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fuckit-hero-of-trains · 4 years

Text

Alone Together Ch 6

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22311754/chapters/57276685

Chapter Summary:

There is hell to pay for messing with his family. And he intends to collect.

Or: A series of fics centered on Four and his interactions, inside and out.

Pounding.

The pounding of hooves on tightly packed dirt and stones. The pounding as the weight of two bodies jostle in a leather saddle, as the muscles of the horse below coil and release, slingshotting them forward through the dark.

The pounding of blood in his ears. The pounding of his heart in his chest.

Pounding.

They are pounding through the canyon, the oranges and blues of Wild’s divine device casting lights and dancing shadows against the walls of the rock face as they ride. As they race to find their friend

Behind him, Twilight feels as Legend adjusts his hold on his pelt, the other’s breath heavy and fast against his neck, anger and anticipation making the veteran twitchy in his seat. Below, Wild’s face is set in steel, the lights of his machine illuminating his features in licks of blue and orange fire.

Twilight doesn't need a mirror to know what his own face looks like. He knows he must look absolutely incensed, his eyes flashing like a beast’s in the dark, lips peeled back in a snarl.

He finds he doesn't care. Doesn't care if he is letting the wolf a little too close to the surface. Doesn't care if his eyes are glinting unnaturally in the light of the moon. Doesn't care that his teeth itch in his mouth, begging to sink into something and rend.

He. Doesn't. Care.

There is hell to pay for messing with his family. And he intends to collect.

With a flick of his wrists and a growling encouragement, Epona somehow picks up her pace from the dead sprint she was racing through before, her hooves now flying over the dirt as they finally burst from the canyon like Keese out of hell.

In front of them lay the expanse of East Hyrule field, illuminated in the light of the full moon.

High visibility tonight, Twilight notes distantly as the rolling hills, ponds, and small, crumbling sections of cobblestone wall come into view, shining with little icecaps of moonlit highlights.

Good, he thinks vindictively. It makes finding their prey all the easier.

Though, as the farmhand pulls on Epona’s reins, her pounding hooves and the humming whir of Wild’s machine slowing to a stop before they can enter the field proper, he hesitates to call the raiding party prey at all.

They are, after all, waiting for the heroes to arrive.

Though it had taken mere minutes for them to mount up and race out in pursuit of the marauders, it had apparently given the Bulblins ample time to prepare themselves.

Enough time to add another Bullbo with two riders to their raiding party, the archer already prepped, fire arrow lit and pointed at the heroes. Enough time for the lot of them to organize themselves for battle, arranged with their leader in the middle, flanked by four minions on each side. Enough time for their bastard of a leader to don a helm eerily reminiscent of King Bulblin’s, its roughly-hewn metal gleaming like a star in the night.

“Shit, Smithy…” Legend breathes against Twilight’s neck, voice a whisper but words heavy. They are full of wrath and dripping with a sort of guilty, yet boiling anger. The veteran’s eyes are no doubt drawn up up up, cemented to the spectacle their enemy has made of their friend, their brother, just like Twilight’s own.

Because those few minutes of preparation, of damned inaction on Twilight's part, had given the bastard enough time to string the smithy up to a massive pike sticking up from the end of his saddle.

Because there, hanging ten feet above their enemies and the beasts they ride, is Four.

A war trophy, limp and broken.

It makes Twilight feel sick, his head reeling, his stomach flipping, his heart dropping. He can taste bile in his mouth, acidic and so terribly, terribly familiar.

Familiar, like the sight of a blond head flopped forward, unmoving against a chest restrained by coil after coil of rope. Familiar like the streak of red ribbon tied to the top of the pike, waving tauntingly in the wind.

It is all so, so terribly familiar. So familiar that Twilight can feel the sun on his back even in the dead of night. Can see King Bulblin in the saddle, even when he is not there. Can feel the same growling, howling anger he had then.

However, the worst parts of the tableau, the parts that slam the farmhand back into the present moment– night, full moon overhead, Legend straining against his back, Wild growling under his breath–are the things that are different, stark in contrast to his memories.

Because unlike so many years ago, it is night right now.

It is night and Four looks so horribly pale, the moonlight turning his already ashen face practically translucent. And the teen’s ghostly complexion only serves to highlight the next horrible difference: the blood.

Colin did not fight back against his captor, the Ordonian boy falling limp after his act of bravery. No violence was necessary to make him the perfect hostage.

Four was not the perfect hostage.

The testament to that slowly cascades down from the smithy’s hairline in thick, scarlet lines. Half of the smithy’s face is painted with the gruesome crimson, several drops of red slicing lower, over Four’s cheeks and down his jaw, dripping onto his restraints.

The only thing staunching the rivulets of blood is the boy’s headband. Though not in a way that is of any help, Twilight thinks as anger once again takes hold of him, burning a frantic blaze through his blood.

Because the strip of green ribbon is no longer tied against Four’s forehead. Instead, his signature accessory has been dragged down lower, knotted tight over the boy’s eyes, further blinding the already unconscious teen.

It’s unnecessary.

It’s cruel.

It makes Twilight want to fly from his saddle, claws extended, teeth bared.

With a horribly conspicuous cough, the leader of the Bulblins drags Twilight’s attention back down from the sight of their friend. He smiles when he sees the pelt wearing hero's eyes on him, grin all vitriol and yellowed teeth. The bastard flips up the visor of his helmet, pupiless red eyes coming back into view, bright with sick vindication as he takes in the outraged expressions on their faces.

Twilight glares back into their depths with as much hatred as he can muster, steel-gray stabbing into red, a sword versus fire.

The leader leans back in his saddle and laughs at the expression, his squealing snorts soon joined by his flunkies, a round of pig-like laughs erupting into the night.

“Thank you for following,” the beastly man says, once his cruel laughs have subsided, the words oddly shaped and spat out of the hismouth. Like they don't quite fit right on his tongue. “This makes things much easier.”

“If you wanted a fight,” Twilight replies, words all teeth, fangs, a growl, “all you had to do was ask. You didn't need to attack the town. You didn’t need to drag anyone else into this.”

Green lips peel back into an even broader grin as the Bulblin’s brow ridges raise in amusement. With a swift movement, the leader leans back farther in his seat and delivers a kick to the wooden pole on the end of his saddle, sending Four’s head flopping limply, more blood dropping down, decorating the ropes in rubies.

And to Twilight’s absolute horror, Four’s head lifts from his chest.

His head lifts and though his eyes are shrouded, Twilight can see the pained confusion easily on the boy’s face. Can see how his brows are pulled low, almost brushing the blood blackened fabric of his headband turned blindfold. Can see how the smithy’s mouth opens and closes but no words escape, like he doesn't quite know how to get his vocal cords to work. Can see how his head shifts slowly back and forth, left and right, searching endlessly in the dark.

And with a sickening jolt, Twilight realises that for the first time, Four is easy to read.

He is easy to read and Twilight can see clear as day that the smithy is hurt and confused and scared.

“W-where…?” tumbles weak and slurred from the teen’s lips. “I- we –ed-Vi-?...W–are?”

“Four!” Twilight shouts, the nickname bursting unbidden from his throat as he strains forward in his saddle. He needs to tell the kid that he’s not alone in the dark. That the farmhand, that someone is there.

“-our?” The smithy mumbles in confusion. And then, with a little bit more clarity than before, as he angles his blind eyes in the direction of the farmhand’s voice, “Twi?”

Before Twilight can respond that yes, he’s here! He’s here! The Bulblin slams another kick into the pike, the blow jolting through Four’s body, rattling the teen’s head back and forth quickly. Too quickly for someone with as devastating a head injury as the small hero has clearly sustained.

With a startled groan of pain and twisted grimace, the teen falls limp in his restraints once more, chin coming back to rest on his chest.

For a second, Twilight feels almost numb, the concern for his friend, his little brother , so all consuming he can feel nothing else as he stares at the now unmoving teen.

And in the next moment, the concern that was bubbling up from within the farmhand’s chest flares into rage, hot like lava, filling his stomach and lungs and veins with heat. Again, the pelted hero becomes acutely aware of the teeth in his mouth and how they tingle with the need to sink into something and rip .

Preferably, that something being the bastard’s throat.

The leader of the Bulblins has the audacity to smile at Twilight’s rage, spreading his arms wide, as though his point has been proven

“I needed assurance that you would come,” he says, voice airy with sick glee. “And I needed you at your most angry, your most powerful,” the Bulblin replies with a shrug and an unrepentant sneer. “I think this will do nicely.”

He sends another kick into the pike and Twilight almost snarls as Four lets out a soft groan of distress in his unconsciousness. Behind him, he feels Legend’s muscles tighten, a cord ready to snap. Below, Wild’s fingers twitch on his boomerang.

“I want to defeat you when you are at your best.” The Bulblin says. And then, he directs his eyes purposefully over Twilight’s shoulder and then down toward Wild, smile sharpening into a dagger. “That you brought allies will make this all the more sweet.”

“But why?” Twilight asks, the words erupting from him, anger and confusion and protective instinct searing at the back of his throat. “Why are you doing this? I thought we had an agreement with King Bul–”

“King Bulblin is dead!” The leader howls, jolting forward, lungs heaving in rage as that damned smile is finally whipped from his face. Scarlet eyes glare balefully at Twilight, glowing with hate in the night.

