TW: Mild descriptions of torture

~ Chapter 1 ~

When they first put him in the cell, he put up a fight.

He kicked and thrashed with every single ounce of strength he had in him, desperate to send the message that he was still stronger than them. That they had only taken him because he had wanted to be taken, and that no matter what, he would still fight them until his dying breath. He actually managed to knock a few of them unconscious with his wild struggling, before six of them were finally able to pin him to the ground while another two clamped manacles onto his wrists and ankles, and fastened a larger iron collar around his neck. Each binding held him fast to the back wall of his cell. As strong as he was, he knew that even he couldn't snap the sturdy metal chains.

Of course, that did not mean that he wouldn't try.

He strained against his shackles for what felt like hours, spitting curses and obscenities at them while they stood and laughed behind their masks. His sapphire eyes narrowed in concentration as his fingers poised to snap.

Their laughter died quickly when bolts of lightning from nowhere incinerated three of them.

After that, they seemed to realize that they were still in danger. They understood that he had not been fully defeated, even if he was chained to a wall. They knew that they had to take him a bit more seriously.

So they made it their mission to break him.

He didn't remember hearing tales of them partaking in blatant torture before, but he figured that anger and thirst for revenge could motivate anyone to do anything. Perhaps he even deserved it, considering the fact that he had slaughtered so many of them. Still, they could not make him regret taking any of their lives. That was one thing they would never be able to accomplish.

The first thing they did was break his fingers. One of the stronger ones came into the cell and knelt down before him, roughly grabbing his hand and taunting him. He tried to snap again, but before he knew it, his left index finger had been snapped instead.

The pain was not the worst he had ever felt, but it startled him all the same. It was swift, and without ceremony. Every other digit on his left hand followed, cracking painfully with a sound like a snapped carrot. Then, the right hand suffered the same fate. Through it all, he forced himself not to scream.

He had to admit that it was a smart move. If he couldn't snap, then he couldn't summon lightning. If anything, breaking his fingers was the only logical solution for them after the stunt he pulled.

But damn it all, it hurt.

While his hands still ached and throbbed, they found new ways to hurt him further. They would practically line up outside his cell, eager for a chance to pummel the man that had taken their leader and so many others of their number from them. Chained as he was, there was nothing he could do to stop them.

Both of his eyes were constantly blackened and almost swollen shut. Bruises covered his bare chest and arms. It was a miracle that he hadn't lost any teeth yet, given how many times they punched him in the mouth - though his jaw did eventually crack quite unpleasantly. The dried blood on his face was also a constant, though he could not always tell which wound it came from.

After some time, they were no longer content to merely beat him.

One day (or night - he could never tell), three of their most ruthless remaining members entered the cell. Two of them shoved him roughly against the wall, hitting the back of his head quite painfully on it in the process.

He did not quite have the will to scream anymore.

While the two of them held him there, the third produced a blade and, without a word, began carving something into his chest. The metal edge cut deep, dragging through his flesh and leaving searing pain in its wake. The carving stretched from his chest down to his abdomen like a remorseless, spreading fire.

Still, he could not scream. The only sound his ragged throat could produce at that point was a soft whimper while tears poured down his bloodstained face.

He reminded himself that this was for her. That he would sooner suffer here forever than have her spend a single second in his place.

Such sentiments helped a bit. Still, he could not help but wonder how long the agony would last before he was either rescued or killed.

As it turned out, he did not have to wait long for the latter.

Almost immediately after the carving had been finished, he suddenly became aware of a heavy object penetrating the center of his torso - a sword, most likely. Numbly, he lowered his head to stare at the blade through his half-closed eyes. Then, the sword was gone, and the blood began to flow.

The ones who had been holding him up promptly dropped him, and all three of them left, the cell door closing with a clang behind them. His head lolled to the side as the blood drained from him. He could feel death approaching with every passing second. Finally, his vision faded to black.

Then, a voice.

"It is my pleasure."

A wave of calm washed over him as a familiar presence joined him in the cell. An ethereal light reached his eyes, and he was gently tugged from the void back into life. A sound like rushing water filled his ears, and his body began to stitch itself back together. Not all of his wounds were healed, and the terrible scars surely remained, but he was no longer on the brink of death.

The presence lingered for as long as it could, comforting him to the best of its ability. He thought he heard it speak to him again, but he was unable to focus on the voice. The presence soon faded away, leaving him alone and exhausted once again.

The next time they came, he was not even sure what they were doing to him. His eyes were still practically useless, and the cell was far too dark to discern much anyway. Though, it almost felt like his skin was somehow being both punctured and burned at the same time. The air felt oily, and he found himself writhing in severe discomfort as they tried to hold him still.

Something was wrong. He had no idea what, but something was wrong.

The feeling of wrongness stayed with him even after they left him. His heart beat rapidly and nausea threatened to overtake him several times. He did not vomit, though. He did not think he was able to, at this point. Had they even fed him once? He remembered being given water, but never food. Perhaps that was why he felt so hollow inside.

After they left him, they did not come back. He remained alone in the dark for an indeterminate amount of time - all he knew was that it was far too long.

His mind raced. His half-lidded eyes played tricks on him. He found himself jumping at shadows and hearing noises somewhere in the dark. He could do nothing but curl up against the wall, slipping in and out of troubled dreams, and praying that someone, anyone would come to him. He couldn't take being alone for much longer.

However, he was never fully alone, not really. The other presences within him were able to visit him from time to time. They could never stay long, but they managed to take the edge off of the agonizing isolation.

Sweet, comforting water.

Warm, encouraging fire.

Surprisingly gentle, apologetic wind.

Fierce, protective thunder.

Those presences were the only reasons he was able to withstand the torture he had been put through. They just barely kept him grounded in reality, just barely kept him from going completely mad.

They helped him hold out until his rescuers finally arrived.

Gentle torchlight filled the cell as the barred door was forced open. Far too accustomed to the darkness, he shut his eyes tightly.

"It's him! He's in here!"

He flinched away from the voice at first, but then its familiarity dawned on him. He slowly opened his blackened, swollen eyes as much as he could manage and lifted his head to look up at the approaching figure.

"H-Hylia above...what...what have they done to you!?"

It was her.

"Link, I...I'm so sorry...we should have gotten here so much sooner, but...we couldn't find you..."

It was her.

"We should have known they would have hidden you like this...we should have looked harder from the start! Oh, Link, I'm so, so sorry! I'm so sorry..."

She was there. She was there, and she was kneeling before him with his bloodstained, bruised face in her hands, and she had tears streaking down her cheeks. She was talking to him - apologizing to him, even though she didn't need to. Even though he was perfectly happy to see that she was safe, and that she had saved him.

He slowly reached up to lightly brush against her smooth, perfectly intact hands with his bloodied, broken fingers.

"Zel...da..." he whispered, his voice little more than a weak rasp. "...Z...Zelda..."

"Y-Yes...yes, it's me, Link...I'm here...I'm here, and so is Sidon, a-and Teba, and Riju, and all the warriors they could bring...you're going to be okay, Link...we're bringing you home..."

Silent, he gazed into her eyes for a long moment. Her beautiful, emerald green eyes, now filled with tears for him.

"H-Home..." he repeated softly. "H...Home..."

He collapsed into her arms and cried.