A Hero’s guide on how to heal
This has been in the works for admittedly longer than i’d like. For the lovely, @biblicallyinaccuratespoons! I’m releasing this in two parts with the second portion being xreader. But worry not if you’re not here for romance, this part is entirely no romance and no reader. (a shocking twist)
Part 2 here!
cw: themes of self harm/self deprecation and anxiety
𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊
The hero of the skies was many things across myth and legend. He did every job, solved every problem, ran every errand, caught every bug and killed every monster. He’d saved every life and tied off every loose end. He’d done it all. A million times over. And it seemed that in every sense of the word, he transcended the mortal confinements of life.
His mantle did not fade and crack over time. The sword he fired remained used through the eras. His very existence is what defined many more further down the river of time.
His life was over, but his influence persisted.
He was the example of what the hylians were intended to be. Innovative, strategic, crafty, determined, intelligent, self reliant. He held no hesitation. He slashed down monsters with no more than a few seconds of spare thought to strategy. He adventured with no break and to no absolute end with little more than a sword given to his hands.
He was perfect.
He was their hero.
Now, meeting his descendents, he knows more about what the world made of him. He’s seen his likeness among statues and stage, never quite right. No amount of ink or pigment would truly encompass him. And when it rarely did it’d stretch and pull at him until he was distorted. To the following generations, he was story. No longer was he some shy awkward kid doing what he could to keep Skyloft safe.
He was no longer just their hero.
He knows now that his image was distorted to whatever tale made the people most interested. He was no longer a person as he was some vague shifting figure. He was no longer the life he led.
He was the life the author gave him.
He was no longer the author, he was the muse.
But such was the mythos.
It didn’t bother him, not as much as it would’ve directly after his journey. He acknowledges now -able to look back upon himself and feel something other than sadness and anger- that he was fragile. He understands now that he was too young and too burdened, but he also is sympathetic that the world couldn’t wait.
His hands were tired and cramped, but tied to his blade.
He didn’t wish to entertain the thought of it. But some odd ghost of himself doesn’t allow him that comfort. The onset of panic was familiar.
It had method.
It persisted.
It would rouse him from his uncomfortable sleep, the only weakness in his stubborn mind. Too focused on the mission, he would often refuse the softness that came with feeling. Fear was far more a luxury than comfort was. He could fool himself that he was comfortable. He could pretend that the missed meals and short nights would be justified by the ends.
Perhaps that’s why his fear of what the ends may be would break him.
That the hunger and the pain and the struggle and the exhaustion would now even allow him identity.
He’d be swallowed whole by his mantle.
Atlas could not hold up the sky.
Link couldn’t either.
His ribs would ache as his lungs breathed, never using any of the air. It dizzys his already malnourished and dehydrated mind. He’d go to vomit, but his stomach had nothing to give.
It's so much worse than throwing up.
Most nights, in his thankfully limited memory, he’d find no peace until he passed out.
The lack of oxygen luring him back to light, dreamless sleep.
For a while after his journey, Link couldn’t sleep. He had a bed and he knew there were no monsters able to breach the four walls of his small room, but he just refused. It’s not like he’d run himself to exhaustion anymore. Between Zelda and the other people of Skyloft, they wouldn’t let him run enough errands to knock himself out.
Similarly, He couldn’t eat. Though, this was tied into a larger tapestry of problems. No one told him that after such great damage to the psyche, one does not simply move forward with their life. He was convinced that it would happen again. That something would happen and he’d be unraveled again. But fate could not unravel him if he kept ready.
He could not bring himself to eat, because in his mind he had to stay primed for what might happen.
He could not rest, because that was when he was made to be most vulnerable.
He could not bring himself to be, because that too would be taken.
And any sense of confirmation to that would’ve surely shattered him.
Seeing the books.
Hearing the tales.
Watching the plays.
Walking through that portal.
Link, now Sky, understands it. Or, more of it. He still can’t place why it was him the goddess chose. He still feels a great amount of anger and anguish, though it’s admittedly with much more care than his past self.
Maybe understanding wasn’t the right adjective.
Sky moved on.
He learned to live with who he was and what he’s done. That mustn’t define the other.
He’s made peace with the regret, and the disdain, and the fear.
He sleeps now. A lot. And he eats a lot too, (it’s easier when there’s more options than pumpkin soup). Moreover, he’s proud of that. No matter how many loving taunts he gets over sleeping in or happily taking a second plate, he’s proud he can do that now. The warmth of comfort that settles over him like a down blanket and satisfaction that sits within him like warm food, were once luxuries he was starved of. Literally. It made seeing the ever-present bags under his eyes fading an accomplishment. It made that groggy morning when he looked into the mirror and saw his once lean and defined muscles had become soft with layered fat, a moment of quiet celebration to how far he’s come. That he was here, and he was alive and he was healthy.
He’s proud to be who he’s become.
So it isn’t so scary to be who he’s becoming.
