The Legend of Zelda: Desert Rose

Author's Notes:

Full author's note's can be found in my profile.

Full cover art can be found at: lozparadisecalling . tumblr . com

Everyone knows the story of the loved shared between a simple farmgirl and the Hero of Time. Some may even know of the threads of fate that bound them together before they'd even met. But not many know of the love that allowed those two destined souls to meet.

That story, like all stories, came about only because of the actions of those that came before, of those who fought and wept and bled to make it happen. This is a story of a love that defied the odds; a love between a young castle stablehand and the proud Gerudo thief that stole his heart.

This is the story of a man called Talon, and his desert rose.

We lose our innocence not in one great incident, but by the slow accumulation of knowledge about the true nature of the world around us. Those whom we shelter for fear of hurting only suffer all the more when their innocence is finally torn from them, and for many it comes far too late. The old phrase "Death by a thousand cuts," has never been so apropos, for that is how our innocence dies.

Prologue: Part I

Hyrule Castle Infirmary
-= Winter =-
18 years prior to Ocarina of Time

It's been said that those looking for proof that nobles were no better than the common folk need only look to the flu that swept through the kingdom that year.

The winter had been especially bleak, and the mortuary had long since been forced to packing their overflow in the snowbanks lining the city streets. The great furnace burned night and day for weeks on end, illuminating from below the heavy snow clouds that hung over the city like a widow's veil. Grey ice mixed with the black soot of those fed to the endless flame, smothering the city beneath a shroud of dirty snow.

Even the King had been struck ill early in the season, though the best healers and potion masters had been summoned from the far corners of the kingdom and had worked tirelessly to bring him back from the edge of death. Still, it had been a close thing.

The newly crowned Queen kept watch over those who fell ill within the castle walls, her regular trips to the infirmary both a source of distress for the nurses who feared for her health, and a welcome respite for the sick. Many attributed their recovery to her tender care and ready smile just as much as the healer's knowledge of medicines.

Not everyone had been so lucky.

Talon Lon – a growing boy of only 14 years of age – watched in dazed silence as the healer pulled her robed head away from his mother's still lips. Through the protective mask covering the healer's lower face he could see the pursed curve of her lips, the deep lines around her eyes, and he knew what they meant. The nurse standing by the headboard reached over as the healer moved further down the line of beds and pulled the thin blanket over his mother's serene features. He slumped against the wall beside the bed and hung his head between his knees. He had arrived too late to say goodbye.

Ralon, his father, stood at the end of the hall near the bay windows, puffing thoughtfully on a stout pipe as he gazed out over the icy city streets. The doctors had long since given up on trying to convince him to put out the pipe, even going so far as to threaten to have him thrown bodily from the room.

Ralon had merely laughed. He was a powerfully built man whose frame had just started to go to fat, and had a stubborn pride that rivaled even the King's. When he got it in his mind to do something it would take a force of nature to stop him, and not even the head physician could separate him from his beloved pipe.

He had already said his goodbyes.

Talon looked up at the soft padding of approaching footsteps. Lantern light flickered in the hallway, dueling with the crackling fires that warmed the infirmary.

A royal guard appeared first, holding the lantern before him, and stepped to the side of the passage. The Queen entered next. The jewels in her circlet sparkled beneath her hood in the firelight, and her slight frame was bundled in layers of heavy fur to ward off the freezing drafts as they made their way through the castle. Talon was surprised to see her at this time of day. The Queen usually made her rounds after breakfast and supper, and here it was just after noon.

The Queen's eyes fell on the shrouded form of her former handmaiden, but the only sign that the sight affected her was the almost imperceptible sagging of her shoulders. For an instant Talon hated her. How could she look at his mother, her closest friend and confidant for nearly a decade, as if she'd never mattered? Then he felt the anger slowly seep from his bones. They had all seen too much death that winter. What was his mother, ultimately, but one more casualty to add to the ever growing list?

The Queen let her hood down, a wisp of steam slowly rising from her dark blonde hair. She looked about with soft grey eyes, taking note of Talon, then finding his father at the end of the hall, and moved towards where he stood at the parapet. Ralon turned when he sensed someone beside him and blinked in surprise. The Queen favored him with a disapproving look, and he snuffed his pipe sheepishly. Some forces were best left unchallenged.

