Yey for terrible fanfic written because I had a terrible idea
That's all this is honestly. Enjoy if you can.
Feel free to criticize as much as you want. I probably got mad at myself over it already.
He could feel so much more than he was used to. He could feel sand, first and foremost- gritty and annoying, in his clothes and his hair and somehow even his ears. He could feel a gentle brush of water, lapping against his back and retreating again, pushing more and more sand into uncomfortable places. He could feel something was missing, something important, but he couldn't remember what it was. He could feel pain, irritated further by the sand, several small aching bruises and stinging cuts, a searing pain all down the side of him in the sand. He tried to move, to get up, to find help. His fingers twitched and clutched at the sand, but he was unable to do anything more.
He didn't want help, he realized. He wanted to die here. He wanted to bleed out in the sand, and he couldn't remember why. It hurt so much, and he wanted it to end in his own end.
He felt a hand on his neck, pressing into it. He tried to jerk away, but another hand steadied him.
"You're okay. I'm here to help."
The voice was feminine and oddly familiar. He wanted to pull away from her touch, it burned. But he didn't move. He couldn't move.
"Let me help you up."
A hand held his and another tried to prop up his waist. His feet felt unsteady, and everything span as he rose, causing him to grip the girl with the burning touch for support. He hissed, partially at the sudden contact with her and partially at his pain and weakness. He fell anyways, landing in the sand once more with a gasp of pain.
"I-I'll go get a healer," she said hurriedly, and he saw her feet kicking up sand as she ran.
Then pain surged him and he felt as if the world had dropped away from him.
The burning touch of the girl was what woke him. He didn't want to be awake, pain assaulting him and exhaustion trying to drag him back under. A gentler, more soothing touch was moving across his body, touching each sore spot as it moved. He hissed in pain at each one.
"Stay awake," the girl who'd found him whispered as his eyelids drooped. "You have to stay awake."
He tried to speak, but could only manage an unsteady, breathy sound.
"Don't try to move," a different voice said softly, quiet and gentle and feminine. "Don't try to speak."
The voice seemed to belong to the soothing hands, the ones that were now tracing each scar and removing the pain from them. He screamed as they tried to roll him over, though it was more of a squeak than a scream. Even his tongue felt heavy, and his throat burned. There was a gasp as he was turned towards the two girls. One of them had blonde hair and blue eyes, and there was something familiar about her, though he couldn't remember what. The other girl was completely covered in a sheen of scales like those on a fish, red fins falling around her head instead of hair and her body a mix of red and blue.
The gasp had come from the fish girl. She was staring at his side in horror, though he could barely tell through the pain. She looked to the other, who tore a strip of blue fabric from her clearly expensive dress and dipped it in the water from the sea. Then the rag was pressed against his side, and he screamed. It still wasn't loud, but it was louder than before. The cold water aggravated his wound more than anything.
"Calm down," the normal girl said. "It's probably infected. We have to clean it before it can be healed.
He gripped her wrist sharply as another wave of pain crashed over him, gritting his teeth and shutting his eyes. The girl squeaked, but made no move to stop him. As the fish girl rubbed the cloth over the wound again, his grip tightened, and he felt the bone of the girl's wrist crack in his grip before he blacked out.
He couldn't tell hoe much time had passed before he woke up next, but the pain in his side was now only a dull ache, and he could tell it had been bandaged. He was alone, and instead of the sand he was lying in a comfortable bed. Se sat up, gritting his teeth as his side ached and the world spun for a moment. The room was simple, and yet he could tell it belonged to someone with money to spare. Paintings of flowers and fields hung on the walls, the floor covered in a red and gold rug. A desk was beside the bed he lay in, a drooping flower in a vase the only thing on it. A dresser was placed against the far wall, a mirror hanging above it. He saw his reflection in it. Pale, almost gray skin. White hair hanging over half his face, concealing his left eye. His visible eye was dark, almost black, and when he moved the hair aside to see the other it was similar. A black diamond marked his cheek below his left eye.
The door opened, and the blonde girl entered. A cast was wrapped around the wrist he'd broken earlier.
"You're awake. Thank the Goddess. I was beginning to worry," she said, a genuine smile on her face. "I brought you a meal. Nothing too extravagant, but it's food."
She lay a silver tray on his lap, a loaf of bread and a bowl of soup on it. It looked so out of place. The dishes were all beautiful, and the meal was so simple.
"Who?" the word was all he could push past his lips.
"Huh?" the girl blinked, and he tried again.
"Who...?"
She stared for a moment, before realization seemed to dawn on her. "Who am I?"
He nodded, and she smiled. "I am surprised you do not know. I am Princess Zelda."
"Zelda," he said, the word oddly familiar.
In a sudden flash, he saw a different girl in her place- a girl with the same blonde hair and blue eyes, the same face. The girl's expression was disapproving, pained, coral pink and sky blue hair clips twisting around strands of golden hair hanging on the sides of her face. Then the image was gone, leaving only the concerned expression on Zelda's face.
"Are you alright?" she asked. "You looked distant for a moment."
He couldn't manage to speak. Each time he tried his voice would just cut out, his mind would go blank and his tongue would feel heavy. He put a hand to his forehead, groaning as a headache began to set in.
"Are you alright?" Zelda sounded panicked now, and he nodded as the headache seemed to pass. "Thank goodness. May I ask for your name? It will make it much easier to help you."
He couldn't remember his name, and he shrugged. Zelda frowned, and the door opened again.
"I thought I told you to let me go in alone," she said suddenly, and he saw a boy with dirty blond hair and eyes as blue as the sky in the doorway.
He cried out in panic as images assaulted him, images of a golden haired boy in a green tunic. He saw the green boy driving his blade through his chest. He heard his own screams, saw nothing but the hilt of the blade, blue with a design like wings. He felt the presence within it, the sorrow.
The blade was strapped to the boy who'd just entered's back. The images faded, and he saw that. A word slipped past his lips, foreign and yet familiar. "Fi."
"What? No, this is Link."
"Fi," he said again and he could feel tears in his eyes, though he couldn't remember why. His gaze wouldn't leave the blade. "Fi."
Link stared wide eyed at him, but he barely noticed it. All he could see clearly was the sword. "Fi. Fi. Fi."
Zelda shooed Link out of the room, saying some nonsense about upsetting him. He watched the sword until the door closed and he couldn't see it anymore.
"Can you remember your name?" Zelda asked, her expression soft and hopeful. Though he couldn't moments before, he somehow knew it now.
"Ghirahim," he said, his head spinning. Before Zelda could respond, he collapsed.