#at the same time i have vague recollections of people describing their affection towards their family members in ways i couldn't relate to

[roomba-mangga]

"what does familial affection feel like" normal person questions to ask at midnight

[baoshan-sanren]

Part 6

to the fucking NieLan arranged marriage AU I can’t stop thinking about

pt.1 here | pt.2 here | pt.3 here | pt.4 here | pt.5 here

Nie MingJue has met Lan XiChen before, more than once, or so he keeps being told by people who remember it better than he does. 

He, in turn, vaguely remembers meeting him only once, at some Discussion Conference, when Lan XiChen could not have been older than ten or twelve. It is hard to imagine an adult from that fleeting recollection, and MingJue does not try. He has been told, many times, that Lan XiChen ranks first in beauty among all the Young Masters of the cultivation world. He is not exactly skeptical of this fact, but the little Jin brat apparently ranks third, so by all rights, MingJue should be suspicious of this ranking system as a whole.

It matters little, in terms of their marriage. MeiLing would point out that there is a certain type of prestige which automatically comes with marrying someone handsome in appearance, but had MingJue ever been allowed to compile a list of requirements for his ideal spouse, beauty would likely land pretty low. There are many things a spouse is required do well, and most are dependent on their disposition, intellect, and forbearance. Natural beauty does tend to inspire a more favorable first impression, which may supplant some other deficiencies. MingJue has been informed that Lan XiChen does not have any deficiencies, a fact that is highly improbable, but extremely alarming if true.

As he stands patiently in the courtyard of the estate, waiting for Lan XiChen to appear, he finds himself hoping very much that his new husband has some deficiencies, otherwise he will be marrying beneath his station in more than one area. MingJue is quite aware of his own imperfections, a benefit of being raised in a clan that favors blunt honesty over dissembling, and he would hate to disappoint Lan XiChen by being unequal to him in every possible way.

Lan XiChen finally step over the threshold, and MingJue has one, very clear, very bright thought.

Oh, no.

His future husband crosses the courtyard without looking up, eyes lowered, red silk fluttering in the breeze, and is hidden by the palanquin drapes long before Nie MingJue is capable of having any other thoughts. He does not notice that he is still standing in the same place, long moments after the palanquin is ready to move, after Lan QiRen has greeted him and not received a response, after more than one of his own men starts to glance at him in askance.

He is being rude and he does not care. A few moments are necessary to process what he had just seen, but he has still not done so by the time ZongHui decides to take the situation into his own hands by ordering everyone to mount up.

They are half-way to the Unclean Realm by the time he realizes that he is angry. All the arrogance and disdain coming so loud and clear from all of the Lan Sect Elders for the last few months now seems almost justified. Are they all so truly afraid of war, so anxious to connect themselves with someone more powerful, to marry someone like Lan XiChen to someone like MingJue?

MingJue does not hold a low opinion of himself, but he understands his own place in the world. The brutal honesty so ingrained in his day-to-day life has never allowed him any pretense of physical beauty or superiority. After all, he has seen his own reflection many times. Had his father not died so early, and had he, himself, been allowed to remain a Young Master longer, his name would have still never made the list of the most beautiful Young Masters of the cultivation world.

And Lan XiChen is flawless. Although physical perfection has never before awoken any feeling in him, other than fleeting admiration, MingJue now understands that he has never truly seen a beautiful human being before. In fact, “beautiful” seems such a poor, insufficient word to describe the man he had just seen, the man whose face would make gods weep in envy.

The man who is going to tie himself to Nie MingJue for the rest of his life.

He is very well aware that Lan QiRen’s brightest pupil did not receive his title by being the man’s favorite nephew. He is aware that the last two Discussion Conference night-hunts were won by Lan XiChen without contest, only his younger brother coming even close to him in rank. He is aware that Lan XiChen is known for his impeccable manners, his kind nature, his patience and forbearance. All of those combined with the face he just saw amount to a human being that could have had the Empire on its knees just for asking. And instead, he is marrying Nie MingJue of the QingHe Nie Sect.

