"The gods are ruthless, but the gods are just. The gods give freely but collect what they are owed. We do not know when or how they do this, or in what form, but we cannot stop it. This is the way of the world."
Chief Komali of the Tribe of the White Bird (Eastern Plains Provinces)
Impa couldn't breathe. A shocked terror gripped her, far stronger than her despair, far deeper than the pulsating pain in her leg.
She watched, paralyzed, as the King caught Link's blade in his hands, as the force of the strike sent darts of godly magic in every direction, wild and bright and dangerous. She struggled forward when she saw the sword began to bend, she cried out to Link when the dark fissure ran up the thin body of the metal, but he did not hear her. He was lost to his strike, his eyes were bright with a blue glow, his mouth open in a silent scream, his entire being lit up with the deafening roar of the triforce.
He was just as helpless as she was. Neither could act, neither could prevent the fissures from traveling through the sword's finely crafted tip, up its body and to its Goronic core. It came apart with a heart-rending snap of metal, fracturing along the jagged lines of wounds healed by Mardon's hammer.
Impa's heart did the same. She felt a crack run through it as quickly and irrevocably as the sword, she felt it break into pieces, heavy and painful. Years of her life collapsed before her eyes—all of her work, all of Link's, all of Talm's and Palo's, all of the trials and deaths and failures and recoveries. The beloved memories of her family, of her province, of everyone who had bled and died for that sword, crumbled to nothing as the fragments tumbled through the magic-thick air, still glowing a dim, despondent blue.
For the half-second that the shards spun, suspended on the edge of gravity, the throne room fell silent—no one spoke, no one breathed. All eyes were on the fragments of metal as they tumbled downward, ringing faintly with despair. Link's scream seemed to die in his open mouth, the King's rippling cloak and bursting fires curled motionless in the air. Blood froze in Impa's veins.
Then the shards hit the ground—one after the other, in a chorus of torturous ringing—and the room moved again. There was the sound of an indrawn breath, the shifting of armor, then a grunt as the King summoned a sphere of magic into his fist, barreling it toward Link's vulnerable chest.
He flew back with an agonized cry, broken hilt falling from his outstretched hand. He crashed into a pillar, the force of it sending a series of thin cracks up the length of the stone column. He slid downward, barely regaining his footing, gasping, empty hands shaking.
Impa tried to cry out for him, but her throat was dry, her body drained. Instinctively, she reached a hand for her harp—but it grasped only air, and she realized with a new surge of horror that it was scattered in blasted ruin around her. She was helpless, crippled by her injury, without recourse and without hope.
The King laughed. He straightened, the magic dissipating from his clenched fist. He strode forward, brisk, joyful. Link struggled upright, using the pillar to support his back—Impa could not tell if it was broken, she could not know if his bobbing head was a result of disorientation, or if the column had fractured his skull. Blood ran down his face, but from a gash in his forehead were a stray shard must've struck him. As he struggled to regain his balance, to push himself back to a fighting stance, the fear, the desolation, was apparent in his eyes.
Impa could not let this happen. She knew what was about to happen, and she simply could not allow it.
She looked at her leg, the splinter of her harp still sturdily jammed into her muscles, deep enough to send an ache through her bone. It was a part of the neck, slightly curved and embossed with etchings of gold. A few strings still hung from it, dead and limp as hair. A few drops of blood slithered down one of the strings, dripping from the tender gash where the wood pierced her skin.
She did not appear to be bleeding out—at least not yet—so she could rise now, she could try to stand and limp over to Ganondorf before he got to Link, but she would never make it, she did not have the speed or stamina. There was only one way she could ever hope to buy him some time.
Impa grit her teeth, leg shaking, and grabbed the end of a snapped string. She lifted it, wrapped it around her finger and pulled it taut. The wood in her leg shifted, sending waves of pain up her hip, all the way to her heaving chest.
The King was halfway to Link now. He hesitated, smiling, and bent to retrieve the broken hilt of Link's sword from the floor. A foul, burning smell emanated from him as his skin touched the hilt, but he only grimace and pushed through it. A pulsating blue light blinked from the blade, almost in protest, as the King tightened his grasp on it.
"Would you look at this," he chuckled, pausing to examine the hilt. It looked much as it had when Impa had first laid eyes on it, in the deep, solemn grove of the Lostwood. A modest length of steel still jutted from it, jagged but still sharp. "Now what is it they say about a broken blade? That it still draws blood?"