"Mr. Lon. I just received word. You have my deepest sympathies," she said, dipping her head in acknowledgment. She waited until he completed a polite bow before continuing. "She was a wonderful woman, and you can't imagine how happy I was when she agreed to come with me to Hyrule. I couldn't have asked for a better handmaiden ... or friend, for that matter."

"Aye," He said, his voice thick with a northern Holodrum brogue and just the fainest hint of emotion. "And she was ah fine wife and mother, ta boot."

"I'm sorry that you came all this way only for this to happen," the Queen continued. "I know that I have no right to interrupt your grieving, but I was wondering if I might ask a favor of you?"

"Anything, yur Highness."

"As you might know, our stablemaster succumbed to his fever several days ago, and I'd heard that you've some experience running a stable." She raised her brows, curious.

Ralon nodded. "Aye. We had ah wee ranch up north before we moved here. Forty head o' cattle, ah few horses. Ducks," he added softly, his eyes going distant. "She always loved the ducks."

The Queen nodded, pressing on. "Then it would seem that your talents are being wasted in the scullery. Even though it pains me to say this, we can't afford the time to properly grieve if it means the death of our livestock. I know you've only been here for half a year, and that the only reason you came is because I begged your wife to accompany me from Holodrum, but I would like to offer you the position of stablemaster. At least until the current crisis is past."

"And then?" he asked, his voice weary.

"And then, once things have returned to some semblance of normal, you may leave if you wish, with all of our blessings and a generous stipend for your trouble," she said, adding, "But I would hope that if the position agrees with you that you would consider staying on in a more permanent capacity."

Ralon sighed, running a hand through his thinning brown hair. "Aye, I can do that," he said. "And I expect I'll be earnin' more than ah scullery washer too, eh?"

The Queen's lips curled. "Of course."

"Then if yur Highness would allow me, I'd like ah wee bit more time before I go'n inspect mah new stables."

She nodded her head graciously, the picture of royal gentility. With nothing more to say she drew her hood once more as she turned and the guard escorted her from the room.

Talon hung his head. Some part of him had hoped that they might soon return to Holodrum, but there was little chance of that now.

Ralon looked to his pipe and seemed about to relight it when he growled and tucked it into a pocket in his tunic. He turned and approached his son, his brow furrowed.

Talon stood on unsteady legs as his father drew close. He had been ignored when he had rushed into the infirmary, but now he felt a sense of dread. His father grew quiet when he was angry, the perfect picture of calm before the seething volcano finally erupted.

"Da, I—" he began, but flinched back as Ralon swiped a meaty hand through the air, cutting him off.

"I cannae imagine what yeh was thinkin'!" Ralon yelled, his accent thickening with rage. "Yeh knew yur mum was sick, yeh knew she was worse off than most!"

Talon struggled to find the words. "I'm sorry, Da. She … she seemed like she was getting better, like the others. I didn't think she would get worse so fast. I didn't think—"

"Tha's right! Yeh didn't think, didja?" Ralon continued, jamming his finger into the boy's temple. A passing nurse shushed them, earning a glare from Ralon, but he lowered his voice a fraction. "Yeh were off canoodling with them no-good friends of yurs while she was drownin' in her own spit! And not once did it occur to yeh to come visit yur poor ol' Mum today b'fore yeh ran off, not once! She died thinkin' that her own son didn't care."

Talon winced under the verbal lash, but remained silent. What could he say? His father was right. He had shirked his responsibilities and slipped out early that morning so he could spend extra time with his friends. And now he would never speak to his mother again. He cleared his throat, fighting the urge to cough.

"You have to put more thought intah what your actions mean to those around yeh," Ralon continued. After a moment he heaved a deep sigh in frustration. "D'yeh ken what I'm sayin'? Is it workin' through that thick nob o' yurs or am I just wastin' mah breath?"

"Yes … Da." Talon replied, then turned and coughed heavily into the crook of his elbow. Once the coughing fit passed he rubbed at his chest, wincing at the deep ache. One of the doctors looked nervously in their direction.

