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adrift-in-thyme · 2 days ago

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Febuwhump Day 10: Magic Exhaustion (Time & Hyrule)

Read on Ao3

CW for blood, injury, and torture

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Breathing itself is laborious now. Movement is nearly impossible. The thought of fighting, laughable.

Time leans against the wall of harsh, grating bricks and chilled damp. The ropes around his wrists have gnawed away at his flesh, speckled it with deep splinters. He has not helped himself much in that arena, he supposes. Too many desperate attempts at escape, too many times that new bonds have dug into skin abused by his own methods of wriggling free.

They have secured his ankles too now. Such a precaution is unnecessary. His strength to resist has all but fled. To even sit upright is a task most arduous.

He inhales. Air scrapes through his throat. His stomach churns. The darkness swims treacherously before his fleeting gaze.

The gag pulled tight between his lips tastes of musty cloth and metallic blood. The room wreaks of dark sorcery and pain.

Any moment now they will return, ravenous for more. Any moment now his ears will brim with the muffled sounds of his own screams.

Little good they do. To sit in stoic silence garners a beating. To thrash and cry out leads to laughter and mocking.

Either way, more of his magic drains away beneath the clawed fingertips of his captors.

To lose all magic is a death sentence for one such as himself. Time knows this for certain.

“You must be cautious,” a great fairy had murmured during his first adventure when Din’s Fire and Nayru’s Love had rendered him void of power. Navi had been near to tears by the time he managed to drag himself to the fountain, blood on his lips and whirring in his ears. “You are not like other humans. You are like us. Magic is at your core. It encompasses your gentle spirit. Little fairy boy, do not use up that which gives you life.”

He had nearly done it again years later when a beast had deprived him of his eye and a deity had marked him as his own. By the time he had dragged himself home to Malon, he had hardly known his own surroundings.

She made him promise two things that fateful day. One he has managed to keep. The other shattered beneath his grasping hands weeks ago.

Though…was it truly? It was not his decision to bleed himself dry.

That knowledge does not negate the guilt pooling in his gut.

But the door is sliding open now on screeching hinges, and there is no longer time for gloomy pondering. Time stiffens as much as his aching body will allow. Wearily, he lifts his eye to the form silhouetted by the lantern light that dances outside the cell.

“Ah, you’re awake.”

A familiar face smiles jovially down at him. Small eyes narrow in a perpetual squint despite the spectacles perched atop a beakish nose. A thin visage to match wiry limbs, cloaked in a tangled beard of brown; bony hands featuring the distinct scarring of magical flame — these features are imprinted ferociously upon his mind. Too often, he has watched those eyes gleam as he squirms beneath the agonizing spell. Too often, that face has blurred beyond comprehension behind the tears that flood his vision.

“It is easier,” the man purrs, “when you are awake.”

The times when they have extracted his magic while he was unconscious have been few. Yet, Time can recall them with nauseating intensity. The pain had been immeasurable, the fear even more so. He had awoke with a start and a scream, fighting blindly until they pushed him back against the wall so fiercely he had seen stars.

He supposes it is easier when he is awake. As unpleasant of a thought as that is.

“Well…”

The man moves forward. Clammy fingers grasp Time’s chin. He leans forward, forces his head up, then side to side, peering at him as though he is a specimen pinned beneath a microscope.

“You aren’t quite at death’s door yet. I believe we can get a bit more out of you before your heart stops beating.” He chuckles. “I tell you, you are a tough one. The others died long before this point. You are greatly helping my research.”

What his research entails, Time hasn’t a clue. He never made it far enough down these curving halls of darkness to find out where he is and why. The statement turns his insides cold anyway. He longs to jerk out of the grasp. He longs to rise and run, far from here, leaving nothing but flame behind him.

“Alright, then. Let’s get started!”

The man retracts his grip. Rubbing his hands together with practiced eagerness, he steps back, ushers the forms standing behind to step forward.

Time watches as they surround him. He can never quite make out their faces. He isn’t certain that they even have any. They are dark, shapeless, fierce. Hungry. Their touch is like ice. Their relentlessness unending. No matter the offense, their punishments are always severe.

