Winter was going to be a serious problem. The gorons of Hyrule mainly lived on the huge, volcanic mountain that loomed over Kakariko, but the gorons of Termina occupied a far snowier peak. It was to the far North of the kingdom, and to get there with any speed they would have had to go directly through Clock Town, the largest town in Termina after the castle town. It wasn't an option now that the king had betrayed them, but the other option was to circle wide, adding days to the journey; days in which the cold and frost could creep along after them with that slow but unstoppable pace.

It was the closest Impa had ever come to defying Zelda; she had wanted to wait, to find some isolated shelter and spend the winter waiting and preparing, but Zelda refused, insisting on carrying on no matter how hard it became. Impa tried to tell her that she had never had to trek through the snow, had never been trapped outside in a blizzard unable to get a fire going, to get dry or even to feel her fingers, but Zelda told her flatly that she would deal with it.

And she would, Impa knew, despite her anger and her fears. She would burn through it all, the hunger and cold, the numb feet and frostbitten fingers, and she would probably take a fever and die out in the snow far from any sort of comfort, alone except for Impa and what little warmth she could provide. Even the Sheikah avoided places like that in the deep winter, and it would be deep winter by the time they reached Snowhead. But the little girl was unstoppable, and Impa could not bring herself to force her, despite her growing suspicion that if the gorons turned her away as well, they might never make it down off the mountains. Impa could not remember any safe houses in that part of the world.

In that regard, the appearance of the man in red was almost fortunate.


They had made the decision to go into the little town for supplies: more rations, thicker clothing, a few kinds of medicine that Impa lacked the time or resources to make for herself. Her experiments eventually worked out what chewed-up leaf it was that eased those bites, and Zelda was now relatively free of them, apart from a few stubborn patches on her face and arms that were taking a long, long time to heal. She used it as an excuse to wrap her scarf over her head and around her face, leaving her visible only from nose to forehead, and it was in this state that she sat on the low wall outside the village shop while she waited for Impa to finish negotiating the best value for the money they had gotten from the horses.

She looked around the town, which was barely more than a cluster of houses around an inn, and looked distinctly dusty, even though it was drizzling. People hurried by with their hoods pulled far over their faces. The cuckoos that belonged to the inn were clustered around in their henhouse, mumbling discontentedly, and somewhere a dog was barking. Nothing and nobody spared a glance for the skinny vagabond child sat outside the shop. The perceived poverty was becoming quite useful, actually. People seemed to think if they looked too hard at her she might start begging, or their pouches would disappear. She was quite certain people would still be looking for her, but she was also quite certain that she now looked nothing like the girl they hunted.

Everything around her was shaded brown and grey, from the mud and dirt to the wooden buildings, the tiled rooves, the clouds barely visible through the mist of rain so that the sky seemed simply to fade to shadows overhead. Even Impa wore a thick brown tunic, trousers and cloak over her form-tight armour, and though there was little she could do about her eyes, it seemed that they faded between draughts of that thin potion.

And so, that flash of red across the street caught her eye. She turned her head and tried to follow it, but it was gone in an instant. She blinked, squeezing the water from her lashes, and looked again, already half-sure she had imagined it, when a soft voice said by her ear, "They're closer than you think."

She jumped back so fast she tripped over the wall, but managed to turn it into a spin and landed on one knee in the wet mud, sending a stab up through that scar, then came up holding the knife she carried in her belt.

He was tall and slim, dark-haired, and had the Sheikah eye embossed into his leather jerkin. His eyes were scarlet and hard. Thinking fast, Zelda realised he had put himself between her and the shop door, which meant she could not get to Impa, but also that when Impa came out he would have his back to her. She lowered the knife a little, knowing that it would be no use at all if her suspicions were correct. "You're an exile," she hazarded. He nodded.

"But still a Sheikah warrior."

"I was told that exiles lose the right to call themselves that."

"It doesn't matter what we call ourselves. It's what we are. We have a duty to the crown."

"And you're here to… what? Warn me? I know I'm being chased."

