Link never knew the date of his birth, but every year around the same time Bazlo gave him a gift, usually something functional like a new belt or some weather-proof socks. Employee Appreciation Day he called it, but Link knew better. It always occurred on the anniversary of his coming to the Outside, which was incidentally the same day he had met Bazlo. Today marked the third anniversary, and it was going to be a little more special this year. Link had no idea why, at least until he saw the grim look on Bazlo's face that evening at The Broken Hearth.

"I think you're old enough to carry one of these now," he said, putting a small package on the table. It was wrapped in brown paper. Link gave Bazlo a wondering look before taking the gift and tearing it open.

"A knife, wow, finally!" he exclaimed, removing the small dagger from its leather holster and holding it up admiringly.

"You wear it at the small of your back, on the inside of your belt. Nice and discreet. Nobody will know it's there except you."

"Thanks, Baz. This is . . . this is really great."

"Hopefully you won't need to use it—I pray you won't, anyway—but if you need to cut yourself free from something or if you have a close encounter with some scalawags, this will give you an advantage. Remember: eyes, neck, and groin. If it's a life or death situation, go for the arteries—you know where those are. Then keep your defenses up, wait for your enemy to bleed out."

Link put down his gift. "Why the gory wisdom all of a sudden? Is everything alright? You look troubled."

"That's one way of putting it," Bazlo sighed. "A letter arrived from my brother at the post here in Lorring last month. We were still working the west leg of our route, as you know. I didn't receive it until a few days ago."

"I didn't know you had a brother."

Bazlo pulled a crumpled envelope from the inner pocket of his vest and placed it on the table. "We haven't spoken since our mother died. I was still an active soldier at the time. Berrol blamed me for not being at home to help take care of her, and when she died . . . well, it killed any brotherly love that wasn't already dead." Bazlo smiled thinly. "Now it seems that Berrol has the same kind of growth in his abdomen that took Mother. He wrote to say that he wants to see me before he goes . . . and to be there for his wife, and his two boys, to make sure they're taken care of when he's gone."

Link picked up the envelope. "This came from Fareign. That's on the other side of the Zudem Sea!"

"Still too close for Berrol's liking."

Link was quiet for a moment. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded terribly young and vulnerable. "So you're going away. How long? When will you be back?"

"I don't know."

"But what about the business? Are you just going to leave it?"

"I have no choice," said Bazlo, threading his fingers together. "Family is more important, estranged or not. This will probably be my last chance to set things right."

"But what about me?" Link cried. "What am I going to do?"

"You're going to do fine, that's what. Remember the first time we sat at this table and talked? You were just a skinny kid straight outta the woods, dressed in that mangled green atrocity you called a tunic." He chuckled at the memory. "Now look at you. You're only a little bit taller than you were then, but you're a hell of a lot stronger—and wiser. You know Hyrule. You know its people. You've got the skills and smarts to make it on your own now, to follow your own path."

Link's face was a picture of betrayal. "You were planning this all along, weren't you? Teach me everything you know and then just abandon me—"

"Not abandon. Enable. What greater reward could a father have than to see his son stand on his own?"

Link tossed the envelope toward Bazlo. "But you're not my father."

"I know. I didn't realize we'd have so little time together, otherwise I'd . . ." Another weary sigh. "I should have tried harder, regardless. But it is what it is. I'm sorry if I've wounded you in any way, Link. It wasn't intentional."

This was beginning to sound horribly familiar; the forced leaving, the grief, the brevity of time. Barely three years had passed since Link last had his heart ripped out, and the now whole ugly cycle was completing itself again. He was at once furious and terribly, utterly depressed—not at Bazlo, but at the circumstances that were pulling apart their nice little arrangement. Link understood the man wanting to go; if Saria were sick and dying, he'd be charging back to Kokiri as fast as his legs would carry him (if going into the forest weren't a death wish, of course). But getting on a ship and sailing to Fareign was only a little less treacherous, perhaps. People died at sea all the time.

But Bazlo was right. Family is more important. Family is worth the risk, especially if they're all you've got.

So Link, as evenly as his voice would allow, asked Bazlo when he was planning to leave.

"In a couple of weeks. That should be enough time for me to get everything in order."

A couple of weeks, thought Link. That should be enough time for me to get my mind right. He pulled himself together and nodded. "Alright. What can I do to help?"

