Chapter XXXVI: Fisherman's Kin
Hours went by like a slow trickle, and gathered the momentum of a deluge as exhaustion and malnourishment did their work on her faculties. She slept only a little at first, and then more and more as time went by. Three days? Maybe four. It was hard to tell, though she hadn't bothered to keep track and didn't much care to now. She wondered if it was the sleeping that had spared her from death, thus far… like some kind of hibernation. But then, that was probably wrong. Sleep was merely death's concubine, a tempting trap for the starving or injured… and death always came to collect, in the end.
Now she knew she must be delirious— she only waxed poetry when she was drunk or crazed. In the past she'd have laughed at herself, in some sort of detached and sadistic commentary on her plight. But too much had changed, now… she'd changed too much, to regard her position so coldly. A girl abandoned to the rabid wolves of fate, forced to bare her fangs at the dregs of humanity in order to survive. The sanguine eyes of innocence exchanged for the unfeeling and rage-colored sight of a murderer and a thief. And yet somehow she'd been caught up in something, a… a turning of the page. A change in the seasons, both for the world around her as well as for the person she would be.
At it's start she'd played her part the only way she knew how. It hadn't been some noble quest for her but merely a journey bitterly joined, a prison march into which she'd been forced. She'd felt robbed of choice, of control, and even of limb— echoes of circumstance that seemed to reverberate across the years of her life. Only vengeance kept her going, vengeance inspired by grief. Grief for her brother, only in part. As great as it was, her anger was at something much broader than one loss. She still couldn't decide what it was, but the pessimism with which she was forcing herself to observe it all allowed her to continue to ignore the mystery.
Even so, things had changed. She'd changed. She'd discovered things in herself she'd not know she was capable of. A desire for justice; peaceful and pure-hearted joy; courage without pride; honest vulnerability; sincere gratitude; a thirst for genuine friendship; heartfelt affection…
She wasn't who she'd used to be. That much was clear. But she'd come to a precipice to which she just… just couldn't surrender herself. The very realities that had shaped the person she was, they'd… they'd have to be undone. And that, that wasn't how life worked. Even as a child she'd known that, standing at the graves of her murdered parents. So this, she decided, must be it. This had to be the end of the line, because she lacked the strength to take one more step down the path before her.
"Ain't like ye, to be so inter'spective," a voice noted with gruff humor. A man, coming down the narrow, stone gangway to stand before her. His voice gave him away as a southerner, and a man of the Isles at that. Perhaps in his late thirties, sandy-haired and clad in a seaman's leathers— a fisherman, to be sure. But any one of those things would have given him away for who he was, immediately. Their particularities… they only ever belonged to one man, even if she'd only known them in stories.
His expression was one of curiosity. "Ye don't seem too soo-prized t'see me," he noted.
She guffawed. "Fella, I'm goin' bonkers from starvation and lack o' sleep— I ain't gon' be too soo-prized if one o' these rocks stand up an' ask me to marry it. 'Sides," she added, "ain't no way ye can be anythin' but a delusion, anyhow."
"Why's 'at?" he asked, displeased to hear it.
"'Cuz ye can't be here!" she retorted.
"Who says?" he challenged, indignantly planting his fists on his hips.
She groaned. "Whatever. I ain't gonna argue with a figment o' my imagination."
He grinned, crossing his arms. "Well, that's fine. I didn't come to argue with a snippy little girl."
She'd have bit back, but what was the point? She'd probably pass out again soon. So, she merely rolled her eyes. "Whaddaya want, then?"
"Well, I came t'help," he answered. He hiked his thumb over his shoulder, "She was askin' fer help, fer you… so, they sent me."
Aryll glowered at the mention of Zelda, and the recollection of their conversation. "I don't need help," she returned.
"No, ye don't want help," he corrected with another smart grin. "Ye definitely need help."
"It's the same thing!" she chewed.