"Well, as I said, they're closer than you think, Princess Zelda. And you need a better guard. If I was protecting you, I would not have left you out here alone."

"No?" Behind him, the handle of the door turned.

"No. For a princess on the run, you're far too trusting."

There was a blur of colour and something slammed bodily into her, sending her sprawling into the mud just as she saw a flash of metal heading for her face. The shock of the fall knocked her knife out of her hands, and before she could gather herself enough to stand up the man fell half on top of her and was still. Frantically she tried to scurry back up, but her hand slipped out from under her again and she landed flat on her back.

Over the rain she heard a furious shout, then the weight on top of her pulled away and Impa's strong grip hauling her to her feet. She clung to her guardian and looked down, then realised that her hand was smeared with blood; the man who had spoken lay still on the ground in a rapidly expanding puddle of it. But Impa was not holding her weapon; she glared over Zelda's head at another man, a blonde one in a red cloak, another with the red Sheikah eyes. He was holding a short sword, but both his hands were raised in a placating gesture.

"-Orders of the king," he was saying desperately. "But by the time I reached Gharan he'd already left, so I tracked him all the way here, and-"

"We are leaving," Impa snapped. "Out of gratitude I won't kill you for touching her. If you try to follow us I will change my mind."

"Wait!"

Zelda and the young man cried it at the same time, and Impa stiffened. The Princess looked from the cooling body back up to him. He had to be an exile too; he had the eyes but not the armour or the sleek, tailored weaponry. That sword he held was well-made but looked just the same as any soldier might carry. He, too, was thin, much thinner than the dead attempted murderer. "Gharan is the exiles' camp, yes?"

"Yes, highness."

"The king hired former Sheikah to kill me?"

"As I understand it, he wanted you brought back. I know you're worth nearly as much dead, though, your highness."

Impa's hand on Zelda's shoulder was growing more tense by the second. Zelda prodded the body with her toe. "So there are more of you on the road?"

"Most likely. They'll expect you to loop along the East toward Snowhead to ask the gorons for help. They guessed that the deku would turn you down. They don't have much to do with humans." He paused expectantly, but Zelda's face was impassive.

"Thank you for your help," she said shortly. "If you follow us, we will know, and Impa here will gut you. Somehow I don't think you're a match for her."

She turned away, ignoring that puzzled look she was used to seeing on the eyes of adults who weren't braced for her. Impa gave her a little smile as their eyes met, then followed her off down the road. In the pack slung over her shoulders were dry clothes and thicker blankets, preserved food and various other bits and pieces Zelda was surprised they had managed to find in such a little village. They had just reached the edge of the town when he caught up with them.

"I can help you," he called after them.

"You can get rid of that body," Impa snapped over her shoulder.

"I've lived in Termina for more than ten years! I know this place. I know the people who have been sent to hunt you!"

Zelda stopped and turned to him, looking him over properly. He could have been Impa's age, but she guessed he was younger, and his thinness looked more like underfeeding than over-training. The red cloak was threadbare and patched in many places. In his gaunt face, red eyes shone with a hunger that went beyond a body's needs, and she remembered what she knew of an exile's way of life. For whatever crime he had committed, he could not go home. He had been forced to abandon his own people. Had he left a family behind? Was there a mother somewhere who hoped her son was getting enough to eat, and staying in out of the rain?

Of course not. His mother would likely have been a Sheikah warrior too, and he was probably dead to her. And yet Zelda, who could not go home, felt a twinge of sympathy pricking at her.

You're far too trusting.

She took a deep breath. "I don't trust you," she said firmly. "But… I may have use for you."

Solemnly the exile went down on one knee before her on the sodden ground. "You have my service, Princess," he vowed. "I… I know a better way to Snowhead. One they will not expect you to take."

With a glance up to Impa, Zelda nodded. "Where?"

The exile looked up, life suddenly seeming to animate him as his face twisted into an almost satisfied smirk. "Right through them, your highness."


Please let me know how you think this is going. It's hard not to be predictable when everyone already knows how it ends! Having said that, my ending is slightly different from the events of Ocarina of Time.