anyone else, just a small, steady thing, meant only for him. There’s gratitude in it. Relief. Resolve. He looks… lighter. Like someone who has finally decided to stop carrying a weight that was never meant to be permanent. Twilight nods once in return. Something warm settles in his chest. Then he turns back toward the tower. It rises ahead of him, pale stone catching the light, its shadow stretching long across the courtyard. It looks the same as it did yesterday. As it did an hour ago. That somehow makes it worse.

Twilight slows as he reaches the base of the steps. Then stops. His heart is in his throat now, beating hard enough that he’s certain it must be visible. His palms are damp. His breath comes a little too shallow. He stares at the door, solid, ordinary, absurdly mundane for something that feels like the threshold to another life.

Pathetic, he thinks sharply.

This is it. This is the moment. After everything he’s faced, after monsters and gods and endings that reshaped the world, he’s frozen by a door.

Where is your courage?
You didn’t hesitate when it mattered before.

His jaw tightens. His fists clench at his sides. You begged her to try. You swore you wouldn’t waste this. And now you can’t even take the next step.

The self-rebuke is harsh, merciless, because that’s the only language fear understands. He draws in a breath. It does nothing.

“Twilight.”

The voice is behind him, close, calm, unmistakable. He flinches despite himself and turns. Time stands a few paces away, sunlight catching in his hair, expression warm in a way that feels almost achingly gentle. Not alarmed. Not commanding. Just there. For a moment, Twilight can’t speak. He feels exposed in a way he hasn’t since he was young, caught hesitating, caught wanting reassurance when he believes he should already have it.

“I can’t…” His voice catches, and he hates it. He swallows hard. “I know this is ridiculous.”

Time shakes his head softly. “It isn’t.”

Twilight gestures helplessly toward the door. “I fought a war in another world. I let her go. I crossed darkness itself.” His voice drops, raw and frustrated. “And now I’m afraid to knock.”

Time steps closer. Not invading his space. Just enough to remind him that he’s not facing this alone.

“Courage isn’t the absence of fear.” Time says quietly. “It’s choosing to move while it’s still there.”

Twilight lets out a shaky breath. “What if I’m wrong? What if this…” He trails off, unable to give shape to the dread knotting his chest.

“What if you’re right?” Time counters gently.

Twilight looks at him then, really looks, and sees no expectation there. No pressure to be the hero. Just faith.

“You’ve already done the hardest part.” Time continues. “You chose to know. You chose honesty. This?” He nods toward the tower. “This is just the next step.”

Just.

Twilight huffs a quiet, humourless breath. “You make it sound easy.”

Time’s mouth curves faintly. “I never said that.”

He places a hand on Twilight’s shoulder, warm, solid, grounding.

“Whatever happens in there,” he says, voice low and steady, “you’re still you. You still come back. You still have people waiting for you.”

Twilight closes his eyes briefly, letting the words settle. When he opens them again, the fear is still there, but it’s no longer paralysing. It’s sharp, focused, edged with something else.

Resolve. He nods once.

“Thank you.” he says.

Time squeezes his shoulder lightly, then steps back, giving Twilight the space to choose. Twilight turns back to the tower. His heart pounds. His hands tremble. And then, because courage has never meant certainty for him, only action. 

The door opens at his touch. Not dramatically, no surge of magic, no sound beyond the soft scrape of stone against stone, and somehow that makes it worse. Lana’s tower doesn’t announce itself. It simply allows him in, like it always expected this moment to arrive. Twilight steps inside. The door closes behind him with a muted finality, sealing off the courtyard, the chain, the reassuring weight of Time’s hand on his shoulder. The stairwell is quiet, cool, spiralling upward in patient curves. Sunlight filters in through narrow slits in the stone, striping the steps in pale gold.

He pauses only once, just long enough to steady his breathing, and then climbs.

At the top, the chamber is already prepared.

Lana stands near the central table, sleeves rolled back, chalk marks faintly glowing where they haven’t yet been wiped away. She looks up as he enters, sharp eyes softening just a fraction when she sees him.

