Playing With Knives- LoZ

scene 82- he# #### ####

Time laid in his sleeping bag, facing away from everyone else. He was wide awake, unable to sleep.

Wild's Zelda was staying for the night. She kept trying to leave, but he insisted that she couldn't just go back to her duties after this.

He didn't know how in Hylia's name she could sleep. He didn't know how anyone was asleep. Even Twilight. He had almost been killed by Zelda. And he was sleeping fine.

Time couldn't stop thinking about everything that happened. Not just to Wild, but those other people, too.

Death.
Quite the concept.
It was so hard to think of.
Well, the word was easy to think of.
But the action...
That was a different story.

How did Wild's Zelda deal with it so well?
The answer was simple.
This was the third time she'd seen this happen.
This wasn't his first time, either.
How many times had he seen others die in front of him?
1, 2, 3, 4...
Ah, it'd better to not think about it.
Of course he'd count Wild.

He rolled over and looked at the sleeping forms of everyone else. The gentle rising and falling of their chests. All except one. One that was far away from the rest of the group.

He stood up and walked over to it. Wild.

He felt terrible for berating Twilight.
This wasn't his fault.
It wasn't anyone's fault.
Bit was that really true?
He could have helped.
He had gone through something similar.

But only similar.
It wasn't nearly this bad.
He didn't know how to help.
This was seemingly beyond help.
But was it, really?

He knew he could be brought back.
But how many more times would they have to go through this?
How many more of the same death would they experience?
How many would Wild experience?
Would it only get worse?

Wild had seen death plenty of times.
Well, he knew about plenty of deaths.

What was this like for him?
To know death so well?
For it to almost be a friend?
His story was just death after death, one terrible thing after another.
It was by far the worst of them all.
Worse than his own.

His wasn't that bad.
Others might say it was bad, but next to Wild's...
The death count was more than halved.
So much smaller.
And Wild didn't even remember those who he once knew like the back of his hand.

He didn't know his family.
To be fair, most of them didn't, but Wild knew them.
He loved them.
Laughed with them.
Had fun with them.
Shared his achievements with them.
Then they died.
And he forgot them.

And Wild felt responsible for all of that.
He felt responsible for the death of his family.
He could have been planning something big.
He could have been looking forward to something.

And...
What was her name...
Mipha.
She had been planning to propose to him.
Then she died.
And he forgot about her.
And he only learned about her plans later, after she died, after he forgot about her.

Did Wild's Zelda feel the same?
Did she feel responsible?
Probably.
She was just making her feelings better.
Maybe she needed the same things Wild did.

third time's a charm

Those words.
What did they mean?
Why did he think them?
Why did they seem so familiar?
So...
Prophetic?
Like they were trying to tell him something?

third time's a charm

●●●

Twilight opened his eyes and sighed. He hadn't slept well at all.

He sat up.
He saw someone in Wild's sleeping bag.
At first, he didn't remember.
Then, he realized.
That was Wild's Zelda.
Wild was...
Again.

He looked over at where he was "sleeping."
Time was sitting there next to him.

He slowly stood up, not wanting to look at Wild. He walked over to the table and sat down. He noticed something lying on the table. The Sheikah slate. Had Wild left it here? It seemed like it.

He picked it up and turned it on. It was open to the diary, and there was an entry from the previous day.

~

Hey.
If someone's reading this, it's probably Twilight. And I'm probably dead.
I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry. This wasn't your fault.
The voice in my head told me to do it. The other me. It wouldn't stop. I couldn't take it.
And I couldn't feel. I couldn't feel any emotion. After I told you and Wind how I felt, I couldn't feel anything. There was no more reason to stay around.
That voice in my head, the other me, it told me that you all hate me. That isn't true, is it? I know it isn't true. I know you didn't want me dead. But the other me did. It made me do it.
I know I might sound crazy, but I promise you, this is all me. There probably is no "other me." It was all just me, telling myself that nobody likes me.
It's not you, I promise.
It's me.

~

He read the note over and over again.

Over and over again, until the words seemed foreign.
Why?
Why did Wild feel like he had to do it?
Why did he tell himself these things?
Why did he do this to himself?

Why?

Why?