Spring is tardy and sodden in the year Hiraeth will turn fifteen. Nobody bothers to try fixing the buildings damaged in the mudslides, because the rain and sleet never stop for more than a day or two. Everyone moves into their upstairs rooms or their attics, and the mayor leaves to petition the crown for aid. Food prices triple, and his stepmother is making gifts of flatbread for half the village because they're the only house with a stockpile of flour.

Rumor says drought holds the western lowlands, and the little temple at the top of the village is packed every Lightsday with people begging the distant gods to give their share of rain to another province. Leela is grounded for telling the neighbors they're stupid, and Saso is grounded for building a mud sled obstacle course of the main street and charging her friends two rupee each to race down it.

The twins counter their boredom by digging out their entire collection of fashion plates and adornments and cosmetics, dragging Ishi with them into their expensive obsession with city fashions. Neither owns the patience to actually finish new costumes for their poppets, and nevermind themselves, but at least most of their chaos stays in their room.

Hiraeth tries to redirect their focus, but they claim to have misplaced their study notes and accidentally left their essay drafts in the garden where they got rained on. So he offers to recopy their papers cleanly if they can prove they are prepared for the looming exam cycle.

They seize the opportunity to make poppets of each other while he quizzes them on Labrynnan cases and spellings and conjugations, percentages and remainders, Old High Hylian declensions and esoteric vocabulary, provincial exports and noble begats.

Myra's answers are salted with complaints that Ishi fidgets too much, but at least she whines in passable Labrynnan. Kyra interrupts his questions to complain of their limited and unfashionable wardrobe, wailing about the unfairness of it all. Only with a great deal of prompting does she manage to translate her laments without making egregious errors.

Ishi recites her answers cheerfully enough, but as soon as the twins are moderately satisfied with her braids and cosmetics, she drags a pile of old curtains from the mending basket and proceeds to make a poppet of him. The twins argue which color suits him least poorly, dragging out their own bright shawls and ribbons to further improve his appearance. But - at least they are getting most of their calculations correct.

"You are impossible hibi," complains Kyra, flinging herself dramatically onto one of the fat floor cushions. "Nothing suits you. You're too dark, and too serious, and too tall. It shouldn't be allowed."

"I dunno, the red looked kinda nice," counters Ishi, holding the faded velvet curtain up to his face.

Myra makes a face. "It's fancy enough but - it's the wrong kind of red. He's so much darker than us - he needs big colors to match. Pure colors. But his hair-! Ugh."

"My hair is fine," he says. "Second most important exports from the Lake District by revenue and then by volume?"

"It is not fine," whines Myra. "It's stupidly bright and won't even all lay in the same direction and-"

"Maybe we could wax it flat," says Kyra.

"You are not putting wax in my hair," he says with a glare which impresses exactly none of them. "The exports, avha?"

"Smoked voltfin and bonemeal," groans Myra. "What if we braid it?"

"Too short," says Ishi, wrinkling her nose.

"Not if we do spinebraids," says Kyra, rolling over to prop her chin on her fist. "It could work if they're really small. And then! We could weave festival curls on."

Ishi squeals in delight.

Hiraeth rolls his eyes. "How about not. Mom would have a cat. Now, same question, Northwestern headlands?"

"Oh come on hibi - we need to practice so we can all wear curls this year. You remember how she complained just doing ours last time," counters Myra. "We don't have to weave them all over. Just enough."

"You conspire to make me ridiculous," he grumps, though secretly he wonders what it would be like. To be fancy. To have a reason to buy bright ribbons for himself. To wear golden hair clasps and polished gems on his brow.

"But imagine hibi," says Myra, reaching up to draw an arc from hairline to nape. Even sitting lotus-fashion on the floor, he is taller than all of them. "If we weave down the middle, you could part it down the center to wear loose, or you could pull it into a horsetail. And then for tomorrow we could do a big fat plait out of it kinda like that cockscomb the mayor's son had when he came back from Death Mountain. Only better."

"And you know the one color we haven't tried? Black," says Kyra, scrambling to her feet and racing out of the room with Ishi on her heels, screeching about getting some other unnamed thing.

"Da hates black," mutters Hiraeth as Myra starts combing fragrant palm grease into his short hair.