He does not understand why Lan XiChen would ever agree to this arrangement, unless he was ordered, instead of being asked.

MingJue is not angry, he is furious on Lan XiChen’s behalf.

This fury does not quite abate by the time they reach the Unclean Realm, but it lowers down to a dangerous simmer. He watches Lan XiChen carefully, noticing his slight shiver when the wind picks up, the infinite care with which he takes the steps to the hall, so the lovely lines of his weeding robes never fall into an unflattering shape. Everything the young man does is exquisite, precise, and perfectly executed. They perform their bows, and composure never leaves his expression. Whatever emotion he may feel, none of it is evident on his face. The only time their eyes meet, Lan XiChen’s are dark and unreadable, and quickly lowered again.  

His hands tremble while pouring the tea, and it is the first hint of the state of his nerves. MingJue thinks that if any of the Elders dare be anything but perfectly kind and gracious, he will leap over the tables, and cheerfully disembowel the entire lot of them. Thankfully, this is not necessary, but by the time the banquet starts, he is convinced that Lan XiChen’s tranquil demeanor is not likely to hold up for many more hours.

They do not speak to each other, as the custom demands they speak to a thousand other people, a task Lan XiChen seems to excel at, and one MingJue finds tiresome at best. As the hours pass, however, Lan XiChen’s face seems to grow more pale, his charming smiles for the well-wishers no longer coming as easily as they had in the beginning. Even as he rises from his seat, MingJue knows that they are leaving the banquet too early, and that many inappropriate jokes and whispers will spread in their wake. He does not care if the entire cultivation world thinks him too hasty to reach his own wedding bed. There is now a tiny, barely perceptible line in-between Lan XiChen’s eyebrows, and Nie MingJue cannot possibly guess what it means, but he thinks it is safe to assume that the banquet is no longer pleasing to his husband.

He motions to his disciples as he leads Lan XiChen out of the banquet hall, and hears them block the entrance in two rows, as if preparing for a battle. In the QingHe Nie, loyalty has always come before tradition. The guests are not aware of this yet, but any who think that the wedding chamber will be open to visitors, will find themselves with three chi of Nie steel permanently impaled through their abdomen.  

MingJue has no intention of following any of the other traditions either. The fact that Lan XiChen freezes at the sight of the marriage bed stokes MingJue’s fury all over again, but he gently steers the man to the privacy screen, hoping he can regain some composure in solitude.

His own wedding clothes have long passed the point of being cumbersome, and he is relieved to shed their weight. It is hard imagine how many more layers Lan XiChen had been forced into, and how exhausting it must have been, managing them all day long. He is struck all over again by the absurdity of wedding clothes, which neither of them are likely to ever look at again.

He waits patiently for Lan XiChen to emerge from behind the privacy screen, but finds himself utterly unprepared for the sight.

Lan XiChen is wrapped in a soft gray robe, his hair loose around his shoulders, his eyes downcast. Had MingJue really thought him beautiful before? He is devastating.

Just for a moment, an unwelcome, distasteful instant, he cannot help but imagine how it would feel, to have Lan XiChen’s hair sliding though his fingers. What it would be like, if their marriage was one of affection, if Lan XiChen was to welcome him with a smile. What would a flush of desire look like, spread across Lan XiChen’s flawless skin.

Lan XiChen shivers, his hands almost imperceptibly tightening in the folds of the robe, and MingJue suddenly feels ill at the images his mind had conjured.

“It has been a long day,” he says, “You should rest.”

For a few long breaths, Lan XiChen does not move, as if he had not quite understood MingJue’s words. Just as MingJue is about to repeat them, however, he moves towards the bed, crawling in slowly, and curling up at the far end, leaving a space large enough for four grown men. Once he is settled, the curtains fully hide him from MingJue’s sight. 

MingJue thinks that is probably for the best. It will be a long time before he is calm enough to sleep.

