#I could have spent ages writing Nabooru and FD snipping back and forth

[skyloftian-nutcase]

What is Lost and What is Bound (Legend of Zelda & Linked Universe fanfic)

My Fierce Deity headcanons demanded I start writing stories and the like, so here we are. This can be read as an origin story for the Hero of Time in Linked Universe because it’s canon compliant with that AU (so it’s not quite as crack/goofy as the headcanon post, because Jojo seems to have a darker tone set for the mask), BUT it can also just be a Legend of Zelda story featuring the Hero of Time after his adventures. Whatever suits your fancy!

 Summary: Everyone makes mistakes. When Link’s mistake costs him an eye, a fierce deity decides it’s time to take things into his own hands.

The blade breaches his defense faster than he can register it. The next thing he knows, searing heat erupts on his face, stinging and burning and tearing into him. White spots cloud his vision, he hears a scream rip its way out of his throat, and he falls back. He tastes bile and blood, and he feels the thick, warm liquid stain his chainmail and undertunic. His eyes are closed, the pain unbearable, but he has to get up because the enemy is still there and he will die if he does nothing.

 He hears shuffling feet, panting breaths, chainmail and armor clinking, and his heart skips a beat. The turncoat Hylian knights are still coming for him, and he has to get up.

 Fumbling in his pouch for a potion, Link rolls to the side instinctively in an attempt to just keep moving despite having both eyes squeezed shut. The pain is overwhelming and agonizing, and he can’t think straight. His hip bumps against something in his adventure pouch and it seems to pierce into him. He searches his pouch frantically, he can’t find a bottle to save his life, but his hand slips over smooth wood, and he registers that its shape is that of one of his masks.

 His fingers tingle at the sensation, and the pain is numbed for a moment. The mask seems to be burning, radiating heat into his fingers that travels up his arm like electricity. His entire arm starts to shake and spasm, the sheer power of the mask seeming to already try to take over his body. A persistent, nagging thought buzzes in his brain, like a distant cry, screaming let me handle this.

 The Fierce Deity.

 Link hasn’t used the mask since the War of Ages years ago. He used it so extensively during that time it almost became instinctual to lose himself to the battle, and it had scared him. He’d sworn to lay off it since then.

 But this… desperate times called for desperate measures. If he doesn’t do something quickly he is going to die. And he will not leave Malon a widow, not just a year into their marriage.

 Link doesn’t hesitate. He has to be decisive, he has to act.

 His fingers grasp the mask, dragging it out of the pouch and practically slamming it against his face. The power of the mask engulfs him, making him scream in pain, but then it eases, like the pain of having an arrow pulled from a wound and the blessed relief that comes after the offending object is out and a potion is trickling down his throat. He feels himself slip away, tucked in a warm embrace and safe and not having to worry about anything at all. He feels his body move, he hears screams, but he can’t quite focus, can’t quite tell what is happening, can’t quite connect sensation to thought to reality.

 Is that blood still trickling down his face? Is that scream his own? Is that dizziness from moving and fighting, or is it from floating in this daze of being and not-being? Despite the warmth and safety this state brings, there is still a sickly otherworldly sensation that accompanies it, and the small but ever present panicked words of you’re not in control anymore gnawing in the back of his mind, pulling him down and freezing him in place like a ReDead’s scream or a Dead Hand.

 This state is safe, this state is agonizing. This state is warm, this state is cold. He feels everything and nothing. His world spins and is still, roars and is silent. He’s forgotten it was like this, it’s been so long since he’s worn any of his masks from Termina. He used to hear whispers, voices of those who were once cursed, voices of the masks. He could never quite understand them, but after he’d stopped wearing them they’d faded. Now he suddenly hears whispers again, soft, deep, gentle, soothing, but dangerous.

 Abruptly, it shifts.

 Link gasps, dizzy and nauseous. The last thing he truly felt was rolling in the rocky ground and pulling the mask out of his pouch, but now the ground is soft, a warm something draped over him, and the world is dark. Itchy cloth nags the right side of his face, and he blearily opens his left eye, wincing at the ache he receives in his right eye under the cloth.

