Chapter Text
"So, what’s the plan for that?”
The heroes, and their newly acquired divine companion, stand at the foot of- quite frankly- the tallest wall Time thinks that he’s ever seen before in his life. He's seen many too, but this one seems to reach up into the very clouds in a way that makes him wonder if, were the moon falling in Hyrule rather than Termina, if it could have caught the demon faced celestial object before it picked up enough momentum to cause significant damage or not.
He thinks not, but the damage done to the main of the land wouldn’t be world ending, most likely, just more like a very terrible earthquake; shaking everything and sending homes and villages tumbling, but not killing everything in the immediate vicinity at least. Thoughts of the moon though lead to thoughts of the deity, and standing right next to thing- man? Person? God? -definitely doesn’t help with that.
Time has no clue what to think of the god. All the more so now. In his experience, it was a force, silent but powerful, granted as a result of his helping others and, to his knowledge, previously, nothing more than a manifestation of the goodwill of the locals he’d helped, presented as a force to help him defeat the thing meant to destroy them. He’s heard the younger heroes, and even Malon herself, jesting about something called “the power of friendship” and how, in fairytales and the like, it’s the force that drives away a foe, gives strength to heroes and ultimately changes the tides for them. In a way, he’d sort of assumed that that was what the mask itself was too, although maybe more a manifestation of latent power spread throughout Termina, culminated after being allowed to grow, and becoming a shield, a sword, a suit of armor against the thing that threatened to destroy what it was forged from.
But apparently that’s not the case.
Apparently, there was a soul inside, locked away.
Apparently, the mask itself also had a True Face, though what that is, he can’t make out.
His use of it was like a tool. It was an item. It made him strong; it gave him power. He could, with the donning of the mask, be as strong and powerful as he’d been in that era he’d left behind, be grown in a way that made those around him treat him with the respect to which he’d become accustomed as an adult, but which was abruptly stripped away when he’d been a child again. He’d been stronger though, then he had been, taller too, bigger.
It was nice.
It was so, so easy to embrace and to wear it more than his own face when it made life easier, made people look at him the way he wanted, made him a man again in their eyes and not the child they’d talk down to and doubt.
And then it stopped letting him take the mask off, and he’d struggled more and more. He doesn’t remember his heart stopping or going blind for short spells or whatever else the captain and Tune would claim would happen when he’d wear it too long. He doesn't remember it refusing to let go until he was grown, until he’d been back in his own world and he’d had to be the one fighting to get it off himself. Not just tearing at the edges to find where skin met wood, just as he did with any other mask, but cutting at them when he’d realize it was getting harder and harder to find the seam, to wear his own face again when he no longer wanted to be strong and powerful and mighty in the eyes of the world, but to just be Link again for a short while and climb a tree or ride Epona.
Or see Malon. It always felt wrong riding back to the ranch with any face but his own, and he’s still not sure exactly why that was.
But he’d learned, through trial and error, that the mask was a danger, a risk, and when it hadn’t let go at all, couldn’t be pried free, couldn’t be ripped from his face, when he’d near lost an eye and either traded it instead or else altered it with the burst of magic giving away, he’d put two and two together and realized that it wasn’t a strictly a benevolent force.
It was a consuming one.
The mask was going to consume him, or whatever wielder wore it, slowly make it impossible any longer to let them escape, to let them be, and slowly, slowly, the magic had started to take over and he’d found himself more and more pushed to the background while a force not his own had tried to run the show.
He’d concluded, then, that there had been a spirit within, like the rest had, like Mikau and Deku and Darmanii; something dead and gone that wanted to live again, somehow. Perhaps something that wanted to live on through whatever dared wear it too long, taking over, making its mark, slowly shifting Link from himself into whatever it had once been, too slow to notice until he’d been staring with one eye- his own and one of its, into a mirror and seeing marks on his face and white in his hair and found that when Malon walked in to speak with him that he could look down on her instead of up as before.
It was dangerous, he’d realized, to wear it too long. A hungry soul that would take all it was given and more. A thing to be used only in the worst of situations, where the danger of being altered beyond recognition was outweighed by a threat to those he loved.
Magic is a balance, Saria and the Deku Tree used to say; a give and take that can’t be tamed. The mask was proof of that.
The deity on the other hand....
It’s standing there, Legend on one shoulder and Wild on the other, both perched and craning their heads back to look up at that great wall in front of them, and it- the god- likewise stares upwards with face unseen by those below him, not minding for a moment the mortals using him as a steed, and apparently willing to offer to be one.
