THIRTEEN - SATURDAY - PART II

Breathe by Tommee Profitt and Fleurie

The air was frigid and it left Malon struggling for both warmth and breath. She stood barefoot in unrelenting darkness yet she could somehow spy the soft, white flakes of snow fluttering around her. Her toes curled, catching into an icy sheet of winter at her heels. Its chill pulled her gaze downward, offering some form of solace that not all in this realm was black. Even the flowers, calla lilies with their spindly stalks and frozen petals that curled and embraced one another, were caught in her gaze despite the blackness that surrounded her. She took in a breath and reached for a lily, the air as cold as her toes buried in the snow, and when she exhaled the darkness seemed to shift around her. It shifted in a myriad of dark blues, ruddy blacks, and muddied crimson. Her fingers grazed one of the lilies then and it too was cold.

How could so many lilies thrive in such wintry conditions with not an ounce of sunlight? Her fingers recoiled against her audible gasp. That had not been her thought. And yet it had been. She'd merely marveled at the clearness, the sheer perfection of the petals. Though the thought, it held true. How-?

Malon straightened, reality a puzzle that snapped into place. Where was she? And she turned around in the snow, dragging her bare heels, to take in her surroundings. Realization setting her heart into a painful rhythm. Nothing but darkness, twirling snow, and white lilies stared back. It left a sourness in her throat, anxiety and fear, and she spun around against the nightmarish dark once again.

"H-hello…" fear of the unknown strangled her voice.

She shifted, her feet kicking up icy bits of snow. The flakes pricked her bare legs, enticing a painful shiver up her spine at the violent frost, and it was then that she noticed that she was naked. She looked down at herself, horror and confusion battling to draw across her face. She glimpsed her tummy that hid between her breasts, her unclothed legs, and snow ridden feet. Yet it was strange… she saw her breasts, but she neither saw the freckles that adorned them nor the nipples themselves. Even her legs, her tummy, it was as if a gaussian blur had been painted across her skin, hiding her defining , the sight of her nakedness in a strange realm had her frantic. She threw her arms across herself, shivering all the while. "Hello!" Her voice was louder this time, but the accompanying silence was blood curdling silent.

Only when she'd stopped, fear brushing over her neck, did her gaze drop back to the snow and the lilies at her feet. The sensation had brought a semblance of heat to her frozen body, and that heat allowed her a moment of recognition. This… something told her it wasn't a dream. How-how did she get here? And where was here?

"What was I doing…" what was she doing before this realm, this void?

She turned around once again, desperation accompanying the furrow of her brows, and peered into the darkness, seeking an end to the stretch of flowers and water. She took a step forward, but paused as she felt something hold her right ring finger back. Surprised, she brought her hands up to her eye level, the darkness doing little to deter her sight as she caught the string wrapped around her right ring finger. Strange though as she had neither seen it nor felt it moments ago, but it was there, tight around her finger. A vibrant red strand that stuck out of the black and white like a sore thumb despite its thinness and frayed thread. It led somewhere into the nothingness beyond her, and held taut above the lilies.

Hesitantly she pulled at the string, testing the strength of its knot, but it didn't budge. So she picked at it harder, her nail catching on the threads, but it neither unraveled nor loosened its hold on her finger. That caused unease to twist in her stomach. The color once again appeared vibrant, glowing even, and as her eyes followed along the persistent thread into the beyond, a phrase came to mind: the red string of fate.

Fate, a shackle of sorts. It did indeed feel like such a thing because no matter how she picked and plucked, it remained wound around her finger. But whether it was the phrase or the predicament that she found herself in, she didn't give up. Something was edging her to cut it off, sever the string before it was too late. Too late for what, she didn't know. The premonition was evident though, and it urged her to pull the string up to her mouth in an attempt to bite it. It did appear thin after all, frail, despite her tugging. Yet as soon as she lifted her right hand upward, the string grew tauter. As if the unknown, the place where the other end of the string remained, was pulling back in unison.

"Are you not going to follow it?"

Malon yelped at the sudden voice and spun around, nearly tripping on a strong lily with her heel. Barely a foot away from her stood a woman clad in a thin brown tunic that hid her knees and was tied around her waist by an intricately woven belt. Her appearance seemed to fade into reality, a vision that Malon could only describe as the coming of death. This woman was frightening and beautiful all at once. Tall and lithe, her skin was as white as the calla lily that surrounded them, and it held a shimmer of ghostly starlight. Her eyes were riddled with a mix of the sea and ashen skies, and her lips the petals of a pale rose, soft and withered red. While her hair was the earth, electrifyingly bright and verdant, and as long as Malon's arm with wild tendrils that fanned out to frame an oval face and a curved nose.