"It ain't," he countered, immune to her ire. "An' if ye don't do somethin', yer gonna die here."
"Fine by me!" she roared.
He knelt before her and stared deeply into her eyes, all that humor gone. "Is it really?" he asked. "'Cuz ye seem pretty torn up about it."
She did her best to maintain her angry exterior, but it cut her a little to be read so easily. No. It wasn't what she wanted. It was actually the exact opposite of what she wanted. But what she wanted lay at the end of a road she couldn't travel anymore… because, to do so, would require her to be something she knew she could never be. "What do ye want from me?" she asked, her brow creasing in frustration.
He fell back onto his backside, sitting before her as she huddled close to the cavern wall. "I jus' want ye to listen," he said, chucking a small rock toward the caved in passage to their left. "After that, ye can do what ye want, an' ye never have t'see me again."
"Listen t'what?" she asked.
"A story," he told her, solemn. "'Bout another man from the south."
"Whatever," she acquiesced. "Get on with it, then."
He nodded. "Son of a 'privateer', 'e was," he began, using one of the sly, old-fashioned terms for pirate. "Born outta the same kinda hell you was. Saw 'is own parents slaughtered, lived as a crook hatin' crookery. Was forced outta the only life 'e knew, into one o' military service. Took to it with zeal."
"Why?" Aryll asked, indifferent.
"'Cuz he saw how meaningless it all was, girl," the man said. "Men o' the south, they be poor men— most is lucky to get by with an honest life. It be the thieves an' the killers what got any real chance in the world. But their souls, they get corrupted by it all, so's they can never really be satisfied with what they got. So when 'e swapped out the cutlass for the sabre?" he observed. "Saw it as a chance to change things, 'e did."
"Did 'e?" she asked, still mostly disinterested.
"Aye," the man said. "For many, 'imself included. He got power among the southerners, an' the upright men o' the sea united under 'is banner. For a few decades, things was safer there then ever they been. Even got 'imself a wife," he added. "'Ad themselves a boy o' their own."
Something in his eyes told her this was more than just a story to him. "Who was this man?"
"My Pa," he told her. "This is the story of what happened to my Pa, an'… an' what will happen to 'im." His voice strained a little with emotion, and she felt her own chest tighten as she connected his story with her own memory.
"What make ye think I wanna hear any o' this?" she growled, gritting her teeth.
And to her surprise, he struck her across the face with the back of his hand. "I ain't tellin' ye this story to amuse ye!" he roared. The fury in his eyes startled her, and she could only clutch at her cheek mutely as he chastened her. "I'm tellin' ye 'cuz ye were born to change things! Yer at a crossroads— one much like my Pa was at— an' if yer gonna keep on goin' as ye are? As he did? If yer gonna damn the world along with yerself? Then by the Light yer gonna know the truth afore ye die here— afore ye perish in a cave like some kinda wretch."
He was silent for several moments as she stared into his eyes. And before she could stop herself, the first thought that came to mind just fell out of her face. "I don't think ye ever hit me once in yer life… an' yer gonna do it now that yer dead?"
He sighed, scratching at the back of his unkempt head. "I'm sorry fer that," he said. "But I ain't here on my own account. Ye had it comin'," he assured her, not to be questioned. "But I don't like havin' t'be grouchy with ye."
She couldn't help but smile, seeing a glimmer of humor in the moment. "Well, ye ain't much like yer Pa, then."
He chuckled at that, helpless. Then something behind him got his attention, and he turned his head back toward the grimly luminescent temple. What he might be hearing or seeing, she didn't know. Then he turned back. "Sorry, but… I gotta get on with it." She frowned… but nodded. "Pa got to a place in 'is life 'e never thought possible," he told her. "An' I grew up, got a wife o' my own, 'ad a couple sprats… 'is family was the pride o' 'is life. The symbol of a truth by which 'e lived."
"What's that?" she asked.