A deity who spoke of a wife, with a fondness in his voice that Time hears in his own when Malon becomes a matter of discussion, hears from the other boys when they speak of home.
It makes the god seem so terribly mortal- alive, so....human. Not like a force of nature that takes and gives in turn, but someone who cracks the most flat of jokes without once smiling, but who’s voice warms up like the sun creeping over mountaintops when he speaks of some mystery woman bold enough to court and marry a god. Someone who’d scooped two of his boys, the most cautious too, the hardest to reach as of late, up on his shoulders and holds them there with hovering hands like Warriors used to do for him and Tune, like the captain sort of does now as he bounces some on his heels, a short distance away; gently shaking the sailor awake again now that they’ve- sort of- reached their destination.
“Hyrule can fly,” Legend pronounces, gaze slipping sideways down to the traveler who nods, silently, in agreement, “but the rest of us....” and it’s trailed off with furrowed brows and pursed lips and dark eyes fixing upwards again.
It’s too far for a grapple, and he rather doubts even Wild has the stamina to climb so high in one go.
“How do you usually reach the top, champion?” Warriors asks, still bouncing Wind and looking rather like he’s trying to keep a fussy baby asleep rather than wake the teenager up.
From where Time stands, he can’t see what Wild’s face does. The champion’s scarred side faces them and makes no real motions even if his good side might. Only Legend and the god seem to be in a place to see that though, and neither appears to be looking. All the same though, the slate is lifted some by an equally scarred hand, a silent answer in itself that really does nothing for them in the long run.
They haven’t tried slate travel just yet, and Legend, Hyrule, and even the captain have all agreed, some time ago, that it’d be rather risky to even attempt it given they don’t know how it will react to magics not the champion’s own, nevermind to those nonmagical (which, there aren't any among them, but apparently not everyone knows that yet. Time only knows because he can see it though, if only with his borrowed eye.)
“Great,” comes the skyloftian’s murmur in answer, another of those frowns on his face that borders on stormy, something Time is beginning to think is something he should start being wary about seeing. Given the literal lightning that had chosen to strike when the man had snapped yesterday, the way magic had surged around him at the same time and the fact that those two things were definitely not unrelated, he’s of the opinion it might be best to tread lightly around the younger man now. As if he wasn't already after their talk in the bar.
“There’s always something,” it’s a murmur, quiet and almost not heard from above them what is heard though is feathered boots tapping against armor as Legend, perhaps unknowingly, starts bouncing his feet against the deity’s breastplate in what looks to be a restless motion as one hand rests cool metal rings against scowling lips, brows still furrowed as eyes stare upwards.
The deity’s voice is as much a shock to hear now as it had been the first time, a deep rumbling that Time can feel resounding from within him, like there’s part of him answering in return; a foreign part, a part that’s not really him but the parts left behind when the mask was torn away; resonating, not responding.
It makes him shift a bit further from the god, if only to try and see if the sensation will abate some for his efforts.
“A pity that flight is not an option for all of you.”
“I mean,” and Wild huffs it, hair blowing about as he scowls upwards, “if we could get high enough, it would. I have a glider, and Sky has his cape and Wind his...we could glide, it’s just where from?”
From his new distance, Time swears he sees silver eyes glitter for a moment. The expression doesn’t shift, but it’s like a star blinking overhead before darting earthwards, and then it’s gone as the god turns his head towards their champion, face hidden by the younger’s slumped over form.
He's suddenly struck with something feels terribly like fear.
“I could throw you, would that be acceptable?”
“No,” Wars’ voice is sharp as it sounds, though somewhat muffled as Wind’s head finally rises, the younger shifting in their guardian’s arms to blink and stare about blearily at the rest of them, even as gloved hands adjust their hold on the youngest, mused and messy hair swishes as the captain looks around him at the rest of them. “No one is throwing-”
“That might work actually,” Four interrupts, pausing in the stroking of his own rather bare chin to stare forwards, like he’s visualizing it for a moment before nodding definitively and glancing the considerable distance upwards at the god’s face. “If you can carry two, you could probably launch one of us pretty high.”
How on earth was he under the impression that Four was the normal one here?
“Smithy makes a point,” Legend murmurs, foot slowing its tapping, but not stopping, which Time almost thinks has the deity...amused? Silver flicker down to watch, no shift in expression to be seen, but Time can almost feel the amusement, be that from within himself, or from the god instead through their magic. “Given the right distance and the right tools- I have a roc’s feather and Sky’s got his cape-”
“Roc?” Wind is the one to interrupt the muttering, still blinking owlishly, hair sticking up in every direction and face creased some with impressions of the captain’s clothes. “like.... a helmeroc?”
