And Link knows, in good times and bitter ones, what it’s like to be necessary.

He trots down paths, walks over streams, scrambles up short cliffs. He casts glances every so often to make sure Fever is following, and will sometimes find an alternate route if her athletics come up lacking, but they make it through.

They come upon a glade; mottling the edges and flush throughout are all kinds of wild plants. And there are thousands of tiny white flowers.

“Here,” he says. “I’ll help you.”