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It was the cough that bothered Link the most.
The rest of it—the darkness that pushed in on all sides, the incessant chill, the way his overextended shoulders ached in tandem with his bruised ribs—it was all nothing compared to the cough. He wasn’t sure when it had started, only that now it seemed there had never been a time he had not known it. It jerked him from the light dozes he managed to slip into, announcing to all nearby sneering sentinels that he was awake.
And it hurt. If he managed to stay still, let every screaming muscle hover in a state of in-between, he could close his eyes and pretend he was anywhere else. In a field with Orville. Laughing and looking at clouds with his friends.
But the cough would rattle his chest, sending licks of pain skittering up his arms and making his head throb. It reminded him of all the things he wanted to forget, all the pains and betrayals that sat at the edge of his mind no matter how hard he tried to push them away.
There were only so many things one could ponder upon while chained up in a dungeon for years, after all.
He blinked, trying to clear the fuzziness from his vision, feeling his lashes flutter against the cloth that kept him blind. Another weak, wretched cough forced itself out of his tight chest and from his lips. It burned, but the pain was quickly swallowed by the rest of the injuries he carried.
Footsteps echoed down the long corridor, the click of boots on stone akin to the knoll of a death bell. This was always his least favorite part, the anticipation. The knowledge that everything painful and dark was headed for him. The time in between where there was no changing his fate but he remained yet untouched.
There seemed to be more footsteps than usual, and they were uneven, uncontrolled. Link grimaced, visions flashing of a large group of angry and uncoordinated men taking their anger out on him. At least his captors had deemed it necessary to stop short of lethal force. They claimed they needed him. For now.
His heart rate kicked up a little, exacerbating the invisible band squeezing his lungs. He wasn’t sure if it was the broken ribs or something worse. He wasn’t sure he really cared what state every part of him was in anymore. There wasn’t much point in keeping track, before they let him recover and it all started over in an excruciating loop.
As the footsteps approached, he started to make out voices. This wasn’t unusual; he was more than familiar with the taunts, curses, and mockery of his captors. But these voices were different—softer. Kinder. One or two of them sounded young, and he felt a distant bolt of rage at the thought of someone bringing a child into the dungeons.
He tried to pull his scattered thoughts together, maneuvering his aching arms anchored above his head to try and get into a better defensible position. He didn’t know why he bothered; it never helped. His wrists and ankles were raw where the cold metal dug into his skin, unforgiving.
The voices got steadily closer, and he could feel his muscles winding tighter and tighter in apprehension. Adrenaline was gathering in his veins, a fruitless effort to prepare to fight back. Bits and pieces of conversation floated towards him, quests and monsters and heroes. Heroes. As if the Land of Hylia bothered with those.
He tracked the group all the way until they were practically on top of him. Though his captors kept him without sight a majority of the time, he had glimpsed enough to imagine the shadowed alcove he was chained in, no bother even with a locked door. Maybe he would yet go unnoticed.
A gasp, and Link knew luck was not on his side today. He shifted, chains rattling, and decided to make the first move.
“Who are you?” he rasped, casting his head around as if it would help him see any better. The words were pulled painfully from his chest, and he immediately began to cough. Another reason why he hated the coughing more than anything else—once he started, it was hard to stop. He could feel his strength waning, his futile defensible position sagging until the chains supported him more than his own legs did.
Warm hands gingerly gripped his arms, startling him mid-wheeze. They helped hold up some of his weight so the edges of the manacles didn’t bite in so deep. He thought he heard talking, but couldn’t make out any of the words over his own coughing and the ringing in his ears. Another pair of hands moved to the back of his head to undo the knot on the blindfold. Instinctively, he flinched away from that touch too.
When was the last time he had known a hand to be kind and not cruel?
As the blindfold fell from his head to the floor, his first instinct was to slam his eyes shut against the blinding pain of the torchlight. Curiosity won out seconds later, and he pried them back open, blinking rapidly. His coughing petered off into raspy breaths. The frowning face of a man with one eye and strange colorful markings on his face swam into view. He looked like a leader.
As soon as their eyes met, the man said, “It’s alright. We’re here to help you.”
Link eyed him warily, eyes darting to look at the rest of the group. They were certainly an odd bunch. The one who was still currently supporting his arms had markings on his face like the first man, but black and swirling instead. Nearby was a boy with long hair, looking at the blindfold distastefully. Another boy with brown curly hair hovered just behind, hands twisting together like they needed something to do.
Before Link could size up the rest of the group, the first man spoke again.
“We’re going to get you out of those chains and then get out of here. Is your name Link, by chance?”
