Hey everyone, thanks for reading! This story's been a long time coming, but I've always wanted to construct origin stories for the temples in Ocarina of Time. So here's my attempt; there are certainly deviations from canon as far as mythology is concerned, and the age of child Zelda (apparently canonical accounts of her age vary, but I'd always interpreted both she and Link as 12ish). Since there's practically nothing said about most of the temples themselves (Why are they there? Who build them? What are they for?), I thought it would be fun to attempt to explore them in writing instead of, you know, just in the game. Anyway, thanks for reading and/or leaving feedback!
"Princess, if you close your eyes and stare through the wall, you can see the shadow of a temple identical to this one in nearly every respect."
It is an odd way for Impa to start a conversation. But given the circumstances, we grasp at any straw we can. There is nothing more boring than a dubbing (besides, of course, a coronation, but the next crowning ceremony I have to dread is my own). So it seems natural for her to want to dangle the bait of a tale before me. I am always eager for a conversation, and seeing as we are seated in the back of the temple, far from the inane mutterings of my visibly bored father and the poor knight-to-be kneeling before him, it is unlikely we will be bothered. Even during a lengthy and pompous ceremony such as a knighting, few people would dare tell a princess to shut up, even when they should.
"What sort of temple?" I ask. My words emerge as a series of constricted sighs, but Impa knows exactly how to interpret my "adolescent grunts" as she calls them. She grins, white tattoos wrinkling under her shining eyes. It is the wrinkle of a storyteller on the cusp of a tale.
"It is a temple built of light itself," she answers. "Its walls are ivory, its floors are the whitest marble. The altar is a pillar of sunlight and the pews are the purest sea foam."
A heavy, helmeted head in the seat directly in front of us turns slowly toward us like a creaking weathervane. The boundless, concerned frown of Viscen, captain of the guard, sits atop that shining vane like an accusation. "Lady Impa, if you please." His drone rivals my father's.
I should mention that although few people are willing to tell a princess to shut her mouth, they do not extend the same courtesy to her nursemaid.
"As you command, captain." Impa's narrow brown face hovers close to mine as Viscen returns his attention, if silent head-nodding and an occasional drifting-off can be called that, back to the altar at the temple's dais. "Princess," she whispers (I can hardly call it a whisper—the sound is low, and to any other ears than mine resembles the hungry growl of a dog). "Perhaps you'd like a better view of the ceremony."
"I always appreciate a better view," I say. Viscen does not turn his head to watch us go, and it is all the better. A man of such pure heart does not need to see such a wicked simper on the face of the crown's only heir.
Whenever Impa offers a view, she delivers. As soon as we sneak out the temple's doors, she lifts me almost completely onto her shoulder and starts her way up a crumbling pillar. She spends a moment making sure that no passersby will see her carry the fully gowned and half-grown scion of the nation's royal family on her shoulder like a sack of pilfered vegetables. I like the way she carries me when she climbs. I can pretend she's kidnapping me, and according to all the stories I've read in my family's library, that seems to be a princess's only function (besides giving birth, of course). If Impa helps me serve my purpose by hauling me over her back and into places I am not normally allowed to venture, all the better. I hope no prince scrounges up the audacity to rescue me.
When Impa reaches the tiled ridge of the Temple of Time, she sets me on my white-clad feet, never releasing me completely. Worse things would happen to her than a mere firing if she were to let me tumble to my death. She holds my gloved hands steady as we walk across the spine of the temple, under the vast, ebullient Lanayru-blue sky. We raise our eyes to the cloudless distance as we come to a stop above the temple's radiant rose window, glowing in a kaleidoscope of colors. Here, Impa loosens her hold on my hands, and I teeter at the end of the building's solid face, staring down at the gardens below. I love the way the wind tickles the tiny hairs on the back of my neck, the way it billows through my dress and pulls at my clothes as if daring me to let it lift me to the sky like a wayward leaf of paper. Sometimes I do give into its will—allowing it to buoy me toward the mouth of the sky's endless blue dome, but whenever my toes leave the ground Impa is there, grasping my wrists and securing me earthward. She says I am not ready to learn such magic (I tell her I already clearly know it, but she does not find that argument particularly persuasive).
