Chapter 7: Lovely Made of Sunshine
"The princess is gettin' married! The princess is gettin' married! The princess is get—Oh—!"
From the top of the staircase there came a thump and a gasp, and then a series of cracks and thuds and yelps of pain, as Malon Lon Lon discovered the quick, if painful, way of traversing the stairs.
"Aye, an' so the princess is gettin' haerself married," drawled Cook from the kitchen, when the bumps and bangs had ceased, and silence settled in. "But my question is, shall ye live tae see it?"
She snaked her long, thin neck around the kitchen doorframe as she finished this pronouncement, and found Malon an undignified heap of arms and legs and best clothes at the foot of the steps. It had not been an inconsequential tumble the little girl had taken, and all the elasticity of youth could not save her some bruising. Malon clambered to her feet, holding the wall for support, and offered up a wincing smile.
"Do ye live, girl?" Cook asked, and looked her up and down.
"I'm sure I do!" Malon exclaimed, in a tone that was much too cheerful to hold anything but the deepest pain and mortification. She took a bold step forward, but a stab of pain lanced through her; she yelped. Cook rolled her eyes.
"It's only just that ye do, apparently. See now! Ye've made a fool of all my hard work, chit; ye've gone on an' ruined yaer clothes."
Malon's face fell. "They ain' ruined, Cook, not at all!" She looked down at her clothes with a grimace that belied her protest, and pawed at the rumpled fabric with anxious gesture. "They only want a bit o' straightenin'!"
"An' a bit of washin' an' a bit of shakin' out and a bit of ironin' and a bit o' stitchin'. Nayru's truth, chit, look at ye." Cook stepped from the kitchen and fell upon Malon with the vengeance of a Fury. "There's sawdust all down yaer back an' ye've cuckoo droppin'sin yaer hair. Goddesses sakes, girl, do ye even sweep the grime fraem them corners?"
"I do!" Malon squeaked, though this was not necessarily true.
"Nayru's truth." Cook clucked deep and bitterly in her throat, as she swatted dust and chicken droppings from Malon's dress. "I've a mind tae send ye back upstairs and change."
"But I only want a bit o' dustin' down!"
Cook gripped Malon's shoulders and gave her a hard look from top to toe. "Ye get yaerself back up there and wipe off those smudges you've gone on and put on yaer dress. And ye wash up! Yaer face is as gray as a miner's."
"It ain't!" Malon cried, distressed that Cook could speak such lies.
"I'm the one lookin' at it an' I say it is. Go comb yaer hair. Goddesses sake, ye dress 'em once an' they canna be bothered tae stay clean faer a bless'd minute. For Din's sake, ye walk when ye go up those steps! I catch you jumpin' on'm again—"
"Ye won', Cook, ye won'!" Malon exclaimed, and breaking free of Cook's taloned grip, scrambled back up the steps.
"I said no runnin'!" Cook bawled from below.
Malon burst into her room, tearing the dress over her head even as she ran. She had not bothered to untie the sash about her waist—who could, on a day as grand as this?—and it caught her hair so that she struggled for a moment to free herself. A little gurgle of irritation and dismay broke from her. The day she had so long looked forward to was upon her—upon them all: ranch and hands and faraway castle alike—and she would be the only person in all of Hyrule still cooped up inside and bothering with stupid best dresses, thanks to Cook. She freed herself at last and threw her best dress onto the bed.
The door slammed belowstairs, and Eoin's voice filled the common room. "Moira! Ye done yet? We've brought up the wagon and hitched up the team and we're missing the lasses! Where's Malon?"
"Malon's dressin'. We'll be out soon enough, Eoin, we'll be out!"
Malon's heart filled her throat. She and Eoin had had it between them last evening: he had commissioned her to help him cushion the bottom of the wagon with straw, for the journey into Market Town. She wanted to lay the straw very much; she envisioned making a small nest in the corner of the bed, right behind her papa's place on the bench.
"Eoin!" she shouted, running from her room and hanging over the rail to peer down into the common room. "Ye haven't laid the straw, have ye?"
Eoin was standing in the kitchen doorway, stooping a little as if he feared to strike his head against the lintel. He grinned up at her. "No straw yet," he said, "but soon. Hurry up, ye want t' help!"
