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Time was not a fool.
One couldn’t be, in their line of work. Fools found puzzles difficult, trials more so, and saving the world impossible. Being a hero and defeating evil required a certain level of intelligence (though that was, on occasion, forced to yield to bull-headed single-mindedness), and it also required being rather observant.
It was the nature of Time’s own adventures that he carried with him the knowledge of things that had never been. He knew what a Castle Town in ruins looked like, what a corrupted Sacred Realm and thousands of dead Hylian citizens looked like, what it felt like to have his childhood ripped away before abruptly being given it back. He knew the shape of an ever-falling moon. It left a weight, invisible but tangible, a pain deep in the eyes. Malon had once described it as a ghost on his face.
Knowing that weight as intimately as he did made it very easy to spot on the faces of his traveling companions.
They all carried the burden of adventuring, of course. Pain and dangers beyond any reasonable imagining, and the lingering trauma of being forced to so thoroughly abandon yourself in the pursuit of saving the rest of the world, and to do so multiple times, in some cases. But impossible knowledge set its roots in much deeper than that, in the hidden corners of the soul where it was tucked away so that life could continue on despite it.
Time saw the echoes of what had never been and what was yet to be in Legend’s eyes, in Sky’s, in Warriors’, occasionally in Wind’s. Not all of those stories had been told; some had, like Sky’s penchant for dreams that glimpsed the future, and Wind’s enthusiastic recountings of a ghost ship and a monster from the deep, but some were left to be shared in their own time. To some extent, Time expected the weight of the impossible from those four. Legend and his overabundance of experience, the Captain and Sailor from a paradoxical war, and the very first of their number, who would wed the reincarnation of the goddess herself and begin the royal line.
There was one other hero, however, who carried that burden that Time did not expect it from. Perhaps because the young man had never mentioned anything that might suggest time travel, or because he seemed so open in other ways, or because of some other unconscious assumptions that Time had made. But whatever his expectations, whatever he thought of it, Twilight’s eyes were occasionally dark with knowledge of things that were impossible.
Naturally, Time’s first instinct was to leave it be. He knew well how hard it could be to explain things that weighed so heavily, things no one else could understand. And Twilight in particular did not respond well to probing questions. Warriors had tried that technique a few times since their meeting, and each time Twilight responded with hackles raised and teeth bared, like an animal backed into a corner. Better to let Twilight initiate, let him creep up slow and settle down beside with something vulnerable to share.
Really, it was a wonder some of the others had taken so long to learn the truth of his transformations.
The unfortunate thing about trauma was that it rarely allowed itself to be packaged neatly. Even when set aside, waiting in the wings for a proper moment to be laid bare, it was not patient, and an affected individual was never given advanced warning of when it would be finished waiting.
For Twilight, it lost its patience on a night in Four’s era.
They had been through a difficult fight that day. Several of them, Time included, had suffered severe injuries - if the Captain had not been close enough with a fairy, Time was uncertain that he would have lived through the battle. But he had, and the others had all gotten medical attention quickly enough that there was nothing but lingering adrenaline, worry, and aching bones by the time they all piled into Four’s grandfather’s house.
Many of them had given in to exhaustion almost immediately. Hyrule had curled up on the rug in front of the fireplace like a cat, and was out in moments, likely due to magical exhaustion. Legend had joined him later on with a blanket and a pillow, and the last Time had seen, they had been sleeping peacefully. Sky had fallen asleep on Warriors, who had slept on the couch with him to avoid waking their Skyloftian. Wind had wiggled his way in there, too, perched partially on the arm of the couch and snoring away. Wild and Twilight had found a place on the living room floor, and Four had of course claimed sole use of his own bed. It was a privilege they never begrudged each other.
As for Time, he had gone out onto the porch to think.
The night was calm and quiet. Crickets sang in the bushes, fireflies winked among the trees, and stars glittered overhead. Time rested his elbows on the porch railing and took a deep breath of the night air, then let it out slowly.
