"Have you ever had a sister? They make quite frustrating companions. I would not recommend one—perhaps consider a dog instead."
Errachella, in a letter to her eldest niece
Nadiba has spilled blood.
I told her she would. Ever since she first stumbled into my room, cheeks flushed with wine, I told her as much. She did not heed my warnings.
The first time my little sister fell incapacitated into my arms, I did not ask her where she found the wine, or who had allowed her to drink it. I asked nothing, because I knew it was better not to know, though I had my suspicions. I only held her hair back as she vomited and let her sleep in my bed, limp and unmoving like a corpse.
The second and third times, I did ask, but she refused to tell me. The fourth time, she admitted that she had been drinking the stable master's wine, provided by one of his underlings. The boy was known to me. He tended to my horses well, and on the surface appeared the ideal servant: tight-lipped, respectful, attentive, eager to pay tribute to his matron goddess when the bells for services are rung. Evidently he is a skilled deceiver.
Here is what Nadiba has told me of him—or, here is what I have made of her stories, slurred and nonsensical as they always were: he is irreverent and mischievous, with a sense of humor that could make a grown man blush. He is generous and kind, he shares his master's wine when able, he tells her long stories of his homeland in a lilting Faronian accent. He is unafraid of her, he is an excellent kisser, and when he caresses her in the dark, everything evil in the world disappears from her mind. She says he adores her, deeply, madly, and she returns the feelings a hundredfold. She tells me that one day, after our father is dead and she is free, she will take him as her husband.
I reminded her she was fifteen, and she was not old enough to know whom she would take as a husband. I also reminded her she was fifteen, and she drank more than our mother did at forty.
Perhaps I am also to blame. I should have expected that she might do something as rash as running away with the stablehand. I knew she had dreams of fleeing our father—we all do! I do, my handmaids do, the servants, the butler—but of course none of us speak of it. And certainly none of us are stupid enough to actually try.
Gods, I should have been kinder to Nadiba. I should have been stricter with Nadiba. I should have saved her from her own impulses. I should have punished the servant boy, well before his actions had escalated to treason. I should have had his throat slit, I should have had him kidnapped and disposed of in the night. I should have marched down to the stables and set him aflame, or taken hold of his brand and twisted it, freezing his blood and mind so thoroughly he would never dare to even think of my sister again.
I still do not care that she's lain with the kennel master and the cook and the flower arranger—and I do not care that she has lain with this stablehand, even if he is an impertinent Faronian boor, even if she has deluded herself into thinking she loves him. I only care that our father would not find out.
But our father always finds out. Whether it is through the spying crow-eyes of his mothers or through the foolishness of the perpetrators, crimes committed in the palace always come to light. To be honest, I had expected Nadiba's reckoning to arrive when she grew heavy with child (she has heretofore failed to heed my advice that pleasure is best sought from female company, and easier to conceal). I had prepared myself for that day: the Mandrag would beat the pregnancy out of her, order the executions of every unfortunate man who has ever looked her way, and our lives would continue essentially unchanged.
Instead, I was the one to receive the beating. "For putting rebellious thoughts into your sister's head," Ganond said to me, though I tried to tell him that I had said nothing to her, that she had been doing only as she pleased for years now, unconcerned for propriety nor her own safety. He didn't believe me. "You are the eldest," he said. "You have a responsibility to control her."
I bit my tongue. I did not remind the Mandrag that Nadiba was his daughter, not mine. I would not have survived if I had.
And I will continue to hold my tongue, for both of our sakes. I will not tell the Mandrag that she has eloped with a peasant (that would send him into such a rage he'd bring down half the castle). I will not tell him where I think they have gone, and I will certainly not let him—or my damnable grandmothers—find this little book, concealed in Hylian though it may be.
I will pray for Nadiba. Even though she is a damned fool, even though she will spill her lover's blood, and her own, and mine. Even though she is dangerously selfish, and hasn't an ounce of wisdom in that idiot brain of hers, I will pray for her.
