Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ravio thinks again of his first passage to Hyrule. A passage. What a fitting name for the journey ahead. There is so much uncertainty and pain in every step. And yet, there are so many hopes and dreams on the other shore, waiting to blossom under his touch. 

Ravio knows that he is dreaming. But there are no swamps under his feet this time, no colors that rave over his head. There is only a pure, shimmering white that washes over him, soothing and serene. He reaches out, and the white seems to respond, like a screen that bounces gently under his fingers, cool and soft like the finest silk.

Ravio wonders if this is what it’s like to be a particle of sand caught between Sheerow’s feathers, cradled in the gentle rhythm of her flight. Ravio feels his lips curve into a smile, his heart drumming a steady beat as he savors the wondrous weightlessness of his body.

But gradually, the rhythmic thudding sound grows more distinct, more tangible. It is not just Ravio’s heart. The noise is of a duller color and grainier in texture, pulling him from the dream's embrace. Ravio feels himself being picked out of the fabric of his sweet reverie and sewn back into the waking world, each thud a stitch that binds him to a much less comforting reality.

He decides to let go of the dream, allowing it to unravel as he awakens. A passage, after all, is a journey from one state to another, and his journey must continue.

Ravio tries to open his eyes, bracing himself for the impending discomfort. His left eye squints against the intense brightness, like staring into the sun; his right eye, bandaged tightly, plunges him into coarse, unseeing darkness. The contrast stirs something deep within him — an echo of the threshold between worlds. He remembers the instant his body breached the divide, the moment the familiar hues of himself warped and fractured, as though turned inside out. For that fleeting heartbeat, he wasn’t himself but some unmade thing, unraveling and reformed in colors this world did not recognize.

Ravio waits patiently in place for the initial discomfort to pass, holding on to the sense of safety and serenity that still lingers from his dream. It feels as if Sheerow’s gentle presence is still with him, whispering reassurance. It is not long before the brightness gradually becomes more bearable, and Ravio registers the soft, flickering white of the curtain swaying gently in the morning breeze.

Thud, thud, thud. A sound that feels distant yet steady, like the echo of something striking wood. He doesn’t know what it is, nor does he have the strength to wonder. The rhythm reverberates faintly, almost as if it comes from a memory rather than the world around him.

He closes his eyes briefly and focuses instead on the soft crackling of the fireplace. When he shifts slightly, a cascade of sensations returns to him. The smooth linen shirt against his skin is dry and cool, the threads fine enough to whisper as they move with him. It is his own clothing, he realizes — clean and comforting, as if the turmoil of yesterday never happened.

Thud. The sound comes again, sharper this time. His brows furrow instinctively as though his body, not his mind, recognizes something faintly out of place.

But yesterday did happen. Ravio runs his thumb along the nails of his fingers, and there is still dirt. 

A part of him acknowledges the care Legend must have taken to change him into these new clothes, as he remembers nothing of yesterday’s aftermath. He shifts uncomfortably at the thought, disoriented by the void in his memory. Gaps like this are rare for him — too rare. 

He has seen this kind of forgetting before. He remembers the faraway look in Legend’s eyes after a battle gone wrong, when the hero would wake with no memory of the blow that felled him or the hours that followed. Ravio had always marveled —and mourned — how Legend seemed to just bear those absences like any other scar. Yet, now, with his own memory fractured, something about it feels irrevocably wrong.

Thud, thud, thud. The rhythmic sound seems to come from outside. Ravio’s heart quickens as he pushes himself upright. He tries to swallow, and he notices a stickiness in his throat. A pungent bitterness ripples through his mouth, and paradoxically, it feels like the aftermath of eating too much candy, leaving a phlegmy residue that is both deeply unpleasant and oddly familiar.

It must have been a blue potion, a balm poured into a vessel that was cracked and leaking from the surge of its own magic. Legend must have administered this powerful elixir to patch up the ragged edges before the vessel — Ravio’s body — could shatter from the strain.

So yesterday did happen. Ravio remembers the searing heat of his own magic, flames licking at his skin as he teetered on the edge of oblivion. 

His body still feels odd. Ravio can sense the potion’s effect beginning to restore his strength. As he slowly rises from the bed, Ravio finds himself a bit light on his feet, but he also marvels at the ease with which he moves. He scans his limbs for the chill or numbness that usually follows the reckless, blunt force he’s wielded in the War of Ages, but there’s nothing — only warmth and ease.

