His name was Link.
His name was Hyrule.
His name was Stick.
~~~~
Hyrule cried before the people of the town, the salty tears washing away the dirt and grime on his face. He stood tall, arms clasped around himself in a mockery of a hug, trying to bring some measure of comfort.
"Please," he begged, "just one night. One night with a bath, some food and a bed, and I will leave willingly. Just one night of peace-that's all I ask."
The murmur of voices washed over him as the townspeople debated, but eventually a man stepped forward. His skin was pale, his eyes ringed with exhaustion and glimmering with sorrow and pain.
"You can stay with me, just for tonight. We'll not deprive you of your last request, if we are sending you to die."
The townspeople whispered as the man stepped forward and guided him to a small house near the edge of town.
He couldn't bring himself to tell them death was not what awaited him. Not tonight.
~~~~
They feed him first, a warm meal of potatoes, some gravy made from beef. A thin slice of venison and some boiled roots. A hearty meal to these people, offered by those who recognize what price they are making him pay, perhaps. He checked the food to be safe, a glow lighting up the plate before vanishing, no mold like spots or foul odor appeared.
He ate alone, the man watching from the hearth.
After they let him bathe, leaving him alone in an empty room, a tub and several pails of heated water sitting nearby. A towel and borrowed shirt set out on a chair. He checked the lock on the door, a spell dancing over his fingers as he bites his thumb, smearing a symbol against the handle to burn any who touch it until it is removed. He poured the pails into the tub one at a time, the sound of sloshing water helping calm his nerves as he focused on the task at hand. One pail, two, three, the steam rising up to press against his face, breaking away to reveal the chill in the air.
He had to peel his clothes off, caked dirt and blood cracking off, chipping away to litter the floor. He set everything aside to wash after, folded nicely on the floor like his mother once did. He climbs into the tub before the memory can spread any further.
Hyrule sunk deeper into the warm water, the liquid rising to just below his nose, the rest of him warmed and protected from the chilly night air. Wet hair plastered against his face, weeks of dirt slowly being worn away until he finally scrubbed himself free. His muscles relaxed for the first time in months, soothing the deepest aches and knots he hadn't realized he'd held onto.
It was nice. Relaxing. Fake.
He dried off and dressed in a loaned tunic, much too big for his small frame. It was worn but soft, the fabric clean and smelling of wildflowers and lyre.
He sat on the loaned bed, the quilt beneath him patched and covered in knots from poor sewing. It was thick and fluffy with cotton and down and other stuffings used over time, nearly a comforter like he'd seen in the palace once upon a time.
He sleeps deeply that night, a magic barrier placed around his bed written in his blood. His palm aches where he cut it, but soon is healed, just like the rest of him.
The morning comes far too soon. He is granted a meal, despite only requesting one, and he takes his time eating the berries they give him, each one popping into a splash of juice between his teeth.
It isn't until his legs begin to fall asleep and his vision swirls that he understands why they were so generous.
The man returns with two others and a woman, and the men step forward and wrap him in a threadbare blanket and retrieve the pillow and clothing he'd used the night before, both marked with pinpricks of blood from the now healed over cut on his palm. They place him in one man's arms and set the items over his stomach, carrying him out. The other villagers watch from doors and windows and stoops,
He is carried out of the walls of the village and through the gate where monsters wait. Some villagers wait behind them. He can feel their eyes, hear their words as whispers on the hot wind that blew over this cursed land. He is set on his feet, unsteady as he is. One hand grips the blanket closed around his shoulders, the other gone, but the stump is pressed to his chest, holding the items there.
He feels more than sees the man step up beside him and place a hand on his shoulder.
"Thank you. No one wants to die, but we'll remember your sacrifice, our children as well. This won't be forgotten."
His legs tremble beneath him, his breath becoming thin and fast.
"It's not death I'm afraid of. Death will be a blessing compared to what they've no doubt planned." The words are sharp and sour on his tongue but ring true, the monsters ahead eyeing him greedily, lynel hooves pawing at the dirt, moblins licking hairy lips.
