Chapter XIV: Sundays

It was a seldom occasion when I relaxed in the recent days. Many nights I found it difficult to discern whether it was my nightmares or my unborn child's wriggling that awoke me. Surely, both events were my cause anyway. This past night was a similar situation where I got up, left the hut (with a note for both Samson and his father just in case), and made my way to the Library of Records where I read and wrote. It calmed me somewhat to be tensed in reading the long and short histories that did or did not afflict me. It must have been after the morning's first hour when I began dozing off. I awoke to a voice, a dark, sinister voice whose origin, I am sure, we can all guess.

"Your world is coming to an end, and yet you still hide from me…. Where are you?"

I sat up with a gasp, waking any slight drowsiness I had before. I looked around the room, looking for the man I dreaded and a place to hide from him.

I saw no one.

I listened for the voice to return, but it did not. The pained squeal of a mouse was heard outside, and the crickets seemed to almost roar. But the cruel, sinister voice that meant so much death and so much destruction had faded into nothing, like the stars under the rising sun. There was a slight movement in my belly that brought my mind back to some slight form of calm.

I decided to return to my husband and child, even though I had only been there for an hour or two at the most. Night seemed to crawl and day seemed to hardly exist. Years have passed without the King's knowledge of my location, but I had remained tense in any case. Ever since the day the dome over the church appeared, I vowed that I would never underestimate him or his abilities to snuff out and destroy his enemies ever again.

Morning come with a single person bursting through the doorway. "It's Sunday!" She shouted in utter excitement.

I cracked open an eye and forced myself to stand up and find the owner of the voice. I found myself in the Kitchen, staring at Chelsea and Samson, who were rummaging through my food.

"So, is 'Sunday' the day everyone steals food from Sam?" I asked, leaning on a wall of the archway that was the Kitchen entrance.

Both my best friend and my son stopped what they were doing and turned to look at me. "Mummy! It's Sunday!" Samson cheered.

I gave a raised-eyebrow-face to Chelsea, hoping that she may be able to clear some confusion. She smiled her Chelsea smile. "Sunday's the day we make ice cream, remember?"

Oh, that would explain the numerous bottles of vanilla, maple syrup, and caramel and the large amount of sugar and salt. Everyone loved Sunday—even some of the people in town. Everyone came to help (though not much was needed) and everyone shared supplies. Some farms nearby brought their cows to be milked and others brought pound after pound of sugar. It's like a weekly festival enjoyed by all. Even my child yet to be born was as excited as Samson.

"Why are Chelsea and Samson raiding our kitchen?" Jake asked as he made his way out to the bedroom. He placed an arm around my shoulders.

"It's Sunday," I said as if it was self-explanatory.

He looked down at me with a raised eyebrow. "The day of the sun?"

I looked up to meet his gaze of confusion. "'Sunday's the day we make ice cream, remember?"

He rolled his eyes and sighed. "Right." He looked at Chelsea, "I'll go set up the picnic tables."

"I'll get the table cloths and other such adornments," I said, turning around toward the closet in the hall. There, I picked out some appropriate decorations, like a "Welcome!" banner and a wooden fence surrounded the front of the farm that was not engulfed in woods. I placed the ice cream-shaped sign in front of one of the poles. When I returned, Jake had set up the three picnic tables we owned and I placed the tablecloths on them, holding them down with a few small rocks at the two-foot intervals.

Sundays always seemed like short days with many events crammed into one. The families in the nearby villages would arrive before 11:00 A.M., by which time the ice cream-making began, and people began to roam the farm. Chelsea held pony rides for the small children, and Samson played with the children from town. I hardly had a moment to myself; when I wasn't with my husband or son, I was speaking with the other families that arrived. One such time:

"Samantha Gifford,— " that was the name I adopted at marriage— "how are you?"

It was one of the first people we had met upon setting foot on Icelandic soil, Rakel Héðinsdóttir, or Rachael for the untrained tongue, such as mine was. I turned to her with a smile and opened my arms wide in an invitational embrace, which she readily but carefully took. "I am well! How are you?"

"Another day in a world of war, and another day living by the seas. Besides that, I'm doing well." Her brown, curly hair shined in the sun and her green eyes glittered with enthusiasm. She looked down. "How's your little one doing?"

I smiled a half-smile and said, "Samson's growing to be a big, strong boy—smart, too. He can swim, climb trees, and he's even learning how to—"

"No! Not that little one," she interrupted with a laugh, "though he is getting big and brilliant for his age…. I meant the other little one." Her voice was delicate when speaking of my children; she was a friend to the family and has always been especially close to Samson, and hopefully the newborn when he or she came.

I smiled back. "Healthy, though sometimes fitful. It seems to really react to my feelings, even before I do sometimes."

She began whispering to me with a hint of surprise, "You mean you don't know if it's a boy or girl yet? You're six months in!"

"I will know when he or she comes. I don't really want to be told by anyone except him or her." I answered.

