The Purple Butterfly

by mbutd

Decades after the triumph over the Calamity, an aging Hero spends his days in exile, all but forgotten by the kingdom he saved. But the remnants of the Yiga remember, and they have revenge in their sights.

I sit by the fire and look out across the wide valley below. Peaceful, silent, and dark, save for the twinkling lanterns in the village, tiny pinpricks in the distance. Above, the moon shines bright, almost full, casting its benevolent light across the gentle grasslands and the deep woods and the winding crystal river. A light breeze wafts through the bushes. The night is still. This is what we fought for, what we won. It's a world of peace and hope. A kingdom rebuilt and an order restored. A world saved.

But it's a world that needs me less and less as each day passes. In times of war you look to your warriors. In peacetime, their influence naturally wanes, and this is the reality that I'm faced with. This doesn't sadden me; it's the way things have to be. The way they should be. My struggles were over fifty years ago now, a different age. A distant memory for all but the oldest, a story to pass down, and to wonder how much embellishment lies within it.

My time hasn't come just yet, but every day it draws nearer. Until then I'll be here, watching and waiting. Protecting, as I always have.

The beggar walked slowly up the trail, her progress impeded by the gradient of the rocky path and her own considerable age. Bent almost double, she struggled on, grim determination on her lined face as she climbed deeper into the highlands. Merchants and travellers passed her in both directions, almost all offering assistance that she gracefully declined. This got more than one nod of approval - even if the passers-by thought she was mad they were impressed by her resilience.

She reached the village and went straight to its only inn. Though it was full, the owner took one look at the haggard creature and immediately cleared space in his own bedroom for her, insisting that he would sleep in the cellar and allowing her a night's stay for free. It could get awfully cold at night, he explained graciously, and it wouldn't do to be on the streets this high in the hills. The woman accepted the kind offer but declined the promise of a hot meal. She was quite alright, she insisted, with the fare in her pack.

Once the door to the innkeeper's room clicked shut, the woman straightened her back and removed her shawl. In an instant, the lines on her face melted away. Gone was the twinkling-eyed weary traveller, and in her place was a youthful woman, a slight smirk playing across her narrow features. Weakness, she thought, would be the end of this kingdom. One hundred and fifty years ago it almost had been.

The woman made her way to the window and stared out onto the street below. Nothing out of the ordinary - travelling salesmen, women and men gossiping, children running to and fro, shrieking with delight. No guards, soldiers, or watchmen. Not a sword, or even a quarterstaff in sight. Decadence. She hungered for the day that would change.

And she was going to help it change.

She had been tracking her prey for some time, and after many fruitless ventures and dead ends, she was certain that this time she was right. She could feel it as surely as she could feel the ground beneath her feet. She unpacked, taking care to leave her weapons hidden within the folds of her cloak. Unlike the villagers outside, she had been born into a world where to go unarmed was to risk losing everything. She wouldn't make such a basic error.

After a slow walk around the town in her elderly disguise, she decided that she would not continue her pursuit tonight, and turned in, tipping the innkeeper a deep bow as she passed. When she reached her room and opened the door (irritatingly she had no means of locking it), she leapt backwards in surprise, one hand already on the hilt of her blade. But the girl sitting on the bed wasn't a threat, she was a child. She stared at the woman with wide, curious eyes. Her dress was plain, but had a large purple butterfly painted on the left shoulder, a feature that immediately drew the eye amongst a people who dressed for the most part in various shades of grey and brown. She regarded the woman with honest curiosity, her little legs swinging off the end of the bed, not reaching the floor.

'Where is your mother?' the woman asked, remembering a second too late that she needed to sound older. The girl's eyes bulged, perhaps noticing the discrepancy. The woman allowed a frail note to enter her voice. 'Child, where is your mother?'

The girl sat open-mouthed, silent. A mute, thought the woman, or an idiot. Just as she turned to leave and find the innkeeper, the child spoke.

'No mother.'

The woman turned.

