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Linktober (Shadow) 2023, Day 11

Monsters (Dead Hand)

Summer Stop Giving Reader/PoV Character and the Chain a Hard Time and Trauma Challenge (impossible) /j. But really I'll probably write something lighter for Linktober or Linktober Shadow later to compensate for this one lol. Probably a sequel to this one that has Reader actually having a nice time with the Links for once.

Technically since unfortunately studying for future exam season in like a couple of days has been kicking me in the ribs and thus my time was highly cut and unfortunately I don't have an Ocarina to give me more, this is actually a mix of prompts! The ones in the title, Keese, Wolfos, Wizzrobe, Lizalfos, Redead, and Boss, although they are not the focus here, mostly just mentioned but technically checking out the boxes, maybe next time I'll go more in deep on that (Like the original idea that basically was Reader taming a pet Wolfos as a guard hound that I will not elaborate on at least not this year), instead y'all get this with the boss that gave a lot of people childhood trauma and was never seeing again since because we really don't talk about just why Dead Hands are terrifying much, just that they are, really missed opportunity to use them more in an LU context lol.

As always any relationship between Reader and any of the Chain can be interpreted as romantic or platonic, and Reader is Gender Neutral on Purpose. And First is here because again, this would have been longer if exam season wasn't kicking me in the ribs and I have some really evil ideas involving First, Reader and Time bonding over having trauma of enclosed spaces, but thankfully y'all don't get that today lol, or not, it would be a really fluffy scene so up to y'all if it's a win or a loss.

TW:

Don't think there's anything too heavy-ish? But I'm a horror fan so I'm not someone who can accurately judge that. I'd say graphic descriptions of violence and gore, and being restrained/pinned in place and the entire deal that is the Dead Hand's existing, so please don't read if you're squeamish or uncomfortable. Health is important and specially mental health and I always leave these warnings on Linktober Shadow related prompts or heavier stories, so just a heads up so no one is caught by surprise.

Anyway, enjoy reading!

It was an almost unanimous agreement that no hero liked to pass through a cemetery in Hyrule.

From the restless Gibdo, to the mischievous yet usually cruel Poes and the lost Ghini, to the ever wandering Stalfos and the ghastly agonized Redead and ever determined ghoulish Garo, nothing good ever came from entering in areas where dead things roam. You can't be sure if it's because of the magic in Hyrule, the living force of light and shadow and the divinity coursing through the land, or simply the will of the undead or the consequences of Demise attempting to claim the Triforce, graveyards and desolated fields meant silence, they should be where those who are gone should finally acquire their final catharsis, not to roam endlessly without release, solemn as these places are they are still places for a peaceful end and to be denied such due to the whims of the Shadow... You can think of very few awful fates that can compare.

('Terrible fates, you could say.' The grimly bemused part of your mind whispers, as you walk alongside Time further down into the crypt that you and the Chain had followed the shadow into, silver, prisitne armor briefly blends with old, rusted, bloody gold and you think you hear the rattling of bones in the distance, the draw of a rusted, but still serviceable sword. You shut it away with a snarl as you cut down the Stalfos attempting to ambush Wild from the rear, and it goes down and back into the darkness with a screech alongside the chilling knowleged and the sick cracking of broken bones, not on your watch, never on your watch, you refuse.)

"Of all places why did it have to be a bloody crypt?" Grimaced Warriors, casting a weary glance towards the skulls decorating the walls, their empty sockets empty but silently cutting, as if sneering at the fact you lot had dared disturb the dead, as if it wasn't the Shadow's mere presence making what would otherwise be a place for rest into a possible death trap.

Legend smirked, though you could tell he wasn't anymore pleased from the way he marched through the cold, cracked stone floor, steps flighty and eyes darting around corners, "What, a bit too much for you, soldier boy?"

"No," came the prim answer, although the twitch of the hand near his scabbard as you stepped into an open chamber gave him away, as well as Wind being kept at his side rather than near the wall, "Just don't generally like fighting the undead in closed spaces. It's a recipe for disaster."

"On that I believe we all can agree on." Came Time's voice, cutting through the banter, tense as a drawn bowstring, you knew being back in a crypt wasn't easy for him, with the way his jaw tensed, you both had the same awful memories of a similarly buried, abandoned place where dead things roamed without cease, frantic, hungry for the warmth of the living, "Keep your guard up, and stay close together."