Ralon shook his head and his voice softened as he laid a hand on his son's shoulder. "Well, come on then, lad. Let's get yeh in front of ah fire an' burn that stubborn bastard out o' yeh."

Talon threw one last look over his shoulder at the shrouded forms lining the hall as he allowed himself to be led from the room.

Northern Foothills, The Great Sand Sea
-= Summer =-
17 years prior to Ocarina of Time

They were on the final day of their hunt and had just begun the return trek to the fortress when the moldarach ambushed them in the foothills.

There were twelve of them in total, all female with fiery red hair, the majority 10 years old save for the three women twice that age who had volunteered to escort the hunting party. A single old crone rounded out the group, her back hunched and hair long since turned to grey, though her age remained a secret to everybody.

Every girl in the troupe save for one had scored their first kills. Sadly, the youngest of the group – Syrenne – had not yet managed to earn her blood, much to her frustration. Determination burned in her golden eyes as she followed closely behind the three older women.

They were tracking a tektite through a low gully when the moldarach erupted from its hiding place in a spray of dust and gravel, spearing one of the older Gerudo warriors straight though the chest with its meter-long sting. The woman died almost instantly as the demon's acid burned through her heart. She didn't even have time to scream as her body collapsed to the desert floor.

The other two warriors reacted instantly, spreading out on both sides of the sand demon and yelling to distract it as the old crone led the group of children away. Attempting to run from the monster in this desert would do them no good; in this heat there was little chance that they would make it very far, and if their escorts did fall, the massive scorpion would be on them in minutes. It was easily twice the size of a caravan wagon, and its speed over rough terrain could match all but the fastest horses. Their only choice was to hide and hope that the warriors could perform their duties admirably.

"Hurry now, girls, get behind those rocks," the old woman hissed, rushing them towards the cragged boulders lining the walls of the gully. The golden bangles around her wrists jingled as she stepped gingerly over the rough terrain. The oldest of the initiates offered a helping hand, but was waved off. "Fool girl, do as I say!"

The eight initiates clambered up the rocks and dumped their packs. At their guide's urging they pressed themselves into the cracks between the rocks, smearing their white clothes with dark desert sand. The boulders were too heavy for the moldarach to push aside, and too closely clustered to wedge its massive claws between. Hopefully it would provide some protection for the younger girls.

As they settled into their hiding place, Syrenne leaned out for a better view. She watched in awe as the two remaining Gerudo fought, their red warrior's silks folding loosely over lean muscle, allowing the young women to move unhindered.

"Syrenne, get your fool head down," the old woman called out, waving a black shrouded arm.

"Yes, Baba Kaede," Syrenne replied, ducking back. She waited as soon as the old woman had turned and was distracted with the others before peering around the boulder once more. Her eyes went wide as she watched the battle play out before her.

The creature's knobbed hide was nearly impenetrable, its glistening black armor nearly a foot thick in some places. Layers of retractable, overlapping chitin protected its one weak spot: the single monstrous eye that sat above its serrated mandibles. Traditional tactics stated that two Gerudo warriors would distract the monster and attempt to lead it towards an ambush point where a third would leap forward with a glaive or spear and pierce the creature's eye. With the third of their party dead, they were forced to improvise, and the battle raged for several long minutes with no decisive advantage on either side.

Syrenne brushed a loose tuft of fiery hair from her eyes, chewing nervously on her lower lip as she watched the two warriors dash and weave between the rocks strewn across the gully floor, their movements as elegant and well-practiced as any dance. They struck and twirled with their glaives, their tied ponytails whipping about their bodies, but ultimately they were doing little to harm the creature.

The moldarach made up for its lumbering size with sheer ferocity, striking forward and pressing the attack, heedless of the warrior's glaives as they bounced harmlessly aside. It grabbed at them with clutching claws, but every so often it would strike forward with its massive sting, scoring the rocks with bubbling trails of acid as the Gerudo warriors dodged out of the way. Each strike of its tail seemed to come closer and closer to hitting its mark.