'Then where is your father?' The girl shook her head. There was an impasse. The woman had spent her entire life training for her goal. She was a masterful combatant and could fight with any weapon, she could disguise herself as virtually anything she desired. She could flit, unseen, through the world as softly and as quietly as a shadow, and most importantly of all, she possessed the killer instinct that she would desperately need in the events to come. In this moment, however, she was hopelessly wrong-footed, and found herself in the unusual position of not having the first idea of what to do.

The girl looked at her, clearly aware that she was struggling, and spoke once more.

'I'm Aya.'

The woman nodded, paused, and seemed to regain some of her composure.

'Well it's lovely to meet you Aya. Why don't you run along now? I'm an old lady and I need my rest.' The girl didn't react to the woman's words, but continued to stare at her with those deep blue eyes. Impatiently, the woman took a step forward. 'Come now child, run along.'

'What's your name?' Aya asked, ignoring the woman's comments.

'Naibu,' the lie came quickly to the woman's tongue, 'now come along -'

'That's a desert name,' Aya said, frowning, 'you don't look like you're from the desert.'

The woman frowned. Naibu was a desert name, and she had picked it because she was from the desert and it matched her ethnicity. But of course, she had changed her skin tone when she affected this disguise in order to closer match the people of the hills. The girl was clever, despite her youth.

'My mother was from the desert,' said the woman after a moment's thought. 'But my father wasn't. I suppose I look more like him.'

Aya nodded, satisfied. But her next question felt like a punch in the stomach.

'What was your mother like?'

The woman breathed in sharply, in spite of herself. She had, of course, no memory of either of her parents. Unlike the accidents and the purposeless of the world, she had been born for a reason, initiated into the clan at birth. Her parentage did not matter - how could it, when the whole world was at stake? - and it had never before come up. Of course as a child she had wondered, but those thoughts had been firmly driven from her head a long time ago. Her mother…

The woman was spared from answering by a noise from the doorway behind her.

'There you are!' The woman turned to see the innkeeper at the threshold, his arms folded in front of him, the vision of an irritated parent. At his appearance, Aya hopped off the bed and ran towards him, and in one smooth motion he swept her up into his arms and spun her around as she shrieked with delight. He pulled her close for a hug and then set her down. 'Aya, we were worried! Mrs Anet said she hadn't seen you in hours! And the miller's boys didn't know where you were. I've been looking all over for you!'

The man wasn't angry, not really. He was relieved, and from the way he held onto the little girl you would have thought she was his own flesh and blood. He bade the girl goodnight, and she ran off, presumably to a room of her own, waving and smiling at the woman as she did. To her surprise, the woman found herself waving back.

'Thank you for indulging her, ma'am,' the innkeeper said with a short bow, 'I apologise for the intrusion. The guest rooms lock you see, but seeing as I have nothing of particular value, I have never found need for the same on my own door.'

The woman waved away his apology.

'No matter sir, your kindness is much appreciated and I quite enjoyed speaking to the young girl.' She paused, wanting to dismiss him, but before she could stop herself she found herself blurting out a question. 'Is it true about her parents, sir? That she has none? Forgive me for asking, but you look to care for her as a father would.'

The innkeeper smiled sadly and nodded. 'Yes, the girl's parents passed some time ago. A short illness that afflicted them both at the same time. Very sad business. A few of us care for her as if she were our own. She is raised by the village, if that makes sense. Sometimes she stays here, sometimes at the miller's by the river. She has five or six beds where she is always welcome, and nowadays she comes and goes as she pleases.'

'I see,' she said, 'that's very kind of you.'

The innkeeper nodded, then bowed and left the room, closing the door shut behind him.

The woman exhaled slowly now she was alone. Loss was one of those parts of life that was a universal experience. Wherever she travelled she saw orphans, usually desperate, filthy creatures begging for scraps. She abhorred this when she saw it. Weakness disgusted her, in adults and children alike. But there was something about Aya that was different. A strength of character, or will, that she had not seen in many people. She saw in the girl a lot of herself, she realised, and in spite of herself she felt a flicker of emotion in her chest when she thought about her, tiny but spirited, with the purple butterfly on her shoulder.