The foot stops, violet falling to catch against the ocean. “Like a roc.” It’s very flat, but not unfond, and long ears flick forwards before twitching some in what almost looks like amusement from where he stands. “Pretty sure ‘helmeroc’ is just a way of saying ‘roc wearing armor’, sailor. As in, ‘helm wearing roc’.”
Given that he’s just woken up, Time can’t blame the sailor for looking startled by the concept, and if anything, it makes him want to chuckle just a bit and pipe up with something along the lines of it being literally in the name. Were he a bit younger, or just younger looking, maybe he’d give it voice. As it stands though, he doesn’t, instead glancing from wall to god even as Wild, on the deity’s shoulders, seems to be making himself busy with something.
“Worth a try,” the champion declares, prompting Legend to start slipping down off of broad shoulders even as Warriors, arms still full of the sailor, continues protesting and warning and scolding and-
Honestly, Time can’t tell why, but he swears there’s fear in the face of the man he once called his father. A sharpness in his voice that only ever appeared when one of them was in very grave danger and Wars was either trying to talk them out of going further or guide them back out again. He’s scolding in that way that has sounds tripping over one another and just the slightest hint of Hebra bleeding through even as he hikes Wind a bit higher in his hold, grip terribly tight around their youngest hero.
Not that it does much good, because at a prompting look from the champion, the deity has caught the lad up under the arms and, in an oddly familiar way to how he remembers the captain tossing him about when he was still small, the deity launches their champion skywards.
Warriors voice crests on a sharp scolding in the same second as Wild whoops out a sound of near delight when the wind whips past him, form getting further away before stopping, red blossoming above him as the glider he’s so fond of engages and sends him sailing through open air towards the wall top.
He disappears over the wall, voice still echoing down to them, light and breathless.
“Right then.”
Time was not expecting Sky to be the next to back it, and Warriors, who’s had eyes fixed upwards on the champion, teeth all tight and shoulders strung somehow tighter, whips about to stare at the other man with disbelief written on his face. “Sky, please tell me-”
“It works,” there’s a lack of tightness in the younger of the two now, and Time can see the skyloftian’s hands tremble as they all but rip off the sailcloth about his shoulders, there’s a quickness in his step too as he moves towards the god. “Thank feathers, because I haven’t flown in ages.” The look he shoots over his shoulder is something between assuring and pleading. “I’ve done this my whole life, captain, it’s fine.”
The deity waits, watching.
Wild’s voice calls from above, words lost on most of their ears from the distance, but tone high and eager and bright in a way it hasn’t been in days.
Defeat is always a strange thing to see on the captain’s face, but it melts over him with a sigh even as he drops his gaze with a huff.
Their chosen hero’s whoops are somehow louder than even Wild’s own when he returns to his namesake, not pulling out the cloth until the very last of moments and soaring downwards once he has back to the land high above them. Legend's is more a sharp gasp than a cry of delight, but Four’s is a startled cackle as his cape catches the wind and he makes the distance.
Time watches the lot of them, gaze trailing from the god to each flying hero in turn. Hyrule is hovering, a blur above them, near the edge to provide a boost for anyone who doesn’t quite make it far enough or high enough, though it seems the precaution is unneeded. Half the heroes are up already and Wind is pushing down out of the reluctant captain’s hold, eyeing the god himself but clearly unable to ignore the delight from above or the apparent appeal of being sent flying by a force stronger than him.
It helps, Time thinks, that the god simply waits for Wind to ask him, and then actually pauses to catch gazes with the captain before he answers.
Warriors is a bristling, glaring force of swirling magic and unseen snarling teeth, all battle fire and blood in the feel of him as he catches the god’s eyes, but he doesn't discourage the motion this time, though he doesn't so much as blink either as Wind is launched upwards, leaf catching him and letting him meet with the rest above.
It leaves three of them; the captain, Time, and his pup, all standing there with the god.
When silver shift to them again, Wars’ tone is flat. “I’ll climb, thanks.”
Wolfie barks, it sounds a scolding but doesn’t do any good.
The god arches a brow. “It is a fair distance. Are you certain-”
“Yes.”
It’s stupid, and Time wonders how he missed that the man who helped to raise him is, in fact, not that much better or smarter than the rest of them because pities sakes, that just sounds asinine! “Wars-”
“I’m stronger than I look, sprout,” it’s still flat, not quite a growl, it’s avoidant because the man won’t match his gaze and instead is focused on the wall, inspecting for a way upwards himself. “And you can watch them till I reach the top, right?”