Malon had turned bodily toward her, and had immediately shrunk back with her arms clinging to her chest. "W-Who are you?" The silence struggled underneath her words, and the realm shifted in a flurry of dark colors.

The woman–no an "it" for they seemed motionless, breathless, and held the gaze of an empty room–only stood and stared. And when Malon shifted slightly, readjusting to cover her bareness, the woman's eyes followed the slight movement of her head. It caused Malon to recoil again with a step, the snow biting at her heels.

"Who… are… you?" Its lips were reposed, unmoving as the cold that lingered beneath them, but the words came from it, drawn and dry.

Her brows furrowed for a moment. Was it mimicking her? With a hesitant beat of silence, she replied. "Malon."

"Virtue." The response was instantaneous, so much so that Malon had to take a moment and wonder if she'd said the word herself. "Valor. Courage. Farore." The realm seemed to breathe at that uncannily familiar name. Inhaling and exhaling, summoning a gentle gale that danced through the snow at their feet until the sign of winter was akin to shifting sand.

Then it lifted a hand up in-between them and pointed to her hand that carried the red string by the finger. "Are you not going to follow it?"

"Why would I–"

"You'll only prolong the inevitable." Its hand gradually fell back to its side, and it continued, "If you're afraid, child, I can accompany you." The edge of one side of its lip curled up unnaturally, as if it was attempting to smile. But its eyes remained vacant, frozen, and its perfect flesh was tight and unrelenting around its cheekbone.

Malon flinched at the sight of the smile, and managed a glance at the string. "Prolong what, exactly?"

"Have you not always felt it, known it, since your first breath? Fate, that is."

She shook her head slightly, and in response it moved forward. Its steps were soundless and light, beyond gentle as the gale that brushed along their skin, as it passed her to follow the string. Unease coiled in her gut, but she turned to follow. Unlike the creature before her, her own footsteps seemed thunderous, echoing in the vast blackness.

"Though, I suppose that is to be understood. You lack the sight, after all. For it was not intended for you, made for you, born for you." It plucked at the string that remained taut, its eyes seemingly becoming lost in the void beyond them.

The sight? "Could you-could you please explain? I'm not following anything that you've said."

"It's because you do not want to understand."

She raised a brow at that. What was there to "understand," when this-this thing was speaking in circles? Regardless, she was grateful for its speech. Though it didn't deter her tentativeness as she forced herself to follow at a much slower pace, her eyes glued to the back of the creature's head. Well, she supposed it wasn't entirely some form of an abomination. It did speak, but not once did its eyes seem to see her or its voice seem to gain a fraction of inflection above monotony. It also had a name, or rather, Farore appeared to have many names.

Farore… "Farore, as in the Triune? Are you saying that you're–"

"I am not saying. I am."

Malon hesitated in her pace. Farore must've sensed it as she stopped all together only to look behind her shoulder. "Be at peace. I mean you no harm, and before you're addled by useless questions, this is nothing close to a dream. This is as real as the wintertide that laps at our feet."

She didn't try to hide the way her face scrunched at the assumption. Useless questions. As far as she was concerned, all her questions that lingered and itched were beyond relevant. All of them, she found she craved an answer for. They'd surely offer some bit of foundation if only to ease the anxieties.

"How can you say that? Claim that you're some deity from mythology and then state that this is no dream?"

"I just said it." Farore continued forward. "Now, focus on the string. Will it to show us the way. Otherwise, we will linger in this realm for a time."

She followed after the alleged goddess, her facial features still scrunched in disagreement, but she focused her attention on the string.

"There was a time when I would have brought you to nonexistence for such disgrace, such blatant disrespect. For you, a human vessel, to claim that my being, that my sisters and I, are that of myth. Surely, your kind is far too immature to even imagine such extravagance that is, as you call it, the Triune."

Agitation burned through the unease in Malon's gut, and her gaze briefly wandered from the string to the back of Farore's head and then back to the string. "What's stopping you?"

"Instruments are far too priceless, or rather, they are irreplaceable."

The phrasing caused the hair on the back of her neck to raise. Something about it, it felt wrong. And it sparked defiance as she demanded, "Instruments for what exactly?"

"Instruments in the general sense. Whether it be a hammer, a nail, a sword, or a drum. Their purpose is always clear."

"And I'm–"
"You? Yes."

You are and have been since the beginning.