"That things'r hard," he said, "but they don't gotta be terrible. That things can get better. That people get better. But then…"
"What?" she prodded. "Then what?"
"Well, it's like ye said," he confessed. "Me, an' the wife… we was out fishin' an'…" he let the thought hang. She knew. She remembered. Well, she didn't remember. She'd been barely over three. But she knew. "Seems it destroyed Ma," he commented. "I doubt she's smiled a day since. An' Pa? When the first shocks o' grief passed… somethin' snapped inside 'im. An' outta 'is brokenness, 'e made some choices that started 'im down a road he can never come back from."
"Is that when 'e…?" she wondered.
He nodded. "Aye. That was when 'e became the man y'know today. 'E decided that the truth by which 'e'd lived, was a lie… that the world is just an echo o' the hell he thinks is waitin' fer us beyond the grave. That people don't get better…" He shook his head. "It's a funny thing, that."
"Why?" she asked, a little disturbed to hear it.
"'Cuz he hates the idea," he told her, frustrated. "The very idea 'e's embraced as reality, makes 'im sick to 'is guts. An' now 'e lives only to destroy anything and anyone what reminds 'im."
Aryll sat back, feeling like she'd been given an understanding she'd lacked for years, but one that had been calling out to her just as long… "So… why doesn't 'e jus'… stop? It ain't… it ain't gonna change what happened. Why doesn't 'e jus'…"
The fisherman smiled sadly. "Jus' move on?" he finished for her. She squirmed a little, beginning to see where this story would connect with her own. "He could… but with the way 'e looks at the world? At 'imself? 'E won't."
She nodded, knowing he was right. He'd gained so much… lost so much. But everything he'd had, he'd gained because he lived according to an idea, a hope. And everything he had now… or, really, everything he lacked now, it was the result of a life lived according to a different idea. And when she put the two of them next to each other… it was clear, which was the better of the two. The first— though not perfect, not entirely immune to the hardships of life— promised a hope for life. But the second? It's only promise was grief, and destruction.
And then a question was there, at the tip of her tongue. Nearly everything in her screamed to silence it, because it was stupid… wasn't it? To ask such a question, was to open the door to every ugly thing in the world… to render one's self vulnerable to all of it. But something beyond her bid her ask… it was time to ask. "Which… which is true?" she asked.
"Which… which what?" he inquired.
"Which… which truth. Which truth is real, and which one is…?" she trailed off.
He smiled again, more sadly than before. "Aryll… there's only one truth. That's what makes it the truth. It's unchangeable, unaffected by our opinions or our ideas… whether we like it or not, the truth is the truth."
"So, which is it?" she asked again, antsy to get it over with.
"The truth," he told her, "is that it's up to you." She couldn't decide whether she didn't understand… or whether she did, and simply didn't like it. "Ye've been given a chance to change things, Aryll. Fer yerself, fer others… fer more people than yer Pop-pop had imagined possible. The truth is, the world is a hard place… but it don't have to be. Not if you decide yer gonna do somethin' about it."
"But what if…" she began, fearfully. Tears gathered in her eyes. "What if I can't? What if I jus'… mess it up… what if it all goes wrong… it's always gone wrong."
He took her hand before answering. "Ye feel that?" he asked. "Yer not crazy— do ye feel my hand?" he asked again. She nodded, sniffling. "The One who brought me here? Who brought my body outta the sea and breathed life into it, so I could come an' talk to ye? They be the One walkin' ye through this— each step o' the way. Do ye really think that someone who can do that… can't help ye through this? Do ye think someone who can do that… could really make a mistake, choosin' ye? That they wouldn't make sure to finish what they started?"
She peered past him, toward the temple. "W-who are they?"
His eyes followed her to the temple as well. "Didn't know It in life, but… It calls Itself simply, 'the Light'. It has the courage to peer into the void… knows how to make the dead rise. Has the power to do it."
"What… what does It want me to do?" she asked.
