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Chapter Text

Time listened to each drop of water hitting the bucket and did the math in his head: about one millilitre per drop at one drop per second meant he had around 500 seconds—8 minutes and 20 seconds—until he would start to notice the added weight to the rope around his neck.

“We don’t like to keep our good lord waiting,” said the cultist still sitting comfortably by the door, sipping a cup of tea. “Be a dear and tell us which of your group is the so-called Hero.”

Time hummed, seeming to consider as he looked up at the barred hole in the ceiling. His shoulders already ached from how tight the ties around his arms and wrists were, his bare feet tethered to either side of the rough-hewn wooden post behind him. The water drip, drip, dripped.

“I don’t know about any hero,” he said plainly. “This place and its troubles are foreign to me.”

“You’re very funny,” the cultist replied, showing too many teeth.

“I’m very serious.”

“The Hero wields a magic sword.”

“As do most of us, I’m afraid.”

“He is younger, apparently, nearly a child.”

“Oof,” said Time with a frown. “We have several of those, as well. Don’t you have any actual details?”

The cultist made a face and stood, clanking their teacup down on its saucer. Though the sun beyond the compound would be setting soon, there was enough light to see under their deep, red hood. They had a good, strong cut to them, thin lips, and a rounded nose. Surely, they would have been handsome enough to survive the world without being in an evil cult.

“Listen carefully, young man,” they said with a hiss, and their breath smelled of citrus, tobacco, and rot. “I don’t know what the little devil has told you, but Lord Ganon is the savior of this world. He will bring order to the beasts lurking in the wilds—farmers will be able to grow their corn without fear, animals will grow fat with bounty. As will we. All we need is the demon pretending to be Hyrule’s legendary hero.”

“You’ll kill him, this child?” asked Time calmly, though his pulse quickened in his straining muscles.

“It is necessary to the rebirth of our beautiful world.”

Time sighed and pretended to consider, tonguing the newly-loosened tooth on his right side. After a moment, he smiled politely: “I’m very sorry, my black-hearted friend. I don’t know anyone who fits your description.”

The cultist stared at him, and the corners of their mouth twitched.

“Fine,” they said and turned away out of the room. “Be that way. We know it’s one of that wretched gaggle of boys you were with. By my estimate, you have until nightfall to tell us which. Until then—enjoy your stay. I know I will.”

The heavy door shut loudly, and there was the click of a thick latch. Time breathed deep and gave a sigh. Oh, Malon. Didn’t I promise to stay out of trouble? He would not be including this pickle in his next letter.

Drip, drip, drip.

He turned a little to look at the top of the post, leaning to test the pull of the rope as it slid through its notch in the wood. He couldn’t move much, certainly not enough to dislodge the trap, and he set his mind to the rest of the room. It was small and quite empty, save the single wooden chair, a few shackles attached to the stone walls, and a length of rope on a hook by the door. Various stains and smears colored the walls, though the late afternoon was hardly light enough to determine what they were. And already, the air had a chill to it—it was likely to get deathly cold tonight with how deep in the mountains they were.

Time worked his jaw and wriggled his bare ankles against the rope and wood. The odds were low that his boys would find his little skylight here, but if they did, maybe Wild’s magnesis rune would be strong enough to pull the bars away. If not that, maybe a bomb or two would loosen them. More likely, however, were the chances of them finding one of the many entrances he’d spotted on the way in, camouflaged as they were—it had been days since any of them had had a bath, and Wolfie’s nose was keen enough to follow his scent down the way he came. In the meantime, his pulsing fingertips could just reach the rope that bound them. Strand by strand, his fingernails might be able to break the fibers and weaken their hold.

Time licked his dry lips and tasted blood. Oh. Right. He probably looked awful right now with as much of a beating as he’d taken. The adrenaline would wear off soon, and he’d feel every ache and pain, and it would be harder to think. Great. Good thing he was a professional.

Drip, drip, drip.

*

The evening wore on. The tingling in Time’s arms had climbed into a horrid ache, then receded to numbness. Though he’d tried to keep his mind off the more pressing matter at his throat, the weight was becoming more than just distracting.

500 drops is about 500 grams. 500 grams in 500 seconds. 1000 grams in a litre of water. 2000 seconds divided by 60…

Even simple math was getting harder. He kept shifting his head, trying to find a more comfortable way to stand, trading pressure on his windpipe for pressure on the soft blood vessels on either side. At one point, he’d managed to twist enough to almost work the knot toward the front, but the force with which it had slipped back into place had frightened him. It would be unwise to try again and potentially pass-out.

Drip, drip, drip.

*

3000 seconds, 3000 grams, 3 litres…

He struggled to swallow. His lungs were beginning to complain, an acidic burning in his chest. The bones of his ankles wore against the post and stung when he moved. The air was cold, but he worked to breathe it anyway.

At some point, torches were lit in the passageway beyond his door, the orange light peeking through the bars in its window. Twice, a dim face had looked in on him—there was at least one guard out there, armed or not.

Drip, drip, drip.

*

6000 seconds… 6000 grams…

Time’s ears twitched, though his mind was slow to figure why.

The sound of fighting echoed down the passageways. Swords on swords, skulls against shields—Time would recognize the voices of his boys anywhere. He shifted his head, freeing his voice for just a moment to yell as loudly as he could.

“I’m here! Captain! Rancher! Anyone, I’m here!”