Near-death experiences always made him pensive. They brought to mind thoughts of legacy, of last rites, of what would happen to his era and his family should he perish on this quest. What would become of the quest itself? What would become of Twilight, and the lineage he descended from?
Ancestor, Twilight had called him, back in that dark and somber inn room. Time still was not certain what that meant for them. He still was not certain it was information he should ever have known.
But then, he thought, looking up at the bright, full moon, there were many things he should never have known. What was one more, really?
The door latch clicked quietly behind him.
Time glanced over his shoulder to see - speak of the devil - his descendent standing in the doorway, eyes wide with surprise.
“Sorry,” he whispered, and Time’s brow furrowed slightly at the way his voice cracked. “I’ll - I didn’t know you were out here -”
“Pup,” Time interrupted gently, ignoring the minute flinch at the sound of his voice. “It’s alright.”
Twilight hovered in the doorway, clearly uncertain. His ears were folded down at an angle that almost looked painful.
Time waved him over, turning his attention back to the fireflies and the stars.
Slowly, Twilight drifted over to the railing beside him. He held onto the wood so hard that his knuckles looked white in the moonlight, as if the railing was his only tether in a whirlwind. Time knew the feeling.
“It’s a beautiful night,” he murmured before Twilight could retreat into the tempest.
Twilight nodded, a small, shuddering thing. “Sure is.”
“The others are all still asleep?”
“Yeah.”
The short answers didn’t bother him, except for the fact that the words themselves were short, like the rancher was clipping them in half with his teeth. His accent, so comfortingly similar to Malon’s, tended to draw words and sounds out like taffy. Abrupt syllables were a mark of distress.
Time just hummed, tracing constellations with his gaze. The stars in this time period were practically identical to his own; only Wild’s era was far enough in the future to have noticeable changes in the position of the heavens. Still, he amused himself with remembering the names and shapes that Malon had taught him, waiting for Twilight to break the silence himself.
Sure enough, three minutes and sixteen seconds later, Twilight could apparently bear the quiet no longer.
“You ain’t gonna ask?” he said quietly. Time saw his grip tighten, just slightly, on the railing.
“Would you like me to?” Time returned, watching the fireflies wink among the trees. Eye contact made this harder, he had found.
“No.”
Time waited.
Forty-seven seconds later: “... Maybe.”
Time hummed, glancing sideways at him with a knowing sort of expression.
For some reason, that made Twilight’s ear flick as though he were in distress.
“... What happened?” Time asked, keeping his voice soft. Only the fireflies could hear them, out here, but somehow it seemed wrong for even them to overhear this conversation.
Twilight took a deep breath, letting go of the railing so he could lean his elbows on it, echoing Time’s pose. He stared down at the grain of the wood, refusing to meet Time’s gaze. “... Had a nightmare, ‘s all. Rattled me pretty bad.”
“Not surprising, given today’s battle,” Time agreed with a sigh. He was anticipating nightmares of his own, tonight, or perhaps one of those melancholy dreams that hung over him like a cloud for days afterward. Perhaps, though he was reluctant to admit it to himself, that was one of the things that had driven him out here, rather than seeking sleep.
“Mm,” was Twilight’s only answer.
There was more there, hidden under that dark shadow in Twilight’s eyes. A ghost indeed. But Time had been expecting that - sharing secrets, especially secrets like the ones they carried, was never easy. The question now was whether or not the rancher would be willing to give Time a glimpse of what lay beyond the short, stilted answers.
“Was it a nightmare,” Time quietly asked the night sky, “or a memory?”
Twilight twitched, and that was all Time needed to see to know the answer. But he waited patiently, still, letting Twilight find his voice. Their Ordonian was quiet for a long moment before sighing, slumping against the railing slightly. “... Bit of both, really. You know how it is.”