He flinches back as they reach for him, and that alone is enough. Talons stab mercilessly into the space where his heart still flutters stubbornly. Power streaks through his veins with more force than it has since the last time he slipped their clutches. And when it retracts, his soul comes with it.

His vision whites out. His back arches, mouth opening to release a scream stinging ears cannot hear. Bones screech and muscle pound. His head feels full to bursting.

He tries to kick out at them but his limbs are clumsy, unwieldy. They do not follow his commands. Laughter echoes. They dig deeper, take more. And more. And more. Until he is gasping, choking on the air he cannot garner. Until the weakness of before has spread, tingling in its numbness, and engulfed him in its agonizing storm. Until he goes limp.

The talons leave, then. Satisfied at last, he supposes, when he can give them no more. Ruby liquid rains down in their wake. Time sags against the wall, gazing forward and seeing nothing. There is a gray haze hovering now, an emptiness where once there was warmth and familiarity. It screams of danger. It weeps. It envelopes him in a bitter embrace and begs that he make it stop.

If only he could.

“Good, good!” The man chortles. “That will tide me over for a few days at least! But don’t worry. You’ve got enough magic left for one more draw I think.” He kneels, hand on Time’s shoulder. Cocking his head, he smiles. “So, we’ll be back soon. I’m sure it grows lonely in here, doesn’t it? You magical folk get lonely very fast, I’ve found.”

He gives his shoulder two good pats. Then, with a neighborly wave, he and his companions are gone.

The door screams shut. Time crumples, trembling, onto the hard ground. When the gray turns to black, he does not resist it.

…

It is those cursed hinges that drag him back into some semblance of awareness. Somewhere within him, panic stirs. Embers of a fire long smothered sparking alive. He tries to move. But he is heavy, leaden, secured to the floor by bindings unseen.

They will despise him for not attempting to rise. They will scratch at his face and kick his back and stomach, they will bite and punch at limbs and ligaments. There is nothing he can do, however. Not now.

…how long has he been suffocating?

Long enough, it seems, for the terror to shatter the endless deafening nothingness. Long enough for the pressure within his chest to expand until it crushes him.

Fingernails scrape desperately against unforgiving stone. His eye flutters open, quickly filling with tears that burn. Sparks of light and dark dance before him like the flickering flame of a racing bombchu.

He is drowning. He is dying. And he cannot die.

He needs to tell Malon that he loves her again, needs to hold her, to kiss her, to feel her touch.

He needs to tell Twilight how proud he is, tell Wind the same. He needs to encourage Wild. He needs to give Warriors a hug.

Time chokes on the air that evades him. Somewhere, footsteps pound. They are thunder to his ears. The storm of incoming death.

Somewhere, someone speaks. Frantic, angered tones that assault him from all directions.

There are hands on him, terrible grips that he struggles vainly against. His existence is in bleary flashes of incomprehensible sensation and matter. His thoughts have narrowed to fear and flight.

He cannot calm the fear. He cannot entertain the flight.

Leave! He longs to shout. You have taken everything! Why should you come back for more?

He is turned onto his back. Shards of pain shoot out like Ganondorf’s electric attacks. Fingers find his neck and travel along it, feeling for something. Time reaches up, grapples with the slender wrist.

“Link!” The voice is soft, gentle, even in its panic. Like fairy dust and the forest. “Link, calm down! It’s me! It’s Hyrule!”

Hyrule.

He blinks, rapidly, trying to clear the film enough to make out the pile of brown curls, the hazel eyes in a sun-tanned visage. He can’t see more than a vague outline. But he knows that voice. Knows it in his very soul.

Even now, shriveled and drained, shrunken and dried as his magic is, it cries out to a brother of a deeper sort than even blood or choice.

Time stills. His already weak grip falters. His hand falls to his side.

“Traveler,” he tries to say but his throat is tight, his gasping thin, and nothing except a hoarse whine makes it out.

