"A wise consul once told me that the changing of regimes is slow, dangerous, as agonizing as a birth. And like births, some are much easier than others."
Barta Oragudan, Councilwoman of Obra Garud
Word of the King's march home ran through the streets of the Capital, lively, unending, circulating like blood through the vessels of every alley and boulevard. As fear and stories pooled and flowed in eddies of taverns, dark rooms and sparse street markets, the city slowly heated to an anxious fever.
Just as the rumors poured into the ears of the citizenry, so did the propaganda.
Treatises on the King's years of tyranny flew from the overworked presses. They were steeped in accounts of the massacres of Eldin, from the Gorons to the Sheikah to the innocent farmers east of the Deadwood. Tales of the King's brutal magic filled the pages, dark as the ink in which they were written, warning citizens that he would be as eager to destroy his own city as he was to destroy the other places he was presumed to rule. But the promises of a new queen offered encouragement, accompanied by pictographs of a small girl enveloped in a golden glow.
The people's response was mixed—some could be seen praying to Hylia on the street corners, loudly and passionately, for the current Mandrag's defeat, some could be seen raising his flag in a paroxysm of loyalty, and many more were concerned only for their own safety, fortifying basements and cellars, boarding up windows and stockpiling food for their families. The prospect of war propelled some into the depths of despair, and others into belligerent action.
Fights broke out in the streets. Organized attempts were made to infiltrate the castle about every six hours. Hundreds of letters written in sloppy hand arrived at the broken gate every day, praising the new queen or threatening her with death. A large faction of the Church of Hylia proclaimed Zelda's legitimacy, but the local district of mages, one of which claimed to have been at the rebels' raid of the palace, said the golden light seen from every corner of the city was nothing but an illusion. A Gerudo silk trader and her caravan stormed the business to which she sold her wares, setting up an armed garrison in the name of the new queen, who would release the desert from Hyrule's grip. Her employer, a Lanayrun banker, reclaimed it in the name of the Mandrag, burning down half a neighborhood block and killing a dozen people before the Knights could intervene. A royalist soldier infiltrated Viscen's guard and murdered three, letters were seized from imprisoned ministers planning escape or assassination, eight of the Capital's wealthiest families disappeared overnight—either fleeing the city, or taken against their will. The flag of the Unified Uprising had been designed, woven, raised, defiled, and raised again in a period of seven days.
Refugees from Eldin and Ordona lined up at the city's gates, bartering for passage with horrifying accounts of the destruction the King had wrought on their homes. Children still coughing up the ash of the eruption cried for lost family, lost land, hacking and choking and raising scarred fingers to their mouths before reaching out for coin. Many likened the massacre of the Sheikah to the genocide of the Gorons, proving Ganondorf was only reopening the terrible wounds his mother had inflicted on the province.
Ordishpeople told tales of the slaughter of their oldest sacred brotherhood, how the Mandrag's witch had castrated and hung a hundred teenaged boys, the most innocent and promising of the Knights' sons. They spoke of the High Prince that the Mandrag had left to rule them, not the true son of his good father, prowling the streets with his army of undead soldiers to kill and cook any dissenters.
Talm collected these stories, rewriting them and throwing them back out into the public, recycling old tactics and employing new ones, spewing out illustrations, pictograph copies, fliers and terrifying reports. She took Nabru's valiant stories of resistance, she took the Faronians' old fables of the failed Uprising, she took Bo's account of the risen dead, Link's anecdotes about their little queen, Telma's masterful treatises on class and imperial struggle, and even Viscen's harrowing accounts of the massacre of Kakariko—she took them all, and she wove them into a wide net, pulling in new fighters for their cause every day. Of course, there were always those who would try to cut through the knots of her meshwork, and for that she deployed her soldiers. She sent Viscen, Bo, Nabru and Telma, fighters as fierce as their reputations. Most of all, she sent out the Verdant Knight, the embodiment of the queen's indisputable power.
Link lost count of the fights he ended, of the people he rescued, of the attempts on his life and the citizens who defected to his cause. The days became a blur—riding through the streets on Epona's back like the enforcer he was never meant to be, mind numb but sword arm as ready as ever. He cut down assassins and gangsters and royalists, he descended with Sheim into the dens of the Mandrag's straggling lackeys, he guarded Zelda by Bo's side as she marched down the boulevard to greet and bless her new people, he accompanied Aelina when she handed out food and blankets taken from the palace's overstocked stores. He stood by Talm's side at meetings of strategy, he went with Impa and Viscen when they oversaw the repositioning of the cannons to the outer wall, he accepted the flowers, blessings, insults and accusations of the people with equal indifference.