"She ain't gettin' herself any dirtier than she was when she came down a minute ago," Moira snarled.
"I won' get dirty; it's just straw."
"Malon!" Eoin shook his head at her. "Doan ye draw my sister out or ye'll never leave the house. Go back an' wash yaer face if ye have to. Is that yaer underkirtle?"
"Oh!" Malon remembered she was wore nothing but underclothes. "Oh, I'll be right back."
"Malon Lon Lon!" Cook swept from the kitchen like a killing wind. "Get back in yaer room and make yaerself decent—yaer underkirtle—?" Her expression pinched with disbelief.
Malon ducked back into her room. A moment later, she heard Eoin go back outside.
There was still some water in the basin; she splashed it upon her face and scrubbed her skin with a washcloth, before wringing out the excess water and attacking the spots on her dress. She worked with too fierce a gusto: the dress looked spotty and beaten by the time she had finished.
Malon redressed. A glance around the room assured her that there was no comb to be had, and so she began to rake her fingers through her hair—fingers were as good as combs, anyway, and one had to use them somehow. She could hear Conor's dogs barking; voices, muffled by the walls, drifted too and fro below.
"Malon!" Moira shouted. "Ye finished?"
"I'm finished!" Malon tumbled back down the stairs.
"I see ye di'n't learn yaerself a single lesson the first time ye fell," Moira said, and snatched at her.
"But I didn't fall this time." Malon ducked from beneath Cook's outstretched hand. "I'm clean, Cook, I am!"
"Where are yaer shoes?"
"Outside near the barn; I left 'em there."
"Left—? Ye careless little chit—"
"I'll get 'em, Cook, I will!" And before Moira could add further insults to her first, Malon fled outside.
The heat fell upon the little girl as she emerged, like a heavy, smothering weight. But Malon could not bother with the heat: she continued her flight across the yard. The wagon stood a few yards removed from the house and barn, poised for departure. Eoin stood tall and red and sweating among a golden heap of square bales, arms full of blankets and great swathes of canvas for tents. They were to stay through the night at the castle: the wedding party would continue on through tomorrow. Her Papa was handing tent material and tools up to him.
"I want tae help!" Malon cried. She reached the wagon and clambered onto the wheel; the strip of metal that reinforced the topmost edge sizzled against her feet, and she tumbled over the side into a scattering of loose hay.
"Careful there!" Talon cried, over Eoin's roar of laughter. The fall had left Malon topsy-turvy; she struggled to flip upright but was saved by a pair of arms thick with hair: her papa's arms. He flipped her right-side up and the world made a wide, whipping circle before her. Malon shouted with delight. Her papa's hands were damp with sweat, and he smelled of horses and hay and heat.
"Ye all right, lass?" Talon bent over her; his beard prickled her face, and she could feel his words in it, damp and warm.
"Ye've straw in yaer hair!" Eoin said. "Moira'll crack her teeth at that!"
"I cracked my head!" Malon rejoined. "But I'm all right; thank you, Papa!"
Talon clapped her shoulder and said, "It doesn't do tae crack yaer head on a day like this! Eh, Eoin? Think she'll live?"
"She should, if Moira doan see what's become of her hair. It's gone blonde with the straw, lass, knock it out!"
"Crack me teeth at what, pray?"
Moira had emerged from the house and was in the grim stages of locking up, like a jailer shutting up a cell. But her ears were keen and she knew the nuances of her brother's voice. She glowered over one shoulder at the company, and Malon ducked behin Eoin's legs, as she raked straw from her hair.
"Crack yaer teeth, sister?" There was feigned innocence in Eoin's tone. "Buit I haven't said a word!"
Moria snorted, as she pocketed the key and crossed over to the wagon. "Keep yaer secrets; I've neither the mind naer the patience tae hear them. Take the basket, and ye put it in a place where it won' bounce around. And where's that girl, then? Did she get her shoes?"
"I was just about to," Malon called. Moira peered around at her and her eyes widened with outraged disbelief.
"Malon! What have ye done with yaer hair? Makin' a fine mess of it, Din's soul; ye look like ye've been lightning struck—"
The excitement of the day had apparently inclined Moira to hysteria. She snatched—for the second time that day—at Malon, but Talon seized her before she could make contact.
