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shibyn · 1 year

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i know that it will find me in time

linked universe || time/malon, fae!chain

Pushed to desperation, Link makes a deal with the otherworldly.

There are consequences.

chapter 1 || 3.7k || ao3

This close, he can see the wide dilation of the fae's pupil. He feels pinned, trapped. Like prey waiting for the inevitable.

Link has to breathe slow to keep his fear from showing. No matter what the price is, he'll pay it.

Anything, anything to save Malon– he'll give it.

this is just me coming up with a lot of magic mumbo jumbo. love u

(A heads up!! the eye trauma and implied self harm tag apply in this chapter! They are brief and not very detailed, but they're still present.)

Link rises before the sun.

The world is quiet this early— not even the morning birds have started their call, keeping the fragile silence of morning. He has plenty of spare time before the sun crests the horizon, so he toes his way to their bedroom before he heads out.

The room is dark when he enters, smothering. Malon rests, tucked under a mound of blankets. From the doorway he can hear how strained her breathing is even though her expression is lax with sleep.

One of the better nights, then.

She does not stir when he steps over to her side, nor when he sinks to his knees and gathers up her hand in his.

He leans over and presses his lips to her knuckles, chaste. Her skin is clammy and warm between his palms. In the dim light, she looks like a ghost, her fiery hair pale, her skin even paler.

"I'll be back," he whispers. Promises.

He doesn't get a response. He swallows the dread that fills him, and leaves the room.

The kitchen is barely lit by the mere brightening sky when he creeps in. He watches as the sky brightens from the dark navy of night, counting the seconds as they pass until he sees the barest sliver of the sun on the far horizon.

Then and only then does he begin.

He finecomb searches through every pocket on his person and flips them inside-out to be sure. The metal buckles to his sturdy boots are removed and replaced with jute rope to keep them tight around his ankles; the same rope replaces his belt. He removed his earrings and his ring, placing them on the small dish by the sink for safekeeping. His tunic and cloak have only button loops, but he still double checks the closures anyways.

Around the corner of the house sits the rainwater barrel, full from the storm that passed nights before. The water's chilly with the morning air, biting into his skin when he dips his hands in, past his wrists and up to the middle of his forearm. He keeps his hands submerged until the tips of his fingers start to grow numb.

The water must air dry, so he sits on the porch steps, breathing the cold air to his lungs. Once his hands are dry and some degree of feeling has returned, he elbows his way back inside.

In an oak dish carved from the trunk of a fallen tree, he pours all of the sweets he can buy at the street market. Butterscotch, fruit drops, caramels, meringues, licorice. The dish fills to the lip, just enough that he doesn't have to worry about spilling it with any errant movement.

Setting the bowl in the crook of his arm, he elbows his way back to the porch. There, he pulls down one of the simple wind bells that was Malon's mothers. He loops the rope around his left wrist.

With the sun low on the horizon, he sets off.

Farmland gives way to the woods around the edge of the property, but the forest proper is northbound. He steps through the long overgrown brush, ducking from the branches that reach out and scrape by when he passes. There's no path to follow, so he continues on north with the rising sun to his side.

The trek is long and monotonous. He avoids trampling plants and ducks around trees that are in his path. Wildlife only remain in the peripherals of his vision, ducking away before he can properly look. He hears them, though, just above the chiming of the windbell swaying at his wrist.

When his ankles and thighs start to itch from the long walk, he knows he's in the forest proper. Light still dabbles the forest floor, but when he looks up, the sun is blocked by the leaves of the ancient oaks surrounding him.

He pauses to breathe in the crisp forest air. At the farm, the weather was brittle and cold. Frost is due in a month's time. But here, in the forest, the air is warm. Almost the perfect temperature.

He diverges from his northbound path, searching through the oak trees. This deep into the forest, nearly all of the trees have been here for centuries, with roots pulling up and out of the earth and branches winding and spindly.

It takes the better part of an hour, but he eventually finds a suitable tree. Moss has grown on every side of the tree, stretching up and draping down from its branches. The tree's roots cross and intertwine, allowing enough room for mushrooms to grow.

After setting the oak dish in the flattest part of the roots, he unloops the windbell from his wrist and ties it to a low-lying branch that reaches over the dish. Nine paces away from the base of the tree, he sinks to his knees, creaky as he goes down.

He bows his head to the tree, and he waits.

Nothing happens for a while. The forest had quietened its chatter when he had entered, but the longer he sits, the more the sound resumes. He has to focus to not jolt at every chitter of chipmunks venturing close to him to investigate. The bugs have time to resettle near him, picking up their interrupted tune.

