WHEN LIGHTNING STRIKES

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Warning: Accidental suicide attempt, self-harm. This also takes place in a mostly medieval society, so public knowledge about depression is highly limited. Not very graphically violent, only the slightest hints of Zellink; rated 'T' only because of dark material. Please only read if you feel confident in your mental health, or don't read until both parts of the story are posted so you can get right to the happy-ish ending.

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"Return to the castle. And tell that to my father please."

She turned, shoulders stiff with shame and frustration. Was a little freedom too much to ask?

More specifically… was a little respite from his cold presence too much to ask?

The soft brush of his footsteps through the grass rushed through her ears and her spine stiffened with anger. Unable to contain herself a second longer, she whirled to face him. "And stop following me! I don't care what your orders are; I cannot stand to be in your presence - I must insist you leave me alone!"

He had stopped walking towards her. But he met her gaze with the same empty coldness that usually painted his features. So apparently the Goddesses wanted a mindless puppet?

Thus far he truly hasn't shown a sign of having a mind of his own.

If they're trying to tell me I have to become like him in order to awaken my powers…

It would never happen.

With a huff, she returned her attention to the shrine, closely inspecting the runes across the barred door. Trying to allow more pleasant thoughts to fill her mind, she raised the Sheikah Slate and snapped several pictures of the runes for further interpretation and investigation later.

"Princess… I was instructed to bring you back home."

For a moment she was stunned by the sound of his voice; then her lip curled in disgust as she realized it was just as unbearably steady, as unbearably emotionless, as everything else about him.

Feeling her anger rising, she faced him once again, willing herself not to lose her temper a second time. "Do you never question the path that has been decided for you?" she sneered, marching back to her horse, her soul stinging with jealousy and distaste.

Sir Link. The Hero of Hyrule, chosen by the Sword that seals the darkness.

He was a blank slate. Empty face, empty eyes. Did he even have a soul? It didn't seem like it.

Certainly he had proven his skill in battle. Certainly he had saved her from a guardian's beam, destroying months of research in the process. Certainly he had drawn the Master Sword from its pedestal in the Lost Woods.

Other than that, he did not seem to feel anything. He did not seem to think anything. Every minute of every day, he wore the same solid expression. Cold. Soulless. Empty.

I could never be like him. Nor would I ever want to be.

Dear Hylia, please tell me there's another way!

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Lightning flashed; thunder shook the castle to its core. The brief glare of light illuminated his arms - illuminated the scars.

Most were on his left. They were messy - some diagonal, some criss-crossing the other way, some nearly horizontal, others vertical.

Some old and white and faded. Others fresh, swollen, pink. A few were long, narrow scabs, only just beginning to heal. It was interesting, he thought, how some scars became smooth and shiny as time passed, while others transformed into ropy lines raised from the rest of his skin.

It was the only way he could keep himself going. The only way he could release the pent-up fears, and doubts, and insecurities, and stress… The only way he could restore balance to his soul.

He slid his hunting knife from his belt, swallowing tightly. It was sharp - he'd worked hard to make it so. In close quarters, a knife would be far more useful in combat than the long, elegant Master Sword.

Here, late at night, when he knew that the Princess could not hear, when he knew that no other guards were coming his way on patrol, his knife served a different purpose.

It was frustrating that it seemed to never cut as deep into his own flesh as it did into the flesh of beasts, or enemies. My stupid mind, holding my strength back without my even realizing it, he thought glumly, placing the knife along the underside of his left arm (he was running out of room elsewhere) and beginning the first cut.

It was the third, and fourth, and fifth cuts that hurt the worst. When he slashed the knife along its previous marks, gouging deeper into his flesh. He was well-accustomed to pain, but even so, his body tensed with each cut going forward from the tenth. And still, the blood was slow to come. Not enough. I need this pain - I deserve this pain. I'm not good enough for the role they've chosen for me - I don't deserve any of the things they say I am. I am not a hero.

