Wind

A dry wind blew over the valley, stirring the dust in its wake. There was not a cloud in the sky here: no shroud to bring shade or solace from the merciless sun as it glared down on the land, baking the red stone and golden sand alike. It was nearing noon, and very few people now stirred under the empty sky: to do so would be foolish. All with no drastic errand had retreated inside their stone houses, cut into the bare red cliffs themselves to provide shade and shelter from the wind and heat. All except for one.

Upon the roof of the highest room of the fort there stood a lone figure. Tall and proud was he, looking over the valley as a lion surveys the savannah. There seemed something of a lion in this man too: his fierce, dark eyes, his wild mane of bright red hair, the aura of strength that enveloped him. The man's skin was dark, adapted to the harsh rigours of his realm and his garb black also, in spite of the hideous heat which must have been felt within it. Suffering, after all, only made one stronger, and strength was needed to survive in the valley. The desert wind stirred the man's pale cape, making it ripple and flap behind him like a sail.

Emerging from an open doorway cut into the red cliff behind him came a woman, clearly of the same race as the man. Her hair was dark, as was her skin and her eyes, but the twin scimitars worn over her back were not. An off-white veil covered the lower half of her face, as if to hide her identity to the casual observer. Her step was as light as the breeze and utterly silent, but in the presence of the man also reverent as if treading on sacred ground. She kneeled and cast her face down. "Yes?" The man asked in a deep, bass voice, without turning around. The woman wondered briefly, for the hundredth time, how he had known she was there: surely she had been more quiet then that? But she banished such thoughts and instead focussed on her task.

"My lord, there is a messenger here seeking an audience with you." Now did the man stir: he unfolded his arms and turned around. While keeping her face downcast, the woman risked a glance at his face. His expression was unreadable, other then perhaps an element of surprise, but his eyes… Those eyes, while so dark, at the same time blazed as fiercely as the bright sun itself: cunning and wily, ambitious and proud, passionate and powerful. "A messenger from whom?"
"The King."

Now there was a brief lapse in his mysterious façade, now there was the sign of a reaction. The man hissed through his teeth at the sound of the words, almost as if someone had spoken an insult to him. When next he spoke it was in tones of irritation: "Send him up."

The woman stood up, keeping her head lowered, crossed her arms over her chest and bowed in salute, then quickly left. Left alone, the man growled to himself quietly and turned back to look out over the land. From his vantage point he could see over the red cliff opposite the fort on which he stood that wall of stone which provided some shelter from the merciless winds of the wasteland beyond. And from here he could see the wasteland: the desert proper, constantly shifting and changing in the ever-present gales, the earth of the land being altered and moved about always against its whim. If he listened hard enough, he fancied that he could almost hear the wailing of the spirits and the ghosts of those legions of peopler who had been lost in the storm of sand and were now doomed to never go home. Another breeze blew up from the haunted desert, crossing over the wall and reaching the king where he stood, bringing specks of penetrating, invasive dust with it. He sniffed the air: a storm was on its way. No rain would come with this tempest, oh no: such a thing was a very rare occurrence indeed. Just a cloud of billowing dust, whipped into a frenzy by the raging wind, invading every opening, every nook and cranny, penetrating into every hiding place and stronghold that the hands of his people could build. They sprang up totally without warning to those not used to the ways of the valley, not tuned to its sorrowful cycle, and would consume everything in their wake in a spinning fury of the elements.

The man was again broken out of his reverie, this time by the rather more audible footfalls of a stranger, flanked by two women dressed and armed as the last one had been. The newcomer was very pale: far too pale for the desert, and already the beginnings of a burn could be seen around the base of his neck. Beads of sweat caused his forehead to shine dully in the light. He was dressed regally in reds and whites, with a shield born on his back and a ruler-strait broadsword in his belt. Both of the guards kneeled in an identical fashion to the last, the stranger copied them. The dark man did not see this however, for he did not turn around as they arrived. "Recall any who are outside immediately and order the fort to be closed: a storm is brewing." He said to the guards, who immediately rose, crossed their arms and bowed as the other had, and left in a hurry. For a moment there was a silence, before the dark man addressed the stranger without facing him: "Arise. To what do I owe the unexpected pleasure of the companionship of one of the King's knights?"