[kvnynsphotolibrary]

Olivier Pin-Fat: I’m interested in your concepts behind and use of image repetition in your work. Especially between the 2 series 'FOG' (colour) and 'BACKYARD' (black and white). Why do you do this, what does it mean for you and what are trying to express with it?   Daisuke Yokota: We recollect a single experience from the past again and again. But I don't think these recollected memories are always the same. Memories are always brought out in relation to a present condition, and through this repeatable recollection of memories I believe a memory becomes influenced by - and therefore - a product of what is happening to us now. Although the physical experience of time is singular, I believe time at a conscious level can multiply every time one recollects a memory and the different experiences of times generated by these actions pass in parallel to a physical time. By recreating those multiplying memories via a series of recollecting actions, I use them as important data that tell me about my contemporary self and its surrounding world. My work Back Yard shows a big change in myself. Photographs used in the series Fog were taken around my home. I thought I could show this change through reshaping these same materials and by rewriting my current impressions over them - rather than taking new images of the same place. This change is not a change in appearance, but a change that my impression imposes on surrounding worlds. This change also reflects a altered impression of the visual effect of the photograph itself. Olivier Pin-Fat: It's interesting you talk of memory and the shifts, mutations and changes in how it is manifest in relation to what you call your 'contemporary self'. Would you, broadly speaking, describe your work as 'psychological' then? Daisuke Yokota: This is not something I am aware of before I create my works, but I believe possibly my psychological state naturally comes out in my photographs as a result. I always have a vague fear or anxiety inside me, although that is not the way I’d describe my works themselves. I think ‘recollection of memories’ is the basic drive of my creations and this may be a result of this negative nature, or malaise within myself. Olivier Pin-Fat: 'INTERCEPTION' seems even more striking and extreme in its mode of expression than your other works, ('FOSSIL' for example). Suddenly we are far away from the medium of photography itself, and more in the realms of 3 dimensional graphic animation and non-photographic abstraction. Why? Daisuke Yokota: Most of the things we see in daily life are easily recognizable. This is because people know what exists around them even before they conceive it to be a premise constructed from their experiences or memories. This implies a connection between the inner (memories) of oneself and the outside world. When people are in this state, what is important is to try to direct consciousness not so much to the outside - by looking or observing something - but more towards the internal by recollecting or making assumptions about something. When I was creating Interception, I asked myself: what do I see in those photographs? Of course photographs themselves do not contain any particular interpretations, such as ‘this means that person and that place’. Such interpretations are a product of one’s consciousness, so there will be a connection between the viewers of the photograph and their memories. These are the works that have developed from this thought: how do people see photographs when connections between information and their memories are cut off? (Imagine the outside world from a state of being whereby you’re unable to understand what you are looking at.) I have created these series in the following order in 2009: Fog – Interception – Fossil. In Interception and Fossil, I used photographs that I had been taking when I was taking the photographs for Fog. Around this time, I was working on photographs in order to think about things such as visual effects an image can produce by transforming an element in that image and the structure of the image’s photography. Olivier Pin-Fat: Yes, looking over the 'order' of your works chronologically, there seems to be a logic of its own at play here. Things become more abstract, more dislocated, isolated, and seemingly more lost in an urban alien-esque terrain as time progresses. Figures become just that, almost faceless abstractions lost amidst buildings, landscapes and city-scapes. A kind of visual autism. Do you think 'man's' dislocation to his environment, his surroundings (and himself) is an important theme to your work? Daisuke Yokota: Realistically, the relation between humans and their surrounding environments is not a separable entity. Once things are photographed, they can become dislocated and isolated from this mutual relationship. In the creative process of my works, what is most important is that the photographed object is not only completely dislocated from the surrounding environment but importantly, from myself as well at the exact moment I took the photograph so it once again becomes an object of my interest. This attempt to dislocate an object from me, or to include elements of uncontrollable errors in a process of my creation usually brings out clues for the next idea or project. Olivier Pin-Fat: I'm drawn by the damaged, ruptured, almost sculptural qualities, not to mention the content of the imagery itself in your series 'FOSSIL'. Could you explain a little about this series, as it's also very different to your other works? Daisuke Yokota: The original images are taken from the works of Interception. I think you can tell this if you look at the actual works themselves. Here we have images in which I deleted details from the Interception photographs and left only outlines. At first sight, they seem as if they've lost a photographic function and appear again like graphic images or animations. So, I had the intention to bring them back to photographic products or materials. In order to do that, I decided to transform a sequence of information originally contained in the photographs into a form of ‘noise’ (scars in the images). In terms of the fact that they are information on a piece of paper, they can be understood as the same thing. It is just a matter of whether one understands it or refuses to do so.  