But what choice did he have? "Oh, hello, King Rhoam - I might have drawn the Master Sword, but there must have been a mistake; you'll have to choose someone else. Preferably someone whose mind isn't as broken as mine."

It didn't work like that. For whatever reason, he had been chosen. So now I just have to live with it.

Which means I can't let anyone see. Can't let anyone know.

Lightning struck again, horrendously close, with a mighty crash of thunder that caused his heart to leap into his throat as he jumped from his place beside the Princess' bedroom door. A sudden flash of pain. Inhaling deeply, he tried to calm his racing heart and return to his task.

His mouth went suddenly dry. The bloodied knife fell from his shaking hand, landing with a clatter on the stone floor. "No…"

In that moment, when lightning struck, he'd accidentally cut himself where he'd sworn not to. And the cut was deep - far deeper than he'd ever meant to cut.

In that moment of sudden fear, instinct had overcome the barriers of his mind. His strength had not been curbed. And the veins in his wrist had been severed - blood poured from his hand, painfully fast with every beat of his panicking heart, burning with ice-cold fire that stung. "No… oh, no…"

Desperately he clamped his right hand over the wound, willing himself to breathe deeply, to stay calm. His fingers quickly grew damp and sticky with his own blood. "Please, no…"

What do I do? What do I do?

Tell someone? Get help?

No! What would they do - what would the King do if he found out that the knight assigned to his daughter would do such a thing?!

He couldn't tell anyone. But a wound like this… Can I stop it on my own?

He had a sword, and a knife. That was it. Those were his only resources.

With a shaking hand he let go of his wrist, wincing as the flow of blood seemed to intensify, and snatched his knife from the ground. As carefully as he could, he slipped it under the left sleeve of his undershirt and cut it away. He was starting to feel cold; his left hand was going numb, and his fingers were trembling violently out of fear. With one hand he lifted the strip of his sleeve and draped it over his upper arm, grabbing one end in his teeth and grabbing the other in his fingers, looping it into a knot and pulling it tight.

The second knot was nearly impossible.

When he pulled the cloth in his right hand up around the cloth clenched in his teeth, his first knot loosened; if he finished the second knot right then the tourniquet would be too loose. His heart rate was picking up - whether from panic or blood loss he couldn't tell. Inhaling as deeply as he could, he pulled the first knot tight again and attempted the second once more.

Only to fail.

And fail a third time.

And fail again.

And again.

And again.

There were tears in his eyes as he finally abandoned the task and instead pressed his good hand tightly against the vein he was trying to stop, closing his eyes tightly. I'm going to die, he thought, his heart hammering rapidly against his ribcage.

It wouldn't be fast. It wouldn't be painless. It would take half an hour at least, and then he would be gone.

A sudden realization struck his mind with the force of a Goron's fist.

If I die, the Master Sword will have to choose someone else.

Someone more worthy.

Someone who isn't… broken.

He struggled to swallow past the lump in his throat. That isn't so bad, is it?

No.

It was a good thing.

It was what was best for the kingdom.

I've failed.

Leaning against the wall, he slowly slid down until he was sitting, knees close to his chest, on the ground. I'm going to die. The thought occurred to him that if he raised his wrist above his head, he might be able to slow the flow of blood…

But what does it matter? I'm not going to get help - not going to let anyone see the truth about their 'hero.' So trying to stop the blood… it'll just make the whole thing take longer.

He shivered. Sucked in a shuddering breath, let it slowly out. Let his arms fall to his sides.

They'll find me dead. They'll see the knife, and my wrist, and the blood. They'll see the other cuts on my arms and know exactly what happened.

And by then… there would be no point in hiding it. The Master Sword would have to choose someone else; the world could forget about him, give their hope to someone more capable, more worthy. The state of his mind wouldn't matter to anyone at that point.

So now I just wait.

Each beat of his heart sent stinging fire through his wrist. With each beat of his heart he could feel more blood pulsing out of his body. He felt… he felt terrified.

