weeeeeeee chappie 25

raaave

Chapter Twenty-Five

Child of Her Sisters

Sheik had always hated the dungeons. They held within their walls a certain darkness—even darker than that thing that had long ago replaced his soul. The screams and the moans and the grimy old bricks sent shivers down his spine, as accustomed as he was to those same emotions. As accustomed as he was to feeling such disturbia within himself. But Sheik, in his cape and his hood and the orders of his queen ringing in his ears, had to go down there yet again. He had to follow the orders of Zelda on the pain of death. Or worse, the pain of acknowledging disloyalty to that which he had sworn to defend and protect and obey. He smirked to himself at that thought. So very ironic, the progression of events, it seemed. He walked very close to the walls, a habit that he had developed over the past twelve years. When he was alone, he walked where there was the most darkness. It only felt natural that way. And he tried very hard not to think about his destination.

Every bad thing I have ever done in my life is coming back to haunt me in this very moment, I'd say.

But he continued walking, as if there were strings wrapped around his ankles and pulling him. One step, and then another. One step, and then another. Down these dungeon halls that he somehow knew so well, so well that it frightened even him. He had learned to block out all the sounds of the dungeon and just walk, keep moving. Weaving his way among the shadows, blending in so well that the Iron Warriors on patrol did not notice him at all. As if he were a shadow himself. The closer Sheik became to his destination, the more his stomach turned. There were not many things that could make Sheik's stomach do that. This was one of those few things—and the way Karis had kissed him was one of those few things, too.

Shouldn't get used to that, huh?

It was painful and blissful at the same time when he remembered that moment. When, for a short period of time, Sheik had been truly connected to someone. Connected in mind, in body, in soul. He hadn't felt that way in so long. But he pushed the memory from his mind as best he could, because it wasn't going to do him any good. Not in this situation, not in any situation. Although he wasn't very keen on thinking about his current situation, either.

Suddenly he was there, standing in front of the cell he had seen in his nightmares before. He did not turn to face it, but stopped, facing forward. He could feel a burning gaze upon him from within, could see a red glare from the corner of his eyes. He closed them for a few moments, trying so hard to get rid of the chills on his skin. Took a deep breath, prepared to meet that red glare head on.

Do it. Do it now. Do it. Do it now.

He opened his eyes and turned his head.

There was a face right there behind the bars, staring up at him unflinchingly, so terrifying and hellish that Sheik was afraid that his heart would just stop. There was no evil in those eyes, no malice—that wasn't why he felt fear at his very core when he saw that face. It was because he saw suffering and wisdom and more tragedy than he had ever seen before (and he had seen his fair share of tragedy in his 20 years of life).

Her eyes were even redder than his. Bloodshot, veiny and monstrous and so awfully sad. Standing out like wounds against gray skin—gray skin?—fitting like rubber atop bones both strong and fragile. She did not blink, did not turn away, did not even move. She could have been a painting on a wall, staring straight into his soul. Sheik had to stop himself from flinching, from turning away at the sight of her. At the sight of that red glow amidst all this darkness around and inside him. He could hear his breathing becoming heavier while he stared down at her. At this woman left to rot in this cell.

The worst thing of all was the paint. In the very center of her forehead, the Sheikah eye was tattooed in flawless, ancient white ink. The tattoo surrounding Sheik's own eye imitated it perfectly. And above her left eye were three dashes and dropping down to the center of her cheek was, just like Sheik's, a thick rounded line like a teardrop. But instead of red, hers was white. And instead of her right eye, like Sheik's, it was beneath her left eye. As if, in a twisted and distorted way, his face were a reflection of hers. Younger and more stained, but a reflection. Her thick, cracked lips were in a hard straight line. Even in the darkness, Sheik could see the color of her hair. White, like snow.

No. Whiter than snow.

It was braided and wrapped intricately like a crown around her head, tucked away except for a thick strand that fell down so long on her right side that it brushed the floor. But it was unkempt, tangled with strands escaping from their place. It only seemed natural that she be unkempt, after all.

The sight of her like this made Sheik wish, for a single moment, that he were dead.

"It is our time now, Sheikah child," she finally said. Her voice sliced through the silence like a knife, low, smooth, deep. Heavily accented—an accent that, of course, Sheik recognized as if it were his own.

After all, this woman was a Sheikah. Just as he was. And yet he could not respond to her, even when he opened his trembling lips.

"We have a mission, do we not?" she continued. Her smirk was terrifying and, somehow, soothing at the same time. "Our time has come. Our time has come to retrieve what was lost seven years ago."