“You came back.” she says.

Twilight inclines his head. “I said I would.”

She studies him for a moment longer than politeness requires, the tension in his shoulders, the restraint humming just beneath his skin, the way he looks like someone braced against a storm that hasn’t broken yet.

“Are you ready?” Lana asks.

The question isn’t about magic. Twilight exhales slowly.

“No.” he says. Then, after a beat, “But I’m here anyway.”

Lana nods. “That’s usually how it goes.”

She gestures him forward. “Come. Sit.”

He does, lowering himself into the chair opposite the table. The surface between them is bare for now, no glow, no symbols, just etched stone and possibility waiting to be shaped.

Lana folds her hands. “Before we do anything else, I need to ask you something.” she says. “And I need the answer to be honest.”

Twilight meets her gaze without flinching. “Alright.”

“If she appears,” Lana says carefully, “and she tells you she doesn’t want this door opened further, not now, not ever, can you accept that?”

The question lands cleanly. Precisely. Twilight closes his eyes. He sees Midna as she was at the end, tall, radiant, unbearably sad. He sees the mirror shatter. Feels again the weight of letting go because he believed there was no other choice. He opens his eyes.

“Yes.” he says. His voice is steady. “I can accept it.”

Lana watches him closely. “And if she does want to see you… but not to stay?”

Twilight swallows. “Then I will not ask her to.”

“And if seeing her changes nothing?” Lana presses. “If the answer you get doesn’t bring peace?”

Twilight’s hands curl briefly in his lap, then relax.

“Then at least it will be true.” he says. “And I’ll live with that.”

Silence stretches. Finally, Lana nods once, decisive.

“Alright.” she says. “Then we begin.”

She rises and moves around the table, chalk flaring softly beneath her fingers as she redraws the circle, careful, precise, deliberate. The air shifts again, that subtle pressure Twilight felt before, like the world leaning in to listen.

“Close your eyes.” Lana instructs. “And this time, don’t reach.”

Twilight frowns slightly. “Don’t…?”

“Don’t pull.” she clarifies. “Don’t demand. Let the connection surface on its own.”

He nods and obeys. Darkness folds around him, but it’s not empty this time. There is a presence there, distant, aware, watching back.

“Think of her.” Lana murmurs. “But don’t cling to the ending. Let the memory breathe.”

Twilight does. Midna’s laughter. Her sharp wit. The quiet moments between battles, when she leaned close and trusted him without question. He lets the memories pass through him without trying to hold them still. Something stirs. Not light. Not sound. Recognition. The air thickens, shadows at the edge of the room stretching, deepening into hues that do not belong to this world. The circle on the table begins to glow, not bright, but deep and steady, purple colour pulsing like a living thing.

Lana inhales sharply. “She feels it.” she whispers.

Twilight’s heart slams painfully against his ribs.

“Stay with me.” Lana says, grounding. “Do not step forward. Do not speak unless she does.”

The glow intensifies. And then… A shape begins to form. Not fully. Not yet. Just the barest impression of a silhouette, like a memory deciding whether it wants to become real. Twilight’s breath catches. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t dare. Because standing there, on the knife-edge between worlds, he understands with absolute clarity. This is the moment that will define him, not by what he gains, but by how he chooses to meet what answers him. The shadows ripple. The air holds. And somewhere, just beyond sight and certainty, Midna is close enough to feel. Whether she steps forward or not… Whether this door opens wider or closes forever… Twilight stands ready. And waits.

When Twilight opens his eyes, the air is different. Cooler. Thicker. It carries weight, not oppressive, but intentional, like the world itself is aware of being perceived. The stone beneath his boots is smooth and dark, faintly reflective, threaded with that familiar, otherworldly glow that never quite counts as light.

For a moment, he doesn’t move.

He breathes in.