She shook her head. Enough. The clan had no use for emotion, it got in the way. She put the girl to the back of her mind, silently admonishing herself for her moment of vulnerability. She took the innkeeper's chair from the corner of the room, propping it under the door handle as a makeshift barricade, and passed into a dreamless sleep.

I remember looking out across the fields surrounding the castle all those years ago. The castle was crumbling, ruined by the evil that had taken root there. But that evil was vanquished, already a memory that would fade with time, as all memories do.

Time passes, people move. Like a river's flow, it never ends. Who said that again?

Far below, people were already working on repairing the castle, hauling and cutting great dark stones. This didn't seem like labour, though. Even this high up I could hear the laughter and the songs. This was freedom, finally, from a menace that had lasted for a century.

In my memory I hear footsteps behind me. It's the princess - soon to be queen. She often comes up here. She doesn't say anything, she doesn't need to. I feel her presence, and the two of us look out across the kingdom, an expanse of land that seems to go on forever - mountains, fields, lakes, towns…

In the morning, she saw him.

He was wrapped in a traveller's cloak and a simple tunic, and he passed quite freely through the market crowds, nodding occasionally to an acquaintance. She was astonished at how brazen he was. Do the people really not recognise their saviour? Have the winds of time already blown away the memory of what he accomplished? And it was an accomplishment, make no mistake about that. The woman despised the man and everything he stood for, but his achievements were remarkable, no-one would deny that. She was under no illusions about the task at hand - she was facing the deadliest warrior in the kingdom's history.

She herself was out in the market in her beggar garb. It was surprisingly busy for such a small village, she supposed it was a good base before travellers climbed higher into the mountains. She watched him intently, effortlessly blending in with the crowd. He bought simple foodstuffs, not haggling and conducting his business quickly. He looked old, she realised. Though she had recognised him immediately from paintings and the meticulous description passed down by the clan, she had never actually laid eyes on him before. His heroic - or villainous, depending on how you looked at it - deeds had taken place years before her birth, and though she had been to the castle town before he had never made an appearance.

He was of average height, with cropped grey hair and a short grey beard. He was fit and lean and weather-beaten, but he looked otherwise unremarkable, and quite at home among the bustling peasants. Her eyes scanned his hip, his side, his back. No sign of a weapon, although the same could be said about her. It was utterly inconceivable that he would be completely unarmed, but he didn't have his sword. If only he wasn't surrounded by people…

As if he had heard her thoughts, the man abruptly turned and began walking away from the market stalls, along a stone path that wound downhill, away from the market square. She began following casually, making sure to speak greetings to people as she passed, and to look at the vegetables and fruit that was being eagerly thrust towards her. He turned a corner, and she increased her pace. He was quick for an old man, although he was not moving as if he suspected he was being tailed.

The path wound downhill and out of town, and soon the woman's only company was the gentle flow of the river, though she could still sense that the old man was just ahead of her. She followed as it entered the woods, and she was at once surrounded by dense trees, the sounds of the outside world melting away under the blanket of the forest. She saw him through the trunks and slowed her pace. He appeared to have stopped.

The woman's heart was hammering as she crept forwards. Her entire life had been leading up to this moment. Years of training, of pain, of a shared hatred that had been drummed into her from birth. He was the reason the world was weak, the reason the kingdom was decadent and soft and ripe for the taking by anyone with any backbone. He was the reason that her people lived in the shadows, on the outskirts of the desert. Forced out of the fertile valleys and into the sand-blasted wastelands of the west. She felt hatred boil within her, and as she had been taught, as she had done so many times in the past, she channelled it, drew from it, and stalked forward, her apprehension gone.

He was just around the corner. He was just a man. Flesh and blood. And so old.

As she was about to round the final corner of the trail to where the man stood with his back to her, her hand rested beneath her robes, on her knife. A lifetime of preparation about to be validated. She turned past the final line of trees.

The man stood, listening intently to Aya, who was talking animatedly, a wide grin on her face and that same purple butterfly on her shoulder. The girl was giggling, and though she was too far away to hear exactly what she was saying, she was clearly deep into an entertaining story, for she heard the man laugh deeply.

