Chapter 16
Darkness.
"What is your title?"
That voice again. Soft and quiet, yet insistent. It gnawed at him, pushing and prodding. For hours - or was it days? - it had asked him questions. The queries had settled into his very core, cutting and shredding away at his mind. He no longer knew who the voice was. But he certainly knew who he was.
He braced himself.
"I am the Hero of Time."
His body spasmed, jerking his neck up as waves of magical energy washed over him. His head slumped, still tingling from the pain.
"You are the King's slave."
He gritted his teeth and spat the words out, "I am the Hero of Time."
The pain soared through him, flowing through his veins, rattling his bones, tearing his muscles.
"King's slave."
The voice. Soft and patient.
"Hero of Time."
He bit down so hard to keep from shrieking out that one of his lower teeth stabbed into his gums. Blood flowed. He stank of sweat and human filth. His chains jingled slightly with every sharp, gasping breath he took.
There was the thudding. He did not know where it came from. It rolled through his brain, dizzying his soul. It pounded in time with his beating heart. Apart from the voice, it was the only other thing he could hear. He could see nothing.
Time had no meaning here. One minute, one hundred summers. All the same to him.
He listened.
Nothing, except the thumping.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
The voice was gone.
He waited, daring not to move even the slightest notch. He hung there, lingering.
Time passed. Hours? Days?
Finally, he could sleep. His eyes stung from being kept open unnaturally. He had not tasted the sweet release of sleep for such a long time. He felt his body relax and his eyelids slowly shut.
He screamed. The magic tore through him again. It was like a physical thing now, ramming into his face. He felt his eyelids and cheeks puff up. Tears of blood fell from his aching eyes.
The voice returned.
"You will not sleep."
"I must."
"You killed Malon of Lon Lon Ranch."
"No," he said, coughing. His voice was raspy. "Cyle killed her."
Another wave hit him. The darkness spun. For a moment, he thought he could make out different shades of black.
"You killed her."
He gasped. The voice was making him nauseous. He felt the bile rise.
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"King's slave, you killed her. You know it. I know it. Everyone knows it. Everyone hates you for it."
He tried to shake his head, but it felt like lead.
The voice continued.
"They hate you. They drove you away. The people hate you. Talon hates you." A pause. "Zelda hates you."
"No," he whispered.
"Yes. She cursed your name."
"She sent messengers to check on me." Every word sent stabbing pains through his mouth and throat. Sleep. He wanted to sleep. Please, let him sleep.
"How do you know she sent them?"
"What?" He could not think. Fatigue weighed him down, his eyes feeling like rock. "Who else would?"
"The King," the voice said. "He cares for you like he cares for all his subjects. He is the only one that cares for you. You are his slave. You will serve him, protect him from his enemies."
The King? He was too tired to think. Yes, they were Royal Messengers. Either the King or Queen could send them. Thinking hurt. Sleep. Please. Sleep.
Again, there was silence. Again, he waited.
More time passed.
Hunger bit at him. His stomach screamed for satiation. He had not eaten for as long as he had not slept.
"Are you hungry, King's Slave?"
The voice floated around him. Something snapped within him. He would not give the voice the satisfaction of knowing his discomfort.
"No," he coughed. "I am not."
"Are you sure?"
The smell came to him. Roasted vegetables, juicy meat, creamy soup, baked bread, sweet fruit. He could picture each one as their scent showered his face. Despite himself, his mouth watered, mixing with the blood. His gut wanted to tear out from him and devour the food.
Something was ringing in his head. Something telling him he must resist.
Fight.
"No." His voice was barely a whisper now. As he opened his mouth a line of saliva trickled out and hung from his chin.
Like an ethereal vision of beauty he saw Cyle walk up to him carrying a covered tray. His body glowed with shimmering light. With a tug he pulled the cloth away revealing a plate of honey roasted cucco and crispy, burnt potatoes. The smell brought tears to the Hero's eyes.
Slowly, Cyle picked up one of the potatoes. The King's hand hovered for an instant before he pushed the food towards the Hero's mouth. His head snapped forward, straining against his bonds. His eyes focused on the potato as it moved ever so slowly towards him. Closer. Closer. Closer. The smell of freshly cooked food overwhelmed him and his body shook painfully as he openly wept. It was so close now he could feel the heat of it upon his lips. His dry, cracked tongue slipped out in preparation.
"Wait."
The voice again. The King's hand froze. No. He wanted to eat. Let him eat. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to cry.
"Who is giving you the food, King's Slave?"