The warriors both struck several glancing blows on the scorpions jointed legs, drawing thick black ichor from the wounds, but it only seemed to enrage the beast further and soon they began to tire. Both were panting heavily, sweat pouring down their tanned flesh beneath the burning morning sun.

As their strength began to falter, so too did their speed. The moldarach was too fast even for the fleet-footed Gerudo. Just as one of the women stumbled, it skittered forward and clamped a massive claw around the warrior's thigh. The warrior screamed and dropped her glaive as she was wrenched into the air and tossed several meters, landing in a tumble amongst the rocks near the clustered children. Her kukri slipped from her belt and clattered against the rocks.

The other warrior called out to the monster, jabbing at its larger pincer with ineffectual thrusts to try and gain its attention, but the creature sensed blood and pressed towards the fallen woman.

Syrenne reached out and gripped the woman's kukri, feeling its heft. Her eyes flicked towards the groaning warrior before her. The traditional warrior's glaive was too heavy for her to wield in her slight hands, far too heavy, but the kukri would do quite nicely. It was a short ranged weapon, barely longer than her forearm, but the unique forward curve of the blade meant that she could do some incredible damage with her swings. In her first demonstration of the weapons she had seen a warrior not much older than herself behead a boar in one vicious swipe.

In an instant her mind was set, and she drew her own kukri from the small of her back. The blades were mismatched – her own being made for an initiate and thus smaller, more compact – but both were equally sharp. She knew that if she did nothing that the woman lying injured on the ground would die within the next few seconds. Ignoring the cries of her guardian and fellow initiates, she leapt from her hiding place and dashed past the fallen woman, her blood pounding in her ears as she charged the massive scorpion.

The moldarach screeched in glee as it saw an easier morsel charging towards it, and reached for her with eager claws. Syrenne threw herself to the right, ducking beneath the smaller of the creature's mismatched pincers, and scrambled between a pair of boulders that would have proven too tight for the older women. As it was she could barely fit, but she made it just in time. The larger pair of claws cracked against the top of the boulders, scraping along harmlessly as she snaked through the narrow passage.

The creature reared back, to better position itself so that it could attempt to grab her again, but she didn't give it the chance. She drew her legs beneath her and leapt upwards, kicking off of the small outcropping between the boulders, and drove both blades straight up into the creature's vulnerable eye.

The moldarach screamed in agony. Its mandibles snapped together inches from her exposed belly but she twisted aside and planted her feet on both boulders, flinching as its thick hairy barbs brushed against her thighs. The creature's tail lanced downwards as it tried to impale her and drive her away, tracing a ribbon of fire down her shoulder and across her back as the acid of its sting began to burn through clothes and flesh. She cried out as the acid seared the skin on her shoulders and ate through her halter, but she gritted her teeth and drove the pain from her mind. She was Gerudo; pain was an old friend.

She screamed at the monster in defiance, matching its agonized wails as she braced her feet against the boulder, pressing her kukri deeper into the creature's eye. She used all of the strength in her back and thighs to push her blades deeper – digging deep even as the monstrous scorpion tried to skitter backwards – until her forearms were completely enveloped by the pungent fluid oozing from the creature's collapsing eye. Her shoulders were screaming and she felt the tattered remnants of her halter fall about her waist.

With one last cry she leapt forward and drove her arms completely into the creature, leaving her midriff exposed and pressed against its quivering maw, but her blades pierced some vital nerve behind the monster's eye. The creature twitched violently, then its legs collapsed beneath it, nearly dragging her down on top of it. With a final crooning shudder it lay still.

Syrenne kneeled on the rock, panting. For a moment there was utter silence as the remains of the moldarach's eye slid down her arms, then she stood and turned at the sound of shifting rocks behind her. At her feet stood the lone uninjured warrior with her glaive planted in the sand, staring at her with a mixture of awe and respect. A hint of a smile could be seen behind her crimson veil.

The initiates were scrambling from their hiding spot. Two crouched near the wounded warrior, helping her up into a seated position, while the rest followed behind the old crone as she tenderly made her way between the rocks. Halfway down the slope she stopped, and with a glint of pride and admonishment in her eyes she thrust a single gnarled fist into the air, the Gerudo sign for victory.

