Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A rabbit can be incredibly quiet.

Ravio pulls, and the door slides smoothly into place without a sound. The dancing light from the fireplace narrows into a sliver, the golden beam vanishing and carved apart by the darkness.

Dawn breaks, casting a wash of fresh, cold glow that reflects off the stairwell walls.

Ravio inches toward the stairs, each step a calculated move to avoid the creaking boards he knows by heart. He does not care to look at his feet, for his sight is useless. He just listens. Listens. And he just trudges forward. Forward.

The skirt of Legend’s long tunic brushes above Ravio’s knees as he halts in front of his own room, closer to the staircase. He listens intently, holding his breath. The soft, rhythmic sound of Legend’s snoring reaches his ears. Ravio sighs, albeit shallowly, and moves on.

The hero’s exhaustion does him a favor. Lolia, please, may he sleep for a bit longer. Ravio prays.

A rabbit can be a fantastic liar.

“Ravio. Are you sure you‘re gonna be fine like this?” Legend has asked.

“I will be okay.” Ravio has insisted. He has deliberately raised his head toward the lamplight so that Legend could see his good eye holding no tears. "You must be tired," Ravio said softly.

He might have even managed to force a light smile. Years of practice and necessity have made cheeky smiles and sweet words a muscle memory.

“Guess I will take a nap. But before that, can I help you change out of these wet bandages?”

Ravio gently shook his head. “I will manage on my own.”

“I can’t leave you like this.” Legend’s hesitation was palpable, even though his voice had slowed and his eyelids were drooping. “I need to check on your eye.”

“And I need space,” Ravio’s voice was calm, almost soothing. He shifted in Legend’s bed and took his arms out of the blanket. “Thanks for letting me stay by the fire. It helps. I’ll manage, and you need to rest.”

Legend sighed, rubbing his eyes. “Sure…”

He looked away.

“Drink the soup I brought you. It should have cooled by now.” After a barely noticeable moment of silence, Legend continued, “You need to keep your strength up.”

Legend reached for the bowl of Cucco noodle soup on the bedside table, but Ravio waved to stop him. In a swift movement, Ravio picked up the spoon with a remarkably steady hand.

“I will. And you should get some proper sleep, not just a nap. Use my bed next door. The bedroll will hurt your joints.” Ravio fidgeted with the spoon as he spoke in a low but smooth voice. “You battled Blind. You saved me. You’ve been taking care of me for the past day and a half. You deserve rest.”

Legend paused, his eyes hesitantly meeting Ravio’s gaze. The hero’s shoulders slumped, weariness etched into his features. “Alright, but promise you will drink the soup.”

“I promise,” Ravio nodded, “I know how to take care of myself.”

A rabbit is unmatched in hiding pain.

Ravio lets out a breath he doesn’t realize he has been holding. With each cautious step, he struggles down the stairs, his fingers pressing on the handrail. The shifting shadows of the swaying apple trees play tricks on his limited vision, their movements dizzying. But Ravio presses on, one step after another, guided more by memory than sight.

He has become too familiar with Legend’s house. Over the years, he has whispered so many joys and secrets to the wooden structure through his enchantments. He hopes that the house and its furniture will have mercy for him today. It shouldn’t be too much to ask.

Ravio forces himself to take a break once every few steps. He knows he needs them, so he plans accordingly. He cannot afford to trip or fall.

He cannot afford to faint or bleed.

Legend’s shirt feels strange against his skin — a bit big, too heavy, and too rigid. Its unusually sturdy material presses on Ravio’s shoulders like its owner’s burdens. Ravio never wielded a sword. He never held a shield. He never grew the muscles that he needed, somehow.

Traces of dampness make the dark green fabric cling to Ravio’s chest, and an awkward tug grows with every breath.

He does not want to be seen like this, but beggars cannot be choosers.

Tying the new bandages has been a failure. Ravio vaguely remembers how much the old ones clung to his skin. He couldn’t get them off, so he pulled on the ends and ripped at the layers. He had become impatient. Why do obstacles keep showing up when he doesn’t have time?

The ones he tied on his own probably look like a mess too. Ravio figures that the protection and support they offer are barely passable. But he has done his best to look decent.

What would Sheerow think if she saw Ravio like this?

She must be watching Ravio now, so Ravio needs to be good.

So he has reached for that bowl of soup, as he had promised. He wanted strength, and he needed it now.

He is on a sacred quest which he must not fail.