Gently, Hyrule shushes him. Warmth blossoms at his fingertips, glides through Time’s veins. A spell as fiercely determined as it is excruciatingly soft. He practically melts beneath it.

“It’s okay,” the hero murmurs amongst a backdrop of hushed and concerned voices. “Just hang on. You’ll be able to breathe freely soon. I promise.”

Already, his words cement themselves as truth. As the spell works, Time feels the pressing ache begin to flee.

Seizing lungs soften. Rigid muscles relax. His vision clears enough that he can see Hyrule’s shadowed face.

“Where…” he whispers, hoarse and haggard. Exhaustion drags at him. Relief makes it far heavier. One more step and he will plummet.

It has been far too long since he was secure to do so.

“Gone.” It is Twilight who replies to the question he lacks the strength to to complete. “They won’t touch you again.”

Hyrule grasps his hand and squeezes. Weakly, Time squeezes back.

“I’m so sorry we didn’t find you sooner. I’m so sorry for what they did.” The traveler’s voice cracks amidst the words, shatters like delicate pottery. The terrible levity of his captors’ sins lays heavy and poignant in it.

If he had the strength, Time would assure him that the guilt is not his to bear. Nor does it belong upon the shoulders of the others. That nothing could have been done.

Yet he can offer them nothing in this moment. Now, he loses his grip. Now, he fades into the darkness and the warmth of a brother’s spell.

“But you’re safe now,” Hyrule says from very far away. “You’re safe.”

#febuwhump 2025 #febuwhump day 10 #blood tw #injury tw #torture tw #linkeduniverse #linked universe #lu time #lu hyrule #lu chain #trin writes #thought about picking on hyrule with this prompt #but i like exploring the magical side of the other boys too #especially time

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adrift-in-thyme · 3 days ago

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Febuwhump Day 9: Necromancy (Wild & the Chain)

Read on Ao3

CW for temporary character deaths, blood and injury, and broken bones

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Only a few inches away, the ocarina lies in a cradle of dust and blood. Wild reaches for it. Clawing fingers scrape through scrawny blades of patchy grass. Dirt cakes beneath fingernails torn and bloodied by battle.

Pain thrums through him. A heartbeat. A war drum. An outcry against what has occurred. A warning against what is to come.

Darkness is blotchy at the edges of his vision. It dances. Tantalizing. Agonizing.

He grits his teeth against it.

Come on. Come on, Link. Don’t give in now.

Don’t let them all die.

His fingers bump against Time’s. Cold. Unfeeling. Limp.

The world tilts. His stomach roils. He fumbles sideways, grasps the instrument instead.

Relief is but little. A drop of water after a lifetime in the desert.

Trembling, he lifts the ocarina to his lips.

“With this, Her Majesty sent me to a yesterday where Ganondorf had not yet vanquished the light…”

“I am sorry, champion. But I am no sage.”

Tears are bitter on his tongue. Wild drags in a breath.

“Neither am I, old man. But let’s hope this works anyway, yeah?”

The smile he dredges up is trembling and insubstantial. He ducks his head.

Aching digits find the grooves where they must settle. Softly, he begins to play.

Time has never played this particular song in their presence. Somehow, he knows it nonetheless. Perhaps, because in far off memories he has dreamt of it, felt it dance beneath the care of hands too youthful to carry the burden they bear.

The melody takes flight, fast and fervent. It penetrates the air, hangs heavy within it, even after his fingers have ceased their movements.

Wild raises tear-smeared eyes to the heavens and breathes a prayer that this will work.

For a long moment, the very earth is still. For a long moment, nothing dares make a sound. It is as though his very surroundings fear to awaken the fallen. He grows close to screaming that they do just that.

To stand here once more amongst those whose breath has stilled due to his own failures…it is more than he can take.

“Come on.” It is a whisper, a platitude. “Please. Let me try again. Let me do this right.”

The world pauses a few seconds more. Then, everything shifts.

It happens so fast he cannot truly comprehend it. Colors blur, sounds overlap in their race to be heard, bodies rise from pits of blood, crimson is swallowed by the thirsty ground.

It stops. Something clicks into place. Everthing begins breathe.