Syrenne licked her lips, tasting her sweat. Still panting and with her pulse singing in her ears she held her left hand high in response, the kukri clutched in her fist – bare-breasted and dripping with sweat, blood, and cloudy ichor. The eldest Gerudo took up a warrior's cry, thrusting her walking staff into the air with both hands, and the rest of their troupe followed suit – even the older warriors – cheering her great victory.

Syrenne smiled fiercely as her arm dropped to her side and her legs began to tremble, the adrenalin finally beginning to burn from her tired body. Finally, she was no longer a girl, but a woman. A true warrior of the sands.

Quill cacti were thin and held little water, but if you were careless enough to brush against one their spines would imbed deep in your flesh and were almost impossible to remove without cutting. They grew plentifully among the foothills, and normally would be seen as little more than a nuisance since they bore no fruit. Now the small band of Gerudo scoured the rocks, gingerly cutting and collecting as many as they could find. They would burn well for the celebratory fire tonight, and they needed all that they could gather.

The young girls clustered around Syrenne as they worked, much to the displeasure of what remained of their escort, constantly finding reasons to talk with her and congratulate her on the greatest kill that any of them had ever seen. She enjoyed the attention at first, reveling in the admiration, but soon grew uncomfortable as the day grew long. Eventually she drifted towards Baba Kaede, who chased the clustered girls off with a swing of her walking staff.

"Shoo, all of you! You can't be getting much work done if you're all gabbing like ducks!" the old woman cried, and the girls scattered, giggling and shrieking with laughter. "Spread out, or I'll put a hex on you that will shrivel your ears, and we'll see who's laughing then!"

As soon as the last girl dispersed Syrenne turned to the old woman and bowed. "Thank you, Baba Kaede."

The old woman grunted and pressed her partially filled satchel into the young girl's hands. "Thank me by carrying my tinder. This old back of mine isn't as resilient as it used to be."

Syrenne's eyes crinkled with laughter. "Yes, Baba Kaede."

Kaede looked at her with an evaluating eye as they worked. "How does your back feel, child?"

Syrenne smiled, fingering the wrappings that had replaced her ruined halter. "I can hardly feel it anymore. If it wasn't for your knowledge I would be in agony right now. Thank you."

Kaede grunted. "We should have enough poultice to last us at least until we reach the Desert Colossus. If you start to feel dizzy, tell one of the Sisters," she said, dislodging a dead thistlethorn with her staff. "Moldarach venom is some of the nastiest shit I've ever encountered. It reacts with the water in your blood, cooking you from the inside if you've received a large enough dose. It would be a shame to lose such a promising young girl to something as foolish as heatstroke."

It took the entire day to collect enough tinder, but by nightfall they had a worthy pyre for their fallen Sister. It was a sad fact that they couldn't carrying the body with them back to the fortress and give her a proper funeral, but they had a week's travel ahead of them and they would never make it back before the rot set in. Instead she received a warrior's service. Abbreviated though it was, it was still beautiful to watch as night fell and the uninjured Sister danced in front of the burning pyre for her fallen comrade.

After a light supper they gathered around the pyre and the two elder Sisters brought out the paints that were to be saved for the end of the hunt. The initiate girls tittered with glee and playfully fought over who would be first to be painted, eventually deciding that order of kill would be the fairest way to sort themselves. They sat patiently in line as the older women went to work painting their cheeks.

Before Syrenne could join the back of the line she was dragged to the far side of the pyre by Kaede. The old witch sat on a small boulder and planted Syrenne on the ground in front of her. She clucked her tongue as she peeled back the crusted bandage on the young girl's back. "We're going to need to change this before you bed down for the night. There's still some venom seeping out of your skin."

Syrenne glanced over her shoulder. "It still doesn't hurt."

"That's because I know more about potions and poultices than the rest of the Gerudo combined," Kaede cackled. "If I had the proper herbs, I could numb your entire body to where you wouldn't blink an eye if you'd lost an arm to that demon. Koume and Kotake only wish they had my talents."

