The water was hot. Very hot. He didn't care. In fact, it was pleasant. All the pain, all the anger, seemed to melt away in the heat, cleansing him, like a glowing sword being reforged and made anew.

He didn't know how long he had been submerged. He could stay under until the water cooled and eventually went cold, but there was little point in that. So, of course, he emerged, a sword quenched.

He stepped out of the oversized bucket he was bathing in and onto the cold stone of the cave. It was a barren place, with little more than the central fire and stray beam of sunlight to illuminate the cramped space, with only rocks and a blanket to act as furniture, with the exception of the bucket. He didn't need more. Niceties would simply act as distractions, and even the water in the bucket was a luxury he despised relying on.

He stretched out his arms in front of him, letting the water drip and steam rise for a moment, before he let his magic do its work. Collectively, every drop of water on his body moves, as if pulled by a magnet, collecting at his fingertips, until eventually he stood there, naked and bone dry with oversized water droplets hanging from each finger, which he then flick into the bucket in one swift motion, the splash echoing off the stone walls. He let a moment pass, and then walked back to water. With a wave of his hand, the heat and steam dissipated, with the surface becoming still, mirror like.

He stared at his face. Even after being submerged in hot water, there was barely any colour in his face, so pale in completion that his skin was almost see-through. Every vein, every scar, was as clear to see as water he was staring at. His eyes narrowed. Those scars were a constant, and much loathed, reminder of his failure, a patchwork that covered his body, as if he had been violently torn apart and stitched back together. Poorly.

He clenched his fist, rust red eyes seething. In an instant, the water froze over, only to be smashed when he brought his fist down on it. No matter how many years passed, he was still just as furious.

He stood up slowly, taking a deep breath as he pushing his bleached hair off of his face, once more in control.

He outstretched his arms and reached out with his magic in a way that had become instinct. From across the cave, bandages unraveled and covered his body, wrapping around his arms, legs and even fingers in a way that emulated clothing without restricting his movement. His armour came next, with his chain mail forcing him to shift his arms up in order for it to slip into it, with every other plate and piece of armour snapping onto his body with ease, the straps and bolts tightening themselves in place. Finally came the mask, which found its way into his gauntleted hands. He regarded it's harsh visage for a moment, the concealed the last part of his body that remained exposed, first the jaw piece, and the face plate. Finally, the Swordsman stood once again.

He walked to the entrance of the cave and, with some effort, he removed the boulder that concealed his refuge, and slipped out into the burning sun.

He found a rock hidden in the shade and settled onto it, interlacing his fingers. Comfort may be a distraction, but discomfort was no better. He didn't know how long he would wait, and he had no plans on boiling.

He sat there for a half hour, letting his mind wander, before he felt the witches arrive. He rose to meet them, stepping back into the sun as they touched down. He met their intense glares with equally strong apathy.

"So. You think you can summon us like some weak willed djinn?" Kotake leered.

"He barely interacts with us, then expects us to come at his beck and call." Koume scowled. "Let me guess, another reminder? I'll have you know, our patience is growing thin."

Her sister nodded in agreement. "Very thin."

The Swordsman slowly shifted his gaze between them, and if he were the sort to do so, he would have rolled his eyes. They prattled and prattled, and no matter how useful they may be to him, he knew that their alliance these past years had always been built on unstable foundations.

"I summoned you here because I require you." His voice scraped eventually. "The time has come to shift to the next phase of the plan."

This caught their attention. They were silent for a moment, before their bravado returned.

"Really?" Kotake sneered. "I thought we were going to make it a decade before we achieved anything."

"Why stop when we're ahead? We're already so close, it'd be a shame to stop now." Koume lifted a boney finger to her chin. "In fact, why don't we double down? Wait another seven years, twirling our thumbs and drying up with the desert."

The Swordsman's fingers tightened. In the back of his mind, he wondered who would be the first to try to kill the other.

"Hyrule has grown complacent in our absence." He continued. "Seven years of confrontations with mere disorganised mobs of monsters, only as I had allowed it. And now, when we take action, they will not be ready."

Koume interjected. "So it's time to free our king?"

"Do not be hasty." The Swordsman snapped.

Kotake was seething, embers beginning to flicker in her hair. "Seven years. You've had us waiting for seven years, drying up wells and twiddling our thumbs. You have been wasting our time!"

The temperature began to rise quickly. The Swordsman didn't rise, but his hands moved to the hilt of his rapier, his dead eyes suddenly ice cold. He didn't draw the blade, but held firm until the witch's magic waned.

Eventually, he spoke. "My plan will ensure that your king will be freed. It also ensures that it will be impossible to challenge him. A united front. As much as you may loathe it, it require you that you trust me." He paused. "Or, to pretend." He let the witches contemplate for a moment. "I am going to leave for a while. I will be… creating chaos. Organising and strategising. And while I am doing this, you will have your part to play."

Koume narrowed her eyes. "And what role would that be?"

"In order to ensure that your king can be freed, we must first create an opportunity. Something that will allow us to enter and leave their home of the royal family unimpeded. Your role is to create that opportunity."

The witches exchanged a quick glance, before asking "How?"

Behind his mask, the Swordsman almost smiled.

He watched silently as the witches departed on their brooms, arms crossed and feeling… odd. Satisfied? The feeling was practically alien. Things were moving smoothly, so long as that pair did their job.

Of course, he had a role to play too. He had to play along, for the sake of the plan. It would all be worth it, so long as that plan succeeded. It was only the early stages, and a countless number of things could ruin it. So now, it was the time to work.

He spread his arms and let dark magic flow through him. Each time it got easier, but the pain didn't fade. But comfort was a luxury.

In an instant his was gone, the wind quickly hiding his footprints, the sand erasing any trace of his presence.

Heeeeeeeeeeeeeey guys. Remember me?

Ha. Sorry for keeping you waiting. A lot has happened since my last chapter. Sorry, it was hard to get motivated. I had to restart the chapter in order get it going properly. It was originally going to be about Link and co traveling more, but that was boring to read and write so you got this instead. Also work, university and my state being in a state of emergency.

I hope you all are alright in these trying times. I hope I'm able to bring some modicum of happiness to you guys, or at least distracted you from this shitshow of a yeah.

Hopefully the next chapter doesn't take as long to come to write. Stay safe y'all.