"It wants ye to help It make the world better," he said, smiling. "'Cuz ye ain't wrong about everything. The world is sick. It jus' needs healin'. It wants yer help doin' it. An' on top o' that," he added, "It wants ye to stop tryin' to do it all alone. Can ye do that?" he asked, letting go of her hand.
She shook her head. "I… I don't know."
He smiled again. "Can ye try?"
A silent moment. A look into her heart, at the fear that festered there. Another at the desire in her to overcome it, and to make real the things she'd not known she longed for… a deep breath. "Yes," she answered. "I can try."
He stood up, and held out his hand. She took it, and half expected to fall over as she attempted to rise… only to stand almost effortlessly. She was beside herself, and he chuckled. "Yer strength was returned to ye, 'cuz we need ye to be strong." He turned and started off toward the gang way.
"Now what?" she called after him.
He turned back. "Well, ye kinda already know what, don't ye? Ye'll go in an' put out the fire, the next lock will be opened, and only one will be left."
"Am I gonna have to fight that… that thing?" she asked.
She didn't know if he knew about Darunia… but whether or not he did, he seemed to know who she really meant. "Yes," he said, taking a step closer again. "He forsook courage fer pride, wisdom fer selfish desire… an' 'e think's power is jus' a thing, a tool. 'E once aspired to stand afore the Light… but 'e ne'er understood who the Light is. Doomed to fail, 'e is. But doomed also to rage, by 'is own choice."
"How will I…?"
"It isn't tellin' me," he said, frowning. "But ye'll know when the time is right."
She nodded. When she had nothing more to say, he turned and started down the narrow defile between her precipice and the temple ahead. Wait!" she called out once more. He turned, confusion in his eyes. "Am I… am I gonna see ya again?" she asked.
She thought she could see his heart break, and his expression was the most profound mixture of joy and sorrow. "No," he confessed. "I… I am dead, Aryll. I got to come— an' I'm so glad I did— 'cuz ye needed to hear these things from someone ye trusted. But now, I gotta…" he nodded back at the temple.
She involuntarily reached toward him with both hands. "C-can… can I…?" she pleaded, tears welling and streaming once more.
He was silent for a moment, drew in and slowly released a breath. Then shrugged with the widest grin a person could manage while weeping. "I thought ye'd never ask."
And that's all it took to send her charging after him, throwing herself into his arms. Providence was kind, to keep him afoot and prevent them from sprawling into the abyss. He laughed in spite of his tears, but she was too emotional to draw anything but relief and a melancholy joy from this moment. "Papa, papa…" she chanted over and over again.
He held her so tight she thought her spine would break. "Yer so dang big!" he noted, kissing the top of her head. "An more pretty even than yer Ma…"
She sobbed as she clutched at him. "I never got to… to know ye," she mourned. "I never got to hold on to ye, when I was little an' scared… I didn't know how badly I wanted it… I needed it, until now, but…" she choked. "Papa… why did things have to be like this?!"
"I know, I know," he consoled. "I'm so sorry, Bug, I'm so sorry…" He was silent a few moments, then pulled her away a little so she could see his face. "It's like I told ye— sometimes, the world is a hard place… but it don't have to be terrible. Ye got folks here that care about ye, folks willin' to stand by ye. An' on top o' that, ye got hope for the future. It don't change what's been done," he admitted, "but it can make today worth livin'."
She nodded, smiling as he cupped her cheek with his hand. "An' ye will see me again, one day," he said. "Jus'… not on this side o' death. A time is comin' when we'll all stand afore the Hill, where the Light 'as It's house. Ye'll see me there."
And he smiled at her, as hope rekindled in her heart. And then in a blink, he was gone and she was standing on the defile… alone, but not alone.
