#and that's less fun than whatever this is lfskjdf

[balladetto]

     These aren’t his hands.

     Staring down at them, at the way the fingers flex, at the way the coverings stretch over the skin, the thought pierces through him again.

     These aren’t his hands.

     He’s a child of the forest. Kokiri, even without a fairy — Kokiri, now that he has Navi. He may be special, but this isn’t— he’s not supposed to be big. He’s not supposed to be grown up. These— these aren’t—

     The hands clench, shaking. The leather warps against them. Seven years. Seven years.

     ( Well, do you understand your destiny?

     Yes.

     What other choice is there? )

     When he leaves the Sacred Realm, blinking back into the Temple of Time, the first place he is told to save is home. The first person he is told to help is a good friend. There are more instructions, some needed item at Kakariko Village, and he listens — as he always does.

     The ocarina is smaller in these hands. He swears the sound, as he blows, is different. He plays Saria's Song to hear her voice, and it's the same high, gentle pitch he remembers; it's the same Saria he heard yesterday, seven years ago.

     Help me, she pleads. Help me, Link!

     He goes: the path set for him. No distractions this time. He does everything right: runs straight to Kakariko, finds hints, chases a gravekeeper's spirit, gets the hookshot.

     He steps into Kokiri Forest at the wrong height.

     Everything is too small. Everyone is too short. They call him mister 'cause they don't recognise him, 'cause he can't be recognised. They talk about Link like that isn't him, and maybe they're right for it.

     ( Don't I know you from somewhere, mister?

     No.

     What other choice is there? )

     He gets rid of the monsters. He asks about Saria. He passes by his house once, twice, and on the third time, stops in all his pacing to look at it. The chalk drawing by the roots hasn't faded. His sign is still there. The curtain has been drawn shut, just as he left it days ago.

     Seven years ago.

     "Are you tired, Link?" Navi asks.

     He climbs the ladder with a body too big for its steps.

     The first thing he notices as he enters is the open window. He must've forgotten to close it. There are leaves scattered by and on his bed, bugs that've settled in his absence, and the blanket has turned a weird yellow. It's a mess. Just as it was beyond the entryway behind him, everything is too small.

     Long legs awkwardly bang on the frame as he dusts his bed off and climbs in. He's not sure where to put everything as he lies down, curled and cramped for the first time in his life here — for the first time his home has ever forced him to be. He can't even rest on his front. Can't even sleep the way he likes. He bunches himself up on his side and squeezes his eyes shut. Navi says something about it looking uncomfortable.

     He doesn't move. The blanket, beneath those hands that aren't his, feels the same as it did the last time he was here, and it's the truth he doesn't want to admit.

     Everything is too small — 'cause everything is the same.

     Everything is the same but him.

     Everything is the same but him.

     He hiccups over a breath that has Navi's warmth fluttering to his forehead, and pretends he can hear more than the quiet of a home that's no longer his.