“King Bulblin is dead,” the Bulblin repeats, slowly composing himself once more.

“Long live King Bulblin,” he finishes, slamming a gauntleted fist into the armor of his chest.

At the monstrous man’s gesture, the Bulblins flanking him immediately raise their arms and their voices, warbling screeches flying up into the night air.

And as their calls caterwaul higher and higher, an odd mixture of a war call and scream of triumph Twilight realises that the armor… the armor that the leader is wearing is familiar.

He's seen that armor before. Many times before. He has seen that armor in his memories; seen it at the height of day, white with noonday sun. He's seen it at sunset, burning orange with the dying sky. He's seen it at night, in the dark of an enclosed room, a trap.

The armor this bastard wears looks different on his smaller body, the panels not quite pulled taught, not as filled out, but it is undoubtedly the same armor.

This Bulblin, this Prince Bulblin, is wearing the King’s armor.

“I don't understand,” Twilight replies, having to shout over the caterwauls. “What happened to the old King Bulblin?”

The leader– Prince Bulblin– turns his head cocking it to one side in mock thought. After a moment, he bares his crooked, yellowing teeth in the facsimile of a grin.

“A shade came to the desert,” he says simply.

The words send off alarm bells in Twilight's head. Legend shifts in the saddle. Wild’s twitching fingers halt in shock.

“It is not common to find darkness in the heat of the sun and yet,” the Bulblin continues, his grin growing as he takes in the unsettled nature of the heroes before him. “It persisted.”

“It was strong,” Prince Bulblin says with a definitive nod. “It was strong, and it offered some of its power to King Bulblin.”

His sneer goes from mocking to venomous in seconds.

“King Bulblin refused.”

The Prince slams his fist into his chest again, the metal clunking heavily under the weight of the blow.

“We have one law. We answer to the strongest under the light of the sun, the most powerful under the shade of the moon. King Bulblin broke this law.”

“He was weak,” the leader spits, no remorse in the venom of his words. “The shade disposed of him. Gave me power. Gave us power.”

Suddenly, Prince Bulblin whips around and pulls something from a side saddlebag.

A knife, Twilight realizes as the short blade glints in the moonlight.

At the sight of the weapon, Twilight tenses in his seat, hand flying to the hilt of the Master Sword. Beside him, Legend leans to the left, tilting just far enough in the saddle to give himself a clean shot from around Twilight’s body. Wild, meanwhile, raises his arm, poised to let his boomerang fly.

Across from the heroes, eight archers draw into ready position, flame arrows only restrained when the Prince lifts a hand to still them.

Everything is silent for a moment, only the sound of a faint breeze heard as the two groups stare each other down.

The quiet is broken as the Prince lets out a chuckle.

At their leader’s signal, the archers let their bodies lose their tension, though Twilight notes that none of them move to set their bows aside, arrows still primed. Ready to shoot at a moment’s notice.

With slow, deliberate, almost performative motions, Prince Bulblin brings the knife up and lays it against the hand he had been using to direct his lackies. And then slowly, reverently, he drags it across the skin of his palm.

Black ichor bubbles to the surface along the line of the cut, a void that even the light of the moon cannot brighten.

“King Bulblin is dead,” he says again, placing his bleeding hand on the chest plate of his armor. When he pulls his palm away from the metal, a black handprint stands out in stark relief against the gleaming metal.

“Long live King Bulblin!” his companions screech, once again descending into rancorous cheers.

“Can we please just kill him and get Four back already?” Wild whispers angrily, voice almost lost amongst the ruckus.

Part of Twilight– the part that wants to run ahead, to shred and rip and tear apart anything that stands between him and Four– begs to agree. Another part– one that can see how outnumbered they are, that can see the amount of bows trained on them, a part that sounds suspiciously like the Old Man, damn him – knows they need to stall.

They need information.

They need a plan.

Most importantly, they need backup if they’re going to rescue Four safely.

“Got anything for those arrows?” Twilight hisses over his shoulder, keeping his eyes locked on the mob before them.

“You even need to ask?” the veteran whispers back, words sassy but voice deadly serious. “Buy me a minute.”

Twilight nods as subtly as possible and nudges his heel lightly into Epona’s side. In response, she carefully maneuvers to the right. Her movements are jerky and meandering, akin to a horse spooked by the noise of their enemies, drifting out of position as her inexperienced rider fails to notice.

But she is not meandering aimlessly. And Twilight is not an inexperienced rider.

No. They are in sync.

But Prince Bulblin doesnt know this.

Next to him, Wild follows his lead, no words needing to be exchanged between the two as the scarred teen angles the head of his machine in the same direction Epona moves. Behind him, Legend hunkers down more fully into Twilight’s spine, playing the scared companion while he subtly rummages through his bottomless pack.

“Did the shade put you up to this?” Twilight calls to their adversaries as their screams fade back into nothing, bringing red eyes back on him.

“No,” Prince Bulblin replies, too full of himself and his tirade to notice the movements of the heroes. “The shade is gone. I do this for none but myself.”

With practiced motions, the Prince seats himself more properly in his saddle, one hand coming back to the reins while the other takes hold of his weapon.

It’s the same club he used to bludgeon Four.

Blood, red and crusty, still paints the side of the wood and bone.

“King Bulblin was too weak for the shade,” he snorts derisively, raising his club to the moon. Around him, his fellow Bulblins raise their bows.

Twilight shifts in his saddle, raising himself slightly in the seat, ready to push Epona into a sprint. Legend presses in closer to his back, a weapon– not his bow but some kind of rod Twilight has never seen before– peaking from where the Veteran has it hidden in his tunic. Wild tenses on his bike one hand on the handle bars, arm poised to throw his weapon.

“He was too weak to kill you,” Prince Bulblin says simply. And then, with a smile, eyes wide and bottomless: “I will prove I am stronger than he ever was.”

Prince Bulblin lets his club fall and the field explodes into motion.

A rain of arrows, flaming and otherwise, sings through the air. Epona bursts into motion at the snap of leather reins, sprinting to the right of the firing squad. Wild’s machine growls to life, the front wheel coming off the ground as the device kicks into motion, the curved metal of his weapon glinting in the moonlight as it flies.

And as all this happens, a cacophony of noise and movement, illuminated in shades of white and grey, Legend jolts up in the saddle, one hand caught in Twilight’s pelt for balance as he raises a twin headed, dual propeller rod toward the onslaught and–

Twilight is damn near slammed into Epona’s neck, Legend’s weight adding to the problem as the pink haired hero is flattened against the farmhand’s spine by the force of the wind.

Behind them, the howl of the cyclone drowns out everything, the gale screaming across the field, blasting into their enemies as Twilight and Wild ride forward, away from the imminent danger with the wind at their backs.

Another beat and the wind finally lets up, the heavy chop chop chop of the propellers dying to a whisper as Legend eases off of Twilight’s back and slumps back into the saddle with a disbelieving little laugh.

Next to them,Twilight sees Wild look over his shoulder out of the corner of his eyes, catching the way the champion's face splits into a vicious grin as the teen lets out a whoop of victory.

Twilight risks a look back as well and, despite himself, feels a laugh punch up from his lungs at the sight laying behind them.

Because where there was once a line of enemies, organized, positioned perfectly, and poised to kill, there is now total and absolute chaos.

A massive dust cloud kicked up by the gale force winds swirls and eddies in shades of black, brown, and grey as pained and confused shouts break through the air.

Bullbos dart in and out of the mini dust storm, their riders desperately hanging from their saddles, trying to claw themselves back into their seats. Some are successful, pulling their squealing beasts into submission with massive yanks of the reigns. Others are less fortunate, bucked completely, disappearing back into the dust, or in some cases, under sharp, pounding hooves.

Dragging his eyes from the sight of their disorganized enemies, Twilight guides Epona into a turn, hopping over one of the short, shattered cobblestone walls before wheeling back around toward the now lawless riders. He urges Epona faster.

Disorganized and distracted. The perfect time to strike-

Thunder.

The sound of that terrible, familiar, damned rolling thunder has Twilight pulling up short, sending his brain, his eyes back to sunsets and warmth and water, water in his nose water in his lungs dark dark dark. He drags Epona to a whinnying stop, Wild slowing to a halt next to him as that low, resonant note breaks through the night, deep and all encompassing.

So all encompassing that the confused screams and shouts and squeals are consumed by it, cut off, drowned out by the sheer power of the horn.

Behind the veil of brown, the shadows of bodies, massive, hulking and small, wirey, all stop moving.

And then the dust, quite literally, settles.

The dust settles, and despite the apparent chaos of earlier, only a few Bulblins have been reduced to smoke. The dust settles, and Twilight can see the remaining marauders scrambling to their mounts, readying clubs and bows as they swing themselves into their saddles.

The dust settles, revealing an unscathed Prince Bulblin, ivory horn pressed to his lips, eyes burning red and hateful.

“Fuck,” Legend says, voice flat, an odd mix of awed distress and resignation.

In the next second, Prince Bulblin slams the reins down on Lord Bullbo’s back and the beast kicks into motion, rearing back on its hind legs. The movement sends Four’s swinging in the air, a pendulum in the night sky that Twilight can't help but wince at, thinking of the boy's head injury.