This did not complicate things. The man had to die, and while the woman personally preferred to minimise needless collateral - not all of the clan took this approach - she was perfectly willing to spill innocent blood to accomplish her goals. She had many times before, after all. So the girl's appearance really didn't change anything from her perspective. There were only three of them. It was just one more kill.

And yet the woman did not stride forward, discard her disguise, draw her knife and slay them both where they stood. In her mind's eye she saw the actions she needed to perform. She saw the movement, the swift cut, the dark, pooling blood. She felt the satisfaction as the man they called the hero fell, choking, his own weapon still sheathed beneath his cloak. But she saw too the look of fear in Aya's eyes, heard the piercing innocence of her screams. Saw that damned purple butterfly.

Unable to control herself, the woman stepped back around the corner. The pair had not seen her she didn't think. There was still time. Internally she was screaming, furious at herself. What was happening? This was the opportunity of a lifetime. She would never again get this chance. She took a deep breath. She's just a girl. A nobody.

The woman rounded the corner again, but the man was gone.

Aya was watching her curiously, as if there was nothing strange about her sudden appearance in the middle of the forest. The woman looked past her - had he stuck to the path? Or was he moving through the trees, poised to cut her down where she stood? She swivelled, scanning the area with well-trained eyes, but she saw nothing. When she turned back, somewhat satisfied, Aya had moved forward cautiously. She was a brave girl, that much was obvious, but she wasn't stupid. She could tell something was strange about the woman's behaviour.

'Hello Naibu. Why are you in the forest?' As ever, the question got directly to the point. The woman recovered, her anger subsiding as she once more fell into the roll of wandering beggar.

'Oh my, Aya. I seem to have taken a wrong turn. Am I going the right way to get back to the inn?'

Aya's suspicions seemed to lift at this, clearly the woman's act was more convincing than it felt.

'No silly,' she said with a laugh, 'it's the opposite way!'

'Is it really? Well that wasn't very clever of me was it? I'm going completely the wrong way, I must have gotten confused. You know how old ladies get.' Aya giggled at this, and finally felt comfortable to approach her properly. The woman bent down to be on her level, taking care to exaggerate the pain that the movement was causing her. 'Say, I don't suppose you know that man you were just talking to? He seems nice.'

'Yeah he is,' Aya said happily. 'I don't know his name. I don't think he has one. He started coming to the village a while ago.'

'About a year ago?'

'Maybe. He's a nice man, do you want to talk to him?'

'Very much so, my dear.' She hesitated, and again, as if compelled by some invisible force, found herself unable to say what she needed to. 'But perhaps some other time. It's getting late and this old lady needs her bed.'

'That's okay, you can talk to him tomorrow,' Aya said with a smile as she began to lead the woman back towards the village. 'His house is just at the end of the path by the river. You can't miss it.'

The princess passed some thirty years after our triumph. Not an old age for someone in her position, but all those years of battle had taken their toll on her body, if not her spirit. I was with her then, as I always was. She was surrounded by her champions, like ghosts from the past, and in those final moments it was like we were transported back, all those years ago. Back to a time before the victory, when we were welcomed, lauded. Needed. When she shut her eyes for the final time, the last link to that time was finally severed. I had known for a long time that things were changing. We were war heroes, but now we had peace. A peace that didn't look like it would break for a long time. We buried her in the gardens by the temple, next to her father, and I remembered the first time I looked out from that great building across the kingdom. We'd come full circle, it seemed.

The castle became a stranger to me in the years that followed, and I to it. To the bright, young, hopeful court that had sprung up in the peace years, I was a relic. An oddity. A hero, yes, but a hero whose job was fulfilled. Where people had once bowed when I walked past, now they avoided my eyes. Where they had fawned, they tolerated. I didn't mind this of course - my duty had nothing to do with fame - it became clear that my position was unnecessary. I had felt it myself of course, after all, there were no enemies at the gates, no rebellions to quell. But I'll admit, the day that they suggested - ever so politely - that I might be more comfortable in my own keep with my own servants, I was hurt more than I let on.

