10
present
Link stands very still. He needs to if he wants to satisfy his artist.
"Tell me again, why did you fight?" the artist asks.
"I fought to save Hyrule."
"No, that's not the answer I'm looking for."
The artist begins walking in circles around Link and examining his naked form.
"That's the answer I can give you."
"That's not the real answer."
The artist steps closer and grabs Link's cheeks. The artist begins tilting Link's head this way and that, looks closely at his features, squeezes his cheeks. The artist licks his lips and smiles. Link continues to stand still—if he moves, the artist will lose his inspiration.
"What is the real answer?"
The artist lifts Link's arms to his shoulders, straightens them out, and Link holds them there when the artist lets go. Then the artist pauses for a moment to examine this newfound shape, but finally shakes his head and brings Link's right arm back down.
"I don't know what real answer you're talking about."
"Yes you do."
The artist bends down and grabs Link's right leg, then brings it forward. They are standing in the shallow water, and Link can see the tree behind the artist. Link doesn't know what position the artist wants from him, but he just continues to stand still and let the artist move him as he pleases.
"I don't know what answer you want."
The artist sighs and forces Link's knee to bend. He is lunging, his left arm raised at a right angle, and he keeps his face expressionless. He only ever opens his mouth to respond to the artist. He holds his breath for as long as he can, lets it out slowly, then repeats. He is the clay with which the artist will mold something beautiful, and he must let the artist do so. It is his job.
"I'm going to ask you again, my beautiful masterpiece," the artist says.
The artist draws a sword with blood on it and rubs his fingers along the blade. Then the artist smears the blood onto Link's outstretched fingers, onto Link's bare neck, onto Link's chest and shoulders, and finally onto Link's face.
"Why did you fight?"
The artist slowly brings Link's arm forward, so that he is reaching out. Link doesn't know what he's reaching out for—maybe the ashen tree—but the pain of his stance and the warm blood against his skin feel incredible. Liberating. The artist brings his face inches from Link's. Link can feel the artist's breath on his lips.
"Why did you fight?"
"Because fighting gave me purpose."
"What gave you purpose?"
"Fighting."
"What gave you purpose?"
The artist lifts the sword and presses it to Link's cheek. Link feels blood squeeze from his skin.
"Blood gave me purpose."
"What gave you purpose?"
The artist laughs and smears blood onto Link's lips.
"Death gave me purpose."
"Blood gave you purpose," the artist murmurs. "Death gave you purpose. Whose death?"
"The death of those I was told to slay."
Link closes his eyes and feels the blood dripping on his body and listens to the artist's low, dark voice. It sounds like home.
"I have another question for you."
The artist steps back and lifts the sword. Then the artist puts the sword into Link's hand, pointing outwards. Drenched in blood—the owner of which is a mystery to Link—the sword feels very light. The artist laughs again.
"What gives you purpose now?"
Link is having more and more trouble standing still. The struggle and the pain are refreshing. He knows that if he moves, if he takes that one breath, if he lowers his arm, if he takes a single step or makes a single movement, the masterpiece will be ruined. The artist will never be able to finish.
"I don't know."
"Yes you do. What gives you purpose?"
"I don't know."
"At this very moment," the artist says, "what gives you purpose?"
"This."
"This?"
"This."
"What is this?"
"Pain."
"Pain?"
"Blood."
"Blood?"
"Death still gives me purpose."
"Whose death?"
"I..."
Link pauses. Tears run down his cheeks. The artist lets out a cry of happiness, of satisfaction, of inspiration, and claps his hands.
"Beautiful!"
"I don't know."
"Whose death gives you purpose, my beautiful muse? My beautiful piece of art?"
Link closes his eyes again, feels the warm tears squeeze out and mix with the blood. He knows the answer. He senses it on his lips. But he's afraid to say it. The artist leaps forward and grabs Link's face in his hands. The artist caresses Link's cheeks and strokes Link's lips with his thumb. As if he is encouraging the words to lift. Link knows the answer.
"Whose death gives you purpose now?"
Link pauses. But he's ready to give the answer.
"Anybody's. Anybody's death gives me purpose."
Link opened his eyes and found himself surrounded by people. They stood above him, in a crowded circle, murmuring to themselves, looking down at him.
"He's waking up."
"Goddesses, what even happened to him?"
"I don't know, he just fainted..."
