"The most harrowing face of war is not its battles, nor the massacres and skirmishes and blazes of panic. These are terrible, of course. But far worse is what comes after—after the dead are counted, and the injured are told they will either survive or they won't; after the treaties are signed and money and alliances have changed hands; when the families of the fallen ache for revenge, when the vultures emerge from the shadows to sow chaos, when the very foundations of a society are shaken to their roots. It is in its aftermath that we truly face the barbarity of war. "
From the unpublished diaries of Mandrag Garona
Bloodletter rang in Palo's palm, louder than the clamor in his head, screaming determination and despair in equal measure. The blade arced against the throne room doors again and again, but it only bucked in his hands, useless against the veil of light that hung over the knots and veins of wood, as thin and impenetrable as the golden skin of a god.
Futility did not deter him. He did not know what he would find beyond the barrier, if the clangs of battle he'd heard earlier still rang beyond the deafening clamor of Bloodletter, if the smoke and dark magic he'd smelled was waning or only numbing his nose—all he knew is that he had to get inside. He had to lend his hand, he had to save Impa and Link. He cut away at the light, swing after swing ripping furious cries from his throat. When the men Talm had sent after him arrived, blades drawn, he nearly swung his sword at them, too.
"Help me, you stupid bastards!" he shouted. "Get something, anything, a column, a battering ram! Help me get in!"
They hesitated. A few glanced at one another, as if they couldn't understand why they'd been sent away from the heart of battle—shit, Talm should've told them, she must've, that he King was here, that he had already breached their walls, cloaked in sorcery, ready to burn through them all as easily as kindling.
"Do something!" Palo shouted. A pair of men fled, perhaps to get more help, perhaps to retrieve a ram, and the others stepped forward, offering their hands.
He stared at their armored palms, wondering how much it would cost him to get through this door, if a mere dozen soldiers' lives were a strong enough drink to satisfy the thirst of the ancient one. He did not know how much blood needed to spill down those plush stairs to banish the golden light, but he wasn't sure if he could stop himself from finding out. He squeezed Bloodletter's hilt, ignoring the voice that told him to wait, to reason for a moment before he slaughtered his own allies, but he could think of nothing but rushing into the throne room, of snuffing out the dark sorcery that came pouring from under the doors.
"Which one of you wants to help me first?" he growled.
The men hesitated. One opened his mouth as if to ask a question, so Palo decided he ought to be first. He reached out and grabbed the soldier by the mail collar, lifting him nearly off his feet. The man didn't resist him, he only raised his forearms to ward off the expected blow as Palo slammed him into the door.
Before the deadseer could lift his blade, before he could even threaten the young man's life, the force of both their bodies shook the wood. A shock ran through every grain and knot, and the doors swung open, shaking on their hinges. As inexplicably as it had come, the golden light fled, the smell of magic dissipated, and Palo threw the soldier aside, stumbling into the throne room.
He did not get far before he fell to his knees. His heart skipped mercilessly, rising to his throat, and the bitter taste of death stung his tongue.
Before him, lying lifeless and still, cape spilling from his back, red as the pool of blood beneath him, was the King. Next to his limp hand lay the bloodstained hilt of Link's sword, but only the hilt—the other pieces lay scattered around him, shining among thousands of shards of broken glass. The evening wind, heavy with the smell of smoke, crawled in through the shattered windows, and the floor was scarred with scorch marks and gashes, puddles of melting ice steaming in the smoldering cracks. The scent of magic slithered weakly around the King, and his eyes stared upward, unblinking. Beneath his chin glinted the hilt of a knife, its blade thrust upward into his jaw.
And beside him, just as still, just as bloodied, lay Link. His eyes were closed, his face pale and expressionless. One hand lay limp over his chest, and the other was gripped in Impa's, still glowing faintly with the light of the gods. She leaned over him, heaving with sobs, spattered in blood, stuck through the leg with a fragment of wood. Palo realized, with a wave of horror, that it was her harp, or what remained of it.
"Impa," he breathed. It was all he could do. Palo had never let fear rule him, he had stared into the face of death itself since he'd been born—but at this moment, at this bizarre precipice where dark magic and god-light mingled in confused and violent sorrow, he could do nothing but say her name. "Impa."
She did not lift her head. She buried her ear into Link's unmoving chest, bloodied mouth agape in an anguished, hoarse scream.
Palo longed to cry out with her, he wanted nothing more than to throw himself on the ground at her side, take Link in his arms, and shake him awake. But he was a deadseer—better than anyone he knew the limpness of sleep and the stillness of death, the subtle changes of skin as the heat that lived beneath began to cool. He knew if he reached out and touched Link's cheek, those soft blue eyes would not open, he would not yawn and turn over, he would not smile, he would not beg for a few more minutes of sleep as he always did.
Palo forced himself to his feet, he forced himself to speak again. "Impa."
This time, she looked up. Her eyes streamed with tears, hopeless and dark. "Please," she choked, shaking. "Please, Palo." Her gaze was mad with desperation, he recognized little of Impa in them—just a cold, terrible fire. "Find him."