"Moira, me love!" He steered her toward the front of the wagon. "The day is young. Save that energy faer the royal beddin', and yell then as loud as ye can!"
He laughed and pinched her thigh as he handed her up into the front seat. Moira turned several shades of purple.
"Beddin'?" Malon tilted her head. "What's the royal beddin'? Do the princess have different blankets fraem us, then?"
"Doan ye worry yaer head about such things as the royal beddin', lass," said Eoin, dryly. "But aye, I imagine the gentlefolk do sleep under blankets far finer 'n' ours. They bein' gentle, they have to. Come on then! Go and fetch yaer shoes." He handed her down.
Conor had materialized by the time Malon returned to the wagon. He was leaning against the wagon's side, arms folded and face turned up to smirk at Eoin; his dogs crowded about him, slapping his legs with their tails. Conor had rolled up the hems of his trousers, and the neck of his shirt was open nearly past decency. The sun did not appear to bother him. Indeed, Conor McKnall might himself have been a shaft of sunlight, filling a mortal body. There was sun in his hair, that turned each lock into smoldering gold. Malon froze, then turned hastily and went around to the other side of the wagon, where she climbed in. Blue Bess, Conor's greyhound, was already sitting on a pile of canvas beside Malon's spot; Malon clambered over her and nestled down in the hay.
"Hot in that?" she heard Conor say. She peeked back over her shoulder; he was still looking at Eoin.
"On a day like this there ain' nothin' faer anyone tae do but be hot in whatever they're wearin'," Eoin retorted. He carefully did not meet Conor's gaze.
Conor turned lazily about and settled against the wagon. He rolled back his head, regarded Eoin upside down. "On a day like this?" He breathed a laugh. "There's plenty faer a man to do, as knows how tae use his day right. And he first knows not to squander his day in clothes that don't suit him. Aye! He doan dress like the little princess and her Gerudo king'll be invitin' him tae join them on the dais when they say their vows. Perhaps ye'll be their priest in that, Eoin? Lead them in their swearin', and then bless 'em as they make their way off tae that fine royal bed tae have a night of it?"
Eoin flushed all the way down to the lace-lined collar of his new shirt.
Malon grimaced, full of sympathy if not particular understanding. Cook had wrangled her brother—along with Talon and Ingo—into shirts more splendidly ridiculous than any jester's: Terminian linen that was subtly dyed in Hylian colours—purple, orange, gold, and green, with a thread of chestnut brown to spell out blessings in Hylian calligraphy. Terminian lace frothed at the sleeves, collar, and shirtfront. Cook had excused the excess as necessity, in the light of the royal wedding. "We're none of us tae dress like wretches," she had sniffed, when Talon had remarked, on the day she had presented the shirts to him, Ingo, and Eoin, "'Tis a bit much faer outdoor wearin', Moira, hain't it?"
"It ain' faer outdoor wearin', sair," Cook had continued, with only a trace of deference to soften the indignity in her tone. "Leastways not the outdoor wearin' ye mean. 'Tis faer the weddin'. We mun show pride in our Hylian country, sair. We're proud Hylians and we'll dress like proud Hylians, Hylians who love their royal family, who'll support them in this hard and dangerous time, what with our princess being allied to a Gerudo."
"Moira! Ye sound as if we're tae be attendin' a funeral."
"Ye'll pardon me, sair, if I do say that our princess marryin' a Gerudo laird should be no cause faer undue cheer."
"Moira," Eoin had said, and grimaced at her over his shirt, "'tis a weddin' sanctioned by the good king hisself. I doan know what is sae hard and dangerous about it, that ye want us tae make such a fuss of our loyalty tae the Hylian state. No one'll be noticin' loyalty much anyhow. Everyone's there tae hauf a good time."
"And that is the trouble!" snapped Cook. "They hauf their good time at the expense of their country. Their dignity. The dignity of their king."
Talon had snorted, "Ah, Moira. Doan ye worry that fine head o' yours. The king could marry thirty daughters off tae thirty Gerudo barbarians and our Hylian dignity'd be still safe in yaer hands."
Talon now hauled himself up beside Cook; his own shirt was already darkening with sweat. He turned to grin down at the younger man. "Conor? Ye leave Eoin alone about his lace."