There is something unsettling about this physical comfort, this disconcerting absence of consequence. Ravio knows that he is only held together by threads of borrowed resilience, a temporary fix that masks the deeper fractures that he still has to address from the source. At this thought, Ravio hesitates, and he looks back at the empty bed — Legend’s bed.

Ravio has witnessed Legend battle for his own life in this sickbed countless times, and he has never hesitated to administer these powerful elixirs to Legend when the hero needed miraculous intervention. Yet, he cannot picture himself in Legend’s place, in this bed, wiped clean and bandaged and spoonfed precious elixirs that they have to ration in the best of times. He didn’t wield powerful relics in the face of Ganon’s wrath, he didn’t save a world and someone else’s, he didn’t …

Thud, thud, thud. 

Silent tears trail down Ravio’s cheek as something warm stirs behind the weight in his heart. Ravio closes his eyes, his eyelids trembling slightly as he focuses on the rhythmic sound outside, grounding himself in the present moment. 

He will not do it again. He has promised Sheerow. 

A long breath carries away his rambling thoughts, and the tides of his mind begin to ebb, leaving behind a gentler landscape.

He remembers that moment, when he had been ready to surrender, to let the flames take him and end his pain and bring him to Sheerow’s side.

And yet, here he is, alive, breathing. Breathing is hard. It always has been. No one understands how hard it is to breathe through the pain. But he did it. He did it yesterday.

There was something in him that refused to break, and it is still here. The vessel may have been chipped, but it still holds, and the precious warmth of survival hums softly within its fragile yet resilient walls.

He may not have saved anyone else’s world — perhaps he even failed to live up tp Lolia’s plans — but he saved his own, by choosing to fight on and breathe and live and wake up and come into the gentle caress of the morning breeze.

Thud, thud, thud. Each distant beat now brings a newfound clarity to Ravio’s mind. Ravio inches toward the open window, and there is a sense of newness in the air. The waves of grief have receded, leaving behind a curious tranquility. It is not numbness but a profound stillness, like the smooth stretch of sand left by a retreating tide. The beach of his mind lies serene and unmarked, a blank slate that stretches out before him, ready to be written upon anew.

“AAARGH! Ugh!” 

A terrifyingly human scream shatters the tranquility and claws into the softness of Ravio’s heart. 

Ravio stumbles, a wave of phantom pain blooming across his skin as if a whip has cracked against him. The shock sends a jolt through his body, like shards of glass spreading from the point of impact.

A dread, so different from pain, drills into his chest, pressing down with each frantic beat of his heart. The sound of tearing, smashing chaos filters through the disorienting haze. Through the punishing brightness, Ravio forces his gaze toward the outside. He fights against the throbbing discomfort, his eyes straining to pierce through the glare.

“AAARGH!” The rugged, burning scream strikes him again like a fresh lash from the whip, but this time Ravio does not falter. He locks his focus onto the sound like he would grip his assailant’s rope, even if it means the flesh of his palm would tear and bleed under the strain. He pulls himself closer to the source of the anguish, and —

He sees Legend’s shuddering frame in the backyard. He sees Legend snapping the young branches of an apple tree, whose parts lie strewn around him like the shards of a broken pot. Fallen apples are crushed under his boots as he screams, splitting open with each stomp, their sickening squelch mixing with the rustling of those still undead leaves in Legend’s hands. Slender branches, now severed with no more chance to flourish, are scattered across a pile of neatly chopped wood, slightly disturbed from its once orderly arrangement.

Ravio is on his feet again before he knows it. He scrambles for the door, his hearing still sharp and attuned to the turmoil unfolding downstairs. His legs, fueled by the potion’s artificial strength, propel him forward with surprising vigor, but it is at this moment that his vision betrays him once more.

“AAARGH!” 

Ravio is inclined to think that he rarely screams. But the sound is involuntary, ripped from him by the sudden jolt of pain and the shock of falling. 

A bolt of warmth zips through Ravio almost as soon as his body crashes to the floor, the distinctive heat from his magic overwhelming the sharp, cold pain from the leg that scraped against the unforgiving corner of Legend’s bed. For a second, the air around him crackles with faint energy, but it quickly dissipates, leaving Ravio gasping on the floor.