Not for her to escape, of course. I will pray for my father to be merciful when he finds her. And he will find her. He has his mothers to help him, and they will fly across Hyrule, burning every village they come across until they smoke her out.
I do not know what they will do to her when they bring her back. She will be punished, surely, and harshly. She may be killed, and I do not know if even the power of the gods I bear will help me save her. But she cannot leave me alone. She cannot leave me alone with him. Gods above, she cannot. I will take my own life if she does.
I hate Nadiba. I hate her with all my heart.
"Where's the rest?"
Link ran his hand across the final page of Garona's diary, then onto the leather of the back cover. The text ended abruptly at the bottom of the final page, and Link turned the book over, looking for the jagged white strips indicating torn-out pages or deformations in the binding. He found nothing. The diary, it seemed, was complete.
"Where's the rest…" he muttered again, but he did not rise to go search for it. He just let the book fall open on his lap once more, worn pages trembling.
The fire had gone out nearly a half hour ago, and his candle was flickering dangerously low. Usually about this time, he would light another and continue reading, perhaps restore the fire and sit nearer to it as the chill of early morning flowed through the cracks in the castle walls. Tonight, there was nothing left to read.
So he sat in silence, telling himself to get up, to go searching for the next entry, to dig among the hundreds of tomes for a tiny leather book that matched this one. Or didn't—he couldn't know if Garona had chosen to continue her diary in an identical book, or had chosen to continue at all. He had only happened across the first one by chance, and there was no guarantee there was a second.
It would be like looking for a single, specific drop of water in the vastness of Lake Hylia. He didn't have time for it.
Then again, he was not supposed to have time to read Garona's accounts in the first place. He wasn't supposed to have time for anything except fortifying the city and guarding the little queen. But here he was.
The candle flickered out. Link was left alone in silent darkness, the diary of a teenaged girl still open on his lap.
I should at least look, he told himself. I should relight the fire and make at least one pass of the library.
No, that single pass might take days in itself. And Link already knew how this story ended. Nadiba disappeared in the dark shadows of the Lostwood, cursed to haunt it forever. And Garona went on to become Mandrag, to manage the provinces and end the Schism War, to have a daughter and a grandson. The rest was recorded history.
He had to give up. Impa would be waiting for him. She may even be worried for him, especially with the King lingering around Oldcastle, attempting to torture from afar anyone marked as his property. Then again, she had spent most of the past two days assisting the palace healers, cutting away brands and coaxing the skin to heal with herbs and melodies on her harp. The Verdant Knight may not even have crossed her mind.
He shifted in the ornate chair, thinking about relighting the fire. But something made him pause, and he squeezed Garona's diary, staring into the darkness. He blinked, trying to convince himself he had seen a ghostly figure, a flickering of ectoplasm, but the room had descended into complete stillness. Even his own thoughts slowly, inexorably crawled from his head, emptying from it like a vessel.
His ears twitched. The silence was absolute, as profound and unassailable as the silence in which he had grown up. Not a mote of dust stirred, not a flame flickered. He could not hear the creak of the chair under him, nor the beating of his heart, nor his breathing.
Something strange was happening. He did not know what, but he felt oddly, suddenly, at home.
He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he saw a dim glow, a thin pillar of what he could barely call light. It crept in from the edges of his vision, and for a moment, he wondered if he had fallen asleep in Garona's chair. Certainly possible—he couldn't move, he couldn't open his mouth, and he could hear nothing of the world around him. If he wasn't asleep, he was certainly close.
The outline of the light before him was faint, indistinct, and he could not quite recognize it as a ghost, or anything at all. Briefly, he wished for a deadseer's tattoos, or to be awake, to be able to call to the specter, to lift his arm and reach out to it.
The light condensed. Link was unsure if his eyes were open or closed, he was unsure of what he saw. He felt a coldness at his side, he felt something brush his cheek. He could make out the suggestion of a face, coming closer to him, each feature sliding into place, individually, sequentially, until he saw it.
