"Courage is not the absence of fear, it is acting in spite of it."
It's only once he has escaped the dark aura of Castle Town, half tripping and splashing through the oily water lapping at the broken remnants of the drawbridge, that he begins to retch.
The Hero of Time—for isn't that what Rauru had called him?—heaves bile onto the withered grass between gauntlet-clad hands between sobs.
Seven years he had slept in the Temple. Enough time for Ganondorf to strip the land of light and life, although it truly could only have been moments since he'd played the Song of Time. It didn't feel like an hour had passed, much less years.
Crushing the dry stalks with the hands that were now his—fingers too long, too broad, a stranger's hands—the Hero manages to push himself up to a kneel.
The harsh laugh of the Gerudo King still rings fresh in his ears, a memory of blinding light all that stands between the ominous cackle and the revelation that he has grown and is destined to save the world from the despair clamped at its throat.
Withdrawing the sword at his back, he looks over the weapon with which he is to banish evil. His eye catches on a piece of desiccated flesh clinging to the hilt of the shining blade and he is back on all fours.
He hadn't been prepared for them. How could he be prepared to witness the moaning, skeletal husks of the once lively Castle Town folk? How could he be prepared for the nightmarish screams that froze him in place as the horrible masks gaped and the cloying smell of death clogged his throat.
He shudders and vomits again, the grasping tangle of a bony hand in his tunic still clawing at his skin.
Could they really all be dead? The obsessed dog lady? The little girl with the cucco? And what of the guards? He hadn't been fond of the ones at the castle, but the ones guarding the market had always been kind to him.
A panicked feeling begins to grip him as the enormity of the events in the Temple and the shock in ruins of Castle Town hits him afresh. He tears mindlessly at his belt. The toy-like weapons he pulls out do nothing to soothe him, and it is only when his fingers find two oblong objects safely nestled at his hip that he begins to feel an inkling of peace.
He compares the ocarinas, one in each hand—those broadened fingers really can't be his—before tucking the Princess's last minute memento back in its resting place. His last performance with the instrument had put him in his current predicament, and so he places the smaller of the two to his lips and without a second thought brings the forest to him with a song forever ingrained.
'Link!'
Sheathing the sword that already feels familiar, he springs forward along the path, tripping on too-long legs like a newborn colt for only a moment before his feet speed along the path to a leaf-shaded hollow dear to his heart. There is no sense of adventure or excitement as he heads to the Sacred Meadow.
And here is still no sense of adventure as he hacks his way through the tangled Temple, the echoes of cackling ghosts and other terrors successful in their mission to disorient and terrify him.
There is terror and instinct to guide the Hero, but there is no adventure.
The light of the Chamber fades and with it goes his view of Saria. He is left no time to mourn his loss, even as the pain of their final meeting tears at him, before he is dropped in front of the Deku Sprout.
Halfway through the clearing he cannot force another step and the Minuet of the Forest caresses his skin before he know the ocarina is in his hands. Saria's meadow. Their meadow.
From the first ring of Saria's distressed tone in his ears he had forgotten his nausea and doubt. He hadn't let the eerie echoes of the temple chase him away, even as the malicious giggles of the ghosts goaded. Even as he hacked through the tangled Temple and its twisted invaders. Even as he said goodbye to-
She had been set aglow in the eerie blue light of the Chamber, eyes somber and tone grave even as she promised her eternal friendship. He would never have her back.
He drops onto the stump and draws his knees up, hugging them tight and rocking on the worn wooden surface. Face pressed into the protective cage of his limbs as his mind reels, he loses track of time.
Navi lands on his shoulder, tinkling quietly by one long ear and providing the soft warmth of her glow to the side of his neck. He tilts his head, her tiny wings brushing against his cheek.
When she reminds him again, gently, that an arctic wind blows from the land of the Zoras, he nods and flips the golden bracelet over in his palms. Ice can wait. His thoughts cling to fire.