At the same time, I thought I could reassert photographic elements by leaving a scar on printed papers and then reprinting it as an image in its own right. This embraces the time I existed in ‘real space’, so for me, it was an act undertaken in order to consider the structure and fabric of photography itself. Olivier Pin-Fat: Are you working on a new series that pushes all of this into even more extreme realms than you already have done that you would like to briefly talk about? Daisuke Yokota: I am currently making a new series but I am not sure how it will go. One of the interests I have now is to see an alteration of materials at the stage of developing film and photographs. The temperature of developing solution I use has been getting warmer and warmer and now I am actually working with a boiling solution. This may cause an extreme appearance in my next works. Olivier Pin-Fat: How much would you say post-war Japanese photography has influenced your work? Especially the 'Provoke' and ‘VIVO’ generation of photographers (Moriyama, Tomatsu, Kawada, etc etc)? Are there any other influences on your work that aren't necessarily 'photographic'? Cinema for example? Literature? Daisuke Yokota: Yes, I am aware that I am influenced by the post-war Japanese photographers’ movements such as Provoke and VIVO as you said. Daido Moriyama is one of the photographers who I am especially influenced by. He said in the 1970s that ‘All objects I see outside have equal realities to me.’ I believe photographers in my generation who grew up seeing his repetitive and changing works and listening to his words have learned optical experiences, which I would say is something more than just an ‘influence’. I was and am also influenced by other media. For example, David Lynch’s ‘Inland Empire’ made me think about senses of perception and time. I also think I was greatly influenced by the music I was listening to when I was around 20, such as Aphex Twin, CLOUDDEAD, and Tony Conrad. Olivier Pin-Fat: How important is the book medium to you and how do you translate all of these aesthetic complexities into an actual 'object'? Daisuke Yokota: Well, it allows creators to engage with viewers in their private spaces while creators are still playing with their own rules. Unlike computer screens, it is the place where people see things as objects in a ‘real’ space. I think it’s really an important part of the process for people who see works to have sensory and physical experiences of them, such as smelling the ink, feeling the texture of paper, and flipping pages etc. As for translating complex ideas into an object, I think an appeal the photography has is different to what a three dimensional work has. Since photography is a two dimensional representation, how they appear is less likely to affect a viewer’s standing position and perception unlike three-dimensional works. Instead, they are largely affected by the viewers’ own individual memories. In this way, I believe photography is a medium that really belongs to the past/history. So with paper, which is a medium that conveys an image, a central element is to provide an impression to influence the viewers’ present perceptions. Choosing a type of paper to use is extremely important I think, and I try to choose the best combination of papers and images using my intuition and creativity. Olivier Pin-Fat: When you exhibit, do you design your installations using a similar 'dream-logic' as you do with your website for example – where there seems to be, as mentioned, a definite 'progression' towards abstraction, inter-play with repetition and the mutations of memory and 'self' over time? Daisuke Yokota: The way I currently exhibit my works is very simple and shows only one series at a time. There is a possibility that I will exhibit my works in the same way on my website in the future, but I still think the number of works I produce is just not large enough to do so. I have an idea now to create a web of images by repeating and metamorphosing many of my images. I believe a photograph does not exist on its own, but can connect with other photographs recalled by the photograph you are looking at now. (I am not only talking about the connections within series of images exhibited in an exhibition or in a book.) You might find an image which may connect to a photograph you saw at another exhibition or possibly a website or a photo-book. I believe in giving a chance for the viewers to imagine various connections by themselves, in order to effectively show more of the changes of memories inside them. Therefore, I think designing special ways to show exhibitions is the only effective way to show my works. Olivier Pin-Fat: Finally, with 'AM projects' – it seems all of us are working in radically different ways, using different photographic mediums and techniques to explore what's necessary for us to explore. Do you have a vision, or ideas, as to how all of our different works can come together effectively and cohesively? Daisuke Yokota: We talked about this before, but I believe we need words and text from someone outside, such as excellent critics, in order to give more comprehensible meanings to our works and projects for the public. I also believe our collaborating sometimes with other artists who aren’t AM members for certain projects could expand our possibilities.