His head throbbed with the pressure on his blood vessels, and he shifted back to his sore but sturdier windpipe as he blinked bright spots from his eye. Words drifted over the fray beyond his door and the incessant drip, drip, drip.

“Time?!”

“Where’d it come from?!”

“That way! Go!”

Thank the gods, Time thought dimly. They’re coming. Hold tight. Just a bit longer. They’re coming, they’re here.

Footsteps raced toward the door, a blade cutting through cloth and meat, bodies hitting the walls, and the torchlight outside the barred window flickered.

“Time!”

“Smith,” Time wheezed. “Help.”

“Don’t talk! Just stay there, stay awake! We’re coming!”

The door latch rattled, and Four cursed. There was the sound of rustling and the jingle of keys. Time stood on the tips of his toes, hoping beyond logic that it would relieve the weight around his neck, but it didn’t. His body trembled with the effort.

Malon… Malon, I’m sorry. I’m trying. I’m trying…

Suddenly, there was a yell and metal on metal. Shadows hurried along the passage wall, only to be pushed back. The door latch clicked, and Four burst in, hesitating only a moment as he took in the sight of Time, the post, and the heavy bucket, eyes wide in horror. The horror turned quickly to fury—he slashed the rope holding the bucket, and cold water splashed to the ground. Time gasped, his body falling forward exhaustedly and ripping his shoulders as he sucked down as much air as he could. There were small, strong fingers tugging futilely at the ropes around his arms.

“I know, I know, but you need to stand up, old man! I can’t—”

There was the sound of stones grinding, and Four turned quickly, catching the blade of a black-robed cultist against his own. He kicked them between the legs and hacked down through their head, ready as a second came at him through the open door.

“Smith!”

The warning cry from the hall came too late—a crossbow bolt shot through the darkness and lodged deep into his leg just above the knee. He yelped and ducked under the second cultist’s arm, attacking from behind.

“Vet!” he yelled. “Help!”

Time pulled against his ropes, struggling, just barely able to shift them. He looked up, desperate, in time to watch Legend’s form disappear around a corner, and his heart sank even further as a familiar red-robed figure strode forward, crossbow in-hand.

“Smith!” he tried hoarsely.

A second bolt hissed through the air and struck Four solidly in the hip. The boy gasped and fell to the ground.

“No!” Time whimpered. “No!”

Two more cultists ran in from the passageway and grabbed hold of him, prying the Four Sword from his grasp. He was forced face-down, one arm ripped up as high behind him as it would go. The tip of the Four Sword was pressed between his shoulder blades, and Time’s heart dropped.

“Stop! Stop it! Leave him alone!”

The red-hooded cultist put out a hand to stop their subordinate in black, an intrigued sneer crossing their face: “Yes? Do you have something to say?”

Time’s heart pounded in his chest, his throat, his arms: “Please… please, don’t hurt him.”

What else was he supposed to say? Even if he could come up with an answer to the question of who they were looking for, these people would likely kill Four and him either way. Worse, he realized the sounds of battle down the halls were becoming more distant, and a deep dread blotted his thoughts.

Four swallowed a groan and wriggled against the wet stone of the floor. The red-robed cultist grumbled and put one boot atop the boy’s skull.

“Children’s heads are softer, you know. I wonder how long his will hold out.”

He pressed down, and Time pulled against his bonds: “Please! Please, we don’t know any hero! We’re not from here!”

Four’s face crushed against the floor, and the boy grit his teeth before… laughing. The cultists looked down at him in shock, and he laughed louder.

“You idiots,” he managed wetly. “You… you stupid, useless idiots. You really nabbed the one guy who doesn’t know anything.”

The red-robe traded a glance with Time: “What do you mean?”

Four snickered, though he was obviously in pain: “Old Man Knight here might be a good fighter, but he’s got the memory of a goldfish. Out of anyone in the party who might have known anything, you grabbed this guy? The gods really must hate you if they gave you that slush between your ears to call brains.”

“Shut up,” hissed the black-robe holding the Four Sword, and he pressed it harder into the boy’s spine. But their red-robed superior waved a hand again to stop him. They looked from Four’s smug face to Time’s open helplessness.

They grinned: “Get him to his knees.”

The black-robes immediately lifted Four by the arms, holding him tight. The red-robe took hold of his chin, turning the boy’s head left and right. After a long moment, they looked again to Time, eyeing his hair, his build, his clothes.

“String him up with his father,” they said. “I’ll call for the wisdom of the Prophet.”

They turned away as Four’s features creased in fury: “You don’t need us both here! Let him go! He doesn’t know anything!”

“On the contrary, young one. I think having you both here doubles our chances of identifying the legendary Hero. After all, you came to rescue one man—I have no doubt the others of your group will return for two of you.”

Four struggled, growling, kicking at his captors, and dark blood stained his precious tunic. They forced him back to the ground, ripping his arms together behind him and yanking the ties so tight that his shoulders left the floor. Time pulled desperately against his own as the two men hoisted Four up and shoved him to the post against Time’s back. The boy kicked at the one coming for his feet but couldn’t keep him from tying them to Time’s. The other smirked at Time’s futile struggles, took the loose rope in his hand, and gave him a firm tug, pulling him to stand upright again. He looped the other end around Four’s small neck. The boy leaned away but was pulled back by the hair, falling still as the noose was made tighter under his jaw.

