Within the White

Wordless. Whatever were words? Suspended without restrictions. Or was she moving, or was maybe the world? What was a world with no life, and what was a world with air for living beings to breathe?: Questions Saria was not wondering upon one 'plane' of reality, through was throbbing with –agonizing over—in another. All planes were plants rising to perfect robustness as the garden growing to shape the spiritual green of Saria's stare. Sight.

Even with the new emergence of eyes, the pictures surrounding her flickered as fast, indiscernible and far from describing perfection: flames and fighting were corroding the world, whatever a world was. The world, the only one planet upon which all life lines were woven with omnipotence... where any being had power, whether lost, latent or otherwise... was being mutilated and banished into oblivion.

With the warring came whispering and wailing, and so from sources of woe came to Saria sound. Now able to add noises to the images, Saria's imagination slowed their flickering, or perhaps accelerated her sight. Regardless of which, the multiple fires were now visible as not so dangerous and also differently coloured: four statue-base torches flickering in a square's corners in blue, violet, emerald and classic crimson.

The room in which the square was contained was immense in expanse. Brown and grey stone, coarse and chill as if forever in moonlight's touch, the webs slung about were heavy with filth gathered over years or moments or eternities, climbing vines of shadow green gathered as thick and strong enough to perpetually cling to the rough stone, and walls were screeching echoes of enemies' thirsts for weakened targets.

A particular morsel, for which mutated plants' mouths slobbered, was in a picture's frame only fleetingly, thus was forgotten totally in no measurement of time. Only, then tell-tale features showed up in increasing frequency:

Gloves of toughened red cracked just slightly as the fingers tensed their clutch upon a sword. That said-weapon radiated the steady power of mountains, twinned with twice the readiness for violence of a volcano's quake. A shield, holding the crest of the race and lineage which coloured the blood of the weapon's wielder, was held firm by a right arm.

Sparks skated the shield's blue and silver surface under a blow from the chisel-chime strike of a spider skull, and behind those shines there was a small show of the man's blonde hair. Those yellow fringe strands ran in sheen from under the rim of a verdant cap that matched the rest of his garb. Clad like a Kokiri was that man –that man, who was bane to the Evil that has poisoned her dreams.

She now had a voice. Her first word was to speak that man's name.

If to talk a name is to taste the nuances of the entity whom is so called... then upon speaking, the pallet of Saria burst into fountains flowing rivers of multiple colours merging. The potency of the 'taste' was for the totality of his power potential. For his personality, however, a blizzard of pinked petals blended to create unity and formed Saria's flesh. A physical form designed from delicateness, and delivered by her –and Time's—hero.

...Bittersweet. All that was her friend of childhood-forged memories, had the taste of tear-inducing bittersweet: It was together tantalising and terrorising to think of him, and both always at once. And she was aware, totally, of why. Saria let her eyelids slip shut until all existence shone white.