[aaluminiumas]

Frailty, Thy Name Is Woman!

        What does Shakespeare advise to do when you are, ah, heartbroken?

        I’ve never thought I’ll have to look up the answer to the question of no account in my life: science, astronomy in particular, has always saved me from the harsh and tenacious reflections of reality I have to face every day. Here it was absolutely useless; the ultimate shock palsied me didn’t seem to be surmounted anytime soon although deep inside I expected something of the kind to crawl up to me. Albeit Anna Strong’s pious intentions were clear to me, I decided to indulge in her cajoling voice and let the gestures take off my guard, blind and mesmerize me, bludgeon me to trust to the glow I spotted in her bright orbs shining brighter than a star in the sky. At the same time, her nature was clandestine to me; and nevertheless, I knew – from the very beginning – she never loved me at all. She respected me all the way; in the ides of August noticed her curiosity towards me, but it was nothing more than her courtesy mingled with sheer surprise – I treated her like a lady. But her love – it was not the prize I could ever get. Her love was to be bestowed on another man in the town of Setauket, although she had expressed the gentlest care during my convalescence and recuperation.

        I wish I didn’t hear the rumors – I wish I hadn’t been able to sift them thoroughly and scrupulously as any military officer has to. I wish I had never caught a bit of them – including those of Captain John Graves Simcoe molesting her. I somewhat missed it out. I somewhat relinquished the hold on the town letting this vile brat – I am sorry to say so but I cannot find the word describing him better – stay so close to her, probably threatening her, trying to intercept her outside the tavern she worked at. It must have been a quotidian thing for the citizen of Setauket to face, but I wanted, God sees that, I wanted to protect it, to preserve it, to make it a better place to live. Was I too bad for them to rule the town? Did I deserve to be treated the way I was treated by Anna Strong? Did she have the right to do what she did? Sitting there and looking at the stars, I found a few reasons for her behaving so – and, in all honesty, I approve none of them, even grasping the crux.

        On the other hand, Anna’s attitude to me is still an incredibly vague subject to reconsider. Those who know her well enough to judge her deeds must ascribe some money interest to her intents. At least, that’s what Richard did – as a good friend I always suspected in him, he took my side no matter the consequences and repercussions following the decision, never reneged – and forthwith awarded her with a title any woman would be ashamed to bear. He called her a harlot, a whore; the worst, the cheapest one – and constantly failed to see the real status quo.

        She was trying to indemnify me. With the zeal I rarely spotted in people.

        She was striving to protect me from the vermin hiding in my closest ones. My God, do you think I’m easier to manipulate than a pipe? You can push my buttons, but you can’t play me for a fool…

        Albeit it hurts me to accept the fact, she never truly felt a slightest touch of affection for me. She was ready to flee with me, to run for her life – to abscond to Scotland if necessary! Frailty, thy name is woman! Were you afraid, Anna? Did you want to save us both – or yourself only? I am not aware of your notions, and what I observed was an alteration: when I was about to yield and let me deceive me the simplest way possible, she defied. She betrayed. She lied. She made me a traitor, a pervert; she stung me as painfully as a venomous viper. Did she muse my impeccable reputation of a man of honour would stand the test of her ploy and public prosecution? It did. But did my heart?

        I remember her velvet brown eyes staring directly at me. I recollect the ceremony so vividly as if took place yesterday. For a bride, her smiled seemed forged, and I mistook it for nervousness – or excitement. I recall Richard, highly displeased – and foreseeing the following.

        “I’m sorry, Major. I can’t.”      