Conor snorted. "Talon. I mun ask him, ye see. That hain't just lace he's got on his throat, 'tis a princess's lace an' a fine froth of it too!"
Talon cast a secret glance in Cook's direction. But Cook did not appear to have heard.
"Well I'm wearin' princess's lace as well, lad," Talon said, plucking at the cuff of a sleeve, apology written on his face. "So leave the puir man be."
"What of yaer lace?" Conor arched an eyebrow. "It doan mean a thing on you, 'cept you need to be harder with that woman there."
"I'll thank ye not tae say a word about me sister," Eoin said, voice sharp.
Conor smirked. "I doan recall wantin' yaer thanks."
"Conor, Conor!" Talon had twisted as far as the bench allowed, and raised a hand. "Calm yaerself, lad, calm yaerself!"
"What's there tae calm?" Conor straightened; the humour had slid from his face, and left a look of irritation. "Doan get heroic with me, Talon; I'll say what I please."
Talon flinched back at the sharpness of Conor's tone. "Oh… well… I doan mean it hardly, lad. Jus' a little reminder; doan take it too hard or—"
"And neither do ye need tae start preachin' at me. Turn around."
Talon turned, still making little noises of protest.
"Is Ingo comin', then?" said Cook, turning back to glance at her brother. Her eyes slid sightlessly over Conor.
"I doan know where he's gotten off to," Eoin replied. There was a stiffness in his voice, and he too looked across Conor as if Conor was not there. But he could not manage it as well as Cook; his eyes paused for a moment, and he gave a little start, as if lightning had gone through him.
"Of course we'd be one man short and he'd be the man." Cook rose, and made to descend.
"He'll be along," Talon said, catching her by the elbow.
As if summoned, Ingo appeared from the direction of the bunkhouse, straightening the collar of his shirt, striding in boots that gleamed with a new polishing. A long-limbed boy followed after him, and watched the company with folded arms. Ingo gave his collar a final tug; his expression was little distant, a little troubled. But he summoned up a tight smile for the group, as he said, "We're all ready then?"
"Have been ready!" Talon said, a bit louder than necessary. "How's Liam doing?" Nodding at the boy, who nodded, tersely, back.
"Fine." Ingo clambered into the wagon. "He'll stay on 'til we get back. He knows his duty and the animals well enough."
"Ha!" Talon snorted. "That's why I hired him. Ye can ne'er go wrong with an Ordonian; I'd hire him regular if you didn't—well…" He snorted into his beard, but there was a distinct lack of humour in the sound.
"I'd've sooner stayed behind," said Ingo, quietly.
"It ain' a waste of rupees, hirin' a lad faer the day. He wants wages and we want a holiday. Why ye should want tae miss a holiday, I doan know." Talon caught up the reins and looked back over his shoulder. "Ready, all?" He glanced at Conor, and his voice faltered, almost shy. "Ye ridin' in back, Conor?"
Conor did not glance once at him. He vaulted into the wagon and sat across from Eoin with his legs thrown out before him. Eoin folded himself more tightly into his seat. Blue Bess slid to her feet, and went to sit beside her master. Talon snapped the reins and the wagon jolted forward. The Ordonian boy, Liam, watched them until he vanished from sight around a curve.
There was some uncomfortable quality to this starting out that dashed Malon's excitement for a moment, that made her glance warily about her, at the grim faces. Only Ingo did not seem unduly bothered by the atmosphere; he was deep in his own thoughts, frowning at his cuffs and collar, neither of which he could stop fiddling with. He caught her staring, and gave her a half smile that did not reach his solemn eyes, and she looked quickly over the side of the wagon. She did not much like looking at the steward's face, or returning his smiles. The strain always made her mouth hurt.
