The sun's first rays peeked in between the moth-eaten curtains, stirring the occupant of the bed into semi-consciousness. Birds warbled a tweeting lament, greeting the dawn, as if they were choirboys introducing the reverend in song. The air was crisp and clean and bitingly cold, a plain page for the new day. It was a lawn of snow without a single footprint; a coat hanging on the hook, unworn.
The occupier of the bed rolled out of it, blinking furiously, and tried to discern whether the visit last night had been a hallucination. He'd had a lot of them recently- images of pale, dead things with hanging jaws and claw-like hands- but they always had a translucent, dreamlike quality that had not been present in the conversation with the Happy Mask Salesman.
The man, acting on a sudden whim, opened the curtains and looked out on the Hylian landscape. A tree, branches scraping the glass slightly, rustled gently to itself. The dim silhouette of the Castle was could be seen on the horizon, although the blur of smoke rendered it partially invisible.
Smoke?
The man's mind briefly played out scenes of destruction- fire, spluttering from the wooden shutters of houses- babies, crying in their mother's arms- the great, marble edifice of Hyrule Castle tumbling down to the ground- animate corpses treading the cobbled streets.
He consoled himself that it was merely the meandering trails of campfires, left over from some midnight revels, and not a town going up in flames. He still did not feel altogether easy, however, and he went down the stairs with a heavy heart.
The first feeling of the room was one of redness- a velvety redness that overwhelmed all of the surroundings. Even the furniture had that theme of scarlet materials, and the glow it cast gave the occupants a ruddy tinge.
In the centre of the room was a throne, and this was the reddest of all. It overflowed, with tiny cherubs and cornucopias pouring off it. The man who sat on it was quite small, but his dangling feet were hidden by an ermine robe. He had a pointy nose and ears; vast, impressive sideburns extended across his cheeks and under his nose. His eyes were large and blinked rapidly, giving him a certain owlish appearance.
A chair across the room was occupied by a stocky, blonde-haired man, who still had the wilfulness of childhood engrained onto his features. He too had a pointy nose and ears, and startling, bright blue eyes. His expression was a determined one; this could be guessed by observing the paraphernalia that hung around him. He was clearly expecting to have to fight on his journey.
The man on the throne cleared his throat. "You must have come a long way, then, sir?"
The blonde-haired man nodded. "From the borders of Labrynna, your Majesty. An arduous journey, over difficult terrain.
"I understand." His gesture, quite by accident, seemed to take in his quiver and blood-stained sword in one sweep.
"I cannot help thinking, however, that you need not nearly rush about so much! Ha!" His unconvincing laugh belied his feelings of anxiety.
A figure appeared from the darkness behind the throne. "What his Majesty means is that it is quite unnecessary for you to travel. The kingdom needs a hero. The public needs a figurehead to group behind. If another land faces danger, it will be old enough and big enough and strong enough to look after itself."
The newcomer was also of muscular build, dressed in blue; and his face was all but obscured due to the rolls of white fabric. An eye, as sharp as a hawk, observed the world from behind the folds. Another eye was daubed on the clothing, a vicious red against the tranquil blue.
The Hero recoiled. "But what of the business in Termina? I was…"
"We cannot find 'Termina' on any of our maps," interrupted the man on the throne. "It was a hallucination, and if it wasn't, it doesn't affect us in any way. We need you here. You have to stop running off. Your home is –"
The man who dreamt of Termina turned away in disgust. "My home is on the roads. Do you know how it feels to travel, without a compass, without a map? The exhilaration of discovering another stretch of land?"
The enthroned man sighed, and ran a hand through his thinning hair.
"Give me your sword," he said.
"What?"
"I wished it would not come to this, but there it is. The Master Sword. Give it to me."
The Hero slowly drew the sword out of its sheath- for a moment, it shimmered in the dusky redness of the room- and gave it to the man. He looked at it dully, as if expecting it to leap up a for one last show of defiance. It did not.
It merely lay on the man's lap, bright silver surrounded by the vivid scarlet of his robe, like a knife in a wound.