And when the days were over, after Zelda went to bed and other guards could assume his duties, he locked himself up in the little library.
Palo had been disappointed to find that the specter's secret was nothing more than a room full of books. The deadseer accompanied him back to the library once or twice, looking fruitlessly for the ghost, for any hidden lever that would lead him to the triforce, for any monumental discovery that would help them defeat the King. It wasn't long before he gave up and left Link to do the searching alone.
"It must've just been an old librarian after all," he shrugged. "Sorry, Link. Most ghosts really are useless."
Link knew he too should give up. He had searched again and again for the specter, for any passages that would lead him to the triforce, for anything at all, but the only thing of interest he had found was the diary of Mandrag Garona. He could not stop himself from returning, night after night, settling into the elaborate writing chair next to the desk, and devouring the words of the old Queen, the grandmother of his enemy.
My father has started bringing prisoners to the training yard, to assist me in perfecting my magic. The latest one was a Faronian rebel, one of the vanguard, condemned to death after six years of laborious service to our family. He was barely a man, naught but thin skin and brittle bone, already bereft of life. It was a mercy to have me practice upon him, but every time I set one of those poor souls aflame, it is almost as if I am killing a part of myself. My father will never understand that, even if one day I muster the courage to tell him. He would rather I be set aflame as well.
Fortunately, today Nadiba helped me feign a sickness. Her skills in botany are unmatched—we fled to our private room, our little library, and she prepared for me the most displeasing tincture. One drop upon my tongue sent me retching like an animal, rendered me febrile and paled me almost to the shade of an Ordishwoman. When she presented me to my mother, who then presented me to the Mandrag, even he could not force me out into the yard. Today, the slaves will live. Tomorrow is another struggle.
I promised Nadiba that I would do the same for her whenever our grandmothers came around to foist upon her their art of poisons. I am glad to return the favor. She is so good to me. All day today she stayed by my side, pretending to care for me as only a sister can, feeding me "medicine"—that is, of course, sweets stolen from the kitchens—and wiping back my hair with a lovely scented towel.
I cannot believe I was so upset when she was born. I do not remember—I was only two—but I had screamed and screamed that she would steal my mother from me. What silliness! We are more of mothers to one another than Queen Nabooru could ever be.
I suppose I should speak a little more of my sister, since I've no doubt she will feature prominently in these pages. She is nearly as tall as I, though I am two years older, she has a wide face where mine is narrow, she has eyes of honey-brown, darker than mine, but her hair is a wonder to behold. It is the brightest shade of red I have ever seen. It puts the blooms in the garden to shame, and when she lets it down to brush it, sometimes I can't help reaching over and pulling on it, just a little. Oh, how cross she gets with me! But she knows that it is only because I am jealous and I simply must touch it.
Today, while we were sitting together on my sickbed, I tried to make her begin her own diary, so that we may write together. She resisted, but I told her to imagine us writing side-by-side all day and then reading to one another our thoughts and dreams, seeing the world through four eyes instead of two.
I want to know what she's thinking when she's stuck with the rova, or when our mother puts a spear in her hands and makes her jab at slave boys. Surely, they must be the same thoughts as mine. She must flinch every time she sees our father come her way, she must think the same treacherous thoughts as I do.
Oh, merciful Nayru, I can't imagine what he would do if he ever found this diary. Fortunately for me, the Great King Ganond, Mandrag of Hyrule and Defender of the Sacred Provinces, never actually bothered to learn Hylian.
"Where were you?"
Impa lifted her head, the moonlight kissing tufts of her bright hair. Link shut the door behind him and began to remove his clothes, having lost hope that he could slip into bed unnoticed. There was no getting past her sharp senses, even in sleep.
"I went for a walk," he told her.
"At this time of night?" She turned over, sheets slipping from her bare arm as she gestured for him to crawl in beside her. He obeyed, resting his head on her shoulder and laying an arm across her belly.
"I couldn't sleep," he said.
"It's this damn room, isn't it…" Impa muttered. She had been highly attuned to their surroundings—even after years of recovery, the castle still stirred memories in both of them that would much better stay buried. The room they had chosen was comfortable and somewhat isolated from the chaos of the war-room, close enough to Zee that they could leap to her at a moment's notice, but it was a little too familiar. All of them were. Link couldn't know which room had been his luxurious prison when the Mandrag had coaxed him out of his cell, but there were few parts of the castle that were not stained with unnerving memories. Besides, of course, the stables, and Talon had barred him from sleeping there. The old man had insisted Link was beyond that life now. He was a Knight, a queen's guard, a champion. A man who could not be seen sleeping among dogs and horses.