He tightened his grip on the shattered sword, grinning, and advanced on Link. Impa pulled the harp string as tightly as she could, nearly gasping at the pain. The wood creaked inside her, jolting her with waves of agony, and a bubble of blood burst from the wound, traveling down the inside of her thigh. She ignored it.
Link tried to raise his hand against Ganondorf, summoning a pale golden glow, but the King responded with his own, grasping Link about the throat and shoving him upward against the column. His feet lifted from the ground, and Ganondorf sent a vibration of light through the broken sword, raising his arm in gleeful anticipation of his strike.
Impa lay her finger on the harp string and prayed to all the gods it was tight enough to make a sound.
But before she could play, before she could even draw her finger across the string, the King raised the broken hilt of the sword of evil's bane, savage end shining, and thrust it into Link's stomach.
Palo did not quite know where he was going, and he did not know what to expect when he got there, but he certainly didn't expect to run into Zelda at the entrance to the north wing, alone, disheveled. She was unharmed but in a state of babbling panic, reeking with the burnt smell of spent power. She was almost smoldering; her wet eyes were bright with heat, and each tear that fell down her cheek met her skin with a hiss of steam. When Palo snatched her, grasping her chainmail collar and wheeling her around to face him, his hand felt as if it would blister.
"Zee!"
She was so deep in her own trembling agitation she did not seem to notice a blood-soaked man had grabbed her. So Palo squeezed her arm until she glanced up at him. Her big blue eyes were not quite her own—panic, or the triforce's power, seemed to have forced much of Zee herself out of that little body.
"Talk to me, kid," Palo said. He lowered himself to one knee and touched her face, leaving a streak of half-dried blood on her cheek. With a jolt of surprise he realized she was already anointed with older spots of blood, around her forehead, her chin. "Zee, tell me what happened."
He did not, in fact, want her to tell him what happened. He had a terrible feeling as it was, he didn't want to have her words only confirm it. He didn't want to know how useless their protections against the King had ultimately been, and he certainly didn't want to hear that anything had happened to her, or Link, or Impa—or anyone.
"Where is the King?" Palo demanded.
She blinked. Some of the golden blaze left her eyes, and her next breath was not quite so hot on his hands. "He's—he's in the castle," she stammered. "He's here, he's—"
"Where?"
"In the throne room."
"And Link?"
"With him—and Impa—" she began to cry anew, and the terrified dismay of a little girl pushed through the fire of her exterior. It was not a helpful reaction, but at least it was expected—Palo knew that the triforce had not usurped her mind completely, she could still listen, she could still understand commands and reason like a normal child.
"Zee, listen to me," he started.
"I left them alone," she whispered. "I should go back, they're dead by now—"
"No!" Palo snapped. She flinched, swallowing her sobbing words. "You are not going back, do you understand me?"
She hesitated, biting her lip.
"They're not dead, either," Palo continued. "I'll find them. I'll help them defeat the King, I promise."
He always knew Zee had never liked him, but the distrust in her face went beyond that. It was fearful, loathsome, even. He couldn't blame her, at least not now, with him showing up out of nowhere too late to help her, soaked in blood and stinking of dark magic.
"I need you to listen to me very carefully, Zelda." Behind him, across the grounds, he could hear the distant sound of shouting soldiers. He didn't have much time, and neither did Zee. "Run to Talm. Run as fast as you can—she's at the top of the gate, on the barbican. You have to hold the gate, you have to use everything you've got left in you to keep the rest of the King's men from getting into the palace grounds."
She nodded. She seemed grateful for the orders, eager to put herself to some use instead of rushing around in a panic.
"Get Talm to send her reserves to fight those who've already gotten inside. And tell her to send a contingent to the throne room. I'll meet them there. You got it?"
"Yes," she said. Her voice was shaky, but determined.
"Good, now go."
The girl took off, straight toward the oncoming battle. Her tiny set of armor jingled like a joke, and her little boots kicked up dust and grass in her wake. For a moment Palo was certain he had just sent a young child to her death, that he was monstrous and insane, but as soon as Zelda skittered past the fighting, she raised both hands and summoned a shell of light. A shield of transparent gold rose up between herself and the soldiers, both friend and foe, and she sprinted onward unimpeded. Those men who touched the tip of her protective diamond, accidentally or not, found themselves flung backward, back into the dust and chaos of battle.
