His Fist

This is a story I have been working on for about three or four months. I have currently been working on it via FanFiction.net, but I am hoping that posting it here will attract a more varied audience. I hope you enjoy the work thus far. Feedback is certainly welcome. For better formatting, I encourage readers to also view it via FanFiction.net.

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His Fist
Chapter I
Eve of New Year
Nightfall
Nineteen Years Ago

Something was not right. As far as he was aware, the New Year was supposed to be greeted by drunken revelry, unrestrained feasting, and ceaseless dancing. The less than expensive obligation of mayor included allowing the town’s folk to pack into your residence and surrounding estate and feast, drink, and revel with the assurance that all of the costs would be borne by the generosity of the mayor’s office. Politics, in a hamlet as minute as Ordon, did not pay for itself. The lesson was painfully re-administered as one particularly inebriated reveler stumbled haphazardly into the mayor’s desk, cascading the endless array of maps, charts, and papers onto the floor. Mayor Bo had to pluck at the ends of his graying mustache, plucking the drunk’s flaking fingernails off. Were it any other night, Bo would guarantee that would indeed be the punishment for such stupidity. But tonight was the Eve of the New Year where prayers were offered up to three goddesses for health, hearth, and happiness. Despite the many tragedies and travesties that a year brought, it was the time when all were cast to the winds of progress as hope was rekindled for a better future. Bo realized as his massive bulk released a sigh he did not know he was holding that he did not feel the holiday spirit.

Something was deadly wrong, and Bo could not decipher what exactly. Though deductive reasoning was never his strength, Bo could supply a list of plenty of maladies that would alone suffice to cause holiday angst. Rumors abounded over the last month via the courier system that all was not well at Hyrule Castle. Bo was not worldly enough to appreciate the complexity of the Kingdom of Hyrule’s very nuanced feudally-based political system, but he knew that the royal family was struggling to retain its authority against the ambitions of a variety of conniving noble factions. Despite the fact that Bo himself was more reminiscent of the tribal chieftains from Hyrule’s ancient past than a titled noble, he was perceptive enough to realize that the royal family’s once-hallowed dominion over the kingdom was about to come to a sudden and possibly violent end. The different provinces had, as a result of the internecine fighting, stopped trading with each other. Ordon’s farmers, who once peddled their wares as far as the Gerudo Valley to the Zora’s Domain now found their crops sitting idly in silos or rotting in fields. As Bo’s tear-drop body indicated, the farm folk of Ordon were eating well as a result of their independence. However, it pained Bo to know that suspicion was the order of the day in the now dangerous Kingdom of Hyrule.

Danger—or rather war--had that plague-like quality of growing at an uncontrollable rate, striking villain and bystander alike. Bo scanned the crowd dancing and laughing in his cavernous home. All of these faces he knew by name. While Bo neither had the learning of an alchemist or astrologer, he could without exception give a detailed summary of everybody’s life. He was their mayor, but also their father, friend and protector. His appointment of mayor was cemented by a nearly sacred bond created by the hundreds of Ordonians who voted for him near unanimously. It was a bond that a noble lord on his estate would never understand. As a former warrior, Bo knew what kind of carnage war brings. As he silently stared out at the inebriated, stinking, and uncouth folk he felt the imaginary pain of their loss. Bo never had a son, but he saw enough grieving fathers and mothers to know the threshold-shattering pain that the loss of a child in battle can bring. Bo would sooner perish than ever inflict that degree of pain on anyone, let alone his own people. As couples danced and sang, their euphoria reverberating in the oaken hall, Bo still puzzled over the cause of his unease.

Bo sighed in frustration, unable to exactly pinpoint the cause of his rising anxiety. The gradual exodus of townsfolk out of his expansive sitting room and back to their homes (usually a cause for joy every New Years) did not temper his worry. Ordonians, being mostly farmers, were more attuned to the earth than the Hylians from the north. Where Hylians had their magic and their spiritual connections to the worlds beyond, Ordonians were centered on the here and now. Instinct at times made as much rational sense as reason. Bo’s instincts were aflame, screaming words of disquiet and warning into his subconscious. As the last of the townsfolk trailed off, Bo nervously cleaned the refuse of the party as the night swept on.

Seemingly hours went by as Bo, not daring to go to sleep, continued to find menial activities to distract his anxiety.

Because Bo’s mind danced over the barrier between sleep and wakefulness in his hammock, he almost failed to detect the faint footsteps approaching his front door, and the dull click signaling the successful picking of the door lock. Bo shot up, adrenaline pumping through his veins while resisting the dilution of drowsiness. Despite Bo’s energy, his massive bulk skidded to a halt when he realized that a figure was already standing in the open door archway. The figure was tall and broad, encompassed by a thick woolen cloak that, with the dull candlelight inside the house, protected the silhouette’s identity. That, Bo thought, is somethin’ that’s gonna change. Despite Bo’s alarm at the figure, what alarmed him even further was the fact that he was not afraid of it. The situation, which had all the appearances of banditry, instinctually felt safe. Bo quickly scanned the figure, his mind falling back on the rigidity that decades in the Hylian Army afforded him. The figure was panting heavily with one arm hanging limply by its side, while the other grasping at what looked to be a wound, or perhaps a package. Thick mud pooled at the heels of leather boots, painting the wood floors a putrid color of grayish brown. Tatters in the cloak further stripped the figure’s enigma. If he wanted to kill me he’d ‘ave rushed me as I was instead a’ just standin’ there, he thought while stepping back and casually gripping a chair, preparing to hurl it just to be safe. Bo didn’t entirely trust his instincts yet.

Bo looked right under the figure’s cowl. “If ya wanted the free booze you actually had to come before the New Year started.” Bo’s baritone voice echoed off the walls of his house. Bo couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard what sounded like an amused snort escape the figure’s nostrils. The figure inhaled deep, signaling his intention to speak.

“Well, I guess I’ll pay you for a tot of Bomb Flower Brandy then,” the figure whispered, attempting to inject some amusement in his quavering voice.

Bo’s eyes widened. Only one man in the world was stupid enough to let that explosive concoction anywhere near his liver. Bo let go of the chair as recognition flooded into his features. “Zanji!?” Bo sputtered.
Zanji’s right hand reached for the nape of his cowl and retracted it, revealing a visage with heavy jowls, a black mustache, and a haggard countenance. “Hey Bo, it’s been awhile.” Zanji glanced over Bo’s appearance and grinned wolfishly underneath his two ebony tufts of whiskers. “Handsome as always I see. Looks like you’ve lost weight.”
Bo was too flustered to take notice of his old friend’s jab of camaraderie, stammering, “But…what...?” Bo regarded Zanji’s exhaustion evident in his face. “I take it yer not here for a tea party, eh…err…?” Bo said as he crossed his arms.

Zanji smiled sadly. “’Member during the war I said I’d have to save your sorry rump for the rest of your miserable life?” Zanji paused, waiting for some form of acknowledgement from Bo. Finally Bo’s head sunk slightly in ascension. Zanji’s lips compressed into a thin line. “How ironic,” he continued “that I’d come to ask you to return the favor.” Zanji’s other arm slowly departed from its roost in his side. Bo’s eyes, already wide, stretched their limits as understanding slammed into his bulk. He wasn’t protecting a wound or a package, but a baby…?

Bo, his military training sustaining his mind in this period of bewilderment, mentally dissected the baby. Though blankets and cloths consumed all but a pudgy face, there was nothing remarkable about the child. Eyes were sealed tight in the gratifying silence of sleep, unaware of the drama being played in Bo’s hall. Wisps of blonde locks peaked out from underneath the cloths, gently haloing the child’s head in slumber. If his size did not already indicate, the reddish pigmentation betrayed the fact that the child was no more than a few weeks, if not days old.

Bo’s eyes narrowed as he realized that this was not Zanji’s idea of show-and-tell. He held out the baby expectantly to Bo, patiently awaiting a reaction. Where Bo’s deduction had failed, his instincts made the correct conclusion: it horrified him.

“NO!” Bo shouted. He was sure that he heard the livestock outside echo in a chorus of protest after being disturbed. “Ain’t no way, no how! I ain’t no daddy. Goddesses be damned, I can’t even take care o’ my animals very good.” At that, Bo's livestock seemed to second that motion with bays, neighs, and grunts.

Zanji grinned softly, as if expecting that reaction word for word. “You don’t have to be a dad.” Cascading his eyes about the party-induced mess in the house, Zanji continued, “In fact please don’t even try to be a dad. I just want you to look after him. Give him a home and a semblance of a normal life, and I’ll be back in a few years.”

Bo looked at the baby, the faint tugs of a grimace pulling at his face. “So what’s so special ‘bout this kid? Why’s the high and mighty General of Hyrule’s army taking his precious time to be a babysitter?”

Zanji inhaled deeply, his expression contorting to feigned patience as if attempting to explain a delicate concept to a dunce pupil. “The kid’s important. For Hyrule and me. We’re… relatives of sorts. You don’t have to know anything, just do this and maybe I won’t regret saving your bloated bulk a half dozen times.”

Bo cast his eyes downward. “It was five times, not six,” he meekly contested. He paused and grunted before asking the question that he had asked himself vociferously these past five minutes. “Why me?”

Zanji arched an eyebrow in the most dignified expression he could muster. “Why?” he repeated. “Because the goddesses hate you and have a wicked sense of humor!” Bo, unamused, kept staring at Zanji until the latter relented under a withering yet timid gaze. Zanji continued, “Because you are strong, you don’t attract much attention to yourself, and Ordon is at the ends of the earth. Nobody cares about it. I know you are loyal to a fault… maybe a little pig-headed, but I know you’d go into the depths of the Dark World before you’d let a friend down.”

Bo paused and softened his expression. “I did go to the Dark World. It’s called bein’ under yer command.”

Amidst his exhaustion, pain, and remorse, Zanji performed a miracle: he laughed wholesomely and purely. The baby stirred uncomfortably, nearly breaking into wakefulness.

Zanji smiled at the babe before turning once more to Bo. “Listen, I can’t keep him. The Castle’s a mess. The less you know the better, but I have to stay hidden, and so does the kid. Believe it or not the kid’s already made enemies. Someone wants to kill him.” Bo’s eyes widened, as much in sympathy for the baby as shock and disgust that such cruelty existed in the world, and because some sick bastard wanted to kill this kid, he would have to take care of it. Bo gently accepted the baby from Zanji’s proffered arm that had not deviated its stance the last five minutes. Zanji watched as Bo awkwardly held the child up in his arms, the entire floor of the house shaking as he bounced the baby up and down. Zanji knew from his reading that with stories of adopted parents, there was supposed to be this magical moment where the adopted parent mysteriously falls in love with the adopted child in some mystical sojourn that “seals the deal” at least until the child reaches thirteen years of age. Zanji realized that Bo did not need to have that experience. He was loyal to a fault, and would keep the child whether he loved it or not. It came as no surprise when Bo slowly nodded, accepting the guardianship of the child. Zanji, at a loss for words, merely nodded in response.

Bo’s brow furrowed in thought, a thousand questions now burning in regards to his new charge. “What happened to the kid’s parents?” Bo had never seen Zanji look absolutely broken, and it came as a surprise when he saw Zanji wince as he quickly turned his head.

He inhaled sharply. “The less you know, the less you have to tell him when he asks.”

Bo nodded sadly, understanding and suddenly not wanting to know anyway, but let loose the other question dominating his mind, “What’s the kid’s name?”

Zanji paused, dead silent for what seemed like an eternity. His name was a liability, a near death sentence for the boy. A thousand different names and aliases would extend his mortality immeasurably. No, Zanji thought. He’s had his parent’s taken, his home taken, and his very birthright taken. I won’t strip the last shred of his identity. As much as it pained and troubled him, Zanji muttered his fateful sentence on the boy: “Link. His name is Link.” Bo nodded and stared down puzzled at the child. “I’ll be around,” Zanji whispered as he walked out the door and into the dawn.
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Author’s Note: The name Zanji (as far as I know) originates in the A Link to the Past manga by Ataru Cagiva.

His Fist
Chapter II
Spring
Ten Years Ago

The beast stomped menacingly on its turf, its hooves at once inviting and taunting any brave warrior who would dare challenge its supremacy. Its stony-eyed glare could pierce the heart of the bravest champion. Its horns could rout the deftest swordsman. The muscular coils in its legs could dodge the most patient marksman. It was, in a word, insurmountable; undefeatable; invincible…. And so, Link the son of Bo reasoned, he would never be able to ride that goat. That goat was just too mean.

“I knew it, he cucco’d out!” Fado, Link’s off-and-on best friend sneered to the other village boys.

Link barely suppressed a guttural growl, and he clenched his teeth to govern his increasingly livid tongue.

“It doesn’t like me. I don’t want to bother him.”

Fado made a tight-lipped grin that emphasized his already oversized chin as he shook his head. Then bending at his waist, he raised his hands to his armpits and began flailing his arms wildly, crowing like a cucco. Link clenched his fists, trying to internalize every lecture Bo ever gave on patience and perseverance. Though barely ten, Link was astute enough to realize that Bo himself was not a shining beacon of patience himself.
Fado scoffed at Link. “You’re tellin’ me Briggs’ll ride that ole goat, but yer too yeller? Briggs rode it and loved it, ain’t that right Briggs?” Fado turned to his side to Briggs who managed to free an arm away from his homemade crutches to shoot Fado an affirmative thumbs up, only to lose his balance and fall in a heap of bandages and crutches.

Link gave a noticeable gulp before his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “If you’re so good why don’t you ride ‘em?” Link spitted Fado with a penetrating glare.

Fado, taken slightly aback looked to both sides for support that he found half-heartedly among his group of five other friends. “Me? I already have, remember?” Fado all but scoffed.

Link made a point to chuckle loudly. “Yeah, I remember, your dad had to hold the reigns to keep the goat from dashing off while you rode in the saddle. You rode like a girl.” The expression on Fado’s face made it difficult to discern the difference between a blush and a supernova.

“I did not! My ole man was just showin’ me the ropes is all. That ole goat’ll do whatever I tell’em to. I just want everybody to have their own chance. So they can prove they’re a man like me!”

Link scoffed incredulously. “That’s stupid and you’re a liar.”

Fado glared at Link “Are not.”

Link stared back “Are too.”

“Are not.”

“Are too.”

“Are not!”

“Are too!”

“’Kay, you wanna think that? Fine! Let’s just see how long you’ll think that way after yer ole man finds out about what happened to his pumpkin seeds.” Link’s eyes shot open in absolute terror.

“What seeds?” he asked meekly.

“You know,” Fado continued grinning. He had Link and he knew it. “The pumpkin seeds you took out of about ten of yer ole man’s pumpkins for yer slingshot. It’d be a shame if a little birdie told ‘em what happened.”
Link glared intensely, but resignedly. He’d lost. “You wouldn’t.” Fado’s eyebrows just raised in challenge. Link sighed in disgust. Wordlessly, he stomped out into the field so he could take hold of the goat and die happy knowing that Bo would never find out about the pumpkin seeds.

Somebody had to make the big sacrifices around here; it might as well be him. The old goat’s breathing increased exponentially with every step closer Link took. The dull inhalations now quickened to an angry wheeze. The creature stomped a hoof down, scraping up a chunk of soil and flattening it. It leveled two ivory knives at Link’s heart. The horns, usually forming a complete circle around the goat’s head, had broken off as a result of fighting during its mating season. With horns as sharp and deadly as those, there was little wonder why it was the alpha-male among the Ordon Goats.

Link breathed in deep, cherishing what he thought was to be his last breath. He wiped off the sweat that was collecting on his brow back into his wild and matted blonde wisps. Cast-iron blue eyes stared into the black beady stare of the old goat, neither backing down from the silent challenge. His resolve set, he realized that two would walk into this epic showdown and only one would return. Link was going to make sure he was the one who triumphed. His resolve firm and his muscles tensed, he felt his determination slacken as he reached the goat. As the beast cringed, Link thought his crisis of faith was due to fear. However, as he looked into the old goat muzzle something Link didn’t expect happened: he felt sorry for the wretched animal. He placed his pudgy palm to the goat’s flea-infested neck and felt its heart beat with intense rhythm, the cadence increasing as its fear escalated. Link’s heart almost lurched in surprise as the goat turned its head to face Link in the eyes. Link had always had a rare gift to communicate with animals, but this was entirely different. Despite the relative simplicity of goat instincts, feelings, and thoughts, they all had more complex human counterparts that were completely understandable. In those brief moments, whether because of divine fluke or because this was an enchanted goat, Link suddenly understood everything about the goat. Most importantly, however, Link understood that this was never an obstacle to conquer. Why break the spirit? Link wondered.

Link did the only thing he could think of. He slowly but firmly stroked the sides of the animal. It shuddered, exhaled, and then finally relaxed. It relaxed so much that it failed to notice a few minutes minutes later when Link climbed atop its back and gave it a gentle pat. The goat obligingly began its amiable trot about the field. The other goats parted to allow passage of the unlikely duo, neither caring how long it took them to arrive at nowhere. Link even forgot Fado’s barrage of insults, though he might have regretted not witnessing the now small distance between Fado’s jaw and the ground. After several minutes of trotting alongside the fenced turf, Link and the goat came to a stop in front of a fuming Fado. Without hesitation, Fado stomped up to Link, curled back his fingers into a tight fist, and then buried it into Link’s unexpecting right eye.

Link swooned and then slumped gracelessly off the old goat’s hide with his back flat to the ground. Even with his friends gasping in surprise, Fado attempted to marshal all his righteous indignation and direct it squarely at Link. “You cheated! You didn’ even try breakin’ ‘em! You and yer type o’ folk are all alike! Can’t trust ‘em. I mean, look at ‘dem ears!” At this Fado bent down and carelessly tugged at Link’s pointed ears. “See these!?” Fado asked, tugging at his small circular chunk of ear cartilage. “This here’s normal. You? Yer jus’ a weirdo!”

Link should not have been surprised. After all, he was painfully aware of his fine aural sculpting more than anybody else. At many points in his expansive ten year existence he had been gently and none too gently chided for the fine points on the end of his ears. He had to admit that he himself was somewhat curious as well as to their root source. Whenever he had asked Bo about it he would attempt to change the subject without trying to seem like he was changing the subject. The blunt man’s complete failure at subterfuge only made Link more curious as to what made him different. It also made him gradually more sensitive. But Link did not feel like bawling in self-pity as he watched Fado continue to crow at his eccentricities. He felt like giving Fado a black eye in return.

Link swooned as he slowly stood, making the most indulgent of drunks look graceful in comparison as his footing betrayed him. He gritted his teeth as his fingers set on their inexorable path to curl into a fist. Link knew Fado. He knew that a swift hit to the face would make the bully cave. He knew that the exhilaration of feeling his knuckles burrow into that oversized proboscis of a nose would instruct Fado as to what was truly different about the pointy-eared boy. As his right eye defiantly opened beneath an already swelling brow, Link’s gaze tunneled into Fado’s stare. Link saw beneath all the chortling laughter and sneers that Fado was absolutely terrified. Fado’s horror only redoubled as he saw Link begin to stomp up to him. Silence filled the ring of boys, and all eyes were on Link. As much as Link wished to blacken some of those eyes, the knowledge that he was about to strike what amounted to a scared animal gave him pause. He no more wanted to slug Fado than he wanted to break the goat. With a low rumbling roar and a smart about face, Link stomped off back towards Bo’s estate. Link tried to ignore the harassments and rebukes shouted after him by Fado and his gang, but his efforts were in vain.

“Yeah, that’s right!” Fado screamed in triumph. “Run away, ya cucco!” At this the other boys attempted their most sincere cucco impression and crowed after Link as he stomped off over the horizon.
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The recesses of Bo’s mind began thinking of a creative punishment for Link’s unsurprising tardiness for dinner. Bo looked at the sun and quickly estimated Link to be at least two hours late. As the sun began to sink beneath the expansive canopy of Ordon Woods, Bo looked at the meal he had prepared: a block of aged cheese, dried pork, and pickles for flavoring. Bo’s salt-and-pepper mustache curled as he shot a predatory grin: Link would hate the less-than-extravagant meal. Instead, Bo would tell Link that he missed his favorite foods and send him off to bed without supper. If Link truly knew what he would really be eating, he would thank Bo for exiling him to bed. The mirth retreated from Bo’s countenance as he noticed the silhouettes of five boys walking back to their respective homes. He squinted to try and spy Link with his messy blond head, tattered and loose fitting woolen shirt, sun baked brown britches, and crowned by a rather silly looking straw hat. The silhouettes one by one departed inside their own doors until they all vanished. Bo’s amusement shifted into worry knowing that Link was not gallivanting with the likes of Fado and his gang. Though normally this alone would be an occasion for relief, it brought Bo no closer to finding the delinquent. Grunting as he wiped the dirt and grime clinging to his loose-fitting white tunic off, he stumbled through the front door and grumbled as he shouted the name of the little runt: “Link!?”

A quarter hour’s passing led Bo no closer to finding his young charge. Link was absent from his usual haunts. The pig pen and the cucco coop were strangely still; Link was neither playing with nor tormenting the animals (though, Bo had to admit, for Link the difference between playing and torturing animals was trivial). On a whim, Bo began ambling to the rear of the estate toward the expansive apple orchards that composed the bulk of Link’s chores. Bo snorted. Chores: last place on this accursed planet I’d find’em. Continuing with this thought in mind Bo rounded an apple tree only to find his already precarious balance had given out as he tripped on—Link!? Link’s surprised cry was cut off as Bo fell onto his stomach, causing the orchard to reverberate with the sound of flesh pounding soil into the ground. Link winced as he heard the dull, unappetizing smack.

Though it took far longer than he would have liked, Bo finally gathered his wits and unsteadily rose to coolly regard the source of his fall. Bo drew himself up to full height which towered over the hunching boy. Link seemed to find the ground mesmerizing—a fact which did not endear him to the Ordon mayor. Ten seconds of strained silence suddenly broke as Bo slowly began “Took me forever to find ya. This isn’t like ya, boy. You usually can’t wait to leave the orchards. Now ya don’t wanna leave? Am I dreaming?” Bo suppressed a chuckle at his own joke, a joke that evoked not even a hint of acknowledgement in Link. The man sighed. He was not good at this. “All right boy, what’s botherin’ ya?” Link still found the ground much more interesting than Bo’s frowning face. Reaching down, he cupped a big wrinkled hand to Link’s chin and firmly lifted his head up, raising an eyebrow at the ripened bruise that neatly rimmed Link’s swollen right eye.

Sensing his displeasure, a cracked dry voice that one might barely recognize as Link’s spoke “It’s my war paint, do you like it?” Link flashed an abortive, tense smile that faded along with the mirth in his voice.
Bo continued to stare. “Been fightin’ have ya?”

Link sighed. “No.” He turned and muttered under his breath. “But I wish I did.”

“You wanna tell me whose knuckles applied this here war paint?” Bo prodded.

Link sighed and let his body slump against the trunk of an apple tree until his arms hugged his legs on a tree root. “Fado dared me to try to break one of the goats by riding him. I think he’s stupid, but he said he’d blab a secret if I didn’t.” Link’s voice became tight as he grimaced at the recollection.

Bo’s eyes widened in understanding. “You mean how ya crushed m’pumpkins for seeds?”

It gave Bo guilt-filled amusement to see Link’s swollen eye swell further in absolute terror. “How-- You… know about that?”

“Fado told me about it the day after it happened. Little runt can’t keep a secret.” Bo replied, trying not to betray the amusement he was feeling. He cleared his throat to dismiss the subject. “You’re lucky that’s all ya got from a tousle from that ole goat. Mean ones they are.”

Link snorted melodramatically, the effort causing his entire body to inflate and quickly deflate. “The goat was fine.” Link gestured to the plump purple of his face. “This was a present from Fado.”

“Always was a jumpy lil’ bastard. He gets it from his ole man.” Bo murmured, more to himself than to Link.

Link grunted in frustration. “What’s his deal with my ears? It’s not like I’ve put an eye out with ‘em or anything.” Link stopped for a moment, assembling his raging thoughts. “I can do everything he can do, if not better, but he still thinks I’m not like everybody else. He thinks I don’t belong. I don’t know what I am.”

Bo shook his head his frustration, angered both at Fado for being himself and at Zanji for assuring him that these types of identity crises wouldn’t come until at least thirteen. “Does it matter?” Bo replied in a nonchalant matter.

Link’s eyebrows narrowed in confusion “Huh?”

Bo sat down at the base of the tree with Link, his tailbone balancing uncomfortably on a snaking root. “I don’t know what ya are, kid. I don’t know what it means to have pointy ears, only what it means to have deaf ears.” Bo grinned and smoothed out the ends of his mustache. “In fact, I don’t think I know much at all. What I do know for sure is who you are: you’re a good kid who walked away instead of slugging the lil’ bastard. That takes guts.”

Link sniffed and turned his head away. “That’s not how the other kids saw it. They called me a cucco.”

Bo shrugged. “So let’em. Anybody can fight. Everything from people, to pigs, to” (he smirked) “old goats are born knowin’ how to fight. Fightin’ and runnin’ are two things that don’t require no thought, we jus’ do it. You didn’ do either. You walked away. You didn’ pick no fight and you didn’ run like a Zora on Death Mountain.” Link leered at the mental image. Bo slowly continued. “Kid, courage ain’t about showin’ everybody how brave ya are. It’s about makin yer mind up ‘bout somethin’ an’ stickin’ to it.” Bo paused in deep contemplation and his mouth dropped slightly as an epiphany was realized. “Well, that explains why I can’t get ya to do yer chores.”

Link flashed a brief but genial grin before it disappeared underneath a confused scowl. “You really don’t know why I’m different, do you?”
Bo turned toward the boy—this Hylian boy—a descendent of an oppressed people scattered to the winds by war, poverty, and racism. The Hylian culture, his very identity, only offered more of the same to Link. That was something Bo could not allow. “Kid, I don’t know what ya are—well that’s to say I don’t know ‘bout yer ears. I know that yer stubborn, reckless, and sometimes ya ain’t no spring cucco.” Link’s ten-year-old brow furrowed in confusion: so now Bo wants him to be a cucco? Bo paused, allowing his audience of one to reclaim his attention span. “But I also know even though yer crazy, disrespectful, and you’ve got a lot to learn, you’re still a good kid and that…” Bo stuttered as he realized what he was about to say. It surprised him to know that he was going to mean it too. “I’m… proud of ya.” Bo never readily gave praise and rarely, if ever, spoke his true feelings beyond jibes and jests (or in the case of his enemies with more physical demonstrations).

