He can't look at her. He knows she's there, but he can't, he can't look at her, because when he sees her he can only remember a nightmare. She's standing beside him and they're looking at three golden triangles hanging in the sky over a lush green field, and isn't it all so beautiful? But surrounding them is darkness and her eyes are empty, and all of a sudden she pulls out a twisted dagger and he a sword and it's over and his own face stares back at him, dark, and he explodes into a million pieces, he is nothing, and permeating throughout his entire being, a horrible, horrible scream— and then there is laughter. Her laugh, echoing on and on, and thousands of her are falling like empty shells, spiraling downward, falling, falling—
And he, too, falls, and cursed magic, broken stone shadows, float around his head like phantom memories, and he knows he can't escape the darkness that eats away at the edges of his consciousness.
Link.
She's there again.
Link, it's me.
He can't look at her.
Link, look at me.
He can't.
Link.
Stop it.
Link?
Stop it.
Link!
Stop it, stop it, go away, he can't, he can't look at her, he can't!
And he's running, and though the blurry dark obscures everything in his eyes, he can hear the wind moan in his ears and the breath heaving in his dry, aching lungs, and he runs, and he runs, until the dark envelops him and he can no longer remember how the earth feels beneath his feet.
He cannot look at her if he is going to live.
...Link...
.
.
.
She's waiting for him when he finally comes back from the dark, covered in blood brighter than the stars, a deer heavy and lolling lifeless across his shoulders, and his eyes are human and tired, and hers are not empty.
And she runs to greet him, her hands filled with worry, and he does not flinch from her touch, just sinks wearily to his knees and lets the dark fade like fog in her sunlight.
And then, he looks at her. Just looks, to make sure.
Ilia.
She looks at him, too, and he half smiles, sorry, shamed, sad, and the weight of a body drops from his shoulders.
He's a mess, he knows, and she knows, and she cradles his head and wipes smears of blood from his face, combing the wildness from his untamed hair, running gentle, inquiring fingertips over the little scars that pepper his skin.
He's a mess, and they know, and they try on their own to pick up all the pieces before they're blown away in the wind.
.
.
.
He looks at her as morning wakes and he knows he can't ever love her. His heart beats in another's chest, in a time now passed and a world he must forget if he's going to live.
Forgetting isn't easy, though, and when he thinks she's not looking he wanders on his own to where the spring bubbles up from the ground and he looks at the sky when sunset paints it gold and he lets the tears bubble up from deep inside him and he forces them out, he wants only for the spring to dry up within him, though he knows it never will.
And she's been looking all along and she comes and wraps her arms around him, kisses his cheek where the tears wet his skin, and they sit there, broken people existing, which is more than enough for one day, anyway.
.
.
.
There are days when he doesn't meet her eyes, and there's a dirty knife under a pile of rags he tried to hide under the bed, and lines painted red across his arms.
She cries with him and grabs his face between her hands and looks at him and makes him look at her until the darkness fades from behind his eyes. Then she fetches the woman who is his mother most of the time, and then leaves town for days. His mother washes the wounds on his arms and he waits for them to heal and for Ilia to return.
The next morning she's sitting on his bed when he wakes, and there's a smile in her eyes and a kitten wriggling indignantly in her arms, a tiny kitten with fur like flame and fire in its eyes to match. There's dust on its face and mites in its ears, too, and tiny stripes on its arms to match his. It struggles out of her grip and marches across his chest and plants itself there, paws tucked beneath its body so it looks more like a loaf of bread than a kitten. It closes its eyes and rattles a purr and refuses to move until Link's heart has warmed to its stubborn affection.
He names it Ganon as a joke, and watches with adoration as it races across the room, skittering clumsily across the floor, to investigate every nook and cranny. Once, it tumbles into the basement and he is forced to descend the creaking ladder to make sure it's alright. He finds the kitten, shaken but somehow unhurt (he thinks maybe it shares its namesake's legendary invulnerability), pressed behind shelves laden with memories he'd been trying to leave behind, but now he knows things can't stay like this if he's going to live. Later Ilia finds him in the basement, Ganon on his shoulders, hanging lanterns to see by and gathering memories into piles to keep or to burn.
They leave the kitten inside when they finally lug the last of the basement's dusty relics into the clearing where the trees are thin, and Link ignites the pile with something like relief. Flames lick at a green tunic and an old slingshot and countless other shadows from a past he wants to put behind him, and he watches them burn without even a little regret, probably.
They watch the pyre carefully until it fades to smoldering embers late that night, and Ilia leans on his shoulder and he maybe almost forgets he can't love her as the firelight dances on her skin.
.
.
.
He looks at her in the forest and he can feel the sunlight in his hair and the life pulsing through the veins that run blue beneath his scarred skin. She dances to him with laughter in every fiber of her being and she takes his hand in hers and leads him down deer trails dappled by sunlight that filters through the rippling leaves above them.
He wonders if, maybe, the one he weeps for sometimes would forgive him if he gave his heart, not hers anymore, to someone new.
He knows the answer when twilight falls and there is no sadness in the air. Instead, the wind whoops jubilantly and messes up his hair and the shadows dance across the ground as he walks, then runs, half crazy with relief and joy and life, his heartbeat pounding, alive, alive, alive, in his ears.
He meets her on the path to the forest and takes her in his arms, laughing, and twirls her around, and she wraps her arms around his shoulders and shrieks joyously, they revel in each other's light.
Then the world stops spinning around them as they look at each other, just look, to make sure. And Link knows he can't wait any longer if he is going to live.
He cups her cheek in his hand and dips his face to meet hers. Their noses clash and she giggles before they get it right, finally.
Then the whole world heaves a great sigh, and they are alive, more than just existing, and sunlight's warmth floods through their veins and overflows in their hearts, a bubbling spring, more than enough for one day. Enough for a whole lifetime, maybe.
She holds his hand as they walk home, and he swings his arm and hers between them, holding her hand tight in his, and he thinks maybe he'll be alright, in the end.
.
.
.
A/N: I can't believe I wrote Link/Ilia, I'm such Midlink trash. But this story was just begging to be told, and after watching Link die so many times, I was inclined to let him live, just this once. Be happy this time, wolf boy. Next time you might not be so lucky.
Reviews are much appreciated.
Gratefully,
godtierGrammarian