By march, Link had become much thinner – nearly a phantom of his former self. His eyes were sunken and the once beautiful gold of his hair had dulled into a faded wheat color. Up to this point, the boy had gallantly resisted all urges to complain or any thoughts of attempting to remove himself from the front. His master had taught him that these things often were the cause of armies collapsing and misery spreading amongst the soldiers. But the endless torment of the rain and the clinging mud drove him right to the edge.
The enemy had – in large part – been quiet during the winter. Small raids and ambushes always occurred – just to remind the Hylians that they were out there – but the bulk of Ganon's forces were not able to move through the snow any better than the Princess' forces could. All now wondered when the campaign would resume – would the enemy attack across this miserable mire?
In mid-April, as the final logs were floated into place and the make-shift bridge nearly completed, the boy's spirit finally broke. The absolute saturation of the world that he now lived in had caused his boots to become rotten and his feet along with them. It began as a terrible rash between his toes, but quickly spread over the whole of his feet and ankles. Within days, his skin cracked open and began to turn green. Blood and puss now caked the inside of his boots and agonizing pain struck him if he attempted to stand or to walk. His body was continuously cold – even if he sat beside a fire (which was rare) – and he never seemed to get enough food to eat.
Once, when Lord Alfon passed by while reviewing the army, Link raised his hand to catch his attention. The knight saw him, and a hard lump formed in his throat – seeing how thin the boy had become and at the terrible anguish in his eyes. He wanted to help him, but couldn't. Not here, not like this. Link's apprenticeship as Alfon's Squire had been suspended to allow him to serve with the regular army – every last man was needed. If his old master were to lift him up again, it would be seen as favoritism, and men would begin to question why they could not also be spared from the horrors of the front line. With a stern frown and a subtle shake of his head "no", the man continued on, until he was out of sight. The boy was utterly crushed. He had struggled so hard to remain strong – for his lord, for himself, and for the others around him. But when it had all become too much and he called out to the man he saw as "father", he was left to rot.
The marshal slowly directed his mount forward and around to the next company before leaning to his left and whispering to Captain Russel beside him, "Within the next week… find some excuse to send him to me. Make him the messenger for the report… or something." "Yes, m'lord." The captain quietly answered. Four days later, Russel approached the boy and gave him the morning report for the Marshal. "Take this to his Lordship, straightaway lad!" he commanded. "Yes, sir." The young soldier answered, grimacing through the pain in his feet. "Your duties have been covered for the day," whispered the captain, leaning in close, "Just be sure that you are back by dawn." "Yes, sir." He repeated, and hobbled back to the gate.
Early Morning, April 18th, 611 GK, The War of Imprisonment, Day 641
Tent of the Lord-Marshal, Lake Hylia
He made his way past the pair of gates, down the road, and slowly stepped up to Akon – the Guard of Lord Alfon's tent. "Morning Akon," he muttered, with a weak wave. "Morning Link. How are things at the line?" he asked. "The same." Grunted the boy, "Morning report for the Lord." He finished, holding up the scroll. "Right." The guard answered, before turning over his shoulder and calling, "Morning report for you, my lord!" "Very well, send him in." the knight called back.
The boy did his best to straighten his tunic and tug out any wrinkles, but the mud, grime, and dried blood made improving his appearance impossible. With a nod to Akon, the guard drew back the canvas flap and the young soldier ducked inside. Alfon was sitting at his small table, reading over a tall stack of papers and maps (with several more spread across the bed behind him.) His back was turned when Link entered, so the squire stood quietly and waited to be acknowledged. After a few moment's scribbling, the knight finally set his quill back into its well, and rose to greet his ward.
"How are you lad?" he asked with a tired smile. The boy's heart swelled, seeing his old mentor again – but he knew that his master commanded absolute devotion to duty; this was not the time for sentiment. Closing his left hand into a fist, he laid his arm across his own chest and bowed at the waist. "Squire Link, second battalion, reporting as ordered, my lord." He recited sharply. Alfon smiled broadly and watched his protégé with pride. "Stand and report, squire." He answered with a light chuckle. The soldier rose and held the scroll out to him with his right hand. "My Lord, I have been commanded by Captain Russel to deliver the front-line report for this morning." He finished.
The Marshal stepped over to him, took the scroll, and immediately tossed it onto the table with the others. "I know lad, I told him to send you." He said, resting his hands on Link's shoulders. "I have not seen you for some time… I wanted to check in on my ward." He added a little more quietly. Even the weight of the man's hands upon his shoulders made Link's feet burn with even greater pain, but the tears that came to his eyes were of love for his mentor – he had seen Link that day… and took pity on him.