"I believe you owe me a story," I say, curling my toes in my ivory shoes, as if they could hold me to the safety of the temple roof.
"I do," Impa replies. She twists her body and suddenly she is crouching beside me, in that idiosyncratic Sheikah way. They do not, apparently, let themselves recline fully—it is always as if they have somewhere to spring, something on which to pounce. I sit beside her and smooth out my dress against the forceful air (in vain, of course), tucking a stray hair back into my windswept headdress. "You probably already know much about the temples of this country," Impa starts. "Since you've read more books than there are hairs on your head."
"There is little else for me to do." She knows this, everyone does. There are only two things I do with any regularity: read, and dream—the former to the general approval of my father and all the royal retainers, the latter to their exasperation. I'm sure they would rather I not speak of the things I see at night.
"But do you know that the oldest is not within the borders of our land?"
"The oldest meaning this one? Impa, we are sitting on it."
My insolence does not aggrieve Impa. She laughs where a wiser woman would scold.
"Assuredly, my princess. We are sitting on it. For the temple I speak of is in this very spot. We are in its shadow, hearing its echo, sensing it around us when we cannot see it. Like I said, it is made of light."
"And how is that possible?" I ask. I do not doubt the veracity of Impa's claim—she has never told me a lie (odd, for having come from a tribe known for their deceit), I'm merely curious for an explanation. "It does not take a natural philosopher to know that you can't lay a brick of light."
"True, but this temple has no bricks—and at its founding, no masons to lay them. The story of the Temple of Light is really the story of the creation of the world itself."
I raise an eyebrow. She knows to take it as a sign of interest—she knows all my adolescent signatures.
"I would assume you'd like to know at least something of the nativity of the country you were born to rule." Her face of incredulity rivals my own. "If not, I fear for the future of this nation." I take a moment to roll my eyes. "So sit and listen, child, and learn."
Long ago, and this goes without saying, the world was made. There are disagreements as to how or when, and no one to this day has ever come up with a plausible why, but it is generally agreed upon that it was the doing of three sisters: Din, born of the bright sun, Farore, born of the silver moon, and Nayru, born of those endless stars in the void beyond our reckoning. Din with her dancing feet stomped the first craters and mountains of the world, summoning geysers of flame and rock to the beat of her drums. It was on a whim that she began her dance, and she usually thought to unmake such projects as planets or shooting stars (for every one was tiny and insignificant before her might), but she was particularly fond of this one. She looked over the bare red earth and decided she would ask her sister Farore for her opinion.
"It is decent, but I can improve upon it," Farore said. With a few trills of her cosmic flute, she summoned life from the earth. First the vast waters of the sea poured from fissures in the ground, and the smallest, lowliest creatures flitted through its depths. Then the strong forests thrust from the hard soil, shading the lands from the sun and covering the earth with green. Then the beasts crawled from the shadows, long-toothed and fierce. Then the birds tore across the sky, calling love and fury in the silent air.
Farore and Din looked well upon their work. They saw how the animals soared and ran, swam and burrowed, and were quite pleased with themselves. But it wasn't long before the brilliant world they had created began to wither and die. Birds fell from the sky in great black blankets, trees rotted from their roots and flowers wilted; even the greatest beasts fell to the ground and could not get back up. So the two sisters sought the counsel of the third and wisest among them.
"You fools!" Nayru howled when she heard what they had done (for she was most displeased with the loss of life; above all else she values living, feeling things and cannot stand to see them suffer). "Life cannot survive without laws to govern it."
(Wait, Impa.
What is it, child? Does this story displease you?
No, but how could Nayru know what life needs if it was the first time she'd seen it?
Nayru's wisdom and love spread far, through the ages and through all spaces of the world. She knows many things her sisters do not, and that we mortals never will. Are you satisfied?
Not at all. But continue.)
So Nayru created all the unspoken and unbreakable rules of Nature—she put in place all the cycles of the world; the laws of life and death, the turn of the earth that separates day from night, the force that exchanges water between the sky and the ocean, the seasons that bring forth the blossoms in spring and sleepy snows in winter. Governed by these wise laws and cycles, the plants and animals thrived in the new world, and the three goddesses sat back and viewed their work with satisfaction.