His heart sank. He could not know how long Link had been lying dead in her arms, but by the look of him, by the softness of his skin and the freshness of his blood, it could not have been long. Palo must've just missed him, he had been so close, so unforgivably close…
He closed his eyes. He took a long look around the room for any sign of a ghost, any flickering lights, any lingering regrets or vows of vengeance. But he saw no one—no souls of tarrying soldiers or palace servants, nor even the King, and certainly not Link. Palo had a feeling he was not the type to straddle the wall between life and death, even if he had met an early, violent end.
"I'm sorry," Palo said. The words ripped up his throat like bile. "He's gone, Impa."
"No." Something seemed to snap in her. She dropped Link's hand, the glow of the gods' light sparking between their fingers. She tried to stand, she pushed herself onto one shaking, unsteady leg, and attempted to step forward.
She fell, of course. Injured, struck by the twin shocks of weakness and despair, she tumbled toward the ground, releasing a cry that broke Palo's heart all over again. He rushed up to catch her, pulling her into his arms, sliding his hand under her trembling knees and cradling her. He felt a new, warm flow of blood against his fingers as her wound reopened.
"We need to go," he told her, squeezing her even as she writhed against him. "Stay still, I'm going to carry you back."
He tried to force himself to think of nothing but bringing Impa into his arms, to keep his attention locked on the single task of bearing her weight, to turn it away from Link's corpse, away from the blood and the misery, away from the fragments of that damnable sword, shattered and useless. Palo didn't want to look at that blade, at the places where his hammer strikes failed. He did not want to contemplate the reasons why his reforging had gone awry, if his arms were too weak to accomplish what a Goron's could, if he had overlooked some flaw in the metal, if he had skipped some vital step despite Mardon's instruction, if the impurities of the steel had weakened the blade…
He shook his head. "Impa, we need to get you to the surgeon."
"No," she answered, calmly, without a hint of pain in her voice. A sudden, too rational look descended on her. Her tears stopped, all emotion drained from her face."I have to go."
"And do what?" Palo growled. He held her tight as she wriggled against him, bleeding, gasping.
"I need to end this," she said. "Please, let me end this."
"You already did," Palo rasped, tugging her close. To either side of him, Talm's soldiers filed into the throne room, cautious, disbelieving, invoking the name of Hylia when they saw the carnage before them. One's spear clattered to the ground at the King's feet, another turned away to vomit at the still-overpowering smell of magic.
Palo walked past them, shushing Impa as she cried out. "I have to save him," she moaned. A muddied delirium colored her eyes, her voice was hoarse, weak. She had lost too much blood already.
"You can't," Palo said, and the finality of it nearly ripped him asunder. As he stumbled under the doorway, he could not help but glance behind him, at the motionless, pale face of the Verdant Knight. It was soft, serene, the corners of his mouth upturned slightly, as they did when he was falling into a deep, pleasant sleep. Palo's throat constricted, and he swallowed a sob.
I wonder what a hero's blood is worth, mused that ever-present, deplorable part of his mind. Or a Mandrag's.
"Let me go to him," Impa begged. "Please, Palo. I need to go."
"No, you don't," he answered. He lay her down on the carpet outside the throne room, plush fibers soaking her blood. She gasped and groaned in pain, and he tried his best to examine the splintered wood that jutted from her leg. It was lodged deep inside her muscle, curved slightly, and he could not tell if it had nicked an artery. The throne room, and Impa, had been so soaked in blood that he was unsure how much of it was actually hers. He did not have enough faith in his own skills to remove the thing safely.
Suddenly, frantically, he wished Talporom were at his side, in body or in spirit. "The palace healers will help us," he told her, though he did not know if they would arrive on time, or at all. He started a calculation in his head—the blood of a King, and the blood of a man who killed him, both chosen by the gods, both killed in an act of regicide. Not their lives, not their souls, but a few drops of blood might help Impa get through this…
"Let me go," she sobbed.
"No. I'm going to keep you alive." He reached into the darkness, wondering what could be gleaned from this tragedy, what could be used. Even on a day like today, when thousands of lives were brought to sudden ends, Death was still hungry. It was always hungry.
You're disgusting, accused a voice in his head—it sounded remarkably like Sheim—but that didn't stop Palo from bargaining, from pleading, from adding and subtracting and praying.
As he worked on Impa, as she struggled against him, delirious, furious, stronger than she should be in such a state, he heard the drumbeat of more boots coming down the hall, of more men rushing to his aid.
A dozen soldiers, Telma at their head, arrived with a battering ram, only to drop it and kneel at his side. Palo clutched Impa tighter to him, defensively, even as she moaned and struggled. He did not want to let them take her from him, but he knew she wasn't safe yet. She had to go, she had to get somewhere where the healers could finish the work he started. He would have to satisfy himself with following her down to the infirmary later. And then he would not leave her side again, at least until she was safe, or dead.
Telma commanded her men to send for a stretcher, and glanced through the doors to the throne room. Quickly, with a composure that only came with years of experience of war and tragedy, she knelt beside Palo and lay down her axe. "I'm sorry, my friend," she said. Her voice was solemn, sympathetic, but tinged with a careful sort of hope. "We should hurry."