        What, thought I at the moment. Blind, happy, I could not believe that she, Anna Strong, the woman I had shared the night sky with, was cruel enough to say it was me who arranged the wedding with an already married woman. I still sometimes read abhorrence written on the guests’ faces – and only one visage wasn’t turned to me. A pair of eyes was glaring at Anna with visible, burning enmity, rancor and aversion. Richard Woodhull didn’t accuse me of it. Either he confided in me to a fault, or detested and despised Anna so much, but I perfectly recall his pursed lips – and a grimace of disdain – the unrivaled contempt a human could produce and express. No mistrust, but peerless anger slowly morphing into fury. I’ve never seen him like this hitherto.

        The man in the red uniform leaned back in his chair: his life was abrim with situations to speculate on, but one memory shone the brightest. It gleamed in the darkest nook of his mind, still causing pain and disbelief. What was she defending him from? Why did she come to him with a… proposal? Was it a part of her devious plan someone had contrived for her? Had she ever been genuine with him? Had any of her emotion been intrinsic? Did she act when they were watching the night sky with the scattered stars upon the blue canvas of it?

        Hewlett sighed. That’s why he loved science: it never attempted to hurt him and disappoint his expectations. If there was a mystery not to be unraveled, at any rate, it didn’t endeavour to stab him in the back.

[gwydionae]

Visions Softly Creeping

So... I had this idea for a Breath of the Wild one shot revolving around some thoughts my sister and I had as I played through the game, namely, “...ok, what is up with Zelda? Because it’s been 100 years, and she still sounds young. Is she dead and speaking to Link as a spirit or what? I mean, everyone else is a spirit, so...” However, while thoughts like this do end up here, it has taken on a mind of its own and grown to roughly five chapters with the focus now on mostly just Link. Currently chapter 2 is almost finished, but I feel chapter 1 stands on its own well enough to warrant posting it now. I’ve never written for The Legend of Zelda before, but I’ve known the series for a very, very long time, so hopefully I’ve done it justice.

Posted on fanfiction.net >here<.

Teaser: He was a knight. It was not his job to feel. The day for grieving would come, but for now this one night, one day of mourning was the only reprieve he would allow himself. Because it was his duty, and he would keep the princess waiting no longer on account of his weakness. (Spoilers for main story points including, eventually, the end of BotW.)

Disclaimer: I do not own The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild. All titles are lyrics borrowed from Simon and Garfunkle's "The Sound of Silence."

Chapter 1: Words Like Silent Raindrops

"Hello, Link."

His breath caught in his throat at the gentle, familiar voice, and his heart began to race as his eyes slowly swept around the room, looking for its owner. Mipha. Maybe Mipha was still...

"Because of your courage, my spirit is now free."

The excitement and optimism that he'd allowed to course through him since he had reached Zora's Domain had propelled him this far, but at the princess' words, his feet seemed as if turned to lead, and a cold pit quietly opened inside of him, sucking his hopes down into its depths. Almost as mechanically as the Divine Beast in which he now stood, he turned to face an ethereal, blue light glowing several feet away. And in the midst of it, as if manifesting from the air itself, was Mipha.

Her grateful yet sad smile would have been more than enough to confirm his dread, but still Link found himself unable to tear his gaze away from her translucent body as her feet gracefully tread upon the surface of the water, her use of the word "spirit" to describe herself echoing throughout the emptiness inside of him. It wasn't as if he could not have predicted this outcome. King Rhoam himself had told him of the other Champions' fate, and the hints had been in Mipha's guidance through the beast all along. But he had foolishly allowed her family's words to lead him to believe otherwise. After all, a Zora could live for hundreds of years; if any Champion were still alive, it would be her.

But as he should have known from the beginning, she was not. She had been dead for a hundred years while he slept and forgot everything. Had his memories stayed buried, perhaps he would not be feeling so hollow as she spoke to him of a healing power that was now useless to her. Perhaps he would be able to see her as a fallen warrior with one last task instead of feeling the stinging loneliness of the loss of a close friend. But as she gifted to him a precious piece of herself, he could feel her warmth and kindness settle inside of him, causing his heart to ache and mourn all the more.

