He wasn't used to the feel of grass beneath his feet.

It looked deceptively soft, a gentle shade of green and yellows; on the plateau it was sparse. It was mostly open planes of dirt, pebbles tucked deep into the surface, harsh on the soles of his feet. Grass seemed to only appear in the shadows; near the old King's decrepit house, before the tall Sheikah tower, and near the trees that housed a small camp of Bokoblins. Small, shy patches. The rest seemed scorched, wilted. Near the perimeter especially, if it was there it was brown. Almost as if afraid of the sun, afraid to stand out and be green once more, lest it be burned.

Hyrule Field was braver. Nature had been healing, slowly. More trees, more green. Moss covered broken structures, houses long past. Link walked a path of long lost souls, looking into broken house windows and seeing nothing but green. Flowers, mushrooms, the start of bushes and trees, overtaking what once was. He followed the dot on his slate closely, feet bare, eyes taking in every new sight. He felt as though he was missing something, looking at the tall sight of the Twin Peaks, the rushing water of the river leading through it. He observed the fish fighting the current, observed the Bokoblins futilely chasing a boar with their simple weapons--then felt a bubbling joy at stealing their kill with ease, an old muscle memory, an instinct, shooting their prey with barely a second of aim. Stealing their fire, cooking with an unearned instinct. He felt such simple joy at tossing together simple dishes, learning more from stables and wanderers alike, that the need to figure out what was missing was replaced with a need to learn more than before.

By the time Link arrived in Fort Hateno, there had been many nightfalls. Many broken weapons, a wound or two. Mistakes with peppers and salt, moss and flowers. Oil and the dirt on his soles. The King had stressed the urgency of contacting Impa, a name as mysterious as the sky itself, but Link often got sidetracked. He walked along the destined path, but branched out like the river at every new sight, every new cave. He climbed up and up, high as the sun on the tops of mountains, taking in the sight of a world he had once known. But after it all, he always tried to stick to the blinking marker and the map he earned with every tower.

The sight of guardian corpses always took his breath away. He hadn't really known why, why his blood chilled and his arms ached. The scars that warped the skin of his chest stinging in the morning light. Link tried to stick to a straight and direct path to the gate before him, the field lush and green, but often his eyes wandered, and his legs followed.

He found memorials, stone tablets with words of sorrow. Flowers gently lay on their surfaces, some wilted, some not. The people mourned the soldiers who fell during the Calamity; their names chiseled in order of importance. Knights and their squires, soldiers and royals, the common peasants who tried to flee east. Some had made it to Kakariko, others to Lurelin, he learned later in his journey. Most others had been lost here, lost to the soil.

Link focused on the knights.

He didn't know these people, but he couldn't look away. He couldn't attach names to faces, no memories of their voices. But as if imprinted into his fingertips, he traced the letters that made up the royal legion of knights, with the captain's name at the top, with a few words to remember his legacy.

Selwyn Hallowell. Father of four, husband. A friend. May Hyrule mourn the loss of his shield.

Link looked over the small collection of nightshades, lilies, and armoranths on the pedestal. With a slight grace, he summoned a handful of thistles from his slate, an unnamed feeling hollow in his chest. He tucked the orange flowers among the others, then stood.

May his legacy live on. It read.

And then Link continued on the path through the healing grass.