17: Seed
The green land had long withered to leave a desert in its place, but still it could seed hatred into a young Prince's heart.
There is often a moment in a young boy's life that defines, in that instant, the man they will become. Subtle, fleeting; it passes by innocuously like the droll chime of a clock, bringing the last tender moment of childhood to an irreversible end, though very few recognize this transition when it occurs.
Even the Gerudo Prince did not see the change within himself, nor feel the seed of the future planted firmly in his flesh, though fate had long cultivated him to allow for its steadily nurtured growth.
Golden eyes were not yet stained with the jaundiced vision of a harsh life. His sisters did well to shelter their small sovereign, tending to their only son with care they would never know themselves. But even they could not shield him from the truth completely, clever and hungry as the boy was, testing the very boundaries that governed survival in their remote and desolate home.
The Desert was not a kind mother, firm and unforgiving as she demanded so much from her children and seemed to give so very little. But to the boy Prince, she was a mother all the same, and he had loved her as any child would. If he respected her laws, and revered her rare mercy in breathing life into his bones, surely she would reward him in time.
He did not shy from her, constantly seeking her warm embrace. He chased the dust devils in the rocky mesas with spirited laughter, wishing to dance with them. He stole chisels and brushes from the artisans to inscribe his adoration on the red earth and sandstone walls, childishly whimsical as his digits strained with the hopeless attempt to capture her beauty. He tore away from his soft bed at night to greet the deathly chill, wrapped up in his blankets and running barefoot upon her sands without fear for burns.
That is, until he found the stone.
It was an unpleasant shock to him when curled toes fell upon the hardened edge of it, expecting the sand to give way and finding discomfort instead. It very nearly tripped him, halting his careless play as he came to scurry and hop, clutching at his foot. Fearful of a Leever's venom, the boy first paid no mind to the object, hoping it had not been a horn and inspecting himself thoroughly—he had been warned many times not to go outside of the valley unshod.
When no danger to his health seemed apparent and, more curious still, no disturbed creature sprung forth to defend, his gaze turned to the source to question.
Dislodged from its resting place, a strange gem gleamed with the wink of coming dawn, a violet shimmer gracing its deep blue colour as it sat tussled by his footprint. Like a bird scavenging for its nest, the Prince sprang upon it eagerly and without question, the thief he was at heart compelled by the promise of wealth.
The blanket draped around his shoulders fluttered as he dropped to his knees, skinny fingers plunging swift to snatch it from the sand and hold it up to the first light of day. Crimson brows furrowed to distort the excitement so evident on his boyish features when he studied its shape—roughly cut and heavy, the potential treasure had immediately lost some of its value, he knew. A trifle though, for the brilliant blue it bore suggested sapphire; such a rarity to see a gem associated with the Zora so far West. How ironic, too, if indeed it was what it seemed… or so his hopeful heart whispered with childlike greed.
But a boy of eight summers who had yet to plunder beyond desert borders, he bitterly conceded, was not well experienced with identifying such things… the opaque nature of the stone only left him more doubtful.
His first instinct, as with any curious artifact he found half buried within the sands, was to take it to the Twinrova for appraisal. If he could not profit from the find in terms of affluence, surely he could trade it for knowledge—such bargains had become common occurrences over the last year or so. The witches had taught him a great many things he kept hidden from his sisters, who would surely scold him for recklessly venturing so far, let alone to trespass on holy grounds forbidden to any child. But, as with many of their warnings, he did not heed them closely; eager as he was for the lesson that could potentially reward his odd discovery.
Turning it about in his hands, though, he found himself second guessing the gem further as the glint of sunrise swept its surface. Squinting, the boy drew it close to his nose, curious as he caught sight of the pattern embedded within. Angular yet streamlined, seemingly forged of trapped and somehow controlled clouding, the streaks formed a symbol he recognized from the temple scrolls he had secretly perused.
The all seeing eye of the Sheikah clan stared back at him, built of hard lines that almost hid the foreign design.
An agitated sigh left him as the last hope of any worth seemed dashed—the Sheikah had never dabbled in wealth or gold, only bones and dusty old stories. It was most likely an ancient messenger, like the gossip stones scattered about the land he had heard of. He had been fooled by coloured glass, he guessed, sneeringly cursing such luck. Habit demanded confirmation, and he brought the worthless trinket to his teeth to affirm this, biting down sharply and listening for the click and scrape of its texture.
At such abuse, the stone came to life, filling his mouth with a vivid glow to send a vibration through his jaw and fingertips. A sound he could not describe filled round ears like a distant buzz as he flinched back, dropping the gem in haste and surprise. The howling winds grew dim, and the air around him suddenly beckoned calm stillness, smelling of salt and unfamiliar sweetness. A swirl of dizziness made his head feel light as he momentarily lost his bearings to the exotic sensations.