Keeping all traces of his grief hidden, Link returned to King Dorephan to report his daughter's fate only to be met with praise, gratitude, and even elders asking to be pardoned for their earlier harsh treatment of him. The pomp flew by in a blur as the multitude of Zora now crowded into the throne room cheered, and Prince Sidon vigorously shook his hand. Link's mood was slowly lightening, the celebration infectious, until he found himself alone with the king, a beautifully crafted trident resting in his hands.

"It was cherished by Mipha. I would like you to have it."

His grip on the weapon was so tight that his hands began to shake. Quickly putting it away, he steeled his emotions once more and thanked the king for his generous gift, promising to use it to honor Mipha's memory and put an end to Calamity Ganon.

The king's smile mirrored the one his daughter wore only a short time ago, and as the Hylian bowed and turned to leave, King Dorephan's parting words, too, matched that of Mipha.

"Save her, Link. Save Princess Zelda."

The moon hung high in the night sky as Link pushed open the door to his residence in Hateno Village with a long creak. Shuffling one foot in front of the other, he slowly closed the door behind him before depositing his gear on the table until only the Lightscale Trident remained. Tenderly running his fingers along the handle, he stood in the dim light, hazy memories of the beautiful, young Zora replaying in his mind, until he at last closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and carried it to the far wall. Reaching up, he carefully mounted the trident on a weapon display, stepped back, and gave a reverent bow before trudging toward the stairs leading to the loft. His clothes were discarded heartlessly on the way to his bed, and with a tiredness he hadn't felt since first reviving, he flopped onto the soft mattress and buried his face in his pillow.

But as physically and emotionally exhausted as he was, the bliss of sleep fled from him. The events of the day circled over and over in his mind, carrying with them fearful visions of what was likely in store for him during and at the conclusion of his quest.

When he had awoken only a few weeks ago, he had no recollection of what had happened to him, the fate of the kingdom of Hyrule, or even who the mysterious voice that guided him belonged to. But still he had felt an innate sense of duty and honor in carrying out the task put upon him by King Rhoam and who he now knew to be Princess Zelda. Even if he had failed in the past, having no memory of it had assured his confidence in himself remained strong. Perhaps he had not been to blame. Perhaps after one hundred years the opponent had weakened. And so he had taken on the role of Champion with vigor and purpose, ready to do whatever need be done in order to defeat evil and help the princess.

This, however, was before his memories began to return.

Talking with Impa and realizing it might be possible to recover knowledge of at least a bit of his life prior to his hundred year sleep, he had immediately gone in search of the locations in the photos on his Sheikah Slate. It hadn't taken him long before he reached an archway on the road to Mount Lanayru that at last clawed at the cobwebs in the corners of his memory, and suddenly it was as if he were standing right there amongst the other Champions and Zelda herself. Their names were still largely a mystery, but each of their faces and mannerisms felt familiar and not at all like the strangers they currently were to him. It was an unsettling feeling, made all the moreso by the somber mood of the princess and the rise of Calamity Ganon himself in the distance.

But still the memory had affected him little. He could now picture everyone from his past that Impa had talked to him about, but aside from a vague ache in his chest at the thought of Princess Zelda's hopeless gaze and hollow voice, his feelings about his quest had not changed. No, it wasn't until he stumbled upon Zora's Domain and found himself unable to tear his eyes away from the delicately crafted statue of their princess and Champion that his old life began to haunt him. Standing there among a people who recognized him, knew him, in a place he must have visited many times before, it was as if the floodgates were finally creeping open.

Mipha.

Her name was Mipha. And she had not only been his ally, but a close friend, someone he had turned to time and time again when he was wounded in battle or just plain reckless. Various memories of their days spent together washed over him, some as clear as if she were at his side with that shy smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

And suddenly everything changed. He was not fighting to avenge a nameless fallen warrior, he was desperately hoping to save a companion. Except there had been nothing to save, not in the sense he had allowed himself to hope for, anyway. And as he lay in bed with visions of the deceased princess dancing along his closed eyelids, a few happy memories but most imagined and grotesque scenarios surrounding her demise, at last his forced mask of strength and calm started to crack.