He glanced back into the room, but he had to shut his eyes against the scene. "You're right. Go to Talm. Tell her the King is dead."
She rose, squeezing his shoulder. Somehow, it was not the sight of Link's unmoving face, it was not Impa's cries of pain that broke him. It was this slight touch, brief and consoling, from his ally—as soon as her fingers brushed him, he began to weep, openly, loudly.
Through his tears, through the choked sobs, he managed to say what needed to be said. "Go," he commanded Telma's men. "Collect his crown and his sword. Take them with you to the gates. Show them to his generals and tell them there is nothing left to fight for."
Link awoke on his back. He was comfortable, weightless, the sky above him pink with sunset and streaked with long, flat clouds. A gentle breeze tickled his nose, and a buoyant, jittering pressure swayed his limbs. It took him a moment to realize he was floating in warm water, clear as glass and as pink as the sky above.
He could hear nothing. The splashing at his ears was perfectly silent, the shadows of gulls above him were voiceless in the wind. He could not hear his own heart, nor the scratching at the back of his head as the gentle waves carried him onto the sand.
He sat up. Moving was painless, effortless. He was intact, and his breath came easily, instinctively—though somehow, he knew he had no need to breathe. He contemplated how he might've arrived here, at this strange edge of the world—then his last memories returned to him, of a blurred knife, a sputtering agony, the cold chill of a golden light leaving him.
A deep, warm solemnity cloaked him. He felt no acute anguish, no pain, just a slow churn of a thousand contradictory emotions, rumbling under his untempered awe.
He looked over his surroundings, he ran his fingers through the water, digging them into the soft sand. The water was not like that of Lake Hylia—it was too thick, and it expanded endlessly into the distance. When he stood, thick foam licked at his feet. He could not help but smile—it must be the sea, the grand haven of the Zora, untouched by Hyrule's cruelties. Perhaps the Gerudo had been right in that death truly was just a vast ocean, and in this drowned world the only fate left for a lost soul was endless, featureless water.
But here was an island. Here was an oasis of earth under the sunless pink sky—a beach of white sand, dipping into the placid sea. And inland, a smattering of gray-white trees, fanning perforated leaves, a maze of dangling vines and tall palms. And far beyond those, a mountain looming, bare and formidable, stretching up to the clouds.
He began to walk up the beach. It was easy; the pain of his death had faded, and though he still wore his tunic and mail, they were unstained, unblemished, as intact as the skin beneath. He moved his legs without effort, his arms swung at his sides, even his right hand, deformed for years by injury, appeared healed.
He wasn't fifty paces along the beach before something caught his eye. A hulking dark figure, facedown in the water, red cape undulating in the waves. Though Link's heart no longer beat, it still jumped, and he slowly reached to his shoulder for a sword that was not there.
But the King did not move. He didn't twitch, he didn't lift his head, he did not make to pull himself from the waves that splashed almost playfully over his dark armor.
You've nothing to fear. He is as dead as you are.
The voice that echoed through Link's head was not his own. It was soundless, without tone and without direction. Still, he knew to turn, he knew to glance up the beach, to the place where the trees met the sand.
He could not say he was wholly surprised to see what he saw. He was relieved, satisfied, as if an expectation he did not know he carried had just been fulfilled. What stood before him was a familiar spirit, an entity who had guided him several times before, and whom he had come to recognize, vaguely, in the eyes of dogs, in the snarl of Kasheik when he was at his most vehement.
The giant wolf sat on its haunches, long, bushy tail flicking in greeting. As Link approached, it blinked its red eyes at him, lifted its head and bid him follow. It slinked into the trees, up the first shallow slopes of the great mountain. Link knew better than to ask where they were going. He only followed, trotting to keep pace with it.
You need not hurry, the wolf told him. We will go at a pace that suits you. It will be a long journey, but we have all the time in the world.
General Buliara did not surrender when shown evidence of her King's defeat. She redoubled her efforts, shifting her motivation from reclamation to revenge, sending wave after wave of soldiers toward the city gates without clear strategy and without any quarter. Talm sent out the order to fire the cannons at will, aiming for the narrow road that led to the city gate. Two of the artillery backfired, killing thirty-three, but the casualties on Buliara's side were far greater. The soldiers who managed to brave the roaring blue fires, the thick, unbreathable smoke and the smoldering corpses of their comrades to squeeze through the gates were met by a reinvigorated Galinedh, deprived of their leader but strengthened by news that their enemy was as well.
For hours, the city continued to smolder, bathed in the light of the little queen's triforce. Fighting raged through the streets; it poured down alleys and terminated at the grand square, where the broken palace gate had been replaced by a wall of impenetrable light. The boom of cannons echoed rhythmically and steadily as a heartbeat, and the fields south of the city, from the gates to the enemy's camp, were engulfed in a blue conflagration.