--
The kingdom of Hyrule was of two minds when it came to the marriage of the Princess Zelda. Its people expressed either dismay that Hylians and Gerudos should be so allied (for what ever would become of the royal line? What ever would Hyrule do with Gerudo children waiting for the crown?); or delight, born of minds too dull to consider the consequences of a Gerudo-Hylian alliance or too optimistic to consider the dangers. These two states of mind were further divided by "class", for there were no optimistic Hylians among the nobility and no pessimistic Hylians among the commoners. True, there were exceptions: among the nobility, the voice of the king's brother, the Duke Chester, was lifted in shrill support of Lord Ganondorf, and among commoners, the taverns were known to throw from their premises the occasional Poe-drunk Hylian, who moaned too loudly of "corruption" and "hellfire". But no one really counted the Duke as one of the Hylian nobility, for all the Harkinian blood in his veins: he was rarely at court, because he governed the wilds of Ordona, a small, backwoods province no decent Hylian knew existed. The accent that resulted from his residence discredited him. And as for the laments made in the haze of intoxication, those did not count either—everyone knew that Poes possessed those reckless enough to drink too many of them. They made the jolliest men wretched, and spoke through their victim after a certain point had been crossed. It was not the drunkard bemoaning "corruption" and "hellfire", it was a malicious Poe in him complaining before it was digested and forever silenced.
In a word, what was to be an insult to the aristocratic scrupulous of the Hylian populace had become a public festival to the common careless. Big events, whatever their cause, were a reason to celebrate. And even if Hylian festivals had not the renown and notoriety of other celebrations—such as those held in Termina at the blue moon; those were known for running out of control even before they had begun—they were certainly "occasions" in their own regard.
And from the Hylian Field, it was clear just how great this "occasion" was to be. The morning had only just dawned, and already the festival had outgrown both the day and the wedding.
They saw first the white streamers that decorated the walls of Market Town as if the Market were a bride. Pennants had been hung from the great, open mouth of the drawbridge, and they hung down so far that their ends vanished into the moat. Upon the field itself, stretched out half a mile from the drawbridge, were the tents: countless dots flung out along the plain, drawn in countless colours against the dust-dry rhythm of the grass that belled out with wind. A roar of sound echoed like the grumble of the ocean, the closer they drew. And like ghosts, the figures of people began to flicker in and out among the chaos and grow steadily more solid.
Malon's unhappiness melted from her at first sight of the pennants and streamers. She leapt to her feet—startling Blue Bess, who looked around at her—as the wagon jolted along the road, and screamed with delight as she nearly went flying.
"Sweet Din!" both Eoin and Cook bellowed. But Malon grabbed hold of her papa before she could tumble over the side, and she grinned so widely at Cook's rage that her dry underlip split a little.
"Oh look at all the tents, Cook!" she cried. "Look at everyone—there's so many people! Look!"
"We're lookin', lass, we're lookin'!" said Talon. He laughed and reached to pat the little arm slung across his shoulders. "But ye'll give Cook here the apoplexy if ye stand up! Get yaerself a better lookin' post, and brace yaerself!"
Eoin crawled obligingly to the front of the wagon to hold Malon about the waist, as she tripped to a spot between Cook and Talon and clung to their shoulders, staring before her.
The marvel swelling in her stomach was too wonderful to contain. "Just look at it!" she shouted. "D'ye see? There's a coach, an' it's got white horses! Wherever'd they get white horses, Papa, we doan hauf any—ooh, Papa, look! See that big orange tent? I saw someone come out as ain't Hylian! Ooooh, Papa! It's a Goron! Look, Papa, three of 'em! Gorons!"
She began to jump up and down as far as the wagon and Eoin's arms would allow, and Cook said loudly, "Ye'll break my shoulder, chit; stop bein' a crazy fool and sit down!"
But Malon could not sit down. Those were the massive, boulder-like figures of Gorons walking among the Hylian folk, and there were great blue tents that she felt sure were the tents of the fish-people in Lake Hylia, the Zoras. Princess Zelda was the princess of all of these people, Hylian and Goron and Zora alike, and they had all come to see her married, to show her their love. Malon's fluttering heart filled her chest and stomach, and she stretched to her tip-toes, aching to be free of the wagon, aching to run and dance and fly.
"What did ye say?" Eoin said loudly, in her ear. She looked around in sudden confusion; he was looking at Ingo.
"I said—" Ingo's voice was low and hoarse with diffidence, though he was obviously straining it. "I was sayin' tae the lass, it'll be a festival, hey?" He gestured at her, and looked into her face, and she could not look away fast enough. "They've the best ices here. Shaved, with berry syrup. I know a place; I—we can buy ye one—"
"Here?" Talon bellowed suddenly. "Shall we make camp here?"
