Notes (2 December 2012): ...So, I, uh, originally wrote this when I was eleven. I am now eighteen, and having vastly improved as a writer, have attempted to improve... this.

fear, mon frère

So he's having another stupid nightmare.

He hates it, he absolutely, positively, irrevocably, hates it, because he's ten, he's ten whole years old, but stupid nightmares still scare him, and that's just not right, because he's supposed to be the hero, he's supposed to be fearless, just as everyone says he is. He growls and shakes himself and sighs, tries to go back to sleep; tries to close his eyes and sink into the bed, cover himself with blankets and pillows and his right arm, thrown hastily over his face like a shield, but he tosses and he turns and he just can't do it, he really, truly, can't, because every time he closes his eyes he sees him, cold and dark and evil, and—and—

It doesn't matter how hard he tries to make the visions go away, doesn't matter how hard he tries for dreamless sleep or thoughts of happiness, because he's done this, he's succeeded, so why do the princess's screams still echo in his head in the recesses of the night, why is it that he hears the man's laughter in the white of the walls, what if Ganondorf actually did—

His eyes snap open again. He sits up miserably in bed and stares at the back of his left hand, traces an outline on his bare skin, where all that remains of the Triforce of Courage is a memory—a memory and a sensation, a phantom limb that whispers it's you that has the courage, not the design on your skin, but he doesn't really want to listen to it, because it's not all that easy to listen; asking questions is the less difficult task, because he can wonder why me and he can wonder at destiny and he can imagine some sort of normal life—he can imagine just being another Kokori, he can imagine just running around all day without a single thought as to heroes or destinies or princesses—but it's not all that clear, it's not all that possible, because that's not what happens and that's not what happened and his is a story that is already written.

He has a brother, in this world. That's what he's decided to call him, because there really isn't a better term for it, is there?

Presently he scolds himself, climbs out of bed, and scurries down the hallway. It's late, and waking him up'll be rude, be he doesn't entertain the idea of there being another choice; there's no other cure for his nightmares. He reaches the handle of his brother's door and stares at it for a moment, gulps; then he twists the knob and creeks it open, and tiptoes inside.

He's sleeping, of course, his face turned to the side away from the door, and the boy's got to climb onto the bed and shake his shoulders, whisper urgently, "Link? Link!"

It takes a few tries to wake him—they're both heavy sleepers, that's something the boy's learned he's not going to grow out of—but eventually Link does, and he yawns and he wipes sleepily at his eyes, turns his face to the boy to see what's the trouble. Sees his face, his embarrassment.

"Was it a bad dream?" Link asks gently, and slowly, the boy nods. Link scoots over and motions for him to climb in.

He does.

"Tell me," Link says. "It helps to have an ear sometimes."

So he does. He tells him about his dreams, about the tall, looming castle with the organ and the stairs, and how he's supposed to be older and stronger, but he isn't. He tells him about how he can't speak, can't breathe, can't even lift up his sword because it's too big for him. He tells about him about how Navi's gone—just gone and left him forever without a trace—and how he's alone, and Zelda's trapped and he's got to get her out so that she can help him and so that she can survive. He tells him about the Triforce, burning bright and searing his hand, making it difficult to move or see or think.

"I was dying," the boy admits finally. "I was dying, and so was she, and I—"

He pauses.

I don't want to die, he wants to say, but that's not it, is it?

"I don't care if I die," he murmurs then, "as long as it isn't there."

"You won't," Link promises, and it warms him. "You didn't."

Then Link puts a protective arm around his younger brother, his younger self; and if there is nothing else assured, there is pure fact: no one is going to hurt me—not as long as I'm here.