Link snapped his head up from where he had been studying a man with a white cape and a curious weapon. Knowing his name was not a good thing, not at all. All the people in the land knew about Link the Hero, how he was wanted and dangerous and should be locked away at all costs.
Link had been wrong about this group after all. It was a new tactic to pretend they were going to rescue him first, but little surprised Link anymore.
He jerked back against the man holding his arms, eliciting a surprised “woah!” from him, and flattened himself as close to the wall as he could get. He couldn’t get much farther away, even if he wanted to.
“Get away from me,” he spat, trying to make himself look as threatening as possible. It was probably about as effective as a puffed-up kitten, with the miserable and restrained state he was in.
The man with the dark facial markings approached again, slowly, and Link lashed out a knee at him, gritting his teeth when the chain yanked back. A fresh line of blood tracked its way down his foot to the floor. The man stopped moving but didn’t back away, either, eying Link like he was a feral animal.
“Oh, for goddesses sake, we’re trying to save you!” A boy with a pink streak in his hair cried, throwing his hands up in frustration.
“Legend,” another said, “he doesn’t know us. And you didn’t exactly trust us at first either, did you?”
Link was having a hard time tracking everything that was happening. This was more activity than he’d seen in months, and he could feel his energy rapidly depleting. The manacles on his wrists were biting again.
“He’s sick.” the one with the white cape murmured, ignoring the soft warning from their leader and stepping forwards, a hand sweeping up to rest against Link’s forehead. Link didn’t have the energy to do anything about it. As he leaned closer, the blade on his back pulsed softly with blue light, and the man’s eyes widened.
“He’s one of us,” the man confirmed quietly, studying Link as if in a new light. “We need to get him out of here, right now.”
It was only then that Link realized the absence of the rest of the guards in the dungeon. Surely they would want to be in on this; they never passed up a chance to participate.
“How do you…know my name?” he asked, pausing midway to suck in a short breath. The white-caped man looked at him, his hand still on Link’s forehead. He tried not to lean into the gentle contact.
“It’s kind of a long story. In short, we’re all named Link, too. We’re heroes, and we’re here to help you. Truly.” His blue eyes were earnest and kind, and Link could feel his resolve wavering. It was true that he’d never seen a group this odd sent to torment him before.
“Wind, do you think you can pick the locks on the cuffs?” The leader asked, and a boy that couldn’t have been older than 15 stepped forwards. A child hero?
“I’ve never met a lock I couldn’t pick,” the boy, Wind, said. He grinned and pulled various tools out of his pockets. The white-caped man stepped back as Wind came forward and knelt by Link’s feet, carefully gripping the locking mechanism. He was technically within kicking distance, but, well, Link did want to be free of the chains. And he would never hurt a child.
Link stood still and silent, feeling a bit dazed as the first cuff fell from his ankle. Four years he had spent in this dungeon. Four years of pain and misery. Wind moved to the other leg, the one that he had tried to knee the man with the black markings with. He felt something brush against the raw and bleeding skin around the metal, and he flinched back, a short strangled cry wrung from him.
“Sorry! Sorry, I’m sorry,” Wind yelped, pulling his hands back momentarily. After several moments he resumed, moving even slower and keeping as far from Link’s skin as he could.
Wind was too short to reach the cuffs keeping Link’s arms captive, so the leader with the markings had him sit on his shoulders while he worked. Normally Link might have found it a little amusing, but now all he could feel was a bone-deep exhaustion.
Without any further fanfare, Link was free. Truly, blissfully, free of the metal that had kept him captive and weakened for so long. One of the members of the group in a multicolored tunic kicked scornfully at the discarded chains.
“We need to get goin’ before anyone comes to check on this place or notices anything amiss,” the one with black markings said. He held out an arm to Link, offering himself up as a crutch.
“I’m capable of walking,” Link said roughly, refusing to show any more weakness than he already had. He coughed and took a step, stumbling without the expected weight of the chains dragging him down. His vision went a little gray at the edges, his knees crumpled, and when he blinked someone was holding him.
“Okay, okay, hold on there,” the man with the blue scarf said. He was the one who had grabbed Link, and he now switched his grip from holding to supporting. “You don’t need to be falling all over the place and hurting yourself even more. Your pride can handle a little assistance, I promise.”
Though his words were light and teasing, Link didn’t miss the undercurrent of stress and concern in them. He supposed it was better to lean on these strangers than to risk ruining his one chance at escape. He’d have to ask them more questions once they were somewhere safer.
The group moved slowly back through the dungeons, Link leaning more heavily on the scarfed man with each step. The white-caped man and the leader led the group, alert with weapons drawn. The boy with brown and curly hair hovered near Link, his eyes shadowed and worried as he studied the various cuts and bruises littering Link’s skin.