Almost as if on cue came the monsters from the open corridors, you didn't hesitate in drawing your blade to cut through the enemy, keese were easily dispatched by Four and Legend's swords, you spun to slit the throat of a growling Wolfos from Twilight's era going for Sky's back just as he mercilessly chased down the Black Lizalfos, the beast clearly avoiding the glow from the Sword of Evil's Bane. Time's back to yours as you cleared the path for him and blocked the Shadow's exit through the left corridor, it had already proven that it would not matter if you did or not, but you refused to not let it work for survival.

The jolt of magic being used crawling up your spine was your first warning. Like the build up of lightning in a storm, the taste of rust and a feeling like tar  slithers up your throat.

The second was Wild's warning shout as the chamber shook with the grating, chilling, blood curdling howl of the Redeads, Time lunging away from your side to slash the beasts away from Wind and Warriors with all of the fury of a wolf defending it's pack, before you had to throw yourself back, slamming your back against the arch on the right as it caved in, lest you be crushed alongside the Wolfos coming for your neck the second the older hero moved.

You were separated.

You were alone.

A really, really bad spot to be when in Hyrule's catacombs.

"Are you alright?!", Came muffled from the other side of the stones, the hint of an actual wolf's growl and the distinctive Ordonian cadence, Twilight.

"I'm fine! Keep fighting, I'll find my way to you guys!", You yell back, heart racing, trying not to think about what you could find on your way back, you didn't have any bombs on you, it wasn't feasible to use them in a place as old as this, not without risk bringing down the ceiling on you and the Chain. But most catacombs have interconnected hallways, if you moved quickly, you might just avoid finding anything that you won't be able to handle on your own.

You think Twilight replies, but it's muffled by another Redead's yowl, you wince, your muscles lock up and you feel something warm drip from your ears, but thankfully you are not rendered immobile due to the involuntary wall, you swallow your trepidation and get moving.

The further you get away from the fallen stones, the more silent the catacombs extending from the crypt you were dropped in became, shadows twist oddly by the torches upon the wall with only your breathing and the cold, unfeeling remains of the dead to keep you company, the lowly burning flames bringing you no warmth. The corridors blended together in the darkness cast by the faint light, the shades contorting themselves in the crevices of your paranoia the longer you went on with only your own hurried footsteps to make any true sound.

Not one monster had found it's way to you thus far, though, and according to the copy of the map Legend had made the second you had acquired the original from a very unfortunate Wizzrobe from Wild's era. You just needed to pass one more open chamber to find the corridor leading to your boys, You couldn't keep them waiting, who knew how long it would take for the fight to finish if Redead's were involved? And staying still when the Shadow could turn itself intangible was practically begging it to switch it's attention, it usually didn't pay you as much mind as it did the heroes, Time specially (it seemed to hold a grudge against him more than any of your boys, you noted bitterly), but it would occasionally target you if it meant getting a rise from any of the Link's or if it felt you were too  secure in your safety, it was better if you found your way back first to the hunt before you became hunted.

You grit your teeth, by Hylia's dripping gash, you were so. darn. tired. of. being. hunted.

Of watching your friends being led into a wild hunt with no end in sight, dragged by the noose by a remnant that refused to stay dead, you never thought you could burn with so much anger, with the desire to see if fire would scare it sober into ceasing in it's infection of all of Hyrule's Eras. But unfortunately you knew it didn't work like that, so you had to survive, you would survive, because someone had to protect the heroes when the heroes protected everyone else and if no one was going to step up to the job, you'd just have to do it yourself.

Shaking yourself from your thoughts, lest you end up drowning in them, you breath in relief as soon as you come upon the metal door with the symbol of the royal family, faded and rusted with age, there. You just needed to pass through this chamber and the corridor next to it, and you'd be back with Link, all of them, and hopefully out of here. You push it open, grip tightening on your long dagger, almost a sword, good enough to cut and hide. The thick and pungent combination of old, congealed blood, sick and decaying flesh, something like rotten eggs dipped in alcohol and withered flowers hits your nose, making you nauseous but you press on, the chamber is circular and dimly lit, with a long cracked, soft stone from a leak in the walls. You studiously do not look at the far corner of the dungeon or the pillory's and shackles scattered around near the cells,  there's a second door to the other side, as soon as you pass through it you'll be in another corridor.