As Link smiled at the rare affection, it twisted Bo’s rather large insides into a bittersweet soup. Despite all his sincere attempts at acting the part of a father, he was still but an understudy—a substitute until the star arrives for his big debut. He had always unquestioningly followed Zanji through countless battles where his wisdom and foresight had saved the day—and saved him. What was so wise about dropping a kid off at your doorstep, raising the kid with lies about his past, only to barge back in at an unspecified time only to tell him it everything he thought he knew was a lie? Bo felt shame at the knot of resentment that was growing toward his former commander and friend. However, as fuzzy as his recollection could be about that New Year’s almost ten years ago, one impression was certain: Zanji had plans for this kid, and somehow Bo knew that this destiny was not for him, to become the most powerful juggler in Hyrule. Bo’s honed Ordonian instincts knew that Zanji’s destiny for Link was somehow tightly interwoven with a big sword and lots of death. This was the destiny sculpted for him as a baby.

What infuriated Bo is that Zanji knew exactly what kind of life that destiny brought as much as Bo did. As he began imagining Link coming to terms with concepts such as death, suffering, meaninglessness, and hatred in the heat of battle, an impenetrable wall of resolve erected a single promise that Bo made with the Goddesses: as long as he had breath, Link would never wield a sword. It didn’t matter to Bo that he had just betrayed Zanji and his great destiny for the kid. Link deserved better. Suppressing a devilish grin, Bo realized that Link also deserved something else.

“Come on, kid, supper’s waitin’.”

Link’s eyes sparkled in cadence with a rumbling gut. “What’s to eat?” he asked with his stomach gurgling in anticipation.

Bo snorted remembering the pork, cheese, and pickles. “Oh, you’ll see.”
“Bo?” Bo’s gaze shifted down to the kid’s face as they began walking in step. He found it odd that even though he told him he was Link’s uncle in title, he always called him Bo. Maybe the kid never bought it. Not sure I did either. Maybe he’s smarter than I give ‘em credit for. Bo raised his eyebrows, signaling for him to continue.

“Did I get away with smashing up your pumpkins?” Link asked as his voice suddenly took on a soft, mousy texture.

Bo’s mouth compressed into a feigned frown as he valiantly fought the laugh lines besieging his quavering lip. Bo stared off into the distance and responded in kind with a question: “Why d’ya think I served fried gruel every meal for two weeks?”

Link silently computed this for a minute and then nodded. He turned toward Bo with somber eyes and began again. “Well, then can I tell you a secret, Bo?” Link cupped a hand over his mouth, gesturing his desire to whisper. Bo obligingly leaned down low to place a human ear to Link’s cupped hand.

“I never ate any of it.” Link whispered. Before Bo could correctly sort out this new revelation, Link strongly tugged on the tufts of whiskers on Bo’s face and darted off toward their house as fast as ten-year-old legs would fly him. Bo surrendered as the laugh lines won over his grinning lips and awkwardly stumbled after him.


________________________________________

________________________________________
His Fist
Chapter III
Summer
Ten Years Ago

Intricately sewn robes moved with the slow deliberation of age atop an obsidian judge’s bench, anchored high in the public hearing room of the Imperial Chamberlain. Fantastically ornate symbols of office adorned them. Multicolored ribbons indicated meritorious service in the Hylian Civil War. An ebony gavel provided the parliamentary pretense of authority. A meekly held golden scepter crowned the top with a single red triangle inverted on its vertex, giving the wielder the constitutional authority of the sovereign. And yet, this was just a cruel joke. For all pretenses of superiority, Imperial Magelord Vaati knew that the Imperial Chamberlain Blaaz situated high on the benches was but a contemptible and foolish old man vainly clinging to whatever authority he could still command in this world.

If this man did not speak for the World Emperor himself, Vaati would have happily facilitated his relocation from the mortal world. He is, Vaati thought, a toady of exceptional caliber. His skills as a sorcerer for someone of such high office are the ultimate argument against meritocracy. His duty to be the voice of the Emperor is a farce for one so meek and frail. It is a wonder that the hundreds of nations within the Emperor’s vast empire take him seriously. And yet, here he is. Perhaps the goddesses do exist and this is their idea of a divine joke. Vaati smirked as he silently dismissed the notion.

Despite how unbearable the old fool was, Vaati congratulated himself on his impeccable etiquette. As the herald of the Imperial Chamberlain bellowed for Vaati to approach and be recognized through the arched iron doors of the hearing room, Vaati approached with all the bearing and grace that a lifetime spent as one of the Emperor’s elite mages drilled into him. He was not a normal mortal; in lieu of whatever fanciful notion of divine beings, he and his kind were the arbiters of life and death in this world. It was a responsibility that Vaati relished.

The herald shouted in a curious blend of the melodramatic and monotone Vaati’s titles: “My Lord Chamberlain, I present Imperial Magelord Vaati,
victor over the Minish, Warden of the North Tower, Executor of…” As Vaati’s ambling terminated in front of Blaaz’s bench, he stood there for what seemed like an interminable amount of time as the herald finished concluding his assault of titles and announcements. Perhaps, rather than being an exercise of flattery, this was Blaaz’s way of demonstrating his control over this tortuous exchange. Waiting a moment to be sure that the herald had concluded his tirade, Vaati’s hand fell over his heart as he bended his body at his midriff to convey an overly sincere bow.
“Rise, Lord Vaati.” An ancient white beard ruffled in reply underneath a thick cowl. Vaati complied and gave a slight smile. Blaaz waited for a handful of seconds, during which Vaati could feel eyes, invisible underneath a cowl, assail Vaati with a critical glance. Vaati merely smiled and patiently stared back with red irises fixed to where he estimated Blaaz’s face to be. Finally Blaaz broke the silence. “His Imperial Majesty is displeased about the incidence of rebellion of late. This particularly concerns the peripheral provinces of the Empire.” Vaati frowned. This was nothing new. Savages ignorant of the Empire’s promises of civilization, science, and prosperity frequently took up arms to defend their exceedingly narrow-minded view of the world; a world where tradition and superstition triumphed over progress and reason. The Empire was the sole bastion standing against the unruly tide of barbarism in the world. Vaati waited for Blaaz to continue, silently hoping that he might expire and fossilize in this very meeting.

“His Majesty has been… most displeased with the prior administration of these provinces.” Blaaz’s voice rippled with understatement. He wondered what type of violent fate was meted out those “prior administrators.” While most men of civilized tastes would find the extermination of imperial servants distasteful, Vaati understood and embraced the idea that incompetence had no place in the Empire. Blaaz droned on. “Though these insurrections are not of any security concern, His Majesty takes great offense in this lack of gratitude for His mercy and leniency.” Vaati positively beamed, barely checking his expansive grin on his ivory-white face. He was going to receive his field commission against the Zora rebellion that had arisen. The surest path for power in the Empire was military victory, and the Zora rebellion was the most expansive threat the Empire had experienced since its birth over ten years ago.
“Therefore,” Blaaz continued, “it is His Majesty’s decree that administration of those provinces should fall into the purview of officials… less inclined to idleness. It is His Majesty’s order that you be appointed to special office. You are hereby, by the power of the World Emperor, granted the title Imperial Procurator with the special commission of multiple provinces.” Blaaz’s voice dropped low. “His Majesty believed that your experience as Magelord might allow you to pursue rather unorthodox methods that many of our bureaucrats might shy away from due to reasons of civility.”

Try as he may to contain his displeasure, Vaati was pretty sure that Blaaz could see the expanding disappointment on his face. The prospects of military command and glory vanishing with the resignation of spending a significant portion of his life to smashing local dissidents using a variety of creative yet barbaric measures. It was the ultimate insult for this Magelord who prided to be an academically inclined gentleman to be the Emperor’s premier instrument of brute force. Steeling his frayed nerves, the previously silent Vaati spoke; his patrician voice strangely quavering with both insecurity and barely concealed righteous anger.

“My Lord, does this charge include the suppression of the Zora insurrection?” Even though Blaaz’s expression was indiscernible beneath his cowl, Vaati’s suspicious mind thought he could make out an amused snort at Vaati’s desperation.

“His Majesty has decided that this matter demands the oversight of His Fist. He will be prosecuting military operations against the Zora renegades personally.” Vaati’s lips nearly curled in disgust at the mention of the Emperor’s personal enforcer, His Fist. The tales surrounding His Fist were near legendary. He was widely regarded as the greatest warrior of the age, as well as probably its greatest general. He was perhaps the greatest weapon in the Emperor’s swollen arsenal, and was directly responsible for much of the Empire’s conquests. Despite his success, he was repulsive, representing and enshrining the very barbarian lifestyle that the Empire had fought so hard to extinguish. He was an anachronism that had no place in Vaati’s vision of the Empire.

“If he requires it, I trust you will convey to him your full support in the form of material and military assistance, correct?” It was official, Blaaz was officially jeering over the complete lack of control Vaati had over the situation. Vaati stiffly clasped two clenched fist at the back of his regally violet tunic, and muttered stiffly. “Of course, Lord Chamberlain.” Vaati mentally sighed. His acquiescence was expressed more as a challenge than as a sign of compliance, but Vaati’s discontent was such at this point that he could care less.

Blaaz let silence fill the cavernous hearing room before continuing on, satisfied that Vaati’s composure had briefly yielded to a childish temper tantrum. Contented, Blaaz spoke on. “Implicit in His Majesty’s charge is that you find the seeds of these localized outcroppings of discontent. Our local sources of information in the outlying provinces are somewhat conflicted on this matter. Though the Empire conquered these areas at different times, the standard Imperial practice of fixing corn prices was instituted. Poverty was quickly alleviated in most of these areas. These areas have boomed economically while sustaining only mild interference from His Majesty’s central government. It is your task to uncover why these sporadic local risings are so pervasive.”

Vaati briefly shelved his self pity to consider this largely academic problem. It was, he had to admit, an interesting dilemma. These people, having near-nothing in common, separated by hundreds of miles, who took for granted the vast improvements in standards of living were simultaneously rebelling against the Empire. There was seemingly no obvious connection. And then it dawned on Vaati. He snorted contemptuously at the revelation, so incredibly improbable that it invited hubris. And yet, it was the only explanation that made sense.

“That is unnecessary Lord Chamberlain,” Vaati began, the soft silk of his voice returning after its tantrum-induced vacation. Blaaz arched an invisible eyebrow, waiting for the new Procurator to continue. “They are rebelling in favor of their former government. They want the royal family back.”

Blaaz shifted uncomfortably in his bench. “And why, Lord Procurator, would they ever want that?”

“Because, Lord Chamberlain,” Vaati replied, sarcastically matching the ancient man’s cadence, “unlike the good people of Castle Town whose loyalty can be bought with bread and circus, these rustic sorts are those who respond to baser, primitive ideas of feudal loyalty and tradition. They are easily stirred to rages because of perceived breaches in their primitive traditions. They believe the monarchy—‘the way things were’ means the restoration of a world without the Empire and its enlightened civilization being so ‘unjustly’ thrust upon their small and petty minds.”
Blaaz paused as if considering this. “Lord Procurator, you may have discerned why, but you have yet to answer something else: why are the risings contemporaneous?”

Vaati smirked, the poisonous scent of condescension evident in all his movements and features. “I would have thought that answer obvious, Lord Chamberlain. It’s simultaneous because agents of the royal family are inciting them.”

Blaaz chuckled mirthlessly. “You mean the royal family that now cowers at His Majesty’s every whim? The very family that’s not even taken seriously by its own House of Lords? The family whose existence is only at the pleasure of the Emperor?”

Vaati nodded slightly. “The same.” He sighed. “I am certainly not an all-knowing, Ancient Imperial Bureaucrat, but it seems to me that the royal family’s best opportunity of success is to feign weakness while slowly cultivating a base of allies.”

Blaaz raised his cowled visage ever so slightly to reveal a naked chin forked with his white beard. Irritation dominated his ancient voice. “If this is correct, Lord Procurator, then the royal family had better find allies more skilled and competent then wayward peasants.”

Vaati rubbed his chin with a black gloved hand. “They already have.”
Blaaz leaned forward as his frustration redoubled into a crescendo. “I beg your pardon?”

“My Lord Chamberlain, these rustic provincials are only a convenient distraction; an opportunity to divert our legions away from a more challenging opponent.” Vaati smiled as he saw Blaaz shift uncomfortably, and though his expression remained concealed, Vaati could guess that he had arrived at the correct deduction.

“The Zora,” Blaaz breathed. “It is an interesting theory.” The old man painfully conceded to the white-haired mage. “If you are correct, Lord Procurator, then it appears His Majesty was correct about your talents.”
“I believe they are deliberately concealing their true strength, unveiling a force large enough to attract our attention, but small enough that we dispatch our legions to the periphery. They want His Fist to attack them because they believe this is their best opportunity for success in a conventional engagement. Imagine the political consequences of having the Emperor’s best general bested in combat. It would be scandalous.”
Blaaz folded leathery hands across the voluptuous mass of robes that encompassed him. “And I am sure, Lord Procurator, that you would not wish for there to be a scandal.” Blaaz took a brief moment to chuckle in amusement before continuing. “No, while we may have underestimated the resolve of the otherwise compliant Zora, they underestimate in turn His Fist. He cannot be defeated in combat.”

Vaati was aghast at such simple-minded dribble. “But my Lord….”
“He cannot be defeated in combat.” Blaaz repeated, lacing each syllable with promises of danger if the subject was not dropped.

“Of course, my Lord,” Vaati conceded joylessly. “If I may petition your Lordship further? As His Majesty’s directive is to root out the source of the dissent, and the royal family seems like the primary culprit, might I have permission to seek out their arrest?”

Blaaz stroked his cobwebbed beard with a long-nailed hand. “No,” he finally concluded after a long silence. “His Majesty would be endlessly petitioned by the House of Lords for their release. They can still create enough vexation that His Majesty might make that concession.”

Vaati frowned as the new Procurator sensed his chance for glory vanish once again. Blaaz mused thoughtfully to himself before continuing. “However, the day is approaching with haste when the House of Lords will cease to be relevant.” Vaati smirked. More irrelevant than it is today? I was under the impression that was impossible. Blaaz continued, “Therefore, I empower you to quietly and discreetly investigate the members of the royal household and the family itself to attempt to verify these theories. They could be acted on at a later time.”
Vaati was elated at this small victory. “Thank you, my Lord.”

Blaaz leaned back in his massive chair, no longer peering downward at Vaati. “If there is nothing further I will leave you to claim your post. Good day, Lord Procurator Vaati.”

Vaati responded with his most flourishing bow, long white hair cascading down all sides of his face as he did so. “And good day to you, my Lord Chamberlain Blaaz.” It had a sort of perverse humor to it. With all the exchanges of subtle and not so subtle taunts, insults, and rebukes, it was amusing to have the exchange end with incredible pomp and dignity.
As Vaati turned back toward the double-iron doors, he felt somewhat triumphant. His name might not become immortalized on account of suppressing an anonymous rebellion that history would in its constant absent-mindedness forget in lieu of a more significant event. But it would become immortalized by finishing what his Emperor had begun ten years ago: the eradication of the royal family—the Harkinians. It gave him a cold pleasure to think that the longest-lived dynasty in history would be stilled by his hand, after unveiling their treachery against the Empire of course. Finally, when the Emperor promoted him in rank after exterminating His most implacable political rivals, he would convince Him that he no longer needed an old fool like Blaaz. He would take particular pleasure in facilitating his permanent removal. The Empire had no room for incompetence after all. The cold pleasure took hold over him so completely that he almost failed to notice the herald conclude the meeting with “All hail His Imperial Majesty, the World Emperor Ganondorf, House Dragmire.”

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Autumn
Eight Years Ago

As Link stood shakily atop a rickety ladder with a basket of newly picked apples, he found his devotion to the goddesses redouble as he began to swoon on the ancient rungs as the ladder began to go off balance. Had Link not shouted in surprise he probably would have heard the dull thud as his adolescent body flattened itself against packed earth. As he opened his eyes, ripe balls of now bruised red littered the ground, streaming out from an overturned basket. Link let out a primal growl and proceeded to hurl the discarded apples back into the basket. He halted as he noticed that most of the apples, once firm to the touch, now had shriveled flesh with a spongy bruise underneath. Giving into futility, he tossed the apple over a bronze shoulder and grabbed the overturned ladder.

A second frustrated growl permeated the orchard as he noticed the hinge connecting the two halves of the v-shaped step-ladder had split. I told Bo not to be cheap and actually buy a real ladder instead of making this piece of “fine quality craftsmanship. Link tried not to laugh as he looked at the awkwardly carved ladder rungs and remembered the sweat, the time, and the shouts of pain from hammer swollen fingers poured into every inch of the ladder. While he was still annoyed as dull pain lingered in his chest, his face contorted to absolute elation as he came to a life altering conclusion: without the ladder, he didn’t have to pick apples. Therefore, Link followed this premise to surmise that since he could not pick apples, he did not have any chores to do. Link concluded this very logical premise to deduce that he must not have chores to do. Link stood up, steadying his disproportioned adolescent body, and frowned as he looked down at the ladder. Horror crept onto his face as he noticed the broken, rotten ladder; Bo would make a new ladder, and he would practically kill everybody in the house trying to make it….

Link remembered a talk that Bo gave him that certain things in life were worth fighting for. Link concluded that preventing Bo from wreaking havoc trying to “build” something was probably one of those things. He knew he had to somehow conceal the fact that the ladder was useless; that meant picking all the apples from the high to the low branches of the orchard by hand. Link’s courage faltered until a mental image of Bo bumbling around the workshop muttering curses, breaking fingers, and forgetting to make dinner out of irritation squelched his indecision. This was worth fighting for. Seconds later, his gangly features leapt into the low branch of a particular tree, his hand clasping the branch while his other clutched the rim of his basket. He repeated the process until he found himself in a branch that allowed him full access to the rather large tree’s canopy. Securing his footing on the branch which was situated over ten feet high, Link began plucking the ripe red fruit, slowly building a small lump in his basket. Satisfied that his adventure on this tree was nearing its completion, Link outstretched his palm to clasp the last ripened fruit and--
“Hey Link….”

Though Link was disoriented, he could feel the all too familiar sensation of dull pain shooting through his chest as he made contact with the ground. Biting back curses that would be unseemly for a twelve year old to say, Link regarded the source of his distraction and near mortality.

“Hey Ilia,” Link said, his voice muffled by tall blades of grass. As he slowly allowed aching limbs to pick himself off the ground he regarded Bo’s ten year old daughter whose face, Link thought, was an amusing combination of guilt, fright, and geniality. Had he not felt like his internal organs had shifted, he might have appreciated the absurd expression.

Concern won out and sprouted on Ilia’s face. “I’m sorry…are you all right?” Link turned his head and rolled his eyes.
“No,” Link muttered under his breath as he brushed clumped soil off his white cotton shirt and out of his white-blonde bangs. Ilia’s human ears perked at the faint muttering.

“Huh?”

“I said I’m doing fine, don’t worry,” he said, managing his most theatrical smile. Despite his annoyance with both her penchant for pointing out the obvious and for in general just being a girl, he was careful not to incite Ilia’s easily frayed emotions. Bo’s only daughter, born two years after Link was dressed in a loose fitting cotton shirt with short wheat-colored hair that favored her late mother. She stared at Link with large green eyes, a shade that faintly reminded Link of pea soup. The thought made his tempestuous stomach perk to life again, despite the rather dizzying fall. Link’s assurance soothed Ilia’s frenzy of worry.

“What were you doing up there?”

He swallowed a delicious but utterly cruel sarcastic comment as he monotonously droned. “Pickin’ apples.”

“Oh,” Ilia replied, trying to sound faintly surprised.

“Yeah…hmm….” Even though Ilia was practically his sister, Link always felt awkward conversing with her. Actually, when Link thought about it he felt strange talking to any girl, at least any girl that he met at Ordon. It was not the case that Link was rude, it was more a general lack of understanding of what being this creature called girl was. When they laughed at him, was it because he was funny, or did he do something unbelievably stupid? He recalled none too pleasant memories of multiple village girls waving coyly in his direction, laughing at him, or making frankly annoying comments about how cute his ears were. Link’s sarcastic muse implored him to complement them in kind with “How adorable your humongous feet are.”

Alarm coursed through Link as he noticed Ilia’s eyes darting to the space behind him, noticing the broken ladder. Ilia craned her head a quarter turn and regarded the heap of broken wood quizzically. “What happened? Is that the ladder Pa made?”

Of all the incredibly stupid words that Link could have uttered, he picked the worst: “What ladder?” A slender vein bulged in Link’s neck as he clenched his teeth. Despite her usual naïveté, she appeared unusually perceptive now.

“That ladder behind you,” she replied evenly.

Link decided to wax philosophical. “Ilia, do you know what a secret is?”
She nodded imperceptibly. He realized that to corrupt such a trusting mind was a sin before Din, Farore, and Naryu, but right now none of that mattered; this was a matter of life and death. He continued.

“Well, I don’t think there’s any need to tell Uncle Bo about this. It’d just worry him.”

Ilia stood thoughtfully before some sort of realization dawned on her face. “Oooooh! You mean that kind of secret!? Like me not telling Pa how you snuck off that one night to pull a prank with Fado, an’ how you hid Pa’s shoes for two months, an’ how you set his favorite shirt on fire while trying to do laundry, an’ how you always got second deserts by insisting you never got any, an’….” Link’s mind faded to black as he attempted to recover from the incomprehensible speed of Ilia’s recitation.
His face burned with embarrassment, appreciated with interest as the memories flooded back. “Well, he always gave me small desert portions…. But yeah, those kinds of secrets I guess….”

Ilia looked quizzically once again at Link. “Oh, well that’s ok. Bo wanted me to come get you to tell you to pick up the new ladder back at the house that he just bought.”

As Ilia smiled and turned to walk away, Link slapped his brow and followed after his cousin, grumbling as he went.
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Winter
Eight Years Ago

The uninformed observer from dozens of miles away might have concluded that the mountains nestled to the north of Hyrule were experiencing some sort of earthquake or avalanche. So loud was the thundering erupting from the Zora’s Domain that any organism with any vestige of locomotion steered away from the mountainous kingdom. There were two exceptions to this general rule: the multitude of warriors locked in mortal combat and their carrion birds that feasted on them.
Massive cannons spouted flame and smoke as metal spheres of death impacted against the battlements surrounding the waterfall entrance of the kingdom. The shells either slammed into the rock faces, hurling debris hundreds of feet below or burst into fragments, splattering the unfortunate souls who fell in its wake with flesh-piercing shards. Small units of blue-skinned archers, the remnants of what was once a powerful army, offered a meek reply in a disoriented volley of arrows and javelins. Not missing an opportunity for a rebuttal, the cannons honed in the hapless archers and let out a volley that not only eliminated the archers, but caused the stone causeway on which they situated themselves to plummet down hundreds of feet to the watery gorge below. This left the meaning of the reply unmistakable: the Empire had come with vengeance to the Zora Domain.

Thousands of mail-clad warriors from dozens of races waited on the shores of the gorge, skirmishing with anonymous blue-skinned opponents. The defenders, no doubt, believed that despite the skill of their mail-clad opponents, their unassailable cliff side residence would force them to embark upon a long and costly siege. Given the astronomically high casualties that would result from a storming operation, this would be the conventional military wisdom. However, conventional military wisdom was not to be followed today.
Ponderously moving upstream was an iron structure situated atop dozens of large pontoons partially submerged while vainly trying to maintain ballast. The iron raft was towed on either side of the gorge by nearly twenty carts pulled by oxen with tethered chains struggling against the current. Once it neared the rock face just in front of where the huge waterfall terminated into the Zora River, the teams of carts halted. Seemingly indifferent to his conspicuousness, an armored figure on horseback galloped onto a wide gangplank connecting the shore to the iron raft. Unlike the ubiquitous mail-clad warriors that were simply clothed with chainmail, an iron helm, and a tunic displaying their racial or geographic designation, this figure was armored in meticulously crafted ebony plate armor and fine black chain mail. A black cloak with a cowl concealing an indiscernible visage flapped relentlessly against the roar of the falls, and the figure unsheathed a sword to hold it defiantly in his left hand. After dismounting and reaching the top of the cube-shaped structure on the raft, the figure raised his gauntleted right hand to signal teams of men to board the raft to begin turning two massive cranks. Signal teams bellowed out the cadence of every movement as small arrows fell impotently from the defender’s bows into the river.

The multitudes of blue-skinned warriors gazed downward in shock as iron structure crowning the raft slowly began to elevate, slowly, one foot at a time. Too disoriented to respond, they wordlessly watched as the structure rose fifty, then one-hundred, then two-hundred, and finally three-hundred feet. For a moment, the blue-skinned warriors were unified in their collective awe and terror as they slowly realized that this was no iron raft carrying supplies or a new cannon; it was a siege tower. The tower terminated its ascent at the entrance to the kingdom’s throne room. Grapples burst forth from the tower’s crown, securing chunks of rock in order to physically impose its resolve both over the blue-skinned warriors and the earth itself. As the boarding plank was extended and the tattered remnants of blue-skinned warriors tried to maintain some sort of formation to greet the hundreds of mail-clad warriors who would no doubt pour out of the tower. And yet they were bewildered when, rather than facing the tides of opponents washing over their defenses, there was but one black-armored man stalking steadily toward the throne room.

His Fist….

Smoke pouring out of the cavernous throne room entrance signaled the battle’s dénouement. Moments later as the universally recognized white flag streamed down from the cavern mere minutes after His Fist entered, it was all over. As coats of arms, ensigns, and flags were stripped to be replaced by the red inverted triangle, one message was clear: the Zora Domain had fallen.
________________________________________

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His Fist
Chapter IV
Summer
Nightfall
Seven Years Ago

Night slowly blanketed the province of Ordon and slowly smothered the faint glow of candlelight as one villager after another surrendered to the inexorable tug of sleep.

All except one.

In the Mayor’s expansive residence, the faint luminance of a single waxen candle provided guidance for young eyes scanning bound thin leaves of paper. Lips moved with mute recitation of every word as blue eyes compliantly danced across the page.

Link would never conscientiously admit to liking reading. In fact, the idea of noncompulsory reading never occurred to him until he plundered through Ilia’s effects a few days ago, attempting to discover where in the worlds she hid his slingshot. After all, it was not quite fair. He only shot her with a bit of steamed turnip. He knew she liked turnips more than he. He was being downright charitable. It seemed rude in the extreme for her to explode, flail her arms dramatically, grab the slingshot after deafening all looming ears with demonically possessed girly screams, and finally storm upstairs. Link was smart enough to realize that it was probably not a good idea to attempt to rescue his fair slingshot while the monster was awake in her lair. He had waited until she peacefully dozed off before tiptoeing up to her small bedroom. He decided to take matters into his own hands regarding the retrieval of his precious slingshot. After all, there was no need to make Bo aware of the . . . altercation.