 He takes in his surroundings quickly. He’s in bed somewhere foreign, a small room with no weapon in sight. A bowl and bandages are on the nightstand, alongside a lit candle that is at the end of its wick, the flame slowly dying. Link reaches up and feels that the itchy fabric on his face is, in fact, a bandage cut from the same roll on the nightstand. He remembers the fight, abruptly, remembers the pain in his face, and a cold dread and worry sink into his gut. Slowly, he unravels the gauze and grabs the bowl, seeing that it is filled with water, and gazes into his reflection.

 He’s horrified at the sight, but he doesn’t have time to really understand the ramifications of the markings, the horrendous scar and swollen shut eye, when he hears a voice.

 “Ah. So, you’re finally awake.”

 XXX

 Nabooru cusses as she runs.

 Idiots, the lot of them. She hates all of Ganondorf’s leftover followers, but she hates them even more now that they have started dragging Hylians into the conflict.

 She’d only just heard about a group of Ganondorf’s followers bribing some corrupt knights into hunting down the child who was responsible for their leader’s imprisonment and execution. It’s already wrong, Nabooru has no way of knowing how old this kid is at this point, but even if this boy is no longer a child, he is friends with the queen, and this sort of act would absolutely drag the Gerudo into a war.

 Nabooru has enough problems to deal with; a Hylian-Gerudo war is not one she wants to add to that list.

 She knows that the band of dishonorable knights were tracking the child, and she knows they were in this vicinity recently. She just has to catch up to them and kill them before they can reach their target.

 But then she hears swords clashing. She hears grunts and cries, cuts and falls, the syncope of battle with the harmony of bloodshed. She cusses again.

 She is scaling a hill when she hears a yell louder than the rest, and it makes her body jolt with a sickening realization. She hurries her pace in time to see a figure on the ground surrounded by knights. Her heart skips a beat.

 Drawing her scimitars, she makes a beeline for the group before they can finish off this person, who is likely the target she is trying to protect. Before she can reach the group, she sees a knight lift his blade to finish the job when the young man on the ground pulls out what looks like a mask and puts it to his face.

 The world changes in an instant.

 The young man on the ground screams, and the act catches the knights off guard. Golden locks bleach to white, golden armor stains to silver, green clothes bleed into blue. The only thing that stays the same is the sticky crimson liquid that is dripping down his face and neck, but it no longer has a source – whatever wound the young man sustained is sealed, scar tissue covering his right eye.

 His sword, discarded, warps and shifts, splintering and entwining into a double helix blade, and he grabs it in the heartbeat it takes the knights to register this strange change. He sweeps his blade across the crowd around him, and bodies fall in halves as if he had sliced through butter.

 Nabooru freezes, blades half raised, confused and horrified.

 And that’s when this man, this monster, turns to face her. His right eye is closed under the cut that mars his face, but his left eye is a white socket, no iris or pupil to be seen, and she feels a shiver run down her spine.

 Gulping, Nabooru steels herself and raises her blades defensively. “I’m not here to hurt you. Are you… are you Link?”

 The monster pauses, waits. His brow, deeply furrowed in rage, starts to relax. “Who are you?”

 “My name is Nabooru,” she says evenly, not lowering her guard. “I’m the leader of the Gerudo people. I had heard there was a plot to assassinate you and I came trying to stop it. It seems… that wasn’t necessary.”

 The white haired man turns to face her fully, and she gets a look at the strange markings on his face as he stabs his blade into the ground. When he releases the hilt, she finally starts to lower her own weapons.

 “You came here to defend Link?”

 Nabooru blinks, confused. So this isn’t Link? She isn’t entirely surprised, not expecting a Hylian to be like this monster, but still. “Yes. Where is he?”

 “That isn’t the point,” the man snaps, danger in his tone. Nabooru flinches, but she won’t be intimidated by this creature, whatever he is – he certainly isn’t Hylian, but she’s dealt with monsters before. “The point is that you are not a threat to him.”

 “No,” she answers honestly. “I’m not.”