The old witch reached into her medicine pouch and pulled out a small canister and paintbrush. Syrenne's heart leapt with joy at the sight, but she blinked in surprise when the paint was revealed to be pitch black and not the traditional white.

"Let the others have their whites," Kaede said with a conspiratorial wink as she washed the dirt from the young girl's face with a clean kerchief. "Something as impressive as a moldarach kill deserves a little something … special."

Syrenne closed her eyes and relished the feeling of the brush on her proffered cheek as the old witch skillfully painted a scorpion upon her skin. She felt a small thrill as the brush swept across her chin and nose and forehead, pincers and claws reaching across her face, its arced sting curled above her eye. Finally the elder woman sat back and tilted the younger girl's head from side to side, admiring her work.

"I'll admit that I didn't have high hopes for the lot of you when I first saw your age group. Undisciplined, gossiping, entitled little brats, all of you," Kaede said, her voice going soft. "But you've matured beautifully. I'm proud of what you've accomplished."

Syrenne looked across the fire at the other girls who had already finished. Their cheeks were painted white with the symbols of their first kills as well, though most were of desert tektites or skulltulas; challenging creatures in their own right, but hardly anything as menacing as the moldarach had been. She had never heard of anyone coming back with anything stronger than a helmasaur to their name on their first hunt before, and her heart swelled with pride at the thought of her tribe's reaction to the marking painted upon her cheek when they returned to the desert fortress.

At least it would help to make up for her other deficiencies. "Not enough," Syrenne murmured sadly to herself.

Kaede raised a curious brow. "And how is that?"

The young girl sighed, then shook her head. "I haven't matured at all. Keira and Jaelyn have already reddened their sheets, while I've just barely begun to bud. How long must I wait?"

"Every young woman is different, little Rose. You'll blossom soon enough," Kaede said, taking a sip from her flask.

Syrenne smiled at the affectation. Renne, or Rose in the tongue of their people, specifically one that grew only at a small cluster of oases to the far south. "But why is it taking so long? What's wrong with me?"

"Nothing is wrong," Kaede replied. "Each girl bleeds in her own time. Don't be so eager to leave your childhood behind. You'll miss it once it's gone. You may still have a year left, perhaps more."

"A whole year?" Syrenne cried. She laid her chin on her folded arms as she stared into the burning flames. "The other girls are already planning names for their daughters, and I still have a full year to wait?"

"So eager for that, are you?" Kaede asked. "Tell me, girl, how are babies made?"

Syrenne flushed. "I … y-you have to find a willing m-male, and he … ah—"

"Out with it, girl," Kaede snapped. "I'm far too old to wait for the red to leave your face."

"He spends his seed in you," Syrenne finished, her cheeks burning.

Kaede cackled, clapping her hands on bony knees. "You can slay sand demons and stitch wounds without a second's thought but stumble about the thought of bringing life into the world?" She ran a withered hand through the young girl's crimson hair. "Take some words of wisdom from an old woman who's outlived a dozen daughters and midwifed an entire tribe: You'd make a fine Mother, little Rose, but what we need more of are thinkers and fighters, not breeders."

"Can't I be both?" the young girl asked hopefully.

The old witch shook her head sadly. "I used to think so in my youth, but now I'm not so certain." Her gaze wandered to distant memories as the firelight reflected in her eyes. "There used to be thousands of us spread throughout this land, you know. There were once vast cities brimming with culture and life at every corner of this desert. We were the envy of other races, oases of beauty amongst the burning sand. Our people were once respected by our allies, and feared by our enemies."

"But now," she gestured towards the burning pyre. "Now we number in the mere hundreds, with more lost every year. And what has changed, I ask you?"

When Syrenne had no answer she continued, "We've given up the fighting spirit of our ancestors. Once our revered Mothers—" She spat the word as if it fouled her tongue, "–return from the greenlands with pregnant bellies, they become complacent, satisfied that they've contributed to the continuation of our race, as if their sole purpose in life has been fulfilled. We are mocked in other lands, derided as vagrants, omens of misfortune, blamed for every perceived slight. "

She shook her head sadly. "But why care about such inconsequential things such as honor and tradition when they only have to travel to the nearest town to satisfy their lusts?"

