Dark here.

My, that was quite the plane ride, wasn't it?

It's been about two years since I last picked up this story. I'm not sure what happened to it in the transition from South Africa to America, but soon after returning I decided to move on from fanfiction for good.

That, I feel, was a good decision for my writing. I took my first creative steps with fanfiction, and so I'll always have a fondness for it, but I feel there's a point when you have to move on from using the characters of others to tell your own stories.

Since then I've grown as a writer (I hope), but with new horizons comes new challenges, which is why I'm here.

I have a horrible tendency to leave things unfinished. A casual glance through my 'works' here should reveal that. So, in order to discover what it takes to finish something, I'm going back to the basics. I'm going to finish this story, come hell or high water, and then I really am done with fanfiction forever.

So, the motto of the day is "Finish what you started!" Let's see if I can live up to it.

"And the Goddesses fell from their slumber in the sky,
For the aging of the world, in the blinking of an eye…
Their sun illumines moon-and-star,
The valleys near, the mountains far…
So all will know the glory of
The blessed three from high above…
And of creatures all, from everywhere
There is naught who could compare…"

The lullaby continued, drifting over the wagon as it rumbled along the road, through the impossibly thick snow of the northern plains. The horizon was distant and deceptively warm, hidden behind rising peaks in swaths of amber.

Malon guided the cart towards the setting sun, and even wrapped in wool from the caravan, she could feel the cold in invisible lines, across her neck, on her skin, in her bones.

By evening the sun would disappear altogether, and with the night came a deeper frost still. The girl moved quickly- with a sense of unfounded urgency- as the last rays dug their claws into the wet white ground beneath the cart. She lit torches, for warmth and light, balancing them around a covered lump in the cart's center.

She'd feed the horses, covering them the best she could in warm wool requisitioned from the dead soldiers, and run a hand along their manes, to comfort them all. The horses reminded her of a particular man, slightly bewildered, beautifully natural, patient and silent.

Beneath the blankets in the cart lay this man, breathing softly, thick bandage around his waist. His mane was a brighter shade, yellow like the straw beneath him, and his covering protected a much weaker core. His wound had mostly healed; its bloody, mauled purple had faded into a sickening yellow-black, still shuddering when touched. Malon, without knowledge of anatomy or healing was resigned to hoping for the best.

The problem then was not so much the wound but the conditions. Weakened as he was, Link had fallen ill, and it had scarcely left the man his consciousness. He clung to life like a newborn, eyes closed, body curled in. When he drew breath it was fearful, coming in rapid, panicked gulps, cold wind stoking a fire dying, or already dead.

After cleaning and covering his wound, she would feed him something stolen from the Wardens, military rations, edible at best but thankfully plentiful. Water was more of a concern. There was a barrel of that, too, but Malon feared the cold would freeze it when it ran low, and there was no lake or river in sight.

After the two were fed and watered, Malon would raise the covers up and crawl hurriedly in beside the sleeping man.

One night she lay awake, unable to sleep, lost in a daze. His body heaved beside her. How many states she had seen him in! First captured, then captor, once mighty, now crippled, submitted to her mercy, her ability, and her luck.

She shivered, and beneath the covers extended timid fingers to the curve of his shoulder, touching him lightly with her hand, and laid there for a moment, wondering if his eyes were still closed, resting peacefully, lost to the world and to her. The thought made her cringe, and she pulled herself closer and wrapped her arms around him, head behind his, breast on his back.

He was intensely warm, a lean furnace, and she hardly had time to marvel at his inner heat before she fell into a deep sleep, one calmer than any on the journey thus far.

Elsewhere in Hyrule a chill of a different kind spread out across the landscape. Castle Town had long stripped down the festive colors of celebration. Now the occupation of Ganondorf and his armies had settled in completely, and all pretenses of 'liberation' had been discarded with the orange-red banners of his coronation. The streets were empty in the winter midnight, save for the occasional patrol and one man.

He had the appearance of a being inhuman, or at least implacable. His face was carved into the cruelest of features, small, hard eyes slanted downwards so that his brow furrowed on the head of his tanned, fleshy nose, crinkling at the slightest disturbance, and even when neutral he appeared taken by inner hate, some inconsolable rage… the cold suited him, as did the silence, and the smooth blackness of the night.

This night in particular had offered little stimulation. He had met with no resistance from those he had interrogated, and rather humorously discovered that they were truly ignorant of what he was asking them.