He sat up and felt the pounding in his head grow stronger. With each breath he took, the throbbing intensified, and he found himself wanting to lie back down and fall into the darkness again. The pain wasn't something physical—it was an odd, unique kind of pain. The kind of pain that he couldn't really pinpoint. It was something in his brain, discreetly burrowing its way through his mind, causing a desperate aching in his bones. But nevertheless, it was pain. That was the only thing that Link could call it, as he sat on the stones of the Castle Town central plaza and watched everyone watch him.
Link thought that maybe the sunlight pouring through the morning clouds should have been bright, and should have made him squint, but he could only sense darkness around him. It was calming. He wasn't afraid of the pain that he felt. He embraced it.
But the voices of all of the people around him were still like thorns penetrating his brain. Silence was what he wanted. Silence was what he needed. Silence, darkness. He licked his lips, chapped and dry, and tasted something metallic. But when he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, there wasn't any blood. And yet the taste of it was heavy on his lips and heavy on his tongue.
Link forced himself to stand up. His body felt weightless as he did, as if it were floating, or being carried. The heaviness, the same heaviness he had been feeling for six months, was gone. Everything was beautiful and dark and light—everything except for the voices.
His fingers were itching. He clenched his jaw and glanced around at the people whose voices sputtered out at him like tar. The words were dirty. No, not the words, but the voices. The voices were all very dirty and very heavy.
When he stood up, people began asking him questions, and for a moment Link thought he was going to burst. The itching in his fingers was getting bothersome and distracting, and he wanted more than anything to stop the itching, but he didn't know how. So to get away from the voices, the horrible and dirty voices, Link closed his eyes and walked away. He couldn't see where he was going, but he trusted that his legs would carry him somewhere silent. Somewhere wonderfully quiet.
Link didn't want to go back to the castle. He knew there would be silence there if he wanted there to be (couldn't there be silence anywhere if he wanted there to be, really?), but he didn't want to be around the people there. He didn't want to run into the princess. In fact, he didn't want to run into anybody.
Coming to town was a bad idea, he thought. I should have stayed in bed all day.
Link found himself walking into Telma's bar, where he assumed it would be silent in the middle of the day. There wouldn't be the voices to swarm around him, to suffocate him. Telma was wiping the countertop when he walked in, but besides her, it was completely empty.
"Good morning, Link."
He cringed.
"What brings you 'round here at this time of day?"
Link fell into the nearest chair and began rubbing his temples again, rubbing away the voices and distracting himself from the horrifying itch in his fingers. It was so thirsty.
"Are you doing okay, hun?"
"Please stop talking..."
"What was that?"
"Stop talking!"
The silence that followed was like warm water washing over him. He opened his mouth and relieved breaths fall from his lips, and then he let his shoulders slouch and his body relax. The feeling of tension in his muscles was irritating—had he always been so tense? He made a note to himself to stop being so tense all of the time.
That's it. Relax.
Telma stood with her hip cocked and her lips pursed, looking at Link with eyes shimmering with contempt. The expression infuriated him. The itching in his fingers flared up until they were nearly numb, so he began tapping them restlessly against the counter. But even when he looked away, even when he went out of his way to avoid seeing Telma's expression, he could feel her eyes on him. He could feel her trying to see into him and trying to break him. She was trying to break him. She was the one making his fingers itch...no, it was the voices. Everything. It was all coming together and concentrating itself in his fingers and making his lips taste of blood. But it wasn't real blood.
"You're feelin' sick, is that it?"
"I'm not sick."
"You look sick, sweet pea."
"I'm not sick."
Dirty, dirty, dirty. She's so dirty, isn't she? They're all so dirty.
"Maybe I can make you some soup, huh?"
"No."
"I'll make you soup."
The itching was becoming unbearable. Link felt two hands, soft and smooth like an artist's hands, wrap around his own left hand. They led it down to his sword, and as soon as his fingers touched the shimmering blue hilt, the itching disappeared. He sighed and gripped it more tightly, and then he felt the relief spread through his skin. It spread all the way up to his lips, which curved into a content smile. Link closed his eyes and just basked in the satisfaction for a few moments. A beautiful, dark cackle rang out in his head. It was clean.
Dirty, dirty, dirty.
Link realized, as he drew his sword, that he hadn't seen blood on it since Ganondorf's death.
They're all so dirty.
Complete silence.
A perfect, pure air around him.
Blood, real blood, that was like nectar on his tongue.
All better.
The most wonderful part was that she hadn't even screamed.