Zelda came alert at the sound of approaching footsteps. Whether it was the power of the One who guided her steps— or her patient stillness— that sustained her in waiting these passed three days inside the temple, she did not know. She'd managed somehow not to fall into a coma from starvation and thirst and exhaustion, but she'd not been spared the discomfort or the dulling of her senses that accompanied such states of deprivation. In her delirium she'd reached out to the One in her thoughts, almost begging, that somehow… somehow they could succeed. Survive.
Her fear hadn't left her until that moment, until all of it welled up in a cry for help. Fear of Darunia just waiting for them beyond this cavern; fear of this alien place, that mocked everything she was coming to understand as right and true; fear of the dilapidation of her world, and the doom that Gabriel represented; and most of all, fear of failure, waste, and meaninglessness. But when she'd come to the end of herself, lacking entirely the strength to fret or worry, her anxieties were released in a silent plea… and then all she could do was wait.
And it was not in vain.
As if from no where, in Aryll marched— slow, calm, resolved. Zelda was slouched against the strange, black wall of the temple's antechamber, near the middle of the hall. Unadorned, simple and perhaps even void, it was. A long, tall hall that fed into a smooth, inhumanly crafted stair— leading to where she had assumed the prismatic fire billowed on it's pedestal. Aryll was so transfixed on that stair that Zelda thought she might not even notice her as she passed. Instead, Aryll's course altered and she approached the suffering princess— planting herself right at her feet.
Zelda just blinked at her sheepishly. She pointed to the stair, and then to the exit. "I can go that way, or that way," she commented, hoarse from thirst. "I doubt I can do both."
Aryll drew in and released a deep breath. Then, drawing the Master Sword, she ignited it's flame effortlessly. It seemed to possess multiple colors, just like that of the fire of the temples. But it's light was a mixture of white, gold, silver… and now it reminded her of the light that fell on the valley she'd seen in her vision. It was something… pure. Something… alive.
Kneeling she took the hilt in her left hand and it's tip in her right, holding it's middle before her. "Take hold o' the blade," she urged.
Zelda made a face. "What? You crazy?— that thing's on fire," she protested meekly. "Hey wait a minute— how are you not on fire? And how is it you don't look like a corpse right now?"
Aryll rolled her eyes. "Jus' touch the flame, would ye?"
"Why though?" she groaned. "Why don't you just go put out the fire and then come back and carry me out of here— you know you're gonna have to carry me, looking like that. No way am I gonna make it back down those tunnels, not like—"
"Would ye jus' shut up and do it, woman? Goddesses," Aryll cursed.
Zelda frowned, but taking a closer look at Aryll's unharmed right hand had no reason to protest… other than not understanding the point of it in the first place. She sighed, and then complied. She half-expected immediate pain upon touching the fiery blade— but instead of her flesh feeding it's fire, she felt it feeding into her. The fire burned steady, undimming, but as the seconds passed she felt her strength returning. In moments she felt fully alert and withdrew her hand.
Searching herself for any kind of burn or scar, she found none and could only balk. "I don't… I don't understand," she muttered, half-surprised to hear her own voice. Looking to Aryll's unsurprised face, "You knew this would happen?"
"I thought it might," Aryll corrected. Aryll's brow leapt in self-reproach, "I hoped it might. Weren't looking forward to haulin' yer carcass up that wall an' out through them tunnels." She sheathed the sword and rose, taking Zelda by the arm and helping her to her feet.
"But… how?" Zelda prodded, still stricken.
"Well, I guess it were somethin' I heard," she confessed. "You said this… this person on our side, gave ye them visions and me…" she fingered the hilt of the sword behind her right shoulder. "An' someone else said, 'that person's got the power to make the dead live'…" she trailed off. She shrugged. "I figured, if all that's true, then maybe the fire don't just destroy things… maybe it can heal things, too."
Zelda didn't know what to say to that. "W-what… what happened out there?" she managed.
Aryll blinked. "You didn't see…?"
"See what?" Zelda pried.