Before he can gather his bearings, rapid footsteps on the stairs pierce through the dizziness and pain.

"Ravio?" Legend's voice calls out, breathless and raw.

The door bursts open, and Ravio feels a rush of air as Legend’s bare knees crash onto the floor beside him. 

“Ravio! Are you okay? Are you hurt?” Legend's words tumble out in a frantic rush, mixing with Ravio’s rugged breaths as he tries to push himself upright.

The shaking horizon finally resolves into the familiar shapes of the room, and Ravio grits his teeth as he reaches for his left leg. Something must be bruising. The magical forces that healed him so swiftly now make every minor injury feel like a significant blow, but he can handle it. He’s had worse. There is something else that worries him.

Ravio’s shoulder bumps into something solid, and he looks up. It is Legend’s right hand, hovering over his body, ready to help him up. Ravio appreciates the thought and the space, but he cannot help but notice the tremor in those calloused hands. 

“Ravio, please, talk to me,” A jagged voice pleads. “I felt magic. What happened? Did it hurt you again?”

Pop!

The sound from the fireplace startles them both, bringing the crackling warmth back into focus, and Ravio finally catches sight of Legend’s face. His face is so pale, too pale, and his eyes are red-rimmed. They are almost like Sheerow’s. Ravio will never forget eyes as red as those.

The soft light of the fireplace reminds Ravio of Sheerow again, like it did yesterday. In its warmth, Ravio senses lingering traces of Sheerow’s worried chirps and feels her fluttering about in tight circles. If she could be here, Ravio would guide her to perch gently on Legend’s shoulder. Ravio wants to say something, anything, but words seem to elude him once more. His second language, the one he performs with an effort like he does a musical instrument, slips away from his grasp in this delicate moment like a leaf that bends under the weight of the falling rain.

Instead, Ravio gently shakes his head and reaches out, his fingers brushing lightly against Legend’s trembling hand as he rises to sit on the bed by himself. The physical pain doesn’t matter now. In fact, Ravio can barely feel it. It is only a bruise on his leg, after all.

Against the flickering light of the fireplace, Ravio sees Legend's breath catch. The hero is looking away again. He hides his face under the shadows of his thick bangs, like he always does when he has something to hide. It's almost child-like, the way he thinks he can hide by simply dropping his head. But Ravio can see the tremor in his shoulders and the way his hands clench at the fabric of his long tunic.

“Thank Hylia… ” Legend murmurs as he takes a few strides toward the fireplace and falls on his knees again, his back turned to Ravio as he stirs the embers and adds a log to the flames. The hero’s voice falters, replaced by his shallow and uneven breaths. Ravio hears them with a painful clarity despite the crackle and pop from the fireplace. 

The hem of Legend’s skirt brushes past red and swollen knees as the hero reaches forward to prod the embers. The flames dance with renewed vigor under Legend’s care, their growing glow landing softly on the hero’s hunched form. 

Ravio knows this too well. 

The tides of Ravio’s mind surge with the gritty taste of salt and the sting of sand, its rolling white waves crashing and throwing ashore pieces of yesterday’s memory: the same long, dark tunic smeared with dirt, red knees pressing into the ground, and the relentless task of digging with hands that shook and trembled…

Unshed tears in one’s eyes. A futile attempt to escape and stifle pain and grief and desperation that are etched into the body, whether one feels them or not.  

Ravio sees himself in Legend, and a part of him screams that he should spring out of bed and help. But here, standing in the crashing tides of his mind, feeling their sound overwhelming his heartbeat, Ravio finds his feet sinking into the wet sand. Ravio is painfully aware of his own fragile state. The emotional upheaval of yesterday still lingers, and his spirit has not yet found solid ground. He fears, he fears that he will drag Legend down into the shifting sand with him if he runs toward him too soon.

So Ravio shifts in the bed, making room for another to sit next to him. He moves slowly, and deliberately, ensuring the hero notices the gesture. He cannot let anyone, especially someone with joint pain, sit on the cold floor.

The bed creaks, and Ravio breathes softly through the seconds of ensuing silence. Legend turns, eyes wide and uncertain, meeting Ravio’s gaze. 

Ravio offers a small, encouraging nod, and reaches out to smooth the bedsheet next to him, like drawing a line in the sand, hoping to convey what he cannot yet put into words.