Feel My Pain by Jurrivh

The royal castle of Hyrule stood as tall and as immaculate as it had the day it had been built. Its steeples reached higher than any mountain, its glass-stained windows more colorful than the blossoming flowers that dappled its foundation, and its stone walls had somehow withstood time, still stained in a hue of crystalline white. Thick columns of marble, verdant vines tangled in rose petals, and intricate patterns of swirls and flowers laced the facade. Two columns in particular framed large double doors that, to Hyrule's memory, had never been drawn open due to both their sheer magnificence and their mighty weight. It was confined within an iron wrought fence that coiled around it protectively, only leaving an opening at its front. The main entrance stretched before him, the fence's opening like the mouth of an elegant beast.

Link took in the sight of Hyrule's beloved castle from a distance. There was an odd sense of familiarity, much like the nostalgia that he felt when holding the sword, but this familiarity was more akin to dread than an ancient, forgotten feeling. He stood for a moment longer, a part of him hoping for more clarification on the nostalgia, on what it was he would try to do, while another part was somewhat glad that there was little to no guidance in practically anything.

The choice would be mine, wouldn't it?

A strange thought, perhaps. But the talk of the Hero, of whom he had been, had him slightly wary of destinies and legacies alike.

He'd gotten this far. Stood where the castle yard's maw, framed by that tall iron wrought fence, greeted him. "But how am I supposed to go in there? I can't just waltz in the castle and demand an audience…"

Well, he could. If he played his cards right. But it would be easy for the monarchy and its subordinates to shrug him off. Especially if he didn't have any paperwork to back up his arrival and his demands. Regardless, he started forward. All the while wondering if he'd appear less inconspicuous if he'd asked the taxi driver to go further inside the castle grounds.

He'd barely made it to the flower beds that aligned the sidewalks of the courtyard when his phone buzzed. Link tsked, fishing in his back pocket for the device.

Call from My Mal 3

Don't answer it.

He froze, his thumb halting just a fraction from the "Accept Call" button. But the gut wrenching premonition was fleeting. With a shake of his head he took the call. Eager to hear his anchor's voice through all this chaos that had plagued since this morning.

There had been many times in his life where he'd found his gut to be more spot on than his heart. And this had certainly been one of them. Whether it was actually his gut, the Shade, or something else, it didn't matter. But yes, he shouldn't have taken that call.

"Hello, Skychild."

His heart was as silent as an unburied grave.

That voice… it couldn't be. But I would never mistake Ghirahim's voice for any other.

Right then, oxygen was a fabrication. Link's heart caught in his throat as he quickly pulled the phone away to ensure the caller ID. He stared at the contact details, at his girlfriend's name, at the heart emoji she'd insisted he tack on, and on the phone number with shaking hands.

He knew better than to reply, to acknowledge the title that dredged up so much inner turmoil that it had him reeling backward, but the fear was all encompassing. Fingers that dug in-between his ribs, needles that dug under his skin. Link shivered, and he turned his back to Hyrule Castle with pained urgency.

"Where is she?" His voice was hoarse. Choked with trepidation.

"Oh, not to worry. She's in safe hands."

"Where. Is. She."

There was an eerie chuckle, one that pulled his nerves taut, and then "Why, she's in Lon Lon's care."

His heart beat painfully. Clattering against his chest cavity. Her interview at Lon Lon… he didn't want her to go, but she'd insisted and shit.

"What do you want?" His voice was as sharp as a blade, and yet it was hallowed and drawn.

There was a short lapse of silence. One that had Link feeling as if he was hanging from the edge of a cliff, and he struggled to inhale a gulp of air, less his lungs wither and burn into husks. "Though I cannot speak for my master, there are few things that I want in life, my dear Link. One of them being the thrill of seeing your blood, or perhaps your sorrow, on the battlefield."

The words were softly spoken, almost peaceful, as his crippling mind picked up on the veiled threat.

"Speak plainly."

"Come to Lon Lon."

The call ended, leaving Link to drift in the sea of emotions that nearly pushed him down to his knees. Emotions were a forest fire, a ravenous flame, and the questions, the fears, were a violent chill that the fire couldn't quell.

What now?

I have to go.

And do what?

I don't know. I don't know! But Malon needs me.

Does she? It was clearly a trap. Link knew that, but the questions and the emotions were bringing forth paranoia. Fears that he'd tried his best to keep at bay less he appeared possessive, obsessive, overly protective.

The thought of never feeling her hand in his, never feeling her lips against his, never feeling her soft hair, hearing her twinkling laughter, the way she looked as she slept, her smile, the feel of her cheek in his palm, that little lilting voice when she welcomed him, her hugs, how her eyes were golden in the sun and shifted color in the dark, her–her–-

A violent cold enveloped him, and unbridled devastation forced Link to the ground. His phone dropped somewhere beside him as his knees met the concrete. Only then did he realize the tears. They flowed uncontrollably, nurturing his raw fear until it blossomed into a cacophony of one simple need: he must go to her less he would lose her, lose everything.

