#except instead of hearts and marketplaces it would be feeling safe to walk by myself in the park

[silverysongs]

really want someone to say to me "let's go for a ramble" and we have a walk in the park

[the-unknown-storyteller]

Lost Family

Warning: Gore, Blood, Self-Harm, Dismemberment, Probably Inaccurate Depictions of Grief, Sleep Deprivation and Dissociation which I apologise for, Fire, Minor Character Deaths

Please don't read this if any of that bothers you. Stay safe.

Sequel to Graceless Friends

_

"Mirna? What's wrong?" Azule asks, noticing that his friend's stopped in the middle of the road. There's a contemplative look on her face. He takes a few big steps backwards and waits for Mirna to finish her thoughts.

"I'm sorry, it's just… it's Link. No one here has seen him leave his house for days! Grandpa Trov said that there's always light coming from behind one of his windows, night and day!", Mirna explains, looking at the basket full of fruit and vegetables in Azule's arms, then back at Azule himself.

"It just makes me uneasy. Link doesn't seem like the type of person who would hide away in his house. I mean, he's usually away on a journey or outside helping us with our fields and chores. Everyone's just worried, including myself. I'm sorry, Azule. It doesn't even look like he's going out to buy food…"

"No, no, I understand what you're feeling, don't apologise" he reassures her. "I'm worried about him as well. I believe you were right when you said that something was wrong with him a few days ago." A nod.

A market stall not too far away from them sells all kinds of bread and baked goods, the warm smell of the fresh rolls wafts through the air and invites them over. Mirna tilts her head, humming at the idea that's beginning to form at the back of her head.

"You know, he's helped this village so incredibly much, I feel like we owe him at least this," Mirna says, pointing at the loaves of bread, as she slowly walks towards the stall. Azule follows, nodding his head in agreement.

Together, they assemble a basket, filling it with juicy looking tomatoes and bell peppers. A bunch of fresh carrots, apples and a fine salad head with big and luscious leaves are added to the pile. They throw in a few of the biggest mushrooms they could find in the marketplace, before they finish it all off with a big loaf of bread, still warm to the touch.

Satisfied with their gift, they exchange a grin and make their way to Link's house.

_

For the first few days, Wild doesn't manage to rise from his bed. Grief weighs down on his bones, seemingly pushing down on his entire being. It squeezes his lungs in a way that makes it hard to breathe, hard to get up and do something, anything.

He stays in bed and he ignores the gnawing feeling in his stomach. The pounding and throbbing in his head from the lack of water keeps him awake at night. Which is fine. He even welcomes it because he doesn't want to sleep. Sleeping means being trapped in a nightmare, reliving that one day over and over. Seeing all of them di-

He knows his heart won't be able to handle that. So instead, he stays awake as long as possible, until his body gives out and shuts itself down, forcing him into a hopefully dreamless sleep.

After some time, he can feel himself space out and drift away. His head is suddenly stuffed full with cotton, muffling his thoughts and dulling the piercing ache behind his eyes. He lifts his arm, momentarily unsure if it even belongs to him or if this is actually someone else's body. He lets it fall back down onto the bed. He can't find anything to ground himself with, so he watches as he floats away from his body.

After a couple of days, he feels his body actually get up to drink some desperately needed water and eat at least an apple, the survivalist inside him screaming at and fighting for him to stay alive. The water and food wakes him up from his dream like state, but not enough to pull him entirely back.

He sits at his table, staring down at his second half eaten apple. He slowly turns it in the vanishing light of the setting sun, thinking back to last night's nightmare.

_

He is standing in front of a house. Groups of flowers are hanging from the balcony in deep purples and gentle blues, splashes of white sprinkled in between them. Vines climb up the right side of the wall, proudly showing off the vibrant red of their blooming buds.

He can hear voices coming from within. The gruff sound of a proud father, the gentle tone of a loving mother, the energetic screams of a little girl… accompanied by the roaring laughter of a boy. Small footsteps rush through the house, followed by even smaller ones. More laughter.

Wild closes his eyes and focuses on those sounds. His chest aches with the vague knowledge that this is something that he's lost in his deep slumber. That he's left behind.

He takes a deep breath.

One moment, the air smells of lavender and the promise of ripe apples, the next it is replaced by the pungent smell of smoke and fire, making his eyes water. With shock, his eyes snap open, only to be met with the sight of red. So much red.

He starts forward, his panicked mind screaming at him to do something. But he finds that he can't move his legs, can't move his hands and reach for his sheika slate or his ice arrows or something.

All he can do is watch.

The roaring fire climbs up the vines at the side of the house, which have shriveled up and died in the span of a view seconds. Wild tries to hold back a sob, as it sets the roof ablaze. It climbs through the windows, trapping the family within the dying house. All of them locked inside the fiery storm. All of them except for their son.

Hands fly up to block out the horrible and terrified screams that follow, but they just ring through. Wild presses his hands to his ears even harder, but the screams sound even more clear that way. He tries to squeeze his eyes shut, but finds that they just fixate on the scene before him instead.

By the time the roof caves in, Wild is screaming names that he can't remember, crying for people that he doesn't know anymore.

_

The dream, that was very much not a dream, nags at the back of his head and reminds him that he's already lost his first family.

And now I've lost my second one as well, he thinks bitterly, tears burning behind his eyes. The empty feeling in his chest pulsates with a strange ache to it. He taps his finger against his half eaten apple, which is a deep red colour.

With sudden but vicious anger, he takes up a kitchen knife and stabs it into the apple. Again and again, furious about his past and his present and his fate bestowed upon him by the damn goddess. He keeps at it until the apple is reduced to bits and then he throws the knife aside and starts to thrash his home.

He sweeps the plates and bowls off the shelves, throws his chairs against the wall until they break. He smashes one of his few vases against the floor, the water seeps into the wooden floor boards while the silent princess lays broken on the floor.

He stomps over to his weapon collection and starts to rip them from their displays, uncaring of the damage that he does to them. Tridents fall to the ground, small daggers, shields, amor. Consumed by his rage, Wild doesn't take notice of one particular broad sword that's barely staying on the wall.

As he bumps against it, it comes loose with a clang and cuts deep into his right hand, almost severing it off. Wild stares at his arm with horror, blood drips down his now useless hand. He drops to his knees, cradling his severely injured limb.

A wave of nauseating pain rushes through him and he empties the contents of his stomach onto the floor, dry-heaving when his systems has purged everything there is to purge. His whole body shivers, as his chest hacks and coughs and gasps for air.

The sight of his own blood makes him dizzy, the way his hand limply hangs from his forearm makes him sick.

"M-mipha." He calls. Shock prevents him from doing anything, but watch his arm bleed and bleed and bleed. And then, slowly, light blue tendrils rise from his skin and start to stitch everything back together. Strips of flesh rejoice and form new skin on top. Bone mends itself and in the end, his hand is good as new. A last wave of pain rushes through his arm before it stops at last. Wild breathes deeply.

And then he starts to think and to contemplate and the thoughts in his mind turn grey, then darken further into an inky black.

If my families keep dying, then I'll just make one on my own. His fatigued and crazed mind thinks, marvelling at the way his stitched together hand moves. Painstakingly, piece by piece if I have to.