The Twilight Realm smells the way he remembers it: sharp and clean and faintly electric, like rain about to fall but never quite touching the ground. The sky above is suspended in its eternal half-light, neither day nor night, hues of violet and black bleeding softly into one another. Distant structures curve and rise in impossible geometries, elegant and severe all at once.

Home.

Not his, never his, but familiar in a way that tightens painfully behind his ribs. He turns slowly, taking it in as if afraid the act of looking too quickly might undo it. The floating pathways. The shadowed spires. The quiet hum of magic that underpins everything, steady and alive. It’s real. His hands tremble when he lifts them, half-expecting them to pass through the world like mist. They don’t. The leather creaks softly. Solid. Present. A breath escapes him, shaky and reverent all at once.

“So,” a voice says behind him, rich with amusement, “you finally figured out how to stop staring at the scenery.”

Twilight freezes.

Every instinct in him fires at once, not fear, not readiness, but recognition so deep it almost hurts. His heart slams against his ribs, breath catching hard enough that for a second he can’t move at all.

Then he turns.

Midna stands a short distance away, arms crossed, weight settled casually on one hip like she’s been there the entire time and he’s the one who’s late. The twilight glow catches in her hair, throwing copper and gold through its fiery waves. Her eyes gleam, sharp, knowing, unmistakably hers.

She looks… the same. And not. Regal, as she was at the end, tall, powerful, but with that familiar spark of mischief curling at the edge of her expression, the one that always made it impossible to tell whether she was about to mock him or save his life.

Her lips curve into a smirk. “Took you long enough, wolf boy.”

The name hits him like a physical blow. Twilight swallows hard. His mouth opens. No sound comes out.

Midna’s smirk softens, just a fraction, enough that he notices, enough that it matters. She tilts her head, eyes flicking over him with open curiosity, lingering in a way that makes his chest ache. “…Wow,” she says lightly. “You’re really just going to stand there?”

His throat works. “Midna.” he manages.

The sound of her name, spoken aloud, here, where it belongs, feels almost unreal. Like testing a memory against the present and finding it solid.

She raises an eyebrow. “Still good with words, I see.”

He huffs a breath that might almost be a laugh, hand lifting to his chest as if to steady his heart. “You’re—”

“Here?” she supplies dryly. “Yes. Obviously. You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“I thought—” He stops himself, jaw tightening. Tries again. “I didn’t know if you would… want…”

Midna studies him in silence for a beat. Then she steps closer. Not rushing. Not hesitant. Just deliberate.

“You always did overthink things.” she says. Her voice is softer now, still teasing, but edged with something deeper. “If you’re here, it’s because I let you be.”

That lands harder than any reproach could have. Twilight nods once, absorbing it. Respecting it.

“I didn’t come to…” he starts, then exhales and lets honesty take the reins. “I didn’t come to take anything from you.”

Midna’s eyes flicker with interest. “Oh?”

“I came because I needed to see you.” he says. “Knowing what I know now.”

Something unreadable passes across her face, surprise, maybe, or something like relief quickly masked.

“Well,” she says after a moment, lips curling again, “you’ve seen me.”

She pauses, gaze sharpening. “And you don’t look so bad, wolf boy.”

The warmth that spreads through his chest at that is immediate and dangerous. He meets her eyes, really meets them this time, and for the first time since the mirror shattered, Twilight lets himself believe what’s standing in front of him. She’s real. She chose this. And she’s here, teasing him like no time has passed at all. Whatever comes next, answers, goodbyes, or something far more complicated, he knows one thing with aching clarity. This moment was worth everything it cost to reach it. 

The words have been clawing at his throat for years. Twilight doesn’t plan them. Doesn’t weigh them. They don’t arrive as a decision so much as a failure of restraint, the last wall giving way under the pressure of everything he’s held back since the mirror shattered. He takes a breath. It breaks halfway in.

“I—” His voice catches hard enough that he has to stop, hand lifting instinctively to his chest like he can physically steady his heart. Midna watches him, utterly still now, all sharpness gone, as if she already knows what’s coming and is afraid to move in case it vanishes. Twilight swallows. “I love you.” he chokes out.