He prayed to Lolia as he raised the bowl of soup to his lips. The goddess answered by making him misjudge the distance and spill the thick liquid all over his front. The sticky dampness mocked Ravio as he sat still at the bedside for a moment, the bowl in his hand.

It could have been worse. Ravio thought. At least the bowl didn’t break and wake Legend. At least he didn’t accidentally cut himself with the shards and create more work.

Lolia must have found this incredibly funny.

Sheerow, however, will never mock him, not even in jest. It isn’t her way. Never has she made light of his missteps. She will always be there. She always offers comfort in her own silent, affectionate manner.

No, she is not yet gone.

She will be here. She will be here with him. Soon.

In a brief moment of silence, Ravio could almost feel her fluttering down to his side, her soft feathers brushing away the mess with gentle, reassuring strokes, her soothing coo chasing away the fatigue and embarrassment.

As much as it hurt, Ravio shook off the lingering feeling of Sheerow’s presence. It was almost too real. Her colors, her scent, her tender touch — they flickered in Ravio’s mind like the dancing flames in Legend’s fireplace.

Ravio would not allow himself to indulge in these tricks of his mind. For Sheerow’s not yet at peace. Ravio couldn’t be the selfish child clinging to her company when she needed rest.

Only flames can set her free.

At this thought, Ravio pushed himself to stand. He peeled off his soaked shirt and began to wipe himself down. The warmth from the fire caressed his skin, and in the flames’ whispers, Ravio heard a bittersweet song of solace.

Every Lorulean life ends with fire. Or at least this is how it should be. In its dissipation, the body denies the polluted land any further harm. Through the songs of loved ones, the soul bids a dignified farewell as it journeys to the other end.

Ravio rummaged through Legend’s closet and pulled out a fresh tunic. He would have preferred to wear purple for the singing, and he would have hoped to get a proper bath. But the formalities didn’t matter. It would be enough if he could simply be the one to see Sheerow off on this quiet morning.

As he descends the stairs, Ravio's mind wanders to the many departures he has witnessed, both in the War and well before that. He knows the sting of loss intimately, just as he knows the solemnity of farewells. And yet, he doesn’t blame Legend for burying Sheerow; after all, the hero wouldn’t have known about Lorulean rites.

Fragments of Link’s earlier words occasionally echo in Ravio’s mind. He knows that Link only meant well. Breaking bad news hurts anyone equally, even for a Hero of Courage like Link. But despite all the times Ravio has been late in his life, he still has the chance to tenderly tuck Sheerow in for her eternal sleep with his lullaby. He still has the opportunity to hold her one last time.

Ravio pushes open the back door and steps into the garden. The morning air brushes past his face. The bandages and the tunic flutter slightly in the breeze.

Ravio hears birdsong.

He passes the spot where he lay motionless just a few days ago. The memories of shattered glass and Byrna's magic, of pain and screams, now seem distant and blurred.

The birdsong sweeps away those memories like cleansing flames ripping through the shadows of death.

He sees it now. He sees the small mound of freshly turned earth under the apple tree’s canopy. A bunch of asters, with their beautiful purple petals and golden eyes, lie quietly in the swaying shade.

The soil under his bare knees yields slightly to Ravio’s body weight. He reaches out, sinking his fingers into the earth, and begins to scoop up the soil in a rhythm that is almost meditative.

Ravio will not leave Sheerow in this limbo. At last, he has finally come to her side.

He has briefly considered using a shovel; this way they could be reunited sooner. But Ravio realizes how little he knows about Hyrulean burial. He cannot be sure if Sheerow waits in a coffin or a simple shroud, and he cannot risk causing any further damage to…

Sheerow’s broken body.

She is no longer in the way Ravio remembers her.

Ravio’s resolve remains steadfast. He has come so close. He can face whatever awaits because it will be Sheerow on the other end of the struggle. She will always be Sheerow.

But his hands waver. At first, he sees a bit of trembling, barely noticeable, like the quiver of leaves above his head. Then, he finds his fingers refusing to obey, stiffening against his will. His body resists his silent yet deliberate commands, like those old fire rods that he has retired.

The bandages around his head begin to unravel, falling in limp coils to the ground. It's irritating, the way they betray him. So he yanks them off, wrapping them tightly around his hands instead, and plunges his fingers back into the soil.

His body is but a vessel in this mission.