Legend hesitates, then slowly rises and moves to sit beside Ravio. His weight shifts the bed slightly, and the warmth from his body mingles with that of the crackling fire.

Legend’s movements are tentative, his body painfully stiff. He settles on the edge of the bed, hands clenched tightly in his lap. He stares into the fireplace, and light washes over his weary features.

After a moment, Legend finally speaks, his voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t know you were awake. I didn’t mean to wake you up,” he says, his eyes fixed on the flickering flames. “I just… I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

Ravio’s gaze washes over the hero’s form in the soft morning light, the gentle rays through the curtain casting his shadow over Legend. Similar dark colors haunted yesterday’s sunrise. Ravio recalls that moment, caught in a purple cloud of burning despair, when he had growled at his hero:

“Get away, Link.”

Those caustic words still echo in Ravio’s ears, and they hurt like stones cast into the shallow waters of his heart, their jagged edges sinking into the soft soles of his wading feet. 

Ravio feels the tides coming for him again, but he now knows where his anchors are when he needs them. He needs truths, solid and unyielding. He seeks the truths so generously offered by this thriving reality — the melodies of birdsong, the soft earth under his weight, the vibrant purple of the asters, the nourishing oil of the pine seeds, and the gentle tickle of Sheerow’s feathers against his pulse.

Without fully understanding why, Ravio feels speech bubbling. It’s as though his own need to ground himself in reality has manifested in this simple, factual observation. The words bypass his thoughts and flow out, surprising him with their clarity.

“You are in pain.” Ravio says.

Legend’s body shudders as soon as the words touch him, a fleeting tremor running through him like a ripple on water. He turns to face Ravio, his jaw tight. For a moment, he looks like he might deny it with his signature snark and nonchalance, but instead, he shifts his gaze and nods, looking again at the floor.

“Yes,” Legend admits softly, but then, Ravio finds him holding a breath. “My knees… my joints… everything hurts. Old injuries and stuff. It’s not news.”

Ravio doesn’t say anything. And most of all, he doesn’t judge. He sits quietly, breathing slowly and evenly, imagining the warm air leaving his body and unfurling like a gentle wave, reaching out to wash away the weight on Legend’s body. His steady breaths create a rhythm, a silent invitation for Legend to match. 

For a moment, Legend doesn’t move. He only tightens his hands into fists until the knuckles flash white, as if trying to fend off the pain with sheer willpower. But Ravio knows that resisting pain — this kind of pain — only makes it more relentless, like fighting a wave that drags you deeper with every struggle. He has learned this through his own trials, the memory of crossing that burning threshold of rebirth still fresh in his mind and body.

Perhaps Ravio’s body understands more than he gives it credit for. In moments when his mind falters under an oppressive weight, his body always steps in to protect him. He recalls the burn in his throat from the screams that fought back the lashes of Blind’s words, the jolt of his muscles when Legend's touch pressed against the wounds of his recent attack, and the swift readiness of his magic in a lightning flash as he crashed to the ground. His body remembers survival even if his mind hesitates.

And now, his hand moves of its own accord. His body may seem to do contradictory things, but Ravio now trusts his instincts. His hand reaches out to Legend with a deliberate gentleness. His left palm lands on Legend’s right fist, and his fingers close around Legend’s hand, cautious but firm. 

These are the same hands that, in a blinding rage yesterday, aimed at Legend’s head and threatened to reduce the hero to ashes before Ravio’s mind could intervene. Ravio cannot verbalize why his own body had acted that way, why it had almost hurt the one person who had always stood by him. A part of him feels a sharp pang of shame, wishing it could have been someone else who shouted and nearly inflicted harm. But the reality is, it was still him, just clouded by a different state of being. Ravio must now face the full weight of those actions.

A shiver blossoms from Legend’s right hand as their body heat connects, a subtle tremor that radiates up through his arm. The warmth of Ravio’s touch seems to seep into Legend, melting away the cold shell of restraint. 

Legend’s breathing becomes erratic for a moment, and his body tenses as if something painful stirs; his hand trembles but doesn’t pull away. As Ravio closes his fingers just a bit further, a subtle transformation takes place under his touch. Legend’s shoulders begin to relax, the rigidity of his posture giving way to a slow, trembling release.

Legend opens his palm, and Ravio cradles it gently. Ravio takes Legend’s hand in both of his, guiding it to his lap with a careful touch, like he does when he tends to the hero’s battle wounds.