It wasn't until Buliara herself burned to death in one of these fires that her second-in-command issued the order to surrender. The sound of the horns traveled through the air, obscured by shouts, rings of metal on metal, and the bursts of roaring flames. Eventually, the order reached all ears, it rang down streets littered with bodies, it forced swords and spears from hands, it brought soldiers on both sides to their knees. The killing stopped, slowly, from the outward in.
Palo heard all of this second-hand, from soldiers passing by, from medics and mages as they rushed to and from the infirmary. With help from a few palace surgeons (and one dark god), the splintered harp had been removed from Impa's leg, but her state was precarious. She was pale, still delirious, still muttering and screaming and fighting every time Palo attempted to touch her.
Her strength surprised him. She had nearly broken the cot trying to escape it, and when he held her hand, instead of a cold, weak pulse, he felt her burn with fever. As she tossed from side to side, he could not tell if she was awake or asleep, dying or recovering. He did not know what to do—he had even sought out and broke the neck of a palace cat, hoping that would ease her burning pain. Even though Death had greedily eaten the animal, its efforts did not help Impa.
There was something happening to her, beyond grief, beyond injury. Painful memories haunted Palo, of finding her on the rocks near Kakariko, unconscious in the rain beside Link, starving and eaten away with infection. But she had been weak then, clammy, too exhausted to struggle. It was not the same sickness that gripped her now.
"What's happening to you?" he whispered. He could not help but feel that this was somehow his fault, that some unspoken clause in his contract with the ancient one had laid claim to Link's life and Impa's sanity. But he had gone over the calculations in his head over and over, he had looked through the abaci and scales, and he could find no mistake.
He squeezed her hand, even as she struggled, and closed his eyes. He had shut them many times over the hours, on the off chance that he might catch a glimpse of Link's wayward ghost. But he could not find him, he could not find the King, and, thank all the gods, he could not find Impa either. Her spirit stayed firmly in her body for as long as he held her, even though her mind, her self, was elsewhere.
"Shit," he muttered, burying his face in his hands. "What am I gonna say to Zee after this? To Talm?"
He didn't want to be the one to break the news to either of them, though he was sure someone else already had—and he didn't want to hear who else they had lost in the fight for the Capital. He just wanted to stay here, holding his weeping, delirious friend in his arms. He wanted to collapse, to fall asleep beside her on the cot, to forget about Link and Sheim and the bloodstained streets, to let the panic of battle leave him in numb peace. He wanted to wake up back home in Kakariko, he wanted to open his eyes and feel the relief when he realized everything had been a terrible nightmare—he wanted to warm his hands by the elder's fire pit and soak his body in the hot springs, to walk through the shady pines to Irma and Talporom's house, to doze by the river, to sit back and smoke his pipe.
A commotion erupted behind him, at the infirmary door. He turned to watch a group of medics and warriors enter, bustling, shouting, carrying stretchers and bleeding Galinedh over their shoulders. Among the injured was Nabru, half conscious, carried by four of her women. She seemed smaller somehow, laying on that stretcher without her armor, skin bare and burnt. He realized that she was smaller—from the right shoulder down was nothing but air. The smell of seared flesh spilled from her, and her side, from knee to ribcage, was covered with bloody, weeping wounds. Still, she found the strength to complain, and she held onto her consciousness enough to feebly greet Palo as she was carried past.
Din's great tits, nothing could kill that woman. Palo almost found himself smiling, almost taking comfort in the knowledge that even with so many dead, Nabru would remain. Short an arm, maybe, but that would not stop her.
"Link," Impa whispered. Her eyes were locked wide on the ceiling, empty, glazed, unblinking. Palo's heart twisted as she whispered again, decisive: "Link."
Palo leaned over her, stroking her cheek, wiping the sweat from her forehead. "Do you want me to follow him, Impa? Because I can, and I will, gladly." Something tickled the back of his throat. "It's the least I can do. It was my hammer strike that killed him."
"No…" Impa muttered. She closed her eyes, a dry sob rising from her chest. "Stay here. I need you."
Palo was not sure if she was speaking to him. He lowered his eyes, taking her hand in his."I know you do."
We're being followed.
Link did not so much tell the wolf as simply acknowledge the fact. Words manifested before they even formed in his head, well before he could open his mouth to speak them. The thoughts appeared, and were conveyed, silently, instantaneously.
We are, replied the spirit. But we need not mind him. He has his own journey to take.
Link could not help but glance over his shoulder. A shadow had trailed them up the hillside, slowly, steadily, through the lush, colorless trees to the shrub-dotted slopes. As the landscape changed, as the vines retreated and made way for sparse bushes, which in turn made way for boulders and scree, the figure stayed the same. Always at the same distance, always lingering a good thousand paces below them.
Link did not know if the King still recognized him, if he was as bent on killing him now that they were both already dead. He wondered if Ganondorf had the same thoughts lingering in his head, the same questions.
He didn't want to ask those questions, but his mind did anyway, revealing them to the spirit as quickly as they formed.
Why now? Why did I have to die now?
The wolf only trotted ahead, leading him up the mountain.