Gods, though. What he wouldn't give to just lay down and curl up with the animals as he had when he was a little boy…
"I'm sorry," Impa said, suddenly.
"For what?" Link asked.
"For… everything I said to you." She rested her hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "For raising my voice at you."
He took her in his arms. His skin was still cold from the brisk walk from the southeast tower, and her warmth almost burned. "I'm sorry for raising mine back," he said.
"You had every right to," Impa said. "We both know… we both know the fate of the Faronian Uprising, we both know what happened the last time someone took on the Mandrag without the right weapons. But…" She gave him a serious look. "We can do it. This time, it'll be different. The Uprising did not have the sword of evil's bane. We do."
Please don't start this again, Link thought, but he only sighed. He did not want to think about it, to bring up the images he had seen through the Deku Tree's long, old roots. There had been too much blood, too much misery.
Maybe Garona's diary would tell him about what to expect when he faced the King and lost. Perhaps she would include the grisly details of the Uprising's demise, the execution of its leader. She might paint in great vividness what Link would go through when the Mandrag and his wife killed him, or worse, captured him and kept him alive for as long as they pleased. Though Garona had been just a babe when the Uprising had ended, perhaps she would collect for Link bits and pieces of advice, tell him the mistakes the Wolf made that he could avoid.
Maybe that's what the specter really wanted me to see, Link thought. Gods know he isn't saying much to me upfront. Considering his lips are sewn shut, that shouldn't be surprising.
Somehow, he doubted it. If the dead man truly wanted him to read that particular book, he would've been more straightforward about it. He hadn't appeared since Link first made his way into the library, and he certainly didn't show up while the hearth was lit. Perhaps the ghost was frustrated that Link had distracted himself with old stories instead of trying to make contact once again. If only he knew how—even Palo was no help on that front.
"We have Zelda's triforce," Impa insisted, squeezing him. "We have that, and we have the sword. It will be enough."
"Yes," Link forced himself to say. "At the very least, we have the sword." Almost as if it could hear him, it sent a reassuring ring his way, buzzing in its scabbard like a trapped firefly. It calmed him, and he slid down onto the pillow, yawning. "It'll tell me what to do."
"What?"
He closed his eyes. "It has to."
"Wait, what?"
"Oh." His eyes snapped open again. "Huh?"
"What did you say about something telling you what to do?"
He frowned. "The…" He chuckled a little, because he couldn't help himself. Even his spent, half-sleeping mind knew how absurd it sounded. "The sword. It sometimes… talks to me."
Impa frowned. "It talks to you?"
"Mm. Well, it doesn't really. It doesn't say anything. It just… gets things across to me."
"What does it… get across?"
"Sometimes… what to do." He lifted his eyes to hers. "Where to parry, how quickly to move. When to run, when to retreat and when to strike. It's like… the blade is telling me what to do and I'm just following her."
"Her?"
"The timbre is… it's almost female. It's distant. I can't make out what she says, exactly, but I know what she's trying to tell me. I think she's quiet because her steel is tempered with another blade's."
Impa stared at him for a moment, calculating whether or not to believe him. She must've concluded that he was serious, because eventually she sighed and placed her forehead against his."Well, if she does you no harm, then fine. But…" She brushed her lips against the tip of his nose. "Keep this to yourself. Talm wouldn't want word getting out that our champion the Verdant Knight is a madman."
Another war meeting today. I'm not sure where my father thinks he's marching off to, but he's in quite a hurry to get there. He is so fond of gathering his generals and planning for raids and battles that will never come to pass. He fantasizes about another Conquest War with nothing left to conquer; he relishes in his plans to quell rebellions that have long since died away.
It sickens me. I wish I could grab his shoulders and shake sense into him. I would tell him it is over, the War is over, the Faronian Uprising is over. There are no opponents for him to defeat, no armies for him to slaughter. There is nothing for him to do but rule with a firm and steady hand, which he staunchly refuses to do.
His retainers and ministers do most of the ruling for him; he does not pass laws or travel through his territories, he does not speak to nor listen to his people. Not even his own wife speaks to him anymore. There is only me and Nadiba, and we act only as his translators.
The meeting ended poorly. A Hylian general from Riverton offered some criticism of my father's tactics, and began to propose something else—it matters not what he proposed, only his tone. I did not need to translate for him. He was not three sentences through his protest when my father decided he would rather not hear it. I will not describe in great detail what he did to the poor man, but by the time he was done expressing his displeasure, it was to a smoldering corpse. It took one flash of the gods' power to liquefy everything but his bones.
