IV
It was truly impossible to determine whether her eyelids were open or shut. Truthfully there was no substantive difference as oblivion surrounded her asleep or awake. And sleep she did; in vast quantities in fact—perhaps as a consequence of the blood encrusted wound at the back of her skull.
It is said that the Dark World, called "hell" in the parlance of humans, is a fiery medley of burning seas and gnawing demons—an unending cycle of torture and despair. To clerics and religious leaders, these images represented the zenith of their originality in trying to create metaphysical realms terrifying enough to encourage good behavior and obedience in more corporeal existences. However, these clerics suffered from the limits of their own imagination. A state of hell is not the sensation of eternal pain; hell is eternal existence without sensation at all—the imprisonment of the mind in a cage of its own idleness. And so was the mind of Princess Zelda Harkinian, heir to the throne of Hyrule, imprisoned. And it was hell.
Despite the spasmodic delirium of her head wound, she had made at least a few cursory deductions. She was pitted into a small, dank hole that extended but ten feet on all sides. Approximately twenty feet above her, iron grates barred any entrance to what was undoubtedly some sort of dungeon. She speculated that she was the sole prisoner as no voices or footsteps were audible, save that of a single attendant that dumped small globules of rank gruel through the grates. Water tasting of rusted iron and cobblestone poured through the grates at irregular intervals, pooling at cracks and indentions in the stone allowing her to take measured sips. Zelda grimly placed a bet with herself as to whether she would die first from the putrid water or the insanity of isolation.
Zelda perceived herself as a generally passive and stoic person, but right now she could barely contain her bubbling fury—with herself. She was enraged at her inability to establish even a rudimentary chronology of events, or even definitively establish how she had arrived here—wherever "here" was. The only facts she could deduce was that she must have been kidnapped as she slept and that, owing to the wound sustained by her skull, she must have been forcefully subdued and knocked unconscious for a prolonged period of time. But, owing to the complete lack of light or even sound save the irregular pit pat of water sloshing down from the grate above, she had no idea where she was, how long she had been here, and, most importantly, who brought her here.
She could, of course, without much mental effort infer her probable captors. Unfortunately, with Zelda being the sole heir to the throne, the list of possible captors could be seemingly infinite. She conceded that Ganondorf appeared the most obvious and likely, but it would be easy to take for granted other possible culprits. As she began considering the candidates, she became dazed and faint. Her ears rang out in a macabre choir of pain as she slumped on her side onto the floor of her own little hell.
As the throbbing head wound gradually ground down her consciousness, she could make out the faint rasp of a voice that had pervaded her nightmares. "Princess Zelda?"
Zelda willed unconsciousness away and rose with what little start her malnourished body could provide at the sound of the first voice she had heard since she had arrived. She coughed as she tried to clear a voice hoarse from atrophy. "W-who's there?" She whispered with her broken voice into the void far above. She regretted the fact that her voice was tinged more with fear than with the defiance she had hoped to project.
The form responded in measured wheezes, noticeably inhaling in the precious little fresh air that remained in the decaying pit. His voice was a lifeless hiss—as if he was a creature birthed by the very dungeon that Zelda now found herself. "I shall be the last thing you will see or hear for the remainder of what little life you have left. My name is Lord Cradock."
That name she most certainly did recognize; the dean of Ganondorf's college of mages—or Wizzrobes as the Hylian Army grudgingly codenamed them. While his life and physical appearance remained a mystery aside from his signature thick, black cowl, it was widely known that he was one of the King of Evil's most powerful and capable lieutenants.
Zelda coughed and felt clouds of dust and rot coat her bruised skin. "Tell me, Lord Cradock. What does your master hope to accomplish with this foolhardiness? Do you really think my father such a fool that he would sell his entire kingdom for the benefit of one life?"
She could almost sense Cradock's form heaving as he erupted into a sickly laughter. "Save your energy my dear. You know as well as I do that after a week's isolation the signature stubbornness of your family will be as hollow as your mind and body; at which time, you will tell me what I want and you will do what I will." He inflected his raspy hiss with a tone that seemed to poorly approximate empathy. "You're an intelligent woman. You know the futility of resistance. Besides, your survival is not necessarily required, my dear, for my Master's designs."
Bitterness infiltrated the pit of Zelda's stomach after she quickly realized that that Craddock was right. "What do you want?"
"Why, the same thing you want, no doubt: information."
"And why should I be motivated to tell you anything?" Zelda demanded in a tone with all the defiance she could muster.
"As I said, my dear, you're an intelligent woman. You know I'll get my information eventually. In a fortnight at most, I will hear your screams reverberate down the corridors as you vainly plead for your mind to stop its inevitable plunge into the depths of its own madness. And there will be no one, not even your Hero of Time to save you. You now have two options. You can either tell me what I want to know now and I shall reciprocate in kind, or you shall tell me everything eventually, and I in turn shall tell you nothing. I care not for whichever option you choose."