Bazlo smiled. He may not have ever been a father, but he sure looked like one then.

A couple of weeks, as it turned out, wasn't nearly enough time for Link to get his mind right, he later discovered. Even if he'd had a year to get used to the idea, it still would have been difficult to stand on the dock at Antios and face Bazlo Bartlin for what might be the last time—what surely and in all likelihood was the last time. He wondered if Bazlo felt the same.

The one-eyed ex-merchant gave final pats to Flash and Thunder, said his farewells to them, then reached out and grasped Link's hand. He was smiling, but his voice was rough when he spoke. "It's been a privilege working with you."

Link had no words to say. Even if his shambling mind had been capable of putting together a sentence or two, his throat was too tight to allow the words to come out. So he stood there, trying to be a man, and nodded and shook Bazlo's hand with a stony, rigid face and tried not to think about Kokiri, because if he thought about Kokiri right now he was going to lose it in front of his boss and the captain of the good ship Stalworth and the whole town of Antios.

Then Bazlo leaned forward and clapped his arm around Link's shoulder, squeezed him hard enough to bring the tears out of his eyes, and said, "Remember: no soldiering."

Link laughed frailly and returned the embrace. "No soldiering."

They parted, Bazlo shouldered his knapsack, turned, and walked up the gangplank.

Link stood on the pier and waved to the Stalworth as she raised sail and glided slowly from the bay. Then he turned, pressed his fist to his lips, and made a strangled sound deep in his throat. Beside him, Flash nickered and snorted into his hair. Link rubbed the old gelding's nose, grateful at least for the equine company.

"It's alright," he murmured. "We'll be alright. Come on, let's get back to Lorring. I owe you both some carrots."

Despite the suddenness of the circumstances, Bazlo had made sure that those he was leaving behind were taken care of. Link had refused to accept any of the money made from the short sale of Bazbar Incorporated, but Bazlo had persisted in at least giving him a quarter of the profit. Severance pay, he joked. Link finally accepted it—not a fortune, but enough that would see him through until he could find another job.

Flash and Thunder were to go to Lon Lon Ranch, where Bazlo's good friend Talon had agreed to take in the retired duo and let them live out the rest of their days doing light farm work and getting spoiled rotten by his daughter Malon. Link himself delivered the horses a few days after Bazlo's departure, and Talon insisted that he stay at the ranch for a while. Summer was nearly at its zenith and an extra pair of hands would be much appreciated when it came time to cut and rake the hay. So Link agreed, though what he really wanted was to be left alone to work out his feelings and come to terms with this gut-wrenching cycle of abandonment.

Malon, however, was far too excited to give him a moment's peace. In hindsight, she was perhaps the sole reason Link was never buried under the black sludge of depression. Malon was the antithesis of solemnity, a high-energy, horse-crazed daredevil whose idea of an exciting time was seeing how many bottles she could grab off the ground—with her bare hands, leaning almost completely out of the saddle—while on the back of a galloping, green-broke stallion. There was insanity in her blood, but there was also plenty of courage and genius. Link had watched her break a colt in less than a day, and she could throw a rope around anything that moved.

Bazlo may have taught Link how to ride a horse, but Malon taught him how to master one. When work was finished for the day, she was usually dragging him over to the grass field behind the ranch to challenge him in a friendly game of one-on-one polo—or archery, or hurdles, or bareback racing. She beat him at everything they did, but once in a while Link came close enough to make her have to work to keep her perfect record.

It wasn't Malon doing all the teaching, though; Link showed her how to play cards, how to carve a whistle (his mistake—the tweeting drove him crazy for about three days), and how to say "thank you" in six languages.

"I envy you," she said wistfully one evening, sitting up in the hayloft with Link and watching the sun go down. "You've seen so much of the kingdom, traveled to deserts and forests and mountains . . ."

Link didn't look up from the small block of linden he was carving. "There's a word for that, Mal, and it's called 'homeless'."

She guffawed. Even though Link wasn't trying to be funny, he had to smile at her response.

"No, that's traveling, goofus!" she cried. "Not homeless!"

"Then explain to me the difference between traveling and wandering."

Malon pursed her lips pensively. "Well, when you travel, you've got a destination in mind. Someplace you wanna go, things you wanna see. Wandering is, heck, what it sounds like. Just wandering around without a plan and it doesn't really matter where you end up."