Yet fear had him rooted to the spot. And it rattled him with tremors as he numbly reached for his phone, ignoring the bite of broken glass that met his finger tips. Somewhere behind him a few concerned shouts resounded, footsteps closing in.

"Sir, are you all right?" The voice was distant despite the speaker's boots stopping within Link's peripherals. He managed to look up, but squinted at the bright sunlight overhead. Nevertheless, he'd caught the traditional garb of Hyrule Castle's guard winking down at him.

Another pair of boots, similar to the first, appeared on his other side. Their presence only added to his frantic unease. So much so that he felt the ground shift and swirl beneath him. He dropped his phone again, needing both hands to leverage himself against the swaying ground.

One of the guards crouched down and gripped his right shoulder. The touch was barely felt, barely grounding despite how desperate his conscience was trying to cling to it. "Niko, he has an open carry." The other guard's muffled voice danced around Link's ears. It was a warning, and it urged Link to explain his occupation, but his tongue was as thick and dead as his nerves.

Funny, he'd forgotten he'd even brought the damn gun with him to begin with. It was more of a habit rather than the qualifications of his duty, like it was to bring the pen with him. A frazzled part of his brain mused on which would be more efficient since he was experienced and adept with both: the sword or the gun? The answer right now was clear, neither.

"Sir, can you hear me?" The shoulder gripper rocked him gently. Link could feel the soft tug and push to an extent, but regardless, his frozen nerves lashed out and amplified it until it felt like he was being ragdolled. "Do you have any identification on you?"

"I'll call it in." The shoulder gripper's companion announced.

The realization of what that could possibly mean came at him in the form of whiplash.

No.

Link's fingernails dug into the ground as he heaved at the wave of panic that rushed at him. "Calling it in," likely meant paramedics or worse, questioning guards and wasted accusations, either meant a waste of time. Time of which he was running out of.

A frayed part of his mind that could still manage to find an odd sense of humor in things, like weapons of choice, prattled on despite his urgency. If he could get to Lon Lon, what then? Though he neither truly knew Ganon nor Ghirahim in this life, he knew this agonizing fear to be that of his past lives'. Their fear spoke volumes of the cruelty, of the violence that the two had–could–inflict.

If I don't show up or I'm later than expected then Malon might be–

"Sir, I need you to lie down." He'd barely registered the grip on his shoulder aiding him closer to the ground. The mounting panic demanded too much of his attention. He never noticed the curled up jacket that had been placed to protect his head from the concrete. Never noticed the third pair of boots, never heard the rest of the voices. Instead he noticed how the air in his lungs had, once again, become a figment of his imagination. He registered how erratic his senses were, every nerve misfiring as if they were haunted by phantom pains from a missing limb. Noted how his body seemed to drown itself with the black sea filled to the brim with fear.

Before his mind finally snapped, before he drifted into oblivion, that small part of him mused once again. If only this was a hallucination, a waking nightmare, just another fucked up, Shade induced vision. But the fear he'd felt in his nightmares, whether from sleep or from lucidity, was never this starved, never this raw and bleeding.

The darkness took him.

It almost felt as if Link was descending through thick waves. His clothes struggled upward and intangible waves of ice brushed over his skin, growing colder the farther he went. He'd kicked, paddled, but still he descended as if chained by an anchor or guided and pulled by imperceptible fingers that clung to his ankles.

Even in his unconscious state–if that's what all of this was–the fear was persistent. A thorn in his side. And it pressured him, robbing him of his voice and breath as he tried once again to swim upward.

"Link, you must follow your fate. And that fate is not meeting Ganondorf. Not yet."

The Shade's voice, a sound that was as ingrained into his memory as Malon's laughter, pierced through him. Quelled the chaos within him, if only for a moment.

But Malon–

"They cannot harm her. Not yet."

He felt something solid underneath his boots then and as soon as he felt it, the invisible hands left him to fall to his knees. The weight of it all was, once again, too much to bear. And it was made worse when the feeling of the nondescript waters continued to rid him of his voice. A strange sensation, one that he tried to oppose, but opening his mouth only drew an eerie cold to crawl down his throat. It made a home in his chest, burrowing so deep that he was sure his veins were now like ice. It felt like he'd swallowed the Arctic, and he quickly closed his mouth, shuddering.

The Shade… it took every fiber of his being to force his head up, eyes searching among the black for the creature. Robes and obscured armor flashed a few feet away from him, but his eyes froze on the sword that stuck out of the dark between them. Its blade was rust, but he'd recognized the shape of the hilt and the triangular engraving in the dirited metal that gleamed back at him.