Aryll was silent for a moment, then shook her head. "Nothin'. Nevermind. Yer gonna be more tired again when this be over, so let's get on with it." Turning she approached the stair and started up. Zelda decided to table her confusion and save the questions for later— new information had begun pouring into her mind the minute her strength returned. Aryll was right, she had a hefty work-load ahead of her.
Ten feet up, or so, they climbed to stand at the mouth of the inner sanctum. It was nearly identical to that of the temple at Blackwell— a small room cut from the seething, black stone. A tall and slender obelisk at the center of the room. The text carved into it no longer glowed, though, and the great door behind it stood open. Had Grayson descended with them, they might have watched him open it the way she had opened the last one. She wondered what new strength would be required of Aryll when they found the third and final temple, and the door that would open only to her…
Behind the monument room stood the house of the fire. There a lone pedestal waited on which burned the prismatic flame, gleaming. The sensations she'd felt the first time were clearer now. She'd been awed by the sight, but also stilled by something she couldn't quite place. Now, she could name it for what it was: sadness. Not her own… though, perhaps a little. The One, the being that guided them. This fire was… it was a thing that broke it's heart. Why, she could not yet know.
Aryll broke her contemplation. "I'll need ye to stand back," she said, unsheathing the sword once more.
"Why?"
"'Cuz this time, things 'er gonna get a little… rowdy," Aryll offered. Before Zelda could ask, Aryll ignited the flames of the Master Sword and approached the pedestal. Hesitating for only a moment, she plunged the blade into the fire… and the room erupted in light. Zelda was thrown from her feet in shock as an unseen force rocked the room around her. The blast lasted for only a moment, but it took her several to regain her vision. And when she could see again, she had to blink several times to be sure she wasn't still delusional.
Moments ago, the Master Sword glowed with a fire that clung to it as a sheathe might— close, neat. It had certainly been a thing to behold then, but now… In Aryll's left hand, the Master Sword blazed with roaring flames. And not just the blade, but down to the hilt as well. Her very hand was the root of the flame, a light that seemed almost to overwhelm the oppressive darkness of the alien-stone room. "Well…" Zelda managed, "that's new."
Aryll nodded, but moved past the comment. "Come on," she said, starting out of the room. "We got somethin' to take care of afore we can leave."
Glancing back to be sure the flame had been quenched, Zelda followed. Out of the sanctum, down the stair, through the temple's portal and out across the narrow bridge. Aryll stopped before the wall of densely packed stone and debris that blocked the only passage to and from the great cavern. "You want me to…?" Zelda offered.
But Aryll shook her head. "No. Ye'll need yer energy fer what comes next." Aryll lifted the blade before her, with the fiery tip inches from the wall. With an almost effortless thrust, she plunged it into the wall and triggered an explosion that reminded Zelda of the forces she'd seen at Dragoonroost— when Valoo had stopped the wave from swallowing the mountain. As if hit by similar forces, the blockade exploded outward, most of the debris being consumed in the fire while even more of it pelted the wall beyond— and the silent Darunia who lingered there. Zelda could hear his confused cry, and those of his pain that followed.
When the room stilled and the dust settled, Zelda was surprised to find the creature lifting it's rotted heap from the ground and shaking itself off— that it hadn't been destroyed along with so much of their stone impediment. At the merest hint of Aryll's movement it's head turned with a snarl… that was swallowed in immediate terror. Cowering, it backed itself up and huddled against the wall behind as the girl approached. "Aryll, don't—" Zelda pleaded.
Aryll stopped for a moment, and her head turned. Tears glistened in her eyes. "It ain't right, Zelda," she said. "He needs to be set free." And Zelda couldn't think of a thing to say, not to that. Because she realized that, when Aryll looked at that creature, she could only see her brother. So, she simply nodded— restraining tears of her own.