Sheik could not take much more. How he was to survive a journey with her, hearing in reality a voice that had haunted his nightmares for seven years, he had no idea.

"Open my cell, child. Do not be afraid."

As if she had cast a spell on him with that hypnotizing voice, Sheik obeyed. He responded. He told himself to not be afraid, and he opened the cell with a key that he had been keeping in his cloak for seven years. The door seemed to be crying out when it opened, echoing throughout the universe. Inside the cell, he saw the woman stand up. He took a step back, and she walked out through the open door of the cell.

She was even more graceful, even more regal than the queen herself. She walked with her shoulders back, her chin tilted slightly upward, her muscles rippling. Even though she must have been at least 45 years old. Like Sheik, she wore traditional Sheikah clothing—though hers were much older and much more tarnished. He wondered if she had been wearing those same clothes for the past seven years of her imprisonment. Navy blue, a red halter collar and belt, yellow embroidery of Sheikah patterns. Images that brought back beautiful memories of Sheik's distant (was it really?) childhood. It fell down as a dress to her ankles, with slits cut up to her waist on the sides. It was a truly beautiful garment, even after the beatings it had received. And she wore it exquisitely, as much as she looked like she had suffered.

Sheik thought that when she stepped up to him, he would cringe away. But he stood his ground through some power over which he had no control. His very bones quivered, but he did not move. Her lips were still perfectly straight, and she was still staring into his eyes. Now that she was standing, she was even taller than he was. At least by a few inches. She did not say anything, but stood right in front of him. Without a word, she lifted her hands.

The feeling of her palms on his cheeks was unbelievably cold—like ice being pressed against his burning skin. So cold that his heart stopped. He breathed in sharply. Her expression did not change. After a few moments, her right thumb began to stroke his cheek, and then her fingers outlined the red markings around his eye. Sheik did not even blink.

"Sheikah in blood and in body," she whispered. And then, slowly, she began to shake her head. And her voice dropped even lower. "But not in soul."

Sheik was nearly hyperventilating now. He could not understand what she was saying, could not understand the chilling look in her eyes or the iciness of her gray, seemingly lifeless skin. He wanted to turn around and leave and never come back...

And yet I want to stay and feel her presence here forever.

"But a soul can grow," she continued. "And a soul shall grow. Do you know my name, child?"

"Of course," he tried to say, but his voice was so low and cracked that he could hardly get out those two words.

"Say it."

He paused.

"Say it, child."

"Impa."

"Do you know who I am?"

He paused. Then, "No."

Suddenly, there was a smile on her lips. So small he might not have caught it.

"No," she repeated. "No, but I know very well who you are, child."

That makes one of us.

"Sheik, child of my sisters, survivor of my people," she said eerily. "Queen Zelda's Shadow."

At that title being uttered so disdainfully from her lips, he finally did cringe. She pressed her hands more tightly to his cheeks, narrowed her eyes until her gaze was as intense as fire upon him. And in that gaze he saw his entire ancestry, his lineage, the history of his people trembling and fainting and crumbling. She was a survivor, like him. And in her suffering he saw all of the things he had never done in the name of his people. But she stared at him unblinkingly, as if attempting to remind him. He was chilled to the bone, had to clench his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering like a child's. And there was so much darkness around, as if any semblance of light and warmth had disappeared. Had all been absorbed by Impa's familiar, strange, calming, terrifying...Sheikah eyes.

"Do not fear," she smiled. "I am one to trust, Shadow Child. Perhaps the only one to trust."

"How do I know?" he asked. She tilted her head just slightly.

"Child, you truly understand nothing. Even now." Sheik pulled his face from her grasp and turned away. He didn't want to look at her anymore. He didn't want to be reminded that somewhere in the lines of his history, he had betrayed himself. A sickening thought, hard to tolerate for even a moment. "You have grown in body, yes. You are strong now—stronger than before. But you still have much to learn."

I can't do this...

"We have time, child. We have time. Now let us go."

"Where?"

"To Kakariko."

If there was one place Sheik did not want to go, it was Kakariko.

"Why Kakariko?" he persisted. Impa had already turned away and was walking toward the dungeon entrance.

"There are things in Kakariko we will need for this journey. Kakariko shall be our first stop."

By the time Sheik found the willpower to follow her, she had almost disappeared. Walking, floating like a ghost through those halls—halls that, surely, she would haunt forever.

Impa, he thought. Nice to see you again...the queen sends her love.