He was a knight. It was not his job to feel. It was his job to protect the kingdom, the princess, and show no trace of hesitation as he swung his sword. Everyone was depending on him, and for that reason he must always outwardly remain strong, a pillar of confidence and control.

But in the late hours of the night in a dimly lit house that he shared with no one but his thoughts, his eyes began to sting as his breathing hitched, and it wasn't long before violent sobs wracked his body.

It was strange. While a part of him was certainly mourning the loss of Mipha, the sadness he felt went deeper than that. Perhaps he could not remember the other Champions now, but he knew, Link knew that as more of his memory returned, these same feelings and events would be repeated in a vicious cycle until he was whole, the spirits trapped for a hundred years were freed, and Ganon was destroyed. Piece by piece he would regain his old self, and as this happened, the scab hiding the wounded heart he wasn't even aware existed until a few days ago would slowly be picked away, leaving behind a gaping hole, sore and bleeding.

He did mourn for Mipha; the two of them had been close long before she had been named a Champion. But he mourned for himself as well, a warrior who could only continue moving forward as quickly as possible as Princess Zelda's hold on Ganon grew ever weaker. This while having to burden these feelings of loss fresh and anew several more times before he could truly rest and try to mend the blood-stained hole in his heart, a hole in the shape of four courageous individuals.

No, not four.

Four would be a hopeful estimate. Four would mean that there was still someone left he had a chance to save. Four would imply that somehow, inexplicably, Princess Zelda, born a Hylian with a lifespan that paled in comparison to the Zora, was still alive after all these years, her voice sounding in his head now exactly as it did in the lone memory of her he had regained so far.

No, it couldn't be only four. After his hopes of returning Mipha to her family were cruelly shattered, he would not allow himself to be so naive again. Princess Zelda's spirit may still be fighting yet, but that was all that was left of her. Just like the other Champions, her body lay dead and rotting in the place she died one hundred years ago. When all was said and done, he would be grieving the loss of not four but five companions.

The morning rays of the sun were peeking through his window before Link's cheeks grew dry, and as his body stilled and his chest stopped heaving, at last the grip of sleep pulled him into its depths. It seemed only mere moments later that he was peeling his eyes open to the sight of the room darkened once again. He had slept the entire day away, and yet his limbs still ached as if he had just crawled into bed. It was so tempting to simply continue to lie there, waiting for morning yet again before continuing his journey.

A long sigh passed his lips. No. He had wasted too much time already. The day for grieving would come, but for now this one night, one day of mourning was the only reprieve he would allow himself. With every new piece of his memory recovered, he would hold it in and squash it down, even if it meant allowing the heartache to fester for weeks on end. Because it was his duty, and he would keep the princess' spirit waiting no longer on account of his weakness.

As he crawled out of his bed and grabbed his clothes, his mind toyed with the idea of ignoring Impa's suggestion of hunting down the locations in the photos. Some memories would still likely return on their own, but perhaps now wasn't the best time to revisit the past. The idea was quickly dismissed, however. As painful as he knew it would be, he refused to free the Champions' spirits and offer up a final goodbye without as much of his former knowledge of who they were as an individual and what they meant to him as possible. Perhaps it would make his journey easier, but it would be cowardly and unfair of him to face them as a stranger.

His mind solemnly made up, he gathered his gear and replaced his knight's mask of stoic confidence. The tightness in his chest refused to be left behind, but he in turn refused to acknowledge it. He had shed all the tears he would allow. There were people waiting for him, counting on him, and he would carry out his duty.

A/N: A huge thank you to everyone who put their playthroughs of this game up online, especially RabidRetrospectGames; while I had finished the game myself, it was very useful for the times I wanted to check exact dialogue without having to replay the entire thing. Also to @veilsofmist whose fic would pop up on my dash and inspire me to get back to work on this thing every time I thought I might give up on it. XD

Thanks for reading, and as always, critics and grammar police are appreciated!

Chapter 2 on tumblr >here<.