Just as the white noise resumes, it starts to vanish.

As the seconds pass, the bird's call ebbs, one by one, until there is no song left. Then the clicks and chirps of squirrels dwindle. Longer and longer, and the hum of bugs vanishes. Tree leaves stop shuffling. Then the grass, too. The wind lightens until it is no more.

He counts the beats of his heart as he waits. Only when he hears the sounds of the windbell does he raise his head.

In front of him sits a boy. His hair is a mousy brown mess atop his head, flicking up wildly like it's been mussed with. Every inch of bare skin has smatterings of freckles. The clothes he wears are threadbare and worn, not unlike the clothes he'd see on the kids from town. A delighted smile graces his face as he picks into the candy bowl's stash of licorice, humming a pleased tune.

He knows better than to call for its attention, so he continues to wait. He knows he shouldn't keep watching, should keep his head bowed, but the boy— the boy shuffles around until he's sitting with his legs crossed. When picking at the candy, he carefully avoids the butterscotch, but doesn't scowl in disapproval or disgust at it. It's very human-like.

The boy's so normal that a fool would forget what they're dealing with. The glimpse of sharp teeth every time he tears into a piece of licorice is a much needed reminder.

Only after he pops one of each of the candies into his mouth does the fae boy finally looks up, finally acknowledging him and his presence.

Link tries not to show his nerves, unsettled by the piercing stare. He's never interacted with the fae folk before– only knows how to contact them, whispered to him ages ago. How does one even go about making a plea to the fae? He knows they'll hear out anything, but when does a plea ask for too much?

The boy tilts his head curiously at Link's silence. He hasn't blinked once.

Link tries to gather himself.

"Please, my wife..." he starts, words sticking to the column of his throat. He has to swallow once, twice, before he can speak again. "She's... she's sick. She's been sick. She's been getting weaker by the day and..."

He bites off the rest of his words when his voice begins to crack. He squeezes his eyes shut.

They had thought it was the cold strand that was being passed around. One of the baker's young girls had recently fallen ill with it– sick as a dog, Wendi had said to Malon while they exchanged two crates of bottled milk for a baker's dozen of pastries. Couldn't hold down any food. Hacking up a lung whenever she wasn't keeled over a basin.

Sure, Malon was sick, but it was manageable. Just a passing cough and a slightly higher temp. If she didn't have to stay in bed, she wouldn't— owning a farm meant no days off, no matter how much Link said she could rest.

They hadn't thought much of it. Not until Malon collapsed in the pastures, unable to breathe.

Upon the first visit, the doctor pulled Link to the side. When he took off his glasses, cleaning them with the hem of his shirt as a motion to avert his eyes, Link felt his heart plummet.

The doctor wouldn't give it a name because he didn't know what it was. Not a common cold. Not exhaustion or stress. Not even the lung disease that did its rounds years earlier. All he could recommend was that Malon get sleep and stay hydrated, and to call him back if it got worse.

The man never said anything useful. After months of worthless checkups, Link stopped calling him back.

Link would go about keeping the farm in shape with only half a mind. He couldn't stop— normally the daily hard work can distract him from anything, but his heart would keep seizing, his mind scattered.

Cuccos would have to bite at his fingers to bring him back to attention. Epona even had to stomp on his foot when he stopped mid-grooming, unable to escape the waterfall of what if she needs me and I'm not there.

At the end of the day, he'd trudge back to their room, still sweaty and gross, just to check and make sure. Only after he saw the rise and fall of her chest, he'd clean up, make a meager meal for himself and a pathetic bowl of broth for her, and try to rouse her so that she could eat.

He's scared that he'll walk into their room one day and it'll be silent. That she won't wake up, no matter how much he nudges her shoulder. That he'll have missed her last moments, and that she was alone.

He's so, so scared.

"Please," Link pleads. He's just shy of begging. "Please save her."

The words ring in the silence. While the boy sits, motionless, contemplating, the only sound is his own breathing.

Eventually, the fae boy hums.

"You are aware of the toll, are you not?" he says, chewing idly. He has yet to avert his eyes from Link's.

Link keeps his breath steady. "I am."

"And you're willing to give anything?"

His hands briefly tremble before he forces them still. He knows that fae cannot take anything that will kill him, but they can take however much as they see fit.

"Yes."

If the boy is surprised by this, he doesn't show any inclination of it. He just nods, finishing the licorice with a final bite, and steps out from the protection of the tree's reach.