... It's silent, too quiet. Unease slithers and twists around you like vines, but you can't delay, you won't, so you keep walking-

Until you can't.

Something has grabbed a hold of your leg. You look down, and your blood freezes, spotting a long, sickly, pale arm and a bright crimson, elongated nails, claw-like, digging into your ankle, having dug itself up from the fragile ground.

You don't hesitate, slashing down violently at the offending limb, frantic terror spreads through your blood, you knew what was here. It featured in your nightmares for a long, long time, you knew it still haunted Time's, the limb goes slack as it is severed, and you barely note the way it starts bleeding black and green at the stump, thankful for Four's expert craftsmanship and maintenance hints as you dive to the exit. You don't make it far, it's companion limbs  bursting in front of your path like a snake emerging from the ground, it makes a solid grab for your  arms, one of them grabs you by the scalp, firmly digging as you dodge and weave between, a stabbing pain upon your skull from the indomitable grip of something fueled by fury, twisted magic and rigor mortis and makes you cry out, your slight moment of hesitation allowing two more hands to latch onto your legs and arms, nails slicing through your flesh like easily and digging, tearing like a rabid hunting dog's teeth upon an unfortunate deer, leaving deep gashes upon your arms and ankles, it's not unlike being pinned and held to a torture rack, in hindsight, ironic given just where in the crypt you ended up.

Your hear the ground below shifting below you, a groan carrying through the air, awfully monstrous, coldly human. You struggle harder like a desperate butterfly upon a dissection board, from your peripheral, you see the form of the thing unhurriedly dragging itself over, it uses the sharp and bloody ends of where bone was broken to slice it's hands off to shuffle out of the grave, using it's stubs as support. Long long neck barely supporting it's elongated head, the scent of rot intensifies and you feel like gagging as it settles it's empty, frigid, hungry eye sockets on your bound form; it's broken jaw contorting itself in a mockery of a human smile over rotten gums and exposed teeth, stretching unnaturally and bringing emphasis to it's rotting, bloodied sunken features. From behind it's bloated, putrid shape, barely obscured by the bloodied white cloth and the grotesque vision of the undead you swear the crimson eyes of the shadow, watching you coldly, the hint of a knife sharp, serpentine smile as the sound of wet meat slamming across the ground rings in the chamber.

Fury mixes with your panic as you snarl, trying to twist the dagger in your grip as best as you can to drive it into the arms, pain and blood drips from the open wound but you don't care; you need to get away from the Dead Hand. A monster like that feels no pain when struck for it is not human, not any longer, and you couldn't hope to face an infected one alone, it shuffles over the floor, unhurriedly shuffling like a predator that knows it's prey can't run away, it moans and groans with hunger as it approaches and you have no intention of giving it a meal, you grit your teeth as the nails sink deeply into your shoulders and arms, using your blade to saw through rotting flesh and hopefully break bone with every single inch of strenght you have, the blade is slick in your hand with your own blood and the poison-tar of the Shadow's infection burning through you but you do not mind, can't. You need to get away-

The undead's teeth sink into the hollow of your collarbone, blunt, human teeth that shouldn't have half the strenght it does to rip through flesh, blood and crack bone, and you caterwaul with pain, skin crawling and numbing and set aflame with curses sent from the dark reflection of the hero, darkening, veins blackening, your eardrums vibrate with the force of your own agony and you are sure you could rival a Redead on pitch alone of your tortured howl. Struggling even more ferociously, attempting to disloged it, kick it off, your blade sucessfully slashes through the arm from your reverse grip, pushing away from it with the savegery off a cornered predator you sink your long dagger into the undead's eye sockets, tearing through it's cheek with animal ferocity, it keens high and chilling, you're losing blood quickly and it (for it's not a human, not anymore, you can't feel sympathy for it, won't. You can't hesitate.) knows, for it tries to chomp down onto your vulnerable neck, your arm being the only thing keeping it from biting it out as you growl with pain, although you can't be sure it just won't bite through, it's teeth are bared, the pitch of it's blank eyes locked onto yours in stalemate, you have the advantage of not being weakened by hunger and decay, not sluggish like it but that will not help for long, the clammy being determined to bleed you dry and feast on your corpse and you are drowning drowning drowningDROWNINGWITHWRETCHEDTORMENT MAKE.THE.PAIN.STOP-

A scream of your name, sword calloused hands yank you away from claws and fangs (because nothing with blunt teeth and nails should be able to wound someone so throughly), you waver on your feet, swaying, supported by a warm, strong body and pulled away. A sword slashes the foul being away from you and you go lax, numb with pain.

