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wutheringmights · 1 year

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"We’ll Meet Again (Some Sunny Day)” - Unfinished Bonus Links Draft

Over half a year ago, I swore that I was going to write a story based on @ezdotjpg‘s @bonus-links, which I never finished. This is in part due to a) me being absolutely devoured by CTB, b) me realizing that this story was gonna take 20k to tell at a minimum, and c) me being struck with a wave of insecurity; in short, I got really worried that I was not writing War and Spirit correctly and was projecting too much CTB onto them.

I had resolved to wait until I see them in the comic so that I could get a glimpse of their dynamic in action, but that might take a while. So in the meantime, here’s what I have.

Some Notes:

Obviously, this is just a draft so the writing/editing may not be up to snuff

I tried my best to gleam mannerisms and personalities from some posts Em made way back when, which I am unsure is still canon or not

Spirit signs in order to work around a severe stutter for these sounds: B, S, Th, Ch, St, G, W; I based a lot of how he talks around that stutter on how I deal with my own speech impediment (which is not a stutter) (so take it with a grain of salt)

War has a cockney accent that, in the worst decision of my life, I attempted to write out phonetically; he then switches to something more posh and British sounding

Official Summary For The (Completed) Story:

Spirit and War have always haunted each other.

(Or: Spirit can see ghosts. War treats him like one.)

----

Spirit crouched before the engine, oil drenched up to the elbow when the bell over the workshop door chimed. Alfonzo typically took care of the stray window shopper who didn’t realize an train garage wasn’t a store, but Alfonzo was out on a run that took him to the farthest reaches of the Snow Realm. By all accounts, it was Spirit’s job to greet the shopper.

But Spirit was precariously balancing about six different wrenches, trying to keep the loose cogs in place as he fixed one of the engine’s inner mechanisms. He almost had it too. He couldn’t abandon it now, not even to return his workshop to its tranquility.

“S-sorry!” he called out, swearing when his gloves slipped on the largest wrench, causing the cog it held to slip out of place. “Just g-give—hold on for a moment!”

The customer didn’t say anything, but they didn’t leave either. Spirit could hear them meander around the messy space, observing the walls covered in framed pictographs and the shelves brimming with engine parts. Spirit did his best to ignore then, but his attention helplessly narrowed on the faint clinking of chain mail and the soft intake of breath from someone who was surprised.

Spirit didn’t necessarily hate noise. Trains were loud. But it was easier to concentrate when he was the only one making a ruckus.

Admitting defeat, he began tightening the cogs and screws until he could safely remove his hands. He sighed as he stood, wiping the sweat off his brow. Belatedly, he remembered the oil on his hands, and grumbled as he shed his gloves and pulled a handkerchief from his overalls pocket.

He blinked. Sometime between starting this project and now, the morning sun had disappeared in favor of velvety night. Yet, someone had turned on the oil lamps, dousing the garage in suffused orange light. The shopper must have lit the lamps.

Slowly, he turned hands already rising to sign his question. But before his fingers could start the first sign, he was met with a man too pretty to be real.

Pretty really was the best way to put it. He was a decent height, but not necessarily tall—not that Spirit, having not grown an inch since he hit double digits in age, didn’t need to crane his neck to make eye contact. His lashes were long, curtaining half-closed eyes as he bent down to the base of the last oil lamp. A match glowed between his fingers, the flame bursting when it caught the gas. The lamp lit up.

The stranger stood upright. Eyes bluer than the ocean flickered to Spirit. His face held a sophisticated gauntness that made even the act of blowing out the flame elegant.

Spirit fidgeted, suddenly self-conscious of how dirty he was in comparison.

The stranger was dressed to the nines in a well-kept green tunic, with a blue cape draped around his shoulders like tinsel on a tree, pinned in place by an opulent broch. Even his boots, the ones that had echoed around the workshop, were shiny with fresh polish.