Yellow, blood-streaked hair falling across bruised eyes. Golden stitches threaded through a pair of chapped lips. A mote of light, winged and blue-green like a forest, hovering in circles around his Faronian hat. Lacerations lined his ears, his fingers, his nose, signaling the steady path of the blades that slowly dismembered him. Young and handsome despite the mutilation, there was more than a hint of Ravio in that face, in the ghostly green eyes that stared, comprehending, into Link's.
Wolf.
He dared not whisper it. He did not dare to break the silence that hung over them both.
The winged orb of light flickered, and the Wolf bent over him, hovering at an angle that defied gravity.
I know you, Link thought, hoping the ghost could somehow understand him. I don't know your real name, but I know you well.
A translucent hand approached his face, flickering in and out of darkness, soaked red with blood. When the Wolf's fingers touched his skin, they left a tingling line of cold from his chin to his cheek. He could almost see a smile on that pale face, a slight upturning of the golden threads that held his lips shut.
Link's heart pounded in his chest, silently, wildly. His breath, he knew, was ragged and shallow, though he could not hear it.
When the Wolf upturned Link's chin, guiding their gazes toward one another's, the world changed.
A grey, sourceless light lifted Link from his seat. He dangled, weightless, helpless, as the ghost came into full view before him. He seemed as many men at once—he was a boy in the forests of the Lostwood, friend to Saria; he was an eager warrior, enveloped in golden light; he was a broken man, with every torture imposed on his body coming to life on his form, dismembering and reassembling him, thread weaving in and out of a mouth too weak to even try to scream.
I know who did that to you, Link directed his thoughts toward the ghost. Rova. I know that pain.
The specter replied. He did not move his mouth—he couldn't—there was no voice that entered Link's head, there was no dialogue, no words. He could still hear nothing at all. But he could sense the Wolf's intentions, he could read his expression.
We share a similar soul.
We almost share a face, Link thought.
The dead woodsman smiled. A streak of blood dripped from one of the punctures on his lips. He thanked Link for finishing his work, even if it was a hundred years too late. He was tired of waiting here, reliving his own death for over a century, torturing himself the same way the rova had, keeping himself hostage in this grey, still, silent realm.
He confessed that the witches had almost made him do it. It was almost too much for him, he almost told Ganond everything he wanted to know.
Link blinked away memories of Barudi standing over him, needle and thread in hand. What did he want to know?
The same thing you do.
The ghost stepped toward Link, reaching out a hand and placing it over his heart. As the bloody fingers brushed stains on his tunic, he received an image of the Wolf, moments before his capture, holding a golden light in his hand. He cupped his palms—the gold faded to green, then blue. He knew he would be taken, he knew that Ganond had honed in on his whereabouts, he knew he would be tortured and killed, and he knew his cause would die with him. All he could do was ensure that the Mandrag would not attain the final third of the gods' power. So he entrusted his greatest treasure, his last and only weapon, to a dear friend. One who straddled the place between realms, who flickered in and out of existence as easily as blinking.
The blue-green pinpoint of light reappeared by Link's face. Its wings flickered, its glow nearly blinded him. He remembered, not without some surprise, that the Lostwood once had fairies, even after the Conquest War.
The Wolf lifted his hands and the fairy flickered into them, folding its wings as stained fingers closed over it. When the man opened his hands again, they were empty. Link stared at his lacerated palms for a moment, then reached for them.
The Wolf asked if he was sure he wanted to take on this burden. He had seen Link reading, he had watched him by the flickering firelight absorbing Garona's words, her warnings and stories about the ferocity and caprice of that power. He had once watched the queen write those words, he had lingered at her side, a column of cold air, as she wept and suffered and catalogued the demands of the gods' golden gift to Hyrule, talking to herself as prolifically as she wrote.
He watched a fraction of the artifact pass to Elgra and Ganondorf, he had watched it warp them both. And he had lingered here, year upon year upon year, waiting for the moment of stillness when the realm of silence and secrecy kissed the chaotic world, when he could reach out and safely bestow his portion of that curse to another. When he could slip through the rift the fairy had opened and take the hand of the fool who would presume to use the Triforce of Courage.