"Never before have we created a work of art like this," Farore said.
"True, but there is something missing," Din said, for she was rarely satisfied with anything.
"Perhaps a being with which we can converse," suggested Nayru. "It does us some good to look upon what we made, but of what use is it to us if it is empty of intelligence?"
The others agreed. They had been each other's only company for millennia; a few new faces could do no harm.
"Let us improve on the animal that resembles us most," Farore proposed. Her favorite creature was by far the monkey—not only did it share the most physical characteristics with the goddesses, it had a cleverness and humor all three found charming. So the others acquiesced to her suggestion.
"Let us give it thought, so that it might speak and joke with us," said Farore.
"And give it ability and strength so it might impress us," said Din.
"And give it love and kindness so that it might endear itself to us," said Nayru.
So Din pulled clay from the earth and mounded it into a long shape, taller than Farore's monkey, and smooth-skinned, but with the same five fingers and expressive face. Farore pulled blue from the sky and yellow from the prairie grasses and made eyes and hair for the creature, shaping the cheekbones, the lips, and the finer details of the face. Nayru wove a soul from her mystic loom and imbued the clay and straw with thought, with a sense of being that was beyond the simple functions of the body.
When the creature woke before them (it was a woman, of course, molded after the sisters' own image), they looked upon her with delight. The first woman looked back at her creators and when she smiled, the goddesses knew they had done well.
The woman lived under their care for years; she laughed with them, learned from them, ate the fruit and vegetables they provided (for it was unthinkable for Nayru to permit the woman to eat other living, breathing creatures), and grew wise and strong and brave.
But she also grew lonely. She saw how the animals of the forest paired off to face the trials of birth and death together—she saw litters of wolf pups born to proud parents, she saw the families of monkeys groom and dote on one another, she saw the effort of mother and father birds building their nests, and longed for a companion of her own.
So the goddesses, seeing her so disconsolate, scrounged what materials from the earth they could find and molded her a friend and lover. When he rose to life and took her in his arms, the goddesses saw the joy on the woman's face and knew they had done right by their creation. They smiled secretly at one another and quietly stole into the night, leaving the two alone.
But they returned the day after, and the day after that, sharing laughter and philosophy with the pair, until the woman grew big about the waist and the two became three.
"By the stars," Din bellowed with joy when she laid eyes upon the woman with her child, "our creation has become a creator!"
"And without our help," Farore said (with that proud sort of sadness of a parent for an accomplished child).
"It will not do well to have them raise a babe in the wilderness," Nayru said. "For it is soft and helpless, and the creatures of the forest may seek an easy meal."
"And we cannot kill the wildness in those creatures," Din said. "It would be unfair to their natures."
"Then let us make for this family a house, and bless it with walls of light, with a fruitful garden and all the privacy they might desire," Farore said.
So the goddesses built for the family a sanctuary, where they could raise their child in safety until he was strong and grown and could hold his own against the wild. They blessed the house and its members; to the mother Nayru gave wisdom, so that she might guide her growing family judiciously into the future and care for their wellbeing. To the father Din gave power, so he would have the strength to protect and support them, to upkeep their house and serve their needs. And to the son, who was still then a babe, Farore gave the courage to explore the world he had been born into and learn its secrets.
Years passed and the family lived under the goddesses' blessings. The boy grew to a strong lad, fast and clever and brave, but he longed for company besides his parents and the lonely wilderness. He desired a wife of his own, so the goddesses' made another woman for him; his younger sisters desired husbands, so they made more men from the earth. In turn, it came to pass that the children's children also wanted lovers for themselves, so the goddesses built as many as was needed, until the families grew big and far enough apart that they no longer desired the goddesses' help to find love.
(This is turning out to be a much different tale than the ones the priests told me.
You didn't think there was only one, did you? Hundreds of different accounts of the world's creation are told all over Hyrule—remind me to tell you the Goron version sometime. It is strange indeed. But for now, let me continue.)