Blinking against the shock, the Prince absent-mindedly reached down for the stone, and it was then his saw the slender blades of grass. Dew covered it like a thousand tiny diamonds, winking silver against the break of day. Bursting lush with a shade of green he had only seen in dyes and emeralds, it was almost uncomfortable to behold—the vines clinging to fortress walls seemed as shadowed and sickly tendrils beside it. It was disconcerting to see the colour staining the earth beneath his knees instead of the golden sands, yet he could not tear his eyes away, fingers twitching with a want to touch and feel and hold such precious and rare a thing.
Heated palms met the sturdy ground as the blades bent and moved betwixt his fingers, blunt nails curling into the soft dirt beneath and marveling at the resistance it gave. Lips parted in silent wonder as he clutched the fresh grass, plucking it from the rich soil and reveling in the scant moisture as the dew met tanned skin. He let the dirt and smothered blades fall in clumps from his hand, watching them drop heavy in comparison to the windswept, graceful sand that usually slipped through his grasp.
On instinct, he brought his palm close to smell the sour tang left by the bruised greenery, and his eyes grew wide. This was no mirage conjured by a testing mother. A frantic sense of urgency took him as wide eyes swept the newly spawned surrounds, searching for the stone—the trickery of some crafty Sheikah left to taunt him. He found the gem to his left, but it did not hold his attention long.
Set aside it a bright bloom of purple caught him stunned, delicate and vibrant as it rose from the green to mystify. It shaped itself like a dream taken from a book, as if painted upon the air by the same illustrator's hand and made real, stolen from a far away land.
Flowers did not grow in the desert, and yet he sat beside one.
He reached for it, but hesitance stayed his hand a moment. His head turned to glimpse the small gouges he had left in the soil, and he knew by the sight of its curved petals the plant would not endure such treatment and survive. Tentative, hunger burned to know the fabled silk of it, like old proverbs often told a flower would yield. Would its beauty retract if he touched it with his rough and eager hands?
It mattered not. He held before him proof of the desert's secret bounty. The mother had rewarded a dutiful child, and now beckoned he take for his own her hidden spoils. Where the gem rested, the lifeless sands transformed into nurturing earth, the blinding glare of the harsh sun replaced by the verdant promise of nourishing green. It was a jewel of worth immeasurable, bestowing life to things once dead, as it was likely crafted to do by the Shadow folk who guarded the spirit realm so closely.
He could grow so many more flowers to replace this one, sacrificed to his curious indulgence, and carry a garden wherever he walked.
The stem was ripped without mercy from the ground. Brilliant petals were crushed and bruised within his merciless grasp as he exploited such fragile beauty to sate his hunger. The shreds of it were held close as he inhaled the sweet scent death pulled of it, far more potent than when it lived, as if the flower had exhaled the very best of itself with a final shudder.
The stone flickered and the glow began to weaken, as if the flower had been its heart. The mystic fire in it spluttered to die as the grass faded like a mirage. The bounty began to melt before his eyes, wilting to brown, receding to dry and brittle thatch until its colour matched that of the desert beneath. Within seconds, his reward had been stolen back, eclipsed by the sands as the wind returned to cover and conceal.
The Prince watched this with horror, darting forth to dig and swipe at the grains he was ready to leave behind, as if the green has simply been swallowed by quicksand. He called out to his Goddess, begged her to return such spoils—he thirsted yet, and a drip simply wouldn't do. He had need of this sweet nectar; he could not be without it now that he had known such a taste.
Return to him what he had earned, what his sisters suffered without, now that he knew it had been buried beneath their feet all along. How cruel, how spiteful was she to her favoured son to tempt and tease him so.
How could he love a mother so unkind as to ignore her child's pain, his dreams, his hunger and thirst? Her dust devils intended to taunt, not to dance. The beauty he had scrawled upon the walls of his home was ugly and unrefined, making of him a fine and accurate artist. The chill at night which cooled the sands lured him out to be lost within her vast apathy; wandering with no way point should she whip up the winds to blind, or else settling in the lungs to sicken and strike dead.
He would denounce her, if she would rebuff him, and tear apart her sands in search of fabled green.
The Goddess did not heed his warning. The pattern had left the stone to leave it dull and spent, as dead as the sand slipping through his fingers that moments ago held the form of life.
He hurled the stone away as anger bloomed, cursing the rising sun as the heat met his cheeks with a callous bite and turning his back on it to head for home.
The flower had wilted.
But the seed within the boy sprouted a blackened leaf in its place, and from there, a bitter man would grow.