1: Prologue
A thunder storm ravaged the country of Hyrule.
For hours longer than she cared to count, a deluge of rain had come hammering down to drench the world. The threatening rumble of the skies seemed to make the earth quiver beneath as each flash of lightning crackled down from the firmament to sear the soil. A frigid gale blew, tempest tossed to roar and hiss like a scornful god, and to pointed ears especially it would serve as the first warning from the divine.
The cold stone within the castle would produce no warmth against the harsh night raging outside, as the echo of thunder rolled against every wall to threaten. This was particularly true of Zelda's keep. The high tower held only the mourning Princess and a dim fire, struggling to warm the dreary chambers, and by sheer luck alone provide the scant light her eyes required to read by.
Sitting close to the embers, resigned to a wooden chair, she sat scouring a leather-bound tome for the little comfort it could afford her. Flipping through the pages of history, old legends and tales of heroes would lend her strength, whispering quietly of better fortunes to come. Zelda borrowed from them the fortitude to endure her imprisonment with grace and sanity, stoically depending upon the pattern she found within its pages.
Ever faithful, she knew the Goddesses' design, and resolved to wait patiently for the day her own hero would arrive.
But as the days had rolled on, the Princess was slowly coming to accept that their timing would be closely matched to that of a powerful rival. His presence was already thick upon the air, like a foul stench she couldn't place, seeming to seep from the very walls to add malice to the already bitter cold.
Sentience could nearly be traced of the weather, for no sooner did that notion sweep her heart again with worry, lightning would cleave the sky beside her window closely. Like a cracking whip it struck her to flinch, her frail form illuminated by its momentary glow as breath hitched in her throat. That awful shiver of premonition crept through her once again and she sighed, closing the book and turning her crystalline gaze toward the weary fire.
Perhaps the Gods are angry with my decision?
It flashed through her mind to match the lightning, though with a light shake of her head it too had faded.
She had never held a choice in the matter. This sorry state of affairs was the only mercy she could give her people, lingering in the bleak half light to fear a nameless evil, but she had ensured they lived yet. None of the spirits below realised their true position—how close to destruction they had come—and Zelda prayed that none would ever figure it out. For the moment, they were unharmed, and of that she claimed some success as a leader.
Order could be restored in time, and her people could be spared the knowledge of most of its absence. Delicate brows furrowed as she remembered the day darkness had fallen with pathos.
Adjusting the cloak around her fragile form, slender fingers gripped the dark fabric tightly to hide herself further within its folds. A sombre expression took over her delicate features as pale lips moved, weakly mouthing the ultimatum a usurper had said to her only a week before.
"Surrender or die."
This was the only mere thing she held the power to deliver, granted wordlessly where her defiant voice would have brought death upon them—no, there had never been a choice at all.
Could she have been expected to do more? It was not her place to have stood and fought that day, satin gloved fingers tightly wound about the grip of her rapier to challenge an insurmountable force, willing a fool's battle to come.
She was not the hero.
But then, the Princess could only wonder what her post now entailed. In the past few days, it seemed she was to simply sit and be little more than a hostage, replete with information her enemies knew well enough themselves and blood already spent on a broken throne. Her book told of her forebears past, documenting much of the same. Her blessing of wisdom was bestowed to govern or guide, the host idle as another worked to reclaim the kingdom in its ruler's place.
She had never questioned such a thing when younger eyes had scanned such stories, fondly picturing the battles of bygone eras. Zelda's faith in the Gods' designs had never been shaken. But brought into reality, the tales had lost their charms, and the Heavens seemed the idle party as her own mind—and heart—began to race.
Holy eyes were upon her, expectant that she play her part, and the time ticked by wasted. There were many things she felt she could have done aside simply waiting and watching the world writhe below. Wisdom beckoned she act, and every minute that rolled by convinced her there was far more that could be done with her role than what the legends told.
Did she serve a purpose while she waited here in the dust and cold, or purposely serve?
Thunder rolled once more from the clouds, the harsh boom jarring her from her reverie as it shook her very bones, drawing another flinch as if willing the Princess to move. Rising quickly to it, Zelda stood in a small fit of pique, harassed and small against the sparse chamber as she called out to the angry skies in answer.
"What more can I do but sit and hope, while confined by lock and key?!"