The first mother and father died, as all people do, but they passed on the goddesses' blessings to their children, and their children's children, and so on into the future. With the virtues of power, wisdom and courage the family grew to be a great society of builders, inventors and adventurers. Cities rose from the earth, villages sprang up in the remotest corners of the world, wide roads split the dark forests, and bridges spanned the wildest rivers.
The sisters were pleased with the inventiveness and tenacity of their creations, but because the creatures were so successful, so prolific and so filled with longings and ideas, the goddesses found themselves spread thin across nations, unable to solve every skirmish and dispute between their millions of peoples. And the people had little time for gods, either. With each passing year, their devotees, the ones who sought to walk and talk with them in the solitude of nature, declined in number. Temples rose like spring flowers, each blooming with a different sermon, a different statue or dedication to one sister or another, but few men or women bothered to wander the forests of the land to actually seek out the goddesses themselves.
As devotion to their idols increased, wars broke out in their names. Brothers and sisters cut each other down according to the wills of goddesses they had never spoken to, though they could've if they'd only tried. The world had descended into chaos without the sisters' direct guidance, and it seemed, for the first time, that their creation had been a mistake.
But there was one man who still sought them out. Rauron was his name, and he came from a wealthy family in the most luxurious of cities, but while many of his kin concerned themselves only with worldly things, he preferred the company of the goddesses. He came to them later in life, after he'd had a taste of the meaninglessness of mundane things: he had left the city, left his home and his children to seek them out, though he admitted more than once he had not believed he could find them. He proved himself an astute and eager learner, a kind and loyal man, clever and filled with humor and a love of beauty. When the three sisters convened in the deep forest grove where they had created the first woman, he met them there with the fate of the world on his mind.
"My Ladies of the Void," he addressed them. "There are a great many men and women in this world, so it is no surprise that quarrels should arise between them. But few of them mean any harm, my goddesses, for they are your creations and each possesses a portion of your goodness. They are merely at odds because they have different ways of worshipping you.
"Some say that Din is the greatest sister because she was the first to mold the clay of the world, and hers is the foundation the other two merely built upon. Some say Farore is the greatest because she gave life to all the earth—but of course life will consider its own creation the most important. Yet others say Nayru is the greatest since all life would be meaningless without the natural laws of the world."
"But we three are equal," Din said. "Surely those that still take the time to consider our teachings know this."
"Time has passed," said the man, "and your teachings have been told and retold many times in many different ways. There are plenty who still believe you do not exist, since they have never seen you. You must provide the people with proof of your strength, of your equity and love; you must give them a symbol so they may rally behind it as one. A symbol that embodies your three virtues of power, wisdom and courage."
(I can tell where this is going.
So you can. You wear that symbol now, as did all your predecessors.)
The goddesses thought of a symbol and created a great golden power, a representation of all three of them and their respective virtues. They thought up a great triangle, itself made of three triangles; symmetrical so that at any inversion one goddess may be on the top and be other two on the left and right. Into this golden artifact they imbued their power, so that all shall know the presence of the goddesses was still strong in the world.
They bestowed this power upon Rauron so that he might carry it back to his people, and house it in that great Temple of Light that was once the abode of the first woman and her family. The man bowed his head in deference and took the golden power in his hands. He promised he would deliver it to the temple, where it belonged, to remind the people of the blessings the goddesses had bestowed upon them. He left the forest with every intention of restoring the world's faith in its creators.
But the power was too great and too holy for even a man like Rauron to resist. It was no later than he touched the glorious artifact that he was overcome with the desire to take it for himself. For when he held it in his hands, the power of the goddesses themselves flowed through his own mortal veins, and he could not bear the thought of parting with it. So he did not take it to the Temple of Light, but kept it for himself, betraying the goddesses' trust in him.
(But Impa, what sort of goddess allows herself to be tricked by a mortal man? They had to have been smarter than that.
Shush, irreverent girl. The gods are people, as much as we are. They make mistakes just as we do. Take one look at a like-like and tell me it is not an egregious error of creation.
I suppose you do have a point. Go on.)
Though Rauron had promised to deliver the golden power to the Temple of Light, he fled with it to the farthest corner of the world. He hid himself among the shadows, so the sisters would not see him as he took the power into himself and emerged from the darkness with all the might of a god.