The Hero looked up. Cyle's face smiled down at him. Gentle and kind. So beautiful.
"The King," he croaked.
"Why isn't Zelda giving you the food?" the voice asked. "If she truly loves you so."
What?
Tired.
Zelda?
Hungry.
Where was she?
Please.
"Who killed Malon?"
The voice tugged at him. Pulled him down, smothering, suffocating.
"Who killed Malon?"
The King's hand shifted. Now he could feel the roasted foodstuff on his upper lip. A drop of oil rolled off it and landed on his tongue. He gagged. More. He needed more.
"Who killed Malon?"
Please. The word echoed through his head, but he would not let it form on his lips. He would not beg.
"Who killed Malon?"
He imagined the hunger to be some sort of feral rodent, ripping up his insides as it begged for release. His eyes yelled at him to let them shut, to let them sleep.
"Who killed Malon?"
Slowly, the King moved his hand away. The smell departed.
No.
No no no no no no.
"I did." The words sounded strange to him but somehow they made sense. His mind hurt, but he continued. "Me. It was me. I killed her."
The voice did not reply. The King's hand moved back towards his mouth. His jaws aching, the Hero opened and swallowed the potato whole. It burned the roof of his mouth, but even that scorching was bliss. Like sweet, liquid gold it tumbled down his throat.
He looked up. The King was gone. Darkness enveloped him again. He wanted to weep once more.
Darkness.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
"What is your title?"
That voice again. He could not think anymore. Title. What title? They were words, they were sounds. They had meaning once, an age ago. Nothing had meaning now.
"Zelda loves the Freelander." The voice resonated around the chamber. "The King loves you. Only the King. Everyone else hates you for killing Malon. You were an outcast. You belonged nowhere."
That was right, wasn't it? Someone had said that he was the cause of the evil. That his very existence had encouraged it. The King had said .. what? Nothing. The Hero had been sent away. Living in the desert for such a long time.
Alone.
All alone.
So alone.
"They hate you."
It wasn't his fault. He wanted to help. Why didn't they understand? Why had they sent him away?
"They hate you."
Not fair. Not fair. Not fair.
"Who fed you?"
"The .. King?"
Was that his voice speaking? He could no longer tell.
"So who cares for you?"
He knew the answer the voice wanted, but something stilled his tongue from speaking it. It just felt wrong.
The air shimmered in front of him. It was Zelda. She was in someone's arms. He knew that person. A prince? Chizan? She was laughing. The Prince pointed at a painting of the Hero. They both laughed.
"Who is your liege? Who cares for you?"
He needed to focus. Too many questions, he could not think. He wanted to sleep, he needed to eat more. He had to concentrate on something.
Something important.
The Hero slowly looked up at the vision again. It had frozen, like it had been caught in time. He saw Zelda's face, smiling.
Zelda.
Focus.
Zelda.
Think.
"Who cares for you?"
Zelda.
"Who cares for you?"
Zelda. He no longer knew what the name meant. He just knew that whenever he thought about it, it made his heart surge; counteracting the words his mind begged him to say. He held onto the feeling. Bit into it with his teeth. It made him feel alive. It made him feel like he belonged.
"Who cares for you?"
"Zelda."
Had he said it out loud? No. He shouldn't have done that. The word was the most important thing in his life now. He panicked. He did not want to give it to the voice. It was his. All his.
"What did you say?"
"Nothing."
The vision melted into nothingness. The wave of magic hit him again, stronger this time. He let loose a deep, guttural scream that seemed to originate from the depths of his soul. His nerves felt as if they had been ripped from his body then bathed in salt.
Then, they were there. He felt them. The air turned cold. Dread took him.
"No," he gasped. The Demon Riders walked up to him, their steps heavy with purpose. He sensed their eyes drilling into him.
One of them reached for him.
"No," the Hero croaked. Please.
The touch burned through his very essence, stripping away all sense of his self. Despair hooked onto his heart. His mind cracked. Zelda.
"You must kill Zelda, King's Slave," the voice said.
Zelda. Focus. Think. Pain. Hunger. Tired.
Loneliness.
Outcast.
"What must you do, King's Slave?"
Think. Concentrate. Don't let go.
"Tell me."
Don't let go.
Please, don't let go.
Zelda. Love. Zelda. Love. Zelda.
"What must you do?"
Zelda. Zelda. Zelda.
The Rider pressed his finger harder into the Hero's skin. Despair poured through his heart, mind and soul, like spilt ink running across a clean, white paper. Something shattered within him.
"What must you do?"
He knew exactly what he had to do.
"I must kill Zelda."
