4. Night in the Desert

To the north, the sun slipped slowly behind a rim of rugged rock faces looming over the desert. There was still an hour or more before night fell, but evening was well on its way.

Link wiped the sweat from his brow, shoulders slumped wearily as he hunched over Mist's back. His loyal, steady little horse had maintained a brisk walk for several hours, but he didn't dare push her too fast and to hard in this heat, so they would stop for the night when the last rays of scorching sun faded from the world.

All at once there was a strange noise—some sort of mechanical roar, like the sound of old, vibrating rusty hinges combined with the sound of rough stone grating against smooth stone, amplified to echo over the sands. Link's head jerked up and Mist whinnied nervously, sidestepping away.

Link had noticed the ominous cloud of sand swirling to the south only a few minutes into the desert, and as it hadn't seemed to be moving his way—or any other direction, for that matter—he hadn't paid it much heed until now.

A behemoth of a creature, covered in metal plates, with two humps formed of dome-like structures rising from its back, was emerging through the mists of roiling sand. Link's heart jumped into his throat as it tramped easily over the dunes, clouds of dust rising from the impact of its heavy feet, glowing with the pink light of Malice.

Lightning struck in the distance, carving an angry yellow gash in the storm, and Link flinched, the still-healing burn over his shoulder itching as if in response. Mist squealed fearfully, rising up onto her hind legs and skittering sideways to the north, tossing her head and snorting anxiously; Link grimaced, trying to balance on her back with only his one good arm to hold on, trying to stay calm for her sake.

"It's alright," he soothed her, leaning low over her back. "I won't let it hurt you. We'll be alright."

She tossed her head again, releasing a fearful whinny and breathing heavily, ears flat against her skull. With a groan Link slide from her back and reached steadily towards her, stroking the center of her forehead as gently as he could. "You're not the only one," he murmured. "I don't like the sight of that creature any more than you do. But look—it's going away now, see? Back into its storm. You're alright."

She scraped the ground with a hoof, but her eyes were locked onto his. He rested his forehead against hers, brushing his hand across her cheek and velvety nose until she seemed to have calmed down. Then he returned to his satchel and withdrew an apple, offering it to her with a smile. "Let's see if we can get a little further before stopping for the night, alright?"

He hesitated before returning to her saddle, his good hand placed upon her back in preparation. The raw flesh of his gashed side, still bleeding a little, was engulfed in burning flames of stinging pain; it had become progressively worse and worse with each moment that passed. His shoulder, though not as deep a wound, was beginning to get to that stage as well. And his arm… it was a package of splintered bone barely contained by his skin, pinned to his chest, swollen and agonizing.

Link swallowed tightly. It's understandable that I want to stop for the day, he reasoned. I'm injured and exhausted. I have every reason to rest.

He bit his lip tightly; the pain did not compare to the unpleasant sensations in his rent side and broken arm.

Images flashed through his mind. Impa's face, aged and worn and wise, creased with worry over the land she had spent her life trying to protect; the Zora he'd come across in his journey north, begging him to keep her home from being destroyed; Breen and Kish, who had cared for him the best they could despite not knowing who he was; Rhondson, uncertain and afraid yet trying hard to be courageous in a dangerous world she was only beginning to discover…

Guilt dragged at his heart. Gritting his teeth in anticipation he jumped from the ground, swinging a leg over Mist's back while tightly gripping her mane and withers with his good hand, a muffled yell of pain bursting from his grit teeth. "L-let's go," he panted, nudging her sides before hunching over (sitting straight pulled at the swollen flesh of his split side).

They continued without further incident, and Link noticed with relief that as the sunlight faded, so too did the Din-forsaken heat. No longer did he feel suffocated by the thickness of the air, nor by the coat of sweat he wore.

At last descended the darkness, and Link slipped from Mist's back, staggering slightly before retrieving his waterskin and letting the little horse slurp what she wanted. When she was finished, most of the water was gone; Link grimaced and sipped only a few mouthfuls, enough to dispel the unbearable sandpapery feeling that resided in his mouth.

He slumped to his knees with a low groan and lay down on his back, his good arm curled beneath his head. Then he lifted his gaze to the heavens and his eyes widened at the view; for a moment his pain was forgotten as he took in the vast landscape of twinkling stars and whirling galaxies spread out above him. There were millions of them—far more than he could ever count, spread across the glorious dark expanse, going on and on and on… a myriad of glittering, far away lights, twinkling gently down at him. Link breathed out a low sigh. Maybe the desert's not so bad after all—at least at night, he thought, weary eyelids slipping down as he surrendered to the fatigue gnawing at his soul and falling swiftly asleep.

Ice crept through his limbs. He was shivering violently; his broken arm pulsed with an intense ache made worse by the cold, in stark contrast to the flames in his side.