Ravio tries to open his right eye, but all he perceives are strange blotches of brightness. Within moments, his entire field of vision becomes disoriented, dissolving into nothing but swirling shapes.

He tries to go deeper, but every grasp meets not the missing weight he seeks, but only soil, shifting soil, that slips past his fingers until it abruptly hardens beneath his touch.

Ravio pauses. A sparrow lands next to him and pecks at the asters. He notices the birdsong, but in its mocking cheerfulness, one distinct voice is absent. There is a missing note in what could have been a melody.

There is a missing beat in Ravio’s heart as he begins to piece together what this could mean.

“Ravio.” A familiar voice calls softly behind him, “Sheerow isn’t here.”

Rabbits can be incredibly quiet.

Ravio has never imagined that words could grow claws that sink into his bones. He never imagined that they would come from Legend, who now speaks in such a delicate voice.

“What have you done!” Ravio snarls. He didn't know he could.

He turns and catches Legend holding something to his chest. He swears if it is a bowl of soup again, Ravio will scream until the ceramic shatters, and he will dig into the world’s flesh with its shards until reality is a broken canvas.

Legend is holding Ravio’s robe. Its golden trim shines a beautiful glow under the rising sun.

Legend meets Ravio’s gaze. He kneels on the ground to meet Ravio at eye level. He lays the robe on his knees and shows his bare hands.

“I couldn’t let you see her like that, Ravio,” he begins quietly. “She was... she was too broken. I couldn't bear for you to see her like that. I couldn’t bear to let you suffer more.”

Ravio trembles, but his fury flares, hot and consuming, “Did. You. Burn. Her. Body!”

“Yes.” It is more like Link sighs the word than says it. “She rests in Lake Hylia.”

Rabbits can be fantastic liars.

“You had no right!” Ravio roars, his voice tearing through the stillness of the morning like a crack of thunder. Static arcs between his fingers.

He is late after all.

Like all those other times.

“YOU HAD NO RIGHT TO TAKE THIS FROM ME!” Ravio screams, his voice raw. The surge of magic startles the birds, sending them into a panicked flurry. Wings beat frantically amidst the canopy. Singing throats are strangled by fear.

Sheerow walked the final stretch alone. There were no songs for her.

Legend doesn’t flinch a bit. He just looks down at Ravio’s robe and clutches his bracelet.

A pink glow spills from between Legend’s fingers. The relic chimes a low hum.

But a high-pitched ringing fills Ravio’s ears, drowning out his ragged breaths. He is already breathing out more than he is taking in. The air around him begins to boil. Ravio sees purple and black again. Tendrils of viscous dark energy wind around his left wrist and pull it up like dead flesh.

Ravio’s hand aims at Legend.

Ravio would have shouted more at the kneeling hero. He would have demanded if Link thought what he did was an act of mercy, if he thought he was being protective. But there is no time.

Ravio’s useless vision gives in, the magic coursing through his veins like molten iron poured into a paper mold. He has never felt it in this intensity, but he thinks this might be fitting. He almost welcomes the sensation.

If all Lorulean life ends with fire, so he might as well burn in his own flames.

He has already startled the birds, so there will be no songs for him either. Maybe he deserves it. Maybe it was he who hurt Sheerow after all. Blind only cut her suffering short.

“Get away, Link,” Ravio cannot move his body an inch, so he growls, his voice crackling with the ferocity saved up over two decades. If he can no longer trust the hero to be honest, he can at least trust him to have common sense, or some survival reflex.

But rabbits are unmatched in hiding pain.

“I am not leaving,” Legend's voice trembles, and Ravio can almost hear the tears. “I will not leave you. Sheerow wouldn’t want you to do this to yourself. She wouldn’t want you to be this hard on yourself.”

Ravio’s breath hitches. How dare Link say Sheerow’s name.

“If anyone deserves your rage, it is me.” Legend’s voice steadies, “Ravio, please. Sheerow would have wanted you to live, Ravio. She died protecting you. She left you a message, and you need to stay alive to see it with your own eyes.”

Ravio’s magic surges again. He can feel it burning, threatening to tear him apart from the inside. But he catches a flash of color amidst the inferno of chaos. It is so familiar. It is purple.

Has Lolia herself come to claim him?

Purple. The color of the asters on Sheerow’s grave. The color of his sister’s duties. The color of his homeland.

The color of his robe with its glistening golden trim. He sees it.