First, First was supporting you. Keeping you steady, stopping you from falling, snarling at the corpse with a lion's fury, holding you protectively. Time tears by him like a man possessed, frenzied with the look of a man looking at his worst nightmare and growling in denial. The Links, wounded but alive, the Chain had met you halfway.

The last thing you remember before losing conciousness as adrenaline leaves your body and everything goes dark, is wishing that they'll burn it to be sure it's gone for good. It's the kindest thing that can be done for a such a wretched existence.

You'd be okay.

*downs coffee like a shot* Before we go back to our regularly scheduled Linktober/Linktober Shadow (because I don't leave things unfinished if I can help it), I gotta get the idea of Revenant First out of my system and y'all get to suffer with me until it eventually ceases being an idea and it turns into an actual story. For some reason we talk a lot about First already being alive or already a ghost by the time the Chain meets him, but I don't think I've ever heard someone talk about him actually coming back to life and so y'all get to suffer with my insane ramblings like I'm an 1800's psychic ward patient who believes themselves to be a witch.

Can be x Reader or not idk just an idea that won't leave my mind.

Might expand on this later so Part out of I/?

Revenant First, who died for his people and in the name of his Goddess. All alone on the surface, fighting, fighting, fighting, always fighting. Just to make the land a little safer before the next hero arrives, just to contain the Imprisoned for a little while longer with likely nothing than a ordinary, common sword to his name and a slowly rusting armor.

Always giving so so so much for his people, always doing his best to protect them, though they scorned him, loathed him, didn't believe or support him, rejected him.

With a spirit so strong and lovely that a Goddess fell for him, hated herself for having to manipulate and put him through such horrid experiences just to save the many, just to turn the diamond of his soul into an unbreakable lonsdaleite blade agaisnt a mad deity.

Someone whose will would be enough to keep him going, just one more fight right? Just one more kill right? Forward, forward, ever onward, it doesn't matter if the flesh decays, if the blood drips drips drips until he is dry of it, if the liver doesn't process nutrients, if the lungs don't draw air, if the nerves feel nothing but the cold cold numbness of the winter of his final years, if the heart doesn't beat. If the armor rusts or the sword breaks. He must keep going, he must keep fighting.

To keep them safe he must have faith, faith that he can keep going, to grasp onto that one.single.thread of purpose until the day that fiery, indomitable, determined will finally burns out. Even if his Goddess may have forsaken him knowingly or unknowingly, even if his people have rejected him to the point he isn't even human anymore, even though they reviled him, even if that rejection should by all intents and purposes chained his spirit to the land or ground the jewel of his unbreakable soul into dust, he still loves them, still adores them, still wants to protect them.

No matter how long he must keep going for it. He wishes to see those he holds dear happy, though they cursed and imprisoned him once.

The Chain getting dropped into a completely empty, desolated and undeniably dead version of Sky's Hyrule, only to find the only living thing besides monster is a single man, with rusted gold armor and an old sword, a faded tunic of green with a long, crimson scarf like a bloody banner. With hair and eyes like theirs, undeniably a Link. But so very frigid, so very silent they almost didn't notice him, that they can't help but wonder just how many years he has spent there, eroding away, ruined but still kind, kind, so very gentle. A shadow of his former self, yes, but still himself, still so so so good, doing all he can until Sky's Era comes and maybe, just maybe, he can finally rest.

Or maybe not, after all, someone has to keep the land safe until the Hero after Sky comes around, no?

Just Revenant First in general.

Or maybe we give him the House in Fata Morgana treatment, the House in Fata Hylia Au if you will- *collapses from sleep deprivation*

Something something brain is tired but I'm in a First mood so let's try snapping the writing mood itself into gear.

First, still held by the lord who imprisoned him, who hasn't seen the sun or the sky in goddesses knows how long.

First, the one who didn't even hold full faith in Hylia, who disdained the gods even for not doing much for humanity and even dragging them into their conflicts. Who still had visions of divinity and ruin, who tried to warn his people of a calamity soon to come and was imprisoned for it.