Turning once more, Aryll stood before the trembling monster whose bulk nearly reached her own height— even while huddled. She held the blade before it, the way she had the wall of debris moments before. But instead of impaling the pitiable thing, the flame of the sword seemed nearly to pour out and consume the creature. It did not cry out, did not resist. Actually, as the fires of the Master Sword enveloped it, it's trembling stopped. For a moment, it stared fearfully up at the young woman before it. Then, it drew in a deep breath… and disintegrated. In it's final moments, Zelda thought she saw something else in it's eyes: peace… and gratitude.
Zelda struggled to keep her eyes open as she warmed herself before the campfire they'd made, just beyond the clefts of the mountain. After Aryll returned Darunia to his rest, it was Zelda's turn to sweat a little. This time, though, it wasn't just a wall she needed to transcend— it was the entire labyrinth. She hadn't been entirely sure that she'd had what it took, but at this point she knew better than not to try. At the One's behest, she'd led Aryll to a place before the towering wall and re-engaged the Sight. Grasping Aryll's shoulder, she'd next opened a place in the wall and moved them both inside.
What followed was simple, though taxing. The ground beneath them had lifted them up, carrying them out of the chasm and toward the true surface of the earth once more. Her connection with the One preserved their little space like a bubble, passing through still waters. Moments later, their little bubble deposited them onto a narrow path between two, immense mountain faces. The very one they'd traveled to the cemetery, she realized. It shouldn't have been possible for them to reach that point as quickly they had, she knew. It had taken them over twelve hours at least, she wagered, to get from the peak to where the temple had awaited them. Some things, she decided, were beyond understanding.
Aryll had asked if she could manage a little more of that, to spare them the walk back to Kakariko. Zelda had only managed a sardonic chuckle before collapsing into a rag-doll heap.
It then took them forty minutes or so to make their way out of the fold, but they had— their progress slowed a little as Aryll was forced to shoulder most of Zelda's weight. She then left Zelda to rest at a suitable place, and went to gather some wood from the few trees that hunched together amidst the rocky plain. The girl hastily made a fire and then joined her companion in soaking it in.
Nearly an hour passed in silence. She didn't want to sleep, not right here at the feet of the mountains. She longed for a bath and fresh clothes and warm food… even so, she couldn't help but doze off every now and then. The more she fought it, the more she wondered why. Being awake, meant having to deal with everything she'd just gone through. She wasn't ready for that right now. Her entire world had been turned upside down and redefined, in a matter of days. She was caught up in a clash between the forces of life and death… a conflict that, she now knew, would take her life.
So, rather than lose herself to all of that right now, she gave in to her exhaustion and curled up to sleep. She woke what had to be hours later— it was night now, while it had been perhaps hours after midday before. She woke to find Aryll staring blankly into the fire. Had the girl slept?, she wondered. Rubbing at her eyes, she sat up. If the girl was aware of her stirring, she showed no sign of it. After several moments, she decided to break the silence. "Have you eaten?" she asked.
Aryll shook her head. "Not really hungry," she answered. "'Sides, wouldnt'a felt right leavin' ye here on yer own— with the state yer in." There was no bite in the girl's voice. She was too distracted for that.
Unsure of what to make of her demeanor, Zelda attempted to stand. "I guess I'll go see if I can wrangle something up," she said.
"Wait," Aryll started, nearly falling over to stop her. "I… I got somethin' I need to say." Zelda, though surpried, complied. It was really unusual for her to be so direct, and Zelda found herself growing anxious as Aryll pored over her own thoughts in silence. "Why…" the girl started, "why couldn't we jus'… do that stuff goin' in and out of the mountain?"
Zelda blinked, suddenly feeling a little irritated. "Is that really what you wanted to say?"
Aryll frowned, and sighed darkly. "No," she admitted after a few moments. Clearly she didn't know where to begin, and her own frustration was mounting. But eventually, she eased into it. "Look, I ain't… I ain't ready to talk about what happened down there, after ye left."
"Something did happen, then," Zelda noted.
Aryll scowled. "I said I ain't ready to talk about it."
