the blood runs red (old)

the red gets muddled up, after a certain amount of time.

 

link doesn't remember many times where he bled before his uncle handed him the sword-- no, before he asked for the sword. he's always heard stories of warriors and powerful fighters braving the lands, slaying monsters and protecting the village in their valiant gear and weapons. when he was younger, he loved to chase animals around in the yard with a stick, pretending that he was a brave knight with enemies to defeat.

 

now that he is the warrior in question-- well, it's a lot less honorable than he really expected.

 

when he snuck out of the house that day, link only expected that becoming a hero would mean finally being able to reach his dreams of fighting with fancy weapons, tearing across the fields with utmost menace, or maybe even having a bit more curfew. after all, who doesn't want to be praised as the kingdom's protector?

 

but being a hero is nothing like being any normal soldier. there's no armor, no friends to help you, and most of all, no way to quit. there hasn't been a single memory in the near present that hasn't involved breaking bones or being electrocuted or being stabbed or being bitten or holding onto that last little heart fragment until the next time he can heal-- is that too much information? anyway, he digresses. ever since he willingly volunteered to play hero, life has been filled with a constant, unavoidable agony.

 

link never expected to have to practically drag his bleeding body across the rough ground with both legs broken, tiny stones and shards tearing at his tunic as he reaches forward desperately to claim that single heart piece in order to mend some of the wounds. he never expected to stand shivering on the riverbanks, eyes shifting from side to side in paranoia of an enemy attacking while he’s in the middle of drinking a healing potion, fearing for his life. he never expected to be repeatedly stabbed on all surfaces of his body over and over and over again, the pain growing so unbearable he has considered multiple times to just give up. and most of all, he never expected that all of this never gets addressed by the public who expects him to devote his life to repeatedly damage himself in the name of heroism.

 

at this point, it’s only natural to complain, but who would really listen? “i don’t want to do this anymore,” he states countless times, lying on his bed pale and broken, reluctant to get up. “it hurts. it takes up so much of my strength and energy.”

 

it’s just the same response every time: “you shouldn’t complain when you can heal right then and there.”

 

it doesn’t work like that. it never has. maybe he should just hit them and see how they feel about it. they’re right about one thing though-- he can heal and be completely free of any damage. as a hero, it’s his duty to understand the clawing pain that will come with it and shut up.

 

the weapon he longed for to own one day now feels heavy in his hands. the blood of countless never-ending waves of enemies stain the blade crimson, and he can no longer tell if the stains on his hands are his own.

 

but in the end, blood runs red, no matter whose it is.