“I’m sorry, Ravio. I lied, I lied so much, and I hurt you. I’m sorry.” Legend’s words tumble out again with his shuddering exhalations. As his words spill from his lips, his body trembles as if something buried deep is sprouting, struggling to break free from the layers of hardened earth encasing his heart. Tears finally begin to stream down Legend’s face, carving tracks through the grime and sweat.

Ravio listens in silence, his gaze locked on Legend’s right hand. He doesn't need to see the hero’s face to understand the depth of his pain. He may have been blinded, but his heart now perceives with a clarity he’s never known before. His thumbs begin to move in slow, deliberate strokes, gliding from the base of Legend’s palm to the tips of his fingers. He gently bends each ringed finger back, guiding them into a soothing stretch.

“I keep saying sorry, don’t I?” Legend’s voice cracks as he lets out a broken breath that sounds eerily like a sneer, “And I keep lying, Ravio.”

Lies.

The first thing Ravio ever did to Legend, all those years ago when they first met, was lie.

“I lied because I can’t face it. I said I couldn’t bear to let you see Sheerow like that, it was true but… you were right, I had no right. I had no right to take that from you. Of all the Hylia-damned courage I am supposed to wield, I was scared, Ravio. I am scared…”

Legend’s right hand tries to clench again, but Ravio gently presses his thumbs into the palm, putting himself in between Legend and his physical dread.

“I was so scared of losing you. I failed. I couldn’t protect Sheerow, so I thought I must do whatever it took to protect you. I thought if it could stop you from hurting and leaving it would have been worth it. I thought I still could patch things up. But… but…”

Legend chokes on his tears, and he growls again, but he doesn’t pull his hand away. Ravio continues to massage small circles around each of the calluses on Legend’s palm, his fingers brushing against the metal of Legend’s rings.

“... But I only hurt you more, Ravio. It almost cost you everything. It almost cost me everything. If… If I had woken up seconds too late yesterday, I would have lost you too. And it would have been my fault. I would have taken everything from you… with my words…”

Words can hurt, yes. Ravio will never forget how much Blind’s words hurt, and they hurt not because they were deceptive, but because they felt all too plausible. They seemed so real in the moment — the way a phantom Legend accused him of using his homecoming to Lorule as a punishment. Ravio, too, had once laid his hands on a weapon of words that he knew would cut deep — 

“Why is it that everyone you love always ends up leaving? ”

If Ravio had said it, would things have turned out differently? 

Did his willingness to lay down his weapon cost Sheerow her life?

“I kept thinking… I kept thinking I could fix it. If I had chosen the right thing…” Legend’s voice pierces through Ravio’s thoughts. Ravio suddenly realizes that his hands have stopped moving, that he has waded too far out to sea in chase of a mirage. With a deep breath, Ravio brings his focus back to the present, gently rolling up Legend’s sleeve and running his fingers along that long scar on Legend’s forearm. Blind and his lies had hurt the hero too.

“If… If I had chosen the right thing, then maybe there wouldn’t have been suffering…” Legend stammers, his arm struggling in Ravio’s grasp. Ravio turns, and he meets Legend’s eyes. 

“I hurt you, Ravio. I hurt you in ways I can’t undo. You have every right to leave me and tell Zelda and Hilda and your world and mine that I’m a — ”

“I am still here,” Ravio says, softly, gentle like his touch over the two trails of small dots along Legend’s scar.

At this, Ravio closes his eyes, and he observes whatever shards of glass Legend was about to drop on himself be tossed and polished and smoothed by his hitching breaths, rolling like waves breaking against the shore.

All of a sudden, Legend’s arm breaks free from Ravio’s hands and grips Ravio’s wrist with surprising strength, as if scrambling for something to keep himself afloat. There’s a fierce will to survive in his grip, the kind of grip of someone who has been shipwrecked and knows the terror of being lost to the sea or pulled into its endless dreams.

“I hurt you, Ravio. I don’t deserve you. I can’t undo what I’ve done,” Legend repeats the same words, but Ravio also feels the way the warmth of Legend’s body seeps into his skin as the hero quietly leans in. Ravio notices the subtle shift in the air — the way Legend’s chest rises and falls in time with his own breaths.

Ravio feels a flicker of something like quiet amusement, a rare, fluttering urge to smile that he has been starved of for so long in the waking world. For all his burdens, Legend’s demeanor seems so transparent now, regardless what he says in words. 