"Good enough. So what happens when a traveler is done traveling?"

"I guess . . . huh, I guess he goes home."

"Egg-zactly."

"Wait, wait, waitwaitwait," Malon rolled off of her stomach and sat up. Bits of hay clung to her dress. "I get what you're tryin to say, but not everyone who wanders is homeless. Like gypsies, they're perfectly content to wander. If some fella gets bored, he may just decide to start wandering around to see the country. Old people do that all the time."

"That's sight-seeing, not wandering. When you wander—when you're homeless—it's a lot like being lost."

Malon ticked off on her fingers: "Alright, so we've got traveling, wandering, sight-seeing, homeless, and lost. What else should we add to the list?"

"Maybe count homeless and lost as one."

"You can be homeless without being lost."

"You can be homeless and still be lost."

Malon let out a frustrated squawk and threw her hands in the air.

Link smiled. "I only aggravate you because I like you."

She responded by drilling a knuckle into Link's side, making him laugh and recoil. "Hey! Don't! I've got a knife here! You want me to fillet my finger?"

"Hm, fillet o' finger, sure sounds tasty."

"You're a pretty sick girl, Malon."

"I'm pretty when I'm healthy, too," she grinned, fanning her face and batting her eyes.

Link shook his head and chuckled.

"But really," she said, scooting closer and lowering her voice, "all joking aside, I understand why this is so important to you. Home is important. I wouldn't trade mine for anything—or my family, for that matter. I know how much you liked Mr Bazlo, and I know it's been real tough for you, but it'll get better. You'll see." She grinned and bumped his thigh with her fist.

"You seem pretty sure about that."

"Of course I'm sure. There's something special about you, Link. I knew it the moment I first saw you. I felt this instant connection—like I already knew you, or you were somebody really important. A prince or a living legend or something. It's as if . . ."

While Malon grasped for words, Link felt a chill creeping up his back, making every hair stand on end.

"It's like you've got this great big adventure hanging around you, just waiting to happen, but you don't see it yet because you're not in the right place right now . . . oh, I don't know. Am I making any sense? I feel pretty stupid."

Link gave her a smile. "You're pretty when you're smart, too."

"Har har, it's funnier when I do it . . . What's that you're carving? An apple?"

"No, it's a piece of wood. Can't you tell the difference?"

This time Malon balled up her fist and punched him in the arm. It was worth the bruise.

"Alright," Link laughed, "maybe you can tell me this: what is the difference between a house and a home?"

Malon sighed and shrugged. "A house is a house. It's made of floors and ceilings and walls . . ." She trailed off, suddenly becoming intrigued. "A house is a structure, the outside. A home is inside, what you put inside a house . . . where family and friends are . . ."

"Getting close."

"Alright, so home is a feeling. A house is a thing. A home is . . . home . . ."

Link slipped his hand under the collar of his tunic, made a fist, and popped it up and down over his chest a few times.

Malon's face suddenly shone like the sun. "Home is where the heart is!" she crowed.

"And the lucky lady wins a wooden heart," said Link, passing her the heart-shaped carving he had been finishing. It was a simple thing, nothing fancy or particularly valuable, but he'd taken the time to etch a few flourishes and swirls on it and smooth the sharp angles. "You can stain it or paint it, leave it as it is, whatever you want. Just don't set it on fire or anything." He winked.

Malon cupped her hands around her gift as if it were solid gold, not a humble little wood carving. "Oh, Link," she beamed. "Thank you."

He hadn't been expecting the kiss on the cheek, but it stood to reason that if you gave a girl something she really liked, you'd better be prepared for the gushy, mushy consequences. It wasn't all that bad, really.

In fact, it was a pretty nice way to end the day.

The day was ending at Castle Hyrule, too. Housekeepers finished the last of their duties, cooks and kitchen staff stacked dishes in their cupboards, fresh linens were put out for tomorrow, and the night shift came in to relieve the current standing guard. This was the clockwork of life in a castle: pleasant routine and few (if any) interruptions in the day-to-day schedule of activities. It was a way of life that Princess Zelda had known for eighteen years, and as the stars showed their familiar faces one by one, she felt increasingly thankful for this structured, predictable, peaceful existence. Dark o'clock and all is well. No broken cogs, no loose springs, only the perpetual rhythm of tick-tock, tick-tock.