After successfully infiltrating Ilia’s room, he stealthily but diligently pilfered through chests and drawers with all the grace that thirteen years had not taught him. After a brief but tender reunion with his slingshot after discovering it in a chest full of clothes (fortunately for him, Link was oblivious to the fact that it was in the same drawer as her undergarments), Link’s ever-keen strategic mind began considering possibilities. It seemed to him that he needed a system of deterrence to ensure the continued safety and integrity of his slingshot. What Link needed was, in short, a hostage. He slowly pivoted about the room, searching for a material victim with a promising ransom. As he took a step, his foot came to a stop as he kicked something at the foot of Ilia’s bed. After cursing himself for his clumsiness, Link realized that these were Ilia’s books that Bo had given her. Without pondering the consequences, Link scooped them up and stole away back to his hammock. For the last several days, facing the brunt of sleeplessness that occurred whenever Bo cooked his “special” beans, Link decided he would do whatever it took to ride out the wave of indigestion. This included reading.

Years of ceremonial abuse coming from Fado and company as well as adolescent pride and rambunctiousness relegated Link’s relationship with books to midnight affairs; an affair in the deep boredom of the night punctuated by cold dismissal in the morning until another secret rendezvous was established in Link’s animal-skin hammock. Link cupped a hand near the candle’s quivering flame, diverting the faint glimmer away from Ilia and Bo’s slumber in the next rooms. Like many Ordonian houses, Bo’s house was technically but one room with an open upstairs and downstairs bedroom providing the sole illusion of privacy. Bo himself slept on the smaller downstairs bed—at once a nod to Ilia’s blooming femininity and easy kitchen access for late night snacks. However, Bo’s house had one additional room burrowed into the earthen cliffs behind the estate’s wooden exterior. This doubled as a town gathering center, a festivity room, and a training room where Bo flattered himself by stripping and participating in some sort of ancient combat ritual that required a great deal of stopping, rushing, and grunting. He insisted that it was some form of wrestling. At some point over the years, Link had given up trying to keep a straight face as he performed the ritual.
Link gently rocked in his hammock positioned in the periphery of the large second room. If Bo realized that Link was being so extravagant with his precious beeswax and wicker, Link would probably find his effects tossed out onto the dirt road as the only herald for newfound homelessness. Nevertheless, Link inexplicably persisted in his literary sojourn. Licking a sun-baked thumb, he turned the page of the voluptuous text, The Book of Mudora and Other Tales. Link could care less that it was the sixth edition, or for the tiny scrawls of literary criticisms in the margins, or that its editor had so many academic honors it probably filled the first third of the book. Instead Link’s famished imagination hungrily devoured the legends, histories, and myths of the Kingdom of Hyrule, its royal family, and the nameless heroes and villains who briefly perform on its stage. In short his imagination wanted to indulge in senseless violence.
This particular book was one Bo had loaned to Ilia because he himself did not concern himself with stories. He had seen Ilia read the book, coddling it in her arms as one would an infant. She would usually read about a half hour and then she would go faint with whimsy. Particularly distressing was when an “aww” or a “soooo cute!” uttered from a face possessed by quasi-religious adulation. Such words, Link thought, should be outlawed. Link pondered fearfully what Ilia found so compelling in a book about legends. He turned the page.

And so the King of Evil was slain and the noble hero joined with the fair princess in the expanse of the Sacred Realm, finally reunited after their harrowing encounter with the deceased Dark Lord. The fair princess looked intensely into the eyes of the noble hero and spoke:

“It is finally over now. Thank you, the King of Evil has been sealed in the Dark World.”

The noble hero smiled warmly at his fair lady. “Now we can rebuild Hyrule. I will help.”

The fair princess cast her melancholy eyes down. “Once Hyrule has again begun to inch towards peace that is when we must part.” The princess sighed. “Before the Triforce was taken by the King of Evil, I tried to take control of the Sacred Realm. But that was a very foolish action: the Triforce fell into his hands, and the altercations wound up entailing you as well. Now that our struggle is over, as the Seventh Sage I must put the Master Sword to sleep and close the ‘Gate of Time.’” The princess visibly braced herself. “Hero of Time, give me the Ocarina. I can use the Ocarina of Time right now to return you to your own time.”

The noble hero’s eyes burned with fear. “My own time. . . Please wait a moment. I did not fight because I was ensnared by destiny. The reason why I fought, it was to…” The hero mysteriously silenced himself.

The princess gazed at him until she finally drew the courage to pronounce their doom. “Following my father’s footsteps, I shall rule Hyrule. Because of you, Hyrule is at peace. Now return home to where you should be, to the form you should have.”

The Hero of Time clenched a gauntleted fist over his heavy heart and knelt before his princess. “I am the Hero of Time. No matter when, no matter where, for the sake of the Kingdom of Hyrule and you my princess, I shall fight.”

The princess’s stoic expression quivered as the weight of tears drew on her soft violet eyes.

(Note: It is important to state here that multiple traditions posit different versions on this particular moment in this exchange. Most traditions simply include the giving of the hero’s Ocarina of Time to the princess. Other traditions include the hero professing his undying love to the princess before giving her the Ocarina. The latter account was most likely added by multiple authors and is considered apocryphal—in a story that is as a whole considered apocryphal. Therefore, we will include the most orthodox ending to this tale.)

The Hero of Time reluctantly yielded the Ocarina of Time to his princess, their hands meeting for an instant before finally parting. Their gaze finally broken, the princess lifted the Ocarina to her lips before playing the Song of Time.

(Note: Authentic reproductions of the Song of Time have been lost to modern scholarship. Musicologist and cultural anthropologist have tried in vain over the last century to discover an authentic means by which to recreate the melody. Experiments at the Imperial University of Magic and Science produced some progress in attempting to recreate the magical properties of the song. One particularly deranged graduate student claimed that his professor correctly divined the appropriate song but was incidentally transported inter-dimensionally to another time period, therefore being unable to share his findings. Such findings should be considered suspicious at best until . . .

In annoyance, Link skipped to the bottom of the page.

As the Hero of Time’s presence shifted from this plane to another, the princess called after him “Thank you, goodbye!” And so it was that the Hero of Time once again awoke at the age of ten years old.

Link closed the book in a rather sour mood. How could that princess do something so . . . so . . . callous? After all the endless struggle, diligent searching, and questing that hero was denied the one thing that truly mattered in life: his nearly six foot tall body.

Link’s indignation at the imaginary princess redoubled in proportion to his silent glee in imagining Fado and his gang bowing before a towering version of himself armed from head to toe. Those bombs that the hero used in the myth would not hurt either. Link tossed the book aside, vowing that he would never be tempted to swipe it from Ilia’s sparse library again. He considered silently putting in the rack with the firewood where it would be put to much better use. His arm drooped to absently pick up another book from Ilia’s pile: Soil Regeneration: Crop Rotation Practices Reconsidered. Link grimaced. How in the name of the goddesses had he picked that up? Link further wondered what Ilia was doing reading that. Link liked to imagine that Bo made her read that as punishment for some transgression. Link glanced over at the candle and noticed a considerable portion of wax and wicker had been consumed during his read, providing Link with an idea of how much time had passed. Well, I guess I do need to get to sleep. He picked up the weighty, dust-covered tome and began thumbing through it.

Link was not surprised that the book was nearly as interesting as the title suggested. The introduction of cheap paper from the faraway lands centuries ago meant that books were no longer expensive or sparse. However, he thought that perhaps a scarcity of paper might have made authors more reflective on what they actually wrote. He pondered the idea that maybe his indigestion was somehow more stimulating than reading. Link pioneered new depths of boredom as his lids gradually sealed across the blues of his eyes. And then Link heard it: a faint rumble.
As Link stirred, he initially thought that the rumble was the result of the realms of sleep and awake cross-pollinating his imagination and common sense with fanciful notions. But as the floor boards began to quiver, Link bolted to the window of the main room facing the rest of Ordon Village. Link’s no longer drowsy eyes craned to his left as he gazed towards the northern frontier of Ordon Forest. His senses slowly confirmed what his eyes discerned: a flame. Slowly, more and more flames appeared over the horizon, penetrating night’s depths with a pulsing orange glow. As Link heard the dull ringing of Ordon Village’s lone warning bell, he realized that the flames were approaching the village at a rapid pace. As his eyes finally made out the first outlines of torches darting over the hills towards the slumbering village, he finally came to terms with what the rational portion of his mind was screaming into him: raiders.

As Link finally spotted the first glint of red eyes, jagged horns, and an assortment of crudely fashioned weapons, he further narrowed the potential candidates of raiders to a lone guilty party: Bulblins. While most Ordonians, Link included, lived blissfully ignorant of the affairs outside their arboreal province, nearly everybody had heard of Bulblins; fierce nomadic raiders who descended out of the Western Deserts coming in pursuit of plunder. While not a major threat to the larger cities of Hyrule, they were a life-threatening bane to small villages like Ordon. Aside from their reputations as fierce warriors, they had also crafted a reputation for being quite unparticular about the sort of plunder they acquired—including slaves.

By all indications, Link was a normal adolescent with all of its contradictions; flirting simultaneously with brilliance and stupidity, adulthood and childhood, and liveliness and lethargy. In this moment, this dichotomomous mixture congealed, leaving only resolve that waxed as more Bulblins riding their gigantic hoggish Bullbos trampled over the hill. Whether it was through instinct, duty, or outright stupidity, Link committed himself to…. In actuality, Link was not sure what he would do, but he was not going to not do. Before Link undertook the tortuous enterprise of wondering what in the worlds that actually meant, he readied himself.

Turning to reach above the door to grasp the household’s lone sword he ran headlong into Bo. Surprisingly, the stained white shirt that he had worn to bed had vanished under the thin coat of a soldier’s mail suit. Link was surprised; in all his stories, Bo never mentioned buying military regalia. Link realized the neighbor’s dog sometimes gave Bo trouble, but not that much trouble.

As Bo spat Link with a rather unnerving stare, Link realized that his bellicose ambitions were realized, and that all attempts at stealth would be futile. “Kid, stay with Ilia and I’ll be back later.” Link’s jaw clenched and eyes narrowed as he stared indignantly at his uncle. “But . . .” he began.” Bo’s booming voice silenced the young Hylian. “I said stay! Take Ilia to the back room an’ stay ‘till I say so.” Grunting as he reached up to grab his old pole arm, Bo darted out the door to join the hastily assembled “army” congregating at the warning bell in the center of the village. The “army,” really the men-folk of the town armed with whatever old war sword, farming tool, or dangerous kitchen utensil they could find, stared nervously at the fast approaching hoard.

Link stirred from his trance at the window as he heard the faint patter of feet descend down the stairs. “What’s all the noise?” a sleep-deprived voice croaked.

“Shhhhh!” Link hissed harshly as his gaze was temporarily broken from the drama unfolding in the village.

“Get into that room, and don’t come out until I say so! Got it!?” Ilia’s groggy eyes widened as she nodded mutely. It occurred to her to ask on the whereabouts of her father, yet part of her already knew it had something to do with all the shouting and stomping outside. Link continued to gaze out the window.

As the first Bullbos approached the ragtag assemblage of villagers, Link nearly cried out in frustration against his unjustly imposed impotence. Every bit of instinct, reason, and emotion petitioned static limbs to join the pitiful collection of villagers. This resignation to inaction was fundamentally a betrayal of who he was, and as the hordes of riders loomed closer, the more his urge grew to grab the sword hanging precariously over the oaken double doors and charge into battle. However, he held himself back, and it surprised him to know that it was not influenced by fear. It was influenced by a feeling that no adolescent believes possible: respect; more specifically, a respect in his uncle and in his judgment. As the battle closed, that respect was to be tested to its limits.

The hordes of riders began encircling the mass of assembled townsmen. Bo grouped his terrified warriors into a geometrically passable circle as the attacker’s radius grew smaller and smaller. Clumsy wooden clubs of varying degrees of craftsmanship swung out from the Bulblin riders in teasing attempts to maim the timid defenders. Nearly a dozen riders encircled the forty odd villagers. One Bulblin lifted a crudely fashioned bow. Link’s eyes widened as he saw the squat Bulblin string a barbed arrow alight with flame. The Bulblin suddenly let loose the arrow where it proceeded to burrow into the ground. Rain-starved grass provided excellent fuel for the thirsty flame as it proceeded to engulf the increasingly small circle of earth where the villagers made their defense. The bedraggled army huddled together in fear rather than standing in formation as they tried to evade the lashing flame. Link noted the apparent hesitance on the part of the Bulblins to directly attack their targets head on. Though they could have used some lethal force with their projectiles they were obviously restraining themselves. They were playing with the village “army,” that much was clear. It was all a diversion. But for what? Link pondered.

Answering Link’s thoughts, a hulking figure with an armored mount dove over the horizon toward the ring of encircling riders. Link finally categorized him as a Bulblin as he spied his massive horns, green skin, and molten eyes. However, this particular specimen was nearly twice the size of the average Bulblin rider, and black iron armor adorned a massive torso. Link concluded that this was the tribal chieftain of the Bulbins, and he correctly deduced (based upon his bulky and muscled appearance) that the position was more than ceremonial. Link thought that he could almost here a primal growl erupt from the giant over the collective commotion of the battling men and beasts. The massive war chief lifted a hollowed conical animal horn to his scowling visage and roared with a full breath. As if on cue, the encircling Bulblins inexplicably broke rank and retreated back toward the forest as quickly as they had arrived.
Link’s mind reviewed the course of events which, he realized had lasted only minutes rather than the hours his adrenaline-induced senses were claiming. Stunned silence accompanied by the dull stomping of booted feet against dying flame embers heralded the monster’s departure. Link all but ran into the underground chamber where Ilia hid underneath Link’s hammock, restless fingers delicately kneading a horseshoe-shaped charm clasped around her neck, passed down by her late mother. Try as she might, she was not entirely successful in concealing the trail hot tears blazed down her reddened cheeks. Link regarded her, forcing every ounce of gentleness he could muster into a strained voice.

“You all right?” Ilia nodded dumbfounded as she continued to cling to her charm necklace. He continued, “Stay here and don’t move. Don’t come out from there until you see either me or Bo. Got it?” The only indication that Ilia registered his words was a miniscule nod. Link tried to relegate his concern to the recesses of his mind as he ran to the double oaken doors at the front of the house. His running start toward the doors merged into a leap as eager hands clasped the sword hanging above the lintel. At first he was afraid that his leap was rather poorly executed as the wooden display board fastening the weapons to the wall began to give way under Link’s weight. Link mentally admonished the board. Adolescence had not made him that big and heavy. Nonetheless, the sword gradually slid off the display board into Link’s fingers that initially gave way under the unexpected weight of the blade. Seizing his grip on the handle, Link barged through the double doors and out into the night.

Even though the phenomenon of adolescence usually conferred imaginary expertise regarding all possible subjects, Link knew that he was not a warrior. However, the entire attack failed to make sense. There was a massive frontal attack, the encirclement of all the defenders, and finally a sudden retreat with burnt grass as the sole casualty? Link’s presence went initially unnoticed as files of housewives, elders, and children ran out of doorways to assess the condition of loved ones, creating a thick crowd that thankfully preserved his anonymity as he made his way out of the village. He absently ventured toward the southern end of the village, running down the dirt path towards the Fado family’s goat ranch. He reasoned that this was the only other area of the village that could have potentially been damaged without notice.

He wished he had remembered to carry the sword’s scabbard as Link’s rather precarious nighttime footing resulted in his near impalement in several instances. Link’s less than graceful navigation of the small dirt paths leading to the ranch culminated in his eventual arrival in the open field encircled by the same earthen cliffs that ringed the rest of Ordon.
Link’s eyes carefully surveyed the intact ranch house, the barn, and the fence posts. Everything seemed to be in pristine condition. At least that was what it seemed to be until Link’s Hylian ears honed in on a defeaning cry: “My flock! Bastards took m’flock!” The unmistakably high-pitched voice could only be owned by one man. Descending from the ranch house’s porch in his long nightgown, Old Man Fado’s wide palms clutched sparse pockets of wild gray hair. Terminating the distance between Link and himself, he muttered every oath that old age had hitherto acquainted him with. Link’s eyes darted to the fenced pasture which once teemed with flocks of goats, now empty.

“What happened?” Link could curse himself for inquiring the obvious, but considering the rather unprecedented situation, a full account appeared necessary.

Old Man Fado, his eyes wild with anger and hatred, seemingly regarded Link for the first time. “’Bout four o’the bastards came from outta nowhere they did. Opened up m’fence and roped ‘em all. I sent Young Fado to the village to get help. I guess all they sent was you.” Old Man Fado all but spat at Link as his eyes beheld the awkward sight of a twelve year old boy in his white cotton work clothes wielding a military issue long sword. At any other time Link might have found himself blushing. However, the urgency of the situation, and the fact that Old Man Fado looked rather funny in his pink nightshirt, made his cheeks graciously refrain.
Link crooked a thumb back down the path towards the village. “The villagers were surrounded and they couldn’t come. Anymore riders here?”
Old Man Fado ignored his question as his neck veins exploded. “O’course they couldn’t come. I guess his honor the Mayor was too busy gettin’ his beauty sleep after a midnight snack. Couldn’t get his three hundred pound backside o’pig fat outta bed to bother with helpin’ protect the one thing ‘at puts this damn village on the map. Makes ya wonder what ya elected him fer.” Old Man Fado’s rant thankfully began its slow decrescendo until he spied young Fado nearly trip over the crest of the hill followed by Bo moving at speed that bellied his bulk. As the increasingly loud jingle of chainmail, Bo’s eyes narrowed as he recognized Link. A quick glance at Bo’s expression, contorted with both concern and fury, confirmed to Link that the old coot was probably angrier than he had ever seen him. In that moment Link wondered if it was such a bad fate to be abducted by Bulblins after all.

Old Man Fado suddenly went wide-eyed again as contempt contorted the angular features of his withered face into an exaggerated scowl. “M’hero!” he spat, literally, this time. He continued, “Good thing ya got here now, if ya’d have made it here earlier ya might’ve had to actually fight.” Bo quickly narrowed the little remaining distance between he and Fado and moved close enough that Bo’s superior height and weight sent a clear but subtle message. Link saw Bo inhale sharply before he began.
“Yer boy here said you were havin’ some trouble. S’cuze me if I didn’t drop m’weapon at once to herd yer livestock; had the village to save, ya see.”

Whatever delicate composure Old Man Fado had in reserve instantly evaporated. Though he was only half Bo’s height and at least a couple of decades older, Link was surprised as he drew himself up high enough to crook a jagged finger squarely into Bo’s face. “M’livestock was the village! Or do I have to remind yer honor where ya get yer milk, yer animal skins, yer dairy, and yer meat? We got nuthin’ left to trade save yer Goddess-forsaken apple bushels. On second thought, ya got any milk in that fat gut o’yers?” he none too gently poked the bulge protruding from Bo’s mailed midsection. Link and any rational observer could easily discern that Old Man Fado was behaving like an old goat himself as he lashed out in resentment. However, Link had to concede a point to the crazed old man: Ordon owed its livelihood to the goat ranch. It was still difficult to believe that the same livelihood could vanish in a single night due to roaming monstrous appetites.

Link could tell that Bo was trying his utmost to clear his voice of cynicism, though he knew the effort was only half successful. “Fado, I’m sorry, but I was elected to save people, not the backside o’yer animals.” Link was getting somewhat frustrated that nobody seemed to care about the goats themselves. Memories came unbidden from the recesses of Link’s mind remembering the old goat he had ridden three years ago. Despite the fact that responsibility was not exactly one of his virtues, he couldn’t help but believe that had he intervened when his instincts propelled him to, the fence would still be filled with those goats.

Fado waved a flustered palm dismissively and stammered out, “Oh, ne’er ya mind. Get yer boys together so we can go after ‘em.”

Bo crooked a graying eyebrow. “S’cuse me?”

Old Man Fado looked at both Link, the son who bore his name, and finally at Bo in melodramatic confusion. “What? Ya just planned to let ‘em get away?”

Bo crossed his arms and stared right at Fado. “And ya planned on running and catchin’ up with ‘em Bullbos a’ foot?”

Fado’s gaze never faltered. “If ya got any better suggestions, I’m open to ‘em.”

Bo nodded and planted fists on wide hips. “How about staying home and not make yerself a walkin’ target? We’ll get ya yer goats back.”

Old Man Fado’s lips curled into an expression redefining disgusting as Young Fado approached his side, hands placed firmly on his hips in copied indignation. “How exactly do ya plan on that?” Link turned back towards Bo. It was a very good question.

Bo continued his perpetual staring war with Old Man Fado. Despite Fado’s clear abandonment of reason, it was a fair question. “I’ll take care of it. We’ll talk it over with ‘em. They’re just hungry and folks ain’t exactly linin’ up to invite ‘em to dinner.” Link arched an eyebrow. The idea of Bulblins being poor, rejected restaurateurs who took to a nomadic lifestyle of pillaging as a last resort seemed nothing short of silly. In Link’s mind, the reasoning was clear: Bulblins pillaged because they could. Despite this silly reasoning, he considered the idea that his uncle was just bluffing to calm the raving geriatric down.

“I think I got a better idea for ya, Mr. Mayor; get yer best boys together, give ‘em whatever weapons ya got, and we attack their camp and kill all o’the monsters.” Despite the clear lack of forethought in both planning and articulation, there would be something intrinsically satisfying about returning the favor to the Bulblins. Young Fado apparently thought so as he began popping broad-fisted knuckles, cracking the silence that had resumed since the Bulblins’ departure.

Bo had lost patience. Link thought that thirteen years of careful observation and experimentation had well-acquainted him with the full spectrum of Bo’s emotions. This raw fury that was emanating from Bo was a frontier that frankly Link wished that he never acquainted himself with. A meaty but powerful hand burst out from Bo’s rigid posture and grapped Old Man Fado’s arm none too gently. “Listen ‘ere: I am goin’ to get yer goats back, but only because I like yer flock better than I like you. Have ya considered the fact that they didn’t really try to hurt anybody? Sure they roughed us up, but the pretty much avoided injurin’ or killin’ us. What ya think their reaction’ll be once we come in and try to kill’em all? What if they got bigger groups o’buddies further north?” Bracing himself, he continued. “Fado, ya got two choices: get yer goats back or killin’ ‘em all. Can’t have both. Ya wanna kill ‘em? Fine. You and yer boy can go right now and I’ll send Link here in the mornin’ lookin’ for what’s left of ya. Or ya can trust me to get yer goats back.”

Old Man Fado’s eyes betrayed a mixture of anguish and rage. As Link observed insecurity battling years of barricaded pride within the old man’s features, Young Fado moved to his elder’s side, seemingly priming himself for the hopeless battle. Link observed Old Man Fado steal a sidelong glance at his namesake, heard a breathy grumble, and finally Link realized that reason had descended on the gentrified rancher. The old man attempted to martial all his reserves of righteous indignation and authority, but instead this tired and pathetic display only underscored his exhaustion and impotence. “Fine, Bo. We’ll try it yer way.” He finally managed, but then with redoubled vigor added “But if they ain’t back by sundown tomorrow, I’m gatherin’ up everybody and killin’ the entire lot o’the bastards.”

Link knew that Bo did not share his macabre amusement in imagining Old Man Fado with his obnoxious son wading through dense forest trying to kill over a dozen Bulblins with farm tools. Bo instead stared ahead, eyes fixed over the horizon as Fado and company turned and stomped back toward their ranch house.

As the awkward pair departed, the sense of purpose and clarity of mind that had guided Link here ebbed from his body, loosening his grip on a now noticeably heavy sword. The moment Bo heard the lock of a open door click behind the disappearance of the duo, he caused Link to nearly jump, startled with the ferocity with which he turned on him. “What part of ‘stay ‘till I say so’ don’t ya understand, boy?”

Link’s expression turned rather sheepish as he realized that it was a somewhat valid question. He decided that it would probably be a bad idea to make the rhetorical argument that Bo failed to appropriately define where to stay. Link also realized, given Bo’s quite livid expression, it would also be a bad idea to attempt a self-justified explanation for his unauthorized presence. Therefore, Link sighed and mentally resigned himself to his fate: “It just didn’t seem right. Why all the effort to rough us up? I was assuming that the Bulblins were here for more than just to ride around in a circle for a quarter of an hour. There had to be another reason so I felt I should come here.”

Bo’s pupils seemed to dilate in anger. “Where ya should have been, kid, is with Ilia back at the house.” Bo’s anger seem to compound as his eyes made contact with the blade protruding from Link’s clenched fist. Bo’s restraint vanishing, his heavy hand darted out and grappled the blade’s handle out of Link’s grip. “An’ this you’ll never be old enough to use.” As Bo turned to take Link coarsely by the arm, his eyes caught the silhouette of a figure standing on the side of a cliff to the south of the ranch. The faint moonlight haloed his brown cloak, and Bo thought he could make out the ends of a heavy mustache emerge from the hood of the cloak. Recognition flooding into Bo’s features. He glanced at Link, back at the figure, before finally turning back toward his house with renewed urgency.

Curiosity over what startled Bo began to diminish as Link came to an uncomfortable realization. Concepts like guilt and self-righteousness were before tonight foreign to him. Link either got caught for misbehaving or he got away. Good behavior was something of a game that you played with adults to give them a sense of their own treasured authority. What he was vaguely aware of was despite the fact he was in trouble, he did not feel guilt. He did not feel apathy either. He felt indignant. He felt right. If this entire situation replayed itself tomorrow night, Link would be darting out the door again. Regardless of what Bo thought, that was the right thing to do. As Link and Bo silently neared their house, the blind respect for Bo that had been under trial since he forced Link to remain in the house was shattered.
________________________________________

As dawn outlined the canopy of Ordon Forest, a haggard old man in a pink night dress refused to retire after a night of ceaseless pacing. The slow attritional assault of sleep-deprived wrinkles made their mark on his already aged face, and wild tufts of hair were even wilder and more unkempt than usual. Old Man Fado was approaching the end of his sanity as his imagination was running wild with images of his and his entire family’s impoverishment. As silly as it sounded, his goats were the bedrock of life in the forest. And they were gone, forcibly nabbed to satisfy the whimsical appetite of monstrous demons.