With the golden artifact on his side he had no difficulty forcing the world under his control. He established himself ruler of the land, crushing all who resisted him under his feet, until he rose to absolute power.
The goddesses, seeing his betrayal, first mourned the loss of their most devoted friend, then chastised themselves for trusting a mortal man with such a dangerous task as transporting the embodiment of their power. Then, they grew angry. They descended upon the city where he had built his palace, and lay siege to it.
The war between them was as one would expect a war between gods to be—their weapons were the rain and thunder, the wild gales and the spurting smoke of volcanoes. Their battle scourged the land; crops failed, civilians fled, forests burned and rivers ran dry, the sun refused to rise for days on end. But in the end, the three goddesses triumphed over their betrayer; and it was with a great sadness weighing on all their hearts (for they mourned the needless loss of land and life) that they seized their power once more.
Deprived of the golden artifact, Rauron fell to his knees again a mortal man, weak and trembling like a frightened animal before the might of his goddesses. As the golden light fled from him, so did his ambition, his greed, and he lowered his head before his creators in shame and despair. He begged for forgiveness, tore at his clothes and hair and tears poured from his eyes, and the sisters knew his regret was genuine.
"This is too dangerous an artifact to remain in the hands of any mortal," Din said.
"There are others, like you, who would seek its power," Nayru added. "And they will not be so contrite when they misuse it."
"We should not like to wage war again on our own creation," Farore said. "Therefore we must seal it away so none but the worthiest may lay their hands on it."
"Let me guard it, my goddesses," Rauron begged. "Let it reside in the temple of the first woman and her family, and let me watch over it so that none may make the mistake I made."
The goddesses knew not to err again in giving him power over the artifact, for he had proven once to be unworthy of it. But they knew the man was genuine and eager to redeem himself.
"Rauron," Din started, and the other goddesses let her speak for them. "We once counted you among our closest friends, we trusted you with our most precious treasure, and you betrayed that trust. Because of you, this land is scorched and barren, its people miserable and weary. You have hurt many more than just us, and for that you must suffer punishment.
"But we will also allow you to fulfill your wish for redemption. We will allow you to guard this golden power of ours, as you wanted. But we will seal the doors of the Temple of Light so none with ill intent may pass. You are hereby cursed from this day forth to reside in that temple and watch over this artifact, never leaving, never again seeing the green fields or the light of the stars. Never again will you speak to us, never again shall you see your children or your comrades. And when the time comes that you die, your nearest progeny will suffer the same fate."
Rauron bowed his head and accepted their words with a heavy heart. "It is a noble fate," he said, and his tears were pure, his resolve strong.
So the goddesses sealed both the golden power and its penitent protector into the Temple of Light, where he might meditate on his mistakes and grow to be a wise sage—or, if he fell again into greed, the doors might keep him trapped and harmless to the outside world.
When the goddesses again looked upon the vast lands of their creation, they wept for the loss. In the great battle between them and their betrayer, the fields and forests had turned to ashes, the lakes were nothing more than empty craters, the animals and people had fled to the far corners of the earth to escape their godly wrath.
"Look what we have done," Nayru cried. "Rauron has received his fitting punishment, but what about ours?"
"We will ask forgiveness of the creatures of this destroyed land," Farore said. "We will make for them a new home, and remove ourselves from it."
"No longer shall we walk among our people and converse with them," Din growled. "No longer will we show our faces. Let them believe what they will and worship us if they want, but we are not fit to know them as friends."
(Gods who think themselves unfit for worship... That is certainly not the way the priests speak of them.
This is the Sheikah version of this myth. We have a different view of the gods than your Hylian priests, and much different stories about them. They are fallible to us—as any god who made this world should be...
Impa? Don't drift off now, I feel we are so close to the end.
Of course, my princess.)
So the goddesses gathered what remained of their once-great people, and the animals and seeds of the plants so that they might regrow in a different, better land. The people were all too thankful the battles had ended, and accepted the goddesses' gift of a new kingdom, one with only an echo of their powerful influence. The sisters were content to remain silent as the people flourished in their new world, and a little country called Hyrule was born.