Time did. Memories warped by fear or horrible imagining, turned into something much worse than they ever had been on their own. Though, given how this conversation was going… He turned to give Twilight a considering look. “About me?”
Twilight looked away and didn’t reply.
“I know,” Time murmured, daring to reach out for the first time in this conversation, setting a gentle hand on Twilight’s shoulder, “that there are things you can’t tell me. I understand what that feels like. I will never ask you to explain the impossible to me, unless you want to. But that does not mean I’m willing to let you bear the weight of it alone.”
“... What do you do with it?” Twilight whispered, his eyes shining in the moonlight with unshed tears. “Spirits, I - Sometimes I feel like it’s suffocatin’ me. Keepin’ quiet won’t change anythin’, I know it won’t, it’s already happened and I can’t change it, but…”
He trailed off with a helpless little shake of his head.
Time gave his shoulder a small squeeze. “I know, Pup.”
“What do you do?” Twilight asked again, curling in on himself as if he was attempting to hide from the entirety of the world.
“You live,” Time told him softly.
Twilight shook his head, his shoulders hunching further, and let out a tiny, bitter laugh. The sound was sharp as a knife.
“You live,” Time repeated, “and you don’t allow it to consume you. We’re made of sterner stuff than that.”
“I don’t know how.” The admission was soft, barely a whisper.
“I’ve found that it helps to share the burden with someone,” Time said, beginning to run a gentle hand up and down Twilight’s back. He wasn’t the young man’s father, but this was his descendent, and he needed some comfort right now. “It doesn’t have to be me. In fact, if it’s about me, I would encourage you to tell someone else. But we are here to support you whenever and however you need it, just like you are for us.”
Twilight was quiet for a long moment, and when he spoke again, it was as if the words kept being caught in his teeth. “Can I… D’you think… That’s - no, nevermind.”
“What is it, Pup?” Time asked softly.
“Can I tell you,” Twilight said in a halting sort of way, “what I know? Not what it is, I mean… just - just what I know that’s got me shook up like this.”
The shape of the knowledge, but not the knowledge itself. Time nodded; if that was what would help Twilight, he was more than willing to help bear the burden. “Of course.”
Twilight took a breath and let it out slowly. With his hand still on Twilight’s back, Time could feel the subtle tremor in his descendent‘s muscles as he began to speak. “... I know what happens to you after you die.”
Oh.
Somehow, Time thought with an exhale of his own, that was simultaneously better and worse than he had been anticipating. “I see.”
“An’ - an’ I don’t know much,” Twilight continued, the shaking beginning to get worse, “but I know - a little of what had to happen just before that, an’ -”
“Pup,” Time interrupted him gently. “You don’t have to tell me.”
“Shouldn’t you know?” Twilight asked, turning to look at him with agony written across his face. “Don’t you deserve to know what’s comin’?”
Time shook his head. He had thought the same, once, wondering if it would be better to know the future. Perhaps he could better manage his time, be more efficient, be more cautious in the correct places. He had rewound days now and then, in something of an experiment. But all it had accomplished, in the end, was a disconnect between himself and the people around him. He had memories of conversations they did not, and why should he bother having them again when he knew what would be said? Why should he make the effort to connect to others when he already knew them? Why should he slow down and enjoy anything when that was not the optimal path? When he could be doing more, helping more, outrunning that damn ticking clock in the back of his mind?
“There is value in not knowing what is coming,” he told Twilight softly. “Whatever it is, whenever it happens, I’m happy to take it as it is. I don’t need to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder. I’ve done enough of that, I think.”
Twilight looked away. He had transferred his grip from the railing to his own wrist, and Time was mildly worried that he would injure himself with how tightly he was holding on.
Gently, Time turned his descendent so he could place both hands on his shoulders. “Pup. Can you look at me?”
For a moment, Twilight did not move. Then, hesitant and slow, he lifted his gaze to meet Time’s. His blue eyes, so much like Time’s own, spoke loudly of a pain barely held under wraps, of secrets that were too heavy to bear. Time had hoped to never see that expression on any face but his own.