Darkness.
"What is your title?"
That voice again. Soft and quiet, yet insistent. It gnawed at him, pushing and prodding. For hours - or was it days? - it had asked him questions. The queries had settled into his very core, cutting and shredding away at his mind. He no longer knew who the voice was. But he certainly knew who he was.
He braced himself.
"I am the Hero of Time."
His body spasmed, jerking his neck up as waves of magical energy washed over him. His head slumped, still tingling from the pain.
"You are the King's slave."
He gritted his teeth and spat the words out, "I am the Hero of Time."
The pain soared through him, flowing through his veins, rattling his bones, tearing his muscles.
"King's slave."
The voice. Soft and patient.
"Hero of Time."
He bit down so hard to keep from shrieking out that one of his lower teeth stabbed into his gums. Blood flowed. He stank of sweat and human filth. His chains jingled slightly with every sharp, gasping breath he took.
There was the thudding. He did not know where it came from. It rolled through his brain, dizzying his soul. It pounded in time with his beating heart. Apart from the voice, it was the only other thing he could hear. He could see nothing.
Time had no meaning here. One minute, one hundred summers. All the same to him.
He listened.
Nothing, except the thumping.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
The voice was gone.
He waited, daring not to move even the slightest notch. He hung there, lingering.
Time passed. Hours? Days?
Finally, he could sleep. His eyes stung from being kept open unnaturally. He had not tasted the sweet release of sleep for such a long time. He felt his body relax and his eyelids slowly shut.
He screamed. The magic tore through him again. It was like a physical thing now, ramming into his face. He felt his eyelids and cheeks puff up. Tears of blood fell from his aching eyes.
The voice returned.
"You will not sleep."
"I must."
"You killed Malon of Lon Lon Ranch."
"No," he said, coughing. His voice was raspy. "Cyle killed her."
Another wave hit him. The darkness spun. For a moment, he thought he could make out different shades of black.
"You killed her."
He gasped. The voice was making him nauseous. He felt the bile rise.
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"King's slave, you killed her. You know it. I know it. Everyone knows it. Everyone hates you for it."
He tried to shake his head, but it felt like lead.
The voice continued.
"They hate you. They drove you away. The people hate you. Talon hates you." A pause. "Zelda hates you."
"No," he whispered.
"Yes. She cursed your name."
"She sent messengers to check on me." Every word sent stabbing pains through his mouth and throat. Sleep. He wanted to sleep. Please, let him sleep.
"How do you know she sent them?"
"What?" He could not think. Fatigue weighed him down, his eyes feeling like rock. "Who else would?"
"The King," the voice said. "He cares for you like he cares for all his subjects. He is the only one that cares for you. You are his slave. You will serve him, protect him from his enemies."
The King? He was too tired to think. Yes, they were Royal Messengers. Either the King or Queen could send them. Thinking hurt. Sleep. Please. Sleep.
Again, there was silence. Again, he waited.
More time passed.
Hunger bit at him. His stomach screamed for satiation. He had not eaten for as long as he had not slept.
"Are you hungry, King's Slave?"
The voice floated around him. Something snapped within him. He would not give the voice the satisfaction of knowing his discomfort.
"No," he coughed. "I am not."
"Are you sure?"
The smell came to him. Roasted vegetables, juicy meat, creamy soup, baked bread, sweet fruit. He could picture each one as their scent showered his face. Despite himself, his mouth watered, mixing with the blood. His gut wanted to tear out from him and devour the food.
Something was ringing in his head. Something telling him he must resist.
Fight.
"No." His voice was barely a whisper now. As he opened his mouth a line of saliva trickled out and hung from his chin.
Like an ethereal vision of beauty he saw Cyle walk up to him carrying a covered tray. His body glowed with shimmering light. With a tug he pulled the cloth away revealing a plate of honey roasted cucco and crispy, burnt potatoes. The smell brought tears to the Hero's eyes.
Slowly, Cyle picked up one of the potatoes. The King's hand hovered for an instant before he pushed the food towards the Hero's mouth. His head snapped forward, straining against his bonds. His eyes focused on the potato as it moved ever so slowly towards him. Closer. Closer. Closer. The smell of freshly cooked food overwhelmed him and his body shook painfully as he openly wept. It was so close now he could feel the heat of it upon his lips. His dry, cracked tongue slipped out in preparation.
"Wait."
The voice again. The King's hand froze. No. He wanted to eat. Let him eat. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to cry.
"Who is giving you the food, King's Slave?"
The Hero looked up. Cyle's face smiled down at him. Gentle and kind. So beautiful.