My father wants me to learn from that display. He did not say so explicitly, but after we had adjourned and I had taken lunch with Nadiba in the gardens, he returned to me and bid me follow him. I knew what he was taking me to see. He has been doing this more and more lately, escorting me and sometimes my sister to that chamber, encouraging us to touch the golden light, to try our chances at power.
I swear to all the gods, I will resist. Both Nadiba and I would rather die than find ourselves slaves to that artifact.
The Mandrag says it craves my blood (it is an odd way to phrase it, but I cannot think of an equivalent idiom in Hylian that correctly imparts the connotations of the words in Gerudo). He tells me, over and over, that the thing can recognize the power that runs through the veins of our family, the power of those who can wield the golden light.
It is useless to tell him that it is already wed to another bloodline, that ours is inextricably linked to the one he already wears on his hand, and that one only. He refuses to believe that the line of Mandrag must stop at only one third of the gods' power. Of course he desires it all. That is why, if the stories are correct, he pulled the Triforce of Wisdom from the corpse of the late Hylian queen, after he had sliced through her pregnant belly and slit the throat of the young child she died to protect. The fates of her other children, I hear, were quite similar.
He will make me choose between the two of them. If he dies before I am grown, he will gift to me the monstrous power that stirs in his hand. If not, I will take the other. One piece is soaked in innocent blood, the other drew that blood—I do not know which is more cursed.
I made the mistake of showing my thoughts on my face. But this time the Mandrag did not strike me, he ordered no punishment. He only stood before me and told me, with every ounce of sincerity he had left in him, that it was necessary.
"There is only one story in the world," he said to me (of course I remember what he said only because of its bizarreness). "And it is true, unlike that drivel in your novels and poetry. It is a story written in the blood of our people, again and again. I have finished that story, my dearest Garona." It was the first time he had used any term of affection for me. "I have finally ended it."
I was too afraid to tell him I did not understand the meaning of his words.
"I have defied the gods and thrown them from their pedestals," he said. "I have ended the war that has raged for centuries, and I have finally closed that wretched realm of silence that hangs over us." There is no Hylian word that could describe the brightness in his eyes. A joyous, almost anxious light. "But be warned, my daughter. If you do not prove yourself a worthy vessel, the power of the gods will destroy you."
I believed him then, and I do now, as I write this entry. He has no doubt seen countless rivals attempt to lay their hands on the power he holds within his now. Thieves, marauders, noblewomen, great warriors, dauntless heroes of the desert. They are all dead now, he tells me. He was the only one to survive the triforce's onslaught of golden light.
I half hope it will kill me, when the time comes. I already disappoint the Mandrag—would that I could drive that shame home by dying, right as I lay my hand on that golden power! Just the thought of it leaves a sweet taste on my tongue. Gods, he would never escape that horror, that his own blood, his firstborn, was too weak to wield the power that gave him Hyrule.
Oh, but I cannot do that. I cannot abandon Nadiba, especially if it means she must take up the mantle of rulership in my stead. Either I will become Mandrag, or she will, and I am not sure which is worse.
"All right," Talm said. She leaned as far as her chair would allow her, tapping her finger on a small black dot. "The King is right here. Just south of Lonlon—at least he was when our scout sent the message. That gives us a little more time than we thought we had, assuming he keeps his pace."
The long marble table spread out before them, etched with a map of Hyrule. It was old, carved with great care and detail, a treasure passed down from Ganond to his progeny. A great many roads, cities and borders had changed since it had first been used, and Link could still make out the faded lines where landmarks had been carved, magicked smooth, and carved again. He wondered when Ganondorf had stood here last, under the tinted windows of the palace war-room. Probably not for a good year and a half—neither Link nor the King had been back to the Capital since the war in Ordona started.
"We still will not have enough time to refortify the palace completely," Viscen said. "The front gate and the barbicans are almost beyond repair."
"And there's still that hole in the eastern wall," Impa said. "It would not do us good to have the King exploit the very same weakness that we did."
"The carpenters' guilds are not cooperating as well as they should, either," Telma admitted.
"Well, I can take care of them," Nabru laughed. "I've dealt with their kind before."
"No kidnapping, Nabru," Talm said. "They're citizens of our own city, and valuable ones. We want them on our side."
Link looked from one end of the table to the other. Viscen and Impa both leaned over the marble-carved city walls, fingers dodging around one another in a mock battle. Behind them, Palo seemed to be filing his nails, lost in thought. The other Sheikah were suspiciously absent, off on some covert mission or another—Link had heard it was to find dyes for Sheim's overdue Elder tattoo, though he doubted the Capital had any native Eldine plants to grind into tinted powder. He was unsure if there ever would be another true sprig of Sheikah nightshade ever again.