 The man huffs out an irritated breath, crossing his arms. Though it’s unclear where his blank gaze falls, the slight tilt of his head towards the ground implies he’s staring just at her feet, thinking.

 The two stand in silence for a time, and Nabooru shifts awkwardly. “Look, I need to make sure Link’s safe—”

 “He is.”

 “Your word isn’t enough assurance.”

 A small smile pulls at one corner of his mouth, and the creature moves his head to seemingly look at her again. “You seem a sincere woman. For your sake, it had better be true. But my word is all you will get.”

 Nabooru’s hands settle on her scimitars as she grows agitated. “You can question my motives all you like, monster. I am not here for you.”

 “Oh?” he tilts his head to the side, motioning behind him, his face darkening. “Perhaps you’re here for them? You can collect the pieces if you like.”

 “I’m not here to bury the dead,” Nabooru replies. “Just to protect the living.”

 “They deserve no burial,” the white haired man suddenly hisses, and his face contorts in rage, and then he takes a measured breath to calm himself. “Protection is my duty as well, Lady Nabooru. I assure you, Link is safe. Go about your business.”

 “Link is my business.”

 The monster raises an eyebrow, his left hand slowly creeping closer to his blade.

 Nabooru rolls her eyes. “In terms of protection. For Din’s sake, are you always this moody? It was a group of Hylians who attacked you, I don’t know why you’re thinking a Gerudo woman is in league with them.”

 The man blinks, his hand falling to his side, not relaxed but not ready to fight. “Those terms mean nothing to me.”

 “What, do you live under a rock?” Nabooru snaps. This conversation is going nowhere – assuming the man is telling the truth then she shouldn’t worry, but she has to confirm that there is no more threat to the kid. All she knows right now is that she stumbled onto a fight of some sort between Hylian knights and this creature. For all she knows he’s a menace to Hyrule. Hyrule’s affairs are its own, but she has to find Link. She can’t do that when her queries are consistently redirected.

 “A mask, actually,” comes the dull reply, and Nabooru rolls her eyes again.

 “I know for a fact that people are hunting him,” Nabooru explains again. “The only way I can be certain that he is safe, the only way that I can return home is to track him down and ensure that nothing has happened, that nothing will happen.”

 “And how exactly is this assassination attempt supposed to happen?”

 “Hylian traitors,” Nabooru spits, disgusted at the thought. It isn’t surprising to her, just another testament to people’s idiocy. It reminds her too much of the fools who followed the colossal sorcerous moron who wanted to claim the Triforce.

 The creature blinks again, his expression almost resembling exasperation or some kind of sarcastic reply, and he grabs his sword. Nabooru tenses, drawing her blades immediately, but the man turns and instead digs his blade into a knight’s torso as if he were skewering a piece of meat. He holds the corpse up for her appraisal. “You mean like this?”

 Nabooru feels her stomach roll. She is no strange to battle and bloodshed, but the sheer disrespect of the dead that this monster is displaying is almost enough to make her ill. But the realization hits her immediately after, and she pushes aside the sickening gesture. “Wait – they’re the ones who were after Link?”

 “They hurt him.” The man hisses, his tone dripping with poison. His blade hums with energy, and the torso bursts into flames. Nabooru takes a startled step away from the grizzly sight.

 Shaking her head, she tries to refocus. “If he’s hurt, then we need to attend to him.”

 He narrows his white orb for an eye, the cut on his face pulling and leaking blood. “Why do you seek to protect him?”

 “I want to maintain peace between my people and his,” she explains. “Relations with the Gerudo are tense. I do not wish to make it worse. I know Link is a very important member of Hylian society, and I don’t want my people taking the blame for his injury.”

 “Why would your people take the blame?”

 Great. She might have backed herself into a corner on this one. Sighing, she relents. “Certain traitors in my own land are trying to avenge their fallen lord, whom Link got arrested many years ago. They are the ones who bribed the Hylian traitors. Once I learned of the plot, I eliminated the treasonous Gerudo. I was trying to ensure the Hylians were taken care of as well so Link would remain safe.”