First, who is alone and isolated in the one cell block of the dungeon with the least amount of prisoners and so so tired of it all. But suddenly perks up because a new inmate is brought in, cursing and spitting and biting like a wounded wolf but who seems to have had similar visions as him.

First, who can hear them from between the cracks in the wall, and one day tentatively initiates contact, because they are a connection to the outside world, they are someone to talk to, someone who understands and brings some light back to his eyes through each and every single conversation and story and songs and curses towards the lord.

They never see each other, but he knows they're there. And the fact that they know and they believe and they treat him with some modicum of kindness and they want to go see the fields of Hyrule with him once they're both out one day and to thank him for always caring about Hyrule and it's people even if they forsake scorn and shun him.

First, who is one day released. The lord is dead, Orville has preserved his sword, he is a freed lion, given back his fangs-

And he catches a glimpse of the one person who was on his side through it all from within the other cell on the way out, smiling lightly at him before looking away.

And he refuses to leave them behind.

(They never do get to do it, to enjoy that one day under a clear hylian sky in their lifetime.

Though thousands upon thousands of years later, through the branching of the roots of time and chance and causality and maybe divine intervention or through the power held in promises unsaid and unfulfilled-

A Champion, a wolf and a wanderer with peculiar scars on their arms get to walk side by side under a clear hylian sky.)

Aka First is more akin to his manga self in terms of skepticism of the divine, so Hylia decides to just drop an isekaied Reader onto his situation and call it a day in a "That enough divine intervention for ya?" manner alongside both Fi and Crimson to sweeten the deal.

Anyway I'll be leaving now before I get tomatoes throw at me-

WIP Snippet of the First x Prisoner Reader Vision I've Had Recently

It was dark, as it had been for a long time now.

How long has it been, since he was thrown into this dark cell with accusations of treachery and left to rot? 

Days?

Weeks?

Months?

(He didn’t entertain the possibility of years. It slithers and bites cold and cruel like the metal around his wrists, it hisses mockingly in his ears like the demon’s, like snakes twining over his throat.

If he did, he’d think of Orville, of a demon desperately wanting to be granted rest, of deity’s with pale eyes and summer sunlight hair of golden Hylian wheat fields and blue skies. Of a world outside the prison cell.

He can’t afford to falter now, would not give the lord the satisfaction of thinking he’d successfully tamed a lion.)

It was quiet in the dark, if he did not move, nothing but his own breathing and the dizzying, choking dread over what he still saw every time he closed his eyes, over the threat of furious tempest and the burning greed stoking the flames of malice. His perceived betrayal and the injustice of being defanged when his only wish was to protect his people was more agonizing than any wound inflicted on him on the day of his imprisonment, festered like the untreated cuts and bruises, burning through his mind constantly like the tight strain of the chains, digging and pulling into at what was once strong flesh.

The silent isolation could drive any man insane, only stubbornness and determination kept him strong.

…

Suddenly, something changed, enough to make him stir, head hung low but ears twitching with interest. A familiar sound that made him bare his teeth with the most minute of flinches.

Shouting.

Angry yells and outraged howls, the type belonging more to a wild fox’s throat than that of a human’s.

Yelling was never a promising portent.

The metallic screech of an old rusted door being opened reverberated through the dungeon halls, thankfully not his own, a voice’s strangled cry cuts through the silence, more pain than rage, punctuated by the indifferent snapping of cold, twining chains and the slam of the prison cell’s entrance giving it a sense of finality.

‘... Why would someone else…?’

What kind of deeds did his apparent cell neighbor commit to get locked in the most deserted part of this place? He knew there was a cell by the side of his own, from what little he could recall before being imprisoned himself, but it made no measure of sense to chain someone else nearby.

(He knew what the lord was doing, keep him quiet after he'd spoken up about the threat, keep him isolated, drive him mad, slowly but surely chipping away at his will to live-

Even if he was released, who would believe the words of a madman?)

Link thought about his own circumstances, of how he had been branded of ill mind and opportunistic intentions, and ultimately decided it did not matter. 

After all, his motives didn't matter either.

Soon enough there was banging on the metallic doors, then cursing, then yowling, then hoarse cries, and then nothing as the silence returned once more to stifle the atmosphere with its oppressive, suffocating weight. Clamping down like a lynel’s fangs upon his mind again.