And then the beast dives forward pounding toward them at a break-neck pace, a silver arrow in the night. A massive silver arrow with gleaming white tusks and with seven slightly smaller brown arrows racing after it.

So yeah, Twilight thinks distantly as he urges Epona into a run, the pounding of hooves behind them grumbling louder and louder even as she sprints, fuck just about sums it up.

A flash of aqua and tangerine and Wild wheels up next to Epona’s coiling and releasing muscles, the sleek machine humming away as it keeps time with the horse.

“What now?!” Wild shouts over the roar of rushing air and the slam of hooves.

“We need to split up the mob!” Twilight shouts back, leaning against his girl’s neck and practically willing her to speed up. “If they surround us we’re sitting ducks!”

“Oh yeah?” Legend snorts meanly, shuffling through his bag to pull out his bow again. “And how exactly do you plan on getting them to do that? If you forgot, they kinda want to skin you alive. ”

“If it's any consolation, they want to skin you alive by association,” Twilight bites back, painfully aware that the sound of their pursuers is getting even closer, if the snorts and war cries are any indication.

Behind him, Legend shifts around in the saddle, no doubt lining up a shot. His entire body is tense along Twilight’s back as he pulls the string of his bow taut.

“Gee thanks, what a comforting thou–”

Legend cuts himself off with a shout of pain right as something–an arrow– wizzes past Twilight’s ear.

“Shit, Vet, are you alright?” Twilight shouts, desperately wanting to turn, to check, to comfort. Instead, he keeps his eyes glued on the field in front of them, pulling Epona into quick back and forth motions, serpentine, to make sure the pink haired hero isn't hit again.

“I’m fine,” the other grits out from between clenched teeth. “They got my calf. Nothing I can’t handle.”

Another heartbeat, and more arrows sing past them, some missing by miles, others by inches at best.

Legend answers their shots with his own, a quick flurry of twang twang twang thrumming in quick succession. Although, based on the lack of screams, Twilight guesses that the same zig-zag that is keeping them from getting hit again is also impeding the Veterans aim.

Beside them, Wild glides back and forth on his machine, dodging volleys of arrows like he was born to do so. With the flick of the wrist, his machine swings right once more and with his open hand the Champion reaches for his slate and…

“No bombs, Cub!” Twilight all but screams, starling the teen beside him. Scarred fingers fly from the slate slam and back up to the handle bars, steadying the device as wide blue eyes flash to the farmhand questioningly.

“We can’t risk the big one going down!” Twilight shouts by way of explanation.

Even without tearing his eyes from the field in front of them, the farmhand can see the moment the realization dawns on Wild.

Because yes, while they want to get rid of Prince Bulblin and his lackeys, there is another obstacle in their way.

That obstacle being a small teen whose entire body is being jolted by the motions of the chase, the back and forth slamming probably worsening his already terrible condition.

Because if Lord Bullbo were to fall wrong… Four would be the one to pay for it. Probably with his life.

“Fuck,” Legend hisses again, the curse somehow coming out more vehiment this time.

“Then what should we–!”

Another scream of pain, this one yanked from Wild’s throat.

Twilight’s head whips to the side at the harrowing sound, catching the moment the teen is thrown forward in his seat. Beneath the champion, his machine swerves dangerously as his weight slams into the handle bars. An arrow blossoms from his shoulder like a sick imitation of a flower and almost immediately, blood begins to stain the bright blue of Wild’s tunic black.

And for the briefest of seconds, as Wild swerves, face pulled in a grimace, as Legend stifiles another hiss of pain, Twilight wishes he had left both of them behind. Wishes he hadn't had his second of indecision. Wishes he hadn't caved.

Wishes desperately that he could take their injuries for himself.

And then Wild rights himself and steadies his machine, snarl still on his face but eyes fire bright with determination. Behind them, there is a slam, a squealing scream, and against his spine, Twilight feels as Legend lets out a vindictive, poison filled laugh.

A quick zig-zag of blue and orange, sunset and ocean, and Wild pulls in tight to Epona’s side, the metal of his divine device almost touching her heaving flanks.

And the teen looks up at him, grimace turning to a too wide smile, too many teeth to be anything nice.

“I’ve got an idea,” Wild hisses from between his bared canines.

A statement. An intention. Something he can do, but not enough time to explain exactly what that something is.

A warning.

No.

An extended hand, the invitation to jump.

But only if Twilight takes it.

And though the farmhand still wishes they hadn't gotten hurt, wishes that he had taken both arrows for himself, he feels something inside him settle. Dripping concern and clawing guilt hardens into steely resolve.

Because they chose to come with him. Because they knew what they were getting into.

Because they are heroes just like him.

And so, Twilight nods

No need for Wild to explain. The teen can handle himself and Twilight trusts him to know what to do.

The vicious smile slashing across the younger’s face becomes more genuine for a second, less vitriol and more exhilaration.

And then with a whooping, wrathful, excited war cry, Wild grabs the handlebars of his machine and yanks, peeling away from Twilight’s side. In seconds, he is nothing but a meteorite of blue and orange fire speeding off into the night.

“They let him go,” Legend reports, losing another arrow. And then, grimly: “They’re gaining on us.”

Twilight could have guessed that by the sound of the Bullbos’ heavy breathing and the slamming of hooves practically upon them, but gives a grunt of acknowledgement anyway.

With experienced hands, the pelt wearing hero leads Epona through a feint to the left, and then a sharp dodge to the right.

He feels a sneer pull at his lips as the sound of warbling curses and the noise of hooves scrambling to catch in dirt grows fainter as they pull away once more.

These beasts may be faster than his trusty steed, he thinks vindictively. But they were dim witted and had the turning capability of Fyrus. Which was to say, practically none.

The moment of reprieve, however, is short lived. As soon as Twilight pulls Epona into a straight-away, the cacophony of grunts and hooves pounding on hard packed dirt is back.

With a glance over his shoulder Twilight can see how rabid the pack behind them is becoming.

Prince Bulbin’s eyes are twin blood moons in the dark, full of malice and hatred and dripping of a sick eagerness. Beneath him, Lord Bullbo is a heaving mass of grey and silver, metal armored body clunking heavily with every lurch forward. The beast's snout is open, panting and dribbling slobber everywhere, tusks jutted forward, ready to peirce, to gore.

Behind the leader, the posse is in a similar frenzied state, voices whooping, clubs swinging, reigns whipping to get their mounts to move faster.

All eyes, the red and yellow pinpricks of color flashing in the night, are locked on Twilight, Legend, and Epona. Like the world has narrowed to just the chase, the hunt, the prey, the kill.

Which is why none of the Bulblins see the equine machine painted in shades of ethereal aquamarine and burning, sunset orange racing toward them until it is too late.

No. They don't see Wild until the teen has launched himself into the air, until he is flying above their heads, his ride fading into nothing but streams of light on the ground behind him. They do not see him until the champion levels three ice arrows at them, the projectiles barely restrained by his knuckles as they sit knocked in his bowstring.

“Eat shit, you ugly, overgrown cabbages!”

And then the arrows are no longer restrained at all, the three white tipped projectiles twanging through the night air and finding their targets: the front hooves of the three Bullbos directly behind Prince Bulblin.

With a crash, most of the pack becomes a tangled swarm of limbs, hooves, brown hide, green skin, and squeals of pain, leaving only the Prince and two other riders unscathed as they continue to race unimpeded after Epona

Wild, meanwhile, whips out his paraglider to cushion his fall, lands with a roll, and immediately summons his device again with a swift click of his slate.

Then with a: “Come get some, fuckers!” The Champion kicks his machine into gear and streaks off toward the entrance of the canyon. The Bulblins who are somehow still alive quickly give chase, the orders of their new King all but forgotten.

And for a second, even with his own pursuers galloping closer, Twilight can’t help but focus on Wild. On his Cub.

Because even though Twilight knows the champion can handle himself, as he watches four shadows race after Wild baying for blood, the farm hand can’t help but wonder if the teen has bitten off more than he can chew.

Because Wild, for all his showmanship, for all his goading, for all his success, is still injured after all.

But then, a distant war cry sounds through the night.

A distant war cry sounds and five shadows burst from the canyon, racing forward to meet Wild. And not for the first time that night, Twilight thanks his night vision. Because despite the darkness and the distance, the farmhand can see that the figure leading the shadows is clothed in light green and white.

They’re here, he thinks numbly. The others are finally here.

All at once, a breath Twilight didn't know he was holding leaves him. A feeling, a swooping sort of calm–no– determination replaces the bubbling concern.

He focuses his eyes back onto the field before him, feels Epona’s muscles heaving and feels like he can breathe again. He can breathe again and he can focus on getting Four back.

Wild would be fine. It was one of his other little brothers he had to worry about now.

“How many we got left?” Twilight yells over his shoulder.

“Three!” Legend shouts back. “The King plus a couple of stragglers.”

Twilight risks another glance back, confirming what Legend reported.

The pelt wearing hero doesnt think Prince Bulblin could look more rabid if he tried. The beastly man's entire face is split into a nasty snarl as he screams snorting wordless curses into the wind. Above his head, he swings his bone and wood club in little circles, ready to bludgeon as soon as he gets close enough.

