The man closed the shutters of the windows, and did the latch on the door. It looked to be a bad night; already a gale was blowing. He began to ascend the stairs, pausing only to look at a small, clay instrument in a glass case. For a moment, he drummed a rhythmic tattoo on the surface.
There was a knock on the door.
The man stiffened. A monster would know by reputation to steer clear of the house, while a devil would not observe the niceties of knocking. He was miles from the nearest village, and he seldom had visitors.
This left…nobody.
He went back to the door, and undid the latch. The visitor was tall but bowed slightly, with startlingly vivid brown hair. He wore purple clothes, with yellow shoes that came to a tip. He was smiling, with an eerie, almost frightening grin. On his back was an absurdly large pack, with various masks bulging from the sides.
"Hello," said the Happy Mask Salesman.
The man took several steps back and sat down, wincing as he did so. He looked at the figure questionably.
"I expect," said the Salesman, "You are wondering why I am here, and what I want."
The man, voice rusted through years of silence, croaked "Yes." There was a pause, as he analysed the visitor's unchanged appearance. Then: "Just how old are you?"
"Old enough." He started to walk around the room, examining its contents. "I see you have kept your old equipment?"
"Keepsakes. Each one a memory, wrapped in fond nostalgia. That is all."
"And yet your sword is freshly polished and sharpened. Your quiver is full, each arrow hand-made. You even have a small collection of explosives. You wish for action, friend, you yearn to relive your old adventures. Is this not true?"
"Perhaps."
"More than perhaps."
"And what of you?" the man returned, suddenly angry. "You disappear for decades, and then reappear, as if you have just walked off a page in a book, completely unchanged. Perhaps I do cultivate a desire for the old ways, but it is surely allowable. Maybe I do fantasize what it would have been like if I took different decisions, but that part of my life is over now. Finished with. Done."
He slammed his fist on the table at the last word, and a small cup fell over, spilling its contents. The Salesman reclined, examining the man with eyes barely open.
"I believe that that is not quite as final as you appreciate. They say you can never cross the same river twice, but that is why the bridge was invented."
"What are you suggesting?"
"I am suggesting, or rather offering, you another chance. Adventure. Travel. The old ways, renewed. A chance to save Hyrule. Again."
"I want more details."
"Very well. Are you aware of an entity calling himself the Iron Lord?"
The words seemed to have a slight echo.
"No."
"I see. He is a mysterious figure; no-one has seen his entire face, but he delights in wreaking havoc in the land, sending his assorted minions into towns and slaughtering the folk. He plots to become a decidable threat."
"And how does this concern me?"
"Destiny, I should think, was –"
"No!" he shouted, genuinely angry. "Are we cursed to relive the same endless cycle, never stopping? The petty deus ex machina of the heroic saviour? The warrior with a thousand faces? People preying on the Goddesses, on the Triforce, on anything to save them? Apocalypses come and go, but nothing changes." He said this last phrase with tears in his eyes, staring furiously at the woody grain of the table.
He did not see the Happy Mask Salesman leave.
The man slept restlessly that night, waiting for the dawn to arrive. For some reason, his sword had been leant against the window.