Link’s ears twitched as he briefly flinched into consciousness, shuddering from both the deep aching in his bones and the cold of the cell, something whispering beneath the silence of the cell. It was subtle, a quiet little clink, clink, clink against the walls like a bird sharpening their beak on stone, his eyes snapped open, eyes darting about the darkness, squinting and straining his ears, the chains rattled with the suddenness of the movement and he gritted his teeth as each muscle screamed in protest, almost gagging at the metallic sweet smell mixing with the sourness of old sweat and the stale air of the cell. He really didn't want to dislocate one of his shoulders again, once was enough.

Link closes his eyes, and sends a quiet prayer for his fellow wayward soul. 

...

At first, he thought he imagined it. He couldn't hear the firm footfalls of the guards, the main indication of their patrol routes, nor the confident stride and rankling jewelry of the lord, and he was sure his cellblock companion had gone silent after a quite a few possible weeks of putting up one impressive fight, he doubted they would have left anything much for them to work with.

(If his lips curved a little at the blood coating the lord’s fine sleeves after one of his visits, well, that was between him, the darkness and the goddesses, if they were listening at all.)

And still, the sound persisted, clink, clink, clink.

Then-

Clack.

He lifted his head with a wince, it throbbed but Link couldn't care less about it, he had to find the source of the sound. He squinted at the wall, finally hearing something new, the clanking of heavy chains and heavy, strained breathing, a voice growling in aggravation and strain, raspy in a way he was sure his own would match. A scraping against stone.

“Well… Not much of a breeze from there, great.”

He swallowed, throat suddenly dry as lightning lanced through his spine, a tension seizing his frame, the words came out before he could fully process them, “...Apologies to disappoint.”

“Oh goddesses-” There was a faint sound like something being dropped and the clanking of the chains alongside a faint, muffled thud.

“No goddesses to be found, not here. Just me.” He spoke, some amusement creeping into his voice.

A pause, the faint shifting of metal on stone, and then, “... Did you just- no, nevermind that, this is-” A faint, incredulous chuckle, teetering on the cliff of hysterics, still, they had a nice laugh and suddenly, Link briefly wondered what the shape of a smile would look like on their face, “I know this is probably an awful thing to say, stranger, but it’s so, so nice to know there’s someone else in this awful place other than that pretentious jerk.”

“The lord?” He inquired, more of a statement than anything else.

“That’s the one.” They confirmed, no small amount of bitterness coated their voice with the same sharpness found in the thorns of briars, “Barely a full year in the kingdom, and he’s got his people hauling me to the slammer.” They scoffed, their worn down voice carrying quietly through his cell, “And here I thought Hylia’s people subscribed to her ideology that all life is to be preserved and just judgment above all, guess the joke’s on me.”

Link hangs his head in resignation, something like loathing scraping at his throat, trickles of guilt swallowed down like blood, “... As someone once in his servitude, I offer my apologies on behalf of my people.”

“Oh.” The voice exclaimed, shifting in place, before speaking hesitantly, “Hey now, you don’t have to apologize. It’s got nothing to do with you, the idiocy of one man shouldn’t fall on your shoulders”

A part of Link would like to differ, maybe, just maybe, if he was still free then, he could have done something, anything to help. The prisoner’s howls still ring in his ears.

Remembering his own predicament makes him hold his tongue. If he couldn't even convince the lord that what he saw was the truth, he doubted he would actually succeed

“So…” They start, his ears flick at the light, metallic click, from the corner of his eye, he sees a piece of the wall fall away from a very subtle crack, the shattered stone dropping against the ground of the cell, mixing with the dark stains of old blood, “You seem like a decent enough guy, and you don't sound too hot there so I won't ask what you're in for, care to give me something to call you other than stranger? I'll give you my name in return. Doesn't look like we're going anywhere any time soon, may as well get used to one another.”

He blinked slowly, taking a deep, trembling breath.

When was the last time someone had treated him with any shred of sympathy? When was the last time he had someone to talk to?

(The lord didn't count, it was less a conversation and more so being talked at, urged like some sort of reluctant pet, degraded like a feral dog-

“Take it back.” The lord had spoken, his face impassive and eyes cold, as one of the guards held his head in a grip hard enough to rip the hair from his skull, he hisses, both from the concussion, his back open like a blooming flower and from the blood dripping into his eye and down his cheek like a faux tear, “You may have failed me, may have consorted with demons and dared to renounce our golden goddess' mercy. But so long as you agree to say that all you've told me is a lie, I'll let you go. You will live a normal life, all of your blasphemies will be forgiven.”