And he's getting close enough. A handful more seconds and Lord Bullbo’s nose will be level with the right side of Epona’s hindquarters.

Twilight whips back forward, eyes scanning the field in front of him, analyzing

Slight hill on the right. A few lingering puddles at his two o’clock. On his left, the bridge, Eldin Bridge, is rapidly approaching from the dark. Dead ahead, a few of those destroyed walls stand out bright as bones in the moonlight.

Another glance back. The Prince is even closer, but now vering to the right. Avoiding the wall. Not an experienced enough rider.

Twilight snaps his head forward once more.

He runs some lightning quick calculations. Runs them past his years of experience.

Outlook: not great.

But if Twilight has learned anything tonight, it's to trust the ones he loves. To trust himself.

So Twilight leans forward and presses his forehead to Epona’s neck. He can feel the way her neck jolts back and forth as she continues to lunge through the field. Her skin radiates heat, smells of hay and sweat. He can hear her heavy breathing, sharp breaths punching in and out.

“Just a little longer, girl,” he says as he straightens. “One more trick and you’ll be done.”

He thinks he sees her ears flick, though with how hard she's running, it's hard to tell.

And yet somehow, the pelt wearing hero knows she heard him.

“You’re gonna want to hold on for this!” Twilight shouts,only waiting long enough to feel Legend wrap his arms around his middle before the farmhand leans forward and urges Epona faster with his heels.

And Twilight locks his eyes forward and rides.

They reach the first of the partially crumbled walls as fast as the wind, hooves pounding on the ground one moment and weightless in the next as Epona leaps over it.

It feels like they’re flying. It feels like being shot through the air from a cannon, up up up into the sky. It feels like they hang in the air for eternity together when, in reality, Twilight knows it must be only a fraction of a second.

And then that second ends. Gravity catches up with them and sends them hurtling back towards the ground.

Epona’s hooves connect with the dirt hard, the weight of two extra bodies slamming down adding increased poundage to the collision. Twilight uses that extra weight, that extra oomph , and throws his body to the left, almost sitting perpendicular to the ground in the saddle.

For a split millisecond, he can see dirt and grass rushing past his nose in a blur. Can feel Legend’s nails dig into his sternum in shock and fear.

And then he can feel the moment the weight of their jump evens out, his stomach jumping from his feet back up into position in his belly, and with that second of weightlessness, Twilight pulls hard on the reins and drags Epona into the sharpest turn they’ve ever attempted.

And by Hylia, Epona turns like she’s spinning on a dime, her head down low, and then flying back up as she snaps her entire body through the turn.

Their inertia slams into them as Epona’s hooves drag through the dirt, slowing enough to dive around the left side of the debilitated wall; The weight of it throwing Twilight and a now screaming Legend forward and too far to the left in the saddle.

Twilight uses that weight, the moment of slowness, and hooks his ankle around the stirrup on the right side, clenches his legs and core, and heaves both himself and the pink haired hero until they’re sitting right side up in the leather seat once more.

Sitting right side up and, due to their fancy riding and sharp turn, now riding right behind the trio of riders that had been tailing them.

“If you do that again, I will throw up on you ,” Legend hisses in the farmhand’s ear, hands still fisted in Twilight's tunic like his life depends on it.

Something about the veteran’s words, the exhilaration of the pulling off the maneuver, and the dumbfounded, angry faces of the Bulblins now in front of them causes Twilight to bark a laugh despite the circumstances.

“After we take down these assholes, maybe?” Twilight offers, taking the reins in one hand as he raises the other to once again unsheathe the Master Sword from his back.

“Yeah, yeah,” is Legend’s witty response as he finally loosens his grip enough to pull out his bow and knock an arrow in the string.

A couple of heartbeats later, and Epona pulls up beside the lackie’s Bullbo on the far right. Twilight dispatches the Bulblin with a swift stab through the chest, black blood hissing off the divine blade. On the far left, the other Bulblin slumps in his saddle, an arrow in his throat bubbling inky ichor.

With their riders dead, the Bullbos veer off to the side, disappearing into the night.

Leaving just the Lord and the Prince.

The Prince who snarls and screams at the sight of his dead posse. The Prince who then turns gnashing teeth and shining eyes on them, hatred and malice radiating off of him in heaving waves.

The Prince whose face suddenly seems to regain some icy composure. The Prince who squares his shoulders forward and with a snap of leather reins, orders Lord Bullbo to go faster even as he yanks the leather to the left.

To the left. Toward the bridge, just like Twilight always knew he would.

“Shit, is the bastard making a break for it?” Legend hisses as their target clatters onto the cobblestone of the structure, hooves and metal armor making a ruckus as they move

“Not running away,” Twilight replies, not even needing to guide Epona to follow. She already knows what must happen. Has done it enough times to know.

Soon enough, the dull thump thump thump of her gait turns to ringing clacks as she too slams her hooves down against the white, carved rock of the Bridge of Eldin.

Twilight pulls Epona to a stop and behind him, the farmhand can feel as Legend cranes his neck to see what's going on.

At the other end of the bridge, the Prince heaves his own mount around to face them, the silver haired beast pawing at the rock

“Not running away,” Twilight reiterates, resolutely. Grimly. “He’s led us to the final arena.”

Legend’s head whips from their quarry to the slim stretch of bridge– barely wide enough for the two mounts– in front of them, down to the yawning void beneath the cobblestone.

Twilight tightens his grip on the Master Sword, the leather of his gloves creaking against the pommel. Across the way, The Prince hefts up his club, ready to strike.

“No fucking way,” the veteran breathes, putting it all together.

“Don't worry,” Twilight reassures as he holds the reins at the ready, prepared to charge the moment his opponent makes the first move. “I’ve done this before.”

“Done this bef–?” Legend cuts himself off with hiss and a groan. “By the Wind Fish, Wild gets it from you,” he finishes, resigned.

Twilight ignores the comment, eyes locked on the Prince. The Prince stares back. A stand off.

“Aim for him, not the beast,” Twilight says, words coming out quiet, as though speaking too loudly will shatter the moment. Will shatter the moment and send them into the fight. “If the Bullbo falls…”

He doesn't finish the thought, eyes trailing up from his enemy.

Up to Four.

If possible, there is more blood on the kid’s face now than there was before. Nearly his entire face is now covered in crimson, the red cascading over his forehead, onto his blindfold, and down to his chin.

And yet despite the blood, despite the massive head injury at the source of the scarlet, and despite the rough motions of the ride they had just run through, Twilight can also distinctly see that the boy’s head is up. His head is lifted from his chest. In fact, it is thrown back as Four thrashes in his binding, feet kicking, shoulders shaking, back arching.

Twilight can also see that Four’s mouth is opening, closing, opening, closing in time with his struggles. Is he talking to himself? Is he asking for Twilight, the others, anyone in the dark? Bargaining with the Prince below him? Mumbling nonsense?

Twilight can’t tell. Even with his advanced hearing abilities, he cannot catch a scrape of the smithy’s voice.

No. He cannot hear the teen’s words.

But he can see their effect.

He can see the way the Prince snarls, the anger from his ‘perfect plan’ going awry rising up through the monstrous being like a wave. Can see when he leans back and delivers three harsh smashes of his feet to the pole, taking out all his rage on the hero he has at his disposal. Can see the way Four’s face contorts in pain.

But the smithy doesn't slump in his bindings. Not this time.

Four grimaces and grits his teeth and he keeps his bleeding head held high, up to the moon. He keeps his head held high and continues to thrash against the ropes, still fighting despite it all. Still fighting.

They need to get him down, Twilight thinks. They need to get him medical attention. They need to help him. They need to help him now.

So Twilight doesn't wait for The Prince to make the first move.

The farmhand nudges Epona forward and she takes off down the straight-away of the bridge at a thundering sprint.

Across from them, The Prince lets out a giddy sounding war cry and mirrors them, Lord Bullbo’s metal armor gleaming white in the moonlight as it streaks closer and closer and closer…

Twilight raises the Master Sword to the sky. Legend tenses behind him, body nearly as taut as his bow string. Prince Bulblin heaves up his bone club.

Closer, closer, closer, closer closer, closercloserclosercloserclosercl–!

They meet in the middle of the bridge, two arrows flying, one holy blade swinging down, a club of bone and blood thrown in a wide arc.

One arrow, two, clang harmlessly off of the front of Prince Bulbin’s armor–

Twilight's hand is wracked with discomfort.

Jolts of vibrating pain rocket up Twilight’s sword wielding arm, jerking up his shoulder and causing his muscles to involuntarily seize.

He must have hit the armor with too much force he thinks distantly.

And then he doesnt think at all. Only feels.

Feels an explosion of agony surge up his body, a bolt of lightning starting from his leg, crackling across every nerve ending of his foot, ankle, knee, thigh, hip, until it reaches his body. Like lightning arcing across the sky, the pain spreads in searing bolts, the echoes of thunderous pain causing him to curl up against Epona’s neck, forcing the air out of his lungs in a scream.

Broken. Broken. Something is shattered. Broken.

