Author's Notes: Darunia's
tale begins now, and the hardened warrior, both physically and metaphorically,
is forced to questions Link's strength.
Warnings: There
isn't much, but there are a few descriptions of Link's dead body.
Obligatory Disclaimer: I own nothing of Zelda or its characters.
Solid as the unbreakable stone, strong and powerful like the
infallible mountain, that's what we Goron call our warriors. For generations we, the fighting Goron, have
proven ourselves to be the unbeatable foes, the unfailing few, the dependable
and determined destroyers, and for a long time, I thought Little Brother Link
was one of us.
I guess I was wrong.
A part of me does not want to believe that he's gone, but
the rock hard truth-his insipid, frozen corpse-is resting right before me. The once lively, vibrant lad whom I had come
to love as if he were my own son is now only a motionless, hapless body, a pale
shadow of his former self.
I can't help but wonder why he chose to do this, more so,
why didn't Link at least speak to us of his pain? He still may have done it, but at least I wouldn't feel so
stranded on this lonely island of anger and confusion.
I feel…cheated, wronged, as I this whole occurrence should
never have happened. I feel angry, too,
for not being privy to Link's suffering so that I could lend a guiding hand. It's as if he didn't trust me enough to
help. Weren't we Goron brothers? Trust and confidentiality is what
brotherhood is all about.
Why did Link choose to end this in blood rather then glory,
and why in the Temple of Time? Was
this not the place that made him a man, a warrior, and a hero? Why not tell us for goddesses' sake?
I have so many questions and no answers, which is not a
surprise. After all, an impaled body
can only offer but a few precious answers when it's lying on an altar, still
discolored from the dried blood from its tunic.
Another nagging inquiry: Why haven't we moved his body? The seven of us are here…standing…too
shocked to move…
By the fiery quells of Death Mountain, Link deserve better then
this! I want to revere him, beautify
him, and prove him still the brave and noble young man I'd met so very long
ago.
But I can't. I'm
frozen, petrified like rock, made stationary by my own high moral and stubborn
disbelief. Just like the very mountain
I call my home I am static, frozen in time.
I still can't believe he's gone.
Perhaps it's too much to expect a one person to carry the
burden of a thousand crying voices on his or her shoulders. Maybe, in a way, my great expectations
should have been lowered just a bit.
And possibly, I should accept that, sometimes, mountains do
crumble.
Part 3: Next
excerpt: Impa: Eye of the Beholder.