She shook her head in dismissal. "Whatever you say, you crazy naturopathic girl."

Jake suddenly came over and put an arm around my waist. "Hey, that's my crazy naturopathic girl you're talking to." His attention went down to me. "Have you had any ice cream yet?"

I shook my head. "I'm waiting for everyone else to get their share first."

"Sam, that's ridiculous." Rachael said.

"Go get some, before Samson eats it all." Jake told me.

I sighed a little before obeying my husband's command. I'm sure my unborn baby was thanking him dearly; she was squirming and fidgeting around like nobody's business. I walked up to the ice cream cooler, where Nick was serving ice cream.

" 'Ello!" he called, waving his hand. His face was big with a smile. He held up his ice cream scoop, asking, "Want some?"

"Yeah, I'll have a couple scoops, even if it's just for…" I put a hand on my belly as a gesture, "…well, their sake."

(A/N: We got into a short argument about how "their" is, in this ease grammatically incorrect, which is true. My rebuttal was that people don't always speak properly and it made sense in the context I was using it. He dropped it, which is good because moodiness was not uncommon for me.)

"What flavor sparks your interest?"

"Vanilla, please."

He looked down into the vats of ice cream. "Vanilla extract or bean?"

"Vanilla Bean, please."

He swiftly scooped it out and gave me a spoon. "I hope you enjoy it!"

I nodded giving my thanks before making my way into the "toppings table," where I planned to top my ice cream with caramel. I had been staring t my ice cream when I bumped into a less-than welcome character. He was tall with brown hair growing down to his chin and blue eyes that glowed with a piercing quality. His cheekbones were high and defined, matching his otherwise sharp features. His lips were pale and thin, which mirrored perfectly his face. He was scrawny, but not unhealthy; he was actually quite strong; my husband worked very often with him, chopping and stacking wood for less than fortunate people, blacksmithing "S" hooks and other simple devise. My husband and he tended to get along extremely well, and Samson even considered him family. I, on the other hand, could not seem to get along with him, no matter what I did. My husband knew nothing of this; I have no intent of splitting up two good friends because of my state of mind.

Why did I not get along with this man?

Simple: he does not believe a word of my past; "Brainwashed? Who could do this to a whole nation—and even if he could, how did you get back to normal?" These are his precise words, but for him to disbelieve so obviously an event I personally experienced was disheartening, especially when it was such a painful experience.

Beyond this, he even believed that Ganondorf had the potential to unite the world under one rule and improve the entirety of it. He thought Ganondorf had some potential good. Try as I might to see from his perspective, I was always at an aggravated loss. I don't trust people who have trust in people I fear as much as Ganondorf. However, my husband has no reason to fear or dislike him—and I plan not to give him one.

This man's name was Dagur Skarsten, a man I called Dag for short. When he saw who had run into him, he raised his eyebrow at me, which I tried to shake off and continue on my merry way. Instead, he grabbed a hold of my arm and stopped me in my tracks. "What, no apology?" He asked with a smirk.

"I know; how rude of you." I answered, ripping my arm from his grip. I continued to the table and finished serving myself.

"Are you really going to act like this?" He asked.

"Out of earshot of my husband and son, yes." I walked to a nearby picnic table and sat down. I took a bite of ice cream and realized that Dag had followed me. "Why are you speaking with me?"

He snorted in response. "Actually, you're speaking with me." He sat across from me and leaned forward on his elbows.

"Fine; why are you sitting with me?" I continued, putting my spoon back down.

"I have a few questions for you." It was a matter-of-fact answer, as if it was obvious.

This time I leaned forward on my elbows. "Ah, so now you're talking."

He ignored this. "How's little anonymous in there doing?" He asked this with genuine care; though he and I didn't get along, he get along with everyone else in my family; Samson called him Uncle Dag, and Dag hoped very much to meet my unborn child when he or she is born.

I looked down out of a silly habit. "Oh, uh, well. It's doing well."

"'It?' How very insensitive of you; what is 'it?'" he asked.

"I don't know," I answered honestly, taking a spoonful of ice cream and bringing it to my mouth.

He looked down at his clasped hands and sighed. "You're not going to pull the same thing you—"

"Yep. I am."

He, too, was referring to the fact that I wanted it to be a surprise; I did the same thing with Samson. "Do you have any names? Male or Female?"

"Liam, Alaistair, or Solomon if it's a boy, and Erin, Everild, or Rebecca if it's a girl," I stated.

He sat up, suddenly pensive. After a moment, he said, "I like the boy's names—no doubt all choices of your husband—" I growled at his meaning— "but the girl's names… Lily."

I raised an eyebrow. "Lily?"

His pensive expression melted away immediately. "Yes, Lily, Why not?"

I laughed at his defensive remark. "Lily is to Rose is to Violet is to Lilac; it's a cliché flower name; there is absolutely on imagination used in its making! I exclaimed.