And every jolt of Epona’s hooves against the stone as she runs, every shift of the saddle, every movement of anything sends a terrible, pounding agony up from his leg, aftershocks shifting his diaphragm up, making it impossible to get enough air in his lungs.

“Twi! Twi! Damn it, Twilight! Answer me!” Legend shouts, momentarily pulling the farmhand from his pain through sheer force of angered and panicked voice alone.

Back in the present moment, Twilight can feel it in his injury when Epona slows. The end of the bridge, he muses. Then, with careful, light steps, he feels as she spins around, facing the middle of the bridge once more, prepared for the next pass.

Good Girl, Twilight thinks distantly, forcing himself up from his folded over position, straightening his spine despite the searing agony shooting from his leg. Behind him, the veteran shifts in the saddle, eliciting another groan of pain from the pelt wearing hero’s lips as the younger leans over to examine Twilight’s leg.

“Shit,” Legend hisses.

And though the other’s voice is flat, Twilight can’t help but think well that can’t be a good sign.

Because Legend has seen everything. Getting a reaction as devoid of emotion as possible, as purposefully not telling as possible, is telling in its own way. And what it is telling Twilight is that things are decidedly not good.

Not that he couldn't have told you that himself. He is the one with the probably shattered left leg, afterall.

But he can’t focus on that. Can’t focus on the way the other hero begins to shuffle through his bag, hands fast, too fast for his seemingly blase response. Can’t focus on the way Twilight can feel whatever is left of his bones click and shift under his skin, biting into muscle.

Can’t let the pain or panic consume him.

Because in front of them, Prince Bulblin wheels around, a triumphant sneer on his lips. Below the monster, Lord Bullbo paws the ground and shakes his tusks, ready for another go.

“Legend,” Twilight grits out, interrupting the other midway through a muttered curse, a second run through of his bag.

With a bit of effort, the pelt wearing hero turns in the saddle enough to catch the other's eyes over his shoulder. Electric blue meets steely gray, the sky against an oncoming storm.

He looks Legend in the eye and though the other's face is straight, a mask of control, a shield of blankness, Twilight can see the faintest spark of energy–panic– in the way the other's eyes flicker. The way his eyes dart back to his bag, not done searching, not done trying to find some other solution.

Twilight sees desperation in the others eyes if not in his face and Twilight paints a smile, strained and shaking, over his own lips.

“I’m fine,” Twilight says, lying through gritted teeth, through his ugly facsimile of a smile “We’ll be fine.”

Stretched truth , that giggly, familiar, nostalgic voice whispers in his ear. And despite the pain the voice brings, a nebulous ache in his chest rather than the raw, pounding agony of his leg, Twilight can't help it when his false smile turns a little more genuine.

A stretched truth , he agrees.

Because he is not lying if it will be true eventually.

And it will be true. They will be fine. They will be fine, even if he has to drag himself and his brothers from the jaws of Hylia herself.

He has spit in the faces of those who would call themselves gods before. He has no qualms with doing it again.

“We can do this,” Twilight says firmly, no room for argument.

Then the man with the soul of a wolf feels his gritted grin turn vicious, lips pulling up wider. Hungry, the flash of fangs before the kill.

“Now focus and shoot the motherfucker in the head.”

Legend’s eyes widen, the mask of control slipping out of place for the briefest of seconds, letting shock shine through.

And then Legend has no need for the mask. Life comes back to his face, the flickering, uncertain light in his eyes shifting to lightning, decisive, powerful, unshaken. His eyebrows pull lower, anrgy. His mouth sets in a hard line, his jaw locked.

Legend nods his head at Twilight’s words, entire face set in steely, unforgiving stone. No longer a mask, purposefully controlled and emotionless, but strong, expressive, and unflinching.

Another war cry sends both heroes’ eyes forward and just like that, the moment is broken. Epona slams back into motion and the night is racing past the two once more.

Arm raising the Master Sword despite the pain. Body held tense, ready to release arrows.

A terrible smile ready for more spilt blood. More shattered bodies getting closer and closer.

Closer, closer, closer, closer closer, closercloserclosercloserclosercl–!

Two arrows fly by Twilight’s ear in quick succession. Neither strike Prince Bulblin in the helm, but they serve their purpose: one lodges in between two chinks of armor on the beast’s left side, the other clanging against a shoulder plate. The impacts, one no doubt painful, the other merely disorienting, allow both Twilight and Legend to lean out of the way of a blind swing.

Seeing the opening as if in slow motion, Twilight plunges the Master Sword into the meat of the bastard’s arm.

The speed of their mounts rips them away from one another, dragging the sword of evil's bane up up up as they move past, cleaving skin and armor alike until it finally pulls free with a sickening sound.

In seconds, Epona delivers them to the end of the bridge once more and then swings around, ready for another go.

At the other end, Twilight feels a burning, wrathful giddiness in seeing that the victorious smirk has been ripped from the Prince’s face, replaced with a grimace of pain. Pain and a need to deal that pain back twelve fold.

Twilight is also glad to see that he had cleaved more than just skin with the last attack. Pieces of hewn armor on the bastard’s left side have been shorn, exposing green skin and a river of inky black where the Master Sword had connected.

It figures that the armor would be easier to shred now than ever before.

It had been made for the King, the leather and cobbled together metal pulled taut over the monstrous man’s massive body.

It was not made for small, insignificant usurper Princes playing at being a leader.

A furious scream and they’re off to the races again.

Closer, closer, closer, closer close–!

An arrow fires off, flies true, and sinks into Prince Bulblin’s exposed side with a thunk. He screams curling forward in the saddle to protect the injury, to further protect his exposed side.

A second arrow sings from behind Twilight and slams intself directly between the Prince’s eyes, throwing the monster’s head back as his helm rattles at the force.

The green skinned beast hangs limp in his saddle for a moment.

And that moment is all Twilight needs to plunge the Master Sword into his exposed stomach, letting the Epona’s speed shove the blade all the way through, letting her pounding steps away drag the sword out through the Prince’s body, cutting clean through skin and muscle.

They reach the other end of the bridge, and as Epona turns, Twilight hopes against hope that the Prince is down.

He is not. Bleeding profusely, black blood pouring from his mouth and side, The Prince still sits in his saddle, defiant. He sits, and though his arm is a veritable waterfall of ink, he still hauls his club up. He still glares at them with an undying hatred. Still snarls and bares his crooked yellow teeth, as though he wants to taste blood other than his own on his tongue.

“Bastard wants a fight to the death,” Legend mutters, readying two more arrows.

Another flurry of movement draws Twilight’s eyes back up.

Four is still struggling. His mouth is still opening closing opening closing. Blood still runs down his face. But in his thrashing, his blindfold has come loose. Twilight cannot see the teens eyes, but he can tell they are free. Wide and free.

“If that's what he wants,” Twilight replies grimly, bringing his eyes back down. Back to the only thing standing in their way from saving their brother, “then that's what we’ll give him. Let's get our smithy back.”

They move as one, Epona and Lord Bullbo springing forward toward one another, brown and silver blurs on a collision course in the center of the bridge. Getting closer and closer...

Closer, closer, closer, closer close–!

Before Legend can loose an arrow, before Twilight can deliver a mortal blow, before they can even begin to reach their enemy, the Prince’s grim expression, his dead set determination, his vicious snarl, all of it, melts off of his face.

It melts off his face, only to be replaced with a smile. A sneer of yellow teeth, joyful, terrifying.

The Prince smiles, and drops his club into the darkness below.

And then with a full body motion, he yanks Lord Bullbo’s head to the left.

Left left left left too far left. A shout is ripped from Twilight's throat as he watches the beast struggle against its master, small, sharp hooves dragging dragging dragging against the cobblestone. Its massive head lashes back and forth at the incessant pulling, tusks flashing dangerous white, trying to reach around and skewer its rider.

It's a refusal. A refusal to die.

But they’re going too fast. Too much momentum.

They’re going to fall.

They’re going to fall off the bridge, master and beast together in one screaming mass, into the yawning void beneath them, with Four still tied to the saddle.

...

But both Twilight and the Prince had miscalculated.

They had miscalculated Lord Bullbo’s desperation to live. The silver haired beast locks his front legs, the edges of his hooves catching on some unseen groove, slowing him down enough to avoid the plummet.

The Prince had also miscalculated how far away Epona was, the horse gliding to a stop mere inches from him, sword and arrows trained on his shocked face.

But perhaps most of all, the miscalculation that cost Prince Bulblin his vengeance, his shitty, desperate last ditch effort to hurt the Hero of Twilight by any means necessary, was one he had made almost half an hour ago.

Because Prince Bulbin had underestimated the teen he had tied to his saddle. Had figured the kid would never be able to reach the dagger strapped to his belt with his arms tied down.

Colin never would have been able to.

But Four is not Colin.

So when several distinct snaps cut through the night, when a small body falls through the air with a knife pointed downward ready to kill, Prince Bulblin has no one to blame but himself.

Twilight wonders if Prince Bulblin has the chance to regret it, or if the blade plunging through his helm, into his skull kills him before he has the chance to.

With a kick, a leap off of green shoulders, Four sends the limpPrince out of his saddle, off of Lord Bullbo’s back and down into the endless dark below with the knife still lodged in his head.

The smithy lands less than gracefully, a roll turned sprawling of limbs.

