Kohelet.

He rarely protests about what it's demanded of him, he know it's his duty as a hero, the responsibility he accepted by pulling out the Master Sword from its slumbering in the Pedestal.  He does not complain, but he bites his lips until they bleed and clenches his hands at his sides, tightly, so tightly five red crescent marks adorn each. He doesn't allow anyone to see it, of course, because he's their hero and heroes are not bitter and disappointed with life.

Heroes do not fret about their clothes.

He doesn't mind them, even if they are too dark for his tastes, but he does miss the comforting scent of wildness in his tunics, the stories they carry in every thread. Sheik never asks, either, though he is pretty sure he knows something is wrong.

Sheik never asks, never questions, he merely obeys.

He comes looking for him before the crack of dawn, sliding into his tent like a shadow, shaking him awake and keeping him silent. Sheik slides his hands over his skin without a thought, helping him into the constricting yet freeing clothing, his pale skin disappearing upon the layers of black and red and blue. He helps him bandage his fingers, gently but without tenderness, merely following along an order. Sheik's eyes never linger more than they need to on him, his fingers never touch him more than necessary, yet he is starved by those precious seconds when the delicate fingers trace his skin, when he can stare openly at the red eyes of his companion, if only for the time it takes for the spell to set in.

Afterwards, they walk silently to the river, to drink something and wait for the others to wake. He no longer looks into the clear waters, because he does not recognize who he sees there, clad in black with dark red eyes, so much like the thrice damned shadow, but still himself.

Sheik doesn't say a thing, merely waits for the leader of the tribe to come and fetch them, and he is thankful, for his Sheikah companion allows him this little time to retain his identity. As soon as the white haired man comes around, he'll stop being Hylian, Hero and Link.

"Kohelet!" The rough voice calls, and Sheik pretends not to see him flinch at the name, "Come, you too Sheik, it's time."

Sheik never touches more than strictly necessary, never looks at him more than he should, and Link knows it must be so. He wonders if saving Hyrule once more is worth the sacrifice of this torture every morning, of having what he desires the most at arms reach, maybe less, and still dare not to touch him. Never touch him.