There is a special kind of fear that one learns in such a profession. It is blank fear, stupid fear, when the subject is devoid of any notion as to why they are being questioned. It is immediately apparent, and most obvious in the motion of the eyes. As one racks the brain for any hint of discarded knowledge that might be of use, there is a misty scanning in the pupils, left, right, left again. They cannot focus, even when captivated; they cannot stay still, even when their limbs are frozen in fear.

And then, of course, the torture begins.

The hands are first! As a matter of principle, they are highly visible, they are vital to all skills and daily life, and yet not to the survival of the creature. Then the face: even the most superficial of cuts can leave one with the horror of disfigurement, for a few cuts more a mirror alone becomes torture, and finally death is the gratitude given for such an entertaining charade, and the black comedy is complete.

It is, in the simplest of terms, fun.

But there is something much greater, much more fulfilling in the eyes of one who is guilty.

Any Interrogator of distinction has always learned to relish that hard-eyed stare, that thin-lipped grimace, the mellowed stoicism of hidden knowledge and untested courage.

He samples, truly tastes that tense air of fear that settles in between the two as the silence is held, and finds release in the singular moment of the first cut, when all pretense is cast aside, and art begins.

There is no coy slashing of the face when the strong ones are at stake, there is a singular goal and the truly inspired know that it will be reached eventually, even at the cost of immeasurable time, even into the night and the little hours of the morning, even until the stain of life encapsulates the entire room, and the stink of death is wafting hopefully from the skin. And sometime between the first cut (which is feared) and the last (which is beloved), something breaks, and all the little truths come pouring out.

And then, once the game is done, and there is only one left in the soiled, darkened room, the Interrogator leaves with a sense of love for his partner and victim, for even though others will learn what was exclaimed at the climax of the meeting, its intricate, intimate details will be forever locked away, trapped in the soul of the departed, which slumbers peacefully in the lungs of the Interrogator.

It had been so long since the Interrogator had met such an individual. But he had faith in the permanence of courage in the world, just as he had faith in his talent to destroy it.

The cold abated with the passing of a breeze. He exhaled with a breathless smile.

It was a beautiful night.

Days later the weather had shifted, and while the plains were still frigid, the ice had receded from the wheels of the cart. Malon's fears of losing the water were mostly forgotten. Link had recovered, if only partially, now caught between the habit of constant sleep and the need to move. He contented himself in sitting up against a barrel and watching the clouds go by.

His sense of direction was slowly returning, but he could still only discern that he was far away from his castle home, and near a long range of mountains. He could feel the altitude in his lungs, each breath falling short, and grew impatient, tired of his illness, tired of being limply useless in the back of the cart. It reminded him of the prison he had so recently escaped.

The mountains towered overhead, snowcaps leering down, and he could take it no longer. The swordsman lifted himself out of the cart, and tumbled down in a flurry of white. Malon turned her head, unaware he was even awake, and immediately dismounted to meet him, yelling his name. He took no notice and charged shakily through the snow, a powdered crest behind him, howling in a ridiculous, throaty, human way.

He made it about ten yards before collapsing again, breathing in lungfuls of snow and coughing them out as quickly. His companion was on him instantly, wishing she could kick him for his stupidity. She pulled him up and over her shoulder.

"You idiot… Stay in the cart before you kill yourself, alright?"

Link wasn't paying attention, half-focused on something far away and half-unconscious.

"Look at me, Link. This is serious."

An arrow pierced the snow a foot away from the two. The wind picked up around Malon, who was frozen in place, and four more peppered their general area. Malon began to pull Link back towards the cart, cursing loudly into the cold wind, when the swordsman grabbed her by the shoulder and poked her below the throat. She felt where his hand had been, remembering the pendant around her neck.

"You think this is the Resistance?!"

The swordsman managed an angry shrug. The archers adapted to the wind and their arrows sliced air nearer and nearer to the pair.

"Fine!" she screamed, tearing the stone circle from its cord and lifting it high in the air. An arrow narrowly missed her hand, and she shrieked, but kept her arm extended.

Both of them were shaking horribly and rooted to the ground, either from fear or the cold, but immediately the firing stopped.

Malon felt her heartbeat slow, and she picked Link up as two figures emerged from the tangled rocks of the cliff face.

"Well, Link… I think we're here."

So, there it is. I think it's pretty clear I've changed as a writer, whether I've improved or not I'll leave up to you.

I'm curious to see how the first six chapters compare to the newer one. I felt like developing Malon's character a bit more. I think she'll play a more central role than I originally anticipated, and I want to give her a sense of uniqueness to match.

And, since I apparently can't go a chapter without introducing a new character… Is he an old face or not? Who knows? I certainly don't. Remember, I'm going to finish this thing, so at some point I'll have to stop asking questions and start answering them.

Until next time!