"You are fractured. I knew this much, but I did not realize how perilous the state of that fracture was."

Those words were familiar, but his mind was slow, heavy. Broken… fractured… what are you saying this time?

"A product of a legacy that was never meant to be broken. Your past lives are a storm that your body cannot withstand. Perhaps my attempts to reach you were not as hopeful, not as helpful, as I'd imagined them to be."

Fate… legacy… destiny… bullshit. All of it.

I don't care.

"But you do. Your existence thrives on your legacy. It is your lifeline, your power. It's paramount. The woman–"

Malon.

"-she is a catalyst. Both your weakness and a remnant of your power. So much so that it's added depth to your fracture. If you are not careful, Hero, our lineage–."

Link couldn't help but respond to the violent wrack of tremors that crawled along his bones. The word, "catalyst," had incited that. An unease that was just enough to ground him, if only for a fraction of a second. But it was enough.

Did the Shade mean that she was… a facilitator or a force? Maybe a tool, like him?

Malon isn't…

"The woman–Malon–is your driving force."

Of course she was. Because of her he'd been able to accomplish so much. Because of her he'd crawled out of many a dark place, found that he enjoyed the sun on his face, and discovered how colorful the world could be as long as it was seen by her eyes. Even the thought of her now brought a strange sense of calm to him. It came with a memory. The day their eyes met, he'd been reminded how he'd found peace at the color of the shade of her red hair. Her smile was so brilliant, so beautiful, so–he blinked. The calm had washed over him, water down his back, and left concern in its wake. The Shade wasn't referring to something that it would've likely deemed as commonplace, irrelevant.

What aren't you saying?

"She is the mouthpiece of your destiny, Hero of Time."

Mouthpiece… a tool.

The revelation turned fear into a remnant. In its place was scalding wrath. Wrath that was as warm as the many summers he'd spent with Malon, and as cold as the winters he'd spent without her. Without the assistance of fear he found his resolve, his voice, and his strength.

Link stood with an abruptness that quite literally shook the darkness around him. In the breadth of a second his body contorted into shadows and sharp edges far darker than the black sea around them. His brows furrowed, eyes narrowed to slits, and anger rippled across his cheeks in a blush of red. "What. Have. You. Done." Each word was a loud and acrid growl, venomous, dangerous.

"It is fate, Hero, and there is no changing that. She–Malon, is your valiant instrument, your courageous conductor. Since her soul was conceived, she has been both your sirensong and your weapon."

"Enough with that poetic nonsense."

"An ancient power, such as the one that breathes life into the Hero of Time, cannot be stopped and restarted like a machine. It requires sacrifice, many… many sacrifices."

Mocking Bird by Lucas King

The shift in their environment had been gradual at first. Spots of melted snow showed off the smooth floor. Wisps of gold spindled thread and red ribbon shone through the dark like beams of light. Then it came all at once. The darkness vanished, devoured by hues of rich gold, earthly brown, and vibrant crimson. Even the snow and lilies seemed to vanish. Replaced with white marble that stretched far beyond. Though the transition was slightly alarming, she eagerly accepted not feeling the cold against her feet.

"What is this place?" Malon finally asked.

Farore had continued to lead the way. Guided them as her fingers trailed across the red string. "A resting place."

Malon's brows arched at the reply. Hers… or mine?

"The first land created by my sisters and I, and the last land to be blessed by us."

Purple tendrils danced along the golds, the browns, and the reds. Each color reflected in the marble at their feet. It casted strange apparitions that glowed against their legs. Every bit of distance was dotted with an eroded column that seemed rooted to the marble as it climbed into the colorful scape above. Though as they continued further forward, the columns appeared more and more. Each one more ancient, more forgotten, than the last. She could tell by the color, the designs, by the structures themselves. The first columns bore intricate designs of laurels, reefs, flowers, and were as white as the marble. But the farther they went, the details became more rounded, broken, aged. The white no longer pristine as it began to decay and yellow. Even the marble at their feet seemed to dwindle in its magnificence.

"Resting place for what? And the blessing… was it for prosperity, law, or–"

"The Golden Lands did not require such trivial blessings. Only a beginning and an end."

Malon's foot nearly caught on a crack on the floor. Her eyes glanced down then to spot a fractaling cut that had carved its way deep into the stone. It was deep, aligned in thick swathes of shadow, and she spotted the colorful scape above in the crack's crevices.

"It's here where we left a piece of ourselves in hopes to create a semblance of balance."

The cracks continued to stretch across the stone ahead of them. Pieces of marble broken up to reveal jagged rocks and starlight below. Malon stepped carefully, less she tripped, fell through, or somehow cut her foot on the cracks. All the while she wracked her brain against Farore's words. A piece of themselves… a keepsake or artifact, perhaps? Didn't the limited text on Triune mention such a thing, one that held significance above all others?