They were drawing level with the crowd. They had passed through the ranks of the stragglers and entered into the rabble; people were skirting their wagon, children swinging around clutching sweetmeats, ices, toys that swung jerkily from strings. The pungency of cooking pork sweetened the air, and there were spices, breads. There were smells Malon could not name, could not place. She opened her mouth to breathe it all in.
"Back a bit," Cook shouted; she gestured behind them. "Not sae close in; we'll be trampled—"
"I say closer in!" Conor spoke suddenly, and his shadow loomed across them. Talon glanced up at him, his face crumpled with squinting; he said, "Closer—?"
"Everythin' worthwhile that's goin' on is closer in," Conor said.
"An' ye'll walk to it," Cook snapped. "Sair, ye mun pull the horses back. We canna be this far in." Conor looked at her, an eyebrow raised.
"Outskirts might be better," Talon called. He had thrown his concentration into pulling back the carthorses, in an attempt to turn them around. "A bit more breathin' room farther back."
"Aye," said Conor. "What the housemarm says goes. No need faer the word of the master when his housemarm can nag, eh?"
His sarcasm was lost to all but a few ears. Eoin had leapt down and had gone around to the horses; he was guiding them into the cleared patch of grass. Talon hands were full of reins. But beside Malon, Cook stiffened. A rush of anger broke through Malon's stomach like a flood; she did not understand why Conor could not be quiet and happy, why he must complain.
Between Eoin, Talon, and Ingo—who had descended and helped Eoin—the horses were turned around and guided to a comfortable campsite. The company alighted, picketed the horses, and unpacked the wagon. Blue Bess slid off into the crowd, after Conor, Malon supposed; she had lost sight of him, but se was not bothered, but rather relieved. Cook and Ingo began to set up camp. The tedium of the chore looked simply unspeakable, and Malon found that her feet had a will of their own. They drew her toward the edge of the campsite, toward the Market Town where it seemed the whole of Hyrule teemed, and her enchantment was such that even Cook's withering glares could not unsettle her.
"Ye stay here or ye'll be trampled!" Cook bawled out for the third or fourth time, grabbing Malon by the dress and hauling her back.
"Can't we go in? I doan want tae set up tents!"
"First things first. Fetch the blankets fraem the wagon and get 'em put in their tents; there's two faer ours and four faer the master's tent and Eoin?" She turned in search of her brother, and in that moment of distraction, Malon caught sight of her father's shoulders in their orange and purple linen, his broad back in overalls, sidling off into the crowd toward the Market. She gave a squeak of excitement. If Papa was not bothering with tents, then surely there was no reason for her to do so. She said, "Good-bye, Cook!" and dashed off after Talon before Cook could answer her disobedience with anything more than a, "Malon—!"
She caught up with her father in good time, and seized his hand, even as she shouted, "I'm coming too, wait for me, I'm coming too!"
"Malon!" Talon's voice was startled, the look he turned on her even more so. "Oh, lass, I didn't see ye there."
"Can't we wait faer Eoin?" She had thought that they would all go into the Market Town together, but since Cook was so intent upon tents, she supposed they must leave her behind—but surely Eoin would join them. She told her father as much.
Talon looked vaguely uncomfortable. "Was anyone else comin' with ye, then?"
Malon shrugged. "I doan think so. But can't we—"
"Talon?" A voice cut through the crowd from somewhere up ahead, and was followed, a moment later, by the figure of Conor. His eyes were narrowed, his mouth pinched up with exasperation. "What in hell are ye lingerin' all the way back here faer—" He reached out and clipped her father on the shoulder as if Talon were a lagging carthorse, and came too close to do so, so stiflingly close that Malon pulled back to avoid being stepped on. He noticed her then, and his face grew tight, his body stiff. Blue Bess came trailing up beside him, a whisper of blue movement.
"Perhaps—perhaps we'll go another time," said Talon. Malon could not tell if he directed his words at her or at Conor. He was staring at a distant spot of ground.
"Make him go away!" Malon pleaded, tugging on her father's hand. She did not think twice about Conor hearing her; suddenly, she did not care what she said or what he heard, if only he and his always stealing her Papa away would disappear, like skull children before the morning sun.