 Slowly, the monster lowers his blade, the flesh of the skewered knight burn to cinders. Bones rattle off the blade loosely, and Nabooru again fights the urge to vomit.

 The man hums, and places his sword on his back, crossing his arms. “You’ll have to earn my trust in order to get to Link.”

 Nabooru wants to argue, growing impatient, but given what she’s seen this monster do, she decides not to. Instead, she sheaths her scimitars and shrugs. “Fine.”

 The man claps abruptly, making her jump. “Great! Let’s go fishing.”

 She blinks. “What?”

 “Fi-shing,” he repeats slowly with emphasis on each syllable as if she’s never heard of the term. “I like fishing.”

 She feels her face burn in exasperation and annoyance. “Didn’t you say Link is hurt?!”

 He shrugs. “He’s safe now. I’m protecting him.”

 “Well, that’s reassuring.”

 “Do you want to go fishing or not?”

 “Do I have a choice?”

 “You can always leave.”

 “Fishing it is.”

 As they walk, Nabooru finds herself marveling at how this day is probably one of the most insane of her life. Then she glances at the towering figure beside her and motions to his face. “You gonna do something about that blood?”

 He licks his lips, tasting the blood lingering from the seemingly innocuous scar cutting through his right side. He hums. “I lent him my eye. He’ll be fine.”

 “You did what?” Nabooru asks.

 The monster huffs, suddenly annoyed, and shakes his head. “Never mind.”

 Wait a damn minute.

 “The mask,” Nabooru says, stopping dead in her tracks. “You’re a result of the mask, aren’t you? That was Link being attacked!”

 The creature shrugs. “I change hair color a lot.”

 Nabooru faces him fully, crossing her arms. “Do you think I’m an idiot?”

 “Well, I can assume as much.”

 Nabooru blows out a breath, enraged. “Why you—”

 The creature smiles innocently. “I have a great talent for changing my hair color.”

 “Then make it purple.”

 “I don’t like purple.”

 “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

 “I’m not! Purple is not my color.”

 “Fine. Blue.”

 His mouth becomes a thin line. “I’m already wearing blue.”

 Nabooru rolls her eyes for the millionth time since she’s met this anomaly. “You’re ridiculous.”

 The man laughs, and it makes her jump in surprise. It’s a booming sound, but not an unpleasant one. “That’s one I haven’t heard in quite a while.”

 “Can you at least tell me your name?” she asks suddenly, trying to trip him up. If he’s an enchanted item, he won’t have a name except for his bearer’s.

 He hums, twirling some hair between his fingers. “Well… I was called an old man by the troops back in that other land. It was quite insulting, actually, I don’t look old. Just because my hair’s white doesn’t mean anything.”

 Nabooru raises an eyebrow. “Well, how old are you?”

 He huffs. “That’s not the point.”

 “So you are old.”

 “That’s confidential.”

 “I’m calling you Old Man unless you give me a real name.”

 He opens his mouth to protest and then it snaps shut. He huffs again. “Fine.”

 Nabooru laughs, and they continue their trek until they reach Lake Hylia. Nabooru grows uncertain again at the sight of it, suddenly realizing how much ground they’ve covered. “You said Link was hurt, should we really—”

 “He’s fine,” the Old Man insists, pulling out a fishing rod. “I’m making sure of it.”

 Nabooru bites back a laugh. “You know, you’re really not good at the whole ‘hiding you’re an enchanted mask’ thing.”

 “I honestly have little need to hide it,” he replies, pulling out some bait. “We both know I can kill you whenever I like. Your fate rests in your hands, not in your knowledge of who or what I am.”

 “And fishing will help me decide my fate?”

 “Well, walking away could do that too.”

 “How will you keep Link safe after that?”

 “I always keep Link safe.”

 Nabooru watches him intently, examining him. “You… you care about him.”

 The Old Man pauses from putting bait on the hook, his face softening. “Of course I do.”

 He seems contemplative all of a sudden, and Nabooru’s head is spinning at this bizarre day, when he suddenly gasps, staring at his reflection in the water.

 “My—I—what—” he stammers, his hand flying to his face.