“Stand up straight. There’s a good boy. Slouching is bad for your health.”

Four glared and spat right in the cultist’s face, and the black-robe turned to his friend with a frown begging for revenge. The other rolled his eyes and waved his hands in defeat.

All Time knew was the sound of a fist meeting flesh. Four cried pitifully out, knees giving way—the rope pulled taut around his throat, and the back of Time’s head hit the post as he choked.

“Get up,” the cultist barked and wiped the thick spit from his cheek. He grabbed Four’s ear and lifted him back to his feet. “You better stay standing, little warrior, or else you’ll both die before your friends come back.”

Four could only gasp in reply, eyes watering.

“Don’t touch him,” Time demanded, though the threat was airy and weak.

Both cultists huffed and turned away toward the door.

“We’ll see you two in the morning, hopefully.”

“If you see the Hero, tell him about how great the accomodations are here, will you?”

And they left, slamming the door and locking it tight behind them, leaving Time and Four standing in the damp darkness as the cold night deepened around them.

***** ***** *****

Chapter Text

Four stared ahead into the dark, and icy water drip drip dripped on to his head. His heart beat heavily against his ribs, around the crossbow bolts in his knee and hip, and against the rope firmly looped under his jaw. He… he’d lost. He’d failed. He’d been caught, and the others had left him here. He couldn’t hear the battle anymore. They were gone. The devastation was almost too much to bear.

“Smith? Smith, are you alright?”

Time’s voice was hoarse and creaking—the angry flame in Four’s heart strengthened again.

“That bastard hit me right where it hurt,” he managed, focusing on his breath. The air was cold in his nose and throat. “I’m sorry, old man. I tried.”

Drip.

“It was a valiant effort,” Time said comfortingly, and his cold, swollen hands twitched against Four’s back. “I appreciate it.”

“The Captain refused to hear anything about waiting until full nightfall to come get you, for better or worse. It looks like he was right.”

“Being strangled to death is certainly not how I prefer to spend my weekend nights.” Time took a breath to say something else but hesitated.

Drip.

“What?” Four asked as a drop of water landed in the center of his forehead.

He felt his noose loosen slightly as Time stood straighter: “Be honest… how badly are you hurt?”

“I won’t pass-out yet, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Hm, I am.”

He was waiting for a real answer. Four sighed, running through a checklist of his aches and pains: “I can breathe. They shot me in the leg and in the side—I think that’ll be fine for now, I don’t think I’ll bleed-out. My face hurts. And I won’t lie, I might go crazy with this stupid water dripping on me all night. What about you?”

“Ah,” said Time tiredly. “I’m alright. A bump here, a bruise there. I lost my first tooth in about fifteen years. Any chance the Tooth Fairy might come and let us out?”

They both grinned, though neither could see the other’s. Four shut his eyes and shifted his arms around the wooden post as best he could—the pain underlying Time’s humor was not lost to him. He’d seen his face in the dim torchlight of the open door before he’d been attacked—at the very least, the old man’s nose was broken, the tender outline of a rod visible across his cheek. Who knew what the rest of him looked like? Four shivered at the image in his mind.

Drip.

“Cold?” Time asked, worried.

“Wet,” Four grumbled. The spilled bucket still lay nearby, its water slowly sinking into the crevices between the stones of the floor.

“Our Traveler said it gets down to freezing out here,” Time said.

“Yeah. I remember.”

The danger didn’t need to be said aloud. Four was very aware of his particular situation.

Drip.

“Do you think the others will come back again soon?” Time asked.

“For you? Ha, I have no doubt.”

“Oh?”

“Oh, yes, old man,” Four joked. “You’re very popular with the children.”

“Is that so?” Time chuckled. “Does that include you?”

“I’m not a child. I’m nineteen.”

“Oh.”

“Just had my birthday a few days before the portal showed up.”

“Ah… would this be the right time to say ‘happy birthday’?”

“Best leave it for later. I’ll require a cake after this.”

“I’m sure our Champion would be happy to oblige.”

Drip.

It had only been a quarter of an hour or so, but Four’s feet were beginning to hurt. He shifted a little, trying to ignore the shooting pain in his knee while the opposite hip screamed in defiance. He made a hurt noise in his throat. Time mercifully said nothing, though he was sure he could hear him.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The mountain chill had become biting. Every drop of water felt like a knife stabbing into his skin. Four had begun to shiver a long while ago, and he wasn’t sure why it was slowly getting harder to breathe, but it was. The clear, starry sky was visible over their heads, through the barred hole and beyond the sharp peaks.

“The story goes,” said Time, trying to keep his teeth from chattering, “that Nayru, the Goddess of the seas and sky, fell in love with a human she saw enjoying these little white flowers in a field. She watched over them for years but had forgotten that people were mortal, and when her human died, she wept so terribly that the oceans flooded the world. Her sister Goddesses tried to calm her, but still, she wept and wept, until the seas touched the sky. The little white flowers floated and stuck to the firmament, and seeing them, she was reminded of her love for people and the happiness they brought her. The waters receded, and the Goddesses left the flowers in the sky as a reminder to enjoy the beauty of the world.”

“That’s nice,” Four slurred, and he pulled himself straighter again. “Sounds like a bedtime story.”

“Malon told it to me when we were younger, on nights when I couldn’t sleep.”