I have so many people to care for, Link's mind protested, agonized. The woman I love, my family—or what's left of it. My queen. My friends and allies. The whole nation. There is still so much I have to do—I'm not done, not nearly done.
The wolf hesitated at the turn of a switchback, ears twitching. You will continue the path you set for yourself, in your own way. But your body cannot come with you.
Link's despair did not relent, but he trekked in silence for a moment. His thoughts conjured images of the triforce, of the golden light passing from hand to hand. The spirit confirmed his suspicions.
You have done well, the wolf told him. You have served your people, and the dying spirits of this land. Though many of us will never recover, you have given us hope. You have lost yourself in the struggle, and I am truly sorry for that. But another will take your place. Another much like you. Such is the way of the world.
Link's stomach coiled in him, sorrowful and sick. He had been afraid to think that he was running on borrowed time, but during his final moments, when pain gave way to numb weakness, he had seen Impa's mouth move, he had seen her call his name, but he could not hear her. The spirits had taken back what they had lent him. They had taken his hearing, and his life.
He did not think his own soul capable of crying. But as he marched upward, tears streaked his cheeks. He did not want to leave it all—he wanted to be there for Impa, for Zee, for everyone, even if the coming years were full of strife. He wanted, so badly, to live, but he knew that he could not. He could not disobey fate, nor the gods, nor the currents of the Eternal River.
The wolf stopped to give him a soft glance. In that round, red eye was a glint that leant him some hope, slim but persistent, that whoever came after him would wield the gods' power carefully. He could hope that whoever it was, they would be valorous and kind, that they would know to seek out the palace, seek out Zelda and Impa. And he could hope that when the fateful meeting came, the two of them would see Link in this stranger's eyes, they would recognize his spirit, and they would be glad.
Early in the morning, a funeral was held for the city. It was held for the soldiers and citizens who had forfeited their lives, for the decimated battalions and lost messengers. It was held for the fields and farms just south of the Capital, razed by the greedy spread of blue fire, it was held for the old Crown and the fallen King. And it was held for the Verdant Knight, who defeated him.
Hymns to Hylia rang in the streets for the fallen Knights, prayers for the souls of the Galinedh floated all the way to the desert and into the mouth of the Mother Worm. Even blessings on the King's memory could be heard in the halls of his palace, wailed by his devoted, defeated followers. His body had been collected and preserved with all the ceremony that befit a Mandrag. The blood had been cleaned from his face and clothes, a mourning pall had been draped over him, and at sunrise he was carried through the gardens to his family's tomb. He was laid to rest beside his mother, the final sarcophagus in a line of four, carven with the curved bodies and wide mouths of armored worms, sealed with a crest of Din.
After him, adorned in soft silk and wreathed in a mourning bouquet, came the Verdant Knight. He was carried between four pallbearers, through the palace gardens, past the silent graves of his comrades, toward the raised sepulcher reserved for those heroes and generals who had died in commendable service to the Crown.
Palo had never wept at a funeral. He had attended many, he had been the cause of many more. Sometimes he'd stood beside the flickering spirits of the mourned, listening to their chatter, their regrets. He had never shed so much as a tear, but as he followed in the wake of Link's procession, Impa clinging to his side, he could not stop himself.
The previous night had been the longest of his life. Impa had not improved through the crawling hours; she had wailed and tossed as though fighting some invisible force, frantic but unable to wake. Talm and Zee spent the evening at her bedside, battle-weary and weeping, shaking her shoulders, minds and hearts just as torn as Palo's. There were few moments he could remember clearly from those long hours. The empty look on the little queen's face, robbed of parents for the second time in her life. Talm's open weeping, her fists as she gripped the wheels of her chair as if she intended to tear them apart. Nabru's groans, her calls for water, her noisy, desperate clinging to life. The chattering and chanting of mages and surgeons, weeping, cursing—sometime around midnight, Palo decided he could not take the chaos anymore.
So he left. He shut his eyes and wandered the halls, seeking ghosts, seeking gods, thinking, calculating, regretting. Though dozens of soldiers, medics, servants and allies scrambled past him, he had never been so miserably alone. He longed for guidance, he wished he could turn a corner and see Talporom or Merel standing at the end of the corridor, hazy, flickering—shit, he would've even accepted Agahnim's company.
What he got was Kasheik. The man found Palo wandering the halls and took him aside, speaking to him brusquely in the old language. In his hand he held a pair of vials, stained with the dye that he had crafted for Sheim's ascent to elderhood. But Sheim was dead, Kakariko was dead—and soon enough, Kasheik said, he himself would be dead as well.
Palo did not ask how he knew this. He only listened carefully as the man explained how he had left a gift, one last tribute to the hero who had killed the son of Elgra, who had avenged Eldin as much as it could be avenged. He had taken the pigments to the deepest floors of the palace, where the cool air preserved Link's body, and he had exercised his right as an elder. He had honored the fallen dead.
Palo did not see Kasheik again after that. He disappeared sometime in the night, leaving nothing but an empty bed and the faint smell of pines. Palo wished him luck, wherever he was, and wherever he was going, and sent him a thought of praise for his impeccable ink work.