 Nabooru leans over to look at him. “What is it? Is the wound bleeding?”

 “No, it’s my markings, I—” he pauses, frantic. “Hylia, I didn’t mean for—great, he’s going to have a fit when he wakes up.”

 Nabooru squints, looking at the markings on his face. He has two plum colored curved parallel lines under his left eye. At first glance she had thought they were cuts, but she had quickly deduced earlier they were tattoos of some sort. “What’s wrong with them?”

 He smacks his right cheek lightly. “I should have more of them. He stole my markings!”

 Nabooru stares at him, flummoxed. “He… stole them?”

 “Well…” the Old Man trails off, leaning back thoughtfully. “I gave him my eye, maybe it was a side effect…”

 “Okay, how does that work?”

 “They took his eye. I gave him mine.”

 “But how?”

 He shrugs. “Magic, of course.”

 “So you’re a sorcerer?” she questions, suddenly suspicious.

 “I’m a deity, thank you very much,” he says proudly, smacking his chest with his fist. Then he softly mutters ow, shakes his hand out, and grips his fishing pole.

 Nabooru snorts, not believing that for a second. “You’re ridiculous.”

 “Maybe that should be my nickname instead,” he mutters, watching as his line lands peacefully in the lake. A content smile crosses his face. “So tell me, Nabooru, you fought against Ganondorf?”

 She jumps, startled. “How—you said you knew nothing of the Gerudo!”

 “I don’t. Link does. His knowledge is accessible to me.”

 “You’re reading his mind?”

 The Old Man sighs. “Well, I try to talk to him, but he can’t hear me. Just makes him paranoid, he keeps thinking the mask is trying to make him wear it.”

 Nabooru tries to comprehend this, tries to piece together everything she’s heard so far. She understands little of such enchantments, but this sounds like more than just a magical mask. This man sounds alive. It’s… bizarre.

 The Old Man stares at nothing, his blank gaze somehow looking more distant than before. Then he lazily lets his face turn to her. The blank orb that should bear emotion and expression bores into her, making her squirm.

 “A Sage,” he mutters. “But not here. Interesting.”

 She blanches. “What?”

 “Nothing. It’s not my information to tell.”

 She shakes her head. “Who are you? Really?”

 If he decides to answer her or not, it’s pointless. He grows distracted when his fishing rod gets a distinct tug, and he gasps in excitement. He starts to reel it in gently, fighting the fish a little bit, and Nabooru has to marvel at him fighting with a fish when he had the strength to chop eight men in half with one fell blow just half an hour ago.

 Eventually the game of tug-of-war ends and the fish flies triumphantly into the air, and the Old Man catches it with an enormous grin.

 “Would you look at that!” he exclaims in excitement. “Link will love it.”

 Nabooru can’t help her smile. His tone, his joy, and his words relax the worry that has been clenching her heart, and she finally decides that whether or not she figures out who this mysterious creature is, she at least knows now that he isn’t a monster.

 But he can be if he wants to.

 Sighing, the Old Man tucks the fish into a pouch and then seems to look a little sad. “I suppose it’s time to go.”

 Nabooru looks at him questioningly. “You only caught one fish.”

 “Yes, but… I shouldn’t waste any more of your time,” he finally admits, albeit with no sense of guilt so much as a matter-of-fact statement. Rising, he dusts himself off. “I cannot treat Link once I take the mask off, so someone else has to. And, well… Malon might panic if I show up to the ranch like this.”

 “Who’s Malon?” Nabooru asks.

 “Someone who you will never speak of again,” the Old Man advises with a small, polite, but dangerous smile. “Just know if anyone thinks about getting near her or Link ever again, their fate will be worse than those soldiers.”

 Nabooru isn’t quite sure how it could be worse, but she also has a sinking suspicion he can make it quite possible. She shrugs off the threat, knowing it isn’t entirely directed at her. “Well we have to go somewhere if I’m going to treat him. It’s too exposed out here.”

 He nods in agreement. The search for shelter thankfully doesn’t take long, and they find a half collapsed abandoned shack that still manages to have some furniture left in it.