“No, you can’t.” Ravio’s voice is steady and clear, yet still gentle and deliberate. He takes Legend’s arm again with his free hand, turning it to trace soft lines over the same long scar with its ragged stitch marks, dense but clumsy like the footprints of a drunk centipede.

“You can’t undo anything. Sheerow isn’t here anymore, I know,” Ravio continues, his speech finally blossoming, like a new sprout awakening in the morning dew. “There are… things that cannot be healed with magic. This scar wasn’t healed with magic, and it’s still here... It’ll always be here. It is part of you. It is ugly, and it must have hurt. Yet… your body found a way to mend itself around it. It’s… a bit different now, but it’s still whole.”

Ravio begins to massage Legend’s arm again, his careful long strokes soothing over the muscles on either side of the scar. He feels the resilience in Legend's skin, still tight and smooth, fitting for a young man that the hero still is. There is still so much ahead for Legend, for them both.

“... You have magical hands. You know that,” Legend says, the red-hot roughness in his voice now soft and smooth as his breathing.

“In more ways than one now, as you know,” Ravio follows, feeling the tension in the air lift. He is glad that Legend has finally made a factual observation, “Suppose all those years of apprenticeship with the blacksmith master weren’t wasted. He always said a good massage can work wonders, though I doubt he imagined it would come in handy with a hero who crash landed into his world.”

“He taught you massages?!” Legend looks surprised.

“He did. And you didn’t have to make his bed and cook his food and fix the knots in his back?!” Ravio mimics the hero’s inflection, adding a hard nudge to a pressure point. He chuckles softly as the hero grimaces, “Guess it’s a good thing he made sure I learned every detail.”

“No, I mean, no, aaargh…” Legend grits his teeth as Ravio presses again on the same spot, but then, he falls silent for a moment, before continuing, “... I’ve been lucky Ravio, and I will get better. I promise. It hurts now, but it’s… it’s what I need. I’ll remember this. Thank you for giving this to me.”

Ravio senses the shift in Legend’s tone, the weight of unspoken words in the air.

“Now…” Legend exhales deeply and carefully extracts his arm from Ravio’s hands. He meets Ravio’s gaze, and in the hero’s red-rimmed eyes Ravio sees hope. “Will you let me do something for you?”

It is at this moment that a strange weightlessness fills Ravio’s body again, his heart drumming a steady beat as something pure and soft flutters in his mind.

Thud, thud, thud.

Legend turns toward the bedside table and picks up a small wooden box with both hands. Ravio doesn’t even realize that it has always been there. Bandages, smeared with dirt, run down the entirety of Legend’s left forearm, threading through the gold bracelet that glints in the light. Ravio doesn’t even realize that they have always been there. 

Thud, thud, thud.

The wooden box nestles in Ravio’s hands, and it feels unexpectedly warm. There is a familiar weight to it. 

Thud, thud, thud.

A pure, shimmering white embraces Ravio. 

A tear trails down his face. 

A soft, silky texture responds under his fingers. 

His mind spins, weightless, like a piece of sand floating in the vast, open sky.

Thud, thud, thud.

The stitches are so neat, almost invisible. The colors of the fabric are exactly as he remembers, precise and lovingly chosen. Her eyes are closed, embroidered with dense, solid lines that bind together a precious promise.

Ravio threads his fingers gently under the stuffed doll in Sheerow’s image, and he finds that piece of feather lying quietly beneath it. Ravio lifts the doll close to his heart, feeling the pressure seeping delicately into the right place.

Thud, thud, thud.

Thud, thud, thud.

“Ravio,” Legend’s voice rises like a gentle wave, echoing as Ravio’s mind takes miraculous flight, “I can’t undo anything. I cannot undo death. But I promise, we will have a proper rite for Sheerow tonight, if you want. The wood outside is for her.”

“She is perfect,” Ravio says. 

Ravio thinks again of the passage between worlds — between the living and the lost. Creating a bridge between Hyrule and Lorule, between these two parallel dimensions, was challenging but within his reach. Yet, he can never truly bridge the chasm between Sheerow and himself. He cannot see what looms at the other end of this passage, for it is not yet his time to cross. And now, there is no fear on his part, and he is glad to be back from the threshold, back to the world where he belongs. He has come home.