The man's hand tenses on his shoulder and vanishes, a lighter touch trailing over it as a woman appears before him, her other hand finding his other shoulder to face him dead on. She kneels slightly before him, letting him lean his weight into her as exhaustion tugs at his bones. Her eyes are pained, skin pale, tears gathering in crow's feet-kissed corners. A baby sling is tied around her, a child's napkin tucked into one of her pockets. A mother, or grandmother, here to see him off.
She leans forward and kisses his forehead, lips dry and warm against his skin. She pulls back and looks him dead in the eyes, a catch in her breath before she speaks.
"We will remember you all the more for it. I'm sorry, hero. I'm so, so sorry. Thank you." Her voice breaks at the end, teary sounds and short breaths as she cries for him, someone else's son. Someone she's never met.
She steps aside as a large hand covers each of his shoulders and pushes him forward, sobs breaking out behind him. A lonely sound.
His feet are unsteady from whatever they put in his food, but he's already fighting it off, his body cursed thrice with healing power and magic aplenty. It tingles under his skin, crawling over every cell, swirling in his core.
The lynel rushes forward before the men can step back, its heavy hand crushing his ribs and breaking his legs in one go. He falls to the ground, the pain overwhelming as his lungs flood with blood and his skin is torn by his own bones. He gasps for air but drowns instead, and then his skin is warm and the pain is burned away, and he clambers to his feet, his legs barely supporting his weight. He hears screams of horror and gaps behind him but is given no chance to look, his head smacked aside by a thick wooden club, splinters digging into his face before they are pushed out by his healing.
He falls again, feeling the point of a spear digging into his side. He yells, flesh torn as blood bubbles up from his side. A monster is on him then, digging its talons around the wound and ripping out more flesh, sucking the blood from its prize before stuffing its face. Another replaces it, teeth biting into his side and blood pooling out over his skin and clothes, staining the blanket that clings to him now, soaked and shredded.
Someone cries behind him, a baby wailing alongside it, the noise ringing in his head as his nerves burn as flesh is pulled and ripped and replaced anew, his body aflame with healing and torture as he is made into a meal and kept alive through it all. There are screams then, and he can hear the pounding of leather boots and hopes the monsters are too focused on him to hurt them. The village had been oddly prosperous, streets filled with tiny feet and innocent faces who were likely not spared this horror.
His eyesight vanishes as his face is clawed at by the nails of a River Zora, the slime from its scales rubbed across his face and invading his senses with its odor.
He feels large hands grasp him by the pits and pull him up, a scream wrenching the air that he realizes is his and nails drag at him even then, another spear finds its way into his side. His eyes are growing back and he is blinded by the light before he can make out the mob before him; Moblins and Zora and Lynels, Wolfos and Moldorm and Skulltula, all ready to drink from his lifeblood and present him to their wicked Master.
He feels moisture against his face and realizes he is crying, unsure where he found the energy. Maybe the night of peace was a curse, the harshness of reality all the more awful in the face of good memories like fresh food and a warm bed.
The pain becomes too much, sight fading as he pulls himself into his own mind, memories of playing with little sisters and talking with the Great Mothers at a fountain playing out as he sits beside Secret in a mossy cave. Anything to not be present in his body.
Eventually he realizes they've moved, his body bouncing with every step as he is carried away from the village towards somewhere new. Somewhere tainted.
They carry him for hours, greedy nails and shining steel digging into his skin whenever they find the urge. The blanket is lost in the woods, his blood leaving a trail for the army to follow should they wish to help, to save, their hero.
They will not.
Ganon awaits him in the ash cave, a sharp spike in the center still stained a reddish brown with his blood. A golden light flashes in his eyes as he laughs, a hearty sound out of place with his boarish appearance. He struggles against the claws holding him, fear filling him, his heart racing faced with his tormentor. The pig laughs and laughs as he is carried forward, his stump aching in phantom pain. He is tossed up up up, falling down only to gasp, breath stolen as he is impaled again. He notes grimly that he can see some of his internal organs. He falls limp,the fight leaving him as he is trapped again, the cycle of horror, of pain, never ending.
Ganon approaches, heavy footfalls that echo in the emptiness of the cave.
"You thought you could leave me, little hero? I will always find you. As long as Hyrule stands, you will belong to me, your blood, your flesh-" a hand comes up and holds his head, the tips of his nails digging into his face- "and your mind. All mine."
