Practised hands danced over a crystal ball, manipulating the images within. Memories of one life to the next spun by, stared upon by vacant eyes. Nobles, farmers, merchants, royalty, beggars. Everything. Everyone. Not a single one was familiar, yet all of them were. They'd all been watched over many, many times.
The images in the crystal ball began to proceed in another direction. A direction it knew well enough it could probably have done it without the hands that controlled it. The very direction that flowed towards images of a young man clad in green and sword in hand. The sorceress halted the images to show the face of one of them, one of her favourites - the one in the blue scarf. She sighed and placed a gentle hand on his cheek.
Except this was just the crystal ball. Cold and unfeeling, this was not the soft, warm cheek she wished to caress. She sat back and studied his features carefully, craving to know every inch of his face by heart.
After a long, long while of studying in frozen silence, she released the crystal ball. The image within swirled, blurred and disappeared. With the gentle sweep of one hand, she cast the crystal ball back to its stand in the corner. Watching it to see that it settled back safely, the Sorceress stood. The individual gussets of her skirt swept across the floor and the heels of her shoes gave quiet clicks as she walked across the uneven tiled floor.
The room, her room, was filled with masterpieces of her own creation. Faces of the images from inside her crystal ball captured with perfectly trained brush strokes, yet they were still not real. They were still not soft under her fingertips as she brushed his hair away. They still not would shift under her palm as the face smiled back at her.
She barely gave these recreations a second glance as she walked from the room, past the hallways and to the mezzanine. She chose the steps on the darker side of the temple today as she descended to the lobby. And there, opposite the grand doors, sat a painting. Unfinished, yet still so, so beautiful. She cast aside the barrier before it and took to painting once again. She settled into her work, stroke by stroke adding shades that may be indistinguishable to another's eyes. Each speck would be the correct shade of the very man she so lovingly gazed upon. She may have sat there for days, even weeks, adding the tiniest prick of paint. The works filling this temple could have been more realistic yet than the sights before a mortal's eyes. This was a skill that could not be mastered in one lifetime, no matter the dedication.
The dim purple light that crept through the halls of the temple were her only company aside from the canvas before her. They gave no indication as to the time, but she was not bothered by what time it may be. Whether it had been a long time since she had settled down or not, magic was the only sustenance that she required, and to gaze upon his face with her own eyes was the only thing she wished for. The remaining walls of the temple could crumble and leave her floating in the purple space beyond them for all she cared.
Eventually, she was satisfied. She set the paints down and used her magic to lift any paint from her hands, taking care not to let even a drop touch the clean white of her dress. She got up, stiff legged, and turned away. She kept her gaze averted as she returned the barrier to its former position, and walked to the entry steps. She drew herself a deep breath, calmed her eager excitement, and slowly turned to gaze upon her work.
She expected the usual chain of events. She expected to adore the painting almost as much as the man it was of, and then slowly grow to despise it; it's hollow, unblinking eyes and unmoving form reminding her that it was just another fake, simply a recreation of something she had never seem herself. Something she yearned to touch and get a reaction from. Not the smooth surface of the crystal ball, not the unmoving weave of the canvas, and not the cold solidness of the stone sculptures.
Instead, she gazed upon this one with perplexity. Something was amiss. It had been many, many creations since she had made a mistake in one of her paintings or sculptures. Yet something about this one eluded her.
She stared, scanned and scoured the image before her and refused to move until she found what was wrong. She would stand until her legs ached, stare until her eyes stung. Yet still, nothing seemed wrong.
The Sorceress stared into the eyes of the painting and quietly begged aloud that he let her know what she had done wrong. Her eyes flicked from one of his to the other, then back again. Please...
Her eyes began to grow wider as she recognised her misdirection. She had painted her favourite of the green-clad men, the one who wore the blue scarf. Yet those were not his eyes. It was not his face. This was not the face of Link, who she had watched make every move of his life. This was not the face of any Link that she recognised.