Chapter 8

Cold, clammy mud seeped through her tunic, coating her in slime. She was dimly aware that her eyes were open, and the sun appeared in her vision as a burning, crystal orb; fractured as though someone had driven a stake through its heart. Sometimes a puffy cloud would drift lazily in the sun's path, smudging its light across the sky. Sheik could feel its warmth stroke her face softly, like a mother to her child. She realised, though, that she felt little else.

She tried something simple; flexing a muscle or wiggling her toes, but all she could sense was the distant, heavy weight of her body, a slab of lead sinking slowly into the ground. Her head swam and she heard her own breath, short, sharp and ragged. The breeze tickled her skin and lulled her towards the darkness, whispering sweet promises of release. Her eyes closed instinctively, and she felt the weighty heat of her lids like a beast carrying a burning burden.

Her lips couldn't move so her heart whispered a prayer to the One, Unseen and immediately she felt her soul strengthen, preparing her for what was to come.

Death.

Oddly, she felt no panic, no fear. Her mind idly slipped back to her childhood, the voice of her teachers coming back to her now, clear and vibrant, though at the time her mind had been numb with boredom and she had paid them scant attention. She remembered the stories, the heroic tales of those at the end of their lives and the noble resignation they felt towards their fate. It comforted her.

Oblivion was coming to her, whispering at the edge of her consciousness. It taunted her with honey coated pledges of freedom; the hope that her afflictions would all end if she would just submit to the blackness. It was so tempting. She had failed - the Princess, her family, everyone. They were just memories now, dying away like last embers of a fire that had once burned so brightly. Other memories came; the horrific sight of her dead relatives, Kafei's face, grinning and treacherous, and each one stung her heart like a hot spike.

So tempting to let go. So tempting to flee.

No more running. No more living on the edge, scrapping for food and clothes. No more lies, no more pain. The fiery spark that had drove her on for all these summers had deserted her.

Death. She welcomed it.

The world splintered like a broken mirror, the air contracted and all colour drained from her vision. She felt the presence now, stronger and more vibrant. It was hovering close to her, seemingly fading in and out of reality. Just thinking about it made her nauseous. When had this madness gripped her mind? She had seen the insane wandering about the city, their faces in a stupor and their eyes fixed on something distant. And yet, they had always seemed content as though they had come to the end of a long search, and had found bliss at the end. The people whispered that the insane were in the presence of the Divine itself, and would always keep a respectful, if fearful, distance.

The voices that came to Sheik, though, were far from comforting and far from being Divine. Another thing that Death would save her from.

"You are not going to die, my little one." The words sounded as though they came from a loving father, but the tone itself was empty of affection, and seemed tinged with ice. "We have much to accomplish, you and I."

Dread filled the emptiness in her soul. Whatever it was this thing wanted, she knew it would not be benevolent.

"Oh, come now." She could not pinpoint the voice's location; sometimes it would appear to be from her left, but then, instantly, it would shift to her right. Now it seemed it was by her face, whispering into her ear, like a young, freshly married man to his wife. The intimacy scared her. "So hasty to judge me. Deku Seedlings in a pod, that's what we both are. The people have been unjust to both of us. Oppressed us. Hurt us. But here, I offer you a chance that Death will never give you." There was a pause. Sheik felt the temperature drop, and could even sense the slyness that was creeping into the voice. "I offer you revenge."

Dimly, Sheik was aware of the creak of a cart coming to a halt somewhere far above of her. Urgent shouts followed, but she found she couldn't focus on them. Somewhere, all around her, within her, she heard the voice chuckle. She felt it sliver across her, and her mind screamed with pain as it tried to work out the contradiction - a disembodied voice should not be able to touch her. The laughter grew, and she felt herself be swallowed, like the embrace of a loved one in her childhood dreams; dreams and hopes that she had buried deep down after she had tried to dismiss them as immature fantasies that had no bearing on reality. There was, however, no gentleness in this one's touch.

The presence was crushing now, suffocating. She tried to struggle, but her body still betrayed her, refusing to move. Finally, she felt her mouth loosen, as though she had just burst from a watery grave and was gasping for air. There were people all around her, lifting her up gently and speaking in concerned tones. She paid them no heed.

Sheik addressed the voice. "Who are you?" she whispered.

The voice responded, smug and strong. "I am you."

...