This was no life for me, of course. I left the castle of my own volition. They might think they no longer have any need for me, and maybe they're right. But my duty is my duty, and I will carry it out as best I can for as long as I am able.

It was past midnight when the woman slipped out of the inn and set off down the wooded path, and the village was as silent as a graveyard. She moved by the moonlight, which strengthened and weakened as clouds drifted lazily by. The mountain air was cold, and she moved swiftly.

She was no longer wearing her disguise, but dark, loose clothes that allowed for quick and silent movement. Soon, she was in the woods, her eyes adapting to the dark as she followed the path. Her blade was in her hand - the man might be old, but he had survived more battles than she had years of life. She didn't think that he had seen her during the day - and in any case she had been dressed as a beggar - but there was always the risk that he had worked it out. That was why she had to strike tonight. When she had returned to the inn she had immediately sent the message, the smoking red tendrils of magic illuminating the room as she contacted her allies. They would be here by the morning - they had ways of travelling great distances remarkably quickly - but by then it could be too late. She should have struck earlier, killed him and the witness…

She frowned. But that hadn't happened. Still, no point dwelling. Now was the time to focus.

She reached the spot where she had seen the man and Aya, and she stopped dead in her tracks. She looked intently through the trees, strained her ears to hear, even inhaled deeply to smell anything out of the ordinary. Nothing. She continued onwards.

She turned a few more corners, crouching low and moving without sound. The woods at night seemed to take on a strange ethereal, almost magical quality. There was no sound but the gentle babble of the river, and the darkness was near absolute, yet the woman did not feel as if she were truly alone. Normally this would be disconcerting - after all, her greatest enemy was somewhere in the forest - but the woman found it somehow comforting. The forest was old, she realised. Older than her, than the man she pursued. Older than the village and the path, and the birds that made their nests in the great branches above. To these trees, the drama that was unfolding before them was insignificant, a minuscule struggle that would take up a fraction of their lives. She wondered if they were aware of her presence, and found herself somewhat reassured by the feeling that they might be. Once more, she admonished herself. What was the matter with her? Focus!

She rounded a corner and there was the house.

Aya had not lied to her, the woman had been right to trust her word. The house lay by the riverbank, a small, wooden building with firewood stacked high by the window. A large axe was propped up against it. The house was as dark and still as the forest itself, with no signs of life from within.

Keeping low and to the shadow of the trees, the woman circled the house. She was slow, methodological, searching for anything out of the ordinary, any weak points she could exploit. There were windows, but short of smashing through she was unlikely to be able to open them. No way in through the roof it seemed. That left the door.

The woman steeled herself. This was it.

She crept forward, blade held ready to strike. She paused at the door, listening intently. Silence. She turned the handle and pushed gently, preparing herself to leap back, to fight furiously against the fiercest foe she had ever encountered. But the door swung open silently, and after a moment, she stepped forward into the house.

She knew instantly that it was empty. There was only one room - food and various tools lay on two tables to her right. To her left was an empty bed, the sheets ruffled haphazardly. There was, quite simply, nowhere to hide. More than that though, the house felt empty. There was no heat, no presence, no telltale sounds of life. Gently illuminated by the moon, which must have found its way through a clearing in the canopy above, the room was completely open to her. He must have realised who she was, what she was. That was it. She'd missed her chance.

She looked at the wall by the bed and gasped audibly.

Hanging on the wall was a long steel sword, with a winged blue crossguard, and a golden jewel set at the base of the blade. In the moonlight the sword seemed to glow, casting a dazzling pattern on the floor by the bed. The woman stood transfixed before it. She had of course heard about this sword. She had never imagined that she would see it for real. She held out a hand and gently pressed it into the cold steel, half expecting it to animate and leap at her. This was the sword that had killed him. The sword that was, in a way, the very reason she was standing here today. It seemed to emanate an energy, a deep power that radiated throughout the room, passing into her and making her shudder. She felt anger swell within her. She was going to truly enjoy killing its owner.

As she turned to leave the house she found herself frowning. Something was wrong. If the old man really had left, why would he leave the sword? Surely he had not been so panicked that he would abandon his most powerful weapon?