"Are you referring to the Triforce?" Malon asked.

Farore's reply was silent.

Beyond them, the floor continued to crack and splinter. It was as if the maw of marble was regressing. Torn and frayed by the hands of time. And as they continued down it, the way began to narrow until not even the sporadic columns could find refuge without blocking their path. The contraction had made Malon realize that the floor they were walking on was akin to a bridge. The sky, which seemed to be a victim of time just as the marble and the columns, was losing its semblance of its beauty. Each colorful tendril blurring and dimming the further they went. Yellow, puffy tendrils accompanied with mud-red ribbons, and too-dark purples splayed out, as if they had been born from the regressing marble, and stretched onward. As if chasing the path that Farore and she tread on. The sight of that, the promise of there being no ground if Malon were to walk off the edge, had her whole body strung taut.

It had surely been an eternity until they stopped in their stride. Malon had been training her eyes on the strange woman's back, vertigo and a fear of heights keeping her gaze fastened. And so when the being finally stopped, Malon did too.

"Here." Farore gestured with an extended hand, pointing ahead of them.

Before them, not ten feet away, sat what looked to be a pedestal. Its facade was worn, signs of erosion spreading across it like a disease. Chiseled rivers wound around its waist in a flurry of stony ribbons, each strand curving and spinning around the base until they flared outward into a rounded square slab. Like the colors in the sky, the designs appeared duller, lacked the promised heavenly luster with the appearance of cracks, yellowed whites, and crumbling stone.

The red string was far more vibrant than the pedestal for it glowed vehemently. It was no longer stretched before them, taut and endless. Instead, it was lax as its other end was laid to rest at the foot of the pedestal.

"This land is a resting place for what once was." Farore started. Her monotony persisted, but when she turned on a bare heel to peer up at Malon, her eyes gleamed with life. It was both an alluring and intimidating sight. One that had Malon raising her brows for the briefest of moments. With an appearance that defined divinity, beauty, to be gifted with a voice so hollow, expressions and features so dead, the shimmer in her gaze made her appear even more surreal.

"Here was the beginning and… the unforeseen end of the Golden Lands. Here we'd left our final blessing." Farore's arm fell stiffly back to her side.

"Right, the 'semblance of balance.' But… I-I apologize for how rude this may sound, but what does this have to do with me?"

Farore looked away. "Everything."

A soft gale of wind pressed against them. It carded through Malon's red hair, and tangled in Farore's long strands. Its caresses seemed to draw Farore's attention back as she turned once again, eyes on Malon. Again, her eyes held a sliver of life, as if they had caught the rays of the sun and trapped them under glass.

"Humankind calls it the 'Triforce.' We called it our 'Love.' It was meant to balance, restore, illuminate. To act as our love, our care. But its existence caused strife. It was but a drop in the sea, a wretched creation that brought pain, death, war of all things. Because it was an embodiment of us, of Wisdom, Power, and Courage, a makeshift god in the guise of an artifact. It would have done wonders had it remained hidden, but its existence enticed the wicked. Much like the dark artifacts that strip men of their will and drag them to their knees. It did the same, and it did as we created it to do: to balance, to restore, to illuminate."

Farore paused, her gaze seeming to draw outlines around Malon's face. Then with an audible breath, "Our blessing was imperfect, and we hoped to prolong the inevitable by blessing three souls with the pieces that made our Love. To protect both it and the people that would try to use it. Albeit, they alone were not enough. After many centuries it could no longer withstand the wickedness and the demand. Though it was not entirely a good thing, all good things must come to an end. It had, much like the marble floor at our backs, began to crack. And when we chose a soul to protect it, the cracks only deepened. And when that soul met their untimely death, it shattered. Shattered as if its very existence depended on that soul. We heard it, the final breath of the soul and the shattering cry of our Love, and we could not help the resentment as we tried to revive both it and the soul that it had broken for. But the soul was fragmented, just like our Love, and each time we resurrected that fragmented soul, they would never see past their third earthren day."

Malon watched the being before her smile weakly. The smile was authentic, raw.

"Every time the soul was taken by death, we heard both its and our Love's cry. And so we tried again. And again. And again. Fueled by desperation, fueled by those cries. Until we realized that the fragmented soul needed to be grounded to the existing plane. Like its counterparts: the princess and the king of thieves, it needed our Love–the Triforce. But their shard, unlike the others, was just as fragmented. And I-I could not reform it." Her voice had begun to waver and twist. Gone was the apathy, the monotony, and in its place was vehement sorrow that had Malon's heart stuttering. "Instead I aligned it with another soul, a second soul, that was to be born, in order to ground the first soul."