Because one had to be an utter fool to even try.
Wait, Link thought. I am not ready to take your hand.
The ghost lowered it, a disappointed look crossing his face.
I want to know something first.
He did not need to even form the words in his head. The Wolf understood. Of course he could tell Link where to find the rest of Garona's writings. He had haunted this library for over a century, he knew all of its books, even those that the Queen had hidden away from her own family. It was a pity he was illiterate, or he would've read them.
Before Link could even smile, the Wolf took his hand and squeezed it.
The silence broke, and something burst into him, tearing with tremendous force through his muscles and bones and mind, throwing him from the realm of safety and silence, back into the painful, physical world.
Link did not remember what happened next. Ostensibly the windows of the southeast tower burst with light, shattering with such energy it woke every nearby soul and mobilized the entire guard. Terrible screams could be heard echoing down the halls, gasps of agony and shouts of triumph, that led the guards, with Viscen at their head, up the stairs, through the corridors, and to Garona's library.
It was nearly morning when Viscen found the Verdant Knight writhing on the floor of a forgotten room, holding his head and weeping.
"Do you feel that?" Barudi asked.
Ganondorf knew she did not mean the rain, pattering down with renewed ferocity on the landscape before him. She did not mean the chill that swept through the evening, enveloping the Lanayrun fields in a fine mist.
"I do."
A slow ache crawled up his arm, starting at the tips of his fingers and ending at his elbow. The feeling was familiar, and though it lit up every part of him with rage, he did not let it commandeer him this time. He grit his teeth and pushed the feeling down into his stomach, subduing the pulsations of his triforce.
He couldn't let himself believe that the stableboy had done the impossible. He couldn't let himself believe that a pack of impetuous rebels had managed to find the final piece of a treasure that had been broken for as long as history stretched back. They could not have acquired that which even Ganond failed to.
They must have tried something strange. They must have been experimenting with the piece they already had, they must have forced their little princess to do something reckless with hers. She was already far too young to take on that burden, it would not surprise him if the disturbance he felt was only a child losing control of a magic too strong for her.
"The fools," Ganondorf muttered. "They are toying with powers they do not understand."
Barudi wrapped her cloak tighter around her. Her eyes moved down his arm to the trembling yellow light at his fist.
"Perhaps they are using the girl's triforce to negate Ganond's marks," she said. "That is why you cannot reach out to your property anymore."
"Perhaps." As if to test the theory, he stretched out his mind, letting it flow across the fields and into the city, searching for any wandering brand. He could locate at most a few dozen marks—but they still responded to his magic, twisting and burning and no doubt sending their wearers to the ground.
He couldn't stop the snarl from crossing his face. So even his servants, the loyalest of all, marked as his belongings from birth until death, had betrayed him. They should have been honored to carry the message of warning for their master, but one by one, they were snuffing out their own brands.
When he retook the castle, he would personally track down and slit the throat of every slave who had deformed or removed their mark.
"I trust my enemies have already been amply warned of my arrival," he growled. "That may be why they are abusing the gods' power to silence me." He sighed, lifting his eyes to the city, his city, glinting on the rainy horizon. "They will kill that little girl if they keep using her like this."
"All the better."
"Yes."
He turned back toward his tent. Two men were still in the frantic process of setting it up, wrestling with both the canvass and the rain. The faces they wore were weary and frustrated, and Ganondorf could mirror it.
All of them were so close to home. They had ridden from Ordona to Eldin, they had conquered each, they had unified Hyrule, they had reunited the sacred provinces and built the greatest army since Ganond's time. And the only thing standing between them and their glorious homecoming were an impertinent stableboy and a little girl.
He could taste victory on the tip of his tongue. He and his generals, his soldiers, everyone in camp. They were only a few miles away from their homes and families, from warm meals and safety, and that proximity would make each one of them fight harder than they had in the desert, in Ordona, or on any battlefield in between. Their lives were at stake—their entire lives, their chances at returning to normalcy, their ability to take their children in their arms and cradle them, their financial futures and their social groups.
