Chapter Text
Link has never understood time, why the decades blurred together like ink in water nor why its flow was always cruel— the memories were always overlapped at the edges and hazy, like seeing them through someone else’s eyes. There were always voices, part of a name or even places, but nothing as vivid as the dreams he’s been having. The dragon, serpentine and vicious, still lingers at the edges of his mind even as Proxi chirps, “Get out of bed, lazy bones!”
His eyes open to a pale ceiling, the same one every day in the spare room in the castle, and doesn’t even pretend to entertain the idea. He huffs and pulls the sheet over his head.
“Come on! You’ve got training today! You don’t want to look lazy in front of the recruits, do you?”
He has a headache and a stomach like lead and he, personally, doesn’t care. He reminds himself that it was just a dream as he finally rises, feeling the cold stone beneath his bare feet. But some part of him knows better. Some part of him remembers bright green eyes and red scales, the heat of a.. fire? A volcano? But at the same time there were bellowing traders, a too small cage and rupees he needed. He dresses slow, straining and reaching through time to figure out when that was–
A knock, short and sharp. Impa. The sound spikes Link’s headache and he sits on the edge of his bed, tugging his boots on. Proxi flutters in and out of the folds of his scarf and calls, “You can come in!”
Impa doesn’t bother waiting. She swings the door wide open, red eyes flicking over Link’s sleep-rumpled hair with curiosity before sharpening again. “The enemy is advancing toward us. Quickly.”
Link tilts his head. He signs, fingers still clumsy from sleep. Proxi flits near his ear. “Before breakfast?”
“They’re already across the field.”
On an empty stomach, then. Link exhales through his nose, irritated. He rakes fingers through his hair, then jams his hat on his head. He buckles his belt, slings his shield across his back, then he follows Impa into the corridor. Her stride is long and sure.
“They came from the east ridge at first light. Small vanguard at first— scouts, we thought. Then the rest poured over like ants.” Her voice stays level, too calm. “I’d hoped this was a feint. A probe. Something we could turn back before it escalates. Before she gets involved.”
Link’s stomach gives a small, sour lurch. Always Zelda with Impa— her princess, her charge, her purpose. But what was his, besides bleeding for her whenever the world called for it? He tells himself it’s just hunger gnawing at him, the empty ache behind his ribs. But heat crawls up his neck anyway, familiar and infuriating beneath the hat brim.
Impa draws a slow, deep breath as they reach the great front doors. She braces one palm against the wood, then shoves them open. Metal screeches across metal. Soldiers bellow orders, curses, names. Smoke coils thick and black across Hyrule field, the sharp stink of burning grass and pitch stinging Link’s eyes. Flames lick along the distant treeline— too many, too fast. No time to douse them. No time for anything but the next swing, the next breath.
Link’s stomach rolls harder. He’s seen fields like this before one too many times.
“Impa! Link! Thank Hylia you’re here— we need support now!” Zelda doesn’t stop to give them more orders; they’re destined to know them by now. Her rapier glitters as it cuts through the smoke and the enemy line surges again. She swivels and yells something about deployments, flanks, archers–
But Link isn’t listening anymore.
Out of the smoke steps a tall man (no, something more), easily shouldering aside Hylian soldiers with his unbreakable bulk. Intricate red armor gleams through the haze, etched with sharp draconic flourishes that catch the firelight. Massive wings, leathery and veined with molten glow, unfurl partway with each step, the casual sweep enough to knock the men off their feet.
Somewhere far off, time itself seems to whisper, Link. Link.
“No, we’re not ready!” Zelda’s voice breaks through the clamor, sharp and frightened in a way Link has almost never heard. She spins, golden hair whipping, already barking orders to a nearby captain. “Do not make contact with the knight! You— over there— tell them to fall back to—”
But Link barely registers her retreat. Proxi’s frantic chirps yank him back to the moment just as Impa vanishes into the smoke ahead, shouting for a tactical pullback. The knight isn’t engaging the line anymore; he’s carving straight through it, disinterested, unstoppable. Proxi squeaks right in his ear, tiny wings buzzing. “Let’s go! C’mon, Link— move!”
But he doesn’t. He will never know why he plants his boots instead of drawing his sword. Why the dragon knight towers over him and Link’s hand stays empty at his side. It has to be the eyes. Shadowed beneath the ridged helm, they burn green and piercing—
Thousands of years crash into him at once. Memories that aren’t his pour in up his sternum: molten caverns, a fairy’s song, the hammer’s brutal swing, scales cracking like cooled lava. Volcano heat sears his lungs. A dragon screams. Flowers bloom where grief should be. I saved you from a cage, Volvagia.