He felt Time test the ropes around his wrists again.

“Malon… your sister?”

“Ha, no. No, my wife.”

“You’re married?”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“No, no, it’s just… I dunno, you kinda seemed like a ‘lone wolf’ type.”

“Not quite. Maybe in the past, but… I’m spoiled now.”

Four hummed. It hadn’t really occurred to him that any of his elder brothers-in-spirit might be married. Time was respectable but not exactly worth a dowry, at least by Four’s era’s standards. Maybe the Captain would be—an occupation under the royal family was a bonus. But the Rancher, well, he supposed the Rancher would be quite popular, all rugged and a little feral.

Four shrugged: “Got a family?”

“Just her and her pa,” Time said. “They’ve been more than good to me, over the years. She’ll give me an earful if she ever hears about this, haha…”

“Yeah,” mumbled Four sorely. He tried again to pull a numb hand free. “Zelda’d be horrified if I told her I’d been fighting off cults instead of monsters. People aren’t supposed to be this evil.”

Time sighed. His voice was sad as he agreed, “No. They’re not.”

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

“Smith! Sm-mith! Smith, wake up!”

Four jolted, coughing painfully and scrambling back to his feet even as his wounds screamed at him. The rope around his neck burned where it had buried itself, and in-between his own gasps for air, he could hear Time struggling to breathe behind him.

Drip.

“Sorry,” Four managed weakly. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Time replied, though there was a keening fear in the single syllable. “Fine. I’m f-fine.”

The stars had shifted overhead. Four wasn’t sure how much time had passed. It was freezing, but he was no longer shivering.

“Old man…”

“Yeah?”

“I’m starting to think we might be in trouble.”

Drip.

Time said nothing, again pulling against the ties on his arms. They creaked but would not break, and Four could already feel himself fading again. Was it the cold or blood loss? Wait, how much blood had he lost? The torchlights in the hall beyond the door had dimmed with the hours, and even if he could look down at himself without toppling, he wouldn’t be able to see.

Time pulled at the ties around their feet, and Four winced at the movement, even as he thought he felt one of Time’s ankles slip a little higher than last time.

Drip.

“St-tay with m-me, Smith.”

The breath in his mouth and lungs was excruciatingly cold, but there was no choice but to breathe it.

“Link? Link, t-talk to m-me.”

“Tell—” Four started, then shuddered as water dripped on to his cheek “—tell the Vet it’s not his fault, okay? Just in case. Tell him it’s not his fault.”

“I won’t be able to if you pass-out!”

Even so, Four couldn’t help the weakness creeping through his veins, the call of the relief of unconsciousness. He fought it, he tried, he really did. Time struggled against his back, jostling the wooden post between them, sending sharp pains through every limb.

Drip.

“Zelda…”

“Don’t you dare!” Time begged, a cry escaping him as he yanked hard and something snapped.

Four desperately wanted to lie down. He would have given anything in that moment to be at home, in his bed, his grandfather moving about in the early morning to stoke the fires. He could almost feel the heat of the sun on him—

But then, a massive rush of pain ran through his arms, an awful tugging that ripped into his shoulders. His face fell against something solid, something cold and clumsy pawing at his neck.

“Wake up!” the warm wind whispered on his face. “Wake up, it’s ok-kay. It’s okay. I’ve g-got you… I’ve got you…”

****

Chapter Text

Time’s hands and arms were still numb when he managed to break free, and now that Four lay relatively safely against his chest and the adrenaline was wearing off, the pain of hot blood seeping back into his veins was excruciating. He whined and leaned his head forward, thunking it against the wooden post behind Four.

Drip.

The drop of water stung the back of his neck, and he cursed.

“Smith?” he whimpered. “Sm-mith, can you hear m-me?”

Four did not reply. Time tried again, gritting his teeth, to paw the noose out from around his brother’s throat, and this time, he got purchase enough to move it over his chin. The rope slipped off, and Time sighed, finally able to breathe a little easier knowing neither of them would choke to death. Still, there were other issues that needed attention.

Despite the pain, he slowly managed to move his fingers. He carefully reached around Four’s limp body and the post and began picking at the tight knots around the boy’s arms. The crossbow bolt in Four’s hip jabbed him in the leg, and Four groaned.

“I kn-know,” Time whispered gently. “Hold on.”

Drip.

Curse this place! Curse the people in it! This water was ice-cold—one millilitre per drop, about one drop per second—and they’d been here for 4 hours, 16 minutes, and 32 seconds. As Time picked at the slowly-loosening knot trapping Four upright, he grew warm with anger—15,392 seconds, 15,392 millilitres. Over fifteen litres of frigid water had fallen on his little brother, not to mention the wetness of the floor he’d been pushed to before.

Drip.

Add to this the loss of blood and his small size, and Four had every reason to collapse first out of the two of them.

Time finally worked his burning fingers through the knot and hurried to tug the ropes away from Four’s wrists and elbows. The boy leaned more heavily against him, and Time hoisted him up, freeing his feet from their ties.

Immediately, his right arm seized with pain. He scrambled to hold on to Four in his left arm instead, ignoring it for the moment and looking around at the dim room for a dry place to sit. The dim torchlight through the door and slight starlight through the barred hole in the ceiling shone on the still-damp floor. Time cursed and tried to feel the floor with his bare feet, but… ah, he’d forgotten they were numb, too, and probably frostbitten. Fine. Fine! He growled and made for the dark spot behind the door, out of sight of anyone looking in but still visible from the hole, just in case.