Like Ganondorf, they just wanted to go back home. And like Ganondorf, they would let nothing stop them.
Link woke in a bed that was not his, too clear-minded, too full of energy. He trembled upright, glancing around the room—the light was pink with either sunrise or sunset, and his clothes were piled on a chair next to the door. For a moment he only stared at his neatly-folded tunic, wondering who had moved him, who had done his laundry, where he was and what had happened in the night.
It came back to him, quickly, in a burst that forced a gasp from his lungs.
He lifted his hand. It resembled the hand it had always been, with all the same scars, all the same blemishes. It seemed utterly unchanged, but when he moved it, a slow, tingling burn radiated from his wrist to his fingers.
Gradually, he came to the realization of the magnitude of the power he had been given. He couldn't keep himself from grinning nervously.
"Wolf," he breathed. "Thank you. For waiting so long and so patiently for me to come."
He glanced around the room, half expecting to see the ghost, but it had moved on, having fulfilled its desires, having passed on the burden of the Uprising.
"I won't let you down."
Link swung his legs over the side of the bed—someone had dressed him in silken trousers, and by the smell of his wrists, had applied some potent medicinal poultices. It seemed that he had ended up like Garona after receiving her piece of the triforce, bedridden and fussed over. When he disentangled himself from the sheets and stood, he was trembling. It was not weakness he felt, it was not the pain or malaise Garona described upon her awakening. He felt fine—excellent, even.
He almost took a step toward the exit when the door swung open. Talm wheeled herself inside, frowning, hair uncharacteristically disheveled. "I thought I heard some commotion in here," she said. "Who were you talking to?"
Link smiled at her. His hands shook, and he clasped them behind his back, hoping to still them. "Myself. I was talking to myself."
"Really." Talm did not look impressed.
"I need to find Impa," Link said. "I need to find Zelda, too. I have news. There's something important I need to tell them."
"Hold on a moment," Talm replied. "You'd best lie back down. Your late nights have finally caught up with you." With a strength that surprised Link, she wheeled forward and shoved his hips, pushing him nearly back onto the bed.
"Wait—" he started.
"I've heard some things about your nightly escapades," Talm almost growled. "I've heard you've been going up to the tower and staying there until morning. What have you been doing while everyone else is asleep, hmm? Have you a secret lover I should be telling my sister about?"
"No," Link answered, dodging her next shove.
"Perhaps I should've played you down a bit," she muttered, unheeding. "Made the Verdant Knight less of a hero in the papers. Maidens are throwing themselves at the gates just to get to you. Poor Impa."
"I don't have a secret lover," Link insisted.
"Well, if it's not that, then where have you been off to all these nights?"
"The library. I've been—" His hand throbbed. He squeezed his fist for a moment, feeling the energy course through him. "I found my piece of the triforce."
Talm's jaw nearly hit the floor. "What?"
Faster than he thought he had any right to be, Link took advantage of the moment and spun past her. Before she could redirect her chair, before she could even react, he was sprinting down the hall, feet aflame.
Gods, he hadn't expected this. He had expected pain, he had expected weakness, he had expected all the strange things Garona spoke about, all the things that dulled Zee's features and made her voice not her own. He hadn't expected this wild feeling, this energy, this life pulsating through him, burning every muscle and sending him screaming down the hall, half-dressed and barefoot.
It might've been pleasant, if it didn't make him feel as if he wanted to burst.
He had to find Impa. He had to find something to do, something to break. He had to find Zee, and tell her, he had to find Epona and ride, just ride somewhere—gods, he had to piss.
Skidding to a halt only for long enough not to send a stream splashing to the floor, he doused the nearest unfortunate houseplant. He apologized to the ornate leaves and pinkish flowers some servant no doubt worked meticulously to perfect, then shook himself off and started running again. Where to—he didn't know. Perhaps the stables, perhaps the war-room, perhaps the training yards—Din's tits, the more he moved his body, the more intense the light inside him became, and the more he wanted to run, to climb, to fight. He felt that he could take on even Nabru right now, the power coursing through his arms could wrestle her to the ground, his sword could knock her spear from her hands—shit, where was his sword? He wasn't quite complete without it—it would be in his room, calling for him, but he didn't know where his room was, he didn't know where he was, what wing of the castle he had woken up in—
"Link!"