He’s about to protest to ask how the man expects him to reach it himself before he’s reminded, not for the first time, of the other magic he keeps close to him. Nayru’s melody is already ringing in his mind and ready to be played after an age of absence from his ears.
He doesn’t play it just yet though. Not with Twilight right there, wolf or no, and without a way up himself.
Time is not leaving his pup down here with the god.
Maybe he can carry him? Would that work? He did it once before, and with Twilight fully conscious this time, maybe he’d not be against being slung across his mentor’s shoulders once more, just long enough to reach the top?
A part of him wonders if, perhaps, he only thinks it because the deity had done so for two of his other boys earlier, but that doesn’t matter over much really, now does it?
Bright, light, silvery eyes lock onto him, sending a shiver through his frame; he’d worn that face for ages but it never made it easy for him to look at it, to see something else rather than his own, but it’s almost worse seeing it move independent of his actions, like a reflection of himself come to life somehow, not too dissimilar from encountering his own shadow. “Have you a manner for flight?”
“I’ll be fine,” and before the god can move on to his pup, Time moves to kneel beside the younger, hand finding fur without really thinking too hard about it.
Blue eyes, so much more bold and unexpected in this from than in a face so like his and Malon’s at once, blink up at him, ears pricking forwards, waiting.
“Might I lift you, pup? I can get us both up if so.”
The considering look is somehow heavier than when in human form, but the slow nod is the same regardless. It’s more awkward lifting the lad in this form though, paws little aid, but he doesn’t stop his efforts to even bother asking Twilight to change back. Wary as he is about transformation magic, there’s something about the wolf hero when he’s got paws rather than hands that seems more settled then elseways, and the younger ones have been responding well to him in this shape too. Quite frankly, if Time himself had a form they’d favor over his normal, he thinks he’d be bearing it the same about now. He doesn't though, so he just works around his descendants own.
Time sort of wishes he had his wife’s strength though. Wolves are rather heavy, and slinging one across his shoulders like a living pelt nearly overbalances him right then and there, and it’s only sheer stubbornness and a refusal to fall in front of the god that stops him tumbling over, Twilight’s worried whines sharp in his ear as he stumbles.
He manages though, he gets the pup settled and then finds the ocarina and plays.
Magic sweeps, spins, twists up around them and then, in a gush where he nearly drops the instrument, and clings fast to the scruff of his student with his free hand, they’re shooting upwards under a force bestowed by the goddesses, slowing only when they reach the top and letting him step-stumble trip to the earth, rolling once he reaches it and sending his pup tumbling free to do the same, a sharp and startled yelp sounding as they do.
He’s not as small as he used to be, or as agile, or as spry. He’s tired and it’s been a long night, and he really doesn’t have it in him to bother with coming up on his feet. When Time stops rolling, he just lets himself lay there, only moving when he gets a nose in his face and a snuffled out little whine of concern from his student.
A whine that cuts off as a sharp bark sounds from somewhere close by.
Twilight’s furry face shoots upwards, ears pricked up and tail stilling the motion he had felt a second before near his feet.
When it does pick up again, it’s with a speed that actually hurts as it thwacks against his one raised knee, the wolfish face above him lighting up, eyes sparking sharp and bright as the quiet dignity of their wolfish companion is lost under what can only be described as the actions of an actual pup. Twilight yips, feet scrambling, and Time’s left literally lying in the dirt as his pup races away from him. Curiosity is the thing that has him rolling over and pushing himself even somewhat upright, but he doesn’t make it much further than that.
Twilight’s raced the distance to another figure, another wolf, a thing of molten gold that greets him with a deeper bark, a rough sort of nipping at the scruff he’d only just got his own hands free of even as their rancher, serious and stern and firmly against being treated as a pup or dog or beast in this from or otherwise, seems to nearly fawn over the somehow larger canine. He’s darting about, moving as though to circle the golden creature, right before up and nuzzling himself under the bulk of its head even as a great golden paw rises to catch and hold him in place there, sharp red eyes closing as the larger of the two beasts nuzzles right back against his pup, nipping some at pointed ears but doing no damage even as Twilight seems to do everything in his power to get closer to the beast.
Time has no idea why, but something inside of him, something sharp and loud and previously silent ever since he’d made his peace with Tune’s existence and presence and capacity to belong beside him with Warriors, rises its ornery little head and seethes.
That’s his student, his kid, his Twilight- his and Malon’s. Why on earth is this strange creature- why is Twilight himself reacting to them so? What is it even doing there?
How does his pup know some strange, ethereal beast from Wild’s world?