Palo breathed a sigh as he watched her go. She would be fine—she had practiced her defensive magic to perfection, she was the rightful, natural bearer of the Triforce of Wisdom, and she would make it to Talm alive.
Whether or not Palo would make it to the King was another matter. As soon as Zee left his sight, he took off, ducking into the north wing. He tore through the empty halls, up the stairs, following a familiar smell, a dark, bloody scent. He tumbled through the audience chambers, he made his way up the stained glass corridor, leaving bloodied prints in the plush carpet, and skidded to a halt before the double oak doors of the throne room.
They were locked. He grasped their handles and pushed with all his might, grunting, but they did not budge. He tried again, kicking, slamming into the wood with his shoulder, but with every pathetic blow, the wood shimmered with a golden, impenetrable light.
He did not know of any other way inside, any other entrances or exits, any windows he could access from the audience chambers. No, Ganond had made sure his throne room stood at the peak of the north wing, raised in smooth stone above all the other roofs, away from the eyes of any would-be assassin.
"Shit!" he hissed. He looked around for a life, any life, small or large, but he saw no shadow of a rat, no fluttering of a moth by the torchlight. If he wanted to pay the ancient one to open this door, he would have to wait until Talm's men arrived, and then he would have to justify slaughtering more than one of them.
No, he was alone in the hall, helpless, forced to stand outside and wait like a dog as those he loved most fought for their lives. Despair gripped him, pushing reason from his mind, forcing his jaw to clench and his hands to move to Bloodletter's hilt. He drew the sword, ignoring the shameful chip in its side, and began hammering uselessly at the door.
Cold stone at his back, cold metal in his gut. The King's face, blazing with triumph, lit gold with god-light.
Link had tried to struggle, he had tried to raise his hand and summon a burst of power, a shield, something—anything. But Ganondorf's momentum was like a wave, unstoppable, monstrous with fury and heavy with the weight of all his power, both godly and mundane.
It had hurt to see the blade break, it had hurt like nothing else Link had ever felt before, to see his work, his purpose, shatter before his eyes. But that pain was nothing compared to the agony of Ganondorf's hand gripping the hilt, of him lifting the jagged edge and driving it through him.
The sword had cried out, ringing with horror, because Link couldn't.
He couldn't take a breath, he couldn't scream, he couldn't call upon the light of the gods to save him. He did not even dare glance down, to confirm the the freezing shaft of metal had penetrated his chainmail, his skin and muscle. It was enough to feel the pain, the shock, it was enough to hear the fractured voice of his sword, wailing, weeping, begging him to take it again in his hand and stop this travesty.
A wide smile played on Ganondorf's face. With one hand wrapped firmly around Link's throat, the other withdrew the sword.
He took his time. The blade slid out of Link's abdomen like a drawn-out insult, each inch sending a new wave of pain through every part of him. A flood of warmth followed, flowing down his navel, soaking his shirt and chainmail, dripping past his belt and down his leg.
All the while, the sword screamed with a broken, distant voice, pleading for help. The triforce inside Link writhed, and he with it, clawing at the King's hand around his throat, reaching desperately for his sword. His hands met nothing, the golden fire that he shot through the King's arm was met only with its counterpart, unmatched in strength and renewed with the promise of victory.
The King raised Link's sword once more, grin spreading. It pierced him nearer to his heart this time, bursting across his ribcage and sliding through the softness of his lungs. He felt bones jolt and crack, he felt his breath leave him with every spurt of blood, he felt his strength spill from him with every writhing kick.
He knew it was over. He knew he should give up, let his struggling body rest, finally, but he couldn't—not even if the King took his weapon, his triforce, his life. Even as his strength failed him, even as Ganondorf pulled out the hilt and thrust it in again, even as his sight blurred, as his ears filled with a desperate, deafening rhythm of a dying heart, he knew he could not give in.
"Return it to me," the King growled in his ear.
Link held on to his consciousness, to his triforce, resisting the flow that threatened to drain both from him. He could not take a breath to speak, but his mouth formed the word easily enough. "No."
