the blood runs red

the red becomes muddled, after some time.

link, having been brought up as a sheltered child by his uncle, hardly knew of any injury or pain before he was handed the sword — no, before he asked for the sword. the worst injuries he had ever gotten before was maybe a scraped knee from falling off the tree or a pricked finger, and that was quite enough for him at that time. how ironic, he thinks, idolizing warriors and powerful fighters from legends, braving the lands and slaying monsters with their valiant gear and weapons, when he himself could hardly handle seeing his own bloody finger. still, he chased animals around the yard with a stick, pretending that he was a brave knight with enemies to defeat, as if none of his fears existed in the first place.

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

helping zelda wasn’t even a question when he heard her call; she’s his best (and only) friend after all. and besides, saving her will prove he’s a hero… right?

(it technically wasn’t wrong. but like he said, being a hero is a lot less honorable than one thinks.)

when he snuck out of the house that day, link had only expected that becoming a hero would mean finally being able to reach his dreams of fighting with fancy weapons, tearing across bushes with unquestioned enthusiasm, or maybe even having a little later curfew. it’s everything a child his age could want — strength, fame, all that good stuff. after all, who doesn’t want to be praised as the kingdom’s protector?

but he quickly realized that being a hero is nothing like being any normal soldier. nobody provided link with any armor, so he had to dig through metal scraps to find some for himself. he had no help, no friends, and most of all, no way to quit. with the entirety of hyrule castle corrupted, he also had no chance to be assisted by the guards there. (but he did have to fight them. to this day, link can’t wipe the memory of his first proper kill, his sword plunging through a weak point in a guard’s armor, and looking up to see the face of a kind guard who always turned a blind eye whenever she saw him playing with zelda in the yard. he was too stunned to even say sorry before she faded into a dark mist.)

zelda relied on him to help her. link’s only choice was to charge into battle swinging his blade and hoping for the best, which only resulted in every single one of his memories in the near present involving breaking bones or being electrocuted or being stabbed or getting bitten or holding onto that last little heart fragment until the next time he can chug one of those goddess awful red potions to recover just enough stamina to stand back up on his battered legs. but this was his choice. he willingly volunteered to play hero after finding his uncle on the verge of death in the castle, sealing his fate with one final desperate promise to avenge his uncle and free his only friend. and ever since, his life has been filled with constant, unavoidable agony. 

and even though he anticipated the hero’s life to be somewhat difficult, link never expected to have to practically drag his bleeding body across the ground littered with rocks with both legs broken, tiny stones and shards tearing into his tunic as he claws forward desperately to claim that single floating heart piece in order to mend some of his wounds. he never expected to be chased out of the village with swords and pitchforks by the villagers he thought he could trust, frantically patting down his pants before the flames from their torches can spread to the rest of his clothing. he never expected to stand shivering on the riverbanks, eyes shifting from side to side, trembling with paranoia of an enemy attacking while he’s in the middle of drinking a potion. he never expected to be repeatedly stabbed and poisoned and bitten and beaten on all surfaces of his body over and over and over again, to the point where he had considered multiple times to just give up. (but he can’t. zelda needs him.) 

most of all, he never expected that all of his strife would never be addressed by the public who, to this day, expects him to devote his life to repeatedly damaging himself in the name of heroism. he saved zelda. he defeated agahnim and ganon. his job was over. or so he thought. the dark world has leaks, where every so often monsters would still slip through, and everyone points to link to be the hero again. and so he does. every day, rushing out his door every morning to scout the villages and make sure everybody is safe. and thus, the cycle of harm continues with every enemy he fights. 

the worst part is, even as his fighting skills improve, the pain of getting injured never quite subsides. obtaining the master sword does help with aligning his attacks better, but his tiny stature has never been quite good on the defense front. link wants to believe that at this point, it’s only natural to complain, but who would really listen? “i don’t want to do this any more,” he states countless times, lying on the field pale and exhausted, reluctant to get up. “it hurts.”

he receives the same response every time: “can’t you just heal right then and there?”

it’s infuriating the first few times he hears it, and still mildly annoying now, but he can’t expect others to ever understand. it doesn’t work like that. it never has. healing removes the injuries, but it doesn’t remove the aching felt previously. link wishes so badly to just hit anybody who brings up that line and see how they feel about it. but of course, there is one thing that the statement gets right — he can heal and be completely free of damage afterwards. 

those red potions, as disgusting as they taste, do their job quite effectively. any cuts, bruises, and fractures can be mended with one drink, and while it is certainly convenient in a sense, the potions also leave behind no evidence of struggle, leaving behind a clean slate of a perfect, flawless hero. (they don’t heal any fatal injuries, though. but over time, link realizes most injuries that cause his “deaths” tend to be stabs through the chest. and those don’t tend to be visible to the general public.)

he has an image to uphold, alright. the hero of legend can’t cry or give up. (he used to cry more, when he first started out. but he made sure to keep it in his room, where nobody could hear. and he considers giving up every day.) so he’ll just have to suck it up and drink a potion every time it hurts and move on with new quests and dangers to tackle.

still, the weapon he longed to hold for so long now feels heavy in his grip. the glowing triforce on the back of his hand adds to the weight, dragging him down like a hundred-pound rock. the blood of countless never-ending waves of enemies stains the blade crimson, and no matter how many times he wipes the sword, he can never seem to keep it clean.

link can no longer tell if the blood on his hands are his own or not. (even after seeing the stains day after day, sometimes, he still feels like that little kid in the orchard, crying at the sight of a small cut on his finger.)

in the end, the blood runs red, no matter whose it is, muddling into a pool of unmendable sin.