Before the goddesses fled from this world and back to the burnt wastes of the old country, now called the Sacred Realm, each left a token of her kindness behind—friends to the Hyrulean people to keep them company in place of their goddesses. From Farore's deft hands came the mysterious Kokiri, from Nayru's watery loom came the lovely Zora, and from the strong clay of Din came the honorable Gorons; each tribe an asset to our great nation. With this final tribute, the goddesses disappeared back to the void, silent and impartial to our fate, leaving us with only the guidance of their teachings and the legend of a great golden power, told and retold through the ages.
In the very spot where the goddesses left the world, the Temple of Time was built, to both commemorate the pilgrimage from one land to another, and to house the door that may one day lead us back home, back to the fields and valleys of the Sacred Realm, where flowers and forests might even now be regrowing over the burnt and desolate earth. The temple also houses the key to that door, so that if we ever prove ourselves worthy to return, the Sage of Light will open it for us and let us gaze upon the goddesses' golden power. Then, he will be free of his prison and his duty, and we will be free of all the vices that plague us. But until that day, we must rely only on legends to carry us through the night, and to guide us back toward the light of the morning.
This night, as with all nights, I am plagued by terrifying dreams. While I can usually suffer through them on my own, clutching my sheets to my chin and assuring myself that I am simply crazy, that what I see is not real, I cannot do that tonight. So like I did when I was a tiny child, I seek out Impa.
She is where she always is, in her humble bed in her humble room—the same room where all the princesses' nursemaids have slept for centuries. I think it does not become her—a warrior, a woman powerful and adept, sleeping like a servant in servant's quarters. But she is my servant, by some joke of fate. Gods knew what the woman was thinking when she agreed to degrade herself like this. And now I am going to degrade her further, but with this abject fear rising inside me, I cannot help it.
I whisper her name and she wakes, uneasily propping herself on one strong elbow. She says nothing as I crawl to her, pressing my face into her collarbone and clinging to her waist. She just pulls the sheets over us both and holds me, as she always had since my mother died. There is no judgement from Impa—we both know I am far too old for this, but my heart will not stop pounding in my chest, the sweat will not cease dripping from my forehead.
"What did you dream of tonight?" she asks.
"Rauron, from the story you told me yesterday. Only it wasn't Rauron. He was dark, evil-eyed, and he is pacing around in the western tower—I've seen him."
"Oh, Zelda, I should know better than to fill your head with stories like that," Impa mutters. I think she is talking to herself in half-sleep, rather than to me.
I begin to cry, and with the first tears come the flow of embarrassment at my position—a girl on the eve of her womanhood, crying like a baby in the arms of her nursemaid. "Do you not believe me?" I stutter (the day Impa stops believing me is the day I die, of this I am certain).
"Of course I believe you," she says, but I am sure it is only to appease me. "Tell me about this other Rauron you saw."
I settle against her shoulder; she is always warm, always gentle with me, though I know she could snap me in half like a dry twig. "He was a cloud on the horizon, coming from the west..." I close my eyes and recall the man I had seen at court several times. "He is your old comrade, the one from the War. The man from the desert."
"The Gerudo king?" Impa starts, half-sitting—I think I have struck a nerve, or roused her anger somehow. I know they had fought alongside one another during the Civil War; she may not believe he was the dark cloud of my dreams.
"Zelda... are you sure?" She asks not with the malice of doubt, but with a startling sincerity.
"No..." I answer. I cannot lie to her. I am never sure of the nonsensical things I see in my dreams. "But there is a ray of light that splits the cloud... maybe like Rauron he wants to redeem himself."
Impa settles back down beside me, running her fingers through my sweaty hair. "There is nothing to redeem him from," she says. "He is blameless, as of yet." She kisses me on the forehead and I push my face against her strong neck, hoping to disappear entirely into her warm arms. "For now, child, I will protect you from your dreams. Everything will be all right. Everything will be just fine..." She kisses me again and rests her head against the thin pillow. Her arms loosen a little around me and she falls into a calm sleep, while I, mess that I am, lie awake, borne up and away from dreams by my own anxiety.
I know, somehow, it is the first time Impa has ever lied to me.