Tired and soaking wet, Link pulled himself onto the shore of the little island. His tunic clung to him, dark and heavy, while his crossbow, hanging from his belt, scraped over rocks and gouged a path in the sand. Still on his knees, Link sunk his gloved hands into the earth, flexing his fingers as he tried to still his anger. It didn't help that Fran, also dragging himself onto land, was laughing uncontrollably, in-between coughs and splutters.

Link turned slowly towards the old man, fixing him with a hot stare. This didn't seem to affect his old friend, though. Fran fell on his back, spread-eagled, and laughed louder, tears now leaving trails in the mud caked on his face.

The young assassin hissed as he lifted his hands from the ground, sand spilling between his fingers. Hatred and anger burned his heart once more. He was sick of the foolishness. He was sick of the games, the lies. Link came to the sudden conclusion that he now despised every living thing in the world. They kept on pushing him, these selfish, pathetic people; caring only about their worthless, selfish needs and wants, while pushing people like him and his sister into the dirt beneath their feet, crushed and forgotten. They tried to snap him, well now he was going to snap them back. All of them.

Link stood, looking down at Fran with thinly disguised contempt. He wanted to say something, anything, but he bit back the hot words, knowing they would be useless. Instead, his fingers curled instinctively around his crossbow and he flicked the switch, letting the familiar hum comfort him. The knowledge that he held in his hands the ability to strike back at anyone that would be an obstacle in his path uplifted his soul. He let out a breath, not realising how tense he felt.

"Now, now, lad," Fran said, pulling himself upright. "No need to get angry now. Sahasrahla was only having a little fun."

The assassin merely grunted as he studied the small hut in front of him. It was a tiny thing, crudely made from mud and leaves. There couldn't be room inside for anything more than bedding and a cooking pot. A strong light shone from within, bathing both the hut and the island with a watery glow.

"My sister is out there somewhere," Link said quietly, feeling the throb of his anger ease somewhat. "I need to get her back."

He flicked a glance over at the old man, noting the look of concern in his wide, milky eyes. Fran held his gaze for a moment, the eerie glow reflected in his pupils like a dancing fire. "Right, lad," he said. "Forgive my flippancy."

Link twitched, feeling awkward that someone his elder should be asking him from forgiveness. The feeling melted instantly, the cold weight of righteous anger flaming his heart once more. He sighed, giving Fran a small nod. He ached to be alone, to be able to gather his thoughts. But for now, he needed this old man. Even if he didn't really trust him.

A flicker of movement ahead, and Link had his weapon ready. The door to the hut opened slowly and Link caught a faint spicy scent from within. He shifted his feet, snapping twigs as he tried to find a surer footing, and peered inside. A shape appeared, hunchbacked and wiry. It shuffled out, revealing an old, balding man in a tattered cloak that may once have been ruby red, but was now dull from summers of wear and tear. Link's fingers relaxed a little around his crossbow. Sahasrahla was not what he'd expected.

Fran grinned. "You old dog! You almost got us killed with that Sea Serpent of yours."

The shorter man grimaced. "Marcaster!" he spat. "I should have known you would come to haunt me again one day." He chewed on the inside of his cheek a moment before spitting. "Shame the Serpent didn't finish you off. From the look on your face I can see that this is no social call." His gaze turned to Link, looking him up and down with small, narrowed eyes, glittering like crystals. "Marcaster, why is he pointing a weapon at me?"

"Don't mind Link here," the old man said. "He's a just a little jittery. You can't really blame the lad." He paused, licking his lips. "You remember Link, right? The one we discussed?"

Sahasrahla snorted. "Marcaster, you're about as subtle as a rolling Goron." He flicked his eyes towards Link again. "Tell him to stop pointing that thing at me."

Link sniffed, the smell of seaweed and the salty tang of the lake flooding his senses. Dimly, he wondered why the scents of the sea were present in a lake like this. He pushed the thoughts away, growling in anger. He was getting a little tired of being referred to as though he was not even present. "Ask me yourself, old man."

"Behold! It speaks!" Sahasrahla cried, not looking in the least perturbed. "And so well-mannered too."

"He calls me 'old man' too," Fran mumbled under his breath.

"But of course!" the shorter man said, still holding Link's gaze. "To someone like him the world is divided into two categories. The young and the useful. And the old and the useless!" Sahasrahla paused, one corner of his mouth curling. For a moment there was silence, save for the quiet lapping of the lake up against the shore. "How quaint. How arrogant."

Link's eyes narrowed. "You don't know me," he said, his voice deceptively soft. "You can't judge me."

"On the contrary!" Sahasrahla cried. Link was beginning to tire of the other man's exaggerations in his voice. "I know you better than you know yourself. No, no...the question you should be asking is...do you know you?"

