A note: all comments and critiques are appreciated. I see that there are several hits on this story, but no reviews. Even the smallest of comments help the story to improve.
Zelda Irashda paced the length of a dungeon illuminated only by the glow of the occasional dying torch. She let her eyes flicker occasionally to her shadow of a prisoner.
Chains bound it to the wall—an unnecessary precaution. It lay comatose, its solid red eyes staring ever forward into oblivion. Its body was a dark replica of someone normal, its flesh nothing but black. And though it did not breathe in the human sense of the word, it was very much alive.
Zelda fiddled momentarily with her bundled up hair before withdrawing a golden pocket-watch from her work apron to confirm that it was indeed the fourth hour of the morning. The sun would no doubt be slipping above the horizon any second, as was the cycle in warmer months.
Some would have called her observations fruitless. It was the same each night. She would pace, the shadow would stare off into oblivion, and then she would leave.
She smiled to herself.
Of course, lesser minds wouldn't comprehend what it was she aimed to accomplish. They wouldn't understand the scope. Lesser minds would think only of their lifetime and the few things that could be accomplished in so few years. They had long given up hope for the return of the boy in green.
She had not.
She would bring him back.
Zelda withdrew again her pocket-watch. Her time was up.
She left her prisoner in chains. If it had not been able to escape for a month, she doubted it would be able to do so for another day. So she quietly slipped away, pulling away her apron to reveal a far more practical set of trousers. Her brown hair slipped from its knot, falling back into place at the base of her neck.
Following a long echoing ascension of an archaic flight of stairs, Zelda was greeted by the glow of a flickering candle. The candle was held by a gangly young girl with a bright head of long green hair—Zelda's erstwhile assistant—and was meant to light the dungeon's long stretches of shadowy stonework. "We are safe, Mistress Zelda," the girl said, following Zelda as she walked towards a reinforced wooden chest shoved against the far wall of the rectangular room, its lid dampened by a crack in the upper wall that allowed for a thin stream of rain water to run inside.
"Good," Zelda said she undid the locks keeping the container closed and lifted open the lid. "No one else can know about this—especially Shad." She glanced at her assistant. "Can I trust you with that, Saria?"
Saria nodded, her short green hair glowing in the candlelight.
"Good." Zelda withdrew a large leather canteen from her traveling case before closing it with the heel of her foot. "Then we celebrate."
The candle's flame rippled. "…Celebrate, Mistress Zelda?"
"Yes!" Zelda flipped open the canteen and took swallowed a mouthful of the bitter wine it contained. "Today we celebrate the rebirth of history!" Zelda hesitated before handing the canteen to Saria. "How old are you, Saria?"
Saria did not take the offered drink. "Nearly fifteen, Mistress Zelda."
"Right. Far too smart to take to the bottle." Zelda took a second drink before pouring the remaining contents on the dungeon floor. "We'd best be leaving. Linus is willing to make the journey, but I have no doubt that he would sell us out, given the right incentive. There's someone I need compare notes with in Catalia."
"…Catalia, Mistress Zelda?"
"Yes, Saria, Catalia." Zelda went back to the chest and again rummaged through it, extracting several crumpled scraps of parchment and one particularly thick book of notes. "Unless you are unwilling, in which case I'm sure our guest will be glad for the company."
Saria's gaze turned crestfallen, lines of premature aging in her face highlighted by the candle light. "…I will be… fine, Mistress Zelda."
"Good. Now, hand me one of those torches."
Saria did so, pulling the one closest to her off the wall to be given to Zelda.
The chest still open, Zelda let the torch drop onto all that remained inside—unnecessary connections to life before Ganon's Legion. She watched as dozens crumpled papers—years of research—went up in smoke. It was a small flame, barely more than a smolder when the fire had fallen and the torch's fuel spent, but she could no longer afford to cling to anything so precious.
Zelda clapped her hands together to rid them of dust. "Well," she said, "let us collect our patient and be off."
They departed, exiting onto the rocky crag that housed Zelda Irashda's chosen prison. Fresh rain washed down mountain peaks as a storm battered the rocky strong hold. And while her young assistant struggled to protect her face from the onslaught, Zelda walked into the storm with her arms held wide.