As these apocalyptic foreshadowings reached their most fantastic extrapolations, Old Man Fado thought he could hear, in his delirium, the faint bleating of a goat. Dismissing it as the idle fancy of an insomniac mind, Fado began another internal monologue of self-pity until he heard it again. As light craned over the treetops, Fado opened the window of his sitting room allowing ancient eyes to probe the open fields. Rubbing his eyes and suspecting his own sanity, he attempted to counsel his senses on what he was witnessing. His entire flock filed single file back into an empty, fenced enclosure. Fado’s mind listed a hundred possibilities that would have caused his flock to return; escape, release, the goats attacking their captors, and eating them. Suddenly every fanciful notion of their return seemed plausible. It was perhaps for this reason that he believed a brown cloaked figure leading them to their pen was but an apparition.
Though Fado knew he should bolt out the door and inspect the condition of each goat, the only action he could manage was sitting in his most comfortable chair as eyelids inevitably closed in their descent into sleep.
________________________________________

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His Fist
Chapter V
Autumn
Nightfall
Seven Years Ago

Myths and legends from thousands of different cultures make conclusions that eventually take root as common sense. One bit of common sense that most myths made a consensus on was the generally sinister aura surrounding dense forests. Superstition aside, this was a reasonable conclusion. The forest was a harbor for the unrestrained instincts of nature; life forms competing for survival at the expense of another. Nature’s law of indiscriminate predation ran contradictory to every law of sentience. However, sentient beings did not avoid the depths of the forest solely to escape the cruel jurisdiction of nature’s laws. Whether it was consciously noted or not, there was a deeply set notion in the psyche of sentience that the forest represented something oppositional to civilization. Furthermore, it represented hostility to it. Hyrule’s southern forests’ tall canopy was a lone battlement to stem the tide of the expansion of civilization. It was impermeable. Zanji realized that was why he loved it.

Common sense dictated that moving through the labyrinth of ancient trees in the middle of the night was foolhardy. Ancient trails had long been overrun with underbrush taking advantage of their amblers’ long absence. A lantern would have rectified the impassibility and would have invited illumination, but also would it have invited unwanted attention, even during the peak of night. This is why Zanji walked with neither lantern nor torch into the night; his feet deftly caressing uneven earth with all the expertise and familiarity that living for over a decade in the forest imparts. Zanji afforded himself a glance to the heavens; a lone sailor circumnavigating an arboreal sea by the faint glimmer of starlight and the fleeting gleam of a golden waxing moon.

Zanji believed that if an onlooker spotted him he would be instantly reminded of stories of ancient mages or witches casting their hexes by moonlight in the deep recesses of the wood. Humorously, that primeval fear was Zanji’s assurance of his complete anonymity. Zanji dismissed the thought. Tonight he had a greater matter to fear than the detection of an insomniac onlooker. Fate was an acquaintance he had long neglected and tonight, for better or for worse, it would finally catch up.

Arriving at the edge of a small clearing he halted and did what he had grown particularly accustomed to for over a decade: he waited. Zanji’s wizened hazel eyes probed the deep recesses of the trees for movement, and pointed ears reached out into the night, slowly filtering through the faint chirping of the cricket, the faint flapping of fowl, or the somber symphony of unwilling branches swaying against increasingly chilled winds. He waited until two restless ears twitched at a slow and steady rhythm, so faint as to challenge the meaning of sound. The crunching of dried leaves, the cracking of discarded branches, and the groggy stirrings of woodland creatures approached closer. Then, Zanji saw midnight-blue cloth slip slowly out of the trees and into the clearing, letting moonlight announce its appearance. The figure underneath the blue cloak stood motionless for an indeterminable amount of time before it finally spoke.

“Were you followed?” the voice, like gentle iron queried.

Zanji shook his head and allowed his concealed face a smile. “Thank the Goddesses it’s even past Ganondorf’s bedtime.”

The figure slowly shook a hooded head. “He never sleeps,” it replied with bitterness.

Zanji’s humor briefly evaporated to be replaced by concern. “Are you well?”

Midnight-Blue nodded wordlessly as it stepped further into the clearing. A gloved hand reached up to unpeel the hood, unfurling short cloud-tinted hair and letting it shimmer as moonlight cascaded down cropped locks. Red eyes burned into Zanji’s hazel ones as naked lips, slightly wrinkled from the light kiss of age, compressed into a thin red line. A proud, well-chiseled face crowned a well-toned, muscular physique.

Zanji smiled beamingly. “By the Goddesses, even with circumstances being what they are, it’s almost good to see you, Impa.”

Impa nodded again, her expression betraying nothing. “I’m glad you received my message,” she finally managed tersely. Zanji mentally cursed. After all these long years he had forgotten what it was like to deal with Impa.

“In truth, I was going to contact you soon enough. Link’s training will begin soon.” If Impa had any interest in that matter, her dour expression did not indicate it.

“The Princess is in danger,” she said evenly. Zanji must have thought that it was pathetic in a way. Despite the innumerable past occasions he had heard the exact same statement, it never failed to flood horror induced adrenaline into his veins.

His voice went deadly. “Ganondorf?”

Impa shook her head. “If he was truly concerned with her she’d already be dead.” Zanji breathed a small sigh of relief at that consolation.

“What sort of danger?” Zanji inquired as humor vacated from an increasingly strained face.

“Some of our dwindling allies in the Imperial Palace sent word that one of Ganondorf’s retainers has been allowed to investigate the Harkinians,” she said with faint apprehension in her voice.

“Who’s the retainer?”

“A Mage-Lord named Vaati. He was appointed governor of several outlying provinces-- Ordon included.”

“Knowing Ganondorf, he didn’t appoint a Mage-Lord as governor to delight children with magic tricks. He’s here to crack down. I suppose the royal family is the easiest target. Is there an arrest warrant issued?” he inquired.

“We don’t think so, but the first real indication we’ll have is when his legionaries break down the door and seize all of us. We don’t even know what exactly they are investigating.” Impa’s form was rigid, but her low, icy tone betrayed wounded pride at the helplessness of her circumstance.
“I do. They are investigating that bit of daredevilry you pulled at the end of last year. Did you seriously think they would have turned a blind eye?” Zanji all but groaned out the indictment. Impa’s expression remained impassive, but Zanji’s wizened eyes detected an almost imperceptible twitch that snaked its way across her hollow cheeks.

“We’ve been over this before, haven’t we? We were aware of the risks involved. It was the best opportunity to defeat the Empire militarily while we were strong.” The slow rise of shoulders that accompanied an undetectable deep sigh was all that indicated Impa’s discomfort. “We failed and now we are paying the price.” He lowered his gaze and fixed hazel eyes filled with condemnation on his old friend.

“And the Zora? What price did they pay?”

Impa’s twitch was now slightly more obvious. “Too high.” Zanji patiently awaited a more detailed index of the losses until Impa finally indulged him. “We have no word on the royal family but—“

“How many dead?” he asked, courageously suppressing his mounting frustration.

“At least 16,000 soldiers killed. Probably more wounded and captured. We have no word on civilians. What little word we did receive was from a Zora officer named Zodac who assumed command after all the generals were killed. They surrendered immediately.”

Zanji’s gloved fingers twisted the end of a bushy mustache. “What of the hundreds of local rebellions? What of their losses?”

Impa steeled herself and inhaled sharply. “We don’t know.”

Zanji’s lips morphed into a grimace. “So you used the Zoras who don’t have an interest in who’s on the throne, you used villagers who aren’t quite sure a throne exists, and now you want to use me after I gave the throne most of the years of what will probably be too short a life. Too bad; I was looking forward to being the crazy old man who lives in the woods.

What do you want me to do?”

Without hesitation, words tumbled out of Impa. Coming from anybody else, her tone would be construed as one delivering a calmly collected petition, but for Impa, her tone was one of frenzied anxiety. “We need to hide the Princess in Ordon; at least for a few months.”

Unfortunately for Zanji, Impa’s Hylian ears could hear his low grumbling response. “I’m not sure that’s the best idea.”

Red eyes burned, that silent anger. “We have no choice Zanji.”
Zanji’s eyes glanced skyward in a silent appeal for divine guidance as he looked back at Impa. “Have you thought through this? If you bring the Princess to Ordon, it might set in motion events that we cannot control.”
Impa was undeterred. “If something happens to the Princess, we won’t be able to control anything anyway.”

Zanji groaned as he pondered furiously. “Surely she would be safer elsewhere. The Gorons would—“

She lifted up a palm to cut him off. “Do we risk the same destruction on them as the Zora?”

He arched a bushy eyebrow. “And would you risk the same on the people of Ordon? On Link?”

“If we could send her anywhere else, rest assured, we would,” she said, grounding out each syllable. Dropping her red-eyed gaze, her expression sobered. For a brief moment Zanji swore that he saw the memory of his old friend from years past through her semi-permanent scowl visage. Impa allowed her lips to curl into, what was for her, a smile. “Besides, as Link has one of the greatest generals in Hyrule as his teacher, I’m sure he could be an asset.”

Zanji shrugged the compliment away, but smiled nonetheless. “One of the greatest former generals. Well, I have not exactly mentored him yet. He is untrained in the martial arts.”

Impa’s brow furrowed. “So you’re saying the boy you are resting all your hopes on cannot even wield a sword?”

Zanji shrugged. “What I’m saying, Impa, is that this boy needs to live a little and find out who he is before he has to worry about saving anyone, let alone the entire world. That might put just a little pressure on a boy. Besides, I don’t exactly like raising trained killers.”

“You mean if his destiny is to save the world,” she countered, her goodwill now absent from her leaden voice. “You are trying to change the past while living in the present. You cannot allow yourself that luxury. Link could be the prophesized hero of legend; he also could be a born failure. Either way, he is not an opportunity to absolve past sins.”
Zanji shrugged, his brown cloak rippling in the chilled wind as he did so. “Don’t presume to judge.”

Impa was undeterred. “I know he’s a boy. I know that the trap we laid for the Fist pitted the finest warriors in the Zora Domain against him. I know they all died in vain trying to assassinate him. What can a boy offer against that?”

Zanji frowned as he realized that Impa’s question was quite reasonable. He paused and thought of the rambunctious, impulsive, and utterly ungovernable Link; the Link he had silently observed and protected the last thirteen years of his life. Despite his immaturity, his proclivity toward pranks and his general irresponsibility in regards to . . . well—everything, Zanji realized that for some reason that only the Goddesses knew he was fond of the boy. He had no idea what Link’s potential was as a warrior, let alone if he could ever defeat the Fist. However, he also remembered months ago a boy dart out of his house in the middle of the night, ready to defeat whatever threatened his tiny village of goat keepers and apple farmers. He was foolish, and there was no refuting that; but Zanji saw that as a virtue. Not the stupidity per se, but a sort of blind devotion to an uncomplicated sense of right and wrong, not yet by thoughts of relativism or grayness. Link did not have great martial talents to offer—not yet anyway. What he did offer was a near ornery sense of self-righteousness that wedded him to whatever he put his small stubborn brain to. Zanji loved him for that. Somehow, he did not see Impa capable of understanding that.

“He will not fight the Fist as a boy,” Zanji countered, more a hope than a statement of fact.

“I only hope the Fist is aware of your itinerary,” Impa quipped skeptically.
“The boy has potential,” he offered, remembering Link’s exploits at Ordon’s ranch months ago. “He’ll not disappoint us so long as we have faith.”

Impa, not satisfied, bore into Zanji with burning molten pupils. “I only hope you’re right.” He exhaled deeply, his breath visible in the cold autumnal night. An impasse. It was obvious she did not trust the old general or Link. Until Link came of age and disproved her doubts, there would be no need to try academically to convince her otherwise.
“I will meet you back here in exactly three weeks time. I will find accommodations for the Princess while you sort out this crisis of yours.”
Silence greeted Zanji’s reply, until Impa, almost reluctantly, spoke. “Thank you.” Any form of gratitude coming from Impa sounded overly pained, endearingly undergirding its sincerity. Turning to leave, Impa craned her head back toward Zanji, insecurity taking hold on her face. “Zanji, there’s something you should know about the Princess….”
________________________________________

Autumn
Seven Years Ago

“. . . and so the 27th Legion was able to assail the battlements without sustaining an unacceptable ratio of losses. The forward columns of the vanguard met with some brief native resistance before suppressionary artillery was triangulated on their position. This resulted in heavy collateral damage to the city and tragic but necessary civilian casualties. However, the successful storming operation resulted in attaining complete control of both the citadel, the surrounding city, and….”
Despite his best efforts, Imperial Procurator Vaati squirmed under the dull monotone from the droning military commander, consuming his precious time with the none-too interesting nuances of the latest military campaign. While a yawn might have been the most honest feedback Vaati could have offered the frustratingly high-pitched officer, he knew that it would reverberate noisily within the massive cavernous war room. It was here that the Empire’s highest ranking military commanders met to coordinate the most powerful army in the world in its annual campaigns of spreading civilization. Sitting at a finely chiseled round stone table which could comfortably sit nearly forty people, maps were cascaded, seemingly at random. Each map was populated with small wooden figures representing armies separated across hundreds of miles. It rather looked like a child’s toy set, which made it all the more impressive to imagine that each of the several dozen figures represented legions numbering in the thousands of soldiers each. Contrasting the black stone that composed the walls and table of the chamber was a domed ceiling that was adorned with the most impressive artistic expression known to the world; a fresco that composed the entirety of the dome, depicting the history of the Empire and its conquests from its beginning to relatively recent events. The events rounded the dome, orbiting one unmistakable figure: the World Emperor Ganondorf. It was too bad that the artistic power of the fresco was difficult to appreciate in the midst of the officer’s somewhat uninspired recitation.

Vaati found it tragic that military officers reduced something as inherently stimulating as conquest into monotony. The collective disinterest in the war room was such that it was as if the officers assembled in the war room in the Imperial Palace were discussing the paving of a road rather than the conquest of a civilization. Vaati had grown so bored by now that he had forgotten what new chunk of territory the Empire had actually conquered. Was it Atalea? Al-Taria? Altea? He could no longer remember, nor frankly did it matter that another rustic piece of land had been added to the Empire’s ever expanding “collection” of geography. Since the birth of the Dragmire Imperium thirteen years ago, it had rapidly expanded thanks to superior technology and weaponry, the Emperor Ganondorf’s strategic and administrative acumen, and the generalship and brutality of His Fist. The combination of the three had produced the most powerful political entity in history, eclipsing the whimsical splendor of the old Kingdom of Hyrule. In fact, the only real problem with the Imperium was that it was growing too fast.
If the Zora Rebellion of the previous year indicated anything, it was that technical superiority in battle was no substitute for warm uniformed bodies who could ensure domestic stability in conquered territories. Though the Empire had over one million sentient beings marching under its banners, all but 100,000 were deployed in campaigns or constabulary duties in the provinces. The Zora Rebellion, occurring in such close proximity to the Imperial capital, was the first major threat to the Empire’s stability since the great Hylian Civil War. The suppression of the rebellion was flawless, demonstrating once again the martial superiority of the Emperor’s armies. However, the strategic implications of the rebellion transformed the usually ebullient atmosphere in the war room into anxiety. The Empire was just stretched too thin. Thanks to the machinations of the Harkinians, discontent was spreading throughout the provinces. Due to the huge amount of territory that had to be defended, the Empire did not have the manpower resources to deal with a widespread rebellion.

Interrupting his wild boredom-induced thoughts, Imperial Chamberlain Blaaz began speaking in his age-tempered murmur: “Thank you, Legate-General Halkius.” Vaati frowned as he realized that he had not even noticed the commander had stopped speaking. Blaaz continued, “His Imperial Majesty was pleased with the swift extermination of the Zora Rebellion at the end of last year. However, the Emperor is angered that the Zora Rebellion and other provincial uprisings were allowed to propagate unhindered.” Blaaz looked around the black stone round table at the twenty-four military commanders to make the implied threat more evident before continuing. “With this development and given that the campaign season has adjourned until spring of the following year, His Majesty is open to recommendations on strategy.”

The assembled commanders looked about the vast war room uncomfortably. Despite the fact that every major race in the Imperium was represented in their number, they were united in their expressions of anxiety. Their eyes darted toward Blaaz and then back at one another, knowing that meritorious thinking and high treason was a rather subjective distinction. Vaati thought their discomfort humorous. Each knew the Emperor’s rather low threshold for incompetence.
A human legate-general, Egrogian, seemed to somehow manage to combine impermeable self-confidence with brimming anxiety as he rose and steeled himself. “Lord Chamberlain, in my opinion these rebellions have risen and will continue rising for the same basic reason: leniency. Low taxes, home-rule, fixed prices on basic necessities: most have never had it so good.” Vaati found it entertaining that a legate-general, the highest military rank in the Empire, could exercise high office without purging plebian diction. Then again, from what little Vaati knew of Egrogian, he was not the conversational sort. “But they continue to rebel. Why? Because they know we’re lenient. And dissidents know that leniency is the same as weakness. I think it time to think long and hard about a military solution to this problem. My legions could begin launching reprisals at the centers of these rebellions with acceptable losses. I can guarantee that further rebellions will not occur.”

Halkius, the same human legate-general who performed the stimulating briefing only moments ago stood. Even for a general he likes to hear himself bark, Vaati thought to himself. He also vowed silently that should he ever be in a position of power, he would kill Halkius immediately. It should be a capital offense to be so irredeemably dull. Vaati prepared his battered attention span as Halkius opened his damnable mouth. “Lord Chamberlain, I must respectfully disagree with my colleague. While I concede the point that calculated violence against the rebellions and the civilian infrastructure that supports them would be beneficial in the short term, I believe it would be counter productive in the long term. The question I respectfully submit is what will happen domestically when our legions leave? The populations will naturally revert back to dissension. The alternative would be to permanently base large garrisons of our legions in our strategic hinterland. I don’t believe I need to remind you gentlemen of the disastrous strategic consequences that would offer: a shortage of manpower for necessary campaigns. While I will not argue that strategic acts of domestic violence would be beneficial….” Vaati sighed in relief. For a moment he was worried that in addition to being verbose, Halkius was also becoming sentimental. “…that being a policy in and of itself without any other military or political solutions is, I think, a disastrous long term policy.”

Egrogian arched his shoulders defiantly as he stood. He straightened out the black tunic that all officers wore, but in doing so he projected his chest forward as if to convey his point simply by showing off the vast numbers of medals and ribbons adorning the upper portion of his tunic. “With all due respect, Lord Chamberlain, I have no due respect for that idea. General Halkius, you say that we need political solutions for the rebellions. What do you suggest we do? Exempt them from taxation? Dole food? Bribe them? Allow them complete independence from the Imperium? Why bother having an Imperium if you can’t act imperial? Your idea allows deranged farmers to hold the Empire hostage to their ingratitude.”

Vaati looked at Blaaz who he could imagine, even concealed under his black cowl, smiling at the beauty of political in-fighting. The thought made Vaati want to call upon his sorcery to unleash a massive ball of fire across the room to kill the old vagrant. He briefly pondered the academic question of whether there was enough living matter left in the ancient fool that would actually provide fuel enough to burn. After concluding that there was not, Vaati shifted his focus to the military melodrama unfolding before him.

Halkius stood, crinkling his nose while contorting his expression, making the small waxed mustache look more ridiculous than it already did. “I am not condemning your proposal, General Egogian. I merely question its utility. I think we must remember that most of the rebellions are no longer concentrated solely among disaffected Hylians and other such riff-raff.” Vaati suddenly felt particularly self-conscious about his thankfully concealed pointed ears. “These are human rebellions. If this is an indication of sizeable dissatisfaction among the largest population demographic, then we best tread lightly.”

The Moblin legate-general Karuna wheezed, the nostrils of his boar head flaring in what Vaati believed amounted to an expression as close to excitement as a Moblin could physiologically manage. “You’re all wrong. Why waste time to hit all the rebellions? Furthermore, why coddle the wretches? Just pick one city or village and raze it to the ground. Kill everybody.” The Moblin general pounded the cold black stone of the round table, managing to shake it to the discomfort of all around him. The Moblins were utilized as the Emperor’s fanatical shock troopers due to their unwavering loyalty and for their unrivaled brute strength. Their philosophy rather mirrored their attributes: bold, direct, and unsubtle. Despite the bloodlust, malice, and utter depravity shining in the Moblin general’s pale yellow eyes, Vaati found him quite admirable.
Suddenly tiring of this game, Vaati decided that he finally had enough. Standing and making a nearly invisible bow to indicate how little respect he had for the generals’ collective intelligence, Vaati gestured to the Imperial Chamberlain. “My Lord Chamberlain, I humbly submit that we may actually desire subjects to rule over after squashing the rebellions.” The comment drew both derisive snorts and genuine chuckles from his martial audience. Many of the generals had not even bothered to conceal the fact that Vaati’s presence in their strategy sessions as a Procurator—in other words a gutless politician-- was a barely tolerated insult to their military profession. For this creature to have the unrestrained gall to make utterances was, to some of the generals, a mortal sin. Undeterred, Vaati decided to put the generals through as much pain as he had sustained listening to them for the last several hours.

“Do not mistake me; I concur with you gentlemen that traitors and rebels must be brought to justice by being dissected into tiny pieces. I do not argue with that. Nor do I argue that strategic violence is a poor option. In my opinion, violence accomplishes what simply needs to be accomplished. However, what I distinguish between is not the application of violence, but where that violence is applied.

“Attacking the remnants of scattered rebellions will only temporarily suppress a larger systemic problem, one that begins with the pretentious ilk of the former royal family, the Harkinians. It was not a temporal coincidence that the Zora rebellion and other insurrections erupted at the same time—they were orchestrated by their royal-majesties-in-exile.” He paused, letting his words echo and rebound off the huge domed ceiling. “We are discussing the extermination of entire cities. Wonderful. You are going to have to exterminate every city and hamlet as long as the Harknians can wield an alternative source of authority. Given this, it would be fruitless to adopt any strategy without orienting it around the detention of the entire family.”

Halkius grimaced at the suggestion, gingerly plucking the point of his waxed mustache. “The Imperial Procurator’s points are well taken, but is he suggesting that the City of Kakariko, the last truly Hylian city, will simply stand by and watch as we capture their sovereigns? Call me a fool, but I think that will be somewhat difficult to manage.”

Vaati could not resist: “Then you are a fool. I neither have the ambition nor the desire to pour the better part of the Imperial legions into the fortified gates of a walled metropolis. You are presuming that I intend to nab them in their home territory. I believe, General Halkius, that the first rule of warfare is to select your own battlefield. Thus the goal is to force them out of Kakariko and then to detain them. My spies have already given the Harkinians enough of an incentive to seek…an alternative residence for the time being.”

Halkius did not look swayed. “Let me clarify your proposal Procurator Vaati. You are advocating the detention of the Harkinian family upon their exit of Kakariko City. Is this correct?”

Vaati attempted to make the sarcasm in his voice less apparent. “Why, yes it is.”

Halkius nodded slightly before continuing. “Then, I feel it is necessary to ask something else: what do you intend to do with the family upon their detention? Do you really expect their allies in the House of Lords will just stand by and let their former sovereigns rot in the dungeons of the Imperial Palace? Do you not expect an even larger rebellion to erupt once it is revealed that Imperial forces oversaw the family’s detainment? If not then perhaps your assumption that the Harkinian family was at the root of these rebellions was incorrect, milord.” Halkius was pleased with himself. He thought he had boxed in the Imperial Procurator with rhetoric. This discussion was increasingly less about strategy, and more about ego, political favor, and dominance. Vaati relished it. He smiled, conceding nothing.

“Lord Chamberlain, I would respectfully like to submit another proposal: I offer that General Halkius is entirely correct, and that permanent detention of the Harkinian family may produce some…politically undesirable results. That is why I propose that the Harkinians not be detained permanently. Instead I offer that it would be desirable if military forces outside of the Imperium were contracted to eliminate the entire family. His Imperial Majesty’s government is thus able to avoid a scandal, the blame is conveniently placed on an unwitting third party, and we eliminate the largest source of domestic discontent in the Imperium.”
Egrogian’s eyes seemed to bulge out of his bald head. “You are saying we should kill the Princess?” Vaati knew as well as anybody that the military brass still had some divided loyalties about the royal family. Many, like Egrogian, had faithfully served the former Queen Zelda until her untimely death near the end of the Hylian Civil War. Men like Egrogian, stalwart though they were, seemed somewhat disturbed and afraid at the thought of cutting up the descendents of their former masters. Vaati sensed his conflicting loyalties and decided to publicly humiliate him for it.
“You have a problem eliminating threats to the Imperium, General Egrogian?” As Vaati looked around, he saw the eyes of multiple species united in apprehension. Finally, his eyes once again rested on Egrogian who swallowed pensively. Vaati awaited his choice between announcing treason and conceding the point. “No, Lord Procurator,” he finally managed in a near-desperate voice.

“Good, it would be a shame if suddenly the security of the Imperium became less important than protecting its enemies.” Vaati’s red eyes bored into the large man’s face for a while longer. It thrilled him to know that he reduced the hulking mass of muscle and bravado into a frightened child.

From the corner of his vision, Vaati detected Blaaz shift somewhat uncomfortably, no doubt dismayed with the degree that Vaati was controlling the situation. He crooked a seemingly decaying finger squarely at the Imperial Procurator. “Please continue, Lord Vaati.” It seemed to be more a command than a request, and, luckily for him, Vaati was in a mood to indulge the old fool.

“My apologies, Lord Chamberlain. Now that I have established the case for regicide, I think it pertinent to take note that this proposal cannot encompass the whole of our strategy. I agree with my esteemed colleagues….” Vaati could have sworn that he saw some of the generals shudder at the characterization. “…that a demonstration of the Imperium’s military might must be made. These rebels need to be reminded that being ruled by the Empire remains a privilege, and they will be reminded with force. That being said, I think it would be utterly wasteful to send our legions to raze Kakariko to the ground. I think we must hold off in making our example until we are able to increase the size of our forces to deal with any potentially negative consequences of such a demonstration.”

Halkius’ wide mouth expanded into disgust. “And how, milord, do you plan on that? The manpower of Castleton is nearly spent, as are Imperial settlements around Lake Hylia. The annual military contributions from the Gerudo, Zora, Hylians, Gorons, and every other species has been met and exceeded.” Deliberately, Halkius navigated his patrician face toward Karuna’s. “And we can only grow Moblins so fast.” Karuna snorted in anger as the other generals suppressed expressions of mirth.

“A fair question that is also part of the solution, General Halkius. By your own admission, we have nearly exhausted our pools of manpower in the Imperium’s heartland, and our tributary states have exceeded their yearly quotas. Thus, what territory is left that we could possibly recruit from? The outer provinces.”

Halkius’ eyes went wide as he digested the implications. “You are suggesting that we induct the very rebels we are fighting into the legions? You run the risk of spreading seditious elements throughout the entire army.”

“Not if they are evenly dispersed throughout the legions and are indoctrinated with a more “correct” view of the world. The small risk of mutiny aside, it removes a significant amount of rebels or potential rebels away from their homeland. Do you think that future rebellions would be frequent if we make it implicitly clear that good behavior in the provinces is required to guarantee the safety of family members in the legions? What we basically create is a policy of hostage taking; hostages who can fight for the Imperium in the interim.” Vaati was curious as to when this mentally-challenged general would concede defeat. Ego aside, Halkius was doing a particularly miserable job of undermining Vaati’s position.

“I dislike investing the security of the Empire in its enemies.” Other generals gave faint murmurings of support.