It echoes out lonely and sharp within the still air, dying with the rumble to leave shrill silence ringing in her ears. Shaking hands slowly steadied, releasing the pressured bite of her nails upon leather bound cover as she settled, and soon the Princess was gazing out of the window with resentment in her eyes.
The Gods must've understood that she had played her part as well as she could have for the brief time she had found herself in this new and unfortunate chapter. Like any other woman bearing the name Zelda within that decrepit tome, was it not her place here beside the fire, awaiting the chosen one? This is what the tales told. She had done all she could, pulled along like a puppet on fate's thread and gracefully performed as expected.
But the raging storm had stirred up her doubts, and it was clear to her mind that no matter what would be written of these patient days in the pages of her own history, it simply could not be left as painfully accurate as this.
She frowned to herself quizzically as she watched the clouds move, swirling and inky like no storm she'd ever seen. Picking up the sides of her cloak and setting the book down gingerly upon her stool, steps were swiftly taken toward the dark lattice framing such eerie, sullen skies.
Even with those few footfalls alone, the warmth was fleeting to be left behind with the fire. It was too quick a change, she felt as she thought on it, as if she had stepped into the gales themselves. The chill of the outside world seemed to seep in through the shuddering glass, snaking around her form to appraise and explore... perhaps even, she realised, to threaten.
It prickled at her flesh as if her robes were not there at all, a sensation not unlike burning, in fact, once the threshold of the cold had been passed. An unnatural itch of magic raising the hairs upon her skin crawled faintly across every inch of her, and quick to decipher it, Zelda would send a wary glance to the back of her hand to catch the golden flicker there.
She stifled a slight gasp as it struck her, awful epiphany pouring forth from her blessing to fill the Princess with silent dread. It was not the Gods that riled impatiently within the storm, but a man whose name she had dared not speak, nor even think of when she could help it, if only to avoid the chance of summoning such a presence. A character that had haunted her imagination for as long as she had held tales of him in hand—a demon thief and a scoundrel who stole not from men, but the Heavens themselves.
Zelda stared out at the skies, studying in the tempest any personification to be related to that man, paranoid and awful an omen as it could've been. Drawing a slow breath, she placed a hand to the window pane, fingers arching reluctantly at the biting frost it held as she watched. The storm raged as his fury might, fighting against whatever chains still held him at bay. Compelling thunderheads rolled and grew in darkness and strength, as his power no doubt returned. Lightning cleaved the darkness like flashes of his madness, clawing out at the soils of a land he craved with a desert thirst, and Zelda's features softened into a perceptive and curious expression.
Perhaps he too was aware of the gaps within the lines of her book, and knew she was a far more valuable asset than even she had given herself credit for. The Princess was not a hostage, she realised as thunder rolled low.
She was a trophy to be kept, a souvenir of Zant's victory and the success of his coup, and Zelda could not quell the sudden notion that she was to be presented to the one who sent him.
Five days had the imp—a native of this Twilight—scoured the world in search of the chosen one at her behest. Whether Midna returned with the hero in time was a likelihood, for Zelda held every faith that fate would reveal itself soon, but it seemed the arrival of Zant's master was upon them now.
Her hand fell away from the pane slowly, withdrawn and held to her chest as the Princess took a step back. If nothing else, Wisdom allowed her to be decisive in dire times, and the beginnings of curiosity stirred vaguely upon the fringe of her mind. If this was the hand she was dealt, she would play it with everything she had. Soon enough, her enemy would show his face, and from there she could glean answers and weaknesses if need be.
The ghost of a smile lingered cynical on her lips as her breath fogged out before her, bold as she whispered the name she, since childhood, had been wary of.
"...Save your energy, Ganondorf. This has only just begun."
As if to second this, an odd scuffling of paws sounded from the stone stairwell, catching her by surprise until a low lupine growl echoed out into the chamber behind her. A giggle swiftly matched it, haughty and familiar to signal Midna's presence as well, and thunder clapped violently overhead to rattle the glass once more in angry protest.
The Princess did not flinch when it came. Instead, she simply bowed her head to send a knowing glance to the skies, and turned to face the first ray of hope to cut through the darkness of the storm.
A wolf had arrived to warm its fur by her fire, and his eyes held the shine of a Hero.