Greetings everyone, it's been a while… So, my inspiration has truly sparked recently, and so I felt compelled to write this.

I have taken elements from both Twilight Princess and Skyward Sword, so a knowledge of both these games would assist to understanding the plot, but this an AU work. It is NOT specific to any game, though it does fit to Twilight Princess Gamecube version in terms of locations of the springs and particular factors. Also, for the sake of this, let's just say that Hylia still lives in Zelda.

Please bear in mind that this is completely AU work, maps are not identical, and neither are certain things.

So just a note, my writing is rather "abstract" (probably the wrong word to use) - such as making the syntax very short, clipped and no use of dialogue at first. It's not accidental before you think "what is she doing?!" I did this deliberately as it seemed to fit with the emotions of the story. Likewise, I do switch perspectives. A lot. Again, very deliberate. I tend to write from her viewpoint more, but he's thrown in too. If it doesn't work then please do say.

Also, I think there is some grammar rule to not start a sentence with "but"… yeah, I threw that out of the window.

Long authors note…. But finally….

Warnings - There is blood. And lots of it. I do think I am pushing the boundaries of a T rating, but I don't think it warrants an M. Just be warned for some gruesomeness. But other than that, I think your fine, for now at least.

Disclaimer - The Legend of Zelda and all its associated merchandise does not belong to me, nor does the picture which google provided (I hate finding pictures for these).

Enjoy.

All days begin ordinary. Yet not all end in the same manner, and today was no exception.

The day had begun as any other; the standard chores to complete, animals to feed, clothes to wash and hang. The usual song of birds and patter of forest-life scurrying across the ground - scavenging for any remainders of food.

Nothing had disrupted the calm and amicable atmosphere. Not the friendly banter of villagers, nor the laughs of children playing.

Nothing but the cries of war.

Of the yells of women, stampede of hooves, twangs of bows drawn and fired, explosions from bombs and crackles of flames.

The sounds of utter chaos.

Children were swept off the paths, husbands, sons, brothers; any available male readying their weapons. Frantic at the lack of warning, determined to die fighting.

Women's hysterical screams added to the clang of blades, splashes of blood, crunches of bones.

She stood, frozen. Terror gripping her heart, rage boiling in her veins, horror spiking her fears.

Realising that they are Gerudo's from the west, their flaming hair and copper skin clues to their origin. Riding through her town as the easiest means of reaching central Hyrule, uncaring of the lives they take so easily.

A scream of another fallen alerts her back to the present. Instantly pushing her to run for help, for a weapon of her own, for anything that would be of aid.

Shot after shot was fired, the small practise she'd had of targeting stationary objects providing futile. The rapid movement of the peculiar boars difficult to pin-point.

Soon learning to aim ahead of the riders, their movement securing their own dastardly fate as they ran into the arrow.

Each small victory nothing compared to the great losses.

The attempts of survival decreasing with every moment, with every body that fell dead.

She would not give up, she could not give up.

It was a fight to the death, one she did not want to loose, but knowing it was inevitable.

Another arrow fired, another life lost, one more loss to add to the ever-growing total.

She breathed through her mouth, almost tasting the metallic copper of blood, the bitter ash from fires designed to scare, to cause more destruction. To kill those who thought they could hide.

Desperately she glanced around for any signs of life, suppressing the innate desire to panic at the lack.

Hope diminishing with every second. Fear rising with every heartbeat.

Bodies fallen, twisted, trampled.

Horrifying, sickening, repulsive.

Blood… A rivet of red oozing along the path, coating walls, slick on clothes.

Watching as families fell, friends slaughtered like live-stock.

The temptation to give up, let death claim her as it had claimed all else.

But a fierce determination to persevere, to fight with whatever she had left.

Even as an arrow nicks her arm, she grits her teeth against the pain, letting the crimson pool upon the fabric.

The bow pulled tight, the arrow flies loose, and she's grateful for the little practise she had, but wishing it was more, so much more…

Her shot misses by mere inches, close to her target, but not close enough.

Her position is alerted, the females turn, instant location.

She's the only one left. They don't plan on leaving survivors.

A scream builds in her throat, but it stops, stuck through her nerves, held back by her bravery.

Better to stand indignant than to wallow pitifully on her knees.

Her eyes close, feeling the ground shake with every beat of hooves. The furious breaths of beasts drawing closer.

One last prayer to the goddess; preparing for the blow to end her life.

But it doesn't come.

The ring of metal still strikes the air, the poignancy of blood bitter in her mouth.

Yet she is alive.

Eyes open, she watches as the females join the villagers.

Trampled by their mounts, throats slashed, limbs severed.

A blade cutting through their skin like liquid. Not a moment spared as the next target is killed. Cleanly, efficiently, the blade moves almost gracefully. Movements practised, skilled.

She's wary, not believing that her prayers to live have been answered so easily.

Waiting for the catch; she's already dead, she's passed out, something to describe what she is witnessing.

And then she see's him. The body attached to the sword.

Cloaked in black, sword gleaming wickedly in the deliberate fires blaze, brilliant with the life blood of its victims.

She wonders if death has come for her.

But then he turns, pulling his hood back up quickly, joining the cowl that masks his face, but it is enough to see he is human.

The shock of hair a colour she once knew so well, but her thoughts are irrational. It is not him, it is foolish to think so.

Relief is short lived, fear surmounting it, dashing her hopes of the end.

What does he want, why is here, and most importantly, who even is he?

She observes him with something close to fascination, tinged with a nameless dread.

How nimbly he dismounts, sword ringing in the dead air, metal grating against the ornate sheath.

She cannot move, paralysed by the fact that if she does, her life will be lost.

Even as he moves closer, her feet are rooted.

Hoping that he means no harm, that he is on her side.

He stops in front of her. Face hidden in shadow, she cannot see decipher anything about him.

No words are spoken, but he reaches for her arm, careful to not move too fast, gently inspecting her wound.

Is she scared? Perhaps.

But shock runs boldly in her veins, restraining the emotions that will capture her later.

The toll of the loss of her family, of friends, of her home all placed in the back of her mind.

Her vision hazes, edges becoming black.

She makes to speak, but much like earlier, her throat is tight, disobeying her command to work.

Her muscles weaken, panic ensnares and she knows something is wrong.

Yet she cannot even voice her concern as her knees sag, vision tipping on its side.

Darkness all she can see as she falls into its welcoming embrace.

Sounds drift into her ears, each loud and thundering as her senses comes back, her body cringing; expecting the cacophony of war.

But all is at peace. Or so it appears.

Water is trickling nearby, something that can only be heard if in the woods. The musical chirp of birds confirming that fact.

Hesitantly she opens her eyes, scanning the surrounding area as she slowly pushes up into a sitting position.

Gingerly, she clutches her head, still cloudy from her black-out earlier.

The pain in her arm barely noticeable, reduced to a faint ache. Bandaged tightly to decrease the throb.

All at once her memories come rushing back, and she's on her knees suddenly, violently coughing what little was in her stomach. The acidity of bile burning her throat.

Movements both slow and sluggish, she cups her hands into the bubbling stream, letting the refreshing cool drench her parched throat, erase the remaining grogginess of sleep.

The need sated, now able to think more clearly.

Remembering the cloaked figure. A man if she is not mistaken.

Yet he is no where in sight, making her wonder if she dreamed of his existence.

No, the red on her dress is proof of the battle, of her participation in the event, of being saved by him. Whoever he may be.

Though she's grateful, he is not there to receive her thanks. And her minds lingers on the unpleasant.

Her father, shot down, arrows embedded in his heart.

Her mother murdered before her eyes, scarlet staining her clothes, seeping from the lesion on her neck.

Malon, Ilia, Saria… All her friends killed. So brutally, so maliciously…

She draws her knees close to her chest, crying brokenly into her arms.

Feeling more alone than she has ever felt in her life.

Everyone she cares about is gone. Lost to her.

And she hadn't even the chance to say good-bye.

Another long sob tears out of her throat, hoarse and thick from her tears.

Yet soon her sorrow turns to rage.

All her hatred for the war echoed in her screams.

The cruelty of having everything ripped away from her so fast.

The injustice of being a caught in the middle of the battle that had raged on for months. One she never had the intention of seeing.

Nayrule had been such a quiet provincial town. Specialising in trades of cattle, of embroidered gifts.

It had been so peaceful, so quaint.

Now it was a burning pile of ash, homes destroyed, bodies violated, all consumed by the flames.

Her fury peaks, venting it to the goddess that her village had been named after. Asking why, crying why, begging why.

What had she done to deserve this?

How was she even alive?

Nothing but the natural sounds of the forest answer her. Almost mocking in their calm.

She draws another breath, hands clenched and shaking in fists, controlling her absolute anger as she closes her eyes, maintaining any control she has left.

Opening them to something she hadn't seen before.

A wolf, large in its stature, larger than she deemed possible, watches her.

So silent, she hadn't noticed it till now.

It grey coat, streaked with odd markings of white distinctive from the foliage around.

Its bright, unusual blue eyes - not brown or golden like what was common - staring out at her, intimidating even from the distance, a quite confidence clear in them.

Reflexively, she steps back, but careful not to move suddenly.

She is no amateur; the woods are a part of her childhood, she has seen wolves before. Knows of the ferocity of their teeth, how mindlessly they can kill.

Yet she can't recall ever encountering one like this.

It's the eyes, those peculiar cyan orbs that are steadily focused on her.

How she imagines it is only a head smaller than her, too large to be an ordinary wolf.

She has heard of magic, of transformation spells. Old wives tales, she had brushed them aside, unbelieving of such nonsense.

Though magic exists - she can feel it flowing in her veins - to consider the beast may not be a true wolf is absurd to think about.

Tentatively, she inches back, trying to hide her gasp when it moves forward, mirroring her steps, too humanly for her liking.

Another step back, another step forward.

She can't take it, going against all natural instinct, she turns and runs.

Hitching her skirts and fleeing as far as her feet will carry her.

Never stopping, never looking behind, never watching for upended roots waiting to trip her up.

Arms flailing, she smacks into the ground. Hands scrapping against stones, stained by grass, bleeding through scrapes.

She wants to cry, to sob her lament out. But that is not the attitude to take. She is strong, she knows this, but grief is consuming, deadly when combined with fear.

Hissing in pain as she uses her hands to propel herself from the ground, she freezes.

Hearing the slow pant of breaths that she is overly certain are not her own.

The wolf stands nought but a foot from her, those focused blue eyes watching her. With an apology? Its so fleeting, that she questions whether she seen it, unable to shake the feeling that perhaps the wolf means her no harm.

"What do you want?" She cries out, voice thick. Sick of the myriad of emotion swarming her senses.

The beast gives no response, still quietly regarding her before it tilts its large head. Gaze shifting to her arm, the bandage wrapped around her bicep, eyes narrowing as it sees the blood.

The gesture is so human, so inquiring that she cannot help but gape.

Tentatively, it takes a step towards her form, looking to her expectantly, ready for her to bolt.

Yet again she is statuesque, whether it is her own intrigue that holds her still, or a manifestation of her absolute fear that keeps her paralysed, she knows not. Only watching at the beast draws nearer.

Her estimations were right: it stands no taller than her, its snout is level with her throat. One turn of it head, and her jugular would be ripped.

But the wolf makes no such move, stopping close enough that she feels its breath lift her hair, but a distance great enough that she does not feel threatened.

Carefully, it lowers to the floor, hesitantly, worried that she will run.

Always observing her reaction through those unusual cyan eyes.

"I... I don't understand…" she whispers, unknowing of what it expects her to do.

A sound, something so identical to a laugh rumbles from the wolf. It turns its head, pushing its nose against her legs before meaningfully glancing towards its back.

"You want me to climb on?" she asks, sceptical of doing so. How does she know it will not lure her to her death?

The great beast nods, and the action renders her speechless.

Deliberately slow, she slides one leg over its broad back, feeling the slight protrusion of its spine through the thick fur.

With just as much care, it raises up on to its legs, and the height leverage makes her feel as though she is riding a horse.

Only once her hands are secure on its shoulders, does it move, no alerts to hold on before they are running.

Passing through the trees with swift agility, bounding over misshapen grown roots with graceful ease.

The wind whips her hair back, almost tearing it from her scalp, and she finds herself crouching lower into its back in the hopes of being shielded.

Shifting so that her rhythm is matched with the beasts, instantly finding that she is jostled less, more relaxed.

Owls hoot from above, the evening cicadas hushed as night takes full dominion over the skies. Sunlight already gone, the stars wink out from the gaps in the leafy canopy, the moon full and ghostly.

Though there's still the linger of fear; anticipation of where the beast is taking her, and what the dawn brings, she's comforted by the presence of the wolf, and that scares her even more.

To feel at peace with an animal that could kill her without a moments hesitation is ridiculous, yet something is decidedly comforting about the beast.

The protection she feels riding through the woods, all worries carelessly melting away. It is a welcome sensation, one she embraces fully while she can.

Until grief daggers her heart.

How can she feel so free when all that she loved is gone?

Tears leak silently from her eyes, blown away from the gales in a less than gentle caress.

A low sob escaping her throat before she can prevent it.

The wolf turns discretely in her direction, likely curious of the sound.

She rubs her hands into its coat, more to soothe herself than to reassure it that she is okay. It would be a lie anyways, she is most certainly not fine.

Another burst of speed momentarily distracts her from her sorrow, causing her to cling on desperately as they ran at unimaginable speeds.

There was no doubt in her mind; this is no ordinary wolf.

If not for the rush of air past her mouth, making it difficult to speak, she would ask where they were headed, but aside from the former fact, there wasn't a way in which it could respond anyways.

She had no need to ask though as they stop abruptly at the mouth of a cave, the large beast dropping once more to let her slide off.

It takes her a moment to respond, suddenly apprehensive.

The cave has an aura of alarm, of cold and damp, goose-bumps immediately running down her back.

She proceeds with trepidation, wishing for some form of lighting.

Though she knows of spells, of one that would aid her, she has never fully attempted them - worried of what the villagers would have thought of her.

They feared what they did not understand. Magic topping that list.

Yet there are no other humans nearby, no one to judge her for her abilities.

Even her own mother had been frightened of her spells.

But she is not there to reprimand her now, and the thought simultaneously fills her with courage to do as she likes, but the bitter remorse that she doesn't have her mother anymore, even to berate her, taints the relief.

Something wet pushes against her hand, and immediately she pulls it away, only then realising that the wolf is still near her.

Human it may not be, but there is a question in its eyes, wondering of her hesitance.

She mumbles that she needs a branch, some form of wood to ignite, and no sooner have the words left her mouth than does the wolf amble off to find said branch.

She stares after it in mild astonishment, bewildered that it understood her request.

Even more so amazed when it returns with a long stick that fits her needs well.

Hastily, she words her gratitude, feeling more than a bit silly to be speaking to an animal.

Still bemused when its nods in return.

Shaking her head to clear her stupefaction, she ignites the branch, a rising gratitude that she never took heed of her mother's warning that magic is dangerous, practising it discreetly in the very woods she stood in now.

Flame burning brightly, she recalls the blazes of her village, of the smell of malting flesh…

The urge to gag rises, but she suppresses it, repeating that she can pull through as a constant mantra in her head.

Holding the make-shift torch firmly in her hands, she wanders into the cave, swallowing back the desire to leave.

The steady, soft patter of paws behind her the only thing keeping her going.

Eventually, after several turns, a wide space is found.

But it is not the room that seems so surreal when compared to the narrow, winding tunnels that grabs her attention, but what lies there.

Piles of clothes are folded alongside one wall, boots and capes joining the garments.

A satchel rests on top, next to bottles filled with orangey red liquid.

Blankets rolled into one corner, a burnt out fire close by.

Then she sees them. Catching the light from her torch. Cleaned from the blood they shed only hours ago.

The shield rests against the wall, the royal blue and loftwing and Triforce insignia reflecting its Hyrulian origin, but the sword garners more attention. It has no decoration, nor any bold colours, but she knows she has seen it before.

The sword that had saved her life, wielded by the courageous hooded man.

Terror is heavy in her throat, her hands shaking around the stick.

She glances around quickly, scanning the rooms for any remains of bones, of a decomposing carcass. Unsure of whether to be relived or petrified when she finds none that resemble a human.

"What have you done to him?" her voice trembles, knowing the beast cannot answer, yet wanting it to do so.

The absence of a body is not enough to sate her anxiety. For all she knows, the small bones littering the area could have been human once, now crushed into small pieces by the wolf's powerful jaws.

And though she never knew who her saviour was, the thought that this… this thing may have killed him is enough to deeply unsettle her.

In its way of answering, in a gesture so unlike the animal it is, it whines softly, pressing its ears flat against its head.

Yet she is not fooled by its look of innocence. Disbelieving that it did not slaughter the man to whom the weaponry belonged to.

"You killed him…" she accuses, looking for any other exit other than the one the beast is blocking, repressing the building of panic at realising she is trapped in dead end.

The beast barks at her, almost like a refusal of her statement, shaking its head.

But she does not accept its rebuttal, not when the bark revealed those sharp incisors; more than capable of tearing through muscle and sinew.

In a flash of inspiration, she throws the torch at the beast, satisfied when it yelps.

Yet she does not hesitate to listen, taking off as soon as it jumps back - avoiding the flames.

Her boots slap against the ground, the echoes amplified by the empty air.

Her dress rustling around her legs, the otherwise gentle swish now harsh in her ears.

She is all too aware of how pointless it is, trying to outrun a wolf, but at this moment, she does not care.

She has not been saved by a mysterious stranger to die at the anger of a wolf.

The growls alert her of its presence, and nothing is comforting about the beast now, the unrelenting sounds making her cringe.

Faster, she pushes herself, running her hand along the wall to keep her going forward, to give a sense of direction in the maze of tunnels.

The lack of light distorting her vision, making her all the more privy to the cacophony around her.

She can feel it, coming closer, nearer, its breath at the nape of her neck.

The burst of light almost makes her cry out, stumbling forward into the morning sun, the outbreak of dawn.

But the wolf is faster, sliding past her to bar her exit. A menacing growl ripping through its mouth, teeth bared in a fearsome snarl.

She flinches back, expecting it to pounce, tear out her throat, lap up her blood.

But her eyes become transfixed on the beast before her, how its snarling has ceased, morphing into a howl.

Filled with pain of the deepest kind, of a desperation.

She stands uncomprehending of the events unfolding before her. Uneasy at what she is seeing.

The wolf howls once more, back arching and figure shifting.

Her mouth drops, observant of the scene. Muscles contracting, bones shrinking, fur retracting into skin.

And all she can think in her astounded mind is that she is right. This is no ordinary wolf.

A cry of utmost distress and it collapses onto the floor, nails scuffing grass as paws become hands, grey fur lightens, and a tail disappears.

She doesn't know what to do, and the helplessness is overwhelming.

"Go… inside…"

She blinks, startled that he spoke, more amazed that it brings forth a sense of recognition, but no less forceful in her tone. "No."

"Please…" He begs, ending in a yell as his body arcs of the floor, spine realigning.

Some part of her want to be defiant, to refuse his plea; part stubborn at having to turn back when she had gotten this far, part not wanting to leave him in such a state.

The more she watches, the more she wants to see his face, wants to wait until it is no longer covered in fur.

Yet she finds herself turning, complying to his wishes. Biting her lip when hearing his yelps.

Hating herself for being so useless.

Confused at why he seems so familiar.

Childishly, she covers her ears, all but running back through the cave. Having heard more than enough screams for one day.

Her neck is stiff, muscles protesting weakly when stretching, limbs aching from sleeping on the floor.

But she is alive, and for that she is grateful.

Easing herself up, she realises her hands are healed from the cuts gathered yesterday. Her gaze flickers to the bottles, seeing how one is empty.

The small scrapping of wood catches her attention, causing her to jump when realising what the source is.

The cloak blends him into the stone, the outline of his figure barely discernible.

He does not look up, focused on the task before him. Working on a small block of wood, slowly taking the shape of something she can't quite make out from the distance.

His hands working quickly, skilled with a small knife that he uses to carve the wood.

Again, his hood is drawn, cowl pulled over his face, hiding any signs of his identity, of the glimpse of blond hair she recalls seeing.

"You're a shape-shifter." It's so obvious to point out, but still she finds the need to do so; see if he will reply.

He doesn't speak, hands still working diligently on his model.

"Why did you save me?" She tries a different approach, seeing he will not talk about his ability.

He stops. Placing the wood work down beside him, the movement of his hood showing he is looking towards her. "I need you."

There is no inflection of any emotions in his voice. Neither smooth nor rough, she cannot tell what he means.

Does he seek to cause her harm? It seems plausible. Why else would he 'need' her?

"What do you require?" She asks, thinking of what she has to offer. Her magic, her soul, her blood?

"Just you." He replies monotone, giving nothing away.

She sighs, annoyed at the lack of input from him.

"Eat up, we need to travel soon." He says, gesturing to the small mound of fruit she had failed to notice before, hands returning to the wood.

She makes no reply. He just expects that she will go with him? Her eyes flicker to his form, uneasy at how concealed he is. Of course he does.

But she wants an explanation. There is no way to know whether he is trustworthy. So he saved her life, but that stands for little when he is holding her captive.

Reluctantly, she selects the apple, wiping away the juices dripping down her chin. Shortly done with it, she eats more greedily, filling the empty hole inside her, feeling better after.

When she is done, he stands, the roof of the cave tall enough to allow him to do so.

In one motion, he picks up the lamp - the only source of light other than the small crack high above, turning to face her.

The gesture implying that he is waiting for her to be done.

She stands too, following suit to leave, hunger sated for now.

But his arm stops her, blocking her path and she wonders why.

Without a word, he hands her a cloak, dark as his own, old and worn to the touch.

She is shocked at the gesture, gratefully slipping it around her shoulders, voicing her thanks.

He simply shrugs, taking the lead to exit the cave, the lamp guiding their way. Making the path easier, more traversable.

The day is bright, the sun blinding her eyes as she steps out into the clearing. But she loves the feel of the warmth on her skin, feeling as though she has been in the dark for too long, though when in reality it has been only a few hours.

A soft melody fills the air, and the music is so familiar she turns in wonder, searching for the source of the sound.

But he holds nothing, arms moving beneath his claok as he watches the trees, lamp left doused at the entrance.

A neigh breaks the air, a mare soon following behind it. Her flaxen chestnut coat a deep red in the morning sun.

The horse nuzzles close to him affectionately, her nose brushing against his chest, snorting in a heavy breath.

He mounts easily, feet out of the stirrups, taking the reins in one hand, holding his other out to her.

She does not understand his actions, how… chivalrous it is, but still she takes his waiting hand, using it and the empty stirrup to pull up into the saddle.

It is uncomfortable; it is not meant for two people, and she is awkwardly close to him.

But he does not seem to mind, or if he does, he does not say.

Embarrassed at being too near, she tentatively winds her arms around his waist, glad he cannot see her blush, almost certain she hears him laugh, feeling ridiculous for thinking it - he doesn't seem like the one to laugh.

With a gentle cluck, the mare sets off, only the clomp of her hooves filling the silence.

"Where are we headed?" She questions, curious of their destination. Rationalising that if he truly means to kill her, he would have done so by now.

"Lanayru spring," he says simply, words muffled by the fabric hiding his mouth.

She is reassured by knowing where it lies, but pondering why there.

It is a place for prayers to the light spirit, to ask for guidance, for assistance. She cannot fathom why he has chosen that location.

They ride in silence for the remainder of the way, the journey short for they are already in Lanayru province, it is just a matter of crossing the land.

She knows that the easiest path would be to ride through what was her village, but she is amazed to find that this is not the way they go.

He leads them through the woods, taking them west through the trees.

From where she is; the scenery they are passing through, she imagines that when she collapsed, he had taken her south, thus making it logic that north would be the easiest path to the spring, cutting though Nayrule.

Yet he does not appear lost - though it would be hard to tell anyways.

The trip is longer as consequence, they have followed the path through the trees, eventually curving round so that they are headed north.

But she is rather thankful.

See knows not of what has become of her village, and she intends to leave it that way.

The pain is still raw; the tears pricking her eyes are proof enough, and dwelling on her loss will gain nothing.

Though the guilt gnaws away at her, to be leaving her loved ones unburied, not receiving the funeral they deserve, she cannot stomach the thought of seeing them.

Worried that to go would corrupt what joyous memories she has of them.

That to see their mangled corpses would burn the image in her mind, erasing the remembrance of happier times permanently.

No, though she feels disrespectful, she convinces herself that it is the right choice.

It is for the sake of her sanity that she lets him avoid it, not even asking why he chose this way, content with the fact that he has.

When they arrive, the sun has risen higher in the sky, temperature rising, birds full in chorus.

It is an amicable atmosphere, accompanied by the gentle lapping of water, it radiates calm.

He waits for her to dismount first, giving his arm as a means of support before he too slides off, more graceful than she can ever hope to achieve.

Wordlessly, he enters the resting space of the great serpent.

Not paying any respect before he takes out bottles from his satchel, filling them with the spring's clear waters.

She is astounded. It has been embedded from her days as a young girl to bless the spirits when visiting. His behaviour throws her completely.

Though she does not allow him to be of distraction, skirts fanning around her kneeling form, hands clasped to her bosom, she begins to pray.

Eyes closed, she does not see how he watches her intently.

Knowing that he should be doing the same, but he can't.

He will not respect some glowing animal when they left him, refused to help, stating they were powerless to assist.

But still he wonders if he should. He was raised in the same way as her.

Yet he does not move, not until her eyes reopen, instantly moving to him.

Uneasy of the bottle he offers, eyeing it confusedly.

The waters are said to be providing, helping to clear a restless mind, ease any ailments, not for mere drinking water.

She does not realise his intentions when he gestures towards her arm, watching as he moves to sit bedside her.

"The arrow was poisonous, hence you blacked out. The potions stopped it from killing you, but this will help it heal." He states nonchalantly as he dabs the wound with the water, keeping his voice intentionally low.

Both observant of how the skin knits together, leaving nought but a thin line of pink as a reminder.

"Thank you," she replies, strangely touched that he cares for her well-being, suspicious of a deeper meaning.

He nods, quickly moving away as she tilts her head slightly. Attempting to catch a glimpse of the face behind the hood.

Her eyebrows needle together, almost disappointed. She wants to see him, to determine that she does not know him. That the twinge of recognition is nothing more than a simple gratitude, a building comfort of being in his presence, the absurd assurance that she is safe near him.

When he offers the bottle once more, she accepts it, realising that it is a possibilty that water will not be so readily available wherever they are headed next.

She takes a deep gulp from the bottle. Feeling it chase the onset of fatigue that is already mounting in her weary muscles, unsuspecting of the flash of images that assault her mind.

Her vision tips, colours swirl in a blend of hues, but a figure is distinct.

A white dress cloaks her form, blonde hair long and golden. She knows it is her in the springs refection, but she looks so different. A woman, tall, and mysterious beckons her to sit. To strum a lyre, playing a gentle requiem. To bless the heavens, to feel the ancient magic awaken in her veins…

Blackness ensures, the scene dissolves, and she's on her back.

Staring at the damp ceiling, the cold seeping through her cloak and thin dress.

Her head lolls to the side, feeling too heavy upon her neck.

She notices him crouching beside her, and she can finally see his eyes. Those deep cyan eyes, a measure of worry building in them. A name on her lips…

No, it is not he. It cannot be him sat before her.

He is dead… her minds screams at her, remembering the crushing realisation when finding his house empty one morning.

The burn of tears is hot in her throat, moisture building along her waterline as she begins to sit up. She looks down, feeling the salty droplet roll down her cheek.

His hand reaches out, catching the tear before it runs further. She does not speak, unknowing of what to say as his thumb traces her cheekbone.

"I'm fine," she says, feeling the lie, certain he hears it too.

He does not look convinced, but it is hard to tell with only his eyes visible. Standing up, he pulls her to her feet, drooping her hand as soon as she is steady.

No more is spoken as they leave the spring, silently remounting the mare who has waited loyal, patiently awaiting their return.

Her hands are round his waist once again, more sure with having encountered the problem before, but no less rosy in her face to be so close to a man, even one that she cannot be sure that she knows.

She wants to ask for his name, ascertain it will convince her it is not who she wants it to be. But she does not, she is well aware that were he to reply, likely it would be cryptic, puzzling her further.

Yet it is not that reason alone that is the cause of her hesitance. She does not want to hear his name. Not when she knows it will only end in disappointment.

As they ride through the province, she feels him tense, the subtle movement enough that she is aware of it beneath her hands.

She does not understand why though. For as far as she can see, the forest is calm. The gentle breeze rustling the greenery, birds cawing their evening songs. The serenity at contrast with her restless mind.

She cannot cognize her vision; what it entails. It is mildly frustrating to be so lost of its meaning, but it is the least of her worries now.

He all but jumps off the horse, running further into the woods, stripping his cloak, the tunic underneath.

Confusion is prominent as she watches him oddly. Something close to disappointment rising when noticing the cowl be removed. Again, there is the desire to see his face, unclothed for her to look upon.

She makes to yell out what he is doing when that piercing sound breaks the air.

It spears her heart, to hear a cry of such pain.

But what can she do? She does not know how to help, or even that she can.

The feeling of unsatisfaction, of impending hopelessness is overbearing.

So she sits, waiting. As stationary as the mare beneath her. Waiting for the large beast to come out through the trees.

Minute pass, the howls subsiding, sky darkening as the hour of twilight takes it place.

Finally he appears, footfall eerily silent as he parades over to them, nearly as tall as the mare itself.

He does not look towards her, turning his head as though communing with the other animal, the low growls and whinnies strengthening that thought.

It is then she sees the bundle of fabrics in his mouth, the colour showing it to be his clothes.

Anxiously, for she is not sure how he will respond, her hand taps his head, barely reaching down for it is the same height as her knee.

Instantly, his head moves to her direction, though he does not look up, and she knows this is because he can't, not as a wolf.

"I will carry your clothes… if you want…" she speaks, almost shyly.

He pauses, turning once more to face the front before he nods, opening his mouth to let her take the items, mindful of his teeth.

Placing the in her lap, she folds them. The simple task focusing her mind away from the burdens that she has no answer for, the enigmas that are endlessly circulating, their answers seemingly impossible.

Of their own accord, her eyes focus on the great beast.

She supposes he is beautiful. Compared to all other wolves she has seen, his coat is glossier, muscles more powerful, stature more majestic.

There is the temptation to stroke the fur, to feel the softness under her palm, but she will not demean him like that. He is still a human despite his current transformation.

She twines her fingers together, holding his clothes between her digits.

Thinking of his bright blue eyes.

So very familiar… she thinks of the man she once knew. One who had eyes as blue as the wolf beside her.

Hair neither blonde nor brunette, much like the human inside the beast.

But physical characteristics are not enough to base her theories on. Even his voice gives no clue. Too deep to belong to whom she remembers, yet there is a nagging that that pitch is deliberate.

That the cowl is not only masking his identity but his voice too…

Curiosity builds, intrigue growing. Rationalised by seeing if he responds, nothing more, nothing less.

One breath, it is an experiment.

"Link…"

His ears twitch, but nought else. She tries not to feel too crestfallen, his ears moved to listen to her, that was all.

"I'm sorry, you just remind me of someone…" she justifies, feeling the need to explain.

Bemused when he laughs, the chortle low and grumbling, but a laugh nonetheless.

It is so out of place, that she frowns. But a wolf cannot speak, and so she does not ask what amuse him so.

Yet she wants to sate the questions in her mind. One that rose as soon as she laid her eyes upon his form; just who exactly is he?

Yet nothing gives her any repose to what she longs to put at rest.

To know whether it is he who walks beside her, defying the odds of impossibility. That the empty home was not a sign of his death, only of his unexplained disappearance.

To justify the thoughts that seem so absurd, yet burn with the brightness of valid truth.

Is it coincidence that he has the characteristics of the one whom she lost? Or just a cruel chasm of fate, spurned by the twisted intentions of the goddesses, seeking to stir poison into her aching heart?

Again, her musings are not graced with a reply. Only the beating of hooves and paws crunching over shredded leaves, the soft breaths of both mammals filling the silence.

Deciding to think of a lighter topic, she debates on where they are headed next.

There is no indication as to which direction they are headed, the moon is not full enough to cast shadows and the thick canopy conceals the stars.

Before she can stop it, she sighs, drawing her cloak tighter about her body, attempting to ward off the chill that grows from within.

She has lost so much, it weighs heavy on her soul. The guilt adding to her shame.

If she had practised with her bow, perhaps a life other than her own would have been spared. She shakes away the thoughts, she could have been the greatest archer known to man, but it still would not have been nearly enough.

War is brutal, that much she knows.

How maliciously the Gerudo tore through her village, destination of Castle town, murdering innocents because they could.

An act of violence to show their power.

There had been word, that other villages were being burned where they stood, the woman beaten, children slaughtered, men killed ruthlessly or forced into submission.

That the forces from the western desert were growing stronger with every moment, their forces more powerful than what Hyrule could manage.

But though it is selfish to say, she does not care.

It is not her battle. She has already lost everything.

She is not upon the throne, she does not dictate the countries affairs. She could not care less what happens to Hyrule.

Let it burn. It did not save her home, she will not fight for the land.

The wolf brushes her leg, a low whine emitting from its mouth, noticing her despondent expression.

He is so much more attentive to her as a beast than a man.

Her hand strokes his head before she can hold herself back. Running through his fur, coarse and soft in the most unusual way.

He does not seem to mind, pushing closer to her hand, both comforted by the peace the other provides.

Time does not pass by longer than an hour when they stop. Her legs are stiff; held in one position too long, feet weak from being unused.

It is not hard to realise they have stopped for camp.

Easier to use her magic for ignition than to rub the collected sticks together; the fire instantly sparks, providing warmth to her cold hands as she places stones around its base, preventing the fire from expanding outside its confinements.

Focused more on the flames in front, she did not notice how he leaves. Retuning shortly with a rabbit in his mouth, dropping it unceremoniously at her feet.

She is at a loss of how to prepare it, at least not without a knife.

Her musings are said out loud, the wolf tilting his head towards the mare, nose pointing at one of the satchels.

Understanding the gesture, her hands search through them, amazed to find supplies of bandages and potions in their depths, even finding an apple to which she chucks to the mare.

Her fingers brush against something rough, but she thinks nought of it, briefly wondering how a stone came to be in there.

Yet these will not help her, and alas she moves to the next, eventually locating a small knife.

The edge are blunt, the blade dull through wear, but it suffices nicely as a means to prepare the rabbit.

She is impressed he caught one, especially at so late an hour. Though it is of no complaint to her. It is food, and she is thankful for something to fill her empty stomach.

Using the knife to cut it in half, she tosses one side to him, laughing softly at how he snatches it from the air, gulping it down it one go.

"Did it even touch the sides?" she laughs, savouring her own far more slowly, enjoying the tender meat far more than the pieces of fruit that were her light breakfast.

He responds by barking happily, moving to lie by the fire, lighter undercoat exposed to the warmth.

"Your just a big dog really aren't you?" her tone is mildly chastising, amused at how easily shifts from a protective and feral wolf to a sleepy canine.

His tongue lolls out, the rumbling laugh shaking his frame.

Her chuckle at his antics echoes around them, a happiness that has been absent bubbling inside her.

Stomach full, body tired from the travelling, she lays her body down, as near to the fire possible without burning.

Questions are still needed to be answered, but as sleep pervades, they melt away, giving way to dreams of white gowns and golden hair.

Morning rises, the sun warm on her face, creating red behind her eyelids.

She wakes slowly, feeling more relaxed than sleeping on stone.

He is already up, fire doused, set to go.

She cannot but smile sheepishly, feeling as though she has slept too long.

Fruit is left in a pile where she can reach, the spare bottle filled with Lanayru's water.

It is a wonder he could find anything, the trees do not look bearing in the area she can see.

But he has likely been up for a while, providing time for him to scour the lands in search for food of some substance.

She thinks of the previous dawn, of the crippling transformation that occurred. Once glance at the sky shows that it is far off noon, but not as early as dawn either.

Quite unexpectedly, she feels sympathy for him. The cruelty of being confined to a… well, she is not sure what it is, but a curse seems fitting.

A man from the break of dawn until the hour of twilight rises, half a day spent as man, the other he is trapped as a beast.

She prefers him as the latter, when he is so much more jovial and not cloaked like some shadow tying to blend with the dark.

"Why do you hide yourself like that?" She asks, feeling rude for prying into his privacy, but her intrigue getting the better of her.

"It is better this way," he replies enigmatically, not looking up from the continuing of the wood carving.

Yet that does not curb her, "how so?"

He does not give an answer immediately, thinking it over. "To reveal my face would only cause complications in the long run."

"That's a shame," she sighs dramatically, shoulders shrugging in an overly exaggerated manner. "I bet your handsome under all that."

Her smile is triumphant when he does not speak for seconds after.

"What gives you that idea?" He finally says, still not looking up, voice just as monotonous as ever.

"Well," she begins, "you're a handsome wolf, so its makes sense that as man you would be too."

At this, he laughs, shaking his head at her deductions. "Believe what you shall, it does not matter whether I am or not."

"Then I will assume you are ridiculously attractive, and are worried that I will swoon at your feet should I happen to gaze upon your charming face." She replies boldly, amusement ringing in her words.

Not usually is she so courageous as to assume so much, but though part of her actually believes her words hold a measure of truth, the other just wants a reaction.

"And what if I am?" He answers, humouring her.

She shrugs, secretly glad they are making progress. "I guess I shall never know due to your unyielding qualities."

Again, he chuckles and there is something so irritatingly familiar about the sound.

"At least tell me your name" she begs, indigo eyes aglow with her want.

He thinks back to what she called him, tempted to say that she already knows, but deciding against it. Bonding will only lead to fatal consequences. He cannot let her know who he is.

"Lykos," he states, the name rolling easily of his tongue.

"Oh." Her eyes drop, seemingly saddened, "you truly do remind me of someone I once knew…"

There is a note in her voice, that speaks of such a crushed hope that it is a battle to remain seated. To not reveal whom he really is.

"Are you ready to go?" He changes the subject, aiming to detract the focus away from himself.

"I… yes," she agrees finally, dusting off her dress, rubbing the brown marks staining the green fabric stubbornly before following behind to mount the mare. The melancholy still clear in her eyes.

The ride is tense, he knows not what to say, how to ease her sorrow without divulging too much.

It is tormenting.

He wants to squeeze her hand like he once did, the simple gesture significant of so much. Yet it has been years, three since he last saw her. Last embraced her as more than friends, not yet lovers.

Three long years since he was cursed. Forced to leave what he called home behind.

Leave her believing that he was dead.

It is better this way… he justifies, he cannot let them feelings resurface.

Not if he wants to succeed, to be finally be free of the curse that is plaguing his life.

To let affection take root in his heart would make matters decidedly more difficult.

But goodness she is so tantalising near.

Just the feel of her arms around his waist loosely is driving him mad.

The hitched breaths alerting of her tears.

He may be a beast, but he is no monster.

Before he can talk himself out of it; he takes her hand, squeezing it lightly in an act of comfort, rubbing his thumb over the back of hers like he used to, hearing her sigh of comfort.

"Your more open today…" she remarks, a sliver of suspicion in her tone.

He worries he had done too much, that his charade will not continue to last, but he cannot help but question himself; does he want it to?

How easy it would be to rip the garments from his face, to let her finally see him. To touch his lips to hers like he once did, to feel her slim waist beneath his fingers.

"The one I remind you of… did he mean a lot to you?" He speaks softly, not betraying any of the hope that simmers under the surface, to know if she still cares or if she has moved on.

He would not blame her if she had; it has been years.

"He still does," she admits, "I cannot forget about him despite the announcement that he died…"

He stills. Feeling a smile ris on his mouth, thankful she cannot see it. But he cannot allow it to change anything.

"How do you know he is dead?" Instantly he berates himself for saying it. Why install hope when it will only be shattered?

"I… I don't. A villager told me, and I… I just assumed…" she breathes, and the fragile spark of hope rekindles. "Do you think he could be alive?"

He is unsure of how to reply, of what to say that will not result in her despondency, but that will not give the false illusion to put her faith in.

"Perhaps," he begins, "but I cannot say that I know," he finishes abruptly, hating himself for it, but knowing it is the only way.

He will not allow himself to fall for her again, or at least not let the already present feelings grow stronger. Not if he is to do what he had waited so long for.

Yet to hear her call his name out as she slept, so filled with a longing, a want, a need…. It pulls at his very being.

He almost sighs with relief when the next spring comes into view, immensely grateful to have something to distract his thoughts with. Away from battling with his own desires, to follow what his heart is begging for him to do, or to achieve what he had sought for.

Her huff of confusion comes from behind him and he can hear her bewilderment in it.

Another spring, and she does not know why.

He will not tell her. He has no intention of ever telling her. She is a means to an end. That is all he can see her as. All he must see her as.

Though it is so much easier said than done.

"Is there a reason we are here? Water can be collected from Lanyaru…" she questions, the edge of distrust implied.

He shrugs, not having a reason that he can give to her.

He had deliberately taken them to Faron woods so that they can reach every spring in a methodological manner - avoiding the centre of Hyrule where the war rages most.

It is ironic that he wants to keep her safe when he will ultimately be the one to bring her pain.

But it is a part of him - to fight for her safety.

He will never admit it to her, but seeing her caught in the raid on her village, trapped like a dear at the point of being shot - he was honestly afraid.

Selfish too, but predominantly afraid.

Scared that she was to be killed so brutally, so effortlessly. He vowed from the day he left he would no longer traffic in her world, but he had always kept watch.

He had stood observant of her becoming a young women, on the cusp of her eighteenth birthday, to watch her learn the crafts of her village, fascinated by how beautiful she had become.

The observations always a part of his desires that he could not repress, berating himself for not letting her go, but all so thankful that he had been there at the attack, all those years of silently watching giving him the advantage, allowing him to act quickly, save her before death.

But he is selfish, and he loathes it about himself.

He is not even certain whether it was due to his protectiveness, due to a caring that had never ceased, that he had continued to watch her.

Or because he knew she was the one. That her death at that time would result in his trapping, that he would never be rid of the curse plaguing his body.

Having grown up with her gave him an insight to so many things, most especially her use of magic.

How from the age of thirteen, when angry; her hair would lift in a breezed that zeroed only on her. How her happiness would cause flowers to bloom, regardless of season or hour, or that her eyes would glow violet when he kissed her…

Thirteen when her inborn magic began to show. The age when his hereditary curse awakened…

Another three years before the magic takes full root, souls able to be awakened.

Curses rearing their ugly heads, no longer able to remain in the village…

Three years he has spent of endless transformations. From twilight to dawn he is a beast without fail. Three years that he has searched for some other way to be free, always coming back to her…

He is sick of it.

He cannot let feelings obstruct his goal, not when he has waited so long.

She is the one who will end this curse, and he will do what it takes to break free from it.

If there is anything that was not understood, please feel free to say and I will reply.

Any feedback would be greatly appreciated, and as always, all reviews are welcome. The next chapter will be up soon.