Prologue
Majora's moon was gone. . . So was Termina's hero, back to his
mysterious homeland.
Death was not.
In Clock Town, a newly wedded couple announced they were to
have their first child. A group of young boys helping people
had admitted two new members, a little girl and a young Deku
Scrub. Merchants sold their wares, officials bothered the
mayor: All was well here.
In the swamp to the south, a father scolded his son. A butler
was celebrating the return of his child, and a king was
negotiating peace with his former enemies. Monkeys played,
potions brewed: All was well here.
In the mountains to the north, a new leader arose and an old one passed on. A smith's hammer rung out in time with the melodious chirping of frogs and birds. Nearby, the earth shook as racing Gorons rolled through rubble and track alike, not caring about themselves as long as they got that exhilarating feeling of the wind zooming over their rocky skin. Gorons moured, Gorons cheered: All was well here.
In the ocean to the west, four Zoran children grew; their siblings had died soon after birth. Their parents' band played on, an ode to the setting sun int the now-moonless sky. Along the coast, pirates paced, at a calm for the time-being. Beavers froliked, Zoras swam: All was well here.
In the eastern canyon, deep within a shrine in an ancient
castle, Death awoke and stretched Her leathery wings.
"My King..." Her voice was eons older than the walls entombing
Her, but that voice was strong and cold. It could have made
nearly any mortal wither and die at a single word.
Nearly.
She looked, Her ancient eyes scanning, almost absorbing the
pictographs carved into the walls. She blinked: Once, Twice,
Her golden lids coming together horizontally from the sides
of Her glowing crimson eyes. When Death blinked, it did not
appear so; it simply seemed as though Her eyes were now a
searing gold.
"My King." She repeated in Her unearthly pitch. Though She
was being held captive in Ikana Castle, Her "king" was not
Igos du Ikana, nor any other.
Her powerful chest rose up and down as She began to breathe.
She did not have to. She was immortal, an Endless, a god.
But it gave Her tiny grains of what may have once been
pleasure to breathe. It reminded Her of Him, her King.
"Majora. . ."
Majora's moon was gone. . . So was Termina's hero, back to his
mysterious homeland.
Death was not.
In Clock Town, a newly wedded couple announced they were to
have their first child. A group of young boys helping people
had admitted two new members, a little girl and a young Deku
Scrub. Merchants sold their wares, officials bothered the
mayor: All was well here.
In the swamp to the south, a father scolded his son. A butler
was celebrating the return of his child, and a king was
negotiating peace with his former enemies. Monkeys played,
potions brewed: All was well here.
In the mountains to the north, a new leader arose and an old one passed on. A smith's hammer rung out in time with the melodious chirping of frogs and birds. Nearby, the earth shook as racing Gorons rolled through rubble and track alike, not caring about themselves as long as they got that exhilarating feeling of the wind zooming over their rocky skin. Gorons moured, Gorons cheered: All was well here.
In the ocean to the west, four Zoran children grew; their siblings had died soon after birth. Their parents' band played on, an ode to the setting sun int the now-moonless sky. Along the coast, pirates paced, at a calm for the time-being. Beavers froliked, Zoras swam: All was well here.
In the eastern canyon, deep within a shrine in an ancient
castle, Death awoke and stretched Her leathery wings.
"My King..." Her voice was eons older than the walls entombing
Her, but that voice was strong and cold. It could have made
nearly any mortal wither and die at a single word.
Nearly.
She looked, Her ancient eyes scanning, almost absorbing the
pictographs carved into the walls. She blinked: Once, Twice,
Her golden lids coming together horizontally from the sides
of Her glowing crimson eyes. When Death blinked, it did not
appear so; it simply seemed as though Her eyes were now a
searing gold.
"My King." She repeated in Her unearthly pitch. Though She
was being held captive in Ikana Castle, Her "king" was not
Igos du Ikana, nor any other.
Her powerful chest rose up and down as She began to breathe.
She did not have to. She was immortal, an Endless, a god.
But it gave Her tiny grains of what may have once been
pleasure to breathe. It reminded Her of Him, her King.
"Majora. . ."