"Psh, says 'Samantha Jackson;'" he started. "Your name is as English as it gets!"

I ignored the comment; both of us tended to do that. I took another bite of ice cream, as silence settled.

Finally, Dag broke the silence again. "I heard that Samson got an extraordinary gift for his father."

"Indeed, he did," I continued to eat.

"It was a dagger," he said resolutely.

"Indeed, it was."

"You would put a dagger into your two-year old son's hands?" He was suddenly angry.

I remained calm. "I didn't put a dagger into his hand. Mr. Péturrson gave it to him." He was about to argue again when I jumped in and said, "Besides, my husband puts weapons in his hands all the time—and encourages usage."

He stood up, sounding disgusted at me. "You're hopeless. I'm finished talking to you." He walked off, presumably to find my husband or son and speak with them. I wasn't worried; our discussions were never made clear to anyone else, and both of us honored that action. I finished my ice cream and returned to my hut to wash some of the dishes to be reused. I stared out the open window at the commotion and excitement outside. My husband was speaking with Mr. Pétursson and Dag, Chelsea was helping Samson ride one for her cows, and Nick was eagerly talking with a few of the townspeople. I sighed, remembering the painful memories; it is strange how time can utterly alter the life of a human being. I was happy—or as happy as I could be under all circumstances.

Suddenly, screams and cries seemed to come from nowhere. My head shot up to look back outside.

Everything was as it was; nothing was wrong. Yet, I still heard the screams. There were crackling sounds, like fire, and the fires of guns echoed through my head. No one seemed to hear this besides me. I shut off the water and stumbled from the room.

"Mama! Mama!"

It was the cry of a child. I looked up to the window again. "Samson?" I began to walk towards it again, but stopped short as a dark scene flickered in my mind. Desperate faces cried tears of fear, desperate voices desperate cries. Fire burned, guns fired, everyone ran unless they were utterly unable to, and children stood in the midst of war.

There was a single cry I heard among the rest; it was a woman's. She screamed, and almost an instant after, the boy was shot in the neck.

The scene disappeared and I was sitting with my back against one of the archways to the kitchen. The screams and sounds wouldn't disappear; the mother was yelling at something or someone. I covered my ears, but the voices only grew louder.

I shivered and felt slight movement in my belly. I tried to utter the word 'no,' but I couldn't hear myself over the screams. "Stop it!" I tried, raising my volume slightly. "Jake!" Finally, I heard a slight whisper that was my voice. "Jake!"

A scene flashed again, and this time, it seemed like a memory; women of all different ages were lined up and shackled in the rubble with flames being the only thing to light the scene. Beasts, men, and Gerudo (for only the Gerudo women fought, it seemed) alike stood militarily sound, watching the frightened women. Again, no men seemed to be shackled—most even looked to be dead!

Suddenly, the cries and sobs stopped. All was silent, and the men all saluted in their own way; some with a hand to their forehead, others with their hands to their hearts, and there were even some hands pointed up in the air. The wind and fire was all that was heard for what seemed like hours. Then, to break the silence, there was the flap of clothing and the heavy sound of metal footsteps. Out of the darkness, a man emerged.

It was he; the King of Gerudo; the usurping president; the King of Evil; Ganondorf Dragmire. He walked along the row of people, looking down into their eyes and expressions, hands firmly held behind his back. His expression was not one of excitement, or anger, or happiness, or sadness. It was monotonous; how else would one describe a feature of this face? He was searching, perhaps pensive and lost in his own memory. Finally, he stood before a black haired woman, mid-twenties at the oldest.

"Stand," commanded he the girl.

She looked up and shivered at his stare.

"Come. Don't dawdle."

She looked to her left and right, finally deciding to do what was told of her. She stood, her eyes fixed on the ground.

"Look at me when I speak to you." His voice was not yet angry.

She hesitantly looked up a little, resting her eyes on his. But it didn't last long; her gaze fell to his chest.

Ganondorf lost his patience and grabbed her chin and lifter her face so he could easily see her eyes. His hands were bloody—absolutely coated in blood. I could not imagine there being only a single layer of blood on his hands He simply stared at her for a couple seconds, then asked, "We're not going to cause any trouble, are we?"

She tried shaking her head, but when she found that useless, she answered with a stuttered "No."

He dropped her chin, uttering, "Good," before continuing down the line. He approached me—or at least my vision. I heard him speak, but he did not move his mouth. 'How interesting; a black haired girl here that is a precise twin to she from New Hampshire. It's a shame, really, that there won't be any ruckus this time around….'

"Sam!"

"I am now your king!"

"Sam!"

"Whatever I command of you will be fulfilled."

"We would rather die!" one woman said in defiance.

"Sam!"

"Death is not a primary option, my dear," the king said, shaking his head. "I have worse fates for those who oppose me."

"Sam! Wake up!"

Everything disappeared. I fell into nothingness and slight unconsciousness.