Time put his back to the wall and carefully slid down to his seat, holding Four against him. Thank the gods, the floor here was dry, even if it was already leeching precious heat from him. He didn’t care right now. Four’s hair was wet, his clothes were wet—under normal circumstances, he’d undress him and wrap him up in something dry, but he didn’t have much to offer. What warm things he had been wearing that morning had been stripped from him. All he had were his black under-clothes and white tunic.

But he couldn’t just leave Four like this. The boy was long past shivering, deathly still across his outstretched legs.

Time lifted his right hand, and everything in it seized again. He bit down a cry—that snapping sound when he’d pulled out of his ties hadn’t been the rope, had it. Dislocated, broken, torn, he didn’t know what he’d done to his arm, just that it had to be done. It was fine. He could work around it.

He shifted Four carefully to lay along his body, head against his chest, legs balanced on top of his. Very slowly and without his right hand, he managed to untie Four’s tunic and undo his belt.

“I know we t-tease ab-bout it,” Time said lowly, “but you b-being small really helps right n-now.”

There was no reply.

Eventually, he was able to peel both the tunic and the undershirt away from Four’s skin and around the crossbow bolt still sticking out from his hip. He laid his things aside and took a deep breath—this next part was going to be painful for him.

He reached for his own tunic and undershirt. He pulled them up over his chest, bristling at the frigid air, and brought them down over Four’s head and shoulders. The iciness of Four’s body shattered the relative warmth of Time’s, and he cursed over and over, in genuine pain as the day’s injuries he’d forgotten suddenly revived. He shifted Four’s arms so that they folded against his chest and turned his head so that he wasn’t breathing through two layers of fabric.

That was about all he could do. Now exhausted and sitting for the first time in hours, Time could feel sleep calling him. He shook his head—sleeping now would be a death sentence, and he’d had quite enough of those tonight. He wrapped a protective arm around Four under his clothes.

“I’ll keep an ear out for the others,” he reassured him, slurring. “You just rest. I’ve got you.”

And he hummed the Song of Healing until light dawned over the hole in the ceiling.

***** ***** ***** ***** **

Chapter Text

The chain had decided to split-up, and Legend found himself trekking through the ragged rocks of a godforsaken mountainside with their new Traveler, the Hero of this Hyrule. The twists and turns of the Cult of Ganon’s lair lay at least a meter under their feet, burrows of stone and metal, a warren full of tight corridors and the smell of sweat. And somewhere in all of it, he knew Time was trapped and Four was injured. He’d glimpsed the room at the end of that hallway, he’d seen the barred skylight in its ceiling.

You’re sure that’s what you saw? Hyrule asked, signing with his hands.

Legend stalked quickly forward with his head low: “Yeah. I’m sure.”

It was hard not to be angry with the Traveler right now. When they’d first stumbled into this realm, he’d warned them about the monster-ridden wilds and the abandoned palaces, but he’d failed to mention the red- and black-robed cultists stalking the place. If they’d known, then maybe, just maybe, Time wouldn’t have been dragged away while they all fought for their lives. They wouldn’t have needed to break into the nearest warren to look for their eldest brother, and Legend wouldn’t have had to bolt for the exit once the walls began to open and cultists to stream out. He wouldn’t have had to leave Four or abandon Time. And he certainly wouldn’t have to be trudging through the frigid night air with his lantern and sword, searching for a skylight he wasn’t sure could be broken through.

Hyrule tapped his arm for him to look at him: Are you warm enough? The cold is deadly.

Legend flinched: “I’m fine.”

As if he had any right to be warm when his brothers were probably freezing to death.

But his brain warred with him—why did it even matter? He didn’t even like the little Smith, and Time had so far been nothing less than annoying, automatically assuming command as if his age meant anything in a group entirely made of experienced heroes. It had been a week, and Legend hadn’t found anything to like about either of them, not really. So what if Four was a blacksmith, too, just like him? So what if Time had made sure to ask if he wanted the last riceball? It didn’t matter, and there was no point in getting attached anyway.

Nonetheless, as the night deepened and the temperature dropped, Legend found himself moving faster, his heart thumping more desperately.

After what felt like mere minutes, Hyrule tapped his shoulder again and held out his waterskin.

“No thanks,” said Legend, moving on, but Hyrule grabbed his sleeve. He held out the waterskin more urgently.

“I don’t want it,” Legend growled. “Let me go.”

Drink, Hyrule ordered, his stubborn brow set. Don’t die.

“I’m not thirsty!”

Legend tried to keep walking, but Hyrule stepped in front of him: You haven’t had anything in hours! Drink!

“Yeah, well, they probably haven’t either, and you can bet they’re still alive, so quit it!”

Legend pushed him aside, and Hyrule bristled, hurrying back into his path and moving with him: I’m just trying to help.

“I know you’re ‘just trying to help’, but it’s pissing me off! Just leave me alone!”

No. Being alone up here is—

“It’s deadly, I know! Everything here is deadly! The people, the food, the heat, the cold—it doesn’t matter anymore, okay?! I just need to find them, so shut up!”