He had nearly crashed headfirst into Palo and didn't notice. He turned on his heels, pausing to glance at the deadseer, at his broad shoulders and handsome half-smile, radiant in the blue light of the long hallway. His presence seemed entirely novel to Link, fascinating, intimidating, as if he were meeting the deadseer for the first time. Link didn't know if he wanted to fight him or kiss him.
"You're supposed to be ill," Palo said.
"I don't feel ill," Link replied.
Palo looked him up and down for a second. Link knew he was assessing his half-nakedness, his trembling energy, his bedraggled hair and manic grin. "Clearly your fever has invaded your brain," the Sheikah said.
"I need to find Impa," Link replied.
"I'm sure you do. Why don't you go back to bed and I'll get her for you? She'll help bring that temperature down."
"Where is she?" Link demanded. He snatched the deadseer's hands and squeezed them, sending a spark of golden light to the tips of his fingers.
Palo flinched, and a confused look passed his features. "What the—"
"I need to find Impa," Link said again. "Now."
"I think… she's in the infirmary still—"
Link turned and flew off down the hall, not quite sure where he was going. He tripped around a suit of armor, dodged the questions Palo sent after him, then ran headlong into a pedestal holding a large, ornate vase. The chinaware wobbled loosely, and Link froze for half a second.
When the vase's weight realigned, planting it again firmly on the marble, something inside him forced his hand. He picked the finely-painted pot from its stand and hurled it across the room, shattering it against a carven pillar.
"Well, ain't that the spirit," Palo shouted after him as he took off again. "You'll be well in no time."
A few minutes—or hours—later, Link found Impa washing her bloodied hands outside the palace's slapdash infirmary. As she retreated from the basin and flicked her fingers dry, brow wrinkled in deep thought, he somehow managed to sneak up on her. When he grasped her wrist, she instinctively tried to pull away, feet widening in a defensive stance.
"Link," she started. She was pale, with eyes ringed in purple, and she seemed to have gained a few wrinkles—but Link had never seen her more beautiful. The way her mouth fell open slightly when she saw him, a question dancing at the tip of her tongue, he couldn't help himself.
He kissed her, muffling her words before she had a chance to question him. She tensed, then relaxed, letting herself fall toward him and wrapping her arms around his waist. He grasped her face, kissing every part of it, from her chin to her ears, unrestrained and uncaring.
"What are you doing?" Impa managed to say.
She shoved him away, but he did not let go of her wrist. She tried to extricate herself from his grasp, but a pulsation of light traveled from his palm up both of their arms. It paralyzed them, sending a freezing rigidity through all their muscles. The tingling sensation was sharp, almost pleasant.
Impa's face changed. She lost her frustrated frown and gained open-mouthed shock, then could not suppress a look of anxious excitement. Link sent another jolt through both of them, and her hair stood on end, just like his. They stood still as stone for a moment, triforce glowing between them.
"Is this—how the hell did you—"
When Link regained control of his muscles, he swept her into his arms. He shoved one hand under the backs of her knees and pulled her clean off the ground, cradling her. She put her hands around his neck, then glanced at the infirmary, half-dutiful, before grasping his cheek and turning his head toward hers.
"Is that what I think it is?" she whispered. He responded by squeezing her, a golden heat passing from his skin to hers. "Holy—" she gasped, a grin widening her lips. "Where—how?"
"I'll explain later," he said as he carried her off.
"You'd better," she answered. He nearly sprinted down the hall, driven only by instinct, and burst through the first door he found—a linen closet, it looked like, darkened and piled high with folded laundry, fluffed pillows, blankets, sheets and tablecloths. Perfect.