"Very well." Ganondorf shifted, and twisted the knife inside him. Cold metal scraped and split his skin, tore his muscle, his viscera—he felt the vibration of the sword against his bone, scraping, screaming, begging, jolting with agony. And yet he held on, hands gripping the King's, golden power still ringing with suffering life.
I'm sorry, Link could not help but think. He could not even summon anger or hatred toward the King, but instead fought with his own weakness, his own lost blood, with his own failure. He could only hang on to life long enough to apologize, to mourn for himself and the Faronian hero that came before him, whose fate he could not escape, whose mistakes he had only repeated.
When he closed his eyes, just for a moment, the life of the sword flashed before him—the first image opened with the freezing peak of Eldin, in a sacred temple now buried in ash, the second under the watchful eyes of the desert Colossus, the third in the pristine waters of the Domain, the fourth in the misty Lostwood, the fifth in Talm's hands, glinting as she told him of machines and automatons in the ancient southern forests, technology lost to the ages. He could hear the pounding of the hammer as Palo's strong arms, sweating with effort, reforged the blade, he could hear the ancient Goronic song emerging from a throat too narrow to sing it, he heard the words of the lost blacksmith, he heard the ring of his sacred sword, he still heard its voice calling to him, wailing in a single, high tone…
And he realized it was not his sword at all. It was a familiar string, a deep monotone aching with desperation. It must've been the harp, the sacred harp brought to life once more by Impa's unyielding will.
Link's eyes shot open. The note rang through him, deep and resonant, vibrating energy back into his muscles for only a fraction of a moment. But it was long enough—time seemed to stretch as long as the note rang clear, slowing the King, slowing the steady outward flow of blood, of life, of strength. Ganondorf's arm froze, lingering at his side in preparation for the final thrust, smile frozen wide, eyes bright with triumph. Link's blood soaked the length of his blade, muffling its voice, drowning its words, but he still felt it vibrate with anguish, demanding him to look its way, to take it in his hands and save it from its fate.
Then he saw it, glittering like an afterthought. It sat at the King's waist, among the armored plates and ancillary weaponry, a familiar, simple hilt of silver-blue.
A knife—Mardon's knife. Pure Goronic steel, glinting inches away from Link's trembling hand.
It was agony, moving his arm, but he did—he summoned the last of his strength, golden light traveling down his shoulder, his elbow, his wrist, replacing his lost blood, pulling his muscles taut, ringing through them like the music of Impa's harp.
He extended his reach, grasping the hilt of the knife with slippery fingers. His veins pulsated with light, and with every muscle of his breathless, exhausted body, he pulled the blade from its sheath.
The King did not realize what Link had done until it was too late. Just as Ganondorf thrust the blade back into his gut, all the way to the prongs of its cross guard, just as he twisted the knife one final time, drawing a surge of blood, Link struck.
It took every muscle in his body—his flooded lungs, his shredded abdomen, his legs, his neck, his shoulder. Everything burned, shaking in the throes of golden light, but he jerked his arm upward, fast, unexpected, between Ganondorf's outstretched arms and straight into the soft spot under his chin, behind his trimmed red beard.
The blade, strong and reliable as any Goron steel, entered the King's flesh with smooth precision. Link felt it pierce his skin, the muscle of his tongue, the roof of his mouth; he felt it enter his skull in a series of staccato bumps, where thin bone and soft tissue interchanged in a maze of skull. It traveled upward, propelled by golden light, until it could travel no more—the hilt caught on the King's jawline, trembling in Link's hand. His arm shook with exhaustion, but he held the knife there, lodged in Ganondorf's head, until he felt a flood of warm blood pour over his fingers, dripping down his gauntlet to his elbow.
They stood still for a few seconds, staring at one another, the King with Link's weapon and Link with the King's. Their eyes met, blue to gold, the former narrowed in exhaustion, the latter wide with surprise. Ganondorf opened his mouth—or tried to—and as his lips parted a stream of red poured down his chin. It dripped down his front, mixing with Link's before pooling at their feet.
Finally, flickering and struggling, the golden light faded from the King's eyes. His grip loosened around Link, around the broken sword, and his legs buckled under him. Link went limp with him, knife still clutched in his hand, and they collapsed together, one on top of the other, onto the stone floor.
Impa screamed. Her voice, a pale imitation of her distraught harp string, rang through the throne room, almost distorting the air. But it only passed over Link and the King as they fell to the ground in a heap of light and blood and dying breath.
