AN: Because I really like the Sheikah, and Impa deserves more fanfiction. This will, quite hopefully, morph into a chapter-story, though if I choose to update, each update will be very sporadic. I'm basing the desert on the TP version, because I have yet to make it to Gerudo Valley in OoT. Sorry my prologue and writing style sounds kinda weird; I hope my description satisfies everyone. Enjoy!
Disclaimers: Seriously, I own nothing. Please stop asking.
The moon hung at its zenith, paused mid-stride and practically on the edge of falling over. Rocky lungs expanded, and it took in as much air as it could possibly hold, full to the brim with wisps of fog and vapors of starlight. Its muscles lay tensed eternally, frozen in a starting position, waiting for the signal that would send it rocketing around the world.
The stallion's legs were burning. His whole body shrieked in protest, begged him to rest if only for a moment. His parched tongue sobbed for the relief of clean water instead of the harsh minerals of dried sweat that chaffed away at his mouth. His heart slammed against his ribcage, and blood thundered in spastic bursts through clotting veins. Each inhale and exhale flitted in and tumbled out, their remains curling like dying spirits in the thick soup of air that surrounded him.
But he couldn't stop no matter how much his brain pleaded for it to be so. He took his weary thoughts and shoved them on the ground, where they were soon trampled by determined hooves, their remnants flicked away by the last vestiges of grit that clung to his tail.
Legs applied more pressure to his sides and fingers tangled deeper into his mane. The heat that radiated off of another's body delved further into his skin. Although seemingly impossible, his pace increased, his steps sharper and his strides longer as they reached for their breaking point. A constant pull within his soul kept him forward and he flew through the desert with speed to beat the wind.
He, like his master, sensed that they were growing closer and closer to their ultimate goal with every second that passed.
The master's grip tightened around his horse. The wind blew his hair away from his furrowed forehead. The gale's transparent fingers jerked and weaved his locks into a tapestry of fluorescent tangles and ginger knots. His eyes glowed with the ferocity of a wolf, a sea of molten amber in a storm of obsidian night. He snarled and shoved his stirrups deeper into the crevices between the animal's ribs.
He closed his eyes. The world blurred around him, fragments of cactus and tumbleweed conglomerating together into one mass of deep, golden tan, one single entity on the verge of dying that was Gerudo Valley.
He smirked. The very sight sent his mind into a frenzy of politics, power, and fragmented memories of his childhood. The crunch of hooves under sand, the whistle of wind through his armor, the hiss of the desert as it breathed in its own solitary way. Each noise was the hope of his very existence, and they remained the only sounds that had ever made smile out of anything other than greed and bloodshed.
The beige hue that swallowed him faded in and out, its pulse in a downhill descent. The farther he traveled, the more isolated he became. But that was fine with him. He didn't need the company of insignificant mortals. At times, he felt that he didn't even need the company of his horse, though a helpful ally the creature certainly was.
The two fled together in unison. The remaining vegetation underneath him wore down until nothing remained but their powdery essence: sand, as it spiraled in a gentle waltz and drifted on the wind. Nothing but sand for miles and miles, as far as the eye could see. A rippling ocean of the final remains of all life swirled around him.
His eyes snapped open. The tang of stale air and dry dirt slammed him, and every mouthful of it brought him nearer to happiness. After several minutes of inhaling the musky atmosphere and letting the scorching breeze blow over him, he was sure that his heart was going to explode like the faraway waves that burst upon Lake Hylia's shore. The void of darkness and desert that rested before him was all that he had ever truly known, and he was perfectly fine with that.
He tilted his head back and the sound that erupted from his throat spewed out like the last vestiges of an angry, asphyxiated animal. His whole body shook with the effort of that single noise. Sound waves bounced about the open space and crashed down upon him. The edges of his lips ascended upward and the creases that lined the edges of his eyes grew sharper. Under the mess of chapped lips, ivory fangs gleamed through the veil of darkness and snapped open and shut, a trap just waiting to be sprung and an order just waiting to be given. He laughed right into the sky, straight into the faces of anyone who would dare to oppose him.
Just a few more moments, he marveled to himself. Just a few more moments until his nearest enemies would disappear entirely. The throne would fall shortly after. Soon, the world would fall. He could become king of Gerudo Desert.
He could become king of the entire world.
His spirit soared onward, and his stallion along with it, every stride bringing him farther and farther from light and closer and closer to victory.
The assortment of objects that he had left back in the wasteland of his plight shimmered now under the weak moonlight. The thin blade of an amaranth sword stuck out of the ground at an odd angle, no doubt twisted into the charred splinters of an enemy's stomach. It slumped near its companion; the tip of an arrow still burned as an ember, molding and sticking to the ground.
A torch proclaimed its majesty to the skies. Smoke trailed in billowing plumes and greasy skeins, helping to paint the landscape already awash with fire. Cinders hissed, popped, and crackled from its tip. A single flame trembled, weak and feeble, in the calm breeze. Oxygen fed it sustenance, and it roared as it exploded into a blaze once more.
On the dreary midnight horizon, a village was burning.