He gritted his teeth, it would be so, so easy. It was always that easy.

Except he remembered the thing he sealed in that mask, that even it seemed afraid of what was to come. How it shrieked and yowled and screamed and roared and pleaded to either be slain or sent back to where it belonged just so it would avoid getting involved. Of having nightmares of the sky set aflame for as long as he could remember, of a man with pale hair and crimson garments cackling as he tore his comrades limb from limb, of a woman with golden hair and impossibly seating sapphire screaming with the sound of shrieking birds behind her voice as crystalline wings were torn from her back by a man with hair the color of the fires of war, eyes alight with fury and hate-

He spits at the lord’s feet, snarling like the lion he was often compared to.

“Never.”)

What did he have to lose as he was now, defanged and declawed?

“Link.”

(You pause from the other side of the wall, freezing in place. The short, rusty dagger you had nicked from one of the guards scratching violently against stone as your broken hand shakes, an already unsteady grip sustained only through spite and desperation made lax with shock.

Link, says the man on the other side of the wall. The man whose voice is like gravel, like ashes after a forest fire, but still kind, a little awkward but who immediately apologized for something for harm he didn't even inflict upon you.

You had hoped the Hylia and Hyrule thing were coincidence at best , but now-

Mentally screaming into your own mind, you give him your name, the knobs of your spine prickling with a cold other than the metal collar around your neck.)

Linktober Shadow 2024, Day 1, Woods

Man I need to write for First more. Anyway! Another one done and polished, nice and soft and technically a continuation/missing scene from one of last year's one shots that I'm really glad to be able to finish and post. As always the reader pov is gender neutral (can lean either side to whoever is reading) and can be read as romantic or platonic and in or out of an LU context, though I am mainly writing for an hypothetical iteration of First in LU since he is not officially in the comic but a lot of people accept him as part of the official Chain (the author included), and really that's what we have aus for lol. (Also uh, possible TW{?}, just to be safe for those who are squeamish/can't handle graphic descriptions: OoT Dead Hand and it's lore is it's own warning and I do reference it. As always mind your safety and health dear readers. ) Enjoy your reading!

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Long, pale, thin arms bend in shapes not meant for a human body, too many joints bend with sickly cracks, thin fingers adorned with elongated, winking crimson claws hook around your arms and legs, too many limbs that should not belong to a single being reanimated through a sickness of the world holding you in place with indomitable strength fueled only by rigor mortis and hunger no matter how hard you struggle. A stabbing pain upon your skull rips a howl from your throat, a sound better suited to a dying animal than a human being, in the corner of your eye you see the thing slowly slinking closer, once pale robes a mottled, dusty gray, bloodied from the life force of previous victims and fellow tortured souls.

You are a pinned butterfly upon a board, frozen with a primal terror as the claws lacerate through flesh digging, tearing like a rabid dog's teeth upon an unfortunate deer, the things wide, staring eyes meet yours from the top of an impossibly long neck barely supporting it's elongated head, instinctively your struggle renews itself. Gagging at the sickly sweet smell of rot and sick, the scent of metal thick in the air squeezes the breath from your lungs, a cocktail of desperation and helplessness flooding your entire system.

("H—")

It died starving, and hunger still settles over it's decaying features. A broken jaw contorts and twists in a cold, toothy mimicry of a human grin, grotesque and unnatural between the rotted gums and exposed teeth, burning it's stark, decaying and sunken features into your mind.

("—ong?")

The putrid corpse's too blunt, too human teeth sink into the hollow of your collarbone, tears through skin, rips through tendons, it cracks and grinds through bone and meat, something sinks into your pores and it burns. Something too thick to be saliva, closer to tar as it nests beneath your skin like an infection, eating you inside out and you scream and scream and scream-

"Wake up!"

Your eyes snap open as you bolt upright, a scream bitten down with practice from one too many nights traveling in a group haunted by the things called nightmares and insomnia from a life of fighting.

It's just you, the nightly whispering of the woods, the crackling of the fire and First.