Studying the distinctive insignia blackened against the gold his thoughts stray to the extinction his mountain-dwelling brothers had faced. An extinction stopped with the ancient hammer now sitting heavily beside him.
Dismayed at the news of the stone-eaters imprisonment and scared more would fall prey to the monster Darunia had alluded too, he had raced through the infested temple of flames at a reckless pace, his thoughts only of the gravelly rumble of many voices naming him Brother.
Now drained from his trials through flame and lava, he sits suspended above the city of his friends and listens to a quiet that speaks volumes.
How many Goron lives had been lost while he slept? How many more had perished in the maw of the beast as he struggled with puzzles designed for minds more advanced than the experience his meager ten years of life afforded him? If he had moved any faster could he have convinced Darunia to stay and help before ascending as a Sage?
The thoughts plague him as he falls into a fitful sleep high above the city. The living quarters of the Goron who had danced with the joy of the forest in his heart nestled far below, silent as a tomb. Did Sages get to dance?
Morpha falls with one final stab deep into the putrid flesh of its core, the defiled waters of the Temple's inner sanctum heaving their last protest as the evil evaporates. He can feel the Master Sword thrum in victory, vibrating up his arm with a thrill that is not his. He is tired.
Blue light sings as a portal opens, beckoning him to the Chamber. It promises healing and yet another goodbye.
Slumping against the tiled wall, he stares at the shimmering light and the fantastical reflections cast about the dripping room. The portal hums as his battered muscles groan. Navi floats about the tips of his ears, chiming soothingly. It all echoes hollowly.
His tears drip down to join the puddle of sacred water in which he sits. He is so tired.
The tinkling at his ear grows distressed, but he cannot find a way to comfort the fairy flitting anxious circles above him.
He considers staying this way. It feels right, this diminutive stature and these rounded, soft features. It was right, even as he stands in the bottom of a cursed well where everything is inherently wrong. The oppressive aura of the catacomb seethes against his skin with the same stench of mildew and decay as Castle Town.
He slips away from the corpse of the Dead Hand, kicking the boney grip of one of its many appendages from his ankle.
Navi clings tight to his neck. He gives her a reassuring nuzzle before delving deeper into the malicious mist below the Sheikah village. The sooner he finished the morbid puzzles, the sooner he could leave this horrifying place in the past.
His fairy shimmers with one single bright pulse, emboldened by the show of affection. They push through the decrepit structure, keeping close.
The sound of drums reverberates through him, even as he stands in the graveyard drenched with morning sunlight. The shudders course through him in waves to a beat that still pounds under his feet. The phantom threat of gangrenous flesh hovering above him, making his fingers twitch.
The murk-filled trek within the mausoleum labyrinth of the Shadow Temple had left him pale and listless. Each corner and new door had left him queasy, and every encounter with the twisted denizens ever more shattered.
But he was victorious and it was time to call it a day. The call toward the desert held no appeal. Pulling out the ocarina, he plays the first notes of the Minuet of the Forest.
The tremoring glow nestled against his collarbone tinkles in appreciation.
It gets easier he finds, slipping back into the form of an adult. He hates it just as much as the first time it had been required of him, but he'd gotten accustomed to doing things he hated.
He thinks of all the things that have torn at his soul with weary acceptance. How many times had he cut through the corrupt shells of people who had once been smiling and cheerful, only to slide back into the skin of a child and see them as the bright souls they should have remained? How many horrors had he battled, attacked at every turn by the King of Evil's minions? How many goodbyes?
The Hero sighs, adjusting the straps across his chest. No time for such thoughts.
Having earned the trust of the stern Gerudo- after being beaten and imprisoned at their hands multiple times- and traversing their deceptive wasteland he had cleansed their temple of its bickering witch problem. And now…
Now the sages were awakened and he would vanquish the Gerudo's son. Their king. The King of Thieves. The King of Evil.
His Triforce shines.
Author's Note: This has been sitting in my folder for a long, long time. I figured it was time to post it, warts and all. Feedback appreciated.