♟;; o f f l i n e
—He’d dozed off, huddled beneath several blankets with a book.
”I see. Then you should rest. I apologize if I had interrupted that.”
"It is fine. Company is more welcome at this time anyway; I can rest later."
”Are you alright or..did something happen to leave you in this weak state?”
"Ah, I am fine. Simply— quite exhausted, is all."
”Sh-Sheik?” Said the genuinely concerned monarch who goes to kneel by his body.
—And he pushed himself upright, wincing internally. He hadn’t meant to be seen. “…Midna,” he greeted his friend, a slight nod accompanying his words.
—He’s just lying on the ground right now, don’t mind him. He’s just lost the will to move.
This wasn’t how they had planned their great trip… so long had they dreamed about travelling the world together, seeing unknown things and - above all - the ocean. And then, finally, Sheik had been allowed to travel to the south and towards the coast, accompanied by Dark.
Upon seeing the vast ocean both of them agreed on boarding a ship and taking a small shipping. Little did they know about the oncoming storm that would hit them in the middle of the sea, far from the shore…
The small ship had no chance against the tide, and before either of them could react they were pressed underwater, the masses of seawater pressing the cabindoor shut tightly and locking them inside. Water was slowly trickling through every cleft in the wood, quickly reaching their ankles.
"This is not good, is it?"
Sheik was now quite worried, though he was doing his best to not let this show. He knew panicking wouldn’t aid them at all — it would do quite the opposite, really. There wasn’t anything he could do: they were both trapped in this room, where they were only safe for the moment. Soon even that last barrier would be broken…
Water was pooling on the floor, seeping through every crack it could find. It was relentless — a force of nature, something that could not be stopped. It would seep in, and it would do its very best to swallow them both.
"…I would assume not," Sheik responded quietly, his tone carefully controlled, even though his hear-rate was picking up. He was scared, honestly — quite scared. Of course, that was only natural; in his position trapped in a room that was slowly filling with water, who wouldn’t be scared? "I doubt that this will end well…" The last part was whispered more to himself than anything; it was a fact, stated softly to himself. He was tensing up, and he knew. Fear was getting the best of him, though he knew it wouldn’t help him in the slightest.
It just came as the sheikah had expected; At the castle there was a death sentence awaiting him, delivered by the general of the Royal Castle Guards. Arrested and locked up in the dungeons all the blond could do, was to wait for the night to pass and his last sunup to arrise.
In the dawn Sheik would be executed… beheaded. Simple, quick and clean.
And so together with the first cockcrow came his executioner, dressed in a long black robe and a black mask, accompanied by a ridiculously huge group of soldiers. The royal family would take no risk, so it seemed.
The executioners voice was muffled and ice cold, disgust and hatred practically dripping from it as he came to a halt in front of the bars. One of the soldiers stepped in front of the door, unlocking it and immediately pointing his spear at the assassin, quickly followed by his comerades.
Everything happened exactly as the Sheikah had expected it to. He had not reacted as he was locked up, left to wait through the long night until the sun rose. It was funny how calm he was about it all — perhaps it was he felt as if he deserved it. He deserved to be left to rot, deserved to spend a sleepless night staring blankly at the stone ceiling above him, deserved to await his death in the dank cell…
He did not sleep during that night. He spent the long hours regretting all that he had done. He regretted wasting his life living the way that he had, living encased in a pretty silver cage, his wings clipped. Sheik begged for forgiveness, wishing that he could undo what he had done, take back his action— He wanted to rewind time and not kill the Hero. Maybe things could have gone differently; maybe he could have rebelled, could have saved Link, spared him, let him run—!
When morning came, Sheik was almost glad even though he knew that it meant that his death was nigh. He would die, and it could not be avoided. Maybe he would welcome death; at least in death he could be free…
Ah, but even now— When he died, it was in chains. He was still bound by the metaphorical delicate silver chains, the ones that had held him captive since he was a child. He was dying in the line of duty, but now he wouldn’t die bloody and in a haze of glory. Now he would die a traitors death.
The entourage of soldiers that was brought to him was unnecessary: he would not even attempt to flee. He deserved to die; why would he run? Instead, he complied silently, tanned features impassive and scarlet eyes almost sad. He stood silently, staring straight ahead, willing to do as he was told. His movements, however, were mechanical, void of any spark of life. His mind was detached, and to the blond, it seemed as if everything was happening to someone else, not to him.
"—Of course," he stated, his tone quiet. "We all have enemies, no?" This statement was especially true in his line of work: it was only natural that one like him made his fair share of enemies during his time working at the Princess’ servant, acting on behalf of the royal family. There were those who disliked the royal family, and they hated him — acted against him, and they saw him as their enemy.
Then again, there were also those that disliked him because he was a Sheikah. He wasn’t certain that he would call them his enemies; they hated him, yes, but he did not view them as an enemy. If anything, he pitied them for being so narrow minded, though he might sometimes grow irate because of how they treated him.
When he thought about it, though, he wan’t certain that he had anyone that he viewed as his personal enemy. There were the monsters, yes, and the bandits and the like that he sometimes had to deal with, and there were those that he did not like, but he wasn’t certain that he had any that he would consider to be his personal enemy. It was a strange thought, really. All that he thought of as his enemy were enemies to his ‘cause’, so to speak, or enemies of his people…
Did he have his own personal enemy? Maybe his thoughts were sometimes his own enemy, or memories, but other than that— Did he have enemies? It made him uncomfortable to think like that. If he didn’t have enemies, that was a good thing, right?
—Or maybe it meant that he wasn’t living his own life. He was living for someone else, doing what they wanted him to do, not what he wanted to do. Then again, that was what he’d been trained to do… It was how he was supposed to live. His life wasn’t his own; it never had been, had it? He’d always been fated to do something, to live a certain way.
His life had never been his own.
Maybe one day, though, he could fix that. Maybe one day, he could take it back and do what he wanted. He could only hope…