Vaati grinned as he nodded in false-empathy. Gathering his black cape about his purple tunic, he began making faint steps to his left toward the pouting general. “A fair point, General Halkius; and I dislike investing the security of the Empire in simpletons who are unable to see past their own erroneous thinking for the good of the state.”

As Halkius began making some sort of melodramatic motion to signal his displeasure, Blaaz’s ancient hand tightly clutched his golden scepter, clinging to his vestige of authority. “Enough, gentleman.” Vaati continued to stare at Halkius whose visage was consumed with self-righteous anger. How amusing. Finally Vaati relented and gracefully strode back toward his chair directly across the table from the Lord Chamberlain’s. “His Imperial Majesty will keep your considerations in mind for next year’s campaign season. I ask you return to your post and make sure that your forces are prepared to exceed this year’s successes. Good day, gentlemen.” Blaaz’s gavel slamming into the table was the final indication that the meeting was finally adjourned. Despite Vaati’s desire to contain his disappointment, part of it undoubtedly showed; nothing regarding his plan had been decided.

The legate-generals began filing out, none of them willing to make eye-contact with the angered Imperial Procurator. Vaati’s frustration increased as he realized that he and the Imperial Chamberlain were the sole occupants of the gigantic war room. Vaati forced himself to sublimate his extensive dislike of the Imperial Chamberlain for expediency’s sake.
“An interesting proposal, Lord Vaati.” Blaaz’s normally soft voice amplified off the highest point of the domed ceiling.

“I’m glad you think so, Lord Chamberlain.”

“Tell me, should His Imperial Majesty authorize the use of contracted forces to pursue a permanent solution to the Harkinians, what type of assurances can you offer that your plan will succeed?” Blaaz queried.
“Either I return with the head of the Princess, or I return with my life as forfeit,” he said, perhaps speaking too hastily before he pondered the consequences.

Blaaz peered into Vaati until it became far more than awkward. “See that you do, Lord Vaati.” Vaati cocked an eyebrow in slight confusion. As Blaaz turned the corner to step through the exit of the war room, he whispered, “Do it.”
________________________________________

________________________________________

His Fist
Chapter VI
Autumn
Seven Years Ago

The sun concluded its ascent, crowning over the wispy film of cloud, covering sheer rock cliffs that occasionally penetrated the atmospheric blanket. The sun, free from cloudy obfuscation, radiated rays of heat freely on the bustling city nestled between the snaking canyons and gullies that commanded the landscape. Cities were usually built with an eye toward defense with some being erected on elevated hills, some built with fences and walls, and some built with massive citadels and castles. Some cities were built with all three. However, Kakariko City was built on a scale unlike any other. Walls here were a silly extravagance, for the very earthen cliffs were an unconquerable rocky citadel, peaked by innumerable watch towers and barracks. The only unnatural barricades were at the entrances to the canyons themselves which were defended by iron gates, their hinges resting on polished, elegant white stone in the ancient Hylian style. Apartment complexes and small stucco houses huddled underneath the massive girth of red rock, the cliffs casting long shadows over their civic occupants. Kakariko was not a city that expanded outward; it expanded toward the heavens creating tiered levels of housing underneath their natural defenses. The tiers tightly encircling the cliff faces gradually wound to the summit where endless armed patrols scoured the approaches to the city for potential threats.

While the residents of Kakariko have been accused of paranoia, such sentiments are not irrational. Among the tiers climbing to the sky, among the crushing mass of life moving in the compact city, and among the ever-vigilant watch towers and border patrols waits the last remnant of a dying people; the last bastion of the Hylians. It was a particularly humiliating bastion. Far-flung from the lush plains and wide-vibrant streets of the old capital of Castleton, the Hylians were instead burrowed in an arid, crowded, and impoverished plot of rock and dirt. The only connection that the city truly held with their ancient dominion of Hyrule was fading memory and the tattered remnants of the Hylian monarchy—the Harkinian family. For the Hylians, hopelessness was the order of the day, and this was compounded for those keeping watch in the towers as the sun’s oppressive rays wrenched thick drops of sweat from bleeding pores. Even the fire-eyed figure standing on top of the tallest look-out tower felt uncomfortable.

The figure’s focus was uninterrupted as a thick droplet of sweat coursed its way off a sand-tinged lock of hair and over a red, flaming eye. As the salty drop entered a burning iris, the figure refrained from blinking knowing that it would break marshaled concentration. The figure’s foot perched toward the edge of the stucco tower as two fiery eyes descended their gaze to the city below. They ignored the endless mailed soldiers on patrol, the obnoxiously loud merchants competing with one another on who had the greater bluster, and the legions of children performing their daily mischief. The eyes were fixed instead on curled red hair caped over an elegant pink dress, ornamented with golden embroidery and jewelry; the eyes were fixed on the exiled Princess of Hyrule.

Beneath a bleached cloth wrapping, the figure smirked. Frustrating common sense and wisdom, the Princess lived a life brimming with routine, and like clockwork at a quarter till midday the Princess always emerged from her family manor to mingle with her “subjects.” Parading through the center of the town’s bustling market place, the Princess would wave a cupped hand as the mostly Hylian Kakarikans paid homage to their sovereign. Flanked by two armored guards, a relic of the former Hyrulean Royal Guard, the Princess would predictably stop to hear the grievances of the destitute and promise to do anything in her very limited power to alleviate their misery.

Amber eyes narrowed as the Princess stopped at the entrance to an alleyway where a haggard looking beggar sat crumpled on a littered roadway, pleading meekly for alms to be placed in a wooden mug. The figure could not discern what exactly was being said at such great distance, but the Princess kneeled down and began an exchange with the beggar. The Princess nodded as the beggar seemed to finish talking, turning toward her bodyguards who in turn bowed toward their sovereign and left.

The figure’s smirk contorted into a grimace: the Princess had provided an opening. As the Princess continued to converse with the beggar, the figure’s eyes made out a faint blur of motion less than a few yards away. A large heavy-set man with meaty muscles apparent even from a high altitude suddenly found the Princess and he suddenly found her conversation far more interesting than the apple he was previously eating. He tossed the fruit aside and slowly made his way toward the noticeably vulnerable monarch. The figure frowned. If “Muscles” was making an attempt to nab the Princess, he was doing a pretty miserable job.

He was slow; too slow.

And that’s when it happened. As attention shifted from “Muscles” to the concealed, small, wiry man lying in wait in the alley, the figure understood the game they were playing. “Shorty,” roused by the recent blur of activity, began to stalk toward the quite oblivious Princess.
Shorty abruptly grabbed her from around the waist, evoking a high pitched scream as her body contorted and resisted wildly within his grasp. Shorty began to tug her away and move her down the alley as Muscles deflected any would-be rescuers. The Princess continued to flail wildly, kicking haphazardly until her white slippers were cast off her feet.
Abruptly the figure perched high on the tower steadied the polished wood and steel that constituted a long-range crossbow. Steadying it, the figure fastened the end of a twined rope near the fletching of a loaded crossbow bolt. Securing the other end of the rope to a stucco pillar in the watchtower, the figure aimed the weapon toward the city below, and fired.
The bolt coursed through the midday air, tugging the fibrous rope in its wake until the bolt finally came to a rest within a wooden sign post inside the alley. Giving the rope a tug to ensure its security, the figure almost seemed to spontaneously generate an iron hook. Placing tense hands within an iron loop at the base of the hook, it was secured against the rope’s steeply declining slope. Standing at the edge of the tower, giving the ground several hundred feet below another glance, the figure transferred weight from taut legs to gripping hands, and raced toward the city below.

As the hook scraped against the rope’s delicate fibers, and as the speed of descent grew with every second, it seemed that all of Kakariko stared skyward, gripped in collective fear; all but one. The crazy being careening down a precariously fastened rope was not the least bit perturbed of the fact that shooting stars now appeared sluggish by comparison, or the fact that the ground seemed to grow exponentially in the pupils of furiously focused eyes. What this figure feared was that the aim was slightly miscalculated.

Those fears were dismissed as an extended leg made contact with Shorty’s shoulder, making a high pitched crack as bone was ripped from its socket. The Princess was instantly cast out of Shorty’s now limp arms as she skidded across the ground in a less than dignified manner. Letting go of the hook after coming to a complete stop near Shorty’s dislocated shoulder, the figure diverted an inferno gaze toward Muscles. Suddenly losing confidence in his monopoly of force, Muscles forced his way through the gathering throngs of people until he vanished from sight. The Princess stirred from her resting place on the ground, her porcelain features seemingly preserving their nobility despite the smear of dirt and blood.

“Sheik, wh--”

The figure’s eyes seem to instantaneously lose their fire, replaced by a soft violet. Arms, previously spring-loaded to attack with deadly precision, abandoned their violent ambition. Legs that had moments before rent bone came to rest. Suddenly Sheik, bodyguard of the royal family, became once again an adolescent girl. “Your Highness, can you walk?” Sheik demanded diplomatically.

The Princess, still mentally processing the last minute, managed a bewildered “Yes.”

“Then I suggest we find more hospitable company—quickly.” Though Sheik’s voice was muffled from her facial cloth, her otherwise courtly tone commanded authority. The Princess nodded as her royal bodyguards finally arrived at her side, taking a screaming Shorty into their custody. Sheik scattered the assembled mass of people with ferocious stares and sometimes bodily force, parting the sea of populace as she led the Princess toward the Harkinian’s manor.
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Upon securing the massive circular iron doors at the entrance to the extensive network of tunnels underneath the Harkinian manner, a flock of servants descended upon the Princess to attend to her scrapes and her now grizzly appearance. As the Princess was led out of Sheik’s charge and into the supervision of the royal household, the rapid draining of adrenaline almost made Sheik lurch as she slowly made her way down narrow stone corridors to her sleeping quarters. Pushing aside the grungy wooden door to her lightless room, she instinctively found her cot bearing against the side of the coarse stone wall. Deciding not to even bother changing out of her form fitting blue combat suit, she simply lay across the near paper-thin cot and closed her eyes.

When sleep failed to arrive, she felt more than a little surprised given how tired she felt. Groaning aloud as she rolled over to face the stone wall, she realized that her fatigue was not merely confined to weary limbs and tiring labors. She was just tired. She was tired of this endless cat and mouse game played between Harkinians and Imperial agents. She was tired of not being able to set foot outside in the daylight without having to peer into crowds to spot weapons and threats. More than anything, she was tired of being different. Sheik’s iron cast sense of duty normally prevented her from allowing such stray musings to take the form of words. In fact, her indomitable mental discipline normally prevented herself form having any stray musings at all. However, her fatigue finally wore away at such resolve.

For as long as she could remember, she had been raised in the arts of the Sheikah, Hyrule’s ancient people of shadow who specialized in arcane arts. Under the care of her clan leader, Impa, Sheik had developed into a living weapon. Even at fourteen, her agility was unparalleled; her combat form and stance approached perfection; her mind was a steel trap, constantly analyzing, calculating, and jockeying for advantage. But this was what was expected for the Sheikah. Unlike most warrior traditions, valor, honor, and concepts of heroism do not resonate in the ethos of the Sheikah. Their virtues were obligation, duty, and loyalty under pain of death and beyond. Despite all the centuries of continued devotion to the royal family, the Sheikah only remembered the actions of one of their number hundreds of years ago who betrayed the Harkinians. The result was that the eye of blood, the eternal insignia of the Sheikah, was amended with a bleeding tear to signify eternal penitence for the actions of one malcontent. The Sheikah’s had an unrivaled sense of history.

Despite all of the intimate familiarity with combat forms, tactics, and survival skills that growing up as a Sheikah instilled, Sheik was utterly helpless against an insidious and vile opponent: people her own age. On the rare occasion that her mission required non-intimidatory interaction with beings her own age, she found the gulf of awkwardness unbridgeable. Lying on her cot, Sheik winced remembering her most recent encounter with the baker’s daughter. Impa at times dispatched her, perhaps out of a carefully concealed sense of humor, to procure some of the manor’s basic supplies. Impa had insisted that Sheik don her new indigo dress for the occasion.

“Hi, can I help you?” A freckled face grinned genially. Violet orbs shined back in greeting.

“Hey, just picking up this order of bread.” A nimble hand slid the hastily quilled receipt on the counter of the bakery. Amazingly, the girl at the counter, Sheik surmised the baker’s daughter, expanded a grin that on a lesser mortal would have split her face in two.

“It’ll be up in just a minute!”

“Thanks.” Sheik had managed. Sheik leaned a coarse elbow on the counter, neither facing toward the girl, nor away from her. The girl’s eyes expanded as she noticed Sheik’s dress. The

“Your dress is beautiful! Where’d you get it?”

Cheeks burned above a reluctant smile as Sheik almost whispered “I made it.” The girl placed both hands on the counter and seemed to hunch over as if she would pounce in excitement.

“Really!? How’d you make it?”

Sheik ran a finger to curl a sunlit lock of hair as her eyes seem to analyze
the cracks in the wooden floors.

“Well, first I procured some of the naturally occurring flame retardant fibers that occur are abundant in the planes east of the Gerudo Desert. Since these plains are on the leeward side of the cliffs and experience pretty predictable natural burning, the foliage has been blessed the goddesses in becoming less susceptible to burning.” Had Sheik ended her description at this point, she might have perceived the girl’s eyes extinguish their luster and ignite bewilderment instead.

“The big trick is the scaled protective mesh underneath. The mail has to be thick enough to provide protection against mild attacks, but light enough to preserve your agility. Forging that kind of chain-link is pretty time-consuming.”

Suddenly the face-splitting grin on the girl’s face seemed to contract into a confusion laden smirk. “Chain-mail . . .?” Her now low voice seemed to tumble over the word as if it was from the ancient Goron language.
Sheik’s slowly appreciated enthusiasm suddenly plummeted into nervous foreboding. So much for girl-talk. She thought. Seconds that to Sheik’s perception felt eternal passed painfully between the two girls until finally freckles and dimples slid a fibrous basket across the counter filled with the aroma of recently baked bread loaves. The girl muttered without her trademark grin, “Your order’s ready. Have a nice day.” Her back promptly turned.

As sleep began successfully wrestling over these fleeting memories in Sheik’s tired mind, she began to wonder at this very strange world that seemed to exist at the periphery of her very martial perceptions.
Living in windowless, dank tunnels beneath the surface of Kakariko quickly scrambles any internalized sense of the passage of time. Candles and torches clinging to rough stone and earthen halls provided only the faintest amount of illumination, and they certainly did not betray the time of day. It was not uncommon for the Harkinian manor’s guests bedding within the tunnel network to sleep longer than half a day without sunlight to rouse them. The tunnel’s permanent residents adopted a policy of watches and shifts whereby servants would awaken their replacement and sometimes even their superiors. Most in the employment of the Harkinians found this an agreeable policy, all save for Sheik.
Stirring from her cot a few hours after first lying down, Sheik’s inerrant perception of time told her that it was still evening. Sheik’s education always instructed her that sleep was a material necessity, but the most hedonistic of all indulgences. Accordingly, Sheik simply slept for however long she needed to, her sleepless mind reliably awakening her in protest from lack of use. She did not need an attendant or a servant to awaken her. The instant that she pawned off her self-reliance for the temptation of comfort was a sin so blasphemous to the Sheikah that she would sooner perish.

The Sheikah do not need anyone.

Truthfully, however, Sheik was unsure if she was roused in her usual manner or if the raised voices echoing down the hallways were in part culpable. Deciding that ultimately it did not matter, Sheik rolled out of her cot and navigated her way down lightless hallways toward the reverberating discussion. Her hearing naturally honed on the voices.
“I am not sure that you understand the gravity of the situation, your Highness.” The voice, even while polite, was so crisp that it seemed to drain the intended courtliness that the words themselves were meant to convey. Must be Impa, Sheik instantly registered.

“I believe I do.” Another voice, brimming with hereditary authority, emphatically proclaimed back. Though Sheik had by now reached the cavernous stone chamber where figures were seated around a circular polished wood table, she did not need to see in order to know the other voice was the Princess’s. As Sheik stood by the entrance, concealed by the hovering shadows of dim torchlight, she listened to the Princess continue.
“What I understand is that because a maniac in the town square became overly friendly you believe that this is a compelling reason to abandon our people and run away!” Sheik thought the words sounded next to comical coming from adolescent lips. Then again, apparently an adolescent discussing flame retardant dresses was grounds for awkwardness, so Sheik decided to reserve judgment.

Impa’s voice sunk to a low apologetic tone. “Forgive me Your Highness, it seems that I have not adequately briefed you on the facts. This is my fault alone.” Impa sat rigid and motionless for a few moments before continuing. While her tone was complacent, her body language radiated resolve. “What there is to understand is that two assailants in the direct employ of the Imperium attempted to kidnap Your Highness at a prearranged setting. They developed this plan through close observation of your daily routine and through foreknowledge of Your Highness’s character. They developed this plan for the sole purpose of your Highness’s detention.”

The Princess made a soft scoff. “If the Empire wanted to capture me they simply would have sent an army.”

Another voice, gruff with such naturally feral power that it seemed to be an articulate growl, nearly interrupted the Princess’s rebuttal. “I am afraid it’s not as simple as that, Your Majesty. The Empire’s resources are impressive, but not unlimited. The costs of plucking a sovereign away from her own kingdom would create considerable dissension, even among ‘loyal subjects’ of the Imperium.” The sarcasm was nearly lost owing to the voice’s complete abandonment of subtlety. “The last thing the Empire can afford is another rebellion. Ganondorf thought that getting his agents to pose like petty thugs demanding a ransom was an easy way to work around that problem.”

This voice possessed jowls that were adorned by broad white whiskers that in the coarse light of the chamber seemed to give the appearance of jagged fangs. The erosion of age on his face was eclipsed by hulking shoulders, long muscled limbs, and a snowy furred jaw that seemed to naturally clinch whenever it was not chewing out guttural sentences. Auru’s normally ferocious demeanor would almost make him worthy of being a Sheikah warrior if it was not for his consummate lack of subtly. Auru was, well, Auru. The idea of concealing anything from anybody was not only an anathema, it was unimaginable.

Before allowing the Princess to marshal a rebuttal, Impa joined in Auru’s offensive. “I understand Your Highness’s reluctance to show weakness. However, better weakness than death.” Her voice seemed to warm a degree. “I ask that you also keep in mind the welfare of those who serve you if something were to happen to you.”

The Princess shook her head, either not able or refusing to understand. “I don’t understand why this is happening. We’ve never acted belligerently! We’ve always obeyed the Empire’s laws, even if we disagree with their politics. Why are they after me?”

Sheik’s violet irises narrowed on the old Sheikah master’s face, as it seemed to wince in what would for anyone else translate as regret? Guilt? Auru, as if on cue, launched into a counter before Impa could answer. “You presume, Your Highness, that the Empire needs a reason to abduct you. I believe that they simply fear what you could become.”
Sheik’s mind lost count of the number of times this point was explained. The Princess was to be the savior of her people, the Hylians, who would reclaim her rightful throne from the usurper Ganondorf and set the Kingdom of Hyrule to rights. While the repetition of this fantasy had indoctrinated Sheik to its truth, even to her it seemed almost farcical that the rightful sovereign of Hyrule was discussing her destiny underground for fear of being seen. Auru continued.

“We can argue about the reasons this happened. But that doesn’t escape the fact that this happened once and it will happen again. As Your Highness’s Captain-General, it is my duty to insist your relocation to safer quarters.” Auru seemed to be giving the Princess as much of a warning glare as protocol allowed him. Finally, relaxing permanently grim features, he added, “At least until Impa and I can root out the danger here in Kakariko.”

The Princess, countering much more slowly now, opined, “And what makes either of you think I’ll be safer elsewhere?”

“It would be improbable for even the Imperium’s most perceptive agents to correctly guess where we will send you,” Impa began, once again coolly dispassionate. “At the very least the Imperium’s agents would be spread fairly thin in order to find you, which is in itself an advantage. We have also made use of some local protection that you will find extremely effective.”

The Princess craned her head, more out of curiosity than protest. “What about Sheik? Is she not my protection?”

Impa’s visage was a mask of shroud as she spoke. “While Sheik’s intervention was fortunate, she is still a child.” A child. Suddenly all of Sheik’s carefully constructed accomplishments performed since adopting her warrior’s garb were smashed by two patronizing syllables. While Sheik never took herself too seriously, it felt somewhat denigrating to have the sum total of her life’s efforts confined to the realm of childishness. Had Sheik not yielded her complete attention to the melodrama, she would have felt her molars groan under a tightly clenched jaw. Impa continued.

“We have arranged for reliable protection where you will be staying. Sheik shall still accompany you, but as your companion, not your bodyguard.” Horror tinged Sheik’s violet eyes that were slowly shifting to a molten color. I don’t know how to be a companion? What’s a companion supposed to do anyway? Sheik’s entire existence oriented around making sure her Royal Highness remained safe from potential danger. With a single utterance Impa dashed this away. Sheik was now only a . . . girl. Her muscles willing her to move in protest, she stepped into the dull lightning, the fire casting her shadow in particularly menacing fashion.

Sheik had to admit, that the surprised gasps coming from Auru and the Princess was an amusing bass and soprano, its combination seeming completely out of place. Spying Impa, Sheik saw what she believed was the beginning of a smile as she regarded Sheik’s effective entrance. Sheik tried to keep her voice carefully modulated as she began arguing with Impa.

“Mistress, I must protest. Her Highness needs more protection, not less. Furthermore, I have more experience guarding her Highness than this . . . bodyguard.” Sheik began to feel quite embarrassed as attention slowly shifted from the Princess to Sheik’s expanding blush. Mustering more courage than she ever required in combat, Sheik went on: “Besides, with only one bodyguard, what’s to prevent a repeat of what happened in the square? They’ll simply distract or detain the bodyguard and escape with the Princess.”

Impa leaned her sharp elbows on the table wood as she tapped her fingers together. “The bodyguard is quite resourceful. You must trust my judgment.” At times Sheik’s inherent common sense conflicted with her indoctrinated Sheikah training: this instance was one of those times.
“Very well, Mistress,” Sheik conceded with a little more than hesitance.
Impa reclined back in her chair as she stroked a pointed chin thoughtfully. “It occurs to me, Sheik, that you have also earned the right to relax for a few weeks.”

Sheik failed to contain her insolence and indignation. “But I—”
Auru interceded. “Mistress Impa is also considering the fact that your recent efforts, especially today, have left you exhausted. An exhausted warrior is a liability.” This seemed to temper Sheik for a moment.
“But for a few weeks?” Sheik countered, in a voice that sounded almost pleading. She hated it.

Impa and Auru did not seem to hear the question as Auru said, “Very well, the decision has been made.”

Impa divided her stares between the two young girls and said evenly: “Pack your things, we leave immediately.” For Impa immediately meant instantaneously. Sheik resignedly traversed back to her room to gather the few personal effects she owned. She mentally prepared herself for a sadistic form of torture that no amount of Sheikah training had prepared her for: a vacation.

Silence filled the chamber despite the fact that both Impa and Auru remained unmoving. Impa finally amended to eliminate the awkwardness. “I will take them to Ordon. On the way back to Kakariko I will stop over in Lon Lon to see if we have any new information from Castleton.”

Auru minutely inclined his head. “I’ll do what I can here. With the Zora gone we’ll need more allies -- more funding if we ever want to field an army too.”

Impa suppressed a grimace. “I think we should curtail such ambitions for the foreseeable future. At this point we would only give Ganondorf an excuse to conquer Kakariko and eliminate us formally.”

Auru shook his head, hard knobbed hands stroking his tuft of snow fur on his chin. “Like I said, he doesn’t need an excuse. Then one day Ganondorf will be on our doorstep and we will be defenseless. Besides, how else do you recommend we restore the throne? Ask politely?”

Impa’s eyes narrowed, piercing Auru’s bestial exterior. “Auru, let me ask you a question: which do you care about more, the restoration of the throne, or the Princess?”

Confusion abounded in the old general’s eyes. “What!? What bunk are you talking about?”

Impa simply shrugged. “Just that, do you believe that the restoration of the Harkinians is more important than the Princess?”

Auru leaked out a less than concealed grumble. “What’s the difference? The two goals are one and the same.”

Impa turned on Auru with a ferocity of her own that seemed to surprise her. “No they aren’t! To you the Princess is merely a tool to restore the kingdom, a pawn who conveniently has the blood of the old Kings flowing in her veins. But you aren’t fighting for her. You are fighting for the idea of who she could become and what she could do. And you may kill her for that.” Impa let her voice soak in venom. “We killed 16,000 Zora, and countless beings in dozens of towns. We killed them because we are playing a game where the winner gets what little will be left of the kingdom.”

Auru dismissively waved away Impa’s somewhat unexpected attack. “Again, how would you suggest that we restore the throne then?”
Impa, her irritation starting to become more apparent, spoke as if she was addressing a small child. “That is the task that you adopted Captain-General. Not mine.”

Auru snorted derisively. “Then why do you even bother with the Princess or any of this at all?”

Impa’s eyes seemed to lose focus entirely as if perceiving something beyond her sight. “To honor the life of someone we both held dear. I do this to honor my promise that I swore on her deathbed. Note that I didn’t vow to endlessly campaign or mold the Princess into a queen. I merely promised to protect her daughter. And with your actions, Captain-General, I fear you are going to make me break my promise. If nothing else, give the Empire time enough to forget your Zora Rebellion, which is without a doubt the reason they wish to detain the Princess in the first place.”

Auru’s sense of righteous honor and duty besieged his mind. Fortunately, Impa knew that as an old soldier, duty would win the day. “Very well. My…apologies, Mistress Impa. It seems we all forget our roots too quickly. I shall not raise another army for now. See if you can remove or distract Ganondorf’s spies. In the meantime, I will make preparations in the event of war.”

Impa bristled as Auru deliberately chose not to elaborate on what sort of preparations he had in mind, but realized this concession was as good as she could manage. “Agreed.” And with a curt nod and a growing feeling of fatigue, Impa stood from her chair to ferret out both the Princess and Sheik to what would be their new home.
________________________________________

Autumn
Seven Years Ago

To Vaati it was almost incredulous that he had to maintain the steady flow of bureaucratic paperwork while he was attempting to conduct one of the most daring military operations in history. Sprawled over a simple ashen desk with insurmountable heights of ledgers, books, and documents, Vaati counseled himself that he needed to discover a way to conjure an intelligent pen that could work autonomously. Feeling restless, he simply endorsed the large amounts of execution writs with his signature without reviewing the individual cases. They probably deserved it anyway. The residents of Kakariko certainly did.