Almost immediately, he sits up, head swinging and swaying, like he can’t keep it steady. Like he's lost all sense of what steady is.

He looks up at Twilight with his swaying head, his blood covered face, and his free eyes… his free eyes that were twitching, flicking every which way, blinking too fast. His eyes that swirled and swirled and swirled with color, disorienting and too bright as the rainbow of shades whirl at breakneck speeds in the moonlight

“Fuck,” Four mumbles, the word coming out garbled and slurred, the ‘f’ too long, like his jaw is stuck in place.

“Th’was m-our favorite knife.”

And then the smithy’s eyes roll back in his head and he collapses back against the cobblestone.

…

It takes three days for Four to wake up.

The first night of those three days is a blur to Twilight.

He remembers cradling Four to his chest as he rode frantically through the dark. He remembers making it to the village, remembers seeing the broken remains of the stalls still sputtering clouds of smoke. He remembers bursting into Renado’s house, yelling for help. He remembers someone–Luda? Legend?–telling him to let the smithy go. He remembers fighting them for a second, they were trying to take Four from him . But then he remembers coming back to himself, allowing the shamins to rush the teen into the clinic.

Twilight sort of remembers collapsing, the screaming in his leg finally taking its toll. Sort of remembers shouts and then arms dragging him– dammit, work with me country boy!– pulling him into the clinic as well.

He thinks he remembers being laid on a bed. He thinks he remembers clawing at white sheets as someone put pressure on his leg. Pressure followed by the terrible feeling of something clawing, crawling, shifting beneath his skin. He thinks he remembers screaming.

He doesn't remember blacking out. But then again, no one ever remembers the lack of consciousness.

What he does remember is waking up the next morning, leg immobilized, body tucked into a neat infirmary bed, and several pairs of eyes staring at him in relief.

The same relief Twilight felt when he jolted up and looked around, searching, searching, searching until his eyes finally landed on Four.

Four, who was tucked into the bed next to his own. Four whose small stature almost appeared to be swallowed up by the white sheets of his cot. Four whose head was wrapped in a clean bandage, a stand in for his headband. Four who’s eyes were closed, but whose breaths were gentle and rhythmic, whose face had regained some color.

Four, who was safe.

The rest of that whole first day was characterized by that same rush of relief, everyone sort of riding on the high of not losing anyone. Riding on the high of everyone coming back in mostly one piece.

After settling back into his bed after seeing the smithy, Twilight soon learned that, other than himself and Four, no-one else had needed to take up residence in the infirmary, the others only sustaining a few bruises; a couple of nicks here and there. Even Wild and Legend’s arrow wounds were deemed a-okay, a careful procedure to remove the projectiles and a red potion later, and both young men were right as rain.

Twilight’s leg meanwhile, had needed a bit more attention.

Apparently, having most of the bones of your leg shattered by a massive club moving at breakneck speeds and then continuing to ride a horse after said shattering incident was not the best of ideas.

Not that Twilight had much choice in the matter. They had needed to save Four.

Unfortunately, necessity does not grant invincibility. Nor mercy.

It had taken quite a bit of Hyrule’s magic and several hours to knit Twilight’s bones back together. Lots of sugar sweet, gladiolus colored magic channeled very precisely to carefully pick fragments of bone from his muscles, from his skin, and realign them into their correct configurations.

A blue potion dripped into Twilight’s unconscious mouth had sealed Hyrule’s tedious work together, smoothing over marred skin, sealing shredded muscle tissue, mending bones

“You are lucky to have such a talented and well trained healer, my friend,” Renado had told him after he woke up, the shaman's dark eyes flicking over to where the traveling hero sat at Four’s bedside. “An injury like this could have easily taken your ability to walk.”

“Oh it was nothing, really,” Hyrule had responded, eyes trained on Four’s limp hand, an embarrassed but pleased smile pulling at his face. “I had to do something pretty similar a couple of times on my own adventures. This really wasn't anything special.”

Which was just about the most worrying answer Hyrule could have given. Behind his eyes Twilight saw too big ears, amber eyes, heard screeching laughs, and tasted that horribly numbing bitterness in his mouth.

Sometimes, the farmhand really wondered how Hyrule was still so bright despite the harrowing nature of his world.

Unfortunately, despite the amount of magic Hyrule had funneled into his leg, Twilight was still consigned to bed rest for the next few days.

Which left the farmhand front and center as the generally relieved feelings of Day One slipped into the building worry of DayTwo of Four’s continued unconsciousness.

Even though none of the others were ordered to stay in the clinic, at least two of them were in the infirmary at every hour of the day.

In the morning, it was Wild and Time.

For the duration of the early hours, the champion sat at Twilight’ side, flicking through the photos on his Slate, showing them to the farmhand and regalling the older hero with tales of each pictured place, every story more ridiculous than the last.

Yet, despite the smile, despite the little self-deprecating chuckles, Twilight caught the way Wild’s eyes wandered to the small figure in the bed only a few feet to the right.

Time, on the other hand, was much less subtle about his worry.

The Old Man sat rigidly next to the smithy, clad in his full armor with his sword sheathed but ready in his lap as he stared at the gentle rise and fall of Four’s chest.

He was no doubt feeling guilty for letting them go off to the shops alone. Feeling guilty for not anticipating the attack, for not being there to protect them. And so he sat in the clinic, body tense and eye remorseful, as he stood watch. Making sure it would not happen again.

In the afternoon, it was Legend, Warriors, and Wind.

Wind fulfilled the role Wild had in the morning: that of story teller. And yet, even in taking up the mantle of Twilight Distracter, the sailor’s stories were totally different from Wild’s own. Where the champion had funny anecdotes, little stories of him doing this or that dumb thing on the way from one place to another, Wind had epics.

Wind had stories of ancient yet lazy dragons, of whirlpools and mountainous octorocks. Stories of Phantom Ships and a cowardly second mate with a heart of gold. Each tale was accompanied by voices, hand motions, sound effects, the whole nine yards.

But for how different his storytelling style was from Wild’s, just like the champion, the sailor couldn't quite keep his eyes from straying to the silent smithy.

Warriors and Legend, meanwhile, occupied their time in the infirmary in the same way they occupied their time anywhere: bantering.

From their position near the front of the room, they circled through their usual affair of topics: making fun of each other’s clothes, voices, item choice, everything they could think of to belittle.

Yet Twilight could tell it was subdued.Their jabs weren’t quite as barbed, weren't quite as sharp. It was as if both heroes were worried that they would hit too close to home, worried they would puncture each other with their words when they both already felt too full of holes.

Twilight also couldn't help but notice that all three had their swords with them. Whether Time had urged them to do so or if it was of their own volition, the pelt wearing hero couldn't tell.

Finally, at night it was Sky and Hyrule.

Neither of them had even tried to hide their concern. No. As soon as they had entered, both heroes had sat on either side of Four’s bed, Sky taking up wood carving silently on the right while Hyrule took up residence on the left, holding onto the smithy’s limp hand.

For a long time, the only sound in the clinic was the rhythmic shck shck shck shck of Sky peeling away layers of wood.

Eventually, however, it was overtaken by the sound of mumbling.

At a glance, Twilight could see that the sound was coming from Hyrule, the boy's mouth moving slightly, one hand holding Four’s while the other was raised and glowing chrysanthemum pink beside the smithy’s head.

The soft sounds of the traveling hero’s voice continued for a few minutes, but eventually they and the pink light faded back into nothing. Slowly, Hyrule drew back into himself an exhausted look painted over his face as he stared at Four, eyes searching

“I don't understand,” Hyrule said, voice quiet. He took Four’s hand back between both of his own, rubbing a thumb over the smaller teen’s knuckles. “There's nothing left to heal. So why? Why won't he wake up?”

Twilight had no answer for him.

By the third day, everyone is in the clinic starting at dawn, concern, guilt, and anxiety making the air heavy as they shuffle in to begin their vigil.

And it only gets worse as the day drags on, the air getting thicker and thicker with emotion until it is almost unbreathable.

Beside Twilight, Wild looks through his album but never turns it around to show. Time sits at the foot of Four’s bed, more rigidly than ever, sword at the ready. Wind has positioned himself next to the oldest hero, more silent and still than Twilight could ever remember seeing the normally energetic sailor. Hyruel and Sky have reclaimed their spots on their side of Four’s bed, two guardians, unmoving and vigilant.

Warriors and Legend’s banter, meanwhile, has taken a drastic turn for the worse. Where the day before their words had been too soft, now they are honed to razor points. The two circle each other with their words, mouths in sneers, eyes looking for weak points to dig their nails into.

Time looks one step from physically separating the two when Renado sweeps into the room, his quiet grace and poise a focal point in a room filled with ansy heroes.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you all to step outside for a few minutes,” the shaman says, looking not at all apologetic despite his words, face instead completely calm as he stares down eight pairs of eyes. “It would be best if I could complete my examination without distractions.”

For a second Time looks like he wants to disagree but thankfully, the shaman's calm yet insistant aura wins out.

“Let’s go boys,” the Old Man says, his armor clinking slightly as he stands. “Lets let the man work.”