Is death the end? Will I just… disappear? Will I end?

No. That couldn't be it. He had seen the ghost of his father floating over the green battlefield where he had been slain. He would go on.

And… my parents? What will they think when I see them again?

His soul ached. That was a simple question to answer - they would be disappointed. Would shun him. Would turn away, ashamed to be related to him. I've failed everything.

His vision wavered for a moment and he wiped his eyes with his good hand before realizing there were no tears. His head was beginning to feel fuzzy, as if his thoughts had been scattered across the Lost Woods and he had to search through the heavy mist to find them again.

A sudden scream.

Link's eyes flashed open; he'd had no idea they slipped closed.

The Princess.

Am I… imagining…?

"Help!"

Decidedly not.

With a grunt he stumbled to his feet, swaying slightly and slumping against the wall, gasping great lungfuls of air, as he fought to regain control of his mind and body. Staggering, he pushed open the door and walked into the Princess' quarters, his eyes widening upon seeing her sprinting towards him.

"You certainly took your time," she hissed, her voice crisp with fear as she hid behind him.

There was a Yiga in the room, tall, burly, armed with a sleek longsword. "I thought you'd given up," he sneered, stepping over an overturned chair towards the two of them. "No matter. In this state, you're no threat to me."

Link didn't respond, mentally offering a prayer to the Goddesses. Please… I can't do this alone.

With a roar the Yiga lunged towards him, blade whirring through the air. Link yanked the Master Sword from its sheath in time to block the blow and instantly snapped his own sword forward, drawing blood on the assassin's shoulder. Growling, the Yiga lashed back; Link met his blows with as much strength as he had, but with each successful parry he could feel a peculiar ache spreading through his body as blood continued to seep from his wrist. Weakness.

He landed another blow, slashing deep into the assassin's side. With a roar the man lunged with the speed and strength of the desperate and slammed his blade forward; Link trembled from the effort as he pushed the sword away and attempted an attack of his own, but the assassin easily knocked his blade from his hand.

Great.

The Yiga paused, caught by surprise. Link pulled his hunting knife from his belt and launched himself forward with a ragged cry, attempting to bury it in the other man's heart or throat, only to feel the breath knocked from his lungs and find himself suddenly lying on the ground, struggling for breath as fresh blood seeped from a gash across his ribs.

The image of the assassin's eerie mask wavered before his eyes. His mouth dry, Link reached out with his good hand, praying for deliverance, and felt his fingers close around the Master Sword.

"Hero of Hyrule indeed," the Yiga man scoffed, raising his longsword in preparation to stab him through the heart.

And once he does that… the Princess…

He would accept his own death. But not hers.

Gasping from the exertion of it, he swung the Master Sword upwards in a smooth, graceful arc, severing the neck of the assassin looming over him. The man's head and blade tumbled uselessly to the ground, and with a groan, Link pushed himself to a sitting position and crawled away from the mess.

The Princess was staring at the dead man, her eyes wide and nearly unseeing as she struggled for breath. Then her gaze landed on Link, and she whimpered softly.

"Help!" she screamed again, hurrying to his side. Link finally reached the wall and slumped against it, his head swirling painfully, his body burning, as his life spilled free in crimson rivers. Exhausted, he tilted his head back, waiting in bone-weary fear as the world faded around him, the Princess's screams melding into indistinct sounds as the colors of her rom blurred into black...

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When he found himself awakening, alive, in the castle's infirmary, his first reaction was to feel relieved.

And… then he realized that to live through what had happened was possibly eons worse than accidentally dying by his hand.

They'll see the scars; they'll see my wrist, and they'll know what happened.

And now I'm alive.

Which means that nothing has changed - except for how they'll treat me.

What will they do?

He wouldn't find out that day, or even that week.

But as his strength returned, and he saw two guards entering the infirmary and coming for him with shackles, his stomach twisted into a knot - it couldn't be good.