When the Verdant Knight was washed and dressed in his burial robes, when he was brought into the light on a palanquin adorned with flowers, his cheeks and forehead shone bright with the colors of nightshade and paintbrush. Palo didn't know how Kasheik had performed the ceremony without the help of the Eldine gods, but he had honored Link with a strange tattoo, a simple design he had never seen before. He could not place its meaning, he could not know the true symbolism of those brand stripes across Link's cheekbones, but he had no doubt that each drop of ink held great power.
A small crowd gathered to see the Verdant Knight carried into the tomb. Servants he had known, those whose brands he had helped remove, the weeping stableman who raised him, soldiers with whom he had trained and fought. His allies in the United Uprising, every faction of it—all bowed their heads as the pallbearers carried him through the garden paths, under the oaks and cherries. The shadows played on the pale skin of his bare face, the soft shapes of leaves and long branches shuddering almost in sorrow.
"They're telling their father."
It was Impa's voice, raspy, barely audible. She leaned against him, crutches under her arms, injured leg bound, eyes dry and empty. Palo knew she would be weeping if she had any tears left in her, but they had been spent, over the hours, over the night, in her dreams and delirium. "They're telling him we did it. They're telling him… Saria will…"
She did not have the strength to finish, or else did not care to. Palo was still unsure if she had recovered her mind—though she tried her best to stand, to struggle against her pain, her skin still burned against his fingers, her words were still nonsensical. The fatigue in her mind did not reflect the state of her body, however—somehow, she had found the strength to pull herself from the infirmary and follow Link through the garden, despite her caretakers' best efforts. It did not matter that she needed Palo to bear her weight. She knew she had to follow Link here, even if she left half her sanity behind.
Palo had heard of those who literally fell ill with grief, but even after the massacre of her own village, Impa had remained rational. She had not succumbed to whatever quiet derangement had hold of her now, did not descend into a fever or flail with hallucinations.
She swayed beside Palo, barely raising her eyes as Link's corpse was carried by, adorned, cleaned, flanked by mourners. A few wept openly, falling to their knees, a few more crept forward as the pallbearers paused to allow final goodbyes. Aelina and the Knights bent their heads and prayed on his behalf to Hylia, the Galinedh left bags of spices tied in golden thread, to mark his soul as worthy of being swallowed by the eternal maw of Molgera. Talm wheeled forward, veil draped over her solemn face, and began to weep anew when she saw the brightness of his new tattoos. Zee, poor little Zee, came last, face and eyes red with tears. Before he passed through the threshold of the tomb, she broke all semblance of decorum and burst into tears, rushing forward with a small purple flower to her chest. She begged him not to go, she told him to wait, to come back to her—and before Talm wheeled forward and wrapped the distraught princess in her arms, she thrust the little flower under Link's cold hand. The pallbearers did not stop her; they only proceeded into the tomb when Talm brought Zee into her lap, shushing her, stroking back her hair and wiping her tears.
"Impa…" Palo started, glancing to her. Her eyes were closed, her forehead drenched in sweat. He did not know if she had fallen asleep on her feet, or simply returned into the meditative silence of her delirium. He did not know if he should ask her if she wanted to say her final goodbyes, if she wanted to look upon his face one last time, to see the tattoos he had earned. He was unsure if it would break her completely.
Neither moved. Palo stared at Impa, and Impa at nothing, as the pallbearers returned from the tomb empty-handed. Talm, cradling the little queen in her lap, commanded the doors be shut, and in a deep rumbling of stone on stone, Link was swallowed by the shadows of the sepulcher.
The crowd slowly dispersed. No music was played, no elegies spoken. Nothing could be said that would do the man justice, no hymn could drown out the wails and prayers, or the sobs of the young queen. Friends and allies made their way back to the castle, one by one, and eventually even Zee followed, holding the armrest of Talm's chair and lingering only to stare at Impa, still swaying, conscious but unthinking.
"Tell her it will pass," Zelda said, too calmly. "Tell her I love her, and that it'll pass soon."
Palo could not read the expression on the little queen's face, nor Talm's as she slowly ushered Zee away. The Sheikah sent a glance over her shoulder at them, eyes alight with worry and sorrow, but she was as wordless as Palo. She, like him, did not know what had befallen her sister. And she, like him, was not sure if it would be more terrifying or reassuring to know it was Impa's profound grief that put her in such a state.
"We should get back too, Impa," Palo said gently. She opened her eyes again, blinking almost in confusion, as if she had woken from some deep sleep. "Come."
He tried to take her shoulder and point her back toward the castle, but she stepped forward, crutches falling to either side of her. Limping terribly, hopping on her one good leg, she fought off Palo's grasp and staggered toward the tomb. She did not cry, she did not speak, she only made her way to the sealed marble door, unsteady, radiating heat. When she fell before it, it was not because her weak leg gave way—she simply slid to her good knee, lowering her head almost in reverence. She reached out a hand and brushed the stone, curling her fingers against it and leaning, as if she hoped her weight would carry her through the marble and into the darkness on the other side.