Slowly, one by one, the heroes file out of the infirmary, some striding away through the door quickly, a need to get away from the suffocating atmosphere. A few others send fleeting glances back as they leave, as though the minute they turn away will be the minute Four awakens. As though if they take their eyes off him, they will miss it.

Soon enough, all of the other heroes have left.

All except for the Hero of Legend.

Legend stands at the door, hand outreached to take the handle but frozen for some reason.

Before Renado or Twilight can ask, the young man whirls around, an indescribable expression on his face. It is a face of pursed lips and low eyebrows, the pink haired hero’s jaw working, chewing on unspoken words.

“Would you mind if I tried something?” he says eventually, eyes flashing from Renado to Four meaningfully.

After a moment of consideration, the shaman inclines his head.

Legend silently nods his thanks and takes a step more fully back into the room. Then, with practiced movements, he slides his satchel forward and begins to rummage through it.

For a second, Twilight hopes that Legend will search through his endless bag of infinite possibilities and pull out some never before seen potion. A golden elixir made from the tears of a mermaid mixed with the feather of a fish. Some sort of cure-all that they can drip down Four’s throat to make him magically awaken.

What the veteran instead pulls from his bag is a simple, tan ocarina.

Then, with halting fingers, Legend closes his eyes, brings the instrument up to his lips, and plays.

The song starts off somber. Three ascending notes sounding clear yet tentative in the silence of the room. The notes repeat, this time dipping lower, into ocean waves, before returning back to where it started. Those three notes, those same three notes–no–different notes, going higher, a seagull soaring up on a sea breeze.

Legend plays his song, beautiful and somber and sad but also hopeful, gaining strength with each note that rings through the room.

Legend plays his song with his eyes closed, and Twilight wonders what the veteran hero sees behind his eyelids.

Legend plays his song, and Twilight can hear the magic in it. Can hear a wave rolling in, rolling out, lulling him to sleep yet forcing him awake. Legend plays his song and Twilight knows there can be magic in a melody. The farmhand wonders what this one’s intended effect is.

The song ends almost too soon, the last note left hanging in the air, trembling yet strong. Resonant.

It only fades when Legend runs out of air.

The pink haired hero’s eyes remain sealed shut a moment longer before he seems to come back to himself, snapping out of his dream, turning his eyes on Four.

For a second silence reigns over the clinic, as all three men watch the smithy.

Four doesn't so much as twitch, his breath as slow and steady as ever.

In the next moment, Legend stowes the ocarina back in his bag, and quickly turns back to the door.

“I’m sorry,” he says, head shaking, voice thick with… something. ”I’m sorry, that was a stupid idea. I don't know why I thought… I’ll just…”

And then Legend is gone, the door swinging shut behind him.

After a moment and a somewhat heavy sigh, Renado goes about his examination, the room quiet once more.

However, soon enough, the shaman straightens and begins to sweep back out of the door.

“Renado,” Twilight says, getting the other’s attention right before he walks through the threshold. The older man turns and looks at him, a single eyebrow raised.

And Twilight thinks of the others. Of Wild and Wind’s silence. Of Time’s suffocating, guilty rigidity. Of Sky and Hyrule’s desperation. Of Warrior’s anger. Of Legends resignation.

Of his own...

He thinks of the others and though the pelt wearing hero knows it all comes from a place of compassion, of love, he also thinks that they need a break from seeing the smithy like this. They need a break from the teen’s unchanging, sleeping face.

They need a break from the sadness and pain and each other , if only for a little while.

“Don’t you think,” Twilight says choosing his words carefully, “That maybe it would be better for Four if it were a bit quieter in here?”

“Hmmm.” the man hums. And then, with the faintest of smiles: “I shall let your friends know my prescription, then. Call for me if anything changes.”

A flutter of robes, and he is gone, leaving the two bed ridden heroes alone in silence for the first time in three days.

“Looks like it's just you and me now, Smithy” Twilight says, pushing his arms under himself in order to sit up a bit more fully, minding his leg. With careful movements, the farm hand shoves a pillow behind himself and then lowers slowly onto it, at least a bit more vertical before.

Comfortable again, Twilight sets his eyes to the unmoving face next to him, settling in for his own watch.

“Had enough beauty rest yet, Four?”

….

The silence of the afternoon must lull Twilight to sleep at some point because suddenly, the farmhand finds himself slamming awake, a gasp followed by a groan shattering the silence.

But not his own gasp and groan.

No. They come from beside him. They come from the smithy who is now sitting up in his bed, the palms of his hands pressed into his eyes, shutting out the brilliant orange light of sunset filtering into the room from the nearby window.

“Four!” Twilight gasps, nearly falling out of his bed in his haste to move closer to the small hero. The teen makes a groan at his voice, shifting one hand to lay over both his eyes while the other comes up and covers one of his ears.

“Shit,” Twilight says more quietly. “Sorry, sorry. I’ll just go get Renado and…”

Twilight leans around the other side of the bed, intent on grabbing the crutch the shaman had left for him, but is stopped by movement out of the corner of his eye.

It’s Four, using the hand that was covering his ear to make a ‘cut it out’ motion: hand raised but palm down, shaking back and forth.

“You don't want the healer to come in?” Twilight asks, reiterating but making sure to keep his voice quiet.

A thumbs up.

And then a single raised finger. A ‘give me a moment.’

So reluctantly, Twilight sits back against his pillows and does just that. He gives Four a moment.

Slowly, Four brings his other hand back up to its twin, pressing both palms back into his eye sockets once more. For a second, the smithy just sits there, hunched over, elbows flexing as he rhythmically increases and decreases the pressure on his hands, pushing at his eyes, kneading at his skull.

Eventually, one hand shifts to cover both eyes again while the other reaches down and begins to absently rub at the sheets below, no doubt feeling the starchy texture of the clinic’s blankets. Soon enough, the hand leaves the sheets, running up Four’s other arm, pressing against his skin, before finishing it’s journey up to his golden hair.

Twilight almost reaches out to stop the hand, afraid that it will tangle with the corn-yellow locks and rip but it doesn't. Instead the hand merely pets the hair in gentle motions, never pressing down or grabbing. Just… feeling.

After one more pass through the strands of gold, the hand slumps, dropping down to grip at Four’s shoulder and collarbone– a mini self hug– and Twilight watches as the Smithy just breathes. Slow, deep, deliberate breaths that force the teen’s chest to fill and empty.

One more big breath in and Four straightens, places both hands palm down on the sheets, turns toward Twilight, and opens his eyes.

They are no longer the whirl of color they were those three long days ago and yet… Twilight can tell there is something still off about them. Something… unsettled. They are murky, a cup of water an artist would use to clean their brush. Mixed but still swirling. Still moving.

“Are… how are you feeling?” Twilight asks tentatively.

The dull swirl of color shifts, blue bubbling to the surface, a whirlpool.

“Like someone bashed our skull open with a club, how do you think we’re feeling?!” the smithy hisses, mouth pulled in a snarl, voice rough.

And then almost immediately, Four’s eyes fly shut once more as he curls into himself, groaning. His hands are back up to his face in seconds, now pressing at his brow ridge, massaging.

As the other takes another moment to steady himself, to control his breaths, Twilight finally pulls his crutch closer, setting it against the side of the bed as he swings one leg, then the other over the side of the cot.

This isn’t the first time he has had to stand up in these few days. Renado and Luda insisted that he stretch the mended muscles lest they atrophy, but his leg is still tender when he moves it. It still twinges even when he leverages most of his weight on the crutch tucked under his shoulder.

WIth careful, shuffling steps, Twilight walks to the night stand between their beds and fills one of the cups there with some water from the waiting carafe. Then, careful not to spill the water, Twilight seats himself on the end of Four’s bed.

The other must feel the shift of sheet, the added weight causing the mattress to slump, because with a final breath Four straightens once more, eyes flicking open to look at Twilight,

Twilight offers the glass. Four grabs it instantly, taking a couple of big swallows before he seems to think better of it, switching to sips.

“Thank you,” he says after finishing the drink. He does not move to put the glass down, instead cradling the cup between both hands, worrying the lip with a thumb.

“And sorry. We… I’m not feeling especially great at the moment.” Four makes a vague motion toward his head. And then with a grimace, “I am, unfortunately, rather susceptible to head injuries.”

Twilight nods sympathetically, mind flashing back to green eyes, warmth, pain pain pain dark, water. The back of his head throbs with the phantom hurt.

“Yeah, I get that,” the farmhand says, rubbing absently at the back of his skull. “Do you have a history of concussions?”

Four snorts.

“Yeah,” he says, with a self-deprecating grin. “Something like that.”

Twilight finds a sigh pushed past his lips, something like irritation, relief, and fond exasperation mixing together in his gut

Fondness and relief that Four is feeling well enough to joke. Irritated and exasperated that the joke is about his own health. A joking non answer. An obfuscation.

A way to avoid the fact that there is something that caused him to remain unconscious for so long.

And Four knows what this something is. Is comfortable enough to joke about it.

“Four, if it’s medically relevant–”

“It’s not,” Four interrupts before Twilight can even finish the thought, the smaller hero’s eyes flashing from the glass in his hand back up to Twilight’s face. “I promise, it's not.”

They stare each other down, grey blue vs murky paint water.