The words are raw. Unpolished. Not heroic. They come out fractured, dragged up from somewhere deep and long-buried, like he’s saying them through water.

“I always did.” he continues, voice shaking. “I just… I never got to say it. You didn’t give me time. You didn’t give me the choice.” His breath stutters. Tears spill freely now, no attempt made to stop them.

“I told myself it didn’t matter.” he says. “That it was better left unsaid. That wanting you was selfish.” He shakes his head, a broken sound escaping him. “But it never stopped. Not once.”

The Twilight Realm feels impossibly quiet. Midna’s eyes widen, not in surprise, but in impact. Like the words have struck something she’s spent years armouring over. Her mouth opens, then closes again. Her hands curl at her sides.

“You don’t get to…” she starts, then stops herself, breath hitching.

Twilight steps closer, finally closing the distance he’s been holding back from since he arrived. “I know you were trying to protect me.” he says, softer now. “But you took this from me. The chance to say it. The chance to let you know that letting you go didn’t mean I loved you any less.”

His voice drops to a whisper. “It meant I loved you enough to survive without you.”

That does it. Midna’s composure shatters, not dramatically, not loudly, but completely. She lifts a hand to her mouth, eyes shining, breath unsteady in a way Twilight has never seen before.

“…You idiot.” she murmurs, voice trembling. “You absolute—” She stops herself, then laughs weakly, the sound breaking apart even as it forms. “I love you too.” she says. The words are quiet. Immediate. Undeniable. “I just didn’t think I was allowed to say it.” she continues, voice low and aching. “Not when it would have made leaving impossible.”

Twilight’s knees almost give. He exhales a sound that’s half a sob, half relief, pressing his forehead briefly against hers before he even realises he’s moved. They don’t kiss. They don’t need to. The closeness is enough.

“I’m sorry.” Midna whispers. “For the silence. For the certainty I stole from you.”

Twilight closes his eyes, tears still falling. “I don’t need the past fixed.” he says. “I just needed this moment to be real.”

Midna’s hand comes up at last, resting against his cheek, warm, solid, grounding him to the now.

“It is.” she says softly.

They stand there together in the half-light, not undoing the ending, not rewriting the sacrifice, but finally naming the truth that lived between them all along. Love, spoken too late to change everything. But not too late to matter. 

Something pulls. It’s subtle at first, a pressure behind Twilight’s ribs, like a tide turning beneath his feet. The air around him tightens, the twilight glow shivering in response. He knows the sensation instantly, even before the truth reaches his mind.

Lana. The tether. Twilight’s breath catches. He turns his head just enough to look over his shoulder, and the world behind him ripples, not breaking, not collapsing, but calling. The connection Lana warned him about, brief and controlled, finally reaching its limit.

Midna feels it too.

“No.” she says immediately.

The word is sharp, terrified in a way that strips all regality from her voice. She grabs his arm, fingers digging in like she can anchor him by force alone.

“No don’t go. Not yet. You just… you just got here.” Her eyes are wide now, luminous with panic. For the first time since he’s known her, Midna looks afraid of him leaving.

“Please.” she says, and the word devastates him. “Not now.”

Twilight turns fully back to her. The pull grows stronger, a steady insistence rather than violence. There’s no fighting it, he can feel the balance of worlds reasserting itself, the careful limits Lana set snapping into place exactly as promised. He cups Midna’s face gently, thumbs brushing beneath her eyes.

“It’s too late for that.” he says softly.

Not resigned. Certain.

“I knew this would be brief.” he continues. “I wouldn’t have come if I thought it could be anything else.”

Her grip tightens, desperate. “You don’t have to be so calm about it.”

He smiles, small, real, aching. “I do.” he says. “Because now I know.”

The pull surges, light bending around him, shadows stretching long across the ground. The Twilight Realm hums louder, like a heart beating faster under strain.