She stayed that way, unmoving, and Palo stayed watching her. For what seemed like hours they lingered outside Link's tomb, until the sky darkened to pink, then lavender, than the deep blue of dusk. When the first stars appeared, twinkling as brightly as they had above the hot springs at Kakariko, Impa finally made a sound.
It was a scream, anguished, enraged. As the cry tore through her throat, she raised her fist and smashed it against the marble before her. Her arm shook, her head rolled from side to side, and for a moment Palo feared she had broken her hand against the tomb's door. She did not seem to notice the harrowing crack that rang through the air, nor the slight fissure that ran through the stone where her fist had met it. She did not seem to know that her cry shook the very earth below them, that it shuddered the crows from the trees. She only stared at the ground at her feet, back heaving with dry, silent sobs.
Palo approached her. His heart twisted inside him, and he knelt beside her, taking her hand in his, unharmed but burning hot. He wanted to tell her to abandon despair, he wanted to tell her that he would take care of her, he would spit in the faces of the gods that stole Link away. But he said nothing. He could not bring himself to. He only lifted her back onto her unsteady feet, kissed her gently on the feverish temple, and said her name.
She did not look at him, but allowed him to carry her away. Palo could not help but glance back at the tomb, at the thin but distinct fissure Impa's sorrow had violently carved into it. Right at the heart of the crack, where her palm had hovered only seconds before, he thought he could see a pale golden light.
We almost did it, Link thought. He did not need to elaborate; the wolf knew, the wolf could see what Link saw, the three glowing lights of the gods, each in the hand of a worthy wielder. Safe, at peace, unified. We came so close. If I hadn't…
He glanced at the spirit, and it licked its nose. Its thoughts did not radiate from it the same way Link's did.
Did you plan for this? he asked. Did the gods plan for this?
This was a simple word formed by the forefront of Link's mind, but a collection of images accompanied it—Nadiba fleeing the castle, Irma fleeing her marriage, Daph and Gwen's fateful rendezvous in the streets of the Capital, Link and Talon at the pub after they had presented Epona to the King, a shadow-cloaked stranger lingering at the fringes of the crowd. Small pieces, fragments like the fragments of the blade of evil's bane, falling together over a period of months, years, generations.
The spirit considered this for a moment, before opening its jaw and letting its tongue roll out. Link could not tell if it was a laugh, or a look of surprise, or if the wolf was only panting. I had very little to do with any of it, the spirit told him. I only played my part, as did Mother Larch and Father Oak. As did you.
The spirit hopped up a steep slope of boulders, leading Link to the edge of the caldera. The crater stretched out before them, a gargantuan ring of rock clouded in circling wisps. It ran deep into the heart of the mountain, but where there should've been rocky darkness, there was a golden glow, hazy, whirling like steam. The bright abyss circled itself, puffs of smoke and light billowing and retreating.
Link knew he would have to step into the terrible light. The mountain on whose peak he stood now was larger than Death, larger than Eldin, and beyond it, there was nothing but the vast pink sea. He could see no way back down, and there was nowhere for him to go even if he found it.
Still, he hesitated. He glanced at the wolf, he looked over the endless ocean for a moment, wondering, teetering.
Then a shadow caught his eye. He turned, glancing across the curve of rocks, and saw the King, marching upward, cape billowing behind him, empty eyes still smeared with blood. He slowed at the lip of the caldera, not more than a dozen paces away from Link, but he did not seem to notice his presence. The King's eyes were downturned, intense, full of the golden light of the mountain's heart.
Again, Link felt his hand slowly reach for a sword that was not there. But the King only hovered over the steaming light, silent, seemingly blind to everything around him. Perhaps he lingered in deep contemplation. Perhaps he thought nothing at all.
Thank you.
The sentiment did not come from the wolf, nor the King—Link turned to seek its source, and saw before him a tall shape, draped in light. For a moment he wondered if it was a goddess, come to answer his questions, come to take his hand and lead him onward, but when the figure stepped toward him, he saw it was a Gerudo woman, glittering in jewels, adorned in a summer gown. He could not take his eyes from her as she glided past, he could not help but smile at her presence.
She was older than she had been in her portrait, but just as regal and refined. Her hair was long, loose under a silver diadem, curled at the ends with a few streaks of red among the gray. When she moved through the light, her gown glittered behind her, and everywhere she stepped world seemed to warp, growing smaller, softer, bending to her will. By the time she reached the shadow of the King, he was barely up to her hips, thin, small, the shape of a child.
When Ganondorf tore his eyes away from the mountain's churning core and raised them to the woman, they were bright, gleaming with gold relief. He reached toward her, arms now bare, chest plate reduced to a tunic of soft wormsilk and embroidered gold. Garona bent and drew her grandchild into her arms, effortlessly, with the shimmering weightlessness of mist. Then she turned to Link.
Trouble yourself no longer with this one.
Her mouth did not move, but Link could hear her as clearly as he ever had. He recognized her tone, her lilt of thought—it was the same that had come through in thousands of her heartfelt words, drawn in perfect Hylian in a series of little leather booklets.