The youngster pushed the query away, weary of the conversation. "Sagely advice from an old man that tried to kill us. Where did you come from?" He turned to Fran. "Both of you. Straight out from a bedtime story my sister would've told me as a child. Unlike me, though, you both still haven't grown up."

"Such insolence! Sahasrahla spat.

"Link, enough," Fran growled. "Put the crossbow down. This isn't helping Mystral. At least hear my friend out."

Link swallowed, trying to remove the metallic taste from his mouth. For an instant he kept his aim on the shorter man, just to spite him. Then, with a sigh, he let his arm drop. "Lead on."

Sahasrahla shuffled aside, giving them access. As Link walked past, defiantly keeping his gaze straight so as not to look at the shorter man, Sahasrahla muttered, "You need to show a little gratitude." His voice was surprisingly soft. "Fran has done a lot for you. Given up a lot. Remember that, youngster."

The young assassin shot him an unpleasant look and felt the retort rise to his lips. It didn't materialise though, as the truth of the little man's words hit home. Always, like a shadow, Fran had been there for the past few summers in his life, advising, guiding, helping. Though Link had resented his presence, he knew that now that Fran had actively aided in his escape from the city, the old man would never be able to go back to his home. And still Link wasn't clear why the man was doing it.

A sudden wave of affection filled the young man's heart as his eyes came to rest on Fran. He bit it back quickly. He'd never asked for the old man to become a surrogate father to him. It was dangerous to feel like this. Uncertainty and disquieting doubt clawed at the emotion. How could Link ever really trust anyone again?

Gritting his teeth, he pushed both his thoughts and feelings away. Stupid. Childish. All that mattered was Mystral. Everybody else was irrelevant.

The sudden heat of the hut tingled Link's wet skin. At the back of his mind he heard the two older men start up a conversation, enquiring about each other's health and such small talk. The youngster let the voices fade from his mind and found his eyes drawn to the fire in the centre of the dwelling. It certainly wasn't as bright as it appeared from the outside, but it did burn soundlessly, an ethereal blue flame that seemed to shimmer rhythmically.

"I said, are you listening, Link?"

The assassin's head snapped up at the sound of Fran's voice and he found the two friends gazing at him. "What?" he blurted out.

Sahasrahla sighed. "Are you sure you didn't make a mistake, Marcaster?" he said. "There must be plenty other lads named 'Link' out there."

"I doubt it," Fran mumbled.

Link felt his face burn, but he tried to push the embarrassment away. It was galling to him that they still referred to him as some young idiot. He was an assassin. He was better than that. It was the two of them that were the idiots. He'd thought that Fran might have been able to help him, but the old man had only led him to a madman.

"We need to know why Servion did what he did to Link," Fran continued, addressing Sahasrahla.

"You know," the shorter man said, banging some pots on a crudely made stove in one corner. "Link here thinks I'm a fool. So why should I tell him anything?"

Link blinked. Fran frowned.

"He doesn't think you're a fool," the old man said.

"Oh, yes he does," Sahasrahla said, turning back to the both of them. "Ask him."

Fran sighed. "Link, do you think Sahasrahla is a fool?"

Link looked at him for a moment, pondering over his words carefully. He couldn't resist. He wanted to spite the older man, even though he knew it was somewhat childish. "I think he's a complete and utter fool."

Sahasrahla folded his arms and looked at Fran with a self-satisfied smirk. "See?"

Link's mouth curled and he folded his arms, too. "See?"

Fran glared at the both of them. "Is there any help you can give us, old friend?" he said softly.

Sahasrahla poured some sort of steaming brown concoction into three bowls. "The Cycle has already begun," he said, handing each one a drink. "They have the Princess and are taking her to a prison complex. You two have to free her and bring her to me."

Fran blinked. "And...?"

"That's all. For now. Just bring her here."

Link took a sip from the bowl. The liquid was sweet and somewhat thick, but it warmed his body. "What has the Princess got to do with Mystral?"

Sahasrahla fixed him with a stare. "You cannot rush in and rescue your sister at the moment. First find the Princess."

"No," Link said, feeling his anger rise. "I want explanations. I want to know why Servion did this to me." He paused, trying to control his breathing. "I want my sister back. All you are doing is sending me after some girl that I don't care about and has nothing to do with me."

"Me, me, me," Sahasrahla spat. "You might have noticed that there are other people in this world apart from you. People more important than you and your sister."