Zelda wondered if she were strange for being so fastidious, if her people thought she was aloof and finicky. She hadn't always been this way, dreading the unforeseen, obsessed with keeping a tight rein on a kingdom she felt was constantly teetering on the brink of chaos and disorder. When she was a young girl, before her father King Zurden had died, she had enjoyed being spontaneous and adventurous. She loved surprises, before surprises became a thing to be dreaded. She had been a dreamer, a girl who liked books about fantastic creatures and could never seem to keep her shoes clean. She was going to be a queen who slayed giants, tamed dragons, led armies to victory, and danced with fairies in moonlit grottos.

Some of her wishes had come true, though not in the way she had imagined; she had helped slay a terrible beast bent on the destruction of Hyrule, but that was in another life, on a different path in time. Though there had been moments of levity and love on that path, it remained a wholly awful experience, full of death and nightmares, and she wouldn't endure it again unless there were no other way. She had been forced into hiding for the sake of her kingdom, had traded bodies with a Sheikah boy Impa had enlisted for the task, and basically lain in a helpless slumber while her mind crept around Hyrule like a cowardly thief. There was no real honor in the part she had played, though she was extremely grateful for the second chance Link had afforded the world. She hoped she was using her time wisely, but sometimes she felt as useless as one of the swooning princesses in the stories she'd read as a child; pretty and virtuous, but otherwise devoid of any meaningful qualities.

Zelda's real sense of accomplishment stemmed from her duties as a Sage and her ability to use magic, both of which had been taught to her almost since her infancy. Uncle Mortemus—not really her uncle, but the man who had been Chief Practician of Magic in the castle since her father was a young king—had shown her how develop her maegus, while Rauru instructed her on the responsibilities of sagehood and trained her to build her powers by drawing from each of the six other elements for which she was responsible. She was proud of her abilities, and justifiably so. Magic was one of the few things for which she had an undeniable talent. Her lyre-playing, on the other hand, had gotten stuck somewhere on the beginner's level, and it had been years since she'd read a book about anything other than politics or economy. The fiercest monster she had slain in this boring, beautiful existence was a spider that had crawled across her writing desk one night. Royal life was much less glamorous than how she'd imagined it when she was eight years old.

But she couldn't complain. She knew what the anarchy of an evil reign looked like, and she didn't care to see it again. If all she ever did for the rest of her life was keep the Triforce safe and in one piece, she'd be happy . . . Well, she could learn to be content. She doubted if she would ever truly be happy again, at least until the Lines had been matched and closed. Then she would finally be able to contact Link, perhaps ask for a special delivery to be made to the castle. Rauru had said he was still working for that merchant out of Lorring, and appeared to be getting along quite well. That had been a few months ago. Zelda wondered if Link was happy.

At least one of us should be, she thought, sitting at the long table in her father's study with a paper copy of the Quest Line unfolded in front of her. There was a larger one in the council chamber, where Mortemus and the Sages regularly met to compare notes and make certain that time was mending itself properly.

It was a nerve-wracking business, poring over records of events that Zelda and the other six Sages had been required to keep ever since Link had pulled the Master Sword from its pedestal. Rauru had known from the start that there would be problems; the boy had been too young to wield the sword, for one thing, and Rauru wasn't even sure that Hyrule would still be around after the seven years required for Link to reach an appropriate age had passed. It was a terrible risk, but a necessary one. In the end, Ganondorf was defeated and the clocks turned back seven years, and now everyone involved in the quest—except for Link, of course—was faced with the arduous, painstaking responsibility of making sure that every trace of Ganondorf's evil was expunged from history. That meant carefully charting the paths of the stars and the moon, documenting tides and sunrises and verifying that all natural, predictable phenomena trued up with the events of the Hero's quest. Only this would ensure that time was passing normally.

Zelda preferred to think of it in terms of sewing: a few inches of thread holding together a seam had rotted and needed to be replaced. The bad threads were removed, the good ends tied off, and the gaping hole was slowly being re-sewn. But this was delicate fabric, indeed; each stitch had to go through the same hole made by the original needle, otherwise the fabric would bunch and the seam would never align properly. This was a quaint way of describing the end of the world and everything in it. Only when the end of the gap was reached—Ganon's final defeat and the returning of the Master Sword to its pedestal—could the Sages truly breathe a sigh of relief.