Zelda held up her hands in mock surrender. "I'm not prying, just making an observation."
Aryll winced at Zelda's response. "No, that ain't—" she stopped, then sighed. "Aye," she admitted. "Somethin'… happened. An' I ain't ready to talk on it, but that's not what I'm gettin' at."
Zelda nodded after a moment. "Ok…" she urged gently.
"I ain't… totally sure I get what's goin' on here," Aryll said, tension wracking her features. "But I think… I think it were… wrong of me, to blame ye fer… fer me brother."
Zelda felt her eyes go wide in honest shock. "Are… are you… apologizing to me?"
Aryll scowled again. "I'm tryin', but ye ain't makin' easy."
"Sorry, sorry!" Zelda blurted, clutching her knees close.
Aryll's jaw clenched as she prepared herself to continue. Whatever had happened down there… she must have been forced to take a really good look at herself. "I… I hated you, Zelda," she said, staring into the fire. "My world got crushed afore I were old enough to even know the differ'nce— an' then again when I were a sprat o' seven. Then you came along, an' I lost the only life I had left."
Zelda couldn't help but feel a little guilt. "I-I'm sorry, Aryll."
The girl shook her head. "Ain't nothin' fer it… it weren't that great 'o life, in the first place. Anyhow," she continued, "then ye come along an'… an' ye tell me the only brother I had… that you and yer quest be the reason he left? That 'e was gone?" She parsed a breath through gritted teeth. "It were as if… as if a swell overcame me, an' the only person I could think to blame, the only person I could see behind the waves… was you." She sighed. "But now… well, I guess ye were jus' caught up in 'em, same as me."
Zelda nodded, relieved by what she was hearing. "It's true," she confessed. "Honestly, I was probably a lot more like you, back then, than you might think."
"Really?" she asked, surprised. "How?"
"I never knew my mother," Zelda shrugged. "That affects a person in ways I'm not sure I'll ever understand. And my life— before all this— it was never as hard as yours… but it got taken away from me, too. And later, it even took my father away. I never asked for this," she said, recalling afresh the grief of the passed ten years. "I never wanted to lose my father, my life, my world… never had in mind to meet your brother, either," she realized. "But I'm glad I did. The friend I gained in him… that was more valuable to me than nearly anything I had. And that's not all, either."
Aryll blinked. "No?"
Zelda shook her head. "No," she confirmed. "I was… I was a child, when all of this started— a year younger than you. I was… selfish, immature. I was practically aimless; I lacked conviction. If you had asked me, back then, to do all this?" she observed, gesturing back to the mountains behind them. "I wouldn't have made it out… maybe wouldn't even have made it inside. But now…" she wondered. "Now, I trust myself more than I ever did. Your brother… he was so valuable to me. Always will be. But the person I've become— because of all this, and because of his friendship… I think that might be more valuable than anything."
Aryll was silent for a moment. Then, she said something Zelda had never expected to hear. "I trust ye, too."
Zelda felt her brow leap. "Y-you do?"
She nodded, stoking the fire a little as she spoke. "Ye got more spine than some men what brave the sea at 'er worst… an' a more upright one than any o' them, to boot. An' my brother," she added, almost meek, "he trusted ye… loved ye. If ye were good enough fer him…" she trailed off. "But… Zelda?"
"Hmm?"
"I… I don't think I can be yer friend," she confessed.
"W-what do you mean?" Zelda asked.
"I ain't gonna… fight with ye so much," she explained, her discomfort becoming more visible again. "I know what we're doin'— that it's the right thing. An' while I don't always get it, I'm gonna trust ye along the way. But… that don't mean I can be yer friend."
"Is it because…?" Zelda wondered.
Aryll nodded. "I don't blame ye, anymore," she said, after a moment. "But… all o' that hurt… it don't jus' go away."
"I see," Zelda replied, gazing into the fire. "And… and I understand. I won't ask more of you than you're able to give."