Zelda realized that she was quickly becoming a liability as she realized that Craddock was correct. Eventually he could make her talk. She might hold out longer than he expected her to, but eventually her mind would descend into dead pulp. There was only one true option. She argued down her most basic life affirming instincts and resolved to end her life on her own terms without betraying both her family and kingdom. All she needed was a way to cut the veins in her wrist and simply bleed out. That would solve all problems.
"And, my dear…" The hissing continued. "Do not think to depart from this corporeal realm so soon. I am aware that the Sheikah and their disciples are quite an inventive lot . . . but so am I. Just so you're aware, my dear, I am well versed in how to sustain life for prolonged periods of time with a bare minimum of…anatomical functionality. The torments you experience now would be trivial in comparison."
The voice's omissions said more than his spoken words. Zelda tried, in vain, to forcibly remove the dark imaginings of her subconscious featuring her mind in a void without sight, sound, smell, or any other form of sensory perception. The image burned into her mind, causing her to visibly shudder.
"What do you want to know?" Zelda offered, silently cursing every syllable as it escaped her lips.
A sadistic chuckle rebounded off the cold, barren walls of the dungeon. "My Master wishes to have a complete account of everything that happened from that day fourteen years ago. Please begin…we have all the time in the world."
[*]
Curse you Sages! Curse you Zelda! CURSE YOU LINK!
Beads of sweat stung the now wide open eyes of a very disturbed Princess Zelda as she awoke. The familiar surroundings of the ten year old's room provided no comfort from the vivid nightmares as she hurriedly exchanged her nightgown for her day clothing. As possibly the most educated ten year old in the entire Kingdom of Hyrule, her mind categorically rejected concepts like prescience and oracular foresight on the basis of reason and logic—which made it all the more frustrating that her instincts were treating her recurring dreams and visions with more credibility than her mind was willing to extend to them.
Supposedly her mother had also possessed what her nursemaid Impa called "the gift"—pseudo prophetic foreshadowing and the like. Zelda had never given it much credit as it apparently did not benefit her late mother overly much; having died in the throes of childbirth. And yet, her mind could not escape these visions which imprisoned her every thought. She hurried down winding staircases to the Castle Gardens, martialing physical activity as her weapon of choice for removing her mind from her haunting visions. Approximately two hours of running later, despite successfully running into three guards, a chef, two gardeners, and a rather pompous looking cucco, she was no closer to ridding her mind of her poisonous visions than when she began. She approached her favorite spot in the garden where she could both spy on the happenings of the throne room while enjoying a scenic panorama of innumerable trees, shrubs, and flowers that formed a living collage which she found more compelling than any of Hyrule Castle's classical statues which were eternally imprisoned in a lifeless marble stupor.
She peered into the paned, arched window which overlooked the throne room. Impa had always told her that a leader's most valuable commodity was information—and it was a lesson Zelda took to heart as she silently monitored the Kingdom's affairs of state from a small patch of garden. As she peered into the cavernous throne room, dread seized her as she imagined the cruel looking man from the desert, Ganondorf, poisoning her father with insincere promises and falsehoods.
Ganondorf . . .
Her small form involuntarily lurched as his blackened presence invaded the deepest recesses of her mind. Since he had reemerged from the deep reaches of the Gerudo Desert, the Gerudian King had wasted no time in cultivating alliances and agreements with the various nations and fiefs that composed the Kingdom of Hyrule. The firebrand young monarch that had marched out of the desert years ago, with the audacity to demand tribute and aid from the King of Hyrule, had grown a silver tongue. It was this newfound skill that he had used to great effect, combining eloquence and an uncanny knowledge of Hylian law and politics to arbitrate agreements among the various feuding fiefs and duchies within the kingdom. He was becoming, in a word, indispensible, and his burgeoning popularity was certainly not lost on Zelda.
She peered into the gaping maw of the royal throne room at the dark mass of the man bowing in the center of the room. His prominent, aquiline nose barely concealed an uncontrollable hunger etched onto the corners of his mouth, and residing in the irises of feral yellow eyes. Deceit manifested in every word, every gesture, every breath. And not for the first time, Zelda felt that Ganondorf Dragmire was watching her as she was, in turn, watching him. She forced her gaze away from the window pane.
Zelda stood in her own retreat and sanctuary besieged by the weight of the world. As much as she would like to ignore it, every instinct in her small form screamed at her in warning—foretelling the imminent end of her small world in this Kingdom of Hyrule.
Finally, the sun pierced the tempest raging in her mind. And there, stepping out from her world of dreams and visions, he materialized in front of her. Motionless he stood, the wearied—almost ancient— eyes of a child fixed squarely on her. Time stilled. And so they stood watching; waiting.
[*]
Author's Note: I hope the flashback isn't too jarring. Let me know what you think. Read, review, and enjoy.