Link's cheek twitched. "No one is more important than Mystral."

The shorter man snorted. "Isn't it time you let go of her skirts and started acting like a man?"

The assassin hissed and his fingers curled into a fist. Fran held up a hand for calm.

"I have your explanations for you, boy," Sahasrahla said. "But first you have to do this little task for me."

"Little task?" Link cried. "Break out a Princess from a prison complex?" He looked from one man to another. "You're both fools."

"The 'how's are with you," the little man continued. "The 'why's are with me. We need to work together."

"You could tell us what you know right now."

"I could," Sahasrahla said icily. "But I'm not going to."

Link flexed his fingers making his gloves creak and crackle. "I could make you tell me."

"You could," the other man continued nonchalantly. "But you won't."

"How do you know that?"

"How did I know you thought I was a fool? Hmm?"

Link felt his forehead crease as he pondered over the question. Something else occurred to him just then. "Why do the both of you speak my name as though it was something important?" he said. "It's not this 'Hero' nonsense is it?"

"No," the little man said bluntly. "No nonsense. But if you want your answers, you'll bring me the Princess." He stared straight at Link, his eyes seemingly burning through the young man's face. "You're no Hero," he whispered. "Assassin." He spat the word. "There's a girl held captive I want back. And there's a girl held captive you want back. You help me get my girl. I'll help you get yours." A pause, enough time for a pair of thudding heartbeats. "Deal?"

Once again, Link looked from one man to another. He knew he couldn't free Mystral on his own. And yet, he knew that what these two friends were offering him could be nothing more than false hope. But what choice did he have? He couldn't pass up on any opportunity, no matter how slim.

"So," Link said finally. "Which prison complex is she in?"

...

Days passed as they travelled onwards, huddled in their cloaks with their breath escaping in small, puffy clouds. Occasionally, they stopped at watering holes, breaking the ice with their fists so that the horses could drink while they themselves took refuge in the small, disused stone huts, eating their supplies without conversation. Silence had become the norm between them once more and that suited Link just fine.

He still didn't know how they were planning to free the Princess. The only thing that Fran had told him was that they were travelling to yet another village to resupply once more before heading out towards the prison complex. The whole thing seemed absurd, and yet the sheer impossibility of what they were going to do sent a thrill through Link's body. He was aching to do something, anything, no matter how insane. Most of all he wanted to release his anger, make others feel the same hurt that churned in his heart.

Link uncorked his water pouch and took a quick swig, tiny flecks of ice coating his throat and chilling his mouth, before looking over towards Fran. "Your bow," he said. "Where did you get it from?"

The older man turned towards him slowly. "I made it myself." He paused to remove the weapon from his back and rest it on the saddle. Slowly stroking the smooth contours of the wood, he continued, "Takes skill to use one of these. It's an art in itself."

"It's beautiful," Link said truthfully. "But how did you learn how to make one? And how did you learn how to use one?"

Fran turned away. "I know many things, lad."

The young man rolled his eyes skyward while letting out an exasperated breath. "Another mystery that I'm too young and stupid to learn about?"

The old man chuckled and pulled on his reins, bringing his ride to a halt. Link did likewise, watching the older man with a curiosity filled gaze. Fran smiled, holding the bow out towards him. Link looked at it cautiously, his breath catching in his throat at the sheer marvel of the weapon. Gingerly, his fingers clasped around the shiny, varnished wood and he slowly brought the bow towards him.

"Try it," Fran said, throwing an arrow. Link caught it and lifted it to the string. The bow was larger than what he was used to and awkward for him to handle. He could feel his heart thudding in his chest as he slid his fingers up and down the string, revelling in the sensation. Link raised the bow, aiming it at a nearby tree. He narrowed his eyes, letting everything but the tree melt away from his vision. Slowly, he pulled the string back until it stroked his lips.

Link let the arrow free and watched its path as it curved through the air, steel tip spinning and tail feathers fluttering. He was disappointed to see it clatter through the branches before falling limply to the ground.

Fran cocked an eyebrow. "Not bad."

The assassin threw him a sour look as he handed the bow back. "I missed."

"Practice, lad," the older man replied. "I'm sure you know the virtue of that."

Link nodded slowly. "Yes."

Fran's mouth curled into a warm smile as he looked at Link from under his hood. "For a moment, you looked a little like the Hero of Time."

The assassin opened his mouth to reply, but was caught off by the sound of rustling branches. Both men snapped their eyes forwards, Fran raising his bow, Link's hand dropping to his weapon.