Nabru stood aside Talm, arms crossed, except when she let one rest affectionately on Aelina's head. Bo was absent, having been tasked with overseeing the reconstruction of the palace gate, shooing the civilians and screeching at the builders. Aelina had agreed to act as the liaison between her brotherhood and the "royal family," as Bo called the solitary princess, sitting alone and too small for her chair.
Unsmiling, unblinking, her consciousness somewhere beyond the grasp of the rest of them, Zelda's blue eyes wandered beyond the map to the window. She had been required to attend but she declined to partake, and every query directed at her she deferred to Talm. Link almost dared to guess she was bored. He could not quite read her expressions anymore. She always seemed to be thinking about something else—not that being distracted was new for Zee, but her silence, her disinclination to share her thoughts, that was rattling.
"Well, then," Talm continued, "if the gate's beyond repair, then we'll fortify it as best we can. Maybe we can move a few cannons from the southern wall back to the palace gate. Sheim says he can teach some of the guard to operate them."
Link brushed Zee's shoulder. She seemed to emerge from her stupor, glancing up at him as the others' eyes were directed to the tiny city walls below them.
"The fields of Lanayru are vast and our cannons can shoot far," Nabru said. "I do not think Ganondorf's army will be able to penetrate the city walls—at least if they don't conjure up another sandworm."
Link did not take his eyes off the little queen's face. He recognized something in it of the old Zee, but it was sad, diluted somehow. An idea came to him, a thought that cheered him and would surely cheer her. Or at least catch her interest enough to bring some of her old self back to life.
"Zee," he whispered, "do you want to go?"
Her face rose, then fell again. "Go where?"
"We must prepare for anything," Talm said. "Sandworms, floods, eruptions. We can't afford to underestimate that rova. We must prepare for them to break through the wall. We'll set archers on the roofs aside the main boulevard to rain arrows down on them. They won't be able to advance any other way."
"Got to give Ganond credit where it is due," Nabru said. "He did know how to build a city."
"Or how to employ those who did," Telma said. "What of the sewers?"
"Closed tight, thanks to our bombcraft," Palo said. "Not even a ghost could squeeze through that debris."
Link gripped Zee's hand, pulling her gently from her chair. No one seemed to notice—or at least no one spoke up—as they slowly, silently retreated from the table and made their way toward the hall.
"Good." Talm leaned back and stared for a moment, heaving a sigh. "I suppose we'll just have to do our best to build up the palace gate as fast as we can—"
"And as solidly as we can," Impa put in.
"Right, as fast and solidly as we can… somehow. And then we may be able to use Zelda's triforce to guard it. I don't want her in the front lines, but I don't think we can afford to let that power go to waste, either."
Talm's voice receded, the light of the war-room dimmed behind them as they stepped through the narrow corridors and down the stairs. They passed Zee's room, one of the minor chambers in the northern wing (Nabru had claimed the Mandrag's quarters and was eager to fight anyone who would try to take that gargantuan bed from her—it was the only one, she claimed, that accommodated her size). They crept down and down, past empty suits of armor, vases full of withered bouquets unattended by servants long freed from duty, and out into the chilly spring morning.
"Where are we going?" Zee asked.
"It's a secret," Link answered.
"I can see where we're going," she replied, though she let him have his way when he shushed her. He dragged her through the wet gardens, down rows of trees Garona had written about planting long ago, over a small bridge where her father had taught her to summon her first pillar of fire, all the way to the stables.
"All right, now close your eyes," Link said.
"Why?"
"I told you, it's a secret."
"Fine." There was the barest hint of a smile on her too-wise face as he led her past the stalls and troughs. She did not mind stomping through the mud in her new dress, though the laundresses of the Last Resort would have more than a few choice words for her when she got back.
"Have you been down here lately?" Link asked her.
"No," she answered. "Talm will not allow me to."
"Good." Link stopped her and lay his hands on her shoulders, squeezing her gently. A faint but familiar smell filled his nostrils, and his heart ached with warmth. Somewhere beyond the wooden wall of the little stall, he heard Talon muttering softly to Epona.
"All right, Zee," Link said. "Take a deep breath."
She did. "And?"
"Just smell it for a moment."
She took a few more. "What am I…"
He shuffled through the hay for a few moments. He found a long, warm black body, a wet snout, a pink tongue lapping at his skin, teeth nipping at his clothes as he pulled his hands away and retreated.
"Okay, open your eyes."
Link saw a flash of delight cross her face. Her mouth, so thin and taut for the past week, opened in a wide smile. For half a moment, the featureless authority that had shrouded her countenance lifted, and she was a little girl again.