The anxiety was a sinking ship. This story sounded so incredibly strange, so incredibly magical and crazy, so preposterous. And yet the being stared at her, tears tickling from the corner of her eyes. Tears that were born from sorrow, from love and disdain. Tears that were twinkling starlight, thinning firelight, and icy crystals that vanished as soon as they dripped from her angular chin. Both captivating and chilling.

"The soul… the first one… what–who were they?" Malon winced at the shakiness of her voice as something intangible began to tickle the back of her head, numbly clicking into place.

This is...

"My Chosen One, my Hero, our Link."

"And…" Phantom words left her jaw moving, but no sound accompanied them.

This felt like a dream yet… the push and pull of Farore's words burned with truth. How, why? The answers were dandelion puffs, but Malon felt it in her toes, under her skin, in her bones, in her heart.

In her soul.

"His anchor, his light, you."

This is fate.

We Must Be Killers by Mikky Ekko

There is beauty in death. Ghirahim believed that, had always believed that. No one piece of art would ever compare, and yet he found himself enchanted by the woman with the hair kissed by flame. Perhaps it was her sleeping form, how at peace she looked despite being in such a place with a man, no… a monster, such as him, or perhaps it was her ties to the Hero. Either way, he found no displeasure in sitting beside her, staring at her as one would stare at a pretty little thing looking out a sunlit window.

Her chest rose and fell softly, quietly. Her lips slightly open as she wallowed in unconsciousness. Her fiery hair was a mess of cascading tendrils and tangled fans. And on her forehead, the mark remained. It had been black when he'd first laid eyes on it, but now its outline throbbed with a yellow hue.

They'd hurriedly placed her out of sight of the lobby. Opting for one of the pharmaceutical testing rooms so as to easily quarantine and section off both the room and the adjacent hallway.

Behind his metal chair, he heard the door to the infirmary room open. Ghira didn't even bother acknowledging the newcomer, having recognized Ganon's presence as soon as he passed the threshold.

"My master…" he intoned as he felt rather than heard Ganon stopping beside him.

"How did the call go?" The sound of his master's voice, demanding, wrathful, absolute, broke Ghirahim's enchantment. He stood up and took to the other side of the chair, allowing Ganon to take it, and let loose a chuckle.

"As good as you can imagine. I could almost taste his fear. It is truly fate to have found her phone unlocked. I'm sure he was truly broken, answering her call only to realize that it was not her." As he spoke, he looked over at Ganon and caught the cut of a vile grin across the imposing man's face.

"Excellent. If what you surmised was true… and if the Hero's heart hasn't changed that much then he should be bounding this way." Ganon chuckled, and his laughter encouraged Ghirahim's smile to darken.

His gaze returned to the woman, taking in his firespun hair and the pepper of freckles on her face once more. He studied the marking tattooed on her forehead then moved his attention to her chest, watched it rise and fall, hitch and stutter. Strange how her very appearance, her very presence, seemed to stir some form of fascination within him. She hadn't before… his brows raised slightly, the realization cutting his intrigue before it blossomed into something irrelevant. In its place was a wicked form of starvation. A hunger crawled down his spine and found refuge against his darkened soul.

The Skychild would surely break if something were to happen to her pretty face…

"Master…" Ghirahim began, his tone chilly, "do you think she reacted from one of the artifacts? The mark there," his thumb brushed against her forehead, and the mark teetered in its pulsation, "looks like a triangle from that Triforce of yours."

His master looked up at his subordinate slowly. Ghirahim wasn't merely speculating right now. No, he was conniving. Ganon had spent an eternity with the man that'd he'd recognize the reason, the purpose, behind that tone. Though scheming aside, he was most certainly right. The sight of the triangular tattoo had Ganon considering the very same. It was too coincidental, was it not? But what exactly did the mark mean? What did she react to, and most importantly, did she know what had caused it?

Ghirahim continued, "Hypothetically, if it was a strange mark of the Triforce… it's not whole like yours or that–Zelda's… which means that she might not be entirely immune to it; however-"

"Pitch?"

"That or, well, I haven't yet gotten to play with that mirror of yours. Either way if she is attuned to the Triune or to one of their artifacts, it's possible that she won't be mortally wounded or killed by either."

It was a fact that had left Ganon eternally exhausted. Though he could feel the power of the Triune artifacts, not one had given him the pleasure of pain or power. The same was for Zelda. Though he supposed the Twilit artifacts had given him some form of excitement, but the feeling had been fleeting. It would not lessen his curse, and all it was good, other than to take a place in a display case, was to enact torture. Something he could do just as well on his own.