Spending the last several weeks in Kakariko City attempting to gather intelligence on the Princess had merely confirmed his misgivings on the Hylian people. They were superstitious barbarians, taken as a group, who had somehow managed by fluke to rule the majority of Hyrule for centuries. In that time period their silly beliefs in their goddesses and their inherent corruption blinded them to their multitude of weaknesses. The Imperium not only had a moral right to topple their pathetic civilization, it had a moral duty to pursue the Hylians to Kakariko and annihilate them before they could once again rebuild a civilization based on squalor and superstition. The Imperium, to Vaati’s regret, had failed in this duty, and as a result he had to suffer the indignity of having his headquarters in a run-down inn at the “rough” part of the city. Vaati smirked when he tried to imagine a portion of Kakariko that was not rough.
After casting furtive glances at the darkening sky through a small port-hole window, Vaati frowned in dismay. He had expected to hear from his agent by now. Even though Vaati’s face was a mask of stoic calm, his anxieties gnawed relentlessly on slowly fraying nerves. If he has been captured….

Vaati subdued his feelings as he gathered his reserves of mana, that ethereal substance that composed all things in the universe. Vaati’s sorcery began consuming the natural mana surrounding him, leeching it into his reserves of power. Suddenly, willing his vision to extend beyond his sight, he released his power.

And it was so.

His perception suddenly extended throughout the room, and erupted into a supernova as it pervaded throughout the entire inn. His consciousness suddenly became aware of ten thousand sensations simultaneously: the drunken swaggering of an inn patron; the bitter cursing of a tenet negotiating fees; the baying of mutts greedily licking their snouts coveting the remains of a leg of mutton; the incurable screaming of an infant. Vaati drank in the sensations of these living creatures that were now merely vessels of his power.

The newfound expanse of consciousness searched its new territory. Finally he found the sensation of triumph radiating from large limbs stalking up the stairs to his room. Smiling, Vaati willed the door to his room to open, and with a slow creak it yielded to his will.

The rather massively muscled agent stalked into the room with timid excitement as he regarded the Lord Procurator of the Imperium. Vaati pretended to be oblivious before his regal tone demanded: “Report?”

“Milord Procurator, the Princess was briefly detained per your instructions. My comrade was detained by their forces. I managed to escape their guards’ pursuit by leaving the city and doubling back a few hours later.” The lackey kneeled low near the doorway, unsure whether to expect instant death or praise.

Vaati continued to scratch his pen across the page of his ledger. “Then all is going as planned.” Vaati carefully concealed his pleasure in the success.

“If I may be so bold milord . . .?” Vaati smirked. He had been waiting for this question. The sorcerer motioned for his pawn to continue. “Would it not have been wiser to have apprehended her rather than let her go? Forgive me, but I do not understand what we have accomplished.”

With a sweep of his long cape, Vaati suddenly ascended from his chair and began pacing about the small room. “Does the predator hunt in the prey’s den?”

The muscle-clad man scratched a naked scalp. “I’m afraid I do not understand, milord.” Vaati kept his annoyance out of his voice; so much for the use of metaphor.

“It is a better option to hunt her Royal Highness away from her base of support. Your actions will result in her fleeing of Kakariko where none will be the wiser. Now we shall track her.”

The other man did not seem relieved. “But milord, hundreds of wagons and caravans depart from the city everyday, how shall we pick her out of the multitude?”

Vaati smirked as he willed the small object carefully concealed in the other man’s satchel to float toward him. Gazing at the small white slipper,

Vaati grinned at the agent’s expanding confusion. “With this!”

Vaati restrained his rising annoyance and homicidal impulses as the other man continued to stare bewildered.
________________________________________

________________________________________

His Fist
Chapter VII

Autumn
Seven Years Ago

Link fought the urge to swear. The silver-scaled beast thrashed wildly in protest as Link attempted to draw it closer. Gazeless eyes stole murderous glances at Link as sleek scales valiantly evaded the young Hylian’s eyesight. As he saw the beast approach closer and closer, Link sensed victory was near. As a cocky grin exploded from cheek to cheek, his euphoria was cut short as the Hylian Loach squirmed its way off Link’s fishing hook and darted down the small river.

Bo’s uproarious laughter at Link’s sudden turn of fortune drowned out the guttural growl emitted by the recently failed fisherman. Link decided that hurling the thin wood of the fishing rod onto the earthen river bank was probably not a very bright idea. It felt good though.

At least, it felt good until Link spied Bo vigorously cranking his fishing reel as a dark figure formed around the point where Bo’s line met the water. Breaking the water line as Bo’s catch was forced to the surface was a long and plump Ordon Catfish. Bo licked his lips as hungry eyes took notice of the fish’s pockets of meat.

And what meat it was!

At nearly two and a half feet long, Bo’s catch was at the very least abnormally large for a catfish, and possibly even a record. Glancing at Link, Bo’s poorly concealed gloat seemed to irk him all the more. Link heard that most parents in some way lived vicariously through their children. He figured that somewhere along the way that Bo had missed the lessons in vicariousness. Not even bothering to hide his glee as Link’s mouth flat lined, Bo exclaimed: “Oh Lord Jabu-Jabu, we thank thee for offerin’ up thy small fry!”

Most people would have interpreted Bo’s quip for what it was: a joke. However, Link was not most people. Whether he knew it or not, he was not even most Hylians. The ultimate tragedy of Link was that his impulsiveness toward action meant that he seldom exercised his vicious wit. Therefore, rather than returning the joke in kind, he interpreted it as a challenge.

Gangly fingers darted down to the displaced fishing rod and sunk the line into the flowing stream with renewed gusto. His hands tightened on the rod, as if that in itself would magnetize the river’s most obese denizens.

Bo erupted a mirthful snort as the tempestuous seas in Link’s eyes narrowed their gaze along the streaming waterline. Bo nearly leapt in surprise as he heard the tell-tale cue of the cranking of the reel. As Bo’s hairless head turned as far as it was able, it beheld Link taxing the full strength of his limbs as he attempted to yank his “customer” out of the water. Bo’s instincts to help the boy were immediately dashed as his mind arrived at the only possible outcome of such a disastrous intervention: Link would never forgive him for denying him gloating rights. As a matter of honor, that was something he had to respect.

As the rush of the river ticked away time, it became painful to see Link grunt and heave as he attempted to force the line up. After such a long time that he seriously pondered whether he would ever get to taste his new cat fish, Link finally brought the line up.

Long sharp teeth smiled at him hungrily, along with a gaze the color of blood. Weight that was meant to be meat was instead the weight of jagged bone and armored scale: a Skullfish! A creature cursed by the Blessed Three, it fancied anything with a pulse in its jaws. The eyes of both fishermen exploded as the Skullfish’s hooked jaw began snapping violently. Link suddenly did what any brave selfless young man would do. He threw the little monster, rod and all, back into the river. The demonic fish leapt several times in a taunting display of triumph once reunited with his watery domain. It infuriated Link all the more to see the fishing rod still attached.

Bo began stroking his chin thoughtfully as he saddled up beside a motionless Link. After a handful of seconds, he said with flawless grace. “Ya dropped yer rod.”

Link’s head seemingly became directly attached to his shoulders as he tensed, then turned and stalked back toward the house, leaving Bo silently chuckling to himself. Bo thought he could hear “I’ll leave you to your new child!” coming out of the forest canopy. Bo grinned, nodded, and began cleaning the new love of his life.

________________________________________

Though it was difficult to imagine anybody enjoy fish cleaning, the thought of how good the thing would taste properly scaled and cooked made the thankless task more tolerable. Being an ex-soldier, Bo quickly learned to enjoy the benefits of good foods quickly after retiring. Being mayor of a rather prosperous town further encouraged his tastes and his weight. Not that he really cared; the first half of his life was spent marching and fighting non-stop. In his mind, spending the other half undoing the effects of the first half was a noble mission.

More and more delighted as he imagined the aroma of the fish over a roasting flame, Bo continued to scale when—

“Dinner for two I take it?” Bo’s girth nearly became airborne as he leapt in surprise; turning with his combat reflexes nearly consuming him until he spotted the source of the query. Staring along the edge of the forest into a brown hood with the ends of a blackened mustache protruding out, he came face to face with Zanji. As his body regulated a throbbing heart rate, Bo plopped down and continued scaling with a furious groan.

“Ya know, ya ain’t as scary wearin’ that hoody thing in broad daylight.” Bo pointed his dull scaling knife at Zanji for melodramatic emphasis.

Zanji removed his cowl with a look of incredulity. “I thought with my age hiding my pruny face was considered charity.”

Bo grasped at his heart. “Charity that kills; what else is new?”

Zanji stepped out of the tree line. “How about a favor?”

Bo nodded. “Well that is new. Considerin’ ya haven’t repaid me for the last’un.”

Zanji shrugged nonchalantly. “It’s not my fault you happened to like Link.”

Bo was unimpressed. “That ain’t gettin’ ya out of it.”

Zanji frowned slightly. “Is this going to become a lecture about how I haven’t come back?”

Bo’s brows furrowed. “Other way ‘round I’m afraid.”

Zanji crossed robed arms in a display that managed to combine the irony of relaxed tension. “I’m listening.”

Bo slowed his scaling just noticeably. “First, how’d ya get the goats back?”

Zanji shrugged slightly. “Bulblins aren’t pleasant from the other end of the sword, but they’re still pretty superstitious.” Bo motioned for him to continue. “So I saw the little spectacle with you and the boy, and I decided I wasn’t exactly comfortable with Bulblins in my backyard either. Using some spells to convince them I was the reincarnated Warlord Alzorac the Great of the Fourth Bulblin Tribe probably gave me some leverage too.”

Bo seemed to chuckle and shook his head. Zanji continued, “Glad to be of help by the way.”

Bo smirked. “Ya saved my job as may’r.”

Zanji nodded satisfactorily. “Good.”

Cynicism returned to Bo. “I’ll let ya know if it’s good. Kinda depends on stuff like that not happenin’ again.” Thinking of Old Man Fado, Bo added almost under his breath. “Also depends on the mood of cranky ol’ men.”

Zanji’s feigned hurt pride surfaced again. “Watch it!” He said, rubbing graying whiskers. “That’s tender ground you’re treading there, trooper.”

Bo grunted as he gazed at calloused, withering hands. “If ya hadn’t noticed, I ain’t exactly no bouncin’ sprig either.”

Zanji managed a grin. “Well, from the looks of that night it seems like Link can be the young sprig for both of us.”

Bo’s face darkened. Recalling Zanji’s ambitions for the boy, Bo thought that this was probably as good a time as any to have this conversation. He braced for it. “Well, jus’ not a young sprig for you.”

Zanji arched an eyebrow. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“Look, we’ve known each other for a while. There ain’t no need to pretend what’s goin’ on. From the moment ya showed up thirteen years ago, I wondered why a general in the Hyrulean Army is interested in a kid. I’ve heard stories about princes and such bein’ sent out to be raised by peasants and the like. If there’s one thing I’m pretty sure about, it’s dat Link’s no royalty. So, I’ve been rackin’ m’brain for what ya want with the kid.” Bo licked his lips and exhaled. “Frankly, I really don’t care no more. What I do care about is that the kid grows up right an’ is able to decide what he wants. So, lemme be as nice and clear as I ca’ be. Whatever ya got in mind for this kid . . . well you can jus’ forget it!”

Bo thought that out of Zanji’s now cold demeanor he could mine out a slight wince. “What makes you think I have anything planned?”

Bo waved a hand dismissively toward the old general. “Come on! As ya can tell, I wasn’t born yesterday. If ya didn’t have somethin’ planned, ya would’ve either kept ‘em here permanently, or ya should have kept ‘em yerself all along. I ain’t yer cucco that sits on yer egg ‘till it hatches.” Ordinarily, Zanji might have found the image of Bo as a cucco amusing. Instead, all Zanji could do was noisily exhale. Bo continued, “I don’t have a way to prove this, but my gut tells me that whatever grand destiny you have for the kid is somehow gonna be pretty violent.”

The five words Bo heard next would have brought any parent to the ground with a mixture of awe, terror, rage, joy, or even jealousy. They would have been completely unprepared for the shock. No parent could be prepared. But something deep in Bo knew he’d hear these five words all along. He hated the prospect. He certainly hated the implications. But he knew they’d come. So Bo digested five words that would shatter the world of any parent merely with mute foreboding.

“He’s the Hero of Time.”

Revelation alone should have ended the debate. The Hero of Time: Hyrule’s ancient savior who seemed to appear coincidentally at the brink of some great evil or disaster. Armed with a mythically powerful sword and the blessings of the Three Goddesses, the legend held that the Hero was Hyrule’s eternal guardian and its last line of defense in dire peril. And somehow, through fluke or random probability, his Link had been chosen as this Hero.

Bo surprised even the unflappable Zanji when he resorted to blasphemy: “So what? I don’t know much ‘bout Heroes of Times or any of that business. I don’t see why my thirteen year old has a destiny set in stone when the only thing destined fer other thirteen year olds is shirkin’ chores an’ goofin’ off.”

Zanji mustered his reserves of patience. “I’m not exactly fond of the idea either. But neither of us can change it.”

Bo huffed. “Pretty easy for you to say. Yer not the one puttin’ up with him day after day. You wanna make him into a weapon, don’t ya? You wanna send a boy—a Hylian boy—out to cross swords with the Empire? We don’t know much ‘bout the Empire out here except that fightin’ them is suicide.”

Zanji held hardened palms up in protest. “Bo, I don’t want to make him anything other than capable of defending himself. As it is his status as Hero is pretty much an instant death sentence.”

Bo’s lips twisted into a grimace. “What’s an Empire have to fear from a boy?”

Zanji nodded in concession. “Nothing . . . at least not yet. It’s not a matter of what he is now, it’s who he will become.” Bo cocked an eyebrow and Zanji continued. “Link’s abilities make him a direct threat to Ganondorf personally. We don’t know much about our Emperor save the fact that he is well versed in almost every matter of sorcery. The creation of monsters; the destruction of cities; near invulnerability; all these things are trivial compared to his power. Being virtually immortal certainly helps matters. Link is the only person who can use the sole weapon that he is afraid of. He is the only one who can wield the Blade of Evil’s Bane.” Feeling awkward at using the unnecessary flourishing title, Zanji quickly added, “Because most people are not poetic, it’s usually called the Master Sword.”

Bo, his attention now completely diverted from his prized fish, stared quizzically at Zanji. “I’ve heard o’the blade. It was s’pposed to be lost at the end o’the Civil War. Destroyed or somethin’.”

A flash of what could only be described as pain crept over Zanji’s face. To Bo it seemed that Zanji’s soul migrated from this world to another as his voice seemed to come from a great distance. “It was found.” Bo left whatever painful memories Zanji left unsaid just that: unsaid.

“So why does this Emperor o’yers need killin’?”

Zanji frowned. “I could give a lecture about what a bad, scary man he is. I could also accuse him of eating small children.” Zanji let a repressed smile tickle the edges of his mouth before he became all business again. “Truthfully, it’s kill or be killed. Once made aware of Link’s existence—which he will be—he’ll stop at nothing until he’s dead. The reason he’s with you is that the Emperor’s agents are already hunting me. As much as it angers us, if you really care about Link, you’ll let the only person who can save him: himself.”

Bo snorted contemptuously. “Yeah, that’s right. ‘Cause it’s his destiny right? And because it’s his destiny it means I let you do whatever in the Goddesses’ name you want to do with ‘em. Forget right and wrong, because that’s a trifle too inconvenient, isn’t it?”

Zanji sighed and rolled broad shoulders. “No more inconvenient than having him hunted down. Or worse, conscripted. They’d certainly find out one way or another with Link in the legions. They’re already doing that in some of the other provinces you know.”

Bo paused slightly. “I’ll hide ‘em.” Zanji gave him a quizzical stare. Bo realized that both he and Zanji were trying to imagine the farcical notion of hiding Link. Bo could not even get him to sit in the corner.

“You’d have better luck hiding all of Ordon than you would Link.” Bo hated to agree with the old general, but he was right. Feeling queasy, Bo suddenly found changing the subject much more interesting.

“So what’s this favor you were gonna ask anyway?” Zanji too seemed slightly relieved in the shift away from their miniature custody battle.

“I have guests coming in soon. Important guests actually. The kind of guests who would probably prefer not to stay in my single room hut in the middle of the forest.” Bo’s chest rose measurably as he waited for Zanji to continue. “It also occurs to me that you have a decently sized house, the only decently sized house in fact. Can they stay with you awhile?”

Bo grunted. “Aren’t ya gonna tell me their names?”

Zanji shrugged. “They can; I am not really privy to.”

Bo rolled his eyes and went back to cleaning his fish. “More secrets. O’course! Let’s see, I learned thirteen years after the fact that Link was the Hero o’Time, I s’ppose I’ll learn years later that these guests were the Three Goddesses.”

Zanji patted his old friend on the shoulder where he sat. “Bo, just for awhile? They do need a place to stay.”

Bo’s two large hands gripped bare knees as he groaned. “If I let’em stay, you have to agree to stay away, especially from Link.” Bo’s satisfaction at striking a hard bargain turned to suspicion when Zanji nodded in agreement, seemingly without reservation. Bo’s eyes narrowed, but his voice was carefully modulated. “Good. Bring ‘em by the house whenever ya want.” Rising with his fish, he thrusted a stubby finger squarely into Zanji’s chest. “But, I better never see you near Link again. As long as I’m livin’ and breathin’, Link’ll do what he wants.” Bo nodded curtly to Zanji as he left the old general alone as the sun began hiding behind distant mountains.

Zanji, gazing along the horizon Bo was sojourning towards, whispered solemnly, “I pray you’re right, Bo. I pray you’re right.”

________________________________________

Nearing his house situated in the midst of Ordon, Bo reflected that the Goddesses must have conspired to ruin his glorious fish dinner. The conversation he’d been dreading for years just occurred, and Bo had for practical purposes won. What troubled the gloomy mayor is that he did not feel any better. Those looming instincts felt that which could not be verbalized. Those same instincts that felt fate’s hand drop Link into his arms thirteen years ago, the same instincts that whispered endlessly about the child’s special destiny, and the same instincts that now told him that inserting himself as an obstacle to such a destiny was futile.

Bo was neither pious nor impious, but he suddenly boiled a reservoir of contempt for the madness of the Three who apparently scripted Link’s fate. Bo’s pragmatism wondered at the wisdom of three omniscient deities who chose a mortal to be the instrument of a will they apparently could not accomplish themselves. Apparently Link was destined to be the cleaner of the Goddesses’ divine messes. Bo snorted at the irony that Link never learned the definition of clean.

As much as Bo wished to deny the existence of the Hero of Time, he realized that he would only be deceiving himself. The Hero of Time existed, and he happened to be Link. What was worse is that this was preordained by a cadre of whimsical celestial creatures who seemed to take twisted amusement in pitting a boy against forces they deemed evil. This preordination was Link’s destiny.

Bo gritted his teeth at the word. Destiny may indeed be unbending and inevitable. Bo however, was determined that he was going to try his utmost to test whether that was true or not. Besides, marriage had taught him that taking orders from one woman was quite enough. Three creates more of a problem. And Link . . . Link takes orders from no one.

________________________________________

As Bo slid into the house nearly a half an hour after Link’s entry, he was greeted by Link and Ilia’s inquisitive stares that he simply ignored. Preparing to cook the fish, he simply declared, “Let’s eat.” Link was not exactly sure what caused Bo to trail behind for so long. Nor was he quite sure why Bo seemed to stare at him for the rest of the evening. For once, Link was relieved to go to bed.

________________________________________

Despite her apprehension about the inevitable “doom” of her vacation, Sheik found the journey to—wherever they were going—not completely intolerable. Sheik had occasionally ventured outside of Kakariko when her mission profile dictated it. As always, however, her inhuman focus on her objectives had not permitted her to really look at the Hyrule that the Harkinians had dreamt of repossessing. As their night-bound journey suddenly gave way to the first rays of day crowning over the weathered cliffs to the east, sunlight cascaded over plains that stretched toward the boundaries of infinity. Staring back toward Kakariko, the entire world seemed to be enraptured by rising and setting hills, bearing bountiful tufts of wildflowers and trees of innumerable types. Civilization was sparse. The occasional collection of thatched cottages might be flattered with the title of village. However, aside from the small hamlet or the infrequent goat herder, naked earth extended beyond Sheik’s all-perceiving eyes.

Sheik finally glanced towards the northwest of Kakariko. Dominating the horizon was the city of Castleton, the capital of the Dragmire Imperium, and the ancient seat of the Harkinian Dynasty. The faint edges of elegant marble and stone outlined hallowed towers and battlements of Hyrule Castle, once the home of generations of monarchs. According to Impa, the Castle had been visible across all of Hyrule, its soaring spires and walls opening up towards the Sacred Realm itself. But this ancient reminder of Hylian glory and splendor was eclipsed. Almost as if summoned from the pits of the Dark World itself, a spiraling ebony steeple rose from damnation until it challenged the primacy of the Sacred Realm. Spearing the clouds themselves, it declared its dominance both over heaven and earth: the Imperial Palace.

Shuddering, Sheik tore her gaze from the tower. Suddenly finding the insides of the covered caravan wagon more attractive, Sheik turned toward a mop of tussled red curls gingerly cradling a small book. The Princess seemed hypnotically inclined toward the hardbound text. Sheik’s twilight irises narrowed on the lettering running up and down the backing of the book: Dignity and Discrimination. Sheik mentally shrugged at the increasingly popular romance novel that seemed to be the rage of high society. On a good day, she might admit to have read it. Though Sheik doubted her tastes in literature, she still could not be goaded into finding matchmaking and romance for its own sake a redeeming quality in a book. Dashing the subject from her mind, she slid extra throwing needles into a hidden pocket of her indigo dress.

Slowly, the Princess sealed the pages with the hardcover and slid the book aside. Making as much of a stretch as she could while maintaining her dignity, the Princess regarded Sheik. “I hope it won’t be too much longer.”

Sheik smiled slightly as her eyes stared once again off into the horizon. “I’m sure it won’t be, Highness.”

Sheik felt the uncomfortable gaze of the Princess continue to bore into her. “I am very glad that you were able to accompany me.”

Sheik forced herself to lie. “As am I, Highness.” Sheik’s voice was wooden. Among her many talents, acting was not one of them.

“What will you do on your vacation?”

Sheik’s jaw muscles tensed, perhaps just noticeably. She appreciated her Highness’s attempts at small talk, but she really wished she would just drop this subject. Searching a vacant mind for a suitable answer, Sheik decided that the truth was the best recourse. “I will ensure your safety, Highness.”

The Princess gave her best royal smirk. “Nonsense! Don’t make me order you to stand down.” Sheik smiled genuinely this time. She realized the Princess was not above such things. The time passed uneventfully until Sheik felt the wagon begin to slow to a gradual stop. Hearing the reassuring knock that Impa sent from the front of the wagon to the back, Sheik lost no time in jumping from her prison and onto shaded grassy meadows. Helping the Princess down from the back of the wagon, Sheik turned and beheld a thicket of massive leafy spires hanging cavernously over the dark forest floor. As both girls turned toward Impa, they noticed the hooded figure that seemed to be receiving the bulk of her attention. The figure received the girl’s in turn as they approached.

Noticing their approach, both adults abruptly ended their conversation and regarded them. Impa inclined her slightly in a stiff bow. “Your Highness, this is General Sir Zanji, Royal Knight of the Kingdom of Hyrule. He will be responsible for your safety during your stay in Ordon Wood.”

The Princess nodded. “I see. About how long do you think . . .?” Sheik’s attention shifted from the Princess to the cloaked figure. Though his face was completely obscured by the shadow cast by his hood, Sheik felt that his gaze was not on the Princess, but on her. It felt, for some reason, strangely awkward. Sheik had gazed unflinchingly into the eyes of men and women with the intent of killing her without flinching. Why did she now feel so blasted insecure at the gaze of an abstract shadow?

She realized the source of her insecurity as the hood retreated revealing heavy jowls, a bristly mustache, and widening hazel eyes directed at her. Impa shifted her attention from the Princess to this General Zanji and seemed to shake her head in warning. Barely taking the hint, the graying man seemed to realize the apparentness of his staring, and checked it with a more formal bow. Finally turning toward the Princess, Zanji bowed low until he was at eye-level. “An honor to serve, Your Highness. My apologies for my attire. Living alone in the woods does not invite many formal occasions. Nonetheless, all that I have is yours, including my life.”

The Princess exerted the regal energy that had been imparted to her since birth. “I am flattered by your dedication, Sir Knight. Tell me, in which direction is your estate?”

Zanji seemed to clear his throat in an abrupt, nervous way that Sheik found irresistibly amusing. “While I am, uh, pleased at Your Highness’s enthusiasm for my—erm--- estate, I believe I have found a more accommodating residence.” The Princess raised her chin and narrowed her eyes, demanding elaboration. “I believe Your Highness will find the residence of one of my attendants, Mayor Bo of Ordon to be more to your liking.”

Skepticism briefly overcame the Princess’s features before she said evenly, “Very well, Sir Knight. I appreciate your forethought on the matter. We will fetch our possessions and then be off.” Picking up on the cue, Sheik hopped back toward the wagon to fetch the handful of items she called her own before doubling back to her “vacation.” The term almost made her face erupt in a grimace.

________________________________________

Alone, Impa nodded in respect toward her old friend. “Thank you.” The iron of Impa’s voice warmed for a fleeting moment.

Zanji frowned thoughtfully in response. “I still don’t like it.”

Impa nodded. “Nor I, but it’s the only way.”

Zanji inclined his head in affirmation as Impa added. “Take care of them.”

A blossoming grin sprouted over Zanji’s face. “Isn’t that my job?”

Impa shrugged. “Yes, but you have been unemployed for quite a while.”

Zanji chuckled. “Easy now, aren’t old people supposed to retire?”

The cold iron gave no indication to Impa’s chiding. “Yes, but you don’t know the first thing about being old. You have too many teeth.”

Zanji sighed nostalgically. “I guess I missed too many bar fights in my day.”

Impa’s chest heaved in a stifled laugh. “Oh . . . poor you.”

Zanji chuckled deeply. Impa was normally cold and indifferent to most people by default. As much as she tried to reserve a particular batch for Zanji, his natural joviality made it hard for her to direct too much anger and resentment toward him. Impa was still unsure how culpable as to royal family’s present state of affairs, but she amended not to assign blame; whatever Zanji’s flaws or mistakes, he was still a valuable ally. This tempered Impa’s instinct toward condemnation.

________________________________________

Sheik and the Princess rounded the wagon back toward them, the Princess with a large traveling case, and Sheik with a small sack hanging from the small of her back. Regarding them both with a slight smile, Impa sank back into the flawlessly honed professional tone. “Your Highness, I wish you well and will return whenever the threat to your person is eliminated. Until then, the Grace of the Three go with you, Highness.”

“And with you, Mistress Impa. I will await your return with anticipation.” Impa bowed low as the Princess submitted a stately curtsy. The affair seemed far more ceremonial than necessary, but Sheik concluded such were the burdens of the royal life. Many of the manor servants who knew of her proximity to the Princess had in moments of weakness inquired whether Sheik was jealous. It was moments like these that informed her consistent answer: no!