She took the puppy in her arms. It whined and squirmed, blinking against the too-new world, but calmed when she held it close to her chest. "I love it," she said.
"Midna gave birth little more than a week ago," Link said. "Be careful. It still can't see you, look at its eyes."
Zelda raised the tiny dog to her cheek. Her hands were nothing but gentle, calm. Had she been the same girl she had been in Kakariko, he would not have let her hold the fragile pups—at least not until they were older and could handle her energy and clumsiness. But now…
Gods, what have we done to you? he asked her silently.
"There are more?" Zee asked when she saw the wriggling bodies in the hay. Midna panted contentedly as the girl leaned inward, carefully holding the squirming puppy.
"She's feeding them, see?" Link showed her the row of little heads lined up at their mother's belly. Talon had said the dog was generally not too keen on handling of her pups, but Link was no stranger to her. She would not bite him, he knew—she had shared a similar experience with him years ago, when he had carried her through the Capital's streets to Alda's window. Midna knew his scent well, and she might recognize something of Alda's on the little princess.
"Here, put it back." Link guided Zee's hands to the empty nipple, where the other smooth black puppies were squirming. "Hold this one instead. It's had enough to eat already."
Zee sat for a moment with the second pup in her arms, staring at something Link could not see. "Thank you," she said, eventually. "They're lovely."
Her calmness, as always, unnerved him. "Zee… are you okay?"
"I'm fine."
"You haven't been yourself."
"I've only…" she glanced down at the puppy, as if for help. It squeaked and flapped its front legs like it was trying to swim. "I've grown."
Link gathered her, and the dog, in his arms. "Tell me, Zee."
She shook her head, breathed shakily for a moment, then shook her head again. When she spoke, he could not tell if she was crying or not. "I… hoped you would know by now. You should know."
His heart sank. "I should. I'm sorry."
She sniffed for a moment, gathering herself. "This power, it's… strange. It's… always there. Inside my thoughts. Every time I try to think of something, it has… a say in it. It changes what I see, it changes what I say, it changes how I think. I can't think straight, but all my thoughts are clear. Does that makes sense?"
He nodded, chin bumping against the top of her head, but it did not make sense to him at all.
"My thoughts are clear, they're just… not mine. Or, they're not only mine."
He hugged her tightly. They stayed that way, her head under his chin, squirming puppy in her arms, for what seemed like an age. After the time for silence came and went, Link asked, as cautiously as he could: "Are you still Zee?"
She tensed. He could feel her chin draw downward, as if she wanted to curl up. "I think so."
"Good."
"The girl I was is just… a little deeper."
Link loosened his grip, mussing her hair. He saw the smile return to her face, and he stroked her cheek. "You should let her out every once in a while."
She laughed, then hung her head. "It's… hard."
He gripped her again. Perhaps there was a reason that the Dragmires had waited for their children to come of age before inheriting that golden power. "You're too young for this," he whispered. "Too young for all of this."
She said nothing.
"Does it still hurt?" he asked.
"Not so much. I think I'm getting used to it."
"How are the… strange visions? The tiny pictographs it's giving you?"
"Better." She wriggled from him and lay the second pup back by its mother. "I had hoped you'd understand… yours is not the same, but perhaps…"
A cold sweat gathered at his forehead. "Zee, how much do you know about the other piece?"
She closed her eyes. Her mouth moved slowly, with an inflection that was hardly hers, as if another person spoke through her. "I never knew the man who had it last. There's no way to understand how it will change you. If at all."
A blurred image of the ghost emerged in his mind, smeared like a water running down a painting. "I hope it doesn't," he said.
She squeezed him, burying her head in his chest. It took him a moment to realize that she was sobbing. He tilted her head upward, looking at her face, at the red, round, child's face that held a power he was not sure he could comprehend.
"Me neither," she said.
It is only after weeks of mourning that I can bring myself to write this account. It has been the longest month of my life, and I fear there are many, many more long months to come.
Mother hanged herself from the northern tower's scaffolding. Simply writing that fact has sent me to weeping once again. It does not make sense. Nothing makes sense. I do not understand how she could do this to us.
I shall start over. Begin from the beginning, as is proper.
My life was ruined when Father decided I was old enough to claim my birthright. When he told me he was to bequeath to me my inheritance, as he put it, I had allowed myself to think he had had enough of the throne, that he realized he did not enjoy the court and the banality of rulership.. I thought he might abdicate and spend his time doing the things he enjoyed, I even thought he might make his way back to the desert, as my mother had been threatening to do for years. I thought he might let me rule in his stead. How foolish of me.