“Look,” Twilight says when it becomes clear that Four isnt going to fall victim to his Concerned Older Brother Look, “None of this was your fault. You saved Luda and unfortunately paid the price for it. I know you didn't ask for any of this. You didn’t ask to get hurt in the way you did.”

“But please,” the farmhand continues, leaning forward, letting all the fear and concern and uncertainty of the last few days show on his face, exhausted and sad, “Please tell me what's going on. You can’t just brush this off like it's nothing, Four. You can’t just sweep this under a rug and forget about it.”

“We were all so afraid for you, Smithy. Do you know how long you’ve been out?” Twilight doesn't wait for a response. “You’ve been asleep for almost three days, Four. Everyone’s been worried sick. Time’s hardly slept. Sky and Hyrule damn near refused to leave your side. Legend tried to play you a song on his ocarina, for Hylia’s sake.”

Twilight reaches forward and pulls one of Four’s hands from the glass that still sits in his lap. He takes the smaller boy’s hand and squeezes it, rubbing his thumb over the smaller, calloused fingers.

“Four,” the pelt wearing hero says, voice a little pleading and shit his eyes are wet.

He keeps his gaze locked on their hands.

“Four, I thought I was too late. I thought I had left you up there too long. I–” his words catch in his throat and Twilight has to swallow a few times to get his voice to sound past the weight of all the grief and fear that had built up inside him these last few days. It's all coming to the surface now, the flood gates open, leaving him feeling overwhelmed and too full and too empty at once

“I thought you were never going to wake up,” Twilight says. “I thought I was going to lose you too.”

And finally, finally, Twilight manages to drag his eyes from their hands, looking up to Four’s face.

“So please. Tell me what's going on.”

And for the second time in almost as many days, Twilight finds that Four is easy to read.

Four’s eyes are wide with shock and whirling with color once more, cartwheeling over and over and over through red, blue, green, and purple. His brows are pulled low, pain and guilt of all things written in the ridges of his face. The smithy’s mouth can’t seem to decide if it wants to frown or remain as neutral as possible, his lips twitching minutely.

Yes, Four is easy to read and Twilight can see that he looks shocked and sad and a little scared

“I-” the smithy starts. He closes his mouth. Openes it. Closes it again

“I’m sorry that I scared you like that,” Four says eventually, eyes falling down to stare at their hands, like Twilight’s own were a few minutes earlier. His jaw is working, his throat shifting, like he's going through the motions of speaking, but continually stopping himself at the last minute. Keeping his words inside.

The smithy gives a minute shake of the head and his entire face winces in pain and shit this was probably too emotionally taxing a conversation to have with Four when he's just woken up from a three day long coma after a very serious concussion.

A very serious concussion that the teen is clearly still suffering from.

The pain on his face is reflected in the smithy’s words, each one coming out halting and a little bit muffled, his tongue not quite forming the words right

“I’m sorry that… that you felt like it was your fault,” he mumbles, and oh Hylia his whole head is shaking now, one eye shut with pain, the other staring wetly at Twilight, a warm amber breaking through the swirl. His mouth is caught between a snarl and a sob, showing teeth and yet ready to cry.

“It wasn’t–” he mumbles insistently, ripping his hand out of Twilight's own. It joins its brother in wrapping around Four’s shoulders as he slumps into himself, entire body deflating into the pillows behind him

“It wasn’t– wasn’t your fault,” Four repeats, his words now jumping around in tone and cadence, slurred and not slurred. “It was–Our fault! our Fault! Our faul–”

Before the other can get much further,Twilight shifts his position on the bed and leans back to be sitting beside the panicking smithy. Then, with gentle hands, he pulls the other into his side, careful not to put any pressure on Four’s head as he runs soothing lines down the smaller heroes' back.

This seems to stun the small hero for a moment, his entire body going rigid, not even his lungs working.

And then Four unfreezes, leans his entire body into Twilight’s, and sags , boneless against the other hero's side as he chokes on words and breaths alike.

It takes several minutes for whatever just happened to run its course, the words slowing to a hault, the breaths becoming more even. And through it all, Twilight rubs a hand down the teens spine in slow controlled motions, a rhythm the kid could follow, could depend on.

Eventually, Four shifts, not exactly leaning away, but instead adjusting his position so his side was pressed against Twilight’s while the rest of him leaned against the pillows. He looks out the slated shade window, shadows catching at his face.

“I’m sorry,” Four says, voice quiet, “I shouldn't have freaked out like that.”

Before Twilight can interrupt, and can apologize for getting the smithy started down that path, the teen turns his head and gives Twilight a little glare, a challenge to interrupt.

“I’m sorry,” he says a little bit stronger, glare shifting to a soft, meaningful look as he holds Twilight’s eyes. “I’m sorry you got hurt saving me. I’m sorry I made you guys worry like that.”

The smithy takes a breath.

“And I’m sorry Twilight but I…” Four’s eyes flicker for a second, reading something in the air. He gives himself a small nod, like he’s come to some sort of agreement and looks away from the window, the orange glow of the sunset catching in his irises, a burning flame.

“I need a bit more time before I can tell you about this,” he says. And then with a sad smile. “I just...can’t risk it yet. I just got used to not feeling alone all the time.”

He gives a weak little laugh and his eyes fall to look at where his palms lay relaxed in his lap. He flexes them, runs fingertips over his calluses and then threads his fingers together, giving his own hand a squeeze.

“Alone,” he mutters with that wry grin of his. It is not a happy grin.

Four looks back up from his hands and turns that not happy grin on Twilight. And miraculously, it turns a little more genuine. A little more lopsided and real.

“I- I can’t risk losing you guys too.”

And Twilight, despite the need to know why this had happened, despite the concern in his gut bubbling over the fear of it happening again… When he looks into Four’s warm, sad, hopeful eyes, he understands.

Obviously he has his own secrets he would rather keep to himself. Four already knows one of them, just like Twilight knows one of Four’s own.

But just because some people know his secret doesn't mean Twilight doesn't worry about how others will react to learning the truth.

He still hasn't worked up the courage to tell Rusl about The Wolf, even though he knows the other would still welcome him with open arms. Even though he knows the older man’s eyes would not lose any of their fondness.

And yet even though he knows it is an irrational fear, he cannot dispel the image of normally warm green eyes pierced with hatred, a burning torch held to his smoking fur as the sword he was supposed to deliver to Castle Town bites through his spine.

Four’s fear is irrational too.

Nothing Four could tell Twilight would make him think differently about the smithy. The teen was his little brother now, whether he wanted to be or not. He wasn't going to give the farmhand the slip that easily.

Twilight resists the urge to give Four a fond noogie, if only because the kid still has a head injury.

So instead, he wraps an arm around the boy's shoulder and pulls him closer.

He’s here. Even when Four feels alone, when he feels like he's drowning in unsaid words, Twilight will be here.

And for his part, Four seems to accept this, leaning back in and settling, part of his back pressed to Twilight’s chest.

They lapse into silence, just sitting and enjoying one another’s company as they look out the window and watch the day die.

“Have you ever noticed,” Four says eventually, thin strips of orange light illuminating the smithy’s face as he gazes out the shaded window, “that it's only when one turns their back to the sun that their shadow gets to lead?”

Twilight angles his head down questioningly, but Four does not look up. There is a slight tension to his face despite his relaxed position and for some reason, Twilight gets a feeling that this is some kind of compromise.

If Four cannot tell Twilight his secret, at least he can tell him this.

“Sunrise and sunset,” Four continues, “ dawn and–well,” and here his eyes slant towards the farmhand, a small smile on his face.

Twilight returns it. This is a joke that he has grown weary of when coming from the others. But here and now, the Ordonian hero will allow it. If only because Four is still injured.

Soon enough, though, the teen’s eyes drift back to the window, smile slowly fading from his face as he gazes out into the orange light of a dying day.

“Dawn and twilight. Those are the only times–the border between night and day– that the sun is low enough to walk directly away from,” Four continues.

“How do you think your shadow feels then?” Four asks quietly. “To walk and have you follow behind?”

And behind Twilight’s eyes, he sees orange. Orange like the light slowly filtering into the room. Orange like the sunset. Orange like her hair. He sees a flashing, fanged smirk, sharp and clever. An ember eye, bright with mischief. He sees black and white and glowing blue.

“Light and dark can never mix. But… Never forget there’s another world bound to this one.”

He sees her. And the tear dripping from her eyes as she says goodbye.

No. Not goodbye. Not exactly.

“Link… See you later. ”

“I think,” Twilight says, eventually, a small smile on his face even as something bittersweet and undeniably sad sits on his tongue. “Your shadow would feel seen.”

Four’s eyes turn back on him, bright and indescribable in colors. He smiles as bright as the sun.

“I think so too.”

They lapse into a comfortable quiet.

And together, they watch as twilight falls across the land, as shadows elongate and dance, free once more.

Words, familial and warm–Rusl’s– come to Twilight's mind. And he smiles.

“Hey, Four. Tell me, do you ever feel a strange sadness as dusk falls?”

#linked universe #lu four #lu twilight #lu legend #lu wild #they're all in there but these are the main boys #uhhh #tw:blood #tw: broken bones #I think that covers my bases #this is another long boy #alone together #lu alone together #train writes

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