The change is like an explosion to his senses. Wild stumbles, choking on air, as Twilight speeds past him with a shout of caution. Warriors and Legend battle a group of lizalfos. Hyrule and Four stab at a large, lunging hand. Wind bats away a swarm of keese as Sky lunges towards…

Wild grits his teeth. Fury replaces shock. Fire replaces cold fear.

The Shadow.

This, this is the moment when everything went so horribly arry. He has mere seconds in which to change it.

But before he can race forward, a hand encases his bicep, and he turns to look up into the glaring eye of Time.

“Champion.” The word itself seems to rend the air. His expression is made all the more severe by the blood that drains from the gash in his cheek, the pallor of multitudinous wounds. “What did you do?”

Of course. Wild curses himself for his stupidity. Of course Time would know. Of course he would question.

A quick glance over his shoulder assures him that time is slipping through his fingers. Any moment now the Shadow’s blade will gleam in the tranquil glow of moon and stars. Any moment now, Sky will meet his doom at the end of it.

“Can’t explain now,” he gasps, wrenching his arm out of Time’s iron grasp. “I’m sorry. Just…trust me, okay?” He looks at him, pleading, sorrowful.

Somewhere, someone chokes on a cry.

You’ve failed. Again, you’ve failed.

Tears burn hot. His throat is too tight for speech, too tight for the breath he so sorely needs.

“Please, old man. I have to make this right.”

There is an odd emotion in the hero’s gaze, something poignant and piercing and sad. Time opens his mouth to speak.

The words never fly free. A blade finds its home in his chest before they can.

Wild presses a hand to his mouth, backs up, unseeing, ringing in his ears. He stumbles over something that he tells himself is a rock, hits the ground in a tangle of limbs. Before he can even think, the ocarina is at his lips again. Before he can process everything that has occurred around him, he is playing the song.

As his surroundings race and stumble and dip, the Shadow watches him from across the clearing.

He is smiling.

Again, Time reaches out for his arm, a question skewering the air. This time, Wild evades him, ducks and runs. This time, he comes closer to making it.

He almost reaches the Shadow. Almost.

As he comes around the back of him for a speedy sneak attack, an emaciated form screeches loud enough to shatter his very soul.

By the time Wild is once again capable of movement, his only remaining option is to lift that instrument of cursed loveliness and play.

Again, the world careens backwards. Again, he tries. Again, he fails. Again, the melody rings out.

Blood fills his mouth, drains from wounds that meld in their desperate plea to be heard. His limbs ache. His head pounds. The taste of bile bites at his tongue.

Time falls back. He stays the same.

Only…the fear within him builds. Like water rising in a locked room, it accumulates, growing more and more suffocating as it does.

Sky cries out in rage and agony, lunges at the one who has killed him countless times before. Time chokes on his own blood and still fights. Wind screams as he is cut down, and Warriors falls in exhausted silence from one wound too many, and Twilight offers him a small smile as he crumples beneath a blade meant for a champion.

Wild watches them all, fighting, falling, rising with missing limbs and arrows sticking grotesquely from chests and backs. He watches them tear at their enemy until they can do so no longer.

He sobs as he plays. He sobs as he struggles. He sobs as reality melds into something far too familiar.

He is standing once more before a monstrosity of violet and crimson. He is holding up a blade that cannot save him, grasping a hand of one he will not protect.

I’m sorry.

How many times has it been now? How many times have they fallen and he cannot save them?

Time doesn’t even have a moment in which to pose his query now. The monsters grow quicker. The seconds combine.

I’m so, so sorry.

Wild runs until his limbs scream, fights until his sword shatters.

The clock ticks down the seconds and he fails to keep up.

He fails…

Perhaps, that is his lot in life.

“Oh, I believe it is,” croons the Shadow. “As entertaining as this has been, I urge you to give up now. Allow death to claim you, little hero. In the vast nothingness, it will not hurt so much.”

“No.” He chokes the word in a voice that hardly sounds like his own.

(How, how had Time managed this as a child? How had he retained his sanity? How had he still held onto hope?)