Ringing starts to drown Link's ears the closer the fae gets, his ribs curving in with each step. He steels his spine, craning his head at the approach until the fae stops an arm's length away.

This close, he can see the wide dilation of the fae's pupil. He feels pinned, trapped. Like prey waiting for the inevitable.

Link has to breathe slow to keep his fear from showing. No matter what the price is, he'll pay it.

Anything, anything to save Malon— he'll give it.

"I will take your eyes as payment," the boy says, final.

The air in his lungs rushes out like he's been punched.

His eyes. His eyes.

Only through sheer will power does he not panic. He stamps down the bubbling fear, the unbridled terror, before it can overtake him. Focus. Focus.

The logistics of it all— he won't be able to work the farm. Maybe the heavy work— but some things he just won't be able to do anymore unless he has help. He won't be able to do deliveries. House chores will be difficult. Cooking might be out of the question.

He won't even be able to see Malon recover. He won't be able to help her as well as he could.

But.

But at least she will.

Link ducks his head, working past the knot in his throat. He's about to accept the proposal when the boy speaks again.

"We will let you keep one," he decides, his smile almost mournful when Link jolts back up, "since you are a child of the forest as well."

He tenses. He wants to be relieved— it's unbelievably merciful of a fae being, it's only one eye instead of two, he'll still be able to see. But— child of the forest—

But before he can speak, the boy reaches out, fingers ghosting over Link's cheek bone. Even though it's feather light, gentle as a breeze, every bone in his body locks up at the touch.

"It won't hurt," the boy promises.

Link's pulse roars, almost drowning out the reassurance. The feeling of wrong wrong wrong of fingers resting on the thin skin under his eye— it's all sending his nerves into overdrive. He believes the boy, he does, but he has to force his hands to rest clasped on his lap, nails digging into his skin.

The air shudders in his chest when he breathes in deeply. "I keep my eyes open, I presume?"

The only answer he gets is the apologetic quirk of the boy's lips. The boy's careful to keep his teeth from showing.

In another act of surprising kindness, the boy waits, the tips of his fingers unmoving on Link's skin. He doesn't plunge his fingers in without warning. He just watches Link's expression, silent, expressionless. There's no hint of impatience to him, but no willingness to wait forever.

He waits for Link to gather himself enough to nod. And then. Then—

Blessedly, Link blacks out the second it begins.

When he comes to, the woods are dark. Hours have passed.

The heavy blanket of the night is dark enough that he doesn't notice it at first. Initially, he's more preoccupied by the unbelievable ache in his knees— he's been kneeling in the same place this whole time, it seems— and only when he looks around to confirm his assumption does it hit him.

His chest stutters, every inch of his body flushing cold. Oh, Hylia above. He carefully brings a hand up to his right eye.

Gone. His eye is completely gone.

He forces himself to continue feeling out the damage, no matter how much he nearly heaves. It's clean. No open wounds. When he prods at the surrounding skin, none of it is tender.

As if nothing has changed.

He still feels the eyelid shudder open and close whenever he blinks. The brush of his eyelashes against his fingers sends shivers down his spine, knowing they are far too close to the socket but he cannot see them.

He waits for minutes, waiting until the nausea and terror settles in his gut. He rises shakily to his feet. The bowl he brought now sits empty on the tree root. Even the butterscotch is gone.

Nothing is waiting for him when he looks, craning his head around the entire clearing. He collects the bowl with a wobbling walk, knees aching, disorientated, and starts his trek home.

____

For a while, nothing happens. Link adjusts to doing farm work with one eye, and he waits.

He waits for so long that he's sure that one eye wasn't enough. He contemplates returning to the marketplace to hunt for more licorice to make another plea with, when he walks into their room and finds Malon awake.

More than awake. She's helped herself slightly more upright against the pillows, head gingerly turning in his direction. Blinks blearily. "Link?"

He almost drops the tray holding their dinner.

She's still not well. When he sits down, he can see it clearer— it's in the way that her skin is still a sickly pallor, in the way that her eyes are glassy and sliding around instead of focusing.

But she's upright. She's smiling at him. She's awake.

"How— how do you feel?" he asks, almost cracking on the words. He leans over to check her forehead with the back of his hand. Then checks with his right hand. Cool to the touch.

He barely believes it. The fever— it's gone. Entirely.

She swats weakly at his hands when he keeps checking. "I'm fine, I'm fine," she laughs, though it's hoarse and winded. A sharp inhale, like a gasp, breaks her next sentence.