He belongs to me. She smiled, broadly, genuinely. I will take him home.
Link nodded. He did not know if this was truly Garona, if it was a reflection of his own mind, or the embodiment of the last wishes of a dying King. But he did not care to parse through the unrealities of what he saw, all he knew was that she was somehow here, soothing her grandson, carrying him with the gentlest touch to the gaping maw of the empty mountain.
At the jagged edge, she turned and bowed her head to Link and the wolf, mouthing one last word of gratitude. Then she stepped forward, her grandson safe in her arms, and disappeared into the mist.
The coronation of Zelda XVI, Blessed Queen of Hyrule and Defender of the Sacred Provinces, was a perfectly miserable affair. The girl herself was too small for the crown they put on her head, her face bereft of joy or pride. Her left hand itched at her right, as if she wanted nothing more than to lift it and reduce her audience to dust, no matter how politely they applauded, no matter how much her coronation had brought a collective sigh of relief to the entire city.
It was a mercy to slip away. Palo was not particularly interested in the ceremony itself, historical though it would no doubt prove to be. He had only come to collect a few things. A rose from the child queen's coronation bouquet, the life of a church mouse who bore witness to this moment that marked the fate of a country, and a golden lock from the head of a young woman. Palo targeted Talm—she was deep in conversation with her ministers and lords, with Telma and Bo and Nabru and the other surviving leaders of their rebellion at her side. It was almost a mercy for her to discuss annexation and secession, the rebuilding of Eldin. It no doubt took her mind off her ailing sister, and the fresh corpse of the man she'd come to think of as a brother. No, she seemed comfortable in this environment, blissfully distracted in this world of strategy and policy.
Palo could not say he was not proud of her. The years to come would be times of great unrest, of course—the battle for the Capital and the death of the Mandrag had been an upheaval on a scale Hyrule had not seen since the Conquest War. An entire province was leveled. A detested High Prince who dabbled in the dark arts was the only thing standing between Ordona and ruin. The desert would no doubt claim independence once more, perhaps even move to exact revenge on Hyrule for what it had done. Palo had every confidence that Talm would prove a master peacekeeper. It would be a pity he would not be there to see it.
She did not see him approach her, she did not see the glint of a small knife lick at the end of one of her many curls. He only squeezed her shoulder as a quick show of support, interrupting her speech for half a moment before retreating back into the ceremony's bustling reception. He crept through the crowd unseen, out the side door of the little church of Hylia. No one noticed him leave, no one noticed the small lives he carried in his pockets, struggling to escape, or the scent of a spell of concealment he cast over himself.
The elder would've been furious with him. Both of them—neither Merel nor Sheim would stand for this, and neither banishment nor death could ever right the wrong he was about to commit. But he had to do it. He could not let things continue down this path.
The gardens were empty, as were the royal burial grounds. He sidled through the shadows, stepping into the noon-light only to lay his hand on the door of a white marble tomb. He ran his finger across the fissure Impa's grief had put there, and he could not help but marvel at the impossibility of her strength.
She had always been exceptional. She had wielded Bloodletter with thin arms as if they were the size of Nabru's, she had always been blessed by powerful magics, she had always carried a fire within her, more forceful than the spirits'. He could not know if the same entity that had blessed her with premonitions and uncanny vigor was the same one that haunted her now, that burned through her heart and tore this gash in the tomb's door. Whatever it was, he had to appease it.
He removed the burlap sack from his robe, dumping a triplet of captured crows, wings bound with thick twine, at his feet. They struggled, mouths open in silent protest, but he held them tightly and strangled them, one by one, with the lock of Talm's hair.
The crack widened and warped for him. He felt himself become airy, light, he felt his bones pass through the narrow space as easily as water, dripping piece by piece into the tomb. Then, as quickly and naturally as a breath, he reassembled himself on the other side of the door.
A thin sheet of light streamed through the crack, illuminating the dusty tomb, the smooth wings of statues, the golden glint of gifts left for warriors as they passed into the next world. At its center, a stone coffin stood, carved with images of Hylia. The life of the church mouse, taken quickly with the snap of a small neck, lent Palo the strength to remove the lid. As the stone fell away, Link's pale face came into view, sunken but well-preserved by the palace undertakers, tattoos arcing gracefully across his forehead and cheekbones.
The wrongness of it sent Palo's heart to aching. He almost turned, he almost retreated, he almost ran up to the palace tower and buried himself in the sheets at Impa's side. He could not hide his disgust, at himself, at a world that would take Link and drag him down with the weight of death. Palo would spit in the face of the cruel gods that did this, that stole from the world the one man who deserved most to live in it.
He grit his teeth and seated himself by the corpse's side. He removed his knife from his belt and gripped a handful of his own hair, slicing across the fibers, chopping and scraping until his scalp was as smooth as the marble around him. He lay out his oils in the tufts of hair at his feet, and spilled them onto the stone. He bathed his hand in the fragrances, then sliced down the length of his forearm. He then drew a circle of blood around Link and himself, and sat at its edge, waiting.
It did not take long for the god to come.