Hello! <3 i wanna hug feral legend so so bad
…ok so you probably forgot you sent this request (i think it’s an old one) but it was interesting!!
cw: alluding to self harm, religious trauma, possessive/yan elements, sky slightly ooc (?)
You awake from your mid-afternoon nap to the non-enjoyable sound of argument.
The voices are fuzzy, your brain wanting to believe that perhaps this isn’t your problem. That perhaps if you’re lucky enough, then they’ll just stop. But, as you’ve likely gathered, things do not go so swimmingly.
You sit up once one of the offending voices stumbles closer, spilling fine dirt all over your squinted face. Your eyes take focus as you lean back upon your palms, trying to figure who and what the problem is.
Predictably, Legend is only a stride or do from you, staring down his chosen enemy. You hadn’t been travelling with the group for very long, but the Vet’s inability to recognize when enough was enough and finally let things go had caused enough arguments.
Sky, on the other hand, throws you for some confusion. He stands, arms thrown out to the sides in exasperation. His brow holds tension as he wordlessly asks his companion for explanation.
The others try and pretend they aren’t listening. There’s various degrees of success. Wind and Wild are only missing some popcorn– considering they’re sat in silent observance of the standoff.
“Look,” Legend breaks their established silence, “I know you’re close with Hylia, or whatever-” Sky scoffs. ‘close’ was an understatement. “But you’ve gotta admit- it’s pretty fuckin’ twisted.” His voice tremors as he tries to keep his case.
“Things had to be done.” Sky’s voice, by contrast, is much more even. “It’s not like there’s many available wielders for the Master Sword. There’s one hero’s spirit.” He swallows, and Legend near-beside you tries to tamp down his anger.
“Besides,” Sky continues, “It’s not like she has much of an option either. Evil can’t just go unaddressed-”
“I was 10.” Legend barks. The tone alone is enough to make you flinch– let alone the volume. “Four and Time were, too.” He adds, gesturing to the offending members as they desperately try to ignore what’s happening. “Wild died, Sky.” He continues, his hands shaking proper now. “Hyrule has to run the rest of his life- and what?” He scoffs. “I’m just supposed to be happy I’m getting called upon again?” He mumbles something to himself.
“No go on,” Sky sits, as if convincing Legend of anything else is a lost cause. “Speak up.”
“I’m taking a walk.” No one moves to stop him.
𖦹
Two days later, you really began to wish you did.
It’d rained, a near constant drizzle from nearly an hour after he left. It was uncanny– thick, pillowy clouds rippled over the forest, while you could see the sunlight streaking down in the distance. It sure felt like punishment, cold and seeping into your packs the longer the groups had waited.
The tension hasn’t left the camp. Some try to ignore the idea they could’ve had another life. Some know that the idea they didn’t have to suffer would save them satisfaction later in their lives.
Wild tries to throw himself at anything possible to distract himself– all the while with uncanny neutrality.
Time, Four, and Wind continue the best they can together.
Sky, Twilight and Wars try their best to return things to normality, each passing hour of not-quite-right effecting them double of the last.
Hyrule glues himself to your side.
By time the evening settles, the cool air couldn’t feel any more suffocating. There's no sound in the forest that surrounds you. No wind to shake the trees. No animals to call to one another.Just the rain mattering against the already wet dirt, and your group, silent as if another conversation might break the fragile peace.
Your rice and meat is bland. The cook is too out of it, and the others are too afraid to mention it. There’s not even laughter to ignore it, and scarf it down anyway. You set down your bowl decisively. It’s the only sure thing of the last two days, immediately drawing the attention of your 8 other compatriots.
“I’m gonna go find him.” You stand, stretching.
“You don’t-” Time starts, looking individually at everyone else, before returning to you. “It’s not your conflict to solve. You don’t have to feel responsible for fixing it.” His voice is expectedly gentle. The calmness that everyone had been so reliant on to not fall apart.
“I know,” You nod. “But someone has to. And it’s my bet he’d spend more effort trying to convince any of the rest of you into agreeing with him, than admitting he can move on.” You know you hit the nail on the head when everyone suddenly looks away. They can’t bring themselves to lie to you and themselves.
“Wild,” He looks at you like he didn’t know you knew he existed. It’s nearly amusing, his shock. “Can you make an extra portion for Legend, I’m sure he’ll be hungry.” He smiles, glad to be given a new purpose, it seems, and gets to work.
You grab a short sword, the last red potion of yours,and a change of clothes for safe measure, not sure what state he’ll be in when you find him. Dead, alive, or badly beaten, you were set at getting him home at the least.
You adjust your cloak on your shoulders, running the seam along your fingertips, as if the ritual might actually provide some security. You begin your march towards the deepening darkness.
And nearly trip as your cloak is pulled taught.
Hyrule scrambles from where he’d lunged to catch the very edge of your cloak (Read: spread out upon the rough dirt floor) To in front of you. He presses a single glowing bottle into your palm, jittering with energy. It feels just like you, right now.
“It’s a-” You gasp, forgetting the non-official rule against speaking too loudly.
“Fairy” He finishes for you, diminishing the volume back to a whisper. He grins, the first you’ve seen in what feels like forever, conspiratory for your mission.
𖦹
The further you stray from the fire and the camp, the more worry begins to well wir thin you. The near constant rain and lack of sunlight made the forest less hospitable than they already are. Rocks jut upwards, too slick now to be climbed on. A deep ravine cracks far down on your right. If he’d taken either path, you’d doubt there’s much you could do to help him immediately.
Moreover, a chill seeps into everything.