"Wh-where are you taking me?" he asked shakily as one of the men fastened the cuffs around his wrists. He winced inwardly; his attempt to use the emotionless facade he'd hidden behind before had failed.

"To the King," one man answered gruffly.

Link struggled to swallow past the lump in his throat. This is bad.

The two guards each kept a firm hand around his upper arms as they walked out of the infirmary, and he found yet another thing to despise about himself - his height. How could anyone have thought I could be a hero? It… it couldn't have been meant to be. I can't do this - I'm not good enough.

I could never be good enough.

He curled his hands into fists, trying to keep them from shaking and rattling the chains. Dread seeped through his soul, filling him with ice and nausea. I failed. I failed every expectation they had for me - so now…

Now I'm to be punished?

It made sense. And he knew he deserved it. A hero needs to be strong, and dependable, and - and not broken in the head. I wasn't good enough for them.

He was surprised when, instead of taking him to the upper levels of the castle, where the throne room was, or to the library and the king's study that adjoined, the two guards took him downwards, past the knight barracks, past he servants quarters.

To the dungeons.

He felt as if his innards had been liquefied. All at once it seemed difficult to breathe; his heart was hammering much too quickly, and he could no longer keep his chains from rattling. Sweet Goddesses, no!

He was afraid - he couldn't deny it, though he forced his features to remain blank and impassive. But more than that, he was angry.

Angry at himself, for failing so thoroughly that the King saw fit to put him behind bars.

For falling far below the expectations laid upon him.

For drawing the Master Sword.

For believing, even for a short while, that he could ever be the kingdom's hero, magical blade or not.

The guards halted before a cell near the front of the dungeon - a cell without walls, but with bars, going from floor to ceiling on every side. And standing beside that cell was King Rhoam himself, eyes stern and cold beneath snowy white brows.

"Link, son of Nudge of the Royal Guard," the King greeted him, "wielder of the blade of evil's bane." He paused. "Do you care to explain yourself?"

Link tried, in vain, to swallow. It was impossible. Heart pounding with anxiety, he glanced at the two men on either side of him, still grasping his arms. "Sire, c-could this possibly be a… a private conversation?"

Explaining to the King would be difficult enough. Explaining to the King in front of an audience would be worse.

"Either these guards stay, or you can tell the entire council."

Link bowed his head, squirming uncomfortably. "I - I'm sorry, sire. I c-can explain here." How strange - years of forcing himself to hide behind a mask of calm indifference, all undone by one moment of instinct.

"Very well. Go ahead."

Link inhaled deeply, trying to prepare himself, and opened his mouth. But the words didn't come. He stared at the King, tears stinging behind his eyes, his heart racing nauseatingly as his mind went suddenly, painfully, blank.

"It was an accident," he blurted out all at once. The desperation in his voice startled him. "Sire, I - I - there was lightning, close to the castle; I was startled, and - and the knife slipped, and -"

"But you were using the knife on yourself," the King growled.

Why was it so hard to breathe? "Y-yes," Link whispered, shame burning up his cheeks as he bowed his head, fighting against the tears threatening behind his eyes. "I… I'm not worthy. N-not for this. I - I can't measure up; I'm not… not good enough…"

The King rubbed a weary hand over his face. "Hylia, preserve us," he muttered under his breath. "One would think she would choose someone else to bear the Master Sword."

Link flinched. "I know," he agreed brokenly. "I… I wish they would choose another. Wh-when I thought I was going to… to die… I hoped that they might."

Rhoam's eyes narrowed dangerously. "That is dangerous thinking, young man. Never, in the history of this kingdom, have the Goddesses chosen any replacements. Before the era of the Hero of the Winds, Ganon struck Hyrule hard. The people prayed for salvation - but the chosen hero never appeared. The entire kingdom was flooded to prevent the world's utter destruction.

"Did the Goddesses just decide not to choose a hero?" Rhoam's features tightened into a stern scowl. "Or did the hero, finding his burden too much to bear, take the coward's way out and end it all?"

Link sucked in a sharp breath, curling his hands into fists and digging his fingernails into his skin.

Failure. Coward. Weak. Not good enough. Not strong enough. Not brave enough.

His will faltered; a tear escaped from his eye. Praying that the King had not seen, he bowed his head even farther.

"Your death would doom us all, boy," Rhoam spat. "And if your death occurred by your own hand, the result would be even worse. The people would think you'd given up hope. And if the very person meant to save them all decided there was no hope, what do you think would happen to them? They would lose their own hope, as well. And they would lose faith. They would begin to believe that Ganon will win, and at that point… half the battle against him will be over. Your death would destroy this kingdom."

Another tear fell, dripping to the ancient stones beneath his feet. Link bit his lip hard, trying to focus on his breathing, fighting not to crumble beneath the ache on his shoulders. "But I didn't try to kill myself," he protested weakly, despising the hoarseness in his voice. "It… it was an accident…"

Rhoam strode forward and Link flinched as the large man gripped his left sleeve and wrenched it up to his shoulder, exposing lines of scars to the flickering lamplight. "Look me in the eye," the King commanded, "and tell me that you have never considered taking your life."

Link's throat went dry; his breath caught as he raised his head to meet his sovereign's stormy gaze. "I…" He grimaced, eyes squeezing shut as another tear trickled down his cheek. "I can't," he admitted breathlessly, shoulders slumping in defeat.

When the King next spoke, his voice was cold. "Link, son of Nudge, I hereby strip from you your position as Appointed Knight to the Princess Zelda, and your station as a Knight of the Royal Guard. However, I lack the authority to remove the title of Chosen Hero from your name. Thus, to preserve this kingdom through preserving the bearer of the Master Sword, I declare unto you your sentence.

"From this day until the day of Calamity Ganon's return, you will remain here, in this cell. To ensure that your skill in battle never wanes, as we depend upon that skill for our survival, warriors of this kingdom will meet with you daily and engage you in combat. At that time, the shackles around your wrists will be removed, but those around your ankles, soon to be placed, shall remain. Should you refuse to fight, my warriors are hereby granted permission to provoke you to engage in combat using any means they deem necessary.

"When not in combat, you shall be locked in a position in which it will be impossible for you to take measures to harm or kill yourself. You have been placed in this cell because it lacks any objects with which it would be possible to harm or kill yourself. Finally, as one more measure to protect your life, I command you to take the Master Sword and lay it down across the passageway from your cell. A dulled wooden blade will be provided for your training, and when the Calamity returns, you will be permitted to take up your true weapon once again.

"Your are forbidden from having any visitors, to prevent the possibility of a collaborative escape or murder attempt. The first warrior to visit you each day will bring food and water; you will be required to nourish yourself through any means necessary.

"As long as I am King of Hyrule, or until I see fit, this punishment stands. Now. The Master Sword."

Link felt numb. He could barely breathe; the severity of his situation was too much to fully comprehend. Barely trusting his legs to support his weight, he walked at his escorts' urging to the wall facing his soon-to-be- cell. Swallowing thickly, he drew the sacred blade from its sheath across his shoulders, feeling it pulse slightly in his grip as he set it down carefully.

'I will wait for you, Master.'

Trembling, he straightened and turned to face the King. He was barely aware as the two guards took him into the cell and fastened his wrists directly to the wall before snapping shackles attached to long chains anchored in the wall around his ankles.

The guards left the cell.

They shut and locked the door with a rusty creak.

They bowed to the King.

Following their monarch, they left the dungeons.

And Link was alone.

He sucked in a deep, shuddering breath, eyes wide as more hot tears burned down his cheeks. That breath turned into another, and another, until he was shaking with dry, breathless sobs, tugging fruitlessly at the manacles pinning him against the wall, feeling his soul rent seemingly to pieces by guilt and self-loathing.

Why would they choose me? Why me?!