"The King of Hyrule cordially greets his most loyal counter-part!" The knight said in a loud, pompous voice as he stood up. "May his reign be long and prosperous." Counter-part? Hah the desert king thought, equals are not loyal. What he said, however, was "I thank the King for his blessings, and bestow my own humble proclamation upon him: may he receive exactly, and no less, then what he deserves. But my question remains unanswered: why is it that you have come?"

"A most grave matter troubles the mind of our benevolent king." The knight said, then frowned and paused. The king did or said nothing during the silence. Finally unable to stand it, the messenger asked "Is it customary in your land to address people without facing them?" Unseen by the knight, the king's features twisted into a snarl. "I apologise, sometimes I can become lost in thought when looking out over my realm." Amending his expression to return to the same emotionless glare, the dark king turned around and looked directly into the eyes of the knight. "What is this grave matter that you speak of?" The knight now almost wished he would turn around again: those eyes were so searching, so bright in their darkness. "You, surely, have heard that the crown of the king has gone missing?"

"I have. What of it?"

"The King is perplexed by this event: he has sent messengers to all corners of his realm, asking if any have sight or word of it. It is imperative that-"

"The King presumes I have stolen it." The dark man interjected. The messenger, taking aback, floundered; "Not at all, but his Majesty is anxious to receive news-"

"Do not bandy words with me as if I were a half-wit." The lord interrupted a second time, speaking calmly but with an undertone of threat. "We in the desert have long since learned the virtue of speaking frankly. Subtleties lead to misinterpretation, which leads to grievous error. The King thinks I have taken his crown, and asks it returned immediately."

The knight was now becoming rather annoyed with the crudeness of this supposed lord. "With all due respect, sir, your people do not have a blameless record when it comes to such matters." Had the knight been a sharper, more aware person, he would have seen the sudden rage flash through the black-clad king's features: but it was gone so quickly that it may as well have not been there at all. "No indeed. We cannot profess to be as honourable as the King's other trusted allies such as, say, the Sheikah." The knight now was very incensed, and it took all of his training and court instincts to bite back a hasty and ill-considered reply. While he did so, however, the king continued: "Nor can we claim to be as bright and upstanding as the Hylians themselves, who assuredly have never been cruel or conceited in the history of their privileged existence, living as they do in the very lap of luxury, the greenest and most provident fields in the world, where the wind blows soft and refreshing in one's face. Certainly I can understand the King's suspicions. However, I regret to inform him that I do not have the crown in my possession, and therefore cannot return it to him. You may tell him, however, that should I receive word of its whereabouts, he shall be the first to know."

"The king thanks you for your assistance in this matter." The knight replied, his tone now stiff and formal with barely-controlled anger. "He shall, I am sure, keep you well-informed of events."

"Oh I am sure of that as well."

The messenger now turned to leave, wiping the sweat from his brow as another, now much stronger gust of wind graced the place on which he stood, blowing dry dust strait into his eyes. "Wait a moment." The king commanded. The knight found himself obeying before he really was thinking about it: the voice of the man was so powerful and regal it seemed to speak to instinct rather then the rational mind. "Perhaps you would care to bring another message to the king when you return?"

"What message is this?"
"We Gerudo are a poor people. We have not much to give. But times are hard this summer. If it would please the king to send us water with which to ease our drought, we would be most thankful, and indebted to him. Such debts become valuable in time."

"The waters of Hyrule are under the ownership of the Zora people and their king. My own king does not have authority to grant such a request."
"But is not King Zora as loyal a vassal of the royal family as I am?"

"The King does not wish to meddle in the realms and affairs of his subordinates."

At this a smile crossed the Gerudo King's features: an ironic, sarcastic, almost insane smile that frightened the knight: the very same knight who was no untested youth in war. "No. Of course not." He said in a mad tone to match the smile. A sudden gale whipped up from the Wasteland without warning, bringing tidings of dryness and death: the messenger coughed and spluttered, lost his balance and fell, wiping the sand from his eyes. The dark king took hold of his shoulder and guided him inside, where the windows were now shuttered and the doors firmly closed. Behind them the furious storm, cheated of its prey, strained against the stone walls, trying its hardest to get at those who sheltered within. "Does the air always howl so in this land?" The knight asked in wonder and fear. The dark king's horrible smile deepened, but in his eye could be seen a great sorrow. "Yes. Always."