Zanji waved a robed arm, gesturing them deeper into the forest. “Come along, Highness.” As Sheik turned to follow, Impa’s spindly hands planted themselves gently on her shoulders. Sheik, feeling particularly self-conscious in her formal dress, dared to timidly look her mentor in the eye. Staring into the natural fire of Impa’s eyes somehow brought home the fact that Sheik was not a Sheikah by birth. Her eyes only became enflamed when adopting the combat stances of the Sheikah. That mistake of birth was one which she would carry with her the rest of her life. That mistake was constantly brought to Sheik’s consciousness whenever she made eye-contact with her mentor.

“Yes, Mistress?” Sheik seemed to swoon as she waited for her mentor to speak. Surprisingly, the edges of red lips curled up into a smile.

“I have raised you since the day you were born. You have, through your own initiative become powerful and wise. You are my greatest student—the heir of my knowledge. And that is why for these next few weeks I order you to forget it.” Her voice was a gentle whisper, devoid of the iron edge.

Confusion tinged the violet of Sheik’s eyes. “Mistress?”

“The way of the Sheikah opens your eyes to the world. But at times you must see through other eyes. You must not become so invested in one discipline that you become close-minded to others. So, all I want you to be for the next few weeks is a girl.”

“Is that a command, Mistress?” This was as close to insubordination as Sheik got.

Surprisingly, Impa graced her with yet another smile. “Yes, child. It is.”

“As my Mistress commands.”

Impa bowed low, and Sheik returned the gesture. Fright brimmed Sheik’s expression as she beheld what looked to be affection flowing out from Impa. It was something altogether new, gratifying, and uncomfortable. Impa bade her goodbye.

“May the Grace of the Three go with you, my child.”

“And with you, Mistress.” A gentle pat on the shoulder from Impa sent Sheik trailing after Zanji and the Princess as they sojourned deeper into the forest.

________________________________________

Silence characterized the journey through the forest. Despite the fact that it was approximately noon by Sheik’s reckoning, the forest floor precluded almost all natural lighting, with only the occasional stray ray of sunlight being greedily consumed by thick undergrowth. There was no dirt road—not even a well trod path. There was only the thick underbrush of an ancient and largely undisturbed wood. Every step deeper was another step deeper into the bowels of time; into prehistory.

The Princess’s voice seemed to trail both Sheik and Zanji who were constantly peering into the infinity of the wood for real or imagined threats. “Is there not a path that will take us to Ordon?”

Zanji’s waist turned toward the Princess while he kept his steady pace. “Yes, Your Highness, but it is a very public highway. We would be easily noticed. I, um, apologize for the inconvenience.”

The Princess was making a valiant effort. “No—trouble—at all—” Unfortunately all her regality did not prevent the Princess from losing her footing over a concealed stump, which sent her sprawling down onto the forest floor.

“Highness?” Zanji inquired, only slightly alarmed. As Sheik departed from Zanji’s side to her friend’s to help her up, the Princess refused all offers of assistance and brushed the woodland debris off her cherry-tinged dress.

“I’m quite all right, thank you,” she managed in a tone that sounded more strained than confident.

“Perhaps we should all rest for a few moments?” Zanji offered. The lack of protest meant that the plan was immediately adopted.

Ordon Forest was something of an anathema to Sheik. In her travels she had visited some of the minor woodlands throughout Hyrule Field and beyond. But Ordon was not merely the coincidental congregation of trees. Ordon was a living and breathing beast, with its own pulse and will. Sheik’s superficial knowledge of magic was enough to inform her of something unbelievably ancient that lay at the heart of the Ordon; something the Ordon had resolved to defend.

As if coming out of a dream, Zanji’s voice shook Sheik from her thoughts. Her annoyance at being surprised by the much larger man lasted only for an instant. “Something disturb you, Sheik?” Without turning her head, she felt his stare against the back of her head.

“The forest is disturbed,” Sheik said, unsure exactly what her own words meant.

“It has been for awhile, I am afraid.”

Sheik turned her gaze toward patient hazel eyes. “You feel it too, then?” Sheik was surprised at her lack of annoyance as Zanji gave her an indulgent laugh.

“You seem surprised. Could you not feel the beating heart of Kakariko for all the years you lived there?”

Sheik’s brow furrowed. She mentally recalled the only home she had known for the thirteen years she had been on the earth. Sheik frowned as she tried to complete the mental exercise. Seeing her frustration, Zanji helped her out. “What did you feel in Kakariko?”

Sheik sighed deeply, not really knowing what this old man wanted from her. She decided that she would attempt to humor him with the first thing that came to mind. “Hopelessness---overwhelming hopelessness. The feeling of thousands of people being compressed together, struggling for the freedom to live. Rage, despair, sorrow, resentment, and hatred are there too.”

Zanji nodded. “All companions of hopelessness to be sure. Can you feel Kakariko here too?”

Sheik’s brow contracted again. “Well, I could except for the fact that we are the middle of a thicket of trees, and Kakariko has thousands of people and buildings.”

He regarded her with what Sheik thought was a patronizing smile. “So you think because Kakariko is a civilization and we are in the wild means that they are completely different?”

She cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t you?” That patronizing smile did not shift.

“Well, what is the difference between nature and civilization, Sheik?”

“A civilization dictates that people behave in an orderly fashion. Nature has no rules.”

“And the thousands of people in Kakariko who feel the crunch of oppression? This civilization works in an orderly fashion?” Sheik thought about this for a moment and suddenly found that she did not like this pattern of answering a question with a question. Zanji placed a gnarled hand on her shoulder. “Never forget that we are always in a state of nature. Whether in Kakariko or in Ordon, the mana that makes all things in the universe courses through both. No amount of civilization or culture can extinguish this fact. You must see the interrelatedness of the world if you are to understand it.”

Sheik honestly was not sure that she did, but she lost interest in discussing the point further. “Yes, Master.”

Zanji, as if completely ignoring her comment, continued to stare as Sheik returned back to the Princess. “You remind me of your mother.” As if lightning suddenly coursed through her, Sheik tensed and ponderously turned to face Zanji.

“My . . . mother?” The subject had been taboo. For all her life she had known only Impa as her mother, and never had the courage to ask questions of simple genealogy in front of her mentor. But this did not prevent a repressed curiosity of her heritage to slowly boil. Suddenly that curiosity boiled over.

Zanji, though all his attention was heaped upon her, acted as if he had not heard her question. “She was the bravest woman I had ever met.” He solemnly smiled at her. “She loved her daughter too.” The fact that this meant little to Sheik stirred a sort of quiet guilt. It was as if hearing an imaginary creature loved her rather than someone real.

She mustered the courage to answer the question that she had never dared to utter. Either out of respect to Impa, or out of a nagging fear that had infested her ever since she discovered the idea of motherhood as a child. Finally, curiosity overcame fear: “What happened to her?”

Zanji looked toward the depths of the infinitely vast forest. “She died during the Civil War.”

Sheik nodded slowly, her disappointment taking hold. “Oh.”

The rhythmic plodding of crunching leaves and snapping twigs finally brought the Princess behind them. “Are we ready to continue?” she inquired in breathless impatience. Zanji held Sheik’s gaze for another handful of seconds. “Yes, Your Highness, we shall continue.” And they did continue, into the depths of the forest.

________________________________________

It was mid-afternoon before the trio finally emerged from the forest into a clearing enclosed by grass-capped cliffs and terraced fields and thatched houses that were half submerged beneath the spongy soil. Innumerable fields each spawning their own multitude of crops dotted the emerald landscape as the sun began its inevitable retreat beneath the horizon. No carts, no throngs of crowds, no open air markets; just fields, farmers, and herds of goats. The familiar urban roar of the innumerable masses was instead replaced by the bleating of goats, the dull crunching of the hoe and plow, and the wind’s gentle kiss through the trees.

Walking along the largely dirt path through the small town was not nearly as inconspicuous as Sheik had originally hoped. She noticed the occasional darted glance from a plowing farmer or beady eyes peering out over a window sill as they strode through the center of town. No wave or welcome, just a deliberate policy of indifference. So much for small town hospitality.

Again, displaying an annoying proclivity to sensing her thoughts, Zanji interrupted her forebodings. “The only outsiders these people have seen for the last thirteen years have been invaders.”

The Princess made a barely audible snort. “And they believe that two girls and a retired knight constitute an invasion?”

“No, but they certainly aren’t going to take any chances by being overly friendly.”

Hostile and remote: this vacation was turning out spectacularly.

Crossing a small creek that snaked its way through the center of town, the three began to mount what appeared to be the highest point of the town. Reaching the hill’s summit, they beheld what was by far the largest house in Ordon. This house not only burrowed underground, it tunneled into the very cliff faces surrounding the city. Two full stories, and what looked to be like a steeply angled roof made the house tower above all else in the sleepy village. Two wooden double doors and an expansive front porch awaited the trio’s ascent. Zanji gestured for them to continue up the creaky steps to the doors.

As Sheik arrived at the top of the stairs, she craned her head expectantly for Zanji to follow. He remained unmoving. Sheik traced Zanji’s line of sight to the two double front doors, and she thought that the slight grimace that splattered over Zanji’s features might have been the barest hint of indecision. Finally, he spoke.

“I leave you in the capable hands of Mayor Bo. Your Highness, I wish you a pleasant stay here in Ordon. Rest assured I will monitor your safety and well-being.” He bowed with rigid formality that belied his rustic appearance. The Princess curtsied from the top of the stairs in return.

“I appreciate your escort, Sir Knight. Until next time.”

“Until next time,” Zanji echoed. He turned from the Princess to cast a final glance at Sheik before he stalked off with speed that contradicted his age. Sheik wondered after him until the Princess’s rasp on the door dispersed her thoughts.

The double doors creaked open, and Sheik imagined one of the many robed and elegant lords that had appeared infrequently back at the manor in Kakariko. Bracing herself for excessive pedigree, pomposity, and powder, she craned her head to discover the identity of the figure that opened the door.

Slowly saddling away from the door and into the sunlight, was a heavy-set bald man with eyes slashed across his face, and a graying mustache that adorned the corners of his mouth. He wore a simple loose-fitting cotton shirt, soil-caked brown shorts, and what looked to be the tattered remnants of an apron hanging limply from a thick neck. His large grizzly hands glistened with the tell-tale sight and smell of grease—at least until he dragged them across the already stained apron, leaving darkened smudges. His voice was something altogether new to Sheik.

“Can I help ya?”

The Princess smiled politely. “We’re here to see the Mayor of Ordon. Can you see if he’s available?”

Suspicion tinged Sheik’s mind as a wolfish smile seemed to sprout over the large man’s face. “Sure he is!” he said excitedly. “Just you wait one minute now.” And with that he ducked back into the cavernous hall as the doors shut.

The Princess maintained her polite smile, while Sheik attempted to conceal her scowl. A half-minute later, the doors opened again. A bald mustached head and broad body jutted out its swelling chest into the doorway. Hands firmly planted on its sides, it bellowed with the most farcical display of pageantry Sheik had ever seen. “I am the Mayor of Ordon. Whom do I have the honor of addressing?”

Sheik’s chortling was probably louder than she would have liked as the Princess’s eyebrows merged bewilderedly.

“But . . . you were just here,” she said, her nobility clearly strained.

“Nonsense! None would dare impersonate the Mayor of Ordon under pain of death! Or under pain of being slapped with a fish.” A smile spread across the Mayor’s features as his voice morphed into a deep, rich dialect. “Speakin’ o’fish, y’all want some?” Holding out a wooden plate with a well-cooked fish, the Princess made a momentary display of revulsion.

“No thank you. Might I have the honor of addressing Mayor Bo of Ordon?”

“Ya do. Whether it’s an honor is up to you.” Wiping the remaining grease across his apron, he held out his hand. The Princess cocked an eyebrow as Bo added, “Um . . . ya shake it.”

Partial understanding infiltrated onto the Princess’s face as she took several of his fingers and shook them vigorously. Sheik thought that it must have been a local greeting. She thought that Bo had a hybridized look of amusement and condescension.

“An’ what are the names o’the young ladies I have the honor of addressin’?”

Carefully remembering their chosen aliases, the Princess not too convincingly blurted out, “Medli. Lady Medli of the House of Rito.”

His chuckling being inexhaustible, he bowed low. “An honor, m’little lady.” His attention turned to Sheik, noticing her for the first time. “And you?”

“I’m her ladyship’s attendant.”

Bo scoffed. “But ya gotta name, don’t ya?”

Already having a separate identity, Sheik thought that the addition of another alias would be far more complicated than necessary. “It’s Sheik.”

Bo rolled his head and shoulders back as he regarded her. “Sheik. . . Sounds foreign.”

“It is.”

Sheik was glad of the chance to make him feel awkward for only an instant. “Ah. Well come on in the house!” The party walked through the doorway and into the house.

Processing her new surroundings for potential exits and entrances, Sheik found herself standing in a large open room with a kitchen and another bedroom wedged on the left and right sides. She spotted rickety stairs that ascended to a wooden platform that appeared to be a secondary bedroom. Aside from that, there was no division between the ground and the high narrow arch of the roof. Staring into the back of the room was a door that seemed to open up to a larger room which, as Sheik’s memory served, should be partially embedded within the cliffs. Sheik’s moderate enjoyment of the architecture was interrupted as she heard an abrupt crash coming from the vicinity of the secondary room upstairs.

“Farore, Link! Get out of my room!” A high-pitched voice—probably a child’s—shrieked out in what sounded like the depths of frustration.

Bo planted himself at the bottom of the stairs and bellowed. “Watch yer language and get down here and greet our new casts.”

The rapid scampering of feet might have humbled stampedes. Gazing up toward the room, Sheik thought she saw a blur of movement as a figure started sliding down the rickety guardrails of the winding stairs. As it seemed to race earthward, Sheik’s eyes bulged as she wondered if the figure had any idea if the stair rail awkwardly changed direction midway a full quarter turn. She received her answer as the figure went careening off the rail, and into the other side of the house with a dull crash.

Her combat reflexes taking over, she rushed over to the newly established disaster area where piles of books, housewares, and portraits had buried a mound of cotton-clothed flesh. Digging through the abrupt cave-in until she found a head, Sheik lifted it up to look it over for signs of head trauma. Sunlit locks formed wild dirt-caked tentacles and two eyelids lazily fluttered open as their eyes, twinkling like a coat of chainmail, seemed to regard the new surroundings that he helped create.

Sheik failed to keep concern completely absent from her voice. “Are you okay?”

The ruffled ball of cotton, hair, and delusion seemed not to notice her. “Yeah, but why’d you do that, Ilia?”

Sheik gave the barest hint of a chuckle. “You fell. And I’m not Ilia. My name is Sheik.”

The boy’s head turned in Sheik’s hands to regard her for the first time. Surprising her, he smiled. “Sheik.” He repeated to himself. Inhaling deeply and opening his eyes wider, he uttered, “I’m Link.”

Sheik’s lips drew up in a grin. “It’s nice to meet you, Link.”

Link returned her smile in full, and Sheik felt relief as he finally appeared to be regaining his senses. “I’m Link. Who are you?”

Bo merely groaned and rolled his eyes.







Thank you for reading the first seven chapters of His Fist. Any comments or criticisms would be appreciated either here on these forums, through private messaging, or though my user account on fanfiction.net, user name: Arvidius. Chapter 8 has been completed and requires suitable proofing before it is posted. I am a quarter of the way through Chapter 9 and I am also writing a short prologue.

Again, your criticisms and comments are appreciated especially on continuity issues. I have a fairly extensive back story in mind for this, but sometimes it is difficult to keep it completely consistent. I also apologize for any formatting issues. When I downloaded the updated files on FF.net and pasted them here, they appeared as a single paragraph with the font losing its italicization. I have painstakingly restored it throughout all seven chapters, but mistakes and oversights were bound to have occurred.

Again, I hope you enjoyed this and look forward to your comments.

His Fist
Chapter VIII

Autumn
Seven Years Ago

Link’s consciousness began coalescing back into form as his spotted purple vision was replaced with passable clarity. As he attempted to recall why he was asleep, dull pain flooded over him from the top of his scalp down to the base of his neck. He shuddered briefly before shirking the pain off and rousing himself from his hammock. He did not quite remembered how he got here….

His mind slowly fed him fleeting images of precariously positioned legs bolting down a splintery guard rail. Afterward, Link’s memory faded to blackness with a sudden ringing crash. Poor guy, he thought before vaguely recalling that the “guy” was him. Ouch. His recollection tentatively restored, he willed uncooperative muscles from the comfort of the hammock to stand.

Hearing multiple voices rebound down the earthen corridor leading to his hammock, Link sleepily ambled on wobbly legs into the open main room of the mayoral residence. Probing the ripened knot on his forehead with dirt encrusted fingernails, he found Bo, Ilia, and two apparent guests who he could not recall. Well, one guest he could not recall. The girl graced by the pale blue dress seemed to spark some level of vague recollection in Link’s cobwebbed memory, but it ultimately came to no conclusion.

Gathering around the kitchen enclosed in a corner of the room, the quartet seemed to notice Link’s arrival and silenced themselves. What seemed to be a relaxed atmosphere suddenly turned unnaturally tense as all four craned their heads toward the recently roused Link. He hated when people did that. Granted, he would admit on a candid day that he sometimes pulled stunts stupid enough to warrant awkward stares. However, that did not mean he had to like it.

Eyes darting around the room, Link decided to be smooth and polished. “Um. . . hi.”

Like a charm, Bo chuckled and shifted his weight against the rough wood of the kitchen cabinets. “Sleep well, sweetheart?”

Annoyed as laughter seemed to escape the three girls, Link searched for a way to maintain some of his manly pre-adult dignity. “Yeah, that head injury tucked me in nice and tight.” Satisfied that they seemed more amused with him that at him, Link allowed his wobbly posture to relax somewhat. Unfortunately, this nearly caused his still precarious footing to collapse completely. While the girl in the blue dress seemed to make a motion toward him, she abruptly halted as Link regained his footing, sending fresh waves of laughter throughout the room.

The young girl in the pink dress with the red curly hair sat up from the table near the kitchen and began making her way over to the still disoriented Hylian. Smiling graciously with perhaps more mirth than Link was comfortable with, she regarded him. “I am Lady Medli of the House of Rito.” She curtsied and averted her eyes downward in a melodramatic signal of respect. Rising, her smile widened. “And you must be Link; we’ve all heard so much about you.”

As Link’s cheeks caught fire, he returned Medli’s expression with a sickly mechanical smile of his own. Averting his eyes to Bo who seemed to be taking perverse amusement in all of this, he flashed the old man with an expression that tried to courteously warn him of his impending demise. Bo snorted in mirth. Returning his sight to Medli, he gave perhaps the worst mockery of a salute in history as he attempted to steal his gaze away from her. However, his peripheral vision caught Medli’s knowing smile as she returned to the table.

He looked at the girl in the blue dress who seemed to find profound comfort standing in the shadowy corner of the room. Link thought that she did a great job of pretending to look relaxed, but the display looked so over-the-top that it actually had the opposite of its intended effect. It did not take brilliant deduction to realize that she was shy. Link flashed her a warm grin . . . well, as genuine a grin as his embarrassment allowed. She sent a faint smile back his way before averting her eyes downward.

Link made a quick glance down the hallway to the front windows to get a semblance for the passage of time since he met with his “accident”. Seeing the sun hover teasingly over the canopied horizon, Link guessed offhand that no more than a few hours had passed. Good; still time for food.

Mischievousness played over Bo’s expression as he seemed to wink collectively at the three girls. “All right, clear yer plates. Dinner’s over. Time for bed.” Link’s stomach growled ferociously in protest as his common sense was reduced to predatory instincts. His mouth gaped to make an indignant howl until Bo unveiled a cooling wooden plate of fish, diced apples, and very seedy barley. Not Link’s favorite meal to be sure, but the threat of starvation made anything seem appetizing. Considering that this display might have been a wretched plot hatched by Bo to get him to appreciate his cooking, Link concluded that Bo was either evil or a masterful manipulator. Finally, he came to the conclusion that both were correct.

The impromptu family busied themselves at the counter, piling their plates with layers of food. Glancing at Bo, he realized that some plates had more layers than others. He also took note that both Medli and the girl in the blue dress took no interest in fish, and instead stacked theirs with small amounts of apple and barely.

Link realized that the small table situated near the kitchen was not going to be sufficient for all five of them. Inspiration hit Link as he stalked over to Bo’s writing desk near his small book case on the other side of the room. With matchless poise, in one swift movement his arm wiped the aged books, valuable documents, and neatly placed odds and ends off the desk and onto the adjacent floor. Revenge! Link thought as he submitted an earnest expression to match the intensity of the frown tugging at Bo’s lips. Link turned, but was unaware of Bo’s muffled chortle. Link awkwardly joined the two tables together as the quintet sat down to eat.

Two other chairs were salvaged from whatever was deemed useable. Medli sat in Bo’s rather expansive desk chair, seemingly swallowing her figure as she sat picking at her food. The girl in the blue dress sat on a small bench as she seemed to rapidly inhale her food in an almost mechanical fashion. Link wondered if she could even taste her food. Thinking about the coarse and seedy barley he wondered if she would even want to. Link glanced at Ilia who seemed to be happily chomping down hers. He speculated that she was relieved that her gender was now the majority in the household. Link mentally groaned.

Everyone seemed quite fixated on their respective meals, and Link could not decide if that was merely a convenient diversion from the awkwardness of the situation, or if everyone collectively found their food that interesting. Taking a bite of dry, bristly bread, he decided that the latter was certainly not the case. Bo had instructed both Link and Ilia to be the very definition of courteous—well, as courteous as Link’s very limited experience allowed him to be. Then again, nobody seemed particularly sociable this evening.

Medli mulled over a bite of apple as she fixed curious eyes on Bo. Spotting her mouth with a napkin—really a rag—and placing it in her lap, she straightened and prepared to speak in her somberly decisive way. “I am curious, Major Bo, if you are acquainted with Sir Zanji. Do you know him?” There was a slight twitch as the cadence of Bo’s crunching jaw seemed to slow just noticeably and not out of thrilled surprise either. Link’s attention heightened both at the mention of an apparent knight and Bo’s unnatural discomfort.

The only knights he was aware of were the Imperial Dark Knights, the elite black-armored warriors whose legendary exploits filled the fantasies of many an impressionable child. Either through a gradual mispronunciation or to perhaps disentangle the ration ominous impression of “Dark Knight,” the term Darknut had become increasingly popular. The only other possibility was that this knight was a knight of the old kingdom, but everybody knew they had all been wiped out somehow. Boring history and politics aside, Link knew that Medli had somehow mistaken Bo for somebody else. Bo’s company consisted of farmers and goat herders, not mysterious warriors or royalty.

Which is exactly why Link nearly leapt in surprise as Bo muttered, “Yeah, we’re ole’ friends,” quietly with an unexpressed warning. Whatever effect it was intended to have on Medli, it certainly did not perturb Link.

Medli nodded slowly. “He stated that you were one of his attendants.”

Bo snorted, but without his usual mirth. Somehow the sight rather discomforted Link. “I’m sure he did.”

The brittleness of Bo’s sarcasm seemed to create a gap of silence that engulfed the awkwardly joined dinner tables. Link saw the girl in the blue dress stir just noticeably as she turned toward Link, only halfway meeting his gaze. “Link, thank you for giving up your room.”

The table banged loudly. For a moment Link was not sure if he had pounded on the table with a heavy hand, or if his jaw had unhinged and plummeted down on the table in surprise. The shock could not dissuade his scientific inquiry. “Huh?”

The anonymous girl’s expression became clouded with either confusion or anxiety, and Link was really not sure which. Ilia’s head shot up as if noticing the conversation for the first time. “Oh yeah! I told her that you wanted to give her your room an’ that you’d let her use your hammock an’ all your stuff an’ that she could stay for as long as she liked.” Bo seemed to be coughing fiercely in a rhythm that—coincidentally of course—matched that of a rumbling laugh.

Link made a tight smile that teetered on the edge of a grimace. “Did I? I still must be foggy from the bumped head. Tell me, where did I ‘volunteer’ to sleep?”

Not missing a beat, Ilia began again sweetly. “Oh, near the front door of course! Isn’t that right, Dad?”

Bo seemed to really be hacking on the other side of the table. “That’s right, darlin’.”

Ilia continued again. “So, Medli gets my room, the two of us get your room….” Ilia gestured toward the girl in the blue dress. Great, Link thought, go to sleep for a few hours and they’re already plotting. Ilia’s high-pitched earnestness interrupted Link’s cynical thinking. “Dad gets his room, and you sleep near the front door.”

Link nodded as his eyes widened in incredulity. “I see. And when did I say this?”

Ilia looked confused for a moment, but only for the barest moment. “Oh, you didn’t say anything. Dad said you and he talked about it and that it was your idea, right Dad?”

That cough was really not sounding like a cough now. “That’s—ahem— right, darlin’.”

Link saw understanding flood over the blue-clad girl’s features as her lips quavered into a smile. He returned as much of a smile as he could until he turned back toward Ilia while making a point of eyeing Bo. “Well gee, I guess I must be a really nice guy.”

Bo interjected a bit too quickly. “Oh, you are. The best. Which is why I know you won’t mind doin’ the dishes.” He slid the smooth wooden plate over to Link, the smell of Hylian loach still haunting the dish. Bo gestured to the small wash tub awaiting attention in the kitchen. Gesturing for the others to follow his example, Bo reclined in his chair looking very satisfied with himself. Link resolved that Bo would somehow pay for this, though the how of that particular equation escaped him as the wooden plates began piling up in front of him. Medli stacked her plate in confused reluctance. The girl in blue seemed to flash Link an apologetic look as she topped the pile with her plate. As dinner naturally dismissed and the makeshift family members went their separate ways, Link decided to begin his prison sentence.



By the time Link won his freedom, he believed that he would be sick if he ever had to smell lye soap again. Stacking the dishes on the kitchen counter he found to his dismay that everybody was preparing to retire for the night. As he discovered and apprehended a tattered quilt under Bo’s bed, he realized that he could not simply accept this . . . shame in passing. He realized that mute acceptance was not an option; he had to act. With blanket in arm he walked toward the front door. Bo seemed to magically appear behind him.

“Settlin’ in fer the night?” Bo asked a tone that combined amusement with a challenge.

“Actually, I was thinking that sleeping outside sounds pretty good.” Walking up to Bo’s side, Medli’s eyes seemed to swell.

“But what about Wolfos or the other vicious creatures that come out at night.” Medli’s concern seemed genuine enough for someone he had known for all of two hours.