He shoved Hyrule, and the boy fell, hitting the ground with an oof! Legend didn’t get two steps before he was tackled and hit the ground, too, Hyrule climbing on top of him and slapping his face. Legend slapped him in return, yanking his stupid curls as Hyrule pushed against his face. They growled and grunted as they fought, not bothering with words. Legend pulled Hyrule off and down beside him, hitting him with his knuckles but not yet punching. Hyrule caught his arm and bit him.

“Ow! Asshole!”

He shook Hyrule off and plopped atop him, his full weight on his stomach. Immediately, Hyrule yelped, tears springing into his eyes, face scrunching with genuine pain. Legend stopped, shocked, and slid off him. Hyrule curled into himself and gasped again and again into the dirt.

“Hey,” Legend said nervously. “Hey, what—what’s wrong? Are you hurt?!”

Hyrule’s eyes were clenched shut, but he managed to nod. Legend stared, horrified.

“Did… did I—?”

Hyrule shook his head. He held up a hand for him to wait, and Legend could hear the soft tinkling of fairy magic, though there was no fairy to be seen. Hyrule breathed a little deeper.

“Are you… okay?” Legend asked, hesitant, and Hyrule nodded. “What happened? Did you get hurt earlier?”

Again, Hyrule nodded.

“Well, why didn’t you say anything?!” Legend asked exasperatedly. “We have potions! And you have—do you have magic? Was that healing magic? Why didn’t you heal earlier?!”

Hyrule sighed, shutting his eyes a moment before answering aloud: “Was saving it. For them.”

“For—” Legend huffed in realization “—for the Old Man? And the Smith?”

Hyrule nodded. Legend sat back and shook his head, looking everywhere except at him. The stars were bright and glared down in judgement. The mountains stood around them in dark silhouettes, and the lantern lay shining beside his sword. He growled in frustration and sat forward again, beating the sides of his head with his fists. He pulled on his ears until it felt like they might rip, then pulled at his hair until it did.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you hurt you,” he swore, voice cracking a bit. He beat his head some more. “I didn’t mean to leave Smith behind, I didn’t mean to get Time captured, I didn’t—I didn’t even mean to be here. As soon as I saw that stupid portal, I was ready to just end it, you know? I wasn’t even supposed to be here.”

Hyrule gazed up at him with what could only be read as understanding. After a long moment, he opened his mouth again.

“I sealed Ganon away a couple weeks ago. Had to use my blood for it. This cult… they want me. Never attacked anyone but me before. I didn’t think they’d hurt any of you.” Tears tracked through the dirt on his face. “You guys are really nice. I’m sorry.”

Legend let go of his hair, his hands falling limply into his lap. He gave a small laugh: “ ‘Nice’? I just beat you up, but we’re ‘nice’?”

“Yeah.”

“Pfft! I’d hate to see what ‘mean’ is here.”

“You already did.”

Hyrule pushed himself slowly up, and Legend offered his hand. Hyrule took it, and they stood together. As Legend leaned to gather his lantern and sword, Hyrule’s eyes landed past him and went wide. He grabbed Legend’s sleeve.

Look.

Legend turned, lifting the lantern, and there, in the ground, was a hole with shiny, wet-looking bars across it. He gasped and hurried toward it, Hyrule just behind. They knelt at the edges and peered down.

“Time?” Legend hissed. “Old Man, you down there?”

Out of the darkness, a dim figure moved: “Legend?”

***** ***

Chapter Text

The cave was deep and safe. The old woman who lived there sat silently tending the fire as the young men approached from the outer darkness. It wasn’t until her Link knelt down beside her that she looked up.

Hello, Baba Mija.

Oh, he was such a handsome young lad now, all freckles and curls and teenage lank. She signed shorthand: Hello, sweet boy. Back so soon?

Hyrule nodded his pretty head: I found some friends. They need somewhere to rest for a little while.

Mija worked her toothless gums and eyed the strangers at her theoretical front door. There were six of them, one injured but upright, a small one unconscious in another’s arms.

‘Friends’? They are strange. Are they from here?

Baba, they are good. They saved me, but…

His face fell with his hands, and Mija knew.

That damned cult, she signed, fingers slapping together as she grumbled. Too many good souls deceived into harm. Are you hurt?

Hyrule shook his head: My friends are.

She put her dark, gnarled hand to his cheek. She peered into his face and could see the concern in his mouth as it drew into a thin line. You are tired. Have some borscht.

Can I share with my friends? he asked.

Oh, he was always such a sweet boy, so kind, so caring. Mija smiled and nodded: They might have to share a bowl, but we have plenty of spoons.

“Is she your mother?” the Captain asked cautiously, dabbing the open wounds around Time’s arms.

Hyrule tried to ignore the purpling bruises criss-crossing the man’s face and chest. He ripped apart a string of dried herbs and scraped them into a small cup, signing just once: Aunt.

“And she doesn’t mind us invading her house—er, home?” Wild asked as he hovered between where Time sat and Four lay resting.

Hyrule shook his head. He ladled boiling water from a half-buried kettle near the fire into the cup and let it sit on the floor to brew: People come and go. It’s nothing new.

Twilight sat guard at the edge of the fire’s reach, staring into the dark tunnel that led outside. Hyrule didn’t know him, but he got the sense he was usually more… active. Legend, sitting at Four’s feet, followed his gaze and shook his head, signing, Leave him.

Isn’t he cold? Hyrule asked, frowning.

