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Link wakes up late. He wakes up at the time where he would have been better off not waking up at all. The time of day when the sun flares through the window panes and burns your face before you’ve even stepped outside. The only course of action now was to throw his blankets back over his head for some meager semblance of shade or actually get up. Link spends an embarrassingly long time debating between his two, quite frankly, pathetic options.
He should get up.
He should sleep in.
He should eat.
He should stretch.
He should roll over at the very least and stop cutting off his circulation by using his arms as a pillow. He should do anything at all. Link does nothing. And the longer he does nothing the more angry he gets. The longer he does nothing the more he wants to scream in his pillow. It doesn’t matter how much he wants to do anything—other than what he’s doing, which is, in fact, nothing— feeling sorry for himself won’t help anyone.
A grunt of exertion echoes from outside, a thud followed by a curse making its way to his ears. Link grits his teeth and swings his feet over the side of the bed. His toes hover above the planks, warm from the afternoon sun. His gaze settles on his shadow for just a little too long as he shoves on his boots.
Practically running out of the room, Link hops down the stairs, dodging the fourth step from the bottom because it always creaks. There’s a full cup of tea gone cold on the windowsill. He tries to prove himself wrong and stick his head into his father’s room. It’s tidy. Too clean. He runs his hands over the sheets, scuffs his shoes on ground for any loose floorboards—
His fingers close around the hilt of a knife under his Father’s pillow. Same ornate design with a curving pommel and a triangle in the center. It glints in the afternoon light, polished so much Link can see his reflection in it. Before it all he would have never guessed it had ever been unsheathed. Just some wall decoration or sentimental heirloom. He can’t look at it now without the feeling of his Father’s blood on his face as he stabs straight through his leg, tearing it out to throw across the room directly at—
Another grunt from outside. Link reminds himself to breathe.
He wants to get rid of it.
He wants to throw it over the bridge to town and watch it sink.
He wants to bury it under this house and never see it again.
He puts it back, forcing his fingers to unwind. Link stops at the door to the backyard, not willing to cross the threshold.
Father’s sword cuts through the straw, held up and bound by a wooden beam. The stuffing has barely come loose. Not enough to justify how much he’s sweating, or leaning on his left leg. There’s imprints of his shoes in the wet grass. His Father had forced him to get up early for years to run sword drills in this very spot. He can’t even properly go through the stances without losing his breath.
“Artura was asking for you,” The air in Link’s lungs catches as soon as the words leave his mouth as the sword in his Father’s hand swings back towards him.
Right. The overhang of the house must have cast a shadow this time of day. He steps into the light and does his Father the mercy of ignoring his expression. “Says your armor’s collecting so much dust it’s hurting him to look at.”
“I’ll come up to the castle soon,” His Father replies, adjusting the grip on his sword. They both know it’s a lie. He hasn’t left this house in months.
“Valen said he managed to sweet talk one of the blacksmiths into getting a new polish. He wanted you to see how well it works.”
“He mistakes his sword for a mirror,” His Father hums a laugh Link doesn’t return. “Tell him I’ll—”
“Tell him yourself.”
His Father opens his mouth. Closes it. And furrows his brow before turning his back to his son.
“I’m going to see Zelda,” Link says, pointlessly, because it’s the only reason he leaves at all anymore. The set of his Father’s shoulders stay taught as Link grits his teeth. “Isn’t there anything you want to say to her?”
“Nothing that hasn’t been said already.” His Father slashes through the hay. A perfectly balanced strike. He stumbles, clutching his leg.
Link slams the door on his way out.