Bo shrugged off her concern with an absent wave of his hand. “Aww . . . He’ll be all right. ‘Sides, I figure Link’s got plenty enough wolf in him anyway. They don’t eat their own.” Link tried to keep his annoyance hidden, though he realized he probably failed. He was particularly annoyed at the ease with which Bo called his bluff. Bluff . . . Frustrated, Link realized that he was not bluffing. He never bluffed. Inhaling deeply and puffing out his chest far more melodramatically than he realized, he turned the door knobs and strode out of the house into the night.



Laying across grassy hilltop in front of the house, Link almost regretted his obstinacy as sticky dew began to seep through the warmth and comfort of the quilt. Almost. Then he reclined his head back as he beheld the night sky and all regret seemed to vanish. Looking up at the innumerable faint points of light that haloed an immensely bright full moon, he allowed himself to relax as he began piecing them together. Truthfully, he really should not find it so spectacular. His affinity for star-gazing had roughly coincided with his first word and first steps, and he could not help but wonder if the return of that affinity had anything to know with the hard lump at the top of his head. Resuming his gaze skyward as he lay comfortably on his back, he quickly dismissed those wonderings. Link did not know where exactly the Sacred Realm was. Some said it was somewhere deep in the sky, and others said that it was on another plane of existence entirely. Still though, if the Sacred Realm was at any particular place, it would be hard-pressed to find a better realm than alongside the stars.

Link began mentally tracing some of the familiar clusters of stars into constellations he had grown familiar with through years of drilled practice. Cross-shaped Goddess of Power Din swept a fiery swath across the northern sky, her arms shining with the same starlit fire that forged the world itself. From his recollection, Din was a favorite of sailors, not only for her power supposedly protecting ships from mishaps, but also because the brightest star on her right arm, Magius, was nearly continuously fixed northward. Link had rather crudely used it before whenever he would sneak out of the house at night and ramble around in the dark forests for the sake of it. Like tonight, he thought. Magius was the brightest star in the sky, and Link recalled that some long-dead group of thinkers or priests thought that Magius was the focal point of creation. Some said that Magius was a reminder that though the worldly realm would be changing until the end of time, the power of the Goddesses was a constant.

The Goddess of Wisdom Naryu lay affixed in the eastern sky, her confusing maze of celestial patterns seemingly swooping down onto the world itself, with a single shimmering arm reaching down to convert chaos into order. According to the legends, it was in such a way that Naryu gave her laws to all beings that would hear and honor them. As the sun would rise in the eastern sky and gradually outshine Naryu’s constellation, it was said that Naryu willed the light of reason and creation to guide all things made by the Goddesses in their stead.

Farore, the Goddess of Courage, beckoned the setting sun in the western sky. Farore’s star cluster twinkled faintly with obscurity. It was a sign that as the creator of all life, everything begins small. Even stars. However, as the sun would inevitably settle beneath the horizon, it would finally expose the brightest star of Farore: Illuminus, the gigantic western star of hope. A sign that even when the light of order and reason fails, there is always hope in life.

However, Link did not need metaphor to be entranced by the infinite beauty of the heavens. He found that simply by looking.

So he looked.

Tracing yet another stick-figured star group, he became reacquainted with Randor the ancient adventurer. After his ship was blown off course by an evil spirit who evoked the power of Farore’s Wind, he spent ten years fighting his way back home. In the course he became a great hero and one of the most famous knights of Hyrule. Knight….

Link’s mind absently anchored back to the awkward dinnertime conversation concerning this “Sangee” character. Link had to give Bo credit; the man knew he could not keep a secret very well. Instead of attempting to make a very obvious lie, he would usually just avoid or warn somebody off a subject of particular sensitivity. The best example was this whole game of Bo being Link’s “uncle.” Link had a gut feeling that Bo was nothing close to his uncle. In his childhood, whenever the young Hylian had pressed him on the matter, he was either warned off or artlessly deflected. Therefore, it became a sort of game that the two agreed to play by silent consent. Truthfully whenever Link glanced at the bare peak of Bo’s scalp or his growing midsection he was somewhat relieved at their lack of relation. Bo was great in his own way, and had many enviable traits, but Link could not think of any enviable physical traits.

Wishing his mind off the subject, Link recalled Bo’s abrupt change of subject and how he almost snared at Medli’s insistence on diving into the subject. Bo was fairly easy to read, but as his unexpected anger that night last summer demonstrated, there were some things that Link just did not understand about the man. Whatever this whole sneaky business with “Sangee” was about, Link promised himself he would find out; if nothing else for the sake of revenge. Satisfied, Link cushioned his sore head with two bare arms as he once again committed his gaze toward the heavens.



Sheik knew the Princess could be loquacious when she wanted to be. Though Sheik would never admit it, she could be downright bothersome when the appropriate subject became lodged in that stubborn mind of hers. Still, for the sake of their friendship Sheik tolerated this vice. Sheik also reasoned that the Princess’s gabbing was the worst extreme of the vice, and if the worst extreme was tolerable then there was nothing to worry about.

That is until Sheik met Ilia. In the space of about an hour Sheik had learned much from her new teacher, such as the true definition of a “one-way” conversation. The Sheikah were generally a fairly laconic bunch speaking only when necessary, their body language and actions more than compensating for their muteness. The concept of a “one-way” conversation seemed so abstract to Sheik’s imagination as to be an absurd creation of an overactive imagination. Ilia had turned the abstract into fact.

The amazing feature was that Ilia truly was not offended that Sheik did not reply back. Ilia had gone on longer than Sheik could remember about their village, her family, her life, her interests, and generally anything that provided fuel for that tireless flapping jaw of hers. Sheik was not truly exasperated; just overwhelmed. Lying in Link’s hammock as Ilia nestled into a cot nearby Ilia seemed to be discussing her favorite books perhaps? At least that is what Sheik speculated as she went about interpreting Ilia’s speech in the same manner she translated ancient Hylian, Goron, or Zora. However, Ilia humiliated all three arcane languages with her completely alien pattern of speech. Therefore the only thing Sheik could do as she sat up facing Ilia was to smile politely and dumbly nod. It was a devastatingly effective combination.

As Ilia continued with what was effectively a conversation with herself, Sheik stirred uncomfortably in the hammock as her mind flocked back to Link’s amusing yet genuine frustration at having his room swindled. She was quite sure that out of association he would now hate her for her role in accidental piracy.

As Ilia began to run out of breath, Sheik was surprised that the thought upset her. Finally her vocal stamina seemed to sputter out as her verbal rampage ended in breathlessness.

Sheik knew that this was her opportunity to quickly disengage from this relentless foe and retreat into the protection of sleep. Unfortunately for Sheik, her mouth interceded before her mind could. Perhaps Ilia was rubbing off on her. “Your brother now hates me, doesn’t he?”

Ilia looked genuinely confused, which satisfied Sheik in an odd kind of way. “My brother . . . you mean Link?”

Sheik nodded quietly as Ilia made a high pitched giggle. “Oh, he’s not my brother! He’s uh . . . well . . . he’s just Link.”

Sheik nodded her head again. “Ah, I see.” That was a lie, of course. That was actually about the vaguest statement she had heard in her life. But she felt she was already being too inquisitive as it was, and the thought that it could lead to gossip rather annoyed her. Ilia, however, did not seem to detect Sheik’s tone of finality.

“I don’t think he hates you though. He’s just . . . ya know . . . a boy.”

“Oh.” Again Sheik had no idea what “just being a boy” meant. While she was flattered that her sex was clearly the basis of some perceived camaraderie, she had no valid intelligence on what the essential qualities of being a boy or girl were. She thought she should be grateful though, Ilia was after all trying to make her feel better. “Thanks for answering a silly question.”

Ilia beamed. “No problem!” Not missing a beat, Ilia decided to go for the kill and begin yet another besieging conversation. “Oh I know! Tomorrow, I’ll show you around town, introduce you to all everybody, show you all the animals . . . it’ll be great!”

Actually Sheik thought the idea of her flaunted around town was possibly the worst idea she had ever heard. While Impa certainly did not mean for her to be cloistered during the “vacation,” she also would probably object to having her name and physical appearance shoved into faces of Ordon’s collective populace. Even so, despite all her pragmatism and reason, Sheik really could not bring herself to undermine Ilia’s earnest friendliness.

She flashed an amused smile. “I’d like that.” Hopefully she would be able to deftly steer Ilia away from formal introductions to people. Well . . . if she got a word in edgewise. Sheik sighed and all but buried her face in her hands.

She was doomed.

Sighing and letting her weight sink into the bottom of the hammock, Sheik resolved her way to sleep her way through Ilia’s interminable soliloquy.



The young woman stood in front of the towering panel mirror that revealed her entire form. To say that her dress was ornate would require a redefinition of the term. It was the essence of opulence. Her silken white dress elegantly clasped by a violet bodice was gingerly embroidered by organic golden shoulder plates. A circlet of gold crowned a head of sun-baked hair. Her regal features could have been chiseled from the whitest marble, which belied how easily they succumbed to laughter and joy; which is what they would do tonight. Standing in front of the mirror regarding her reflection, she brushed unbound locks of hair with elegant precision as a smile slowly blossomed across her visage. The Queen of Hyrule was not a vain woman, nor did she concern herself overmuch with the burden of maintaining her physical appearance.

Except tonight. He was coming home! After waiting, fearing, hoping, and praying he was coming home. And that’s all that mattered in her now happy universe.

She continued to brush her hair, her large bedroom in the castle illuminated by the dozens of candle flames that seemed to dance for her. Uncharacteristically, she began humming; humming that tune that had been sung to her since infancy—the song that he always played for her.

The humming echoed within the cavernous dome of the bedroom in Hyrule Castle, providing a multi-part harmony that filled the room with life. Her ebullience almost seemed to warm the cold and unyielding castle room itself as she nostalgically laughed at the conclusion of one round of the melody.

She sat down at the pearl-colored writing desk in the corner of the bedroom and began pondering her speech as she continued humming. Her regal duty required her to say something along the lines of “The people of the Kingdom of Hyrule are eternally in your debt for your selfless sacrifice; for your courage; for your valor; but most of all, for your devotion.” She suspected that her royal duty might force her to say something like that to him, which faintly amused her. She seriously wondered whether her dignity would keep her from squeezing the life out of him.

That could be a problem.

Laughing to herself, she continued her tune as she attempted to bat away paperwork with several poorly placed signatures and stamps. This is probably why she did not hear the slow approach of careful footsteps.

Had she but once glanced out of her prison of euphoria, she might have spotted him. She might have seen the figure in a form-fitting black suit and mask. She might have seen him reach for two slender objects along his belt. She might have seen telling twin glint of knives’ blades shimmering into the night. She might have seen one blade enter the wooden backing of the chair and the other knife wrap around and enter in from her chest. But she did not.

Within an instant the Queen of Hyrule found herself stabbed from the front and from behind, the knives pinning her to her chair. The black-clad figure kicked the chair onto its back, driving the knife at the back deeper into her chest and forcing it out the other side of her body as both she and the chair slammed into the floor. She knew she was dying. And she regretted nothing.

As the blood began to rise from her throat into her mouth, she tried to call out but a sick gargling noise silenced any last words she wanted to make. She would drown first in her own blood rather than having an organ simply shutting down. She would drown on the very substance that made her royal. But she was not so poetically inclined, nor did she care about making a last minute analysis of her life to derive some selfish notion of significance. All she cared about was to warn him of danger; to tell him to be brave; to tell him she would always love him. But only faint gargling came along with small trickles of blood from the corner of her mouth—her only regret.

She heard a faint pounding at the door. “Your Majesty? Are you well?” The gruff, martial voice waited for a few moments before asking again. “Your Majesty? Your Majesty!?” The tone of his voice changed from faint concern to mortal dread. He bellowed, “Get help! The Queen is in danger!” As the corners of her vision darkened, she heard the dull clanging of plate armor as feet pattered closer and closer to her bedroom door. She heard a crash as the Royal Guard rammed down the doors and strode in. The half dozen or so guards she could make out collectively gasped as they abruptly halted in the middle of the room.

Finally, another voice bellowed. A voice that did not ask; it did not compromise; it commanded. It rippled with power; an echo of the authority that forged the universe itself. The voice usually silken—now harried—and it sounded from the depths of time and space itself.

A voice that had one master….

It proceeded to pronounce its will.

“Don’t just stand there! Get help! You men, the assassin must have escaped out of the window. Pursue him! You, alert the Royal Surgeon and the Household Mage. Inform them that the Queen has been wounded—mortally I fear. And you, send a message to all gate houses and patrols around the castle—no one shall either enter or exit without my express orders. Move before it’s too late!”

The guards fled the Queen’s peripheral vision and with a sigh the voice ended the façade. “I am quite sorry it had to come to this, Your Majesty. Rest assured, your death will not be in vain.” The voice’s smooth silk wavered slightly. “I wish there was another way, truly. I never wished for your death. In other circumstances perhaps we could have been friends.” Had the Queen been able, she would have spat the blood and bile congealing in her throat at him. But she could only cough and spit up more blood. The voice came into view and knelt close at her bleeding side.

“You were never my enemy. Please, be of good cheer. I will ensure that this mindless cycle ends permanently, and then you can finally be free of this eternal curse. Don’t worry, I will take care of everything.” The Queen tried to summon all of her magic and all of her knowledge for a strike against her killer. If she could kill him too….

But the voice seemed to know her mind, and he deftly shielded himself with powers the likes of which she had never seen.

Hopeless.

The voice seemed amused by her determination before dismissing it as he imposed his will upon her. Dark mana flooded into her being. “Now…. Good night, Your Majesty—and good morning Hyrule.” As his life-suffocating power filtered in, she knew there were only seconds left. As the life drained out of her, she felt the very balance of the world begin to shift and go awry. Nothing would ever be the same.

Despairing, a lone ray of light shone. She remembered they still lived, and as long as they lived there was still hope. As the final remnants of life fled her body, she had faith in that.

Sheik bolted upright, instinctively clutching her front and back and checking for entry wounds. The alarm in her pulse subsiding, she forced herself to breath normally as a cold sweat gathered on her brow. Glancing down at Ilia’s shadowy contours, she was relieved as she merely stirred before rolling over and resuming sleep. Whew. There would be nothing as awkward as explaining to the young girl why her combat reflexes reacted to a dream. A dream….

Sheik normally did not dream. Sleeping at odd intervals throughout the day and night, she merely assumed that she did not sleep long enough to have these dream experiences that people sometimes talk about. But this….

It was not a fleeting image of random nonsense. Sheik’s flawless memory retained every detail. The sights, sounds, the dialogue; she saw everything that the Queen saw and as she rubbed her chest and back she recalled that she felt everything that the Queen felt. The memory did not exactly encourage her to go back to sleep. She figured she had quite enough anyway. As she stealthily sat up, she pondered whether this was merely how she dreamt when she incurred too much sleep. Considering that was possibly correct, she resolved to go outside and hopefully bring her mind to bear on something else; like potential escape routes if the manor came under attack.

Given that her Sheikah-based training would make escaping the house laughably easy, Sheik possibly underestimated the skillfully placed defensive arrangements around the manor as her right foot crashed into a clumsily stacked pile of books. As they fell and crashed more audibly than they should, she cringed and prayed that the Goddesses would make at least one thing go right tonight. Tiptoeing down the small hallway and into the kitchen area, Sheik craned her head to the left toward the source of the animal roar…and sighed in relief as she spotted Bo with his chest gently rising and falling with deafening snores. Sheik bypassed him, and made her way toward the front door.

Carefully stepping toward the front door, she realized that she was nearly free. And then, putting slightly too much weight on her right foot, the board she was standing on sang with a squealing creak. That was it. She knew that sound had to be heard by even the most oblivious ears. She waited for the inevitable scolding that would come when Bo, Ilia, and the Princess discovered she had left her bed. But that did not come. Then, she realized that the drone of Bo’s snoring had consumed all other sound. Relaxing and berating herself for not noticing earlier, Sheik very casually turned the door knobs and stepped out into the humid night air.

Inhaling deeply, it amazed Sheik that even though she was far south, the night could still be warm in the middle of autumn. It was enjoyable, honestly. The caverns underneath the Harkinian manor were not exactly conducive to warmth. Even though the warmth was a trivial luxury, Sheik could not deny that she took some pleasure in it.

Stepping down the stairs of the manor house, she instantly spied that same ruffled ball of blond-hair, cotton, and delusion that she had wrenched out from under an avalanche of houseware. His chest was rising and falling at long intervals indicating he was deep within his sleep cycle now. It was going to be comparatively easy to simply bypass him and—

“Do they call this morning where you come from?” For the first time in years, Sheik was genuinely physically startled as Link’s voice rang out into the night without the slightest indication of sleepy fatigue. She nearly yelped as she willed strained nerves to calm themselves.

“No . . .” Sheik breathily managed.

“Ok then. So do you normally walk around in the middle of the night?” Sheik knew that Link was a little more than sarcastic, but if that was the point of the question he was certainly concealing it well. She decided to answer honestly.

“Well, sometimes.” Sheik realized that she was doing a superb job of elaborating. She also had the feeling that Link would dismiss her as being weird or stupid. Normally she would consider that an advantage, but seeing as how they’d be stuck here for a while she did not want to overdo that.

Surprising her, Link smiled. “Me too.” Sheik considered breaking this new-found bond of commonality by curtly informing him that his reasons for childishly gallivanting around in the middle of the night and her reasons could not be more different. However, the last thing she needed was another problem here.

She eyed this avatar of mischief as he held her gaze. He had to be what? No more than a year younger than her certainly. And yet this boy—this child—was talking to an adult his own age about sneaking off in the middle of the night.

And yet, Sheik was here all the same.

She sighed. “Look, I’m sorry about the whole room situation. It wasn’t my call.” Even in the pitch-black of night, Sheik could make out his features contorting in confusion.

“Huh. . .? Oh! Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t worry about it? Then why are you out here?” She had had to sleep outside before on many missions, and she failed to see what was so romantic or mystical about it.

“Oh, that.” Link paused for minute, looking introspective for a moment as if musing on how best to explain a complicated topic to a child. The thought annoyed Sheik. “It’s just a game Bo and I play. If I did everything he said I’d be in trouble. I might have to end up actually doing chores.” He shuddered melodramatically, and Sheik lifted a hand to her lips to conceal a growing smile.

“So, it’s Bo?” Sheik gently queried.

Link smiled slightly. “Don’t you wanna ask something else?”

The question threw Sheik off guard. “I’m sorry. . . I don’t understand.”

He laughed lightly. “I’ve been asked ‘where are your real parents?’ before you know. I can take it. Don’t worry, I won’t run off crying.”

Sheik smiled and was impressed that the child had made such a casual observation so quickly. “Well, I guess I won’t disappoint. Where are your real parents?”

Link flashed a melancholic smile. “I dunno. If I knew do you think I’d be here?”

She arched an eyebrow. “I don’t know. Would you?”

He seemed to stare off into the distance. “I don’t know,” he said softly, almost to himself. Then, turning to Sheik muttered, “It depends on who’d give the most chores.”

Sheik smirked and it carefully concealed a revelation. So there was somebody down there beneath the childish pranks and mischievousness. It somehow relieved her, but it also made her wonder why she even bothered to care. “And if neither gave chores?”

Link seemed to mull on that. Eventually he gave her an indignant look. “Hey, that’s not fair. I don’t even know your name….”

Sheik was so unfamiliar with social cues that she almost did not pick up the almost explicit invitation. “Oh! It’s uh . . . Sheik.”

Link scratched his head. “Sheik…” he repeated. “That sounds familiar.”

Sheik did not even bother suppressing a chortle. “It should. We were introduced right before you passed out.” She thought that Link’s cheeks might burn their way thought the dark of night.

“Oh. Well, sorry about that.”

“No worries. Besides, it’s not like I had to pull my own head out of all that stuff.”

“You . . . had to pull me out?”

Sheik shrugged. “Yes, I did.”

Link’s cheeks were melting. “Bo’s never gonna let me outlive that.”

Suspicion crept into Sheik. “That you knocked yourself out or that you were saved by a girl?”

“Neither. He’ll never let me outlive that I was saved by a houseguest . . . thanks by the way for that.”

It was Sheik’s turn to blush. “You’re welcome.” She stepped out further from the manor and looked up at the sky. She made a small gasp as she beheld the gorgeous full moon that shone in its silvery dominion over the night sky.

Sure, Sheik had seen the moon of course. She’d seen a full moon too. But it had always been her enemy, its light constantly threatening to reveal her existence and compromise her more nocturnal missions. She never allowed herself the luxury to address it as anything more than a problem. “It’s…it’s beautiful.” Oh great Sheik, that was perfect! You sound like a dumb farm girl. The frustration was redoubled as she recalled that she was supposed to impersonate a dumb farm girl, or at least something close. Link, unfortunately, had heard her.

“What is?”

“Huh?” Sheik tried denying she had said anything.

“What’s beautiful?” Curses of the Goddesses!

“Well . . . the moon.”

“The moon?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh,” Link mused, as if considering it for the first time. “Nah, I don’t like the moon.”

Sheik repeated the scene over in her head to make sure she heard him correctly. He doesn’t . . . like . . . the moon? Sheik wondered. She decided to repeat it aloud. “You don’t like the moon?”

“Nope.”

Sheik stared at him, slightly flabbergasted. “Well . . . why?”

“I dunno.” Link shrugged honestly. “Just don’t trust it.”

Doesn’t . . . trust . . . the moon…. She wondered if Link was typical of most boys, or if he was a breed unto his own. Link interrupted her thoughts.

“Do you know any constellations?”

“No.” She was well-acquainted with the stars themselves, their seasonal distributions and movements, and their general color and appearance. With that kind of memory, Sheik had never needed to group them together. It was too . . . confusing.

“Would you like me to show you some?” Truthfully Sheik knew that she needed to get back to bed before she was missed. However, it might prove useful to know a bit about them. Also, there really was not any sense not to be polite and obliging. Sheik retrospectively would find it absurd that she had to find that many justifications to simply be with somebody who treated her as a real person. It also helped that he did not ask any dress questions. Resigning more to her heart than head, she moved up beside Link and warily plopped herself down beside him on the grass.

Link rolled up the thing-quilt he was sitting on and slid it over to her. As much as she could pretend not to appreciate or notice the gesture, it felt different and more than a little awkward to be treated like this. Usually the Princess received the bulk of such attention. If Link was offended at the “shunning” of his quilt, he was hiding it quite well. Pointing up at the night sky, Link began his lesson.

After several hours, Sheik was impressed. The term “lesson” and “teach” evoked memories of dull rote lectures from the Harkinian manor’s small retinue of scholars. Sheik had developed great tolerance for such methods, but she would be lying if she were to claim that she was fond of them. Link probably had less than a fraction of their knowledge, but what he did know he knew by heart. One story flawlessly melted into another as he pointed out each star cluster, each with a far-fetched story more amusing than the last. Sheik was almost . . . happy.

“. . . and that is the dragon Valoo.” Link pointed out the general shape of the southern constellation with his index finger. “You see that small cluster of stars behind the tail?”

Sheik nodded.

“That’s his celestial flatulence.”

The earnestness on Sheik’s face collapsed into amused skepticism. “It is not!”

“Yeah, it is, I mean what else could it be!? Besides, in the legends his lower half was stuck in a volcano anyway. That’s bound to build it up!”

“You’ve probably been making all this up from the start,” Sheik said teasingly. The action surprised her. She never teased.

“No I haven’t! Fine! I’ll make it up to you. I’ll teach you how to fish tomorrow, how about that?”

“Link, you have to be awake to fish.”

Link batted his hand. “Details, details. Just let me worry about that.”

Sheik smirked. “You won’t worry at all.”

“All right, fine. Then assuming we get sleep, will you?”

Sheik could find excuses and object all she wanted to. Truth be told, she would by lying if she said she did not want to go. “Sure. If you’re awake. Which means I also need to be awake. Which means I am going back to bed.” Realistically she did not need sleep, but the thought brought back memories of her dream which clouded her otherwise cheerful disposition.

Unfortunately for her, Link detected the slight furrowing of her brows as her smile morphed into a brooding frown. “Hey, Sheik…. You ok?” He reached out to place a hand on her shoulder.

She stood up and dodged the friendly gesture. “Yeah, I’m fine,” she muttered, suddenly short on patience. “Listen, Link. . . I’ll. . . I’ll see you tomorrow.” Sheik mentally berated herself, first for getting upset because of a dream, and secondly for being rude. After all he was just trying to be nice, and that alone deserved something. However, Link just smiled and nodded.

“All right. I guess I’ll see you and the princess tomorrow.”

Sheik’s eyes seemed to double in volume. Her cover had been blown before—but by spymasters and armies. . . not adolescent boys. Her whispery growl seemed to take Link aback. “What. . . did. . . you. . . say?”

Link blinked at her with innocent curiosity as his memory probably trying to postulate what mortal sin he had committed to so enrage the young girl. “I said I’ll see you and the princess tomorrow.”

“And why do you call her ‘Princess?’” Sheik asked, her edge diminished but still sharp.

Link’s confusion increased significantly. “Well, because you and I guess everybody else seem to be waiting on her hand and foot. Like she’s royalty or something. I dunno.” He shrugged, which was his way of subtly asking ‘What in Din’s name is wrong with you.’ Cursing herself for not maintaining her composure, Sheik conceded that he asked a valid question. Seeing his confusion and wariness, she concluded that either Link was simply incredibly lucky or had a Goddess-given obscene ability to make incredibly accurate deductions without knowing what was correct. Either way, neither case was exactly a punishable offense. So Sheik merely reacted the way she wanted to.

“Yeah, I guess we do treat her like royalty, don’t we?” She laughed softly, and became slightly perturbed when she realized that she was being completely candid. “It’s just that we’ve never really left home before so we’re really not sure how you’re supposed to act in places like Ordon. You sort of feel imprisoned.” Sheik berated her for the unnecessary existential complaint. “Sorry. I know that sounds silly and hard to comprehend.”

Measurably, Link looked out over the far expanse of Hyrule gleamed by faint moonlight. “Not really.”

As Link gazed out over the treetops to the world beyond, the door was open for Sheik to ask dozens of more questions and to spend hours more in conversation. But she realized that no matter what kind of a vacation she was on, it was still a mission. And she was getting distracted. “It’s getting late, and you wanted to take me fishing tomorrow. I am guessing that fishing is somewhat more effective when you’re awake.”

Link nodded. “Most of the time.”

Sheik smirked. “Well, good night, Link, and thanks…” she paused because she really did not know what she was thanking him for. “Thanks for showing me Valoo’s celestial, uh, odor.”

He smiled and shrugged as he began to lie back down on the grass. “Education is my passion.”

Sheik grinned and turned the door knob. She looked back once more. “Good night, Link.”

“Good night, Sheik.”



As Sheik walked down the hallway and crawled back into the hammock, Bo, still snoring in bed, batted open a lazy eye. Trying hard not to laugh, he grinned broadly as he ended his eavesdropping.