The dream should be a pleasant one. Link finds himself sitting in the sparkling warm waters of a natural hot spring on Hebra Mountain, his clothes and equipment set in a pile on the snow-covered rocks behind him. He's been to this spring many times to soak in its rejuvenating properties, especially after a hard battle. From the fresh bruises and abrasions peppering his body, this occasion is as typical as any other past visit to this place.
This is not his arm. There's no other way of putting it. The skin is black, the bones are too thin, the wrist is too narrow. The hand looks gaunt, with protruding knuckles and fingers tipped with long black nails, almost like claws. A foreign material is snaked around this strange arm, not wood but not metal either — some type of matter he's never seen before, arranged in a twisting. And the arm does not fade gracefully onto the rest of his body, but seems to attach like a puzzle piece into his shoulder, with the black skin slotting into his sandy complexion with a similar blocky pattern.
In the dream, he feels only the vaguest sense of anxiety when he looks at it. Perhaps his mind is simply operating on dream logic, never questioning the oddities his psyche cooks up until after he's awake and reflecting on it for those few minutes before the dream is forgotten forever and he goes about his day. But, no... that's not it. That's not quite the attitude he feels as his dreamself looks down at the arm. There is an unpleasant feeling when he looks at it, but it isn't shock or surprise. It isn't like he's seeing this strange arm for the first time, but rather, for the hundredth time. The sight of it no longer surprises him.
But it is not something he has accepted, either. When he looks at it, he feels... frustration. Dread. Urgency. A distinct, impatient anger.
The arm is placed back under the surface of the soothing water. Link sighs and leans back against the rocky edge of the pool to allow himself to soak. Snowflakes flutter down from the overcast sky above, cast in light grey from the sunshine behind the clouds. After a while, he gets out of the water and begins to change back into his clothing... but these clothes, too, are unfamiliar to him. Despite offering no way to fend of the biting cold, they make him feel invigorated. And his equipment is strange, too. The Master Sword isn't here. He thinks that in the dream, too, but in a passing sort of way, like its absence is yet another grim reminder of something terrible that has happened. Whatever that thing is does not come to him in the dream. He can only sense the shadow it casts on him.
When Link awakes, he spends a long time staring at the ceiling above his bed. If it weren't for the urge to visit the Great Tree that follows him to breakfast, and then lunch, and then into the afternoon, he might have brushed aside the dream as odd but insignificant. Later that evening, when he finds the parcel among its roots, he does not know what to make of it... but its contents prove beyond any doubt that it was no average dream.
no subject
Except... for his arm.
This is not his arm. There's no other way of putting it. The skin is black, the bones are too thin, the wrist is too narrow. The hand looks gaunt, with protruding knuckles and fingers tipped with long black nails, almost like claws. A foreign material is snaked around this strange arm, not wood but not metal either — some type of matter he's never seen before, arranged in a twisting. And the arm does not fade gracefully onto the rest of his body, but seems to attach like a puzzle piece into his shoulder, with the black skin slotting into his sandy complexion with a similar blocky pattern.
In the dream, he feels only the vaguest sense of anxiety when he looks at it. Perhaps his mind is simply operating on dream logic, never questioning the oddities his psyche cooks up until after he's awake and reflecting on it for those few minutes before the dream is forgotten forever and he goes about his day. But, no... that's not it. That's not quite the attitude he feels as his dreamself looks down at the arm. There is an unpleasant feeling when he looks at it, but it isn't shock or surprise. It isn't like he's seeing this strange arm for the first time, but rather, for the hundredth time. The sight of it no longer surprises him.
But it is not something he has accepted, either. When he looks at it, he feels... frustration. Dread. Urgency. A distinct, impatient anger.
The arm is placed back under the surface of the soothing water. Link sighs and leans back against the rocky edge of the pool to allow himself to soak. Snowflakes flutter down from the overcast sky above, cast in light grey from the sunshine behind the clouds. After a while, he gets out of the water and begins to change back into his clothing... but these clothes, too, are unfamiliar to him. Despite offering no way to fend of the biting cold, they make him feel invigorated. And his equipment is strange, too. The Master Sword isn't here. He thinks that in the dream, too, but in a passing sort of way, like its absence is yet another grim reminder of something terrible that has happened. Whatever that thing is does not come to him in the dream. He can only sense the shadow it casts on him.
When Link awakes, he spends a long time staring at the ceiling above his bed. If it weren't for the urge to visit the Great Tree that follows him to breakfast, and then lunch, and then into the afternoon, he might have brushed aside the dream as odd but insignificant. Later that evening, when he finds the parcel among its roots, he does not know what to make of it... but its contents prove beyond any doubt that it was no average dream.