She swivelled, raising her knife as she did, expecting a swing that never came. The room was still empty, mocking her. But now she noticed something that she hadn't before. In the corner, half-hidden by the end of the bed, came a gentle blue glow. That was what was illuminating the room, she realised, not the moon. She stepped forward, curious, crouching by the edge of the bed to see.

The item was a large round ball, a little larger than a person's head. It had strange markings all over it, and it glowed a light shade of blue that seemed unnatural. She marvelled at it, unable to see what was causing the light. Ancient technology, she thought to herself. From a more advanced age. A relic? A trophy, perhaps, to remind the man of better days? Or something more… practical?

Something was playing at the back of her mind, and she trusted her instinct. She took a step back. Then realisation hit her.

Too late.

The explosion rent the night air in two and all there was was darkness.

Keep the sword, they had said. Keep the sword. As if it were a trophy, some token by which to remember the glory days. As if it had fallen into my hands through happenstance, as if I had not proven myself worthy time and again in the eyes of the Goddess. The sword that had slain the great evil. The sword that had liberated them all. As if this sword was not my birthright.

There's no threat anymore, or so they say. I do not believe this is true. As long as there is a land called Hyrule there will be the threat of Ganon, this is a story that has repeated itself across aeons, a story that will never have a conclusion. It may be a thousand years, but until my time in this world draws to a close I will stay ready.

So I'll leave the castle, and it's unlikely that I'll ever lay eyes on it again. And I'll take the sword. As if anyone could stop me.

The woman looked at the ruin of the house without emotion. Timber and shards of glass were scattered, some on the path and some in the river, a huge circle of debris. The clearing was bathed in the light of early morning, and birds flew above, chirping happily, unaware of the devastation below.

She'd missed her chance, the woman thought. Perhaps her only chance. Perhaps the entire clan's only chance. She felt her arm, dangling useless by her side. The pain was intense, a reminder of her failure. Remarkably, she had awoken, half buried by roofbeams, to find that this was her only injury. She looked back towards the village. Her allies would almost certainly have arrived by now. Perhaps it would have been better if she had not survived.

There was one thing that she did find disconcerting. The sword was gone, and she knew that it hadn't been carried away by the river. For some reason, with her completely defenceless, the man hadn't finished the job. She looked at the carnage, then turned and walked away.

She saw the smoke before she reached the village. It hung in the air above the trees, putrid and black and heavy.

She smelt it too, although the less said about that the better.

When she rounded the final corner, the scene that met her was one that she had seen many times before, and she did not flinch or shy away, but walked calmly to the village square.

Her allies stood silently, facing her in a line. They were dressed in identical red tunics, with an eye painted on the front in white, the uniform of the clan. There were four of them, male and female, some lithe and slim like her, some tall and powerfully built. They did not move as she walked towards them.

Bodies were strewn across the square like dolls cast aside by a child. Men, women and children, slain as they rose for their daily activities. She saw the innkeeper slumped against the door of his inn, his eyes wide and unseeing, dark blood congealing across an obscenely large wound in his chest. The stench was unbearable. Behind him, flames licked at the roof of the building, burning the very room she had slept in. Other buildings were on fire, torched seemingly at random. People burned too, she saw, looking at a pile of charred remains by a market stall. She reached the clan members and stood quietly, her arm dangling by her side.

After a moment one of them spoke.

'You have failed.'

It was a statement, not a question. They already knew, no doubt, that their target had fled, that they could search for the rest of their lives and not find him. She nodded slowly, and he nodded once in return.

'You will be punished.' He said simply, then turned to his companions. 'We move out. For now, we stay together. We'll head higher into the mountains, then separate once we have more intelligence.' He strode forward, passing the woman without a second glance. The other clan members followed, passing her and walking single file in the direction of the path out of town.

The woman began to follow, then stopped, turning to survey what was left of the village. Fluttering gently on the wind, something caught her eye. She reached out a hand instinctively and caught it, bringing it close to her face.

A scrap of cloth, singed at the edges.

A painted purple butterfly.