"Gods—" she grunted as he threw them both to the floor, onto the piles of laundry. "What's gotten into you?"
I don't know, he wanted to answer, but they both knew perfectly well.
He said nothing, he just kissed her, lips and fingers and tongue furiously moving across her mouth, her neck, her cheeks, her ears, leaving a trail of tingling golden light where they touched her. With each electric caress, her nails clawed at him, digging into his back, his sides, then searching for the drawstring of his trousers. Impa seemed more than pleased to help them both out of their clothes, tossing them aside into the rest of the laundry.
What followed was a copulation that would not impress even the most inexperienced teenager. Frantically, they pawed each other, intertwining clumsy tongues and fingers, desperate with a hunger neither of them knew they had carried with them, suppressed through months of inadvertent celibacy—it had been so long, so many tragedies and distractions and plans and failures and catastrophes and triumph, neither had even thought of sex since they last embraced in the calm winter light of Kakariko. Even in the quiet hours of the night, when Link may have been making time for Impa, he was instead lost in the words of a woman long dead, despairing and fearful.
But for a few embarrassingly short moments, the long months disappeared, and all the pains and tribulations and deaths evaporated into the stagnant air of the linen closet. There was nothing but him and Impa and the tingling light that sparked between them, drawing gasps from her every time he lay his lips on her neck, every time he moved his body against hers.
When he fell beside her, heaving a sigh, he was not prepared for the almost shameful dissatisfaction that came over him. "I'm sorry," he breathed. "That wasn't… that wasn't my best."
Impa just tugged him close, tired eyes lit bright by the lingering golden glow that hovered around them. "Don't worry," she smiled. "You can make it up to me later tonight."
He kissed her nose, waiting for the calming exhaustion that usually followed such an escapade. It did not arrive. Every emotion, every bit of energy he had released seconds prior seemed to rebuild inside him immediately. Shit, he thought. This might be a problem.
"I've never seen you so… enthused," Impa said. "A little rough, but I could get used to it."
"Oh gods, I'm sorry," he said again. "I just… it's this thing." He held up his hand for her, fist clenching, squeezing glowing light from between his fingers. "It's filling me with… it's making me so restless. I… I need to go fight something."
He nearly stood, but she grasped his elbow and pulled him back down. "Wait."
"I'm sorry, I need to run somewhere. I just can't sit in here anymore. I have to go—" consult Garona, he told himself. Review those exercises she invented, read about how she suppressed her power.
Can I even manage to read in this state? he asked.
You've gotta try. You know you can't stay this way for long. You've been awake for less than an hour and you're already going insane.
"I need to learn how to control this," he said aloud.
"I suppose that is a good idea," Impa started. "Though… I wouldn't mind if you let it loose every once in a while. Just when there's a convenient broom closet nearby."
He laughed, then cradled his head. A band of pain crawled its way between his ears, pulsating, flashing images through his mind, rushing by too fast to decipher. Forests, deserts, the halls of an ancient temple, flickering spheres of blue-green fairies, calling to him. He saw a broad, bright light in his vision, perhaps the sun rising over Lake Hylia, maybe the golden power that now lived inside him, but when he opened his eyes, he realized the closet door had swung open, and two shadows now loomed over them.
"Oh, Nayru's love, what are you up to?"
It was Talm again, arms crossed, Palo at her side. She gripped the wheels of her chair in her fists and squeezed, gritting her teeth, while the deadseer only leaned against the doorway and grinned.
"I told you I saw him run this way," Palo said.
"And look at him!" Talm sighed, exacerbated at their bare bodies half-entangled in the sheets.
"Talm, he's—" Impa started.
But Talm was already pointing an accusatory finger at Link. "Whatever illness you have," she said, "you better not have given it to my sister." Then she backed herself from the closet and began to roll away. "Congratulations on the golden power of the gods. Now get back into bed and go to sleep. For the love of the goddesses, running about like that…" Her complaints faded into the distance with the squeak of her wheels.
Palo just lingered in the doorway of the closet, arms crossed. His eyes moved from Link to Impa to Link again, narrowing at the pulsations of light. He seemed to be considering something.