Standing close to him now, Alfon winced at how badly the boy had degraded. He looked malnourished and frail – a reminder of the terrible conditions that the soldiers were forced to endure- but this was much more personal. His boy was malnourished, weak, and frightened. "Come on, son." He encouraged the teen forward, wrapping an arm around his bony shoulders, "I've got a small treat for you." On the table, hidden beneath a domed lid was a steaming plate of potatoes, carrots, and a small cut of beef. It was still meager by the standards they had lived in before the siege, but it was more than a week's worth of food for Link now – and it was hot.
But the boy hesitated, standing beside the table and staring at the plate. "Go on son." Alfon prodded, patting his hand on the chair beside him. "W-w-what… c-can I take? My lord?" he murmured as his starving mouth watered at the sight. For a moment, the Marshal was confused, but quickly realized what he meant. "All of it son, the entire pla-" he began, but the boy suddenly dove upon the food – ignoring the chair, and kneeling beside the table. He quickly shoved desperate handfuls of the soft vegetables into his mouth and wrapped his arms around the plate – like a predator guarding its kill. His master quickly pulled at his shoulders, crying "Easy boy! Easy! You'll make yourself sick!"
Link had nearly lost himself to instinct. For a moment, he lashed out at his master for trying to stop him, but slowly calmed himself and accepted what his lord was saying – it would be a terrible waste if he were to become ill and retch after eating too quickly. He checked his pace and forced himself to chew and swallow more carefully, but he still guarded the plate like a desperate animal.
Alfon was alarmed at how feral the boy seemed to be acting, but he knew there was little that could be done. The entire army was starving and no resources could be spared. Any favoritism he showed him would undoubtedly lead to fights and bullying when he was away. This small morsel was taken from Alfon's own rations and though they were hidden inside of his tent – it was still an incredibly dangerous gift to provide. He let the boy eat in silence and waiting for him to finish. With a shuddering sigh of satisfaction, the squire sat back on his heels and hoarsely whispered, "Thank you, my lord."
They talked for over an hour, mostly about the young soldier's experiences at the front. In the beginning, he was reluctant to complain and repeatedly tried to assure his master that all was well and soon the men would be ready for an offensive. But the Marshal was not fooled, and softly encouraged Link to speak openly to him, "All men have fathers, brothers, or close comrades that they can speak freely with, son. You don't have that… so you have me – but only here inside of my tent! Out there," he pointed toward the entrance, "Out there you are soldier, and I am lord." The boy nodded that he understood and slowly began to describe his experience.
After Gannondorf's messenger faded from sight, the first assault was intense and chaotic. Soldiers simply ran out of the Lake's gates with weapons drawn, but lacked organization. A valiant attempt was made to defend Deya, but the enemy's momentum was too great, and the Hylians were forced back. For weeks afterward, they dug a perimeter of small shelters, look out posts, and traps while Ganon's Army settled in for their siege. After Tobin's death – which the re-telling of made the squire flinch and shudder unexpectedly several times – Link had found it impossible to sleep for longer than a few minutes at a time, and never very deeply. "You sleep. You die. That's how it is." He muttered, staring off at nothing for a moment.
The longer the boy was inside his home, the more the Lord began to notice the stench that he was giving off. Once the squire's tale was finished, Alfon lifted a hand and covered his nose. "By the goddess boy… you are absolutely fetid!" The soldier turned and sniffed his own shoulder, but detected nothing – he had lost his sense of smell months ago. He returned to his master and simply shrugged. The marshal however knew that stench and it stirred a new fear in the pit of his stomach. "Have you been keeping clean lad?" he asked, still covering his nose. For the first time during this visit, the teenager laughed – a dry, dismissive "HA!" "There is no such thing as 'clean' out there, my lord. The mud and the cursed rain get into everything." He answered.
At the far corner of his tent, Alfon possessed one of the few treasures hidden at the lake: a personal, copper bathing tub with a fire-frame beneath it. Given his station, the Lord was held "above" having to bathe beside others at the bath-house in town – which had been closed due to the lack of supplies. Taking another, great risk, he now commanded his squire to strip and separate his armor from his clothing. "I'll have them washed." He explained as he lit the fire beneath the tub, "Just soak in the hot water and clean yourself."
Without thinking, the boy sat down upon Alfon's chair and quickly pulled off his boots. The stench in the room seemed to explode as the cold air curled around Link's wretched feet. "BY THE GODDESS!" cried the knight as he stepped back and pressed a cloth over his mouth and nose. His squire's legs were covered in a sickening red-pink rash from the middle of his shins downward and the skin of his feet had turned green. Cracks, flakes, and swollen pustules stuck out from the boy's rotting toes.