“Keeping guard is something he can do,” Time explained hoarsely, a level understanding in his tone. “He feels useless otherwise.”

Hyrule couldn’t blame the poor Rancher. He himself was no good at cleaning wounds, at wrapping them properly. He had no bedside manner. What he was good at was fighting, and there was currently no fight to be had. Slowly, he became aware that there was a burning in his stomach like boiling oil—if he didn’t remedy it soon, it would spill over into his limbs and skull, and nothing in his path would be safe. For now, he pushed it down, picking up the cup of tea and swirling it around.

“Here,” said Hyrule quietly as he turned. Drink this.

Time blinked at him, seeming to wait for an explanation, but seeing none coming, he took the cup in his working hand. He sniffed curiously.

“Pepperberry?”

Hyrule nodded, and Time smiled with a fondness that could melt the ice around a mountain troll’s heart: “I used to drink this when I was a kid. My friend Saria would make it whenever I caught a cold.”

The angry bruise drawing a line around his neck bobbed as he swallowed and sighed in relief. Hyrule took the empty cup, and Time smiled softly at him and lifted his hand slow enough that Hyrule did not flinch. His palm laid warm on his shoulder.

“Thank you, Traveler,” Time breathed. “You’re very kind.”

Hyrule wanted desperately to lean into his touch, to accept this little kindness… but instead, he took his hand and laid it gently down in his lap, gently tucking his blanket around him. The Captain and Wild exchanged a glance as he silently ladled more water into the cup and set it down.

Almost everyone was asleep when Hyrule heard a groan from the smallest of their group. Legend’s head snapped up from its rest on his knees, and he hurried on all-fours to Four’s head.

“Smith?” he asked, a breath of a whisper.

Four’s eyes creaked halfway open, seeing but not quite comprehending: “Vet…?”

Legend gave a heavy sigh of relief, and Hyrule couldn’t help but stare as he watched tears spring to his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Smith. I’m sorry I couldn’t get to you. You’re safe now, okay?”

Four frowned, then went wide-eyed and jolted to sit up.

“Time!” he wheezed. “Is he—”

Legend caught his shoulders before he could fall back again, his face crumpled in pain.

“He’s fine. He’s here, too. Don’t move too much.”

He was awfully pale, and a shiver rippled through him the more he breathed the chilly air. Hyrule grabbed the tea cup still waiting by the fire and held it out for Legend to take.

“Here, look, we’ve got something to warm you up. Do you want it?”

Four stared at him for a long moment, but finally, he nodded. Hyrule watched Legend carefully lift his brother’s head, watched the relief of sweet warmth ease Four’s features, watched the aching tenderness with which he was laid back down. The boy was asleep quickly, and Legend sank back to his seat. He whispered something Hyrule couldn’t hear, his shoulders beginning to shake.

Hyrule frowned. The bitterness he’d felt emanating from Legend this whole time had completely fallen away, replaced by an aura of salt and smallness. His hand, however hesitant, found its way to Legend’s back. Immediately, the boy broke down into near-silent sobbing.

The hot oil in his chest rose threateningly.

“It’s okay,” Hyrule whispered. “You got them back. They’re safe now.”

It was easy to forget sometimes the goodness in the world. Too often had he seen parent turn against child in the fight for food in the winter. Too many times had he witnessed greedy men pick the pockets of the dead as they lied where the carnivores had dragged them. Too often had he buried the elders who walked into the wilds to spare their families the expense of their death. And yet…

Hyrule watched over them as the night wore on. Legend lied in his bedroll beside Four, finally asleep. The Captain sat beside Time, having tried to stay awake but falling inevitably into an open-mouthed slumber. Wild was curled against Time’s leg, tightly wrapped in his blanket, and the Rancher had finally come in from the cold to lie near Wild, forming a wall between his brothers and the outside with his body.

If what was said earlier that day was right, these people had barely known each other for a week or two, but already, their bonds were apparent. Even if Legend didn’t like the Smith, he loved him. Even if the Rancher thought the Captain was too prissy and bossy, he loved him. And Time… even if he was failed by every one of them and left to be hauled away and beaten and tortured and—Hyrule had to stop himself, working his jaw—he was still kind. He loved them. Hyrule wanted that. He coveted it. He’d felt so alone his whole life that love had become a dangerous thing, something that would slow his feet, weigh down his body. And yet… and yet…

Looking over the faces of the people around him, the hot oil in Hyrule’s chest rose and rose and finally boiled over. His throat grew tight. His body grew hot. He stood silently and went for the wall where they’d all gathered their weapons, swiping up his sword and shield and slinging them on to his back. No one woke up. No one noticed. Not a soul heard him go, not even Mija, who remained asleep sitting up on her stool.

*

The early pre-dawn morning was quiet within the warren. A black-robed cultist yawned as he brought two mugs of chicory tea back to his guard post by one of the entrances. A quiet knock sounded on the thick, wooden door, followed by a hissed “Hail, Lord Ganon.” The cultist handed one of the mugs to his partner and opened the door. Immediately, his body flew backwards, hitting the hall floor with a streak of blood. His partner hadn’t time to yell before her head was pulverized with a single, iron-spiked strike. The intruder ripped off a black robe and pulled the hood over his own head.