He stares into the piercing eyes on his rabbit hood, which Link unfurls and holds up with both hands in front of his kneeling form.

I will not leave you.

It is like staring into his own skin.

“Stay with me, Ravio,” Legend pleads. “Sheerow has something to tell you. She waits. You managed your magic in the war, even when she was not around. You can do it now.”

Ravio’s breath catches in his throat. The war was different. The war was a realm of chaos, where his rage was a mighty weapon against the encroaching darkness. But here, in this peaceful garden, pointing a blade of flames toward a friend? His fury feels misplaced, undisciplined, and untamed.

And then he hears the birdsong, the soothing chorus of nature’s gentle forgiveness.

In that fleeting moment of clarity, the realization dawns on him like the morning sun’s grace. He is not lost to the chaos within. He is already doing so well. He has always wanted to protect, even in rage, for rage can protect himself, and the child within him.

Ravio draws in a long breath, just in the way that Hilda has taught him, and channels his focus, willing the raging fire beneath his skin to yield. The energy swirls, and it shifts; it takes shape and bends to his command like the elemental powers he has so proficiently infused into his items and wares.

Ravio screams.

He screams for Sheerow’s loss. He screams for her revenge. He screams at Lolia for daring to laugh at him.

Ravio snaps his eyes open, and he whips his purple energy at the thick bark of an apple tree to Link’s side. The impact sends a violent shock through the tree, its apples raining down in a sudden cascade. The chattering birds take flight in a panicked flurry.
But then, they circle overhead in the morning wind, and, they gradually return, their songs filling the air once more.

The last of the dark energy finally dissipates into the morning light. Ravio's body gives in to the strain. With a gasp, he collapses to the ground, his hands clutching the earth beneath him. But at last, his ropes are cut loose. He sees now, and he feels. The soil is soft, and it is damp with morning dew.

Legend rushes to Ravio's side, and he stops just out of reach, his pink strands plastered onto his cheeks and trembling just so slightly with his breaths.

“Check the pocket,” Legend says softly, carefully draping the purple robe over Ravio’s arm. The hero takes a step backward and sits on his heels, but somehow Ravio can feel Legend’s chest heaving with his in a rhythm that is rough but very much alive.

Ravio hastens to gather himself and fumbles for the hidden pocket close to his heart. The familiar silky fabric caresses and cradles his fingers, soothing their delicate and swollen joints. His hands are trembling, because they have been cold, and they have been working. They have done many magical and powerful things. Warm tears begin to well up. Ravio regrets not having taken care of his hands. He swears he will never do it again.

His fingers brush against something small and firm. Sheerow must be watching now. She may be in another world but she must be watching now. She would want Ravio to carry on.

Carefully, Ravio pulls out a handful of pine seeds and a single, pristine feather. Ravio’s tears fall among these smooth and rich promises of nourishment. He feels their weight. The feather, so pure and white, radiates warmth and an inner glow, as if freshly shed.

Take care of yourself. Sheerow lifts off and disappears behind the kitchen door, trailing a silver arch across the room.

Ravio counts the seeds one by one like he counted rupees. He thought if he had enough of those little gems, the Great Rupee Fairies might show some pity on his failing world, if his plans could sell. But these tokens are different. They are Sheerow’s gift to him and him alone. Sheerow would have wanted him to be fed and well.

I will not leave you.

The world around Ravio begins to sharpen and gain color. He notices the brisk morning air, the scent of the asters on grass, the gentle rustle of leaves, the melodious birdsong. Something thumps within him, and he realizes that he has been trapped under an ice cap and not getting air. He needs to breathe, like Hilda said.

Ravio struggles to sit a few steps back and leans against the comforting mass of the apple tree, its withered bark rough yet grounding against his back. He brings the feather to his neck, the softness brushing gently against his pulse point, and his tears run free. A shiver runs through his exhausted body, like a stream of fresh water joining the embrace of the sea. The sensation is tender, so familiar, as if Sheerow herself were cooing to him that it will all be okay. Broken things can be mended anew. They truly can.

He pushes the pine seeds through his lips, one after another, feeling the rich oils melt on his tongue. They are moist, and just a little bit salty. He spreads his purple robe over himself like a blanket, fidgeting with the hood’s stuffed rabbit ears as his racing rabbit heart slows to a steady and powerful beat.

Sheerow must be watching Ravio now, so Ravio needs to be good, to himself.

Sheerow is gone?

No she isn’t.

No she isn’t.