Her eyes are tacked onto his right eye.

He smiles like a grimace. Damn. He had hoped he would have more time to avoid this.

"What happened?" she whispers, hand trembling as it comes up to his cheek. He catches her hand before it can touch, clasping it between his own, pulling them away from his face.

"Sorry," he apologizes. "It's still tender." He got the stitches pulled earlier this week. The skin is still bright red and itchy with healing.

It was the only way he could think of making a missing eye believable. Saying it was from a farming accident would be ridiculous. Even saying a normal accident wouldn't make the cut. No wound is ever as clean as his— there was no external wound, no obvious reason that his eye should be gone.

So. He gave it one.

"Freak accident," he lies smoothly. There was plenty of time to think of a solid story while he was recovering. "Epona got spooked and she bucked. Hit the part of the corral that's been rotting, and a piece got me."

He feels a little bad that Epona takes the blame in this– she's the reason he actually made it to the doctors. She only hesitated momentarily when he pulled onto her saddle, gasping, towels and gauze pressed to his face, before following his blind directions and running full speed.

Lying to Malon feels awful, twisting in his gut. He wouldn't ever dare it in the first place— but if she knew about the deal he made, or even how close he came to losing both of his eyes…

...he can't. Not now.

The corners of her mouth tremble. "Oh, honey," she whispers weakly, choking up. "Darling. I– I can't even imagine–" Two, three tears drop from her eyes.

"Hey, hey, no need for that," he soothes, swiping his thumb under her eyes to catch the tears. "It's all okay now."

"You lost an eye," Malon bites, the strongest she's sounded so far. It takes all of the breath out of her, bubbling in her chest. "You lost an eye, and you were alone. It isn't 'okay'!"

Ah. Bone-deep guilt cracks in her voice.

She used to apologize about burdening him. Every time he'd come back into their room to keep her company and help her eat at the end of the day, unable to shake the weariness from work, she'd apologize. Said that he didn't have to help her. That he already does enough– he should just go to bed instead.

He'd tried to nip it in the bud everytime, but every waking moment for her was now trapped in bed. It was a lot of time to stew in anger at herself.

"It's not your fault," he promises, rubbing a thumb over her knuckles while more tears stream from her eyes. "It really was a freak accident– it would have happened either way. Don't blame yourself for not being there."

Malon just stubbornly hums, not agreeing or disagreeing. She clenches her jaw, visibly trying to make herself calm.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. First extended conversation he has with her in weeks, and he makes her cry. Grade A husband material, here.

A scoff. "Don't apologize to me, silly," she croaks, "I– I just wish—" She trails off, swallowing the warble in her voice. "I'm just glad you're okay."

He drops his forehead to their clasped hands. "Me, too."

Day by day, she regains her strength. She's able to keep down the same thin broth that used to send her heaving. It progresses into stew, then bread, then normal meals.

(When they share a simple breakfast over the side table in their room— scones and jam and eggs and toast and bacon and tea and coffee— he doesn't point out the wet sniffles that Malon occasionally had, and she doesn't point out how shiny his eyes were over his cup of coffee.)

Then, after she swears up and down that she feels ready and he finally holds back on being an absolute worrywart, she stands on her own two feet for the first time in months.

She laughs, a burst of joy, and he joins in. They laugh together until they're in tears, Malon leaning heavily on him, Link gathering her up in a tight hug.

She could only circle around the bed. The entire time, she held onto his proffered arm like a lifeline, knuckles white. Her breath is shaky and gasping when she sits back down even though she only ever took shuffling steps.

There's frustration in the way she chews on her lip, in the scowl line prominent between her brows.

But there's also determination.

The same night, he returns to the forest, to the clearing where he made his plea. He falls to his knees in the dewy grass, folding over until his forehead presses into the soft soil.

"Thank you," he rasps, gasping around the tightness of his throat. Hot tears slip from the corner of his eye, trailing down his nose and dripping to the earth like rain. His lone eye slips closed. "Thank you."

He loses time like this, head bowed to the trees, relief so thick in his chest he can hardly breathe. He could remain here for hours and hours and hours— but when the wee rays of the sun break the horizon, he knows he needs to head back home to be there before Malon wakes up.

Link presses one more thank you into the soil before he heaves himself upright. No one awaits him when he looks, but only when he steps away from the clearing does the sound of crickets and frogs return.

#linked universe #lu time #lu malon #lu hyrule #eye trauma #implied self harm #au #alternate universe #hello.......... been a while huh #a multichaptered fic too huh.....#otl....

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