Instinctively he curled into himself with a weak groan, trying to conserve what warmth remained in his being. A familiar snort reached his ears and he opened his eyes to find Mist beside him, legs folded neatly beneath her as she slept soundly.

It's cold out here, he thought, realizing the fact for the first time. But… we're in the desert…?

Gritting his teeth he pushed himself into a sitting position, unable to prevent grumbles of pain from escaping his lips as he did so. His clothes, which had been soaked in sweat during the day, now offered him an icy blanket that chilled him to the bone. Grimacing, he dragged himself closer to Mist, huddling against her warmth, tumbling back into a fitful rest as the cold deepened.

The familiar hoarse, rattling sounds of stalmoblins reached his ears and his blood ran colder than the desert night as he jerked awake. Three of the undead creatures were approaching him, dragonbone clubs gripped in their skeletal hands.

Don't hurt Mist! was his first thought and he stumbled to his feet, snatching his sheathed sword from the ground and drawing it in time to knock the first monster to the ground and impale its skull, sending it collapsing back to the ground.

But in the next moment there was a solid thwack—and something within him crunched. Winded, he was flung through the air, pain burning in his lungs, before finally colliding with a sand dune and rolling helplessly down, his broken arm and his ribs flaring with fire.

At last he came to a stop, breathless and bruised. His mind wavered as he struggled to regain his breath; when at last he could inhale it hurt badly to do so and a sharp cry escaped his throat. He ground his teeth together, pressing a shaking hand to his ribs, where the pain was fiercest. Great Farore, they're broken, he realized, feeling the tender, rapidly-swelling lumps rising from his chest where the stalmoblin had struck him. And as his fingers trembled upon his chest he felt warm wetness soaking through his tunic. Blood. That can't be good.

He clenched his teeth even tighter as he rolled slowly to his knees with an involuntary moan of anguish. Then he shoved himself to his feet and lurched back up the dune, breathing hard, shivering violently from the chill of the night air on his sweaty body.

But as he neared Mist(now wide awake and on her feet), he found that the stalmoblins had been killed. Only a pile of bleached bones remained, lying inanimate upon the sand, along with a red-fletched arrow…

Breathlessly Khana watched the hero as he studied her arrow. She hadn't meant to leave it behind, but it was either that or let him discover her. And she certainly wasn't ready for him to learn of her existence.

"Thank you," Link wheezed through the darkness, looking around. A thrill shot through Khana's heart as she heard his voice for the first time—low and masculine, teeming with both the vivacity of youth and the weariness of agony and fatigue. The hero crumpled to his knees before crawling feebly back towards his horse; then he flopped onto his back and fell back against the sand, blood glistening at the corner of his mouth.

Khana swallowed tightly, her heart hammering wildly. I helped him… I helped our sworn enemy! I can't believe it! It was treason of the highest order. Master Khoga would have her head for this when he found out.

She clenched her teeth, pulse racing as she tried to think of a way out of the fury that would surely befall her when the clan leader learned of her treachery. I didn't do it out of compassion; I did it for Master Khoga, she reasoned. I did it so that the Yiga Clan would be responsible for the hero's demise. The Clan, and the Clan alone. Not some stupid stalmoblin.

Her speeding heart began to calm. I'm not a traitor. I'm just ensuring that the hero's death is more meaningful to everyone involved.

Khana nodded decisively. But as she gazed upon the young man's trembling figure, saw his brow creased with pain, saw the blood staining his lips… one arm was wrapped in a shoddy sling, and equally-shoddy bandages were wrapped around his side and shoulder…

She was all at once struck by how young he was, barely younger than she was, too young to bear such crippling wounds, too young to have so many enemies and no one to help him bear that burden.

Of course, he's actually a century older than that, she reminded herself. He spent a hundred years recovering from near-fatal wounds within the Shrine of Resurrection.

But that doesn't count. He was… asleep. Or dead… I don't really know how that works, but…

Suddenly it appeared to be a terrible waste to kill someone that the Hylians and the Sheikah (and all the other races of Hyrule) had worked so hard to save. Why? What makes him so special?

The answer came to her immediately: he was their hero, their only hope against the Calamity lurking within Hyrule Castle. They know that Ganon will destroy them—that Ganon will destroy the world.

It seemed to her then that the Yiga Clan was horribly selfish and blind. If we kill this young man, how many others—other than the Hylians and the Sheikah—will be slaughtered by Ganon's hatred? And we have no guarantee that we will be spared… this is pointless.

But she knew Master Khoga better than she knew Calamity Ganon—he had practically raised her, after all. I'm not strong enough to rebel against him. Not yet.

She swallowed thickly, studying Link's prone figure. Give me a reason, she begged him silently. Give me a reason to join you.