But something deeper, quieter, presses back as the knight stops and towers: your little dragon is long gone. Green eyes peer down through the shadow, inquisitive rather than murderous. His gauntlets tighten on his long lance, but he doesn’t strike. A thin plume of smoke curls from his nostrils, deliberate, almost amused.
“You’re either very brave,” the voice rumbles, deep and resonant like stones grinding in a forge, “or a fool to face a dragon alone and unarmed. You must be a worthy opponent!”
Could he really be the only one tormented by time and memory? Proxi whimpers against his ear. “Link…?”
He has no time to react. The lance whips forward in a brutal arc; instinct alone snaps Link’s hand to the sword’s hilt. Steel clashes in a shower of sparks, the impact jarring up his arms to his shoulders. He pivots, boots skidding in churned mud, and the rhythm settles into his bones like an old song. Dodge. Lunge. Parry.
The knight’s foreswing comes fast, backswing faster— dragonbone lance sweeps low then high. Link ducks, rolls, springs forward with a thrust aimed at the gap beneath the breastplate. Metal shrieks again; the knight raises his weapon just in time, turning the blow aside with contemptuous ease. The vibration hums through Link’s grip, familiar and maddening. Every strike met, every opening closed before he can exploit it– it’s frustrating. No, it’s insulting.
The knight counters every feint without breaking stride, forcing Link back step by step. A sweeping counter catches him off-guard and he stumbles. The lance tip whistles past, shearing clean through flaxen strands at his temple. Hair flutters to the ground like pale confetti. Soldiers nearby hiss and whisper. But Link won’t flinch, not here.
His blade rings against the lance haft again and again, the weight driving his arms back but never quite far enough to disarm him. Then— an opening. Small. Fleeting.
The knight overextends a fraction on a high swing. His sword flashes. A sharp red line opens across the knight’s cheek, just below the helm’s edge. Blood flecks the chinguard and spatters Link’s blade in dark drops.
The dragon knight staggers back one step. Two. Chest heaving, he lifts a gauntleted hand and wipes the cut. Crimson smears across skin. His teeth flash in a gritted snarl— pain, yes, but something fiercer beneath it. Pride. Delight.
“You…” Smoke curls from his nostrils again, thicker now. “You draw blood where no mortal has dared.”
Link doesn’t even see the strike, but rather hears the hiss of the lance cutting air. The bone brushes his throat, cold and precise. But he keeps his chin high, proud. He swallows once. The blade grazes his Adam’s apple in reward, parting skin in a thin, hot line. Blood wells, warm and slow, tracing down to soak the collar of his tunic.
A low chuckle rumbles from the dragon knight’s chest. He circles Link with slow, swaggered steps, closing until their shoulders nearly brush. “You are interesting, boy. In fact, I’d say yo—”
Link feels it before he sees it: the shift in that angular face, the flicker of something softer, older, beneath the helm’s shadow. Deep in his chest, something long-buried dances— though with revelry, grief or joy is hard to say. All those bright skies, all that missed time, and now— now—
Proxi peeks from the folds of his scarf. She speaks for his trembling fingers, small and clear, What do they call you now?”
The knight softens. His lips part. The rough, deep voice cracks just once. “Volga.”
Volga. The name settles in Link’s mind like it had never left; had he been looking for this for every morning for a thousand years? For a moment Link truly sees him– not the towering knight armored in red and fire-veined pride, but the small dragon he once adored. The one who squawked his name in delight, scales warm under his palms, unable to fly but prancing about anyway. Then he sees the corrupted monster, the one he’d killed with his own two hands.
Link’s heart beats faster. His hand lifts to sign. To ask. To reach.
Heat drags across his neck again. Someone jerks him backward hard. He winces, pain flaring white hot, but he tries to hide it as Zelda steps between them. Her voice shakes not with fear now, but rage. “He is messy, murderous, and I will cut him down with my own hands. Are you hurt?”
Link shakes his head once, sharp. His hands fly in a frantic flurry, beckoning past her shoulder toward Volga. Wait. Listen. It’s– too late. The Hylian soldiers surge forward in a sudden, coordinated wave: lances leveled, swords flashing, voices raised in outroar. One knight lunges; Volga seizes him by the collar and hurls him back into the line. Another tries to flank— Volga’s wing snaps out, sweeping three men off their feet in a single motion.
The light in those green eyes isn’t dimmed. It burns brighter— Link knows it then: no matter the overtures of peace they might play, no matter the memories across lifetimes, a dragon will always fight with fire and steel to protect what it lost.