Three weeks ago, shortly after the winter festival, he brought me to the chamber with that accursed thing. It was not our piece, it was that stolen from the old royal family. I could still sense the bloodstains on it.
Mother insisted I was still too young, that not even Ganond's blood could take on the burden, especially since this one was not ours to bear. She put up a valiant effort, but there was no winning against the Mandrag. He always gets what he wants in the end.
He told me I must do this. He assured me I would emerge from this trial in glory, that it would be the moment I truly proved myself worthy of the throne. We were to immortalize the moment in oil shortly afterward. He said he was proud of me.
The whole palace was there, crowded into that room. A queue of people turned out the doorway and down the hall, generals and ministers and our best servants. They had, of course, all come to watch me die.
Nadiba bit her nails down to the quick. Our mother stood silently in the crowd, swaying with drink. Likely she did not desire to watch my fate with a clear eye—or she was numbing the pain of wounds her husband had inflicted upon her. I do not know what happened between them, I only heard the shouts. If she was injured, she did not show it on her face. I pray to the triumvirate, to Molgera, to Hylia, for her soul. She defied the Mandrag, and now she is dead.
I remember very little of the ceremony. I only remember the hopelessness, the weight on my chest. I had no choice. I stepped up to the pedestal and took the triforce in hand. I blinked, and I was in agony. It was a pain hard to describe—it did not burn, it did not ache. It was neither sharp nor dull. It was… complete. It took my body from me. I could not sense any part of myself that was not engulfed in the terrible light.
But I did not falter. I stood straight and felt every muscle in me crumble to ashes. It was completely silent. The blurry mouths of all present opened in either cheers or screams, but nothing came out. I believe even I screamed. But there was no sound.
The pain, and the silence. That is all I remember of taking the Triforce of Wisdom in hand.
I was bedridden for two days. Gods, I could feel it run through me like poison, eating away at my heart and mind. I could see nothing. I could only hear the nurses whispering worriedly above me, that I was not long for this world. I knew my father was there, lingering at my bedside, even when I was delirious with fever. Nadiba was there too, I am sure.
When I awakened, I was alone. I pushed the sweat-soaked covers from the bed, found my slippers, drank an entire jug of water, and emerged into the hall. By that time, the palace was in mourning, and I did not know why.
Aunt Aberu was the one to tell me what happened to my mother. She gripped my shoulders, yellow eyes aglow with grief, and said they buried her sister earlier that day. I had missed her funeral by only a few hours.
I went to her grave. Sickly and pale, I sat in the dirt and wept until my father found me. He even pretended grief, the deceitful bastard. He took my hand in his, forcing my triforce to glow and pulsate—gods, I dread the feeling—and pull me to my feet. "Nabooru was wrong," was all he told me. "You did not die. But she did."
I will never get used to this. To any of this.
Nadiba has stopped writing. She has stopped speaking. She has stopped doing anything. I wish she would come to me, to cry in my arms, but she is dry-eyed. I believe she is afraid of me. I cannot tolerate this—she is all I have left.
I fear that one of us might follow our mother. I want to follow our mother.
I doubt we could. They found her in the tallest belfry of the tower. I could not even climb that height, even if I fully intended to throw myself from its peak.
I do not know why she would do this. She was a practical woman. If she truly despaired enough to end her life, she would have found a better place, an easier place, one that is more easily accessible by foot, a place where she would not have had to carry lengths of rope up those flights of stairs, and then up into the rafters. That high in the sky…
I cannot help but think that this is the doing of the only two members of our family who can fly.
"Hold still, all of you!" Talm barked. She waved her arms and the chattering died behind her. The man at the pictobox adjusted the dials, signaling from under the sheet draped over his head. Link had never seen such an intense pictobox, and he could not help but wonder how ridiculously large this portrait would be.
"Why don't we just settle for an oil painting?" Palo muttered. "It'd be faster."
"Shut up," Talm said. She wheeled herself to the front of the group, at Zelda's right hand. The rest of them lined up behind her, forming a bizarre hodgepodge of authority figures. The queen herself, of course, stood at the center, dressed in finery and gold plates. Next to her, her tactician Talm, and the rest of her Sheikah guard (Kasheik had refused to have his image captured and retreated into the gardens to, if Link heard the Old Sheikah right, "dig a deep hole and bury myself alive"). Nabru stood tall behind the princess, representing the Galinedh, and Aelina had volunteered to step in for Bo. Link, of course, was also at the picture's center, or he would be if the photographer could figure out his own machine.
As the man fiddled with the dials, Talm turned in her chair, seeming to think she needed to again convince them it would be worth it. "This one is for the books," she said. Then, louder for the newspapermen in the back of the room: "I want us on every paper in the city. I want us framed, dammit."