 The Old Man gazes uncertainly at the place. “You know, we could… find an inn.”

 “I’m not going into Castle Town,” Nabooru says abruptly. She wants little to do with Hylian cities, knowing that she’ll attract a lot of attention.

 “Kakariko?”

 “No.”

 The Old Man grumbles. “Well it better not be damp.”

 “Quit being a baby!” Nabooru says, exasperated.

 The two enter the dilapidated building, and Nabooru pulls out medical supplies from her own travel pouch. She always comes prepared. She also sees the Old Man rifling through his things and he pulls out a few potions.

 “Ugh,” he groans. “These taste awful.”

 “Good thing you won’t be the one drinking them, then,” Nabooru reminds him pointedly.

 He crosses his arms. “This mask isn’t coming off until I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

 “You think I’m going to hurt him? You do change your mind quite easily.”

 “No, I learned what I needed to from you,” he remarks, shaking his head. “I just want to—great goddesses, this won’t do!”

 Nabooru pauses from pulling gauze out of her bag and follows him into the next room. It’s a small bedroom with a dusty bed in one corner, a chipped nightstand beside it, and a stool in the opposite corner. She sees no threats, and looks at him curiously.

 “What is it?” she asks.

 “There’s only one pillow and Link likes two.” He states, sounding appalled. “Also I can’t help but wonder if he’ll be sneezing with all this dust.”

 “Oh for Din’s sake—get your ass in bed and take the damn mask off.”

 The Old Man crosses his arms. “Not until you can find another pillow.”

 Nabooru looks at him incredulously. “Are you kidding me?”

 “No.”

 She stares at him, dumbfounded, and then throws her hands in the air. “You know what? Fine!”

 Some day this is turning out to be. She started her journey frantically looking for this Link person, stumbles onto a nightmare, realizes the nightmare is the strangest mix of soft dad and enigma she’s ever met, and now she’s on a blasted side quest for pillows.

 And a side quest it certainly turns out to be. Nabooru spends the better part of an hour huffing it to the nearest village wearing a cloak to hide her identity and buying not only a pillow, but some fresh water and several blankets because Link needs to stay warm he gets cold easily, okay, don’t forget the blankets.

 Unbelievable.

 When she returns, Nabooru’s patience is worn as thin as the moth eaten blanket she discards to the floor. The Old Man lies on the bed and sighs heavily, a sadness shrouding his face. Her irritation dissipates as she watches him, and he reaches up and pinches just below his chin. Light shines brightly in the room, and Nabooru shields her eyes. When she looks back, she sees a young man, blonde, unconscious, and smaller in build.

 Link.

 She stands in silent wonder for a moment, looking around for the mask that had caused this change, but she doesn’t see it. She wonders how he managed to put it away even while in this state, or if the Old Man had done it. It doesn’t matter either way, she supposes.

 She leans forward and gets to work wrapping his wounds, and pauses as she sees freshly emblazoned markings on his face. The gifts that accompanied the eye, supposedly. She almost pulls his right eyelid open to look and see if there really is a blank orb there like the Old Man’s left eye, but she stops herself.

 What a bizarre young man.

 It takes another few hours for her to hear stirring in the room, and when she enters, she sees him staring at his reflection in the water.

 “Ah,” she says, crossing her arms. “So, you’re awake.”

 And thank the goddesses for that. A brief, cryptic explanation to keep the Gerudo safe from any scrutiny and she’ll be on her way home to where things make sense. She smiles at the young man and decides that this day is definitely the strangest of her life, but she’ll remember it fondly.

 She wonders if Link really can’t hear the Old Man. She wonders if he realizes how much the Old Man cares. But she decides not to comment on it. It isn’t her business.

 As Link looks at the person who spoke to him, he recognizes the Sage he met years ago immediately, and the mask tucked under the blankets hums gently. He’s trying to process everything quickly, still horrified at what has happened to his face, and he has to figure out what’s going on.

 In the back of his mind, he hears a chuckle, and he shudders. But he also hears a voice, quiet, strangely familiar, yet so, so far away.

 You’ll be okay, Link. I’ll make sure of it.