A man like this wouldn’t normally look twice at him, even when he washed the oil away and put on his castle guard uniform. But this one smiled so brilliantly that the ornaments on his body couldn’t compare. “It heaven and hell is ya,” the stranger said, flicking the match away. His accent was thicker than molasses. It made every word sound long and chewed out. “It looks like ya kept yer promise, conduc'aw.”

Spirit stared. “I’m sorry?” he signed. “Who are you?”

The stranger’s face fell. His boot scuffed the ground in an aborted step back.

Spirit frowned. With the handkerchief, he scrubbed the oil from his face. Seems like this stranger really thought he was too good for the likes of him.

The stranger cleared his throat. “Pardon me,” he said and, like that, his accent was totally different. Each vowel and consonant was crisper than fresh laundry, each syllable perfectly creased into place. It threw Spirit through another loop. “I seemed to have been confused for a moment there. Are you perhaps the Royal Engineer they call Link?”

Spirit nodded.

The stranger seemed to study him for a moment longer.

Spirit scrubbed his brow again, trying to get the oil off his skin. Just who was this guy?

Finally, stranger smiled. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He held out his hand. It was pristine. Even his nails were finely filed. “I am also named Link, but I am called the Hero of War. Tell me—are you prepared to perform your duty as a Hero of Hylia?”

Spirit stared. “What?”

Line Break

The Hero of War said to call him the captain, or perhaps sir if Spirit wanted something more succinct. But that last part was said with a rakish smile, so Spirit rolled his eyes and settled on captain.

From there, War’s good humor disappeared. Face drawn, he explained everything he knew, which wasn’t a lot—portals had appeared in his time, and someone named Lana had handed him a map detailing where in Hyrule’s convoluted history they led to (actual Hyrule, not a reinvention like New Hyrule). War didn’t know why the portals had appeared, but he had been in a conflict many years ago that had a similar mechanism.

“Get your personal affairs in order and make your goodbyes,” War said when his explanation was done. It was a weekend night, and chatter of couples and friends finding entertainment for the night drifted through the workshop’s windows. “Take your time, but we should leave before the new day.”

“Who said I’m coming with you?” Spirit signed.

War arched a brow. His lips quirked into something that was almost amused. “Because you wouldn’t let anyone walk into danger. Not even a stranger.”

Spirit scowled and signed, “What makes you say that?”

“This is far from my first encounter with another sacred hero.” War meandered around the shop, making tiny faces at the hodgepodge of half-made machineries. Whatever congeniality he had built up soured the moment he realized there was black residue on his fingers. He pulled a worn, red handkerchief from his pocket.

Spirit’s attention narrowed on it. It was frayed to the point where little flecks of broken thread fell from it like rain. If there was ever a print on the fabric, it had long been drowned out by noxious black stains. The captain didn’t seem to notice them, primly wiping his fingers clean as he said, “We are all beholden to the same virtues.”

“I’m not a hero,” Spirit signed. “I’m a conductor.”

“I know a hero when I see one.”

“You’re looking for someone else.” Spirit marched over to the door, turning around so that War could see his hands. “You need to leave.” He ended on a curt jerk of the hand before yanking the door to the garage open, gesturing for War to reenter the bustling streets of Castle Town.

War frowned, but something else in his face shifted as well. His charm had disappeared, and Spirit heard a warning in the back of his brain as War folded up the handkerchief and stuffed it into his pocket. “You are Link of Aboda Village. You have always been able to see spirits and ghosts, though you ignored your sixth sense in favor of apprenticing as a conductor and train engineer. Through hard work and study, you became New Hyrule’s youngest ever Royal Engineer.”

War walked up to him, ever footfall a punch to the gut. “However, your first months as the Royal Engineer were put on hold when the Spirit Tracks disappeared as well as the Princess Zelda. Luckily, your senses allowed you to see that she too had become a ghost when a dark demon ejected her from her body.”

Spirit’s hands shook too much to sign. They became fists at his side as he stuttered out, “St-st-st—”

“You fought the Demon Malladus and rescued the Princess Zelda. You restored the Spirit Tracks across Hyrule. You were given charge of a sacred train as well as a sacred sword. You are the successor of the Hero of Winds and an incarnation of the Hero’s Spirit.” He stopped right in Spirit’s face, close enough to make Spirit feel insignificant. “And you dare to tell me that I have the wrong person? Rest assured, Link of Aboda. I know more about you than you realize.”