"But that is how our people have always endured," Syrenne said, frowning at the old crone's words. "We travel to other lands to … to breed … so that we can remain free women. So that we don't have to submit to men or obey any king but the one that the Goddesses bless us with every hundred years. You sound as if you think we should abandon that."

Kaede chuckled. "Oh, don't get me wrong, little one. Men serve a purpose, and many of them can be quite enjoyable. But to be ruled by your desire for laying with them and birthing children until your hair turns grey is no different than shackling your own wrists and handing them the key. Once there was a time when the people of the world came to us, and we selected only the strongest, the most talented, the most desirable as mates. Now we crawl on our bellies to the farthest reaches of the land, begging for the scraps."

She turned to Syrenne and laid a hand on her head. The girl was surprised to see something in her eyes that she hadn't expected: fondness. "I see great things for you, little Rose. You have a fire within you, a quick wit and a burning curiosity. That's why I want you to be thinking, learning, asking questions even when your Sisters are interested in doing nothing but slapping bellies with their mates. You'll make a fine leader some day, and I hope that the day comes that you or your daughters will lead our people to greatness once more. And who knows? In time, if you show some propensity for magic, you could even become as ancient as me."

"You're not so old, Baba Kaede," Syrenne said defensively, though in truth she realized that she had no idea of the witch's true age.

"I'm older than Koume and Kotake combined, and they like to brag that they've lived for centuries," Kaede said, pointing a curled finger at the young girl. "And that's all that you'll get from me on the subject."

She sighed wearily, and Syrenne could finally see the first signs of fatigue in her withered frame. "But I can feel it in my bones. This might even be the last trek into the deep desert that I take with you youngsters. My only regret is that I could not do more for our people before I pass."

"My time is nearly at an end, little one," she held up a hand to forestall any objections. "When I go, Babas Koume and Kotake will be the eldest of the clan, and I fear what paths those two sisters might take our people down. It will be up to strong girls—" She stopped and corrected herself. "Strong women like you to stand up for our race, should it come to that."

"I can't imagine a time without you, Baba Kaede. I've learned so much from you over the years," Syrenne said.

Kaede smiled. "Don't you worry. The tribe existed for centuries before me, as it will for centuries after I've passed from their memories." She paused, thinking, then said, "When we return I'll make sure to schedule extra sessions with you. Hopefully I can drive at least some of my knowledge into that stubborn head of yours."

She paused, then lifted the girl's chin and looked her in the eye. "And when I'm gone, if you've proven a worthy student, I want you to be my Pyre Maiden."

Syrenne felt her throat swell with emotion. The Pyre Maiden's duty was to perform the Spirit Dance, meant to symbolize the dead woman's journey through her life and to ease the passing of the soul from this world to the next. At the beginning of the dance, the Maiden would be the one who set the pyre ablaze. Normally the position was reserved for the closest friend or relative of the deceased, those who knew them best to fully embody their life in dance. For the eldest Gerudo to offer her such an honor...

"I would be proud to light your pyre, Baba Kaede," she finally said, blinking back tears of joy.

"As well you should be," Kaede said, cackling. She took a deep draught from her flask before pressing it into Syrenne's hands. "Come! Drink for the honored dead, and celebrate with your Sisters."

Syrenne took a tentative sip from the flask, coughing at the strong burn of the cactus-lily wine. Kaede clapped her on the back and raised her voice to be heard over the roaring fire as she called out to the rest of their party, her staff held high above her head. "Give praise to the Goddesses and sleep well this night, you who have crossed the burning sands and battled the worst that the darkness could offer!" she called out, drawing the golden eyes of the surrounding Gerudo towards her. "For when we reach the fortress you will return to the tribe not as children, but as Sisters; true warriors, Goddesses in your own right! Let no one take that from you, not even Demise himself! We are the Gerudo, the Children of the Sands, and we will fight unto our dying breath!"

Their undulating, defiant cry echoed out across the dunes and into the night as they danced and drank and celebrated.

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Ciao!
Raynre Valence – Sage of Time