"The King," he croaked.
"Why isn't Zelda giving you the food?" the voice asked. "If she truly loves you so."
What?
Tired.
Zelda?
Hungry.
Where was she?
Please.
"Who killed Malon?"
The voice tugged at him. Pulled him down, smothering, suffocating.
"Who killed Malon?"
The King's hand shifted. Now he could feel the roasted foodstuff on his upper lip. A drop of oil rolled off it and landed on his tongue. He gagged. More. He needed more.
"Who killed Malon?"
Please. The word echoed through his head, but he would not let it form on his lips. He would not beg.
"Who killed Malon?"
He imagined the hunger to be some sort of feral rodent, ripping up his insides as it begged for release. His eyes yelled at him to let them shut, to let them sleep.
"Who killed Malon?"
Slowly, the King moved his hand away. The smell departed.
No.
No no no no no no.
"I did." The words sounded strange to him but somehow they made sense. His mind hurt, but he continued. "Me. It was me. I killed her."
The voice did not reply. The King's hand moved back towards his mouth. His jaws aching, the Hero opened and swallowed the potato whole. It burned the roof of his mouth, but even that scorching was bliss. Like sweet, liquid gold it tumbled down his throat.
He looked up. The King was gone. Darkness enveloped him again. He wanted to weep once more.
Darkness.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
"What is your title?"
That voice again. He could not think anymore. Title. What title? They were words, they were sounds. They had meaning once, an age ago. Nothing had meaning now.
"Zelda loves the Freelander." The voice resonated around the chamber. "The King loves you. Only the King. Everyone else hates you for killing Malon. You were an outcast. You belonged nowhere."
That was right, wasn't it? Someone had said that he was the cause of the evil. That his very existence had encouraged it. The King had said .. what? Nothing. The Hero had been sent away. Living in the desert for such a long time.
Alone.
All alone.
So alone.
"They hate you."
It wasn't his fault. He wanted to help. Why didn't they understand? Why had they sent him away?
"They hate you."
Not fair. Not fair. Not fair.
"Who fed you?"
"The .. King?"
Was that his voice speaking? He could no longer tell.
"So who cares for you?"
He knew the answer the voice wanted, but something stilled his tongue from speaking it. It just felt wrong.
The air shimmered in front of him. It was Zelda. She was in someone's arms. He knew that person. A prince? Chizan? She was laughing. The Prince pointed at a painting of the Hero. They both laughed.
"Who is your liege? Who cares for you?"
He needed to focus. Too many questions, he could not think. He wanted to sleep, he needed to eat more. He had to concentrate on something.
Something important.
The Hero slowly looked up at the vision again. It had frozen, like it had been caught in time. He saw Zelda's face, smiling.
Zelda.
Focus.
Zelda.
Think.
"Who cares for you?"
Zelda.
"Who cares for you?"
Zelda. He no longer knew what the name meant. He just knew that whenever he thought about it, it made his heart surge; counteracting the words his mind begged him to say. He held onto the feeling. Bit into it with his teeth. It made him feel alive. It made him feel like he belonged.
"Who cares for you?"
"Zelda."
Had he said it out loud? No. He shouldn't have done that. The word was the most important thing in his life now. He panicked. He did not want to give it to the voice. It was his. All his.
"What did you say?"
"Nothing."
The vision melted into nothingness. The wave of magic hit him again, stronger this time. He let loose a deep, guttural scream that seemed to originate from the depths of his soul. His nerves felt as if they had been ripped from his body then bathed in salt.
Then, they were there. He felt them. The air turned cold. Dread took him.
"No," he gasped. The Demon Riders walked up to him, their steps heavy with purpose. He sensed their eyes drilling into him.
One of them reached for him.
"No," the Hero croaked. Please.
The touch burned through his very essence, stripping away all sense of his self. Despair hooked onto his heart. His mind cracked. Zelda.
"You must kill Zelda, King's Slave," the voice said.
Zelda. Focus. Think. Pain. Hunger. Tired.
Loneliness.
Outcast.
"What must you do, King's Slave?"
Think. Concentrate. Don't let go.
"Tell me."
Don't let go.
Please, don't let go.
Zelda. Love. Zelda. Love. Zelda.
"What must you do?"
Zelda. Zelda. Zelda.
The Rider pressed his finger harder into the Hero's skin. Despair poured through his heart, mind and soul, like spilt ink running across a clean, white paper. Something shattered within him.
"What must you do?"
He knew exactly what he had to do.
"I must kill Zelda."