"No!" she wailed, voice swallowed by the darkening dusk light, unheeded.
She crawled forward, thigh still trembling with the pain of her note, still bleeding along the jagged edge of the broken instrument lodged into her muscle. She did not have the strength or the capacity to even pray to the gods as she scrambled, dragging her useless leg behind her. She was mindless, devoid of all other purpose than to reach Link. Her eyes locked on his pale face, contorted in pain, open mouth struggling to draw breath as the weight of the dead King crushed him. Her injury could not stop her—her weakness and pain and shock could not keep her from stumbling for him, shaking, weeping, leaving a streak of blood in her wake.
"Please," she whispered, meeting his eyes. His gaze was bleak, fading, but still clinging to life, still locked with hers. He opened his mouth, perhaps to say something, but he could not speak.
It took her an age to reach them, and even longer to push the King's body off of Link's. Ganondorf's crown slipped from his head as she moved him, rolling a few feet from him and settling with an unearthly clink. Blood and power poured from the Mandrag with equal fervor, and by the time she managed to pull Link free of him, her hands were slippery with blood, they were burning with a horrible fire that stank of sorcery.
"Please, Link," she said, leaning over him, "stay with me."
She could barely bring herself to look at him, at his mangled chest, his bloodied abdomen, the punctures that had ripped through his padded tunic and chainmail. His blood still ran fresh from his wounds, and as he lifted a hand to Impa, it was shaking with exhaustion.
"I'm here," she said, smoothing back his hair from his face. She did not know what to do—she could not leave him, she could not heal him, she could not run to get help. She could only press against his wounds in a feeble attempt to stop the bleeding. "I'm here, you'll be fine."
"I…" Link's voice was weak, barely a voice at all, and when he opened his mouth a streak of blood ran down the side of his face. "Not… done…"
"I know you're not," Impa said. "I know, that's why you're going to stay with me. You're not done here, so you're going to live."
Link's eyes watered, his teeth clenched. "Take it."
She did not know what he meant. She only lingered over him, weeping, assuring him. A pounding boom, deliberate and rhythmic, echoed inside her, but she could not tell if it was her own heart. "You'll be fine, just wait a little longer. Be still, be still—don't move, you'll only lose more blood."
He didn't listen. He reached up to touch her face with his faintly glowing hand, mouthing the same words over and over again. "Take…"
She gripped his palm, squeezing, shaking as badly as he was. With the last of his strength, he intertwined his fingers in hers. "Don't leave me," she said, but he didn't respond. His eyes fluttered, his mouth closed again. She realized, with a cold, seeping horror, that he could not hear her.
"T…" he began, squeezing her hand, brows drawing together in effort. His palm glowed, and so did hers—she could feel his warmth, his life, his gift pulsating in his palm, resonating with hers. The light was not the same as it usually was when he touched her, it was desperate, weak, slipping through both of their fingers like water.
"I can't," she sobbed. She did not know if he could read her lips in this state, if she could make herself understood. Her hand burned with effort, with the stinging light, but she could not force herself to take the burden from him. "I can't take it."
His fingers twitched. "Not… mine…"
"Stay with me, Link. We need you. Zee needs you, I need you. Stay here." She heaved, weeping, pulling him closer to her. He was cold, far too cold, and she did not have an instrument to warm him. She had no music to soothe him, no song that could keep him awake, firmly in his body. "Oh gods, please. Don't leave me."
His eyes closed, his mouth upturned in a small smile.
"Don't, please…"
She leaned over him, tears pouring from her, trying to squeeze him back awake, trying to shake the life back into him. Below the echo of her distant, desperate note, below the rhythmic pounding of pain, she could hear his feeble heartbeat. Rapid, faint, it kept her glued to his chest, listening to his ragged, blood-soaked breaths. She mouthed a prayer to every god, to all the dead spirits of Kakariko and Kasuto, to her ancestors, to the Nameless One, the dark, unspoken entities of death and darkness.
"Keep him with me," she whispered. "Please… I'll give anything."
The gods did not hear her. She could not hear herself. She could not hear the pounding at the door, nor the sobs that rose in her chest and out her mouth. She listened to nothing but Link's feeble heart, pumping rapidly, then slowly, until that, too, faded into silence.