Myra made a rude noise. "Like Da is even going to be home before Woolsday. Scrunch down so I can reach."

"Maybe you need a box to stand on," teases Hiraeth, but he does as she asks.

It feels strange to have anyone tugging on his hair - Link works so quickly with comb and razor to keep his hair trimmed now he barely even feels it. It gets weirder still when Kyra and Ishi return and help weave the glossy dark copper locks through his tight little braids.

They persuade him into the worn black sweater they found, and argue over which bright shawl looks most fetching with it. Hiraeth doesn't bother giving an opinion, because his entire capacity for reason is occupied with the mysteriously perfect old sweater and the unfamiliar jewels they've dumped in his lap.

The only thing they will say about any of it is that it was 'in the blue and gold box'. This could mean anything or nothing - most of the brass-bound storage trunks in the house are blue. The only notable exceptions are a carved and inlaid thornwood chest at the foot of his stepmother's bed, and a few worn chests in the attic so old they couldn't really be described as any color at all.

"It's still not right," whines Ishi. "Too plain. Needs buttons!"

"He needs kohl and alabaster," counters Kyra, grabbing the tray of cosmetics.

"White is too bright - use blue. Opposite of his eyes, to disguise those shadows," says Kyra. "You should mind your beauty sleep, hibi."

"Purple is opposite of gold," whines Ishi. "Blue is stupid - look, the nightshade overshot is the best blue in the whole pile but with black it's gross."

"But we don't have purple. Anyways I think you have to be noble to buy it, even in the cities," says Kyra. "We could use the russet powders. On him it would be a lot softer."

"Close your eyes or I might poke you," says Myra, threatening him with the kohl sticks. "We'll pick the color after the lines are done. Don't fidget either, or it'll come out crooked."

Hiraeth sighs for dramatic effect, and endeavors to hold his position as they ask him to. The cosmetics feel gummy and warm. Their little fingers smudging it into his lashes and adjusting the sweep of their lines are confident and strong. They don't drop their tools even once. He forgets he is supposed to be testing them.

"What about - green? To match the jewels," he mumbles, interrupting another argument about the proper shade for him.

Kyra dabs a little malachite on his lids, and steps back. All three of them make the gross sound in unison - and Ishi suggests trying gold instead. They don't have gold powders, only a gold lip cream, likely stolen from their mother. They paint this on his eyelids, and smudge a bit along his cheekbones, dusting it with mica powder.

Hiraeth finds the brushes ticklish and the subtle weight of the pigments distracting. They paint and argue for at least an hour, and he decides their love of elaborate artifice is far too much work. The dark kohl is especially startling, and he can't decide if he likes the effect. The festival curls tickle when they brush his cheek, his ear, the back of his neck - and his reflection looks so incredibly strange. Not himself at all, but a glittering stranger.

The sweater though. The tiny smooth stitches are worked in the softest wool he's ever handled, with six polished onyx buttons marching down a tidy placket. Though the cuffs are stretched out and frayed, someone went to the effort of stitching up the little snags and whipping around the ragged edges with yarn that almost matched. Little bits of crumbling sage and lavender cling to the fabric, and though it stinks of cedar oil and it's far too wide, it's so comfortable against his skin he resolves to steal it for good, no matter where they found it.

And the jewels-! He wonders if they were some part of the wedding costume when his parents married. Perhaps the enameled and gem-encrusted snake forms have some significance to the Gerudo idea of religion. That could easily explain why he's never seen them before - and the tangled little green snakes with the hidden bells are somewhat delicate. The mass of the wide pectoral is cleverly hinged in dozens of places, and the wristlets as well.

To his surprise, the pieces are large enough even for him, the pectoral sitting wide of his forged chain necklace and the wide bracelets hanging loose. He wonders if the wristlets are meant to be an arm cuff instead - except the girls produce a pair of jeweled golden cobra undeniably sized for that purpose. They fuss at him for being too thin to keep the green-eyed cobra where they belong, oblivious to the implication of those ornaments.

Hiraeth is the largest human he's ever heard of, and these are not Goron designs.

The stairs creak as the girls argue over what to do with the earloops when he hasn't any piercings, and how to most fetchingly arrange the little hair clasps and curious brow ornament. Sharp-edged ice blooms in his gut. He didn't hear the front door open. He didn't hear any warning at all. Hiraeth opens his eyes, heart racing.