The knight's stoic posture relaxes, softens a little, stern features creased as concern flickers through twin azure flames, the moonlight turning his hair the same shade as wheat fields in summer. "My apologies for waking you, I could not bear to watch the terrors interrupt your rest any for any longer."

You breathe in the sight of the hero, of the woods of Twilight's era with it's dark trees shedding honey and maple scales onto the ground as life went to slumber and the smell of birch and maple and hawthorn and attempt to quell your shaking. It's a futile effort, you're shivering from the late autumn breeze like as if the woods' leaves had taken a human shape, the memory of the empty eyes and a sunken skull and fine strands of human hair clinging to a decaying skull sinks it's claws into your mind. "There's no need. It was probably for the best." Your gaze drifts around the camp as you palm around for your quilt knocked over in your struggle, the firelight allows you to see the other boys, and you distractedly note your long dagger is right where you left it; it helps loosen the hold the hooks that night left on you, you swallow thickly. "Did I wake anyone up?"

First shakes his head, your shaking fingers meet fabric and your distracted mind is yanked back to reality when the motions of using it's warmth and weight as a shield against the world are already done.

It's not your quilt, painstakingly made with Malon's help and teachings inherited from Sun on one of the quieter moments you and the Chain had in each era since you've started traveling with them. A mark of friendship that served as a balm for difficult days.

(A little after Sun confirmed you were not a threat, to the relief of your cautious companions, a little before you had found First half delirious with duty not yet fulfilled and death stolen from a mortal body and blood loss and dragged him from the brink with meager medical knowledge and later back to the Chain on your back.)

It's First's cape, as red as the feathers of his and Sky's loftwings, soft and warm and carrying the scent of breezes through hylian fields and leather and metal.

There's a quirk to his generally stern, elegant countenance as you turn your shocked eyes to his, as amused and warm as he's allowed himself to be. First's hand falls over yours as you make to remove it, cautious and with as much care as a bird landing on someone's hand, you can't help but marvel a little at it, the part of you that would either jump for joy or break down into sobs from pride were you not so tired. First was the most distant of the Links, drifting just on the edges of the Chain, with a kind heart that had chunks ripped out both by cruel fate and still bled to this day; he could be cold, of course, but anyone could see how weariness had been carved into the lines of his being. A spirit made to never be broken but not never damaged, who never had a chance to heal.

"You need it more than me." He rumbles softly, insistently. You catch the glimpse of the discoloration on his wrists as his hands reach to readjust the scar, not unlike the tears marring your arms and your heart aches a little.

You've both come a long way.

You stop your motions with a small sigh and as soon as the knight is done, you pick up your discarded quilt, determined to return the favor. You know it's his turn to keep watch, as him, Warriors and Time generally swapped the second turn between themselves (much to your exasperation and the Chain's), but there's no reason he can't continue doing so comfortably.

"Join me? It's chilly and it's not like I'll be going back to sleep anytime soon." You offer, offering him the blanket in turn.

First tilts his head and gives you a look, it's a bad excuse, it's only mid autumn after all, the campfire, and you're both well aware that he's withstood worse than the fall winds between his imprisonment and crossing the skies atop Vermilion.

Still, he nods, the ghost of a smile clings to the edges of his face as he sits by you. Allowing you to wrap the quilt around his shoulders, facing the fire and the woods. "Of course."

You smile, it's a small thing of broken glass and haunted nights, but it's there.

Between the crisp, cool autumn air, the return of your smile, the one who unwittingly guided him back to his fellow heroes and the knowledge that he's not alone, that's more than enough for First.

The two of you spend the rest of the second watch quietly chatting, First about his time with his fellow knights, before the imprisonment, about Orville and the ballads and legends of his time, you trade him stories of your own home, myths and legends, tales and stories you've grown up hearing and reading in your childhood into your adulthood. At some point you drift closer together, his chin atop your head and your head on his shoulder.

It's peaceful.

Neither of you have nightmares that night.

(A gentle hand hesitantly finds it's way to your head, lighter than a feather, clothed in butterfly scales and diamond dust, it brushes softly through your hair. The pale figure smiles, careful fingers softly rest over First's sleeping face, and the being's eyes soften, clearer than the sky on a summer day, a hum leaves the pale entity's slender throat, and the world follows in symphony.

Content, She does not linger.

The wind through the trees sound like singing.)