The Hero of Time is tired.
He doesn't know how many times the same scenes have played out in front of him. He can't interfere; all he can do is watch. The fear and anguish that had once been so strong in his heart were nothing but a dull ache, now, and soon even that would be gone. Only the numbness would remain, and he would welcome it like a dear friend.
Perhaps he could have loved Zelda. Perhaps at one time he did. Now the only emotion he can muster is rage, for it was her who had damned him to this fate. Unknowingly, yes, but still her fault alone.
The same cycle, every time, over and over again. The three Spiritual Stones, the Master Sword, the temples, Ganondorf, and back to his childhood again. He had lost count of how many times he had been forced to watch, a spectre trapped in his own mind, a separate consciousness unable to reach through. Someday, he might learn how to break the barrier and he would beg, beg on his knees, to be let free. This time, however, it was back to the beginning. Back to the garden. Back to fighting.
He is tired, but it is not yet over.