Midna swallows, voice breaking. “Then say something. Don’t just—”

Twilight doesn’t answer with words. He leans in. The kiss is gentle, unhurried, not the kind born of urgency, but of certainty. His hand slides to the back of her neck, steady and warm, holding her there like the world isn’t already slipping away beneath him. For one perfect, suspended moment, nothing exists but this. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against hers, breath mingling. Her eyes search his face, desperate to memorise every line. Twilight smiles at her, soft, unwavering, full of a promise that doesn’t demand anything in return.

“See you later.” he says quietly. 

The light flares. The Twilight Realm dissolves around him in a wash of silver and shadow, Midna’s hands slipping from his sleeves no matter how hard she tries to hold on.

The last thing he sees is her, standing tall despite the tears on her face, watching him go with a look that is no longer loss, but certainty.

Then the world folds.

And Twilight is gone.

Twilight comes back standing. No stumble. No gasp. Just the quiet certainty of solid stone beneath his boots and the abrupt absence of twilight-light on his skin. Lana’s tower is exactly as he left it, chalk marks faintly glowing, the air still humming with residual magic, and yet it feels wrong in the way only after does. Like a room that remembers something that no longer occupies it. He doesn’t move. The silence stretches. Lana is there, a few paces away, hands folded loosely in front of her, staff resting against the table. She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t approach. Doesn’t ask if it worked or how he feels or what she saw. She simply waits. Twilight stares at the floor for a long time.

His chest aches, not sharply, not the way it did before, but deep and heavy, like something important has settled there permanently. His hands tremble faintly at his sides. He doesn’t try to stop it.

He lets the silence have him. Minutes pass. Maybe more. Time feels strangely elastic, like it’s giving him the courtesy of not rushing. He lifts a hand at last and drags it across his face, rough and practical, wiping away what he refuses to examine too closely. His breathing evens out slowly, deliberately, the way he’s taught himself to do when something threatens to unmoor him.

When he finally looks up, his eyes are red but clear.

Lana meets his gaze calmly. No pity. No curiosity. Just acknowledgment.

“…Thank you.” Twilight says. The words are quiet, steady, and full in a way he didn’t expect them to be.

Lana inclines her head once. “You’re welcome.”

He nods in return.

There’s nothing more to say. Nothing that needs explaining.

Twilight turns toward the door, pauses just briefly, not in hesitation, but in recognition of what he’s carrying now, and then steps forward.

When he leaves the tower, he does so changed. Not because he lost something. But because he finally knows what he has.

Twilight steps out of the tower and into the courtyard. The sun is higher now, bright and warm, flooding the stone with light that feels almost startling after the muted glow of the Twilight Realm. It catches on his hair, his armour, the worn leather of his gloves, grounding him fully, unmistakably here.

For a moment, he just stands there. Then he looks up. The chain is gathered near the centre of the courtyard, as they so often are, an untidy constellation of familiar shapes and voices. Legend is mid-complaint about something trivial. Wind laughs too loudly at it. Sky gestures animatedly. Hyrule listens, patient as ever. Time stands just a little apart, arms folded, gaze already on Twilight like he felt the moment he returned. When their eyes meet, Time doesn’t question him. He just nods. Something in Twilight’s chest loosens completely. He exhales, slow and full, and lets himself feel it, not the ache, not the fear, but the quiet, profound rightness of being back. Of being anchored. Of having chosen both honesty and return. The sun warms his face, and with it comes a soft, lingering sensation, the echo of a kiss, gentle and certain, still ghosting against his lips. It doesn’t make his throat tighten this time.

It makes him smile. Not wide. Not triumphant. Just… content. He walks toward the chain, steps easy, shoulders unburdened, heart steady. There is grief there still, and longing, and a promise that waits somewhere beyond reach, but none of it owns him anymore.

Because now he knows. She is real. She loves him. And this is not the end. As Twilight crosses the courtyard, sunlight bright on his face and the memory of her touch warm against his mouth, he feels something rare and precious settle into place. Not closure. Happiness. 

And that is enough.