“I won’t stop. I’m not dead yet.”

The Shadow merely laughs. His mocking cackles are still ringing in his ears as the cycle begins again.

…

He is screaming like a madman when, at last, he gives Sky the advantage. His body has all but given up. It is sheer stubbornness that keeps him upright now. Stubbornness and fury.

At the Shadow. At himself.

The hands that hold the slate aloft are trembling so violently that aiming is nearly impossible. The sound of stasis locking in reverberate through his skull. The shattered remnant of a blade that he raises high above his head is too heavy, too unwieldy. He hurls it with every ounce of paltry strength left within.

It hits its target.

It hits just as Sky brings the Master Sword down.

Black blood spurts in an arc so graceful it aches. A screech rings out so loudly, Wild longs to block his ears against it.

He hits the ground sideways. Something crunches in his shoulder, cracks. He sees stars.

“Curse you!”

The scream is not directed at the wielder of the righteous blade. It is directed at him. Wild raises his head, dizzily meets orbs of deepest scarlett. Blood falls from bared fangs. Sky strikes again and more cascades toward the earth.

“Curse you you abhorrent pest!” The beast staggers forward. The fury held within his eyes is such that Wild half expects to dissolve into ashes on the spot. “I should have slaughtered you when I had the chance! Very well, I will bring you down with me!”

A sword pierces the sky. Swiftly, it careens downwards towards him. Blearily, Wild watches it fall.

“I don’t think so.”

An arrow zips past, pierces one crimson eye. Another follows and another and another, a rain of projectiles from different directions, different bows.

Sky raises his hand to the heavens. The Master Sword sings in opposition to the cacophony of outraged screams. It collides with utter darkness, cleaves through.

The Shadow erupts into a million flecks of obsidian.

Wild can only stare, at first, at the spot where for an eternity he had stood. Then, other voices begin to pierce the ringing in his ears. Worried, questioning voices.

A hand comes to rest on his shoulder. He gazes into an eye of sharpest, deity-marked blue. He is held captive in its intensity, pinned beneath the knowledge he knows rests in it.

“Here.” With trembling hands, he lifts the ocarina upward. Blood and soot mar the crystalline surface. “This…this belongs to you.”

Time gazes at the instrument for a moment. Then, slowly, he takes it.

“Cub,” he murmurs, and his tone has such emotion in it, such gentleness, Wild cannot even begin to comprehend it all, “what did you do?”

Salt water comes like a wave upon the turbulent sea. It floods his eyes, stings his nose, burns his mouth. Wild squeezes his eyes shut, chokes on it.

“I’m s-sorry. I’m so, s-so sorry.”

The arms that envelope him are steady, strong. He grasps at the shredded threads of a tunic sleeve, buries his face in a chest of unforgiving armor.

“I’m sorry I let you all die.”

“You didn’t.” He feels more than hears the voice. Feels it rumble like thunder against his cheek. “You didn’t allow us to die. You saved us all.”

Something soft wafts about him, something sweet. The exhaustion that tugs at him grows so strong he feels that fighting it is akin to swimming upstream without the aid of Zora armor.

But the others are gathering around now, kneeling, wrapping their arms around he and Time until he is encased in the blessed darkness of safety. And he must remain alert, he must. He cannot bear to lose this that he has strived so hard to regain.

“I am sorry, cub,” Time whispers, amidst the sound of eight hearts beating, eight pairs of lungs filling eight forms with life. “I know how heavy a burden you have borne. You should never have had to carry it.

“But we thank you, nonetheless. We thank you for fighting so that we could live another day. You, Hero of the Wilds, are a true hero.”

A chorus of solemn assents covers him. A cloak in a world of cold. And try as he might, Wild cannot hold back a fresh onslaught of bitter tears.

When, at last, he loses his grip on consciousness, he drifts off in the arms of his brothers. Warm and real and alive.

#febuwhump 2025 #febuwhump day 9 #blood tw #injury tw #temporary character death #broken bones tw #time loop #linkeduniverse #linked universe #lu wild #lu time #lu chain #trin writes

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