Link stands in the open doorway, a heavy stack of papers in his left fist. His cold blue eyes sweep over the tableaux and back to Hiraeth.

The girls don't notice.

"I didn't expect-" begins Hiraeth.

"Do you think I'm stupid?" Link speaks softly, but his furious presence floods the chaotic little room.

The girls freeze.

Ishi recovers from the surprise first. "We were just taking a little break from studying. We'll clean it all up tomorrow, promise. After the test. Right?"

The twins agree, cheeks bright and green eyes darting from piles of fashion plates to heaped cloth and scattered cosmetic pots.

"Did you really think you would get away with this?" Link stares only at Hiraeth, crinkling the papers in his fist.

"Oh baba - we were going to put it all back," whines Ishi. "We didn't break anything and the smudges will come out when it's all washed anyway."

"We just thought - see, Leela and Saso are with Mom at the neighbors' house. With bread," begins Kyra.

"We were practicing," says Myra, fidgeting with the kohl sticks. "He's helping us study. For the test. Labrynnan vocabulary, and there's a maths exam soon too, and a whole list of - baba, please. It's really boring, so we were just-"

"What have I said about lies in this house?" Link strides into the room, thrusting the papers toward them.

Kyra hisses and nudges Myra. Their eyes go wide as they realize it's their schoolwork in his fist.

"It's mostly busywork," says Hiraeth with a deliberate shrug. He pretends he's calm. He pretends he's not torn between irrational terror and baseless rage. "None of them are really learning anything with the weather like this - and their handwriting is atrocious. I was just-"

"How long has this been going on? Months? Years? Have you no shame?" Link glowers down at them, and for a moment Hiraeth is certain he will strike them with the offending papers.

"But baba - what does it hurt if we have a little fun first and study after?" Ishi whines. "It's not fair. School is boring."

Link works his jaw in silence for a moment, and Hiraeth scrambles for words through the fog of his wicked imaginings. He can't stop seeing Link striking out in fury. Himself striking back. His sisters cowering in fear. Blood. Storm. Darkness.

"Fair! I will show you fair," growls Link.

The girls shriek in despair as he stalks to the little iron stove in the corner of the room and stuffs the papers inside. Hiraeth tries to scramble to his feet but the red velvet curtain is somehow tangled around him, and he ends up on his hands and knees instead.

"Out," bellows Link, gesturing to the door. "Go - tell your mother what you've done. Beg her for mercy, if you dare. Confess to her how her daughters are so easily led to lie and cheat and steal."

"But baba-" begins Ishi, for the twins are blubbering over the stove and the loss of all the schoolwork he's done or recopied for them.

"I said out," shouts Link.

The girls flee in tears as Hiraeth struggles to undo all the knots and ribbons and pins securing the faded red velvet.

"As for you," rasps Link, looming over him, hands balled into fists. "You are old enough to know better than to think this bullshit acceptable."

"Father - I can explain," he begins. "It doesn't hurt anything but their handwriting if I help them. The important thing is if they know the substance of the lesson-"

"You have done every harm taking advantage of their innocent trust, leading them into lawless chaos," says Link. "I should have known Ishi didn't figure out how to pick locks on her own."

Hiraeth swallows hard. He's never picked a single lock - his clumsiness is infamous in the village - why would he even try? The only things he can do with any grace are entirely of the mind: writing and calculating, speaking and singing. He is getting better with the cittern - slowly. He still doesn't dare carry it farther than the next room.

"I was going to put them back," he stammers. "I thought - I've never seen Mom wear these, I didn't think she'd miss them for one day. It made the twins happy - you know how much they adore pretty things. The winter's been hard for them."

"Do you really think I'm that stupid?" Link asks, his voice tight and dangerous.

Hiraeth wonders again where the girls found the snake jewels and the fine black sweater, and if they were locked away in the same place. He knows Link won't believe him if he tells the truth, and even if he could persuade his father, that would only make him more angry at the girls.

"No baba," whispers Hiraeth, noticing too late the curved little knife in his father's left hand.

"I should have curbed your willfulness long ago, and that is my error to answer for," says Link, flat and cold. "Take it off. All of it. Now."