The red-robed cultist lied awake in bed, as they had most of the night. They couldn’t stop thinking about the handsome man only a couple halls down, probably shivering with cold, a pretty and pathetic doll half-dead and willing to beg. Oh, they could just see him when they let him loose in the morning, groaning in pain on the floor, grateful for even a crumb to eat, entirely at their mercy! There weren’t many opportunities to own something in this cult—ignoring the new shiny armor, shields, and trio of swords currently on their desk, and the traveling pouches in their drawer—so having a nice, strong plaything to amuse themselves with, even if they didn’t catch the ‘hero’, was a blessing.

Halls branched off from halls, but the place was not as endless as it had seemed during battle. The intruder’s footsteps were absolutely silent on the stone floors, accustomed to the traitorous twigs and tattletale leaves of the woods. The seventh door he tried opened into a large room stacked with bunkbeds, smelling of a hundred warm bodies and rife with the noise of sound sleep. A lantern hung in the center, its light low, and the intruder backed out again, shutting the door. He lodged one of the brooms he’d stolen across the door, restraining the handle, and moved on.

It was a hard job being the leader of an entire branch of the Cult of Ganon (Holy is His Name). The red-robed cultist sighed—would it be such a horrible thing to go right now and play with their toy? They sat up in bed and stretched contentedly, slipping on their shoes and pulling on their robe. Opening the door to their private quarters, they were surprised to see one of their black-robed underlings already striding purposefully down the hall, broom in hand. What a dedicated worker!

“Hail Lord Ganon, young one,” the red-robe sang cheerfully, and the black-robe stopped and turned as they approached. “It’s quite early, isn’t it? Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

“Couldn’t sleep, sirrah,” said the black-robe plainly.

“Well, that actually works perfectly for me,” chirped the red-robe, and they produced a small orange from their sleeve. “Here, a bit of breakfast. Come and stand guard for me, won’t you? I want to say good morning to our guests.”

The black-robe bowed his head and followed closely as the red-robe all but skipped happily down the halls, toward the barred door where their toys were kept. There were still dark smudges on the walls where an attempt had been made to scrub the blood from the battle the evening before, but it didn’t matter right now. The red-robe drew out a ring of iron keys and unlocked the door, taking a torch from its holder and walking right in.

There was no one there. Their heart sank. The post was empty, the ropes abandoned, the barred skylight still seemingly intact overhead.

“What—”

A cold, metal hand grabbed them from behind, slamming them against the ground. The red-robe wheezed, drool dripping from their surprised mouth, and the black-robed intruder snatched the ropes from the floor and yanked the red-robe’s arms behind them. He tied them harshly, and when his prey yelped, he shoved the small orange into their mouth.

“Get up.”

The cultist grunted and stood clumsily. They were half-dragged to the wooden post—the same post Time had suffered at, the same post Four had nearly died against—and the intruder strung the still-tied noose around the cultist’s neck, pulling it hard so that his victim had to stand straight. He lashed the other end around the arm ties and made sure the knot was too high to pick at.

Hyrule threw back the black hood of his stolen robe and drew his sword.

“Do you know me?” he asked lowly.

The cultist looked him up and down—he was just a homely boy in plain traveler’s clothes, one of the less-impressive children in their plaything’s party. They grunted.

“Do you understand why I’m here?” Hyrule asked.

The cultist eyed the magic sword in his hand and wriggled in their bindings. They nodded and tried to speak past the orange in their mouth.

“Hush,” said Hyrule, coming closer. “Save your breath.”

The flickering fire of the fallen torch shone in his eyes and cast horrible shadows across his face, and a shiver of fear ran down the cultist’s spine.

“I’m here because you attacked the wrong people. Innocent people. People who didn’t know why you were even attacking them.” He glared, his uncanny eyes too furious for all the anger in his face and voice. “You tortured them, even when there was nothing to gain from it. You thought it was fun.”

The cultist tried to speak again, and Hyrule put the tip of his sword to their belly, just above their hip.

“Is this fun to you?”

He jabbed, just a little, a measly few centimeters into the cultist’s flesh, and they screamed, stepping away along the post and pulling their leash tighter. They clenched their eyes and gasped, letting themselves relax back toward Hyrule, steeling themselves for whatever was next. But the boy was done.

He wiped the blood off his sword and sheathed it, pulling back on the black hood and retrieving the torch and ring of keys from the ground.

“I will be taking back what you stole,” he said over his shoulder. “Don’t fall asleep until someone finds you.”

The cultist stared in horror as he left, locking the door, but was shaken out of the shock by a stab of cold on the top of their head.

Drip, drip, drip.

*

The sun rose a smoky red over the mountains and drew misty fog up from the frigid earth. Warm light spilled into the tunnel leading to Mija’s cave and woke Time with its glow. He shifted and breathed and swallowed, albeit a little sorely, and peeked half-lidded at the scene surrounding him, counting the heads. One, two, three, four, five, six… Six.

Wild, Twilight, and the Captain were all beside him, lightly snoring. Four had moved in the night, breathing easily, now curled toward Legend, who lied unabashedly with his arm over him. Hyrule lay exhaustedly against Legend’s back, his leg propped haphazardly on the Captain’s. He had a smudge of soot on his face and had pillowed his head on a wad of black fabric. And in the corner, against the wall with all their gear, Time saw the glint of his armor, his and Four’s shields and swords safely alongside it. He grinned and shut his eye again.

All was well.

***** ***** ***** ***** ***** *****