Prologue
"Mama, they were beating him."
"Shush, Zelda, and how many times do I have to tell you? Don't call me mama."
"But Ikah, they were beating him. Just beating him for no reason. Why were they doing that?"
"This is a horrible, horrible time, Zelda. The world has become so backwards." With that the Sheikah guardian started singing to the little girl she was holding, singing quietly, singing backwards. It was a lullaby. A lullaby she'd sung the girl since they'd banned the ballad.
It was the ballad backwards.
The Goddess needed to hear her ballad in some form, Ikah thought. Because this little girl did carry the blood of the Goddess Hylia as she had been in the body of Zelda of Skyloft. That's why she carried the maiden's name. This little girl, the offspring of Goddess and a Hero in the time of this crooked world. She had no way of knowing how many generations this Zelda was from that one, but Ikah had given her life to this child and this was the child, she knew it. The last surviving descendent of Link and Zelda.
Outside the window, crouched under the ledge of the windowsill for the little cover it offered from the rain, a little boy cowered, covered in the blood from his beatings. He clutched ever so tightly to the little notes the woman sang the little girl, the precious, sacred song, the hope for peace.
The little boy sat and shivered. It was getting late, not that late meant much to him except cold. He stayed up late a lot. His parents held meetings in their house and Link listened to the plans of rebellion and fell asleep like that, fell asleep dreaming of freedom. Just last night they'd been barged in on, barged in on by clanky men in suits with swords. He was a fast boy, but they were too much taller. They were also merciless. Or had that been the torturers? Link didn't know if they had been different people.
He had no idea when his parents would be released from the torture chambers, if they ever were. But he counted himself lucky. He'd escaped with all limbs, both ears, two eyes, a tongue, and all his fingers.
He'd muddied up the funny mark on his left fist so well they hadn't noticed it.