Spirit stuttered over a few more syllables. Forget that. Without bothering to vocalize or sign, he pointed out the door. Get out.

War stared down at him for a moment longer. The corner of his mouth twitched the way Zelda’s did whenever she didn’t want anyone to know how mad she was. But his eyes were a different story. They softened, losing their intensity so quickly that it threw Spirit off kilter. “I’ll leave then,” he said gently. “If that’s what you desire.”

He stepped back, giving Spirit a little space. War managed a little smile before miming the tipping of his hat. “Good day, conductor. May the Spirits of Good guide you.”

His blue scarf trailed behind him as he left, entering the dark streets of Castle Town.

Spirit slammed the door back shut and pulled his gloves back on. He was retired from the hero business, thank you very much. If Zelda couldn’t convince him to join the Castle Guard, then War couldn’t convince him to drop his entire life and go on some cross dimensional adventure.

But staring at his abandoned engine, Spirit couldn’t muster up the enthusiasm to pick up his wrench and get back at it. All he could see was the gleam of the pommel at War’s side, how genuinely hurt he seemed when Spirit had turned him down.

How did War know his story? The only people in New Hyrule who knew everything about Malludus was himself and Zelda.

Did that even matter when War seemed like the type to throw himself into battle headfirst, heedless of whether he lived or died?

Spirit groaned and tossed the wrench aside. Barely grabbing his keys, he ran out of the workshop. Under the streetlamps, drunkards emptying the taverns glowed gold. Spirit stood on the cobblestone street, searching for the long blue scarf in the crowd.

“Hey.” Behind him, War leaned against the side of the garage. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he chewed a piece of candy on the side of his mouth. He grinned. “Changed your mind?”

Spirit frowned. “Give me three days,” he signed. “I need to make preparations.”

War almost choked on his candy. He banged a fist on his chest and spat it out. “Three days? We can’t wait that long!”

Alfonzo was due to return from his run by then. It would also be enough time for Spirit to finish his project and arrange replacements for the runs he was already scheduled for, as well as contact Niko and Zelda. He didn’t think War would understand that, but he hardly signed, “I need to get some things done” when War sighed.

“Well…” He mulled over it for a moment. “I have no choice but to agree. Three days it is.”

Line Break

Spirit was no stranger to ghosts. There was one now that frequented his apartment a few blocks from the workshop. It was the lingering spirit of the old woman who lived there previously, and she hated how dirty he kept his space. She seemed determined not to move on until Spirit learned some housekeeping. It was easier to just sleep at the garage.

But War couldn’t sleep at the garage. There was only one bed and it was harder than a sheet of steel: unbefitting of a man well-acquainted with the finer things in life. So Spirit had to take him home. He had half a moment to be embarrassed by the number of dishes he’d left to mold in the sink as well as the pile of oil-covered clothes and half-finished projects he’d left strewn about before War sighed and unpinned his scarf.

“Of course,” he muttered. “Of course, of course, of course.” He folded it nearly on the table, then added his sword and shield next to it. Then he rolled up his sleeves and started picking up the mess.

Spirit stuttered his own swear before rushing to help.

“Sorry I’m such a bad host,” Spirit signed when War did the dishes.

“Nonsense. It’s not as though I had given you any warning.” War scrubbed at a plate like he wanted to do much worse to it. “I remember when I first began living alone. It took me quite some time to master my own space. Speaking of which, how old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

War paused. “Oh.” He set the plate aside. “You are much too young—to live alone, I mean.”

Spirit clicked his tongue and signed, “And not fight some evil?”

War barked a laugh. “If anything, you’re much too old for that.”

Spirit didn’t know what he meant. So while they did laundry under the midnight moon, War told fantastical stories of a hero who had fallen from the sky and the children who followed in his footsteps—their progenitor, their legacy.

The next three days were spent