A man and a woman - both Calatians - appeared from behind the trees, armour bristling and eyes glinting with malice. A spiked ball and chain dangled from the woman's hand. Two swords hung from the man's belt, razor thin steel glinting from inside their sheathes. More foils than swords, really.

"He is no..." the man began.

"...Hero," the woman finished.

From the corner of his eye, Link saw Fran's cheek muscles clench. The youngster, though, was feeling something completely different. His breath grew shorter as his heart thudded loudly in his chest. Link stroked the crossbow hanging from his belt as he nursed the anger in his soul, removing the bandages that had let it slumber relatively peacefully and forcing it through his body. Now, this. This he could handle. Without even thinking about it, the man's face faded in his mind's eye. It was replaced by Servion's.

"We don't want any trouble, strangers," Fran said.

"Oh yes, we do," Link said, slipping to the ground and letting the ice crunch under his boots.

"Link?" Fran said, his face creasing with confusion. "What are you doing?"

"Stay out of this, old man," Link replied, his fingers already flexing. "I need this."

"This isn't the way, lad," Fran called, though the tone in his voice indicated that he wasn't going to interfere. The old man had probably decided that Link should work this out on his own. Good. Now, at last, he could set free everything that was bubbling within.

"We know you…" the woman said.

"...assassin, runaway," the man continued. "We waited for you. Knew you would come down this path, we did. We will kill you and take the bounty on your head. You are wanted throughout the land. Killer of kinsmen..."

"...kinswomen."

"That's right," Link said, walking towards them slowly. "I'm a murderer."

The woman raised an eyebrow in disgust. "You admit it then? You committed these..."

"...dishonourable acts?" the man finished, drawing both swords with a metallic slice.

"I did what I was told to do," Link said. His voice sounded flat in his own ears, though it was drowned out by the sound of his thumping heart. A strange sense of elation washed through him, making his confidence grow. The icy breeze felt almost brittle against his skin.

"You are..." said the woman, swinging the chain above her head so that the spiked sphere chopped the air.

"...insane or sick. Or both," the man said.

Link's eyes narrowed as his mouth curled into a grin. The sense of freedom he felt was exhilarating. "I prefer 'insane'." He paused, sniffing. He realised he meant what he said. "If that's fine with the two of you." He relaxed, letting the giddiness sway him. "'Sick' is a tad harsh, I'm sure you'll -"

"Enough!" the man bellowed, throwing a foil towards Link. The blade whirled through the air, shimmering in the sunlight like liquid metal. In one fluid moment the young assassin snatched it from its flight path and ran a finger up and down the blade.

"Nice," Link said, before letting his gaze return to the two strangers. "Thank you." He licked his lips. "This is to make it a fair fight, then?"

"Yes," the man said. "There is no honour..."

"...in slaying one with no sword."

"Ah," Link said sagely, testing the sword with a few swipes. It cut through the air, scattering particles of dust that were floating lazily. "Your concept of honour is as skewed as your speech," he continued, letting his eyes flick from one to the other. "Since there is two of you and one of me. Now, correct me I'm wrong, but -"

"Your friend..." the woman said impatiently.

"...can assist."

"No," Link said, looking over his shoulder. Fran stood watching him, the expression on his face as cold as the frost on the ground. Link's sense of elation continued to rise, mixed as it was with confidence and anger. It was simply intoxicating. He wondered how much longer he could have held the hurt in without drawing on it as he was now. He felt like a new person. "He has magic powers, see," he continued, waggling his fingers. "He'll defeat you by simply frowning at you."

The two strangers glanced at each other.

"I warn you," Link said. "You don't want to cross him. Frightening things happen. People being turned into cuccos and such like." He stepped forward, closing the gap to within striking range. His voice dropped to a whisper. "And if you think what I do to kinswomen is horrific, you should see what I do to cuccos. Bite their heads straight off." Link leaned forward. "Cluck. Cluck. Cluck."

"Are you..." the woman began.

"...mocking us?" the man ended.

Let your heart grow cold.

"No," Link replied falling back onto his training with a sword and stepping into an attack stance. "I'm killing you."

The young man's first strike zinged through the air, the light steel blade trembling slightly from the force. The other man slid back quickly, planted his feet and lunged forward. Link darted backwards, the foil's light weight aiding in making his movements lightening quick. Another attack came and Link jumped back. Another attack, this time a swing, and Link ducked, his heart soaring. His opponent went low, and Link leapt, his knees reaching his chin as he felt the blade slice the wind beneath. As he landed yet another strike came, slicing through his tunic.