Talon's eyes flickered to her. He looked on the verge of speech—of apology. Malon's stomach sank.
"You brought the housemarm tae some purpose, didn't ye?" Conor's voice was thick with disgust. "The kid's her responsibility; why d'ye pay her?"
"Conor—"
"You leave Papa alone!" Malon tightened her grip on her father's hand. She had a sudden, terrible vision—Papa vanishing like a skull child at dawn if she did not hold his hand tightly enough, and Conor smiling his shuttered, golden smile as he followed her Papa down, down into the shadows beneath the earth where only monsters and the Hylians they stole could go.
Conor looked at her, and the look in his eyes was answer enough: cold as a night in winter, sharp a hunting knife newly honed.
"Talon?" A new voice, coming from behind. It was like water, after a long, terrible thirst, and Malon turned toward it, so grateful that she suddenly couldn't breathe. Had Eoin come? Cook? She welcome even Cook, only someone to save her and Papa from—
Ingo came striding from the tents, and Malon's heart faltered.
"We missed ye and the lass," Ingo continued. His eyes flicked between Malon, Talon, Conor. "The tents are all set up, and we're all ready tae go tae Market."
Talon coughed, too ostentatiously for the cough to be genuine. "I—I'd meant tae leave the lass with you. You and Cook and Eoin. Ye all take her around and—I would've joined ye all soon as I could, soon as I—" He glanced at Conor. Conor had gone very still.
"No," said Ingo. "No. Ye'll come along with us. Faer the lass." He smiled sideways at Malon. Her bewilderment was too great to allow her any expression in return.
"The hell—ye doan order him around like he's yaer boy tae do so!" Conor snapped. "Talon—"
"Conor," said Ingo, in a voice almost too quiet to hear above the crowd—but they all heard it, anyway. "He isn't yaer boy tae tempt around, either."
Talon's hand grew loose in Malon's, like a blanket limp with heat and humidity. She looked up at him, a little frightened, utterly lost. Her father's face was gray, his lips sagging, as if he had been just hit around the face, and hung between the shock of it, and recovery.
Conor spat in Ingo's face, but the steward had anticipated him. The spittle splattered across Ingo's shirt.
"Well, then." Conor turned his simmering ferocity on Talon. "Whose boy are ye tae be, then?"
Talon did not answer, or even blink, as if he were a sculpture, and no life had ever animated the gray mask of his face. Malon felt sick.
"Go away!" she shouted. "Go away!"
A spasm rippled through Conor's hand; he half raised it. She cringed back, and heard Ingo's voice from somewhere distant, "Touch her an' I'll break yaer arm, Conor McKnall."
Conor spat again and caught Malon in the face. She choked with shock and dragged her sleeve over the trail sliding toward her mouth. She heard Ingo move, saw Conor move, and then the tears in her eyes made everything blurry. Something blue slipped away into the crowd; a piece of her mind thought, Bess! and it was with an keen unhappiness that Malon watched the dog melt away after him—Conor—hideous beauty made mortal, made of sunshine.
Eoin and Cook found her sobbing a little while later, still clinging to her father's slack hand, as the crowd swirled and danced around them in the white sunlight, like a bride on her wedding day.
Author's Note: Like OMG, like update, like woah. This surpasses my own expectations for myself, but hey, new year and new resolutions and all that jazz. I've sworn to finish this story come hell or high water.
This chapter had reached 21 pages before I realized that it might be wiser to stop writing, and start making sense of what I had, xD This was supposed to be the first of two chapters that would concluded Part I, but it is now the first of four: extended with the hope that I would neither overwhelm myself nor readers with updates that run on for thirty pages.
I'm hoping to have another update before school begins later this month. Until then, I will be editing the first six chapters of this fic—as after a solid, two year hiatus, I've read back through themand realized that my writing style and my idea for this story have both seen dramatic changes since 2006. I'll post updates on this site, but plan first to post them on my deviantArt page which, if you are so inclined, you can find a link to in my profile. I'm also hoping to create an audio version of Moonstruck in the future. That will be fun, :]
Anyway, tl;dr version of the above: yay, dead story lives, thank you lots and lots for reading, and if you can, leave a review. =D
Selah