“My fate,” he said firmly, holding Twilight’s gaze, “is my own. You have no obligation to free me from it, do you understand?”
“But -”
“What has happened has happened,” Time told him, giving his shoulders a gentle squeeze. “And what will happen will happen. It isn’t your responsibility to change my future. And it isn’t a bad thing to be remembered so long after you’re gone, now is it?”
Twilight broke eye contact, looking down at his hands as if he couldn’t bear to look at Time any longer. “... I wouldn’t say remembered, really.”
Time had an inkling of what it was that Twilight was trying not to say. But he had no proof of it, not really, so all he did was shrug. “So much the better, then. I’ve never been much for the spotlight.”
His descendent shook his head, the motion striking Time strangely of Epona, and the way she tossed her mane when there was something in front of her she wished to avoid. “Time, I -”
“I forgive you,” Time said softly.
Twilight froze, blue eyes wide. When he spoke again, his cracking, hesitant voice was barely above a whisper. “... What?”
This was a gamble in the dark, given Time’s lack of knowledge. But he seemed to be moving in the correct direction, so he held Twilight’s gaze and said “You would never turn your back on someone who needed help, Pup, living or dead, so I know that you did everything you could with the information you had. I forgive you for anything beyond that. It wasn’t your fault.”
Something in Twilight’s expression almost seemed to crumple. “... It wasn’t?”
“No,” Time promised. “It wasn’t.”
A soft, keening, grieving sort of sound ripped its way out of Twilight’s throat. When Time wrapped an arm around him, he nearly collapsed into the embrace, muffling a choked sob in Time’s shoulder.
Time rested a hand on the back of his head, holding him close. “It’s alright. Just let it out, Pup, it’s alright.”
Twilight clung to him, shaking, and Time could only offer comfort as his descendent allowed himself to fall apart. His heaving, shuddering sobs, hidden in Time’s tunic, were full of something like relief.
If he had wanted to, Time could have counted the minutes he stood there in the moonlight, holding his descendent and allowing him to soak in the release of forgiveness for something that had never been a fault. He did not want to. He merely held Twilight, running a gentle hand through his hair and giving him however long he needed.
After a time, Twilight’s tears subsided, slowing to the occasional sniffle and deep, shaky breaths.
“There we are,” Time murmured, pulling back just slightly so he could get a look at Twilight’s face. The rancher’s face was tearstained and blotchy, and his eyes were red, but the ghost seemed to have left him, at least for now. “How are you feeling?”
“... Better,” Twilight mumbled with another little sniffle.
Time gave him a small smile. “Shall we go back in and try to sleep? It’s quite late.”
“... Okay.”
Short answers once more, but this time, Twilight was allowing the sounds to linger in his mouth. A good sign.
Time rested a hand on his back to lead him gently inside, past the banked fire and those curled up in front of it, past the couch and those asleep on it - the Captain would have an awful crick in his neck come morning and would complain for hours, Time could already picture it - and back to his bedroll.
Wild had sprawled out in the time Twilight had been gone, limbs and hair splayed over both his bedroll and Twilight’s, and he was snoring.
Twilight let out a fond little huff, rubbing at his eyes. “Look at ‘im.”
Time hummed in agreement, setting out his own bedroll next to Twilight’s. “Best start rearranging him, if you can.”
Gently, Twilight nudged his little brother back onto his half of the makeshift bed, tucking himself in beside him with the ease of long practice. Wild did not so much as twitch. When their cook felt safe enough to sleep properly, he slept like the dead.
… Poor phrasing.
Time lay down beside them, putting an arm around Twilight. He guessed that they could both use the comfort, tonight. “Sleep well, Pup.”
“You too,” Twilight murmured, curling close. “Night.”
“Goodnight.”
Sleep came much easier than Time had been expecting, and when he dreamed, he dreamed of wolves.