Link looked down at the thin slit in his clothes and the angry red welt underneath. He grinned. "You're good," he said. "Now it's my turn."

He swung the blade in a downward arc over his head and it cracked into the other man's foil, the blades shimmering and letting a metallic echo fill the clearing. Link knew he had to be careful. The stranger was older, stronger and more experienced. But it was clear who was faster.

Link spun, disengaging the blades, and bringing his foil around towards the man's arm. The stranger deflected the blow, but Link used the momentum to swing the foil in his hand and bring it down tearing through the air once more. Another parry, and Link swung again. Strike. Parry. Strike. Parry. Link's grin grew wider, the sound of metal on metal fuelling his bloodlust. Hatred coursed through his veins and he could almost taste their blood; could almost hear the splintering of bones, the tearing of skin. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the woman move around behind him. He noted the manoeuvre in his mind, but kept his attention on the man.

The stranger swung again, pushing Link back towards one of the trees. The man thrust his foil forwards, but Link stepped up on to a rock and leapt, dodging the blow. He landed and leapt again, swinging his blade down towards attacker. The bigger man ducked and threw a punch, but Link twirled away, curling his free hand into a fist. With a roar, he smashed it into the side of the man's head. The stranger stepped back, stunned, and Link attacked with a thrust of his own. The man spun away on his heel. Link raised an eyebrow at that. Clever. His opponent still had his wits about him.

Link sensed the shift in the air behind him. He ducked as the woman's spiked sphere ripped through the air where his head had just been. At the exact same time, the man brought his sword down in a smooth arc. Both spiked ball and foil collided, making the pair look up at each in shock. Link dug his elbow into the ice solid ground, sending splinters of pain up his arm. He swung his legs around, knocking the man off his feet.

The woman screamed, bringing her weapon down towards where Link lay. The youngster rolled out of the way and the sphere hit the ground with a dull thud. Another swing came, the chain tinkling with the force, and another roll. Swing. Roll. Thud. Swing. Roll. Thud. Link wanted to laugh, so much was the roar of the battle filling his soul like a mystic that had found bliss in the Divine. He felt free, alive. The pain had vanished temporarily from his heart, but that did not mean he was not willing to make others feel it, oh no.

Link sprang to his feet, his back to an old, gnarled tree with a thick, bloated trunk. He tensed his legs as he watched the woman approach. They were fools if they thought they could best a trained assassin. The man was up again and the pair of them swung in with attacks once more.

The young assassin leapt up and forwards, grabbed onto a broad branch that shook under his weight, and swung over their heads, their weapons slicing the trunk harmlessly and filling the air with a cloud of splinters. Link let and go and landed behind them. He twirled around and cracked his fist into the back of their heads. They fell, letting their weapons clatter to the ground.

Link spun his foil in his hand and then lifted it into position. A cool, quick swipe and their heads would be off. He looked down at them and, once again, the man's face melted into the image of Servion's. Link's heart lurched and he tasted the salty taste of blood in his mouth. The taste of victory. The taste of revenge.

Once more the doubt started to creep in, threading its way through his soul. The sensation that what he was doing was wrong made his hands tremble, but he hissed, gritting his teeth and pushed it down, deep down. This time he would not be denied his kill. He lifted the foil and the blade flashed in the sunlight.

"Yes, " he whispered between short breaths. "I am mocking you."

"That's enough, Link." Fran's voice broke the young man's concentration. He felt the elder man's hand come to rest on his shoulder. "There's nothing left to prove here."

Link snapped his head towards the old man. "They would have killed us," he spat. "What ridiculous code of ethics do you follow that would deny me my vengeance?"

"Listen to yourself, lad," Fran said softly. His eyes were wide and seemed to shine with trepidation. Link hated him for it. "This is madness."

"Madness," he gasped. "Madness is more preferable than living in a world such as this. A world where I am blamed for the murder of my own sister. The sister that fed, clothed and raised me from her own sweat when no one else would aid her." He heard his own voice crack and it filled him with disgust. " The sister that meant the world to me." Link sensed the pair shift beneath him, but he ignored him, the raw emotions blinding his mind. "If that is sanity, then I choose madness freely."

Fran gazed at him, an odd look of concentration engraved on his elderly face. "Nevertheless," he said softly. He gripped Link's arm and pushed it down. "We need help to rescue the Princess." He looked down at the pair. They stared back at him, their eyes wide with fear and their hair clinging to their faces from their own sweat. "And I think we may just have found it."