Hiraeth fumbles to strip the jewelry off, piling it on the forgotten square of faded green silk. He struggles to keep his breath even, to smother his anxious imaginings, to ignore the churning in his stomach.

Link steps over the pile and grasps the bright festival curls in his fist.

Hiraeth kneels in painful stillness as his father slices through the tight little spinebraids. Handfuls of copper false curls and shreds of his own fiery hair tumble to the floor. He tries not to cry - but at least he manages to stay silent.

When it is done, Link orders him to his feet and out of the house. The twilight presses heavy on him, and he hears the cabinet lock snap as he stumbles into the muddy street. He doesn't understand why Link is so furious, but he wonders if this is it. If this time his wickedness has finally brought the formless doom that haunts his sleepless nights. If his father is casting him into the wilderness to live or die by his own wits. If his father will follow him with that little knife. If -

"Get up," snaps Link. "Unless you have a great desire to crawl to Goro's forge."

"No baba," says Hiraeth, biting back his questions. It is still several months to his birthday - and they always visit Brother Goro in the mornings. Never at night. How will they manage the path in the dark?

The answer proves to be: badly. Hiraeth is muddy from toe to crown by the time he sees the warm red light of Goro's forge ahead. His trousers are torn, and he can barely breathe through the heartsickness and redoubled headache. Link has not said a word - and worse, has resolutely stayed out of sight behind him.

Has he sinned so deeply his father will take back the necklace and disown him?

"What brings you in this damp hour little brother?" Goro booms from his seat in the banked forge. Smoke curls from his wide nose, and the whole building stinks of bombflower pollen.

Hiraeth bows, uncertain what to say.

"I don't know much about human customs," says Goro, chewing on his metal pipe. "But you look different, little guy. Taller maybe."

Hiraeth gestures helplessly to whatever remains of the cosmetics and his ragged hair. "Wasn't my idea."

"The hell it wasn't," snaps Link. He stalks to the forgestone and puts the box of bones and rings and stones in the middle of it.

"Oh," says Goro, brows furrowed. He rocks back against the coals and savors his pipe. "Bit early for more isn't it?"

"It's past time," says Link without turning. "Forge the rest."

Hiraeth stares at his father's back in disbelief. Last year there were still piles of tiny bits of steel and beads in the box. It doesn't make sense. Moments ago he was in a towering rage - and he's still furious. He's even belted on his sword. Why? Animals in the woods? If he meant to punish his wayward son, better he had done that first, surely?

But - that many rings would have to mean bracelets. Would mean he's somehow in one disastrous evening crossed the invisible boundary of childhood.

"All of them? That's a heavy burden for the little guy," rumbles Goro with a frown.

"All," says Link.

Hiraeth watches Goro work, weighing the silence between them. Near dawn he notices his father is drinking pale golden spirits directly from a faceted bottle, and he wonders if the bracelets are only a question of pride. So he can die as a man.

By the time Goro hammers the last pin into place, Hiraeth feels numb. The weight of the chains is nothing. The silence is nothing. The reek of sulphur and bombflower pollen is nothing. But - his father is sitting beside the door of the forge, head cradled in his hands.

Hiraeth realizes he's never seen Link pay Brother Goro for this task. A hundred thousand other menial little things - fixing the pothook and the shovel and honing his chisels. But never for this.

Goro douses the little forge and sets the special tools in a neat line to cool. He claps Hiraeth on the shoulder so hard he almost falls off the bench. "You doing ok little guy?"

"Yeah," lies Hiraeth, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

Sleeve.

Link let him keep the soft black sweater - didn't say a word about it.

Hiraeth stares at the fine - if now incredibly dirty - cloth in confusion. Why this, and nothing else?

Brother Goro crosses the forge and shoos Link outside, but Goron are not a quiet people. "Little brother - you can't keep this up forever."

"I don't need forever," says Link, voice rough. "Only long enough."

"You're going to lose him if you don't open your heart," says Goro. "The boy needs his father."

"Then the gods should have given him one," says Link bitterly.

Goro sighs like a broken bellows. "Little ones are hard going, little brother. But you gotta let em know who you are, or they never learn to know themselves."

"Din forbid I should pour darkness into a place of Light," recites Link softly, like someone remembering a dream.