Zelda roused herself from her reverie and looked down at her open journal. It was covered with doodles (not very good ones) of stitches and clocks and a face that might have been Link's, if Link looked more like an assortment of clumsy lines and childish circles.

She sighed and placed her quill in its stand. It had grown late, and tomorrow would be here early—six o'clock, the same as always. She stood and folded the Quest Line into a small square, tucking it between the pages of her journal.

If she hadn't raised her head to look at the clock, she might have been able to sleep that night. She might not have noticed anything wrong until the following day, or whenever she next decided to use her father's study instead of her own. But she was curious what time it was, and glanced up at the large silver timepiece ticking away on the mantle. It read 9:41. It was also spattered with red.

"What on earth . . ." Zelda murmured, starting forward slowly. Another splotch fell onto the clock's housing, causing a red rill to trickle down its glass face.

Horror beat in Zelda's heart as she raised her eyes to the huge painting which hung above the fireplace. It was a portrait of her and her father. He was sitting in a chair and holding her on his knee—he a bearded, masculine figure, she a smiling toddler with golden hair and blue eyes. Except the eyes weren't there anymore, nor were her father's. Black holes gaped in their smooth, linseed oil faces, as if their eyes had been torn out by the claws of a ferocious beast. Ragged shreds of eyelid and cheek wept rivulets of blood—real blood—that oozed out of the canvas and landed with fat, syrupy smacks onto the mantle.

Greater than the fear at the sight of this monstrosity was Zelda's realization that she was alone, it was night, and whatever evil had done this might still be in the room with her. She reached out for a chair, pawing vainly at the air, unable to tear her eyes away from the trickling, gory spring. Her fingertips brushed wood at the exact moment her knees buckled, and the sudden wave of vertigo kicked her reflexes into action. She sprawled against the chair and shut her eyes tightly.

It wasn't there. You're very tired. Your mind is playing tricks on you. Somebody is making a horrible joke. It wasn't there. It's very late. You're daydreaming.

Her mind kept firing off explanation after explanation, trying to convince her that what she had seen could not possibly be real, but the steady pat, pat, pat of blood was more persuasive.

Summoning her courage, Zelda took a deep breath and stood straight. She deliberately avoided looking at the painting as she strode across the room, one foot in front of the other, biting her lip to keep herself from whimpering. Only when she was out of the study and into the dim corridor did she finally let out a sob—more of a moan, a low howl of dismay. Then she broke into a run, her brocaded slippers tapping daintily on the floor as she screamed for Sage Rauru.

Link wondered if his history of traumatic separation was giving him commitment problems. He liked Talon and Malon, and he liked working at Lon Lon Ranch, but at the same time he felt a compelling, irresistible urge to leave. Maybe he had worked for Bazlo too long and developed an itching foot. Maybe he was tired of cows and horses and wanted to see some new country. Maybe he wanted to go back to Kakariko and find out more about the mysterious Sheikah people.

But Link imagined the most probable explanation was that he was starting to become very fond of Malon, whose smile reminded him of Saria and whose personality, despite the sassy recklessness and her inability to stop talking, was beginning to feel like a much-needed compass in a life that had gone astray. Attaching didn't seem like a good idea right now—in the end, all it meant was another broken heart.

Also, he was beginning to feel strange. Not the same kind of strange that Malon sometimes made him feel, or the kind of strange he felt right before he came down with a bad cold; this was an off-balance sort of feeling, a clumsy, creeping, ungraceful sensation deep inside him, as if sometimes his heart decided it wanted to start pumping backward or his brain told him he was really right-handed. He couldn't put it into words when Malon asked him what was wrong. All he could tell her was that he felt off kilter and that maybe he needed to go away for a little while. Malon wasn't exactly happy about it, but she understood and supported him—the complete opposite of what Link had expected, which further cemented his idea that women were and always would be mysterious, unpredictable creatures.

He left Lon Lon Ranch on the last day of summer, shaking Talon's hand as he'd been taught, and giving Malon a tender hug. "Take care of my heart," he said.

"I'll carve a notch in it for every day you're gone."

After a thoroughly disturbed look had settled on his face, Malon let out a cackle and punched his shoulder (gently). "I'm just kidding, goofus. I'll take care of it. You just take care of yourself."

Link promised he would.

A little while later, with his knapsack on his back and his green patchwork scarf around his neck, he stepped onto the north road and began walking.