Regardless, he mused at the thought of the mirror or its partnered artifacts influencing him. He knew well its pull to Ghirahim, and he found himself wishing it could whisper its sweet nothings to him, just as it had all those years ago.

Ghirahim's exhale returned Ganon's spiraling attention to the woman before them. The notion that the artifacts might not wound the woman before them was unlikely. "And if she is harmed?"

"One less problem, and it will surely break the Hero."

It was promising, but the risks outshone the rewards by far. What if the Hero held no love for her? After all, if the constant love that Zelda spouted after and in-between their nightly adventures was true, Link's heart was not destined for another. He would only fracture for this woman before them, but for Zelda? He would surely shatter.

Or am I being too lenient, letting Zelda's nonsense interfere with my judgment.

That struck a nerve. To think that a mere woman, especially Zelda–

"Let us see what the mirror is capable of against those with purer souls than ours."

We Have It All by Pim Stones

Link grabbed the besmirched blade between the shade and him. The feel of its hilt was home, and the feel of its weight was solace. He planted his feet firmly, his blue eyes glowing with hate, so much hate. Acrimony was so acidic that he could taste it on his tongue, bile and rot. It felt unreal, burdensome, and it was shared between himself and his past lives. It fueled him as he reared his head back so that he was glaring down past his nose at the Shade.

A nostalgic burn coiled in his gut, filling him with disgust for "fate." It had brought ruin to so many things that were tied to him and his past. Every life, every vessel of the Hero, had fallen victim to it. Nothing was theirs, everything was foretold, mapped, planned, and ground into their souls until they were vomiting conviction and praise for fear of losing face, of that small bit of control, of that fraction of freedom.

The cycle had been broken, only to repeat again. And yet, that was okay. It was manageable because now that he was aware of it, there was no way out. There never was. But Malon? She had wings, beautiful wings, and he would rather die and die a thousand deaths than see her wings be cut by the smooth hands of fate.

"How dare you."

"Link–"

"Malon has nothing to do with this prophecy bullshit. She is neither a hammer nor a harp. Her fate doesn't belong to you or anyone else. Fucking mouthpiece, how dare you say that. As if her life is trifling."

"Without Malon your soul–"

"Don't speak her name."

"Her life is a necessity for your existence."

They'd known each other almost since they were kids. Even back then, she'd calmed his nerves, anchored him to the here and now. It was unnerving to have that realization now, after all their years together. Which begged the question, if she was not tied to him then would they be together? Was her existence… only meant to sustain him? What about her, what about her existence? Would she have been happier without the cruel red string that bound them?

And then there were these emotions. The ones that had lingered since they'd met. Adoration, comfort, love, they were always so persistent, so involved. Were those only born from their intertwined destiny?

The thought of it all being fake had his body and mind struggling to keep his unbridled wrath intact. It was his breaking point, and he bit his lip to keep the sorrow at bay. Willed his hand to raise the blade until it was level with the ground, and pointed it at the Shade. His whole body turned to stone, his muscles itching for a sword dance, and then he launched forward with a battle cry.

Less than half a millisecond he stood before the Shade and his rusted blade met the Shade's own. As soon as the metal sung and the haze of sparks buzzed against Link's temple did the Shade arc their swords off to the side. The movement was fluid, but Link's grip and weight merely shifted. Their blades blockaded for a moment, wavering back and forth over the darkness, only to separate before clashing again.

Each clash had the metal singing high praises, and each hammering vibration only stoked Link's hate. He relented a step only to stab forward, but the Shade deflected it by swinging upward.

A relentless wave, Link swung once more, over and over. His blade clashed against the Shade's blade and armor alike, never once demonstrating the pain that flowed through him. The sparks and swordsongs were a mere testament, a reminder of the inevitable, intangible clutches of fate.

They fought within the black sea, Link's cries turning sour and sorrowful as his body began to tremble from his opponent's matched ferocity. All the while, he felt the way the Shade merely deflected or absorbed his blows, leaving his anger untamed and bitter. No amount of skill would aid him, not against the fit of armor that the Shade wore, and not when his wretched emotions wreaked havoc in his mind. He knew this, all of it, but like time, he could not stop.

His voice cracked alongside his war cry as the Shade's sword slammed against his own, causing his sure footing to shift and skid along the blackness. The vibrations gnawed at his muscles and frenzied his blood.

"I–we never wish for fate, for this life, Link. But it is all we know. It is our purpose, our existence."

"Not hers." His voice was a dagger, but it did little to sway the Shade's blade as it forced him to withdraw. Link pulled his blade back, footsteps clamoring to the side as the opposing blