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King Rhoam Bosphoramus Hyrule sits by his campfire, staff in hand, and watches the Hylian champion.
He had not interacted with Link very much before the Calamity struck. Not directly, anyway - the swordsman was a silent accessory to the princess. Her constant, vigilant shadow. There had been no need to speak to him, really; no need to know him beyond his name, face, and skill.
But even Rhoam can tell that something is different now.
This version of Link is…
Rhoam cannot find the word.
He is open. Curious. Willing to try things and explore and dilly dally when he might have once opted for expedience. With the flying boulders and hovering crates all across the Plateau, one might think the Shiekah Slate’s functions were an intriguing new toy.
Rhoam watches as Link spots a bird on the ground nearby. He’s found a bow, at some point, and expertly nocks an arrow. Somewhat less expertly, he moves closer to the bird, and Rhoam can see him frown in frustration as it hears him and flies off.
Link stares after it for a few moments, tracking the movement. Then he turns to look around him, spots two more birds, and starts making his way toward them far more cautiously.
That is also a pattern. Since he first appeared on the hillside, Rhoam has watched him approach the world as if it is a puzzle. Something to be echoed, copied, adapted until he finds something that works. It is still unclear how much of that is due to the long slumber of the Shrine of Resurrection and how much is simply… Link.
He is expressive, now. He was visibly annoyed when Rhoam withheld the paraglider, and looks with awe at the world around him. Rhoam watched him climb up the husk of a deactivated guardian on his way to the first shrine, then laugh as he slipped and had to scramble down before he fell. Like it was no more than a large rock. Like the things mean absolutely nothing to him.
Rhoam also saw the softly haunted look in his eyes coming back from one of the other shrines, where there are still active guardians.
An arrow hits its mark, a bird collapses, and Link lets out a soft whoop, throwing up a hand in victory.
He still remembers how to fight, at least.
The champion hurries over to grab his prize, bringing it back over to the fire. And Rhoam, by extension. Then he sits down and looks at it like he isn’t entirely sure what to do with it.
Rhoam decides to let him work it out on his own. It will be a good test.
Link takes the arrow out, first, thankfully setting it to the side rather than putting it directly back in his quiver. Then he takes a loose feather and -
Puts it in his mouth.
He chews thoughtfully for a moment, makes a face, and spits it out again. Then he begins taking the rest of the feathers off, apparently having decided they are inedible.
“I would advise you to cook that bird before you try to eat it,” Rhoam tells him, because he no longer trusts that Link will not simply eat it raw.
Link looks up at him, blinks, then looks to the cooking pot. He glances back over his shoulder, to the place among the trees Rhoam knows is hiding a monster camp, then to the half-plucked bird, then back to the pot, something lighting up in his eyes.
He sets the bird down and gets out his slate, tapping at it for a moment. An apple materializes in Link’s hand, and he drops it into the pot.
It begins to cook almost immediately, the skin wrinkling slightly with the heat. Link hums happily and, after another moment fiddling with the slate, drops in a mushroom.
Copying what he himself had done earlier, Rhoam realizes, and expanding upon it. Testing.
As the apple and mushroom cook together, Link goes back to the bird. As soon as the feathers have been mostly removed, he stores it in his slate and flits back to the cooking pot.
Link tries a few more combinations after the apple and mushroom have been scooped out and stored away. He has several apples and mushrooms, evidently, as well as some herbs and spicy peppers. Link glances toward the icy part of the Plateau as he adds those to the pot.
Rhoam does not need to eat - hasn’t, for quite some time - so he just sits back and watches.
Link hums when he cooks. The happy anticipation as he watches the food is obvious on his face, and Rhoam wonders suddenly if the swordsman used to cook before the Calamity struck. He does not know. He doubts Link knows, either.
All of that, however, falls by the wayside as Link catches sight of the woods.
The sun has begun to set, and there among the trees, fireflies have begun to glow. Link watches them, enraptured, as they wink in and out of view.
After a few minutes, Rhoam leans forward to take Link’s latest experiment out of the pot before it can burn. It’s a good thing he does; Link barely even acknowledges the action. He is focused on the woods, on the fireflies, on the stars beginning to come out.
His hand moves in an intentional manner. Sign language, Rhoam is fairly certain, perhaps not meant for any person in particular, as Link’s eyes are still locked onto the trees. Rhoam had learned the basics of sign, back before the Calamity, but most of what he knew was to do with Zelda and her safety. It takes him slightly too long to remember what the sign Link is making means.
Beautiful.
After several more minutes, Link turns away from the fireflies. He eats a few roasted mushrooms and fried herbs, stores the rest in his slate, and gives Rhoam a small nod as he curls up next to the fire.
He seems small, like this. Tucked in on himself, turned toward the warmth of the flames.
He seems so…
The word Rhoam had been searching for earlier clicks into place.
Childlike.
Link is seventeen, Rhoam remembers suddenly. Only a few months Zelda’s senior. He has been asleep for the past century - the years have not left their mark on him, and neither would they have added to his experience. He is as much seventeen now as he was then.
Seventeen years wiped away.
It was for the good of the kingdom, Rhoam reminds himself. Link is the chosen champion, sole wielder of the Sword That Seals the Darkness. There was no choice. There still is no choice.
The words ring hollow, even to himself.
Will his daughter still be seventeen, when the Calamity has at last been defeated? Will this century have left its mark on her? Will she now be older than the knight appointed to protect her?
Rhoam does not know. He doubts his spirit can linger long enough to find out.
“The hope of Hyrule is a heavy burden,” he quietly tells the sleeping boy. He had felt that burden himself, had carried it his whole reign, and he wishes for a moment that it did not need to be placed on the shoulders of two children. But these children are the only ones who can carry it, and so they must. “Carry it well, Link. They are all counting on you.”
A log in the fire pops. Crickets sing in the bushes. Link sleeps on, so horribly new to the world in such an unnatural way.
Rhoam wonders if it is worth it.
It doesn’t matter now, he supposes. They have set their course. He has waited a hundred years for Link to emerge from that shrine, Zelda’s strength is waning, and Link can still fight. They have no other option.
Still. He scans their surroundings, settling in for the long hours of the night. The least he can do is ensure Link is able to rest.
Rhoam, and all of Hyrule, owes him that much.