Every surface –trees, rocks, leaf litter, foliage, so on– they’re all covered in rain. The forest grows increasingly dense as you continue wandering. Once identifiable tracks now skewed by thorny vines and thick grasses you have to bargain not to trip over.
The longer the chill stays, the further the clouds dip into the valley. You laugh, partially for your shitty luck, as the already not-so-easy to find path is now just not-easy-to-see in general.
And you thought the rain was punishment.
Your shivering hands light a small amount of oil for your lamp. As much as the forest was shitty to travel through– it hasn’t been your home for the last two days. Regardless of how uncomfortable you are right now, you manage to push through it on the thought of getting the Vet out.
It’s nearly an hour of slow walking and stumbling blind before you find something considerable for the label of shelter– even then, it hardly earns that title.
It’s three stone slabs and a roof, enough to protect someone maybe from the rain if they coil curl up tight enough. And that’s how you find him, curled up as tight as he can manage to fit under the roof and beside the cracked statue. Even at a distance, it smells like mold. As soon as he hears you, he reflexively moves further into the crevice you suspect he’s stuck in.
“Legend?” You see his leg twitch like an animal stuck in a trap, bucking like he can’t tell if he needs to keep running or move further into the teeth he’s caught.
You sit, a meter away from the front of the small shrine, and settle there. You ignore the creeping smell of rot and the blooming black patches of slimy decay that encase the stone and its surroundings.
He wishes it wasn’t you who found him. He wasn’t fond of anyone seeing his weakness, but some part of him felt that maybe you could’ve gotten along. That you were someone he could see himself living beside.
Now, you weren’t even going to consider him as anyone worth talking to.
“Hey,” You recall his attention, trying your best to not treat him like an injured animal. “I brought you some fresh clothes” You set them down at his feet. He looks them down, a single side of his face scrunching in confusion. Slowly, he reaches for them, struggling against the wall to sit up and reach them. He holds them in his lap, staring at them like they’re foreign. On some level, his coldness being met with concern of any level is foreign. He wraps the blanket from his bedroll and wraps it around his shoulders.
“Are you injured?” He looks back at you like you’d just threatened to stab him– a mild amount of concern and confusion settling over him before he hardens again.
“Why do you even care?” He scoffs. “Look, just go back to camp-”
“Not an option.”
He sniffles, evidently not planning for the chance you just… didn’t engage. You roll the bottle of red potion to him, the orangey-red liquid swirling as it picks up motion, the glass’ momentum swaying unevenly. It clicks off the small plinth the shrine sits upon.
Successfully tempted, Legend unsqueezes himself from the wall and sits on the ground with you. His skin is such a stark contrast to his surroundings, you feel compelled to look. You’re immediately compelled to look away as quickly. His fingers are chewed raw in places, nails bitten and picked to stubs. There’s plenty of scars, naturally, from lightning and fire and sword clash; but the ladder of scars, perfect vertical lines trailing down the bone of his thumb confirms what you expected.
You barely get to think on the new information as he uncorks the glass and downs half the contents before having to stomach a gag.
“Hurts like a bitch on an empty stomach” He laughs, trying to keep from coughing too hard.
“I figured,” You chuckle with him, “Wild’s makin’ you some food” He occupies himself with finishing the potion over confronting what it might mean– that people actually care for him.
“It’s-” You help him to his feet, taking one freshly healed hand to pull him up. “It’s the only thing he’s been excited to do since you’ve left.” You begin walking towards the camp, letting him inhabit any space he feels comfortable for.
In the beginning stretch of the walk back, he lingers behind you– like a soul walking out of hell. And you talk.
You talk.
It’s the most he thinks he’s ever heard you talk since you joined their band of merry men. You speak on everything and nothing– talking for the sake of it, because it lets the two of you settle in some form of genuine comfort.
He doesn’t say a word, content to bask in your presence like firelight, letting the company warm him from the two days in hallucinating isolation. He should’ve known better than to eat the mushrooms growing from the stone.
“It was odd, though,” Your tone changes, and it gives him enough pause to lean forward and quicken his pace. He matches your side, free hands brushing.
“Sky was beside himself.” You look over, but not in blame. Like you knew he wouldn’t believe you if you didn’t. “It was like no one knew how to function.” Golden firelight dances beyond the layer of trees in front of you. It’s the quietest he’s ever heard the camp. You turn to face him, extinguishing the oil from your lamp now you have light. He misses the distinct planes of your face now that they’re gone.
“I’m not going to pretend that I understand what you’re upset about.” You have one of his hands, fiddling with his palm, “I couldn’t. It’d be rude for me to.” And yet, he’s beginning to feel that you’re the only person he could accept pity from, “But I understand at least one thing. You’re loved. Whether you’re a mean, reckless, asshole, or just trying to make it through the shitty life you’ve been dealt. You’re missed.”
You squeeze his hand, and before he really can stop himself, his arms wrap around your neck.
Some part of him, stamped out by his life of constantly giving and giving– is finally being given back to him.
You slip from his arms, the cold air filling the space your buzzing warmth once was.
He’s never had a lot— empty hands and an empty stomach, nothing but the clothes on his back.
It’s why he hordes.
Why he clings so desperately to substance, to anything that adds value to his life. To little rings that give him the power to get out of tough situations and magic that might throw his enemy.
But you.
You.
You were far more valuable than any ring, now. You were power and joy and healing and comfort— and maybe you even thought of him for that too. He doesn’t know better than to stamp out the possessive feeling wrapping his heart. All he knows is he’d gladly be hunted down and hung before he lets you —and his heart by proxy— slip away.