Part 7
Flight was a desperate, stumbling rhythm in the suffocating darkness. Every ragged breath Link took was a plume of white in the cold night air, every step a jarring agony. Elwin was a dead weight, a mountain of a man leaning on the frame of a boy. The postman's groans of pain and feverish muttering were a constant, grim counterpoint to the sound of their frantic escape. Behind them, the furious roars of the monster camp faded, but Link did not slow down. He knew they were being hunted. The memory of the Moblin's enraged, pain-filled eyes was a spur, driving him onward.
He did not run blindly. His mind, honed by the chase and sharpened by the fight, was a map of survival. He pushed them through a shallow, fast-running creek, the icy water a shock to their systems but a blessing to their trail, washing away their scent. He chose paths of hard, unforgiving rock where their footsteps would leave no trace. He was a shepherd guiding his last, most precious charge away from a pack of relentless wolves.
Just as the first, faint hint of dawn threatened to expose them on the open hills, Link found it. A place of refuge. A curtain of thick, green ivy cascaded down a short cliff face, and behind it, almost completely obscured, was a shallow, hidden cave. It was small, damp, and smelled of wet stone, but it was shelter. It was safety.
Getting Elwin inside was the last of his Herculean tasks. The man collapsed onto the sandy floor, his body trembling with the violent shudders of a raging fever. Link's adrenaline finally gave out, and he slumped against the cave wall, his own body a screaming chorus of exhaustion and pain. For a moment, he simply breathed, the reality of what he had done, of the violence he had committed, washing over him. He had fought. He had won. And now, the true cost of that victory was laid bare in the shivering, broken man before him.
There was no time for rest. Elwin's leg was a ruin. The crude splint the monsters had applied had only made it worse, and the wound was angry and red, the source of the fever that was threatening to consume him. Link went to work. He was no longer a warrior; he was a healer.
He used the last of his clean water to wash the filth from the wound. He then slipped back out into the pre-dawn gloom. He was no longer in the familiar Faron Woods, but the language of nature was universal. He searched the base of the cliffs, his eyes scanning for the plants he knew. He found a patch of King'sfoil, its long, hardy leaves known for their cleansing properties. And deeper in a crevice, a small cluster of Willow-herb, a flower whose crushed petals could soothe a fever's fire.
He returned to the cave and created a poultice, his small hands working with a practiced, gentle efficiency. He carefully re-splinted Elwin's leg, this time with a straight, sturdy branch and fresh strips of cloth torn from his own undershirt. The postman moaned in his delirium, his skin burning to the touch. The herbs would help, but the fever had too strong a hold.
Link sat back on his heels, a feeling of helplessness gnawing at him. He had faced down a Moblin, but he was powerless against this invisible enemy. He looked at his friend, his life fading like a guttering candle flame. And in that quiet, desperate moment, he remembered the gift of the Great Deku Sprout.
He took out his wooden whistle. Its familiar, smooth shape was a comfort in his hands. He brought it to his lips and began to play. It was not a call for help or a song of defiance. It was the Song of Healing, the ancient, gentle melody that spoke of the renewal of life, of the connection between a spirit and its vessel.
The music filled the small cave, the notes seeming to hang in the air like motes of dust in a sunbeam. It was not a blast of raw, curative magic. It was a gentle, persuasive force. A deep, resonant harmony that seemed to quiet the very atoms of the air. As he played, the song began to work its subtle magic. Elwin's pained, fitful tossing ceased. The frantic, shallow rhythm of his breathing deepened, becoming a slow, peaceful cadence. The violent shivering subsided. Link reached out a hand and touched the man's forehead. The burning, furnace-like heat had lessened to a bearable warmth. The song had not vanquished the fever, but it had soothed its fire, granting his friend the peace he needed to truly begin to heal.
Sometime in the late afternoon, Elwin awoke. The fever had broken, and his eyes, though clouded with pain, were clear and lucid for the first time. He saw the small, smokeless fire Link had managed to build. He saw his own leg, cleaned and properly splinted. And he saw the boy, sitting silently across the fire, watching him with an unnerving, patient calm.
The postman, a man whose entire life and trade revolved around words, was for a moment, struck dumb. He looked at his small, silent savior, at the grim determination in his young face, and his throat grew thick with emotion.
"Link," he finally croaked, his voice raw. "By the Goddesses… it was you. I thought… I thought I was dreaming. A spirit of the forest." He pushed himself up on his elbows. "You saved me. Those things… they were going to… How did you…?"
He trailed off, the questions dying in his throat as he looked into Link's steady gaze. The boy offered no verbal answer. He simply listened. Link reached into his satchel and pulled out the small, mud-caked brass button, placing it on a rock between them. Then, he took out the Royal dispatch and the Sheikah token, and placed them beside it.
Elwin stared at the items. The button. The mission. A wave of understanding washed over him. He stopped asking how. The impossible was sitting right in front of him. He had to learn a new language. He began to talk, not at Link, but to him, his words filling the silence, the story pouring out of him. He told of the ambush, the unnatural strength of the monsters, the way they had seemed to be searching for the dispatch.
"That letter," he said, his voice gaining strength, "it is for the Princess. Princess Zelda." He saw the flicker of recognition in Link's eyes. "She is not in the Castle. The Queen, her mother, passed last year, and the King's council is full of… ambitious men. For her safety, the King sent her into hiding, under the protection of the Sheikah. That token," he pointed a trembling finger at the hexagonal piece of wood, "was my key. A charm that would have guided me to her hidden sanctuary in Lanayru."
He looked at the letter with a desperate longing. "The shadow is growing, boy. Its agents are everywhere. That merchant you exposed in your village… he was one of them. They are trying to isolate Hyrule, to cut off its lines of communication before they make their move. They want the Princess. They want to extinguish the Royal bloodline. Stopping this message was the first step."
He looked down at his own broken leg, a bitter look of failure on his face. Then he looked at Link, at the small, eleven-year-old boy who had done what no knight or soldier could have. A new, desperate hope began to dawn.
"I cannot finish this journey, Link," he said, his voice heavy with the weight of his next words. "My leg… it will be weeks before I can walk. But the message… the message must get through. The safety of the Princess… perhaps the whole kingdom… depends on it."
He pushed the letter and the token across the rock, a formal offering. "You have been touched by the forest's magic. You move unseen. You have a hero's courage. The Goddesses… they did not send me to deliver this message. They sent me to find you."
He looked Link square in the eye, his gaze intense and pleading. "You must take it. You must take the token and the letter and find the Iris Sanctuary. You are the only one who can."
Link looked down at the Royal dispatch, the King's seal a heavy weight upon the parchment. His quest, born of a simple desire to find a missing friend, had transformed. He was no longer just a boy from Ordon. He was now a Royal Messenger, a secret agent, a thin, green line standing against a shadow that threatened to consume everything he had ever known. He had come into the wild to save one man. He now had to save a kingdom. He reached out his small, steady hand and took the letter.