Impa glanced down the line of retainers at Link. Her expression mixed both irritation and boredom; there were a dozen places she would rather be, a dozen places she could be much more helpful. But neither she nor Link had bothered to argue with Talm—she had proven so adept at managing the upheaval in the city that no one dared question her authority. When Talm decided to gather all of them together for an official pictograph of the queen and her retainers, many (if not all) reluctantly agreed. Talm insisted it was an act of humanizing the current regime, to put faces to the names that had floated around the city since the raid on the palace, and to show that the queen had advisors and protectors from every corner of the land—from the eastern reaches of smoldering Eldin to the glittering city of Obra Garud. Link, however, could not help but think this act of capturing and disseminating their likenesses was only to immortalize their memory, for when the King came and killed every last one of them.
If he was to be honest with himself, he wanted little more than to abandon the project and slink away to Garona's little library. He wanted to gather all the information the old Queen had about the triforce, to pick through all the experiences that she spoke of—the burning white light in her blood, the invasive thoughts, the sudden quickness of her mind, the frightening changes in the potency of her magic. All seemed to more or less match Zelda's experience. It did not seem to matter that Garona had not been of the correct lineage to inherit that power. She had proven herself wise to begin with, and after claiming the triforce for herself, she only got wiser.
"All right!" The pictograph man had finally finished setting up his equipment and now motioned for them to stand still. A few servants shuffled behind them, adjusting the torches for the lighting. "Freeze like that for a minute. And whatever you do, don't smile."
A blinding flash filled the room. Link couldn't help but shut his eyes against it, then hope fervently he hadn't ruined the pictograph. He wasn't sure if he could stand here for another laborious setup.
He opened his eyes again, and through the half-blind pulsations of the lingering flash, he saw a body writhing before him.
A servant, a young woman, had fallen to the ground. She rolled from side to side, legs kicking, hoarse, pained gasps emerging through clenched teeth. Link blinked again, shaking the last motes of light from his vision, and saw that she was clutching at her shoulder.
She let out another gasp, rising almost to a scream. The pictograph man grabbed his equipment and hauled it out of the way before she could kick it over, and she rolled onto her stomach, hair falling out of her bonnet and about her shoulders. She heaved, trying to take a deep breath, and failed.
Impa rushed to the woman's side. Zee was there too, gripping the Sheikah's leg. Link saw a flash of recognition in both of their eyes. They knew what was going on as well as he did.
He stepped forward. The servant had fallen to her side again, curling her knees into her chest and pulling at her collar. His heart sank—he knew too well the helpless, pained confusion in the woman's eyes, blurred by tears.
"Get the palace surgeons," Impa barked as Link dropped to one knee at the servant's side. "Call every healer we have available."
"Every one?" Aelina asked, wringing her hands. "F-f-f-for just one p-person?"
"This girl is only the first," Impa growled. "You, guards, find every slave with a brand, bring them to our doctors." She glanced around the room, at the guards and newspapermen and servants, all paralyzed with fear and bewilderment. "Do it, unless you want to join her!"
They scattered, and Impa followed them, pulling Zee after her in a glittering jingle of finery and gold mail.
"What's happening?" Talm nearly screamed, wheeling herself forward with such ferocity she almost ran over the writhing servant.
"I can explain while we gather healers," Impa said. "Talm, come with me and Zee. We must get the instruments ready."
"What?" Talm barely had time to redirect her chair and chase after Impa, her queries echoing down the hall.
As the chaos around him unfolded, Link stayed by the servant's side, clutching her wrists and squeezing her arms as she tried to pull away her collar and claw at her brand.
"Let me go," she gasped, and when she saw he wasn't going to, released a ragged, "help me."
"I know it hurts," Link said. "Gods, I do. But you must keep calm."
She tried to roll away from him, her hands tried to return to her shoulder, but he gripped them tight.
"Impa will get you a numbing poultice," he told her. "The pain will be over soon, you must endure."
"Please…" the servant whispered, but she was spending her energy fast. Her eyes were in such blurry pain Link was not sure if she could keep herself conscious.
Damn you, he directed his thoughts toward the King, somewhere out in the Lanayrun fields. Link knew the Mandrag was doing this to intimidate him, to make sure he knew in no uncertain terms that he was getting close.
"It's all right," he said to the servant when she released a another scream. "It's okay. It will be over soon."
Oh my god, what an absolute beast of a month. Sorry for leaving y'all hanging! It'll be much easier for me to update regularly right now, so expect a chapter every 2 weeks or so.