"Well, are you going to join us or not?" Link asked, finally.
Palo broke into a smile. "And give Impa the satisfaction of saying she had both of us at once? Not a chance in hell. Someone's got to keep her ego in check." He backed away, taking the doorknob in hand. "I just wanted to ask… was it our ghost?"
"Was…" Link frowned. "Yeah. It was our ghost. He led me to the triforce."
Palo nodded. "Finally, one was good for something." He almost closed the door on them, then opened it again, sticking his head inside. "Also, you'd better clean up any juices you left on those sheets. They were washed this morning and the laundresses will have your heads."
I begin this new tome out of necessity. Here is a second book, fresh, filled with nothing but clean white pages, and I cannot feel as if I am soiling it with my thoughts. But I must.
It has been one year since we lost Nadiba. A dismal year, a violent year, even worse than the year we lost our mother.
In the first weeks since she disappeared, scores and scores of servants, hired mercenaries, soldiers and guardsmen returned empty-handed. Many had rumors of her whereabouts, none had actually found her. And so when my father invited them in for a private audience in his throne room, they were met not with rewards, but with the King's wrath. It would not surprise me to learn that within the past few months more men have died by Ganond's hand than had over the years of the Conquest. I have seen so many fearful faces turn to ash, I have seen so many brave warriors pound at the locked door, trying and failing to escape the eager blade of Wormtooth. None do.
Even my grandmothers were not immune to the chaos that Nadiba wrought. They flew south, vowing to bring her back to the castle, and I have not seen them since. To my knowledge there are two possibilities: they could not find Nadiba and returned empty-handed, only to be executed by their beloved son, or they feared the Mandrag's rage so intensely they fled back to the desert rather than face him.
Or… perhaps they did find Nadiba. They found her, and she was able to turn against them all the magic they taught her, she was able to reduce them to columns of ice and flame with their own spells. Oh, gods, please let it be so. I always believed Nadiba was incredibly talented. I wish, from the bottom of my heart, that she has the wits and prowess to outmatch rova. She is the last hope I have that anyone in this miserable story will have anything close to a happy ending. She is a fool and does not deserve it, but still… I hope. Even though she has shed more blood than either of us could ever realize, I hope at least she does not see that blood flow the way I do. I hope she never comes home.
This castle is a hell. The Mandrag is constantly consumed by rage. He will seek out and destroy the culprits of the pettiest crimes—for instance, he has beheaded the servant who let flowers rot on our dining table, and he has ordered the ears cut off from one of my dearest handmaids, who only made the mistake of festooning me with jewels that did not please his mercurial sensibilities. He has tried to have me beaten on several occasions for the most meaningless infractions—although I have resisted. The golden power of the gods burns the hands of the servants he sends to break me, it sets their clubs and paddles aflame. Should any of them try to hurt me on my father's behalf again, I will burn their flesh as well.
The Mandrag still seems to think I am at fault for Nadiba's disappearance, that I am keeping my knowledge of her whereabouts from him. He does not realize that I know as much as anyone else.
The only thing I know is that Nadiba is lost forever. She is dead, and even if she is not, even if she returns, Ganond will not let her live long. She will never again walk these halls, she will never be a Dragmire.
It will not be long until my father orders death upon anyone that speaks her name. I know him. Once he realizes that his second daughter is truly gone, he will forsake her completely. He will claim that he has only ever had one daughter, and she will be struck from our records and erased from the public's memory. Perhaps that is for the best. I wish I could forget her too, but I know I will not.
Oh, Nadiba. I pray for you, I pray for your boy, I pray for your safety, I pray for your sanity. I pray you will disappear into the wilderness and never return, I pray you will join a mountain tribe somewhere, or become a plainswoman, or lose yourself in the wild forests and swamps of the south, and never think of any of us again. I pray you find happiness, that your life is free of bloodshed.
I detest you and your foolishness with all my heart, but I still love you. I will always love you. Whether I like it or not, you are still my sister.
