They met at a crossroads.
One was dressed in purple and gold. He sold masks, and many hung from his pack, their expressions stiff and frozen. There was a smile on his face, because he had just acquired a great treasure, and he was happy. The other wore robes of many colors. He sold medicine, and a design in the shape of an eye decorated his box. There was a smile on his face, because it was painted there.
It was not a road often travelled, but they did not seem surprised to see each other, and in the manner of peddlers all over the world they stopped and compared wares.
The medicine seller opened his box; it smelled of herbs and incense. Some drawers contained bottles and roots and powders, others contained little statues, paper charms, and other trinkets, or ukiyo-e prints for the discerning audience. From another came the faint sound of bells, but that one he did not open.
Eventually, he found what he was looking for: a yellow Noh mask with the face of a fox. It had been worn, once, by someone who hadn't quite been a man. He had existed only inside the mind of a woman long dead, but the mask had remained. The mask salesman examined it with an expert's eye, and he didn't seem surprised when it changed in his hands.
"Oh ho!" he exclaimed. "Yes, this could bring happiness to many Keatons!"
"It is... old," said the medicine seller. He spoke slowly, softly, as if he had no hurry to reach the end of his sentences. "It has no value to me, except as a... memory. But it might have some value to you."
The mask salesman opened his pack to find a suitable trade. From inside came a distant scream.
Eventually, he found one; it was made of wood, and its expression was twisted in surprise and fear.
"This belonged to a boy who got lost in the woods. The trees changed him and tore off his face. Now he wanders the forest as a skeleton."
"I see..." said the medicine seller. He touched the wooden face with slender fingers, then he shook his head. "But a child's soul... it is of no use to me."
The mask salesman nodded.
Next, he showed the medicine seller an intricate mask of gold and silver.
"This is the mask that the old queen of Ikana wore at her wedding. The Garo sent their ninjas to steal it in the night, thinking it would bring them happiness, and the queen slowly withered away."
But the medicine seller shook his head again. "I see... But I am not looking for happiness."
Lastly, the mask salesman showed him a white mask, upon which a great red eye was painted, crying a single tear.
"This is the Mask of Truth. It was created by the Sheikah tribe, the shadow folk, in order to see into people's hearts and minds, but such power was more useful and more frightful than even they could imagine." He looked at the medicine seller's box, and at the red marks around his eyes. "But I suppose you have no need of that either."
"Perhaps not," said the medicine seller, his voice far away. "I wonder, though... There is a mask you're not showing me... is there not?"
"Oh, yes," replied the mask salesman, smiling and wringing his hands. "But I'm afraid it's not for sale. You see, I have only just found it after years of searching, and it's far too dangerous to just give away. I couldn't possibly part with it."
"Of course." The medicine seller smiled, or perhaps it was just a trick of the light and the paint on his lips. "But such a mask must have a story... does it not? It would be an acceptable... compensation."
And so they sat down by the side of the road, the medicine seller brought out a pipe to share, and as the smoke rose towards the sky the mask salesman told a story. It was a tale no longer spoken, except by a few ancient ghosts in a dusty canyon, and even their whispers were drowned out by the wind. He spoke of an ancient tribe and of a tower made of stone; of a great blasphemy, and of the punishment that followed. He spoke of a great evil that was sealed inside a mask, and of how it desired nothing but fire and oblivion. The medicine seller listened silently, and when it was over he rose.
"That is... satisfactory," he said, and handed over the fox-mask. It disappeared inside the mask salesman's pack. "Although, such a thing... You do not believe it should be destroyed?"
A flash of rage flickered on the mask salesman's happy demeanor, so quickly it might have just been an illusion. "Oh no, no. I'm afraid that would be quite impossible, even for one such as you."
"I see," said the medicine seller. "And who will it bring happiness to?"
But the mask salesman just smiled.
It was dusk when they parted, and soft lights floated idly through the air. The mask salesman left towards the dark woods; he didn't look back, and were he went few could follow. The medicine seller lingered, and looked up at the sky.
"Majora," he whispered, and from his box came a muffled clink.