After a walk that drained almost every remaining scrap of his energy but in all likelihood was no farther than 30 or 40 paces, they reached the dungeon stairs. The scarfed man was practically dragging Link at this point, his gaze darting to Link every few seconds as if watching for something.
He stared at the exit, the cold stone steps that he had been shoved down years ago. At the unassuming door at the top.
The scarfed man was beckoning over the one with black markings, looking pointedly at Link. Link turned and held up a hand in that direction.
“No,” he said, his voice far shakier than he would have preferred. “I want to walk out of here by myself.”
The two men exchanged a look but made no further moves towards him. With strength Link wasn’t aware he still possessed, he slowly climbed the stairs, gripping the rough stone of the wall as he did. The door was open, most of the group already waiting outside. Scarf man hovered behind him.
The door shut behind them with a resounding thud, and Link sank to his knees.
The sun. The sun.
It was warm on his face, a gentle caress. A crisp breeze rustled through his tattered clothing, making him aware of the moisture in his eyes and on his cheeks. Had the sky always been so blue? The grass always so soft and fluffy? He would never take it for granted again. He noticed absently that his hands were shaking; his entire body was shaking.
He had made it out.
Of course, his body chose that moment to betray him; deep, grating coughs scraped out of him, his breathing unsteady and rapid. He felt like–he couldn’t breathe, the world was flickering and blurring, why couldn’t he stop coughing? Distantly, he registered a startled call as he slumped forward over his knees and knew no more.
When Link’s eyes fluttered open once again, everything was on fire. The world felt sticky and heavy, and he blinked rapidly to try and clear his muddled thoughts. He glimpsed the purples and oranges of a sunset overhead, and his brain stalled.
The sky? How did he get outside?
A few moments later his memories came crashing back, and he sucked in a breath. There was a hand in his hair—soothing, gentle—and it paused its movement.
“Link? Are you awake?” the presumed owner of the hand asked, and a face leaned over into his field of view. Blue eyes. White cape.
He was dizzy despite his position lying on the ground, and he squeezed his eyes shut. He felt like he’d fallen off a cliff and then been drowned underwater for good measure.
“Hmm,” Link managed, then groaned as the action of speaking sent both a spike of pain to his head and tightened the vice around his chest.
“Do you think you can drink this?” the man was asking, something similar to a cup in his hand, but Link was already letting the heavy static in his bones win the fight against staying awake.
“Link? Hey, no, stay awake for just a little-”
He slipped back under.
The next time he opened his eyes, it was to the cool whispers of deep night and a new figure sitting beside him. He felt…marginally better, and slightly more awake. He could tell that the sharp slices and even the deeper pain of his broken ribs had receded, but the heavy blanket of illness lay over him still. His hands felt light and untethered. He reached for his wrist, rubbing the soft bandages over the skin that had been bound by metal for so long.
“They’re still a little raw. I’m sorry I couldn’t heal them all the way,” the person beside him whispered, and he froze in the movement.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said. “My name’s Hyrule, by the way.”
“Heal them?” Link rasped, painfully aware of his dry throat. “You healed me?”
“Yes,” Hyrule responded, frowning. “Mostly. But I can’t do anything about the sickness. You’re going to have to fight that on your own. It should be easier now, with your body not having to also deal with everything else.” He held out a cup to Link, then helped him as he struggled to a seat and took the cup. The water was pure bliss, soothing his throat.
Link meant to ask more, meant to ask if they were all truly other heroes, ask how they had gotten him out, how they had even found him—but already he was exhausted, chin dipping towards his chest. He felt Hyrule pluck the cup out of his weak grip and guide him back to lying down.
“Go back to sleep,” Hyrule said softly. “We’ll be here when you wake up. You’re safe now.”
Safe. What an odd notion.
Link didn’t know how long he slept, but the sun was in the sky when he next awoke. He looked around as he pulled himself to a sitting position, taking in the forest clearing they were in and the people milling about. He could tell they were trying to seem casual, making light conversation or performing menial tasks like mending or weapons maintenance. But there was a stifling quality to the air, a forced light-heartedness that felt out of place. Link knew they were watching him.
The heat had mostly receded, and his muscles were stiff like he remembered them feeling after a long training session. He marvelled at the feeling of the breeze in the air. He made eye contact with Hyrule across the clearing, and the boy smiled at him and made his way over.
“Are you feeling any better? Your fever broke last night, and I think whatever’s been hindering your lungs is clearing up too.”
“Yes, thank you.” Link said, more and more questions burning with each passing moment. Hyrule glanced at someone behind him, making a beckoning motion.
“I think Wild made something for you to eat, if you’re feeling up to it.”
“Hey!” The boy with the long hair came over in front of Link, cradling a bowl of something in his hands. “My name’s Wild. I usually cook everything, since everybody else can’t cook…anything.” He sent a pointed glance at Hyrule after that statement, then returned his attention back to Link. He held the bowl out to him, a bit shyly.
“I would’ve made your favorite, but I didn’t really have any way of knowing what that was…and well, I hope you like it anyway. You’re really…I think it will be good for you.”
Link gingerly took the bowl from him, studying the contents. It looked like some kind of soup or stew, with vegetables and meat. He took a tentative bite, trying to not let any tears spring to his eyes from the taste of real, cooked, delicious food after so long.
“Wild,” Link said softly. “This is my favorite meal.”
The boy brightened. “Oh! I’m glad I guessed right, in that case.”
Link didn’t tell him that he couldn’t have named a favorite meal before that point, couldn’t even really remember what he used to eat before the tasteless sustenance (he refused to call it food) of the dungeons. But this, this marked freedom, and hope, and something that felt akin to contentment.
So yes, this was his favorite meal.
Their leader came over next, introducing himself as Time. The rest of the group slowly converged, putting aside the pretense of being preoccupied.
“So. I’m sure you have questions. And we have some for you as well.” Time said.
“Like how you even ended up in that dungeon in the first place,” the white-caped man practically growled, frowning fiercely.
“Yes,” Time agreed, “like how you ended up in that dungeon. And I do believe introductions are also in order.”
They talked for several hours, Link scarcely believing what they told him. Heroes, gathered across centuries, to fight a great evil. In return, he told them about how he was framed by Lord Dagianis, how they attacked him in the middle of the night and dragged him into the prison. His voice faltered a few times during his story, or he had to stop and cough for several seconds. He also learned the names of the other heroes, how they came to be part of the group.
“What will become of my country?” he asked at the end, a hand over his face. “Who will protect them?” Despite it all, despite what they did to him, he couldn't bring himself to wish for their destruction.
“I can’t promise to know what will happen in the future,” Sky said, “but I know that Hylia has a plan. She won’t let your people fall.” His tone was resolute, leaving no room for doubt. Link chose to believe him.
Slowly, Link’s strength improved. They all started calling him First, after they worked out that he was truly the first of their spirit. He put on some weight, thanks to Wild’s cooking. Wild always made the same stew whenever he could tell First had a rough day, and it always made something inside him feel warm.
It took a while before he felt like anything but a bumbling fool when they ran into monsters and battles. He was once the best swordsman in his land, skill matched by none. But his muscles were still weak; his hands still shook when he held the sword Four forged for him for too long.
In one such battle, Warriors had to shove him out of the way of an arrow, First still trying to recover his balance from a jarring parry. Warriors told him to hang back, to clear the line and lie low. It wounded First’s pride, but it was a shame that came from recognition of truth. He was not helpful like this.
Warriors and Twilight offered to help him train, after that. They spent hours practicing form, footwork, battle maneuvers. Sometimes it ended in Warriors and Twilight tussling on the ground, a small smile curving First’s lips.
The physical marks of his imprisonment never faded. Instead, they scarred, bright red lines that encircled both wrists and ankles. He told himself that they didn’t bother him, that they were a sign he made it out alive. Sometimes he felt like there were phantom chains clinking as he walked.
The scars affected his mobility, sometimes. After the third time of him dropping his sword from stiff wrists and swearing in frustration, Legend approached him. He eyed him in that prickly way of his, before dropping a jar of a cream in First’s lap and explaining how to do some different stretches with remarkable patience.
There were nightmares that woke him screaming; he found himself staring at the sky for far too long. There were so many things that had changed.
One of the most irritating effects of his time in the dungeons was the exhaustion. He thought bitterly that he had years to sit and do nothing, and now that he was free all he wanted to do was sleep?
He knew it wasn't permanent. He knew his body needed to recover. But that didn't make it easier to bear the weight of the knowledge that they were stopping for the day because of him and him alone, to notice how they assigned him a third of the watches they assigned everyone else.
After a particularly rough battle, he found himself sitting next to Time by the campfire. He didn't dislike the man, but he wasn't entirely comfortable around him either. As the night wore on, he could feel the telltale exhaustion tugging at his bones, and he found himself slumping to one side. He barely even registered when his cheek rested against cool metal.
When he awoke the next morning in his bedroll, his recently acquired red scarf tucked around him, he immediately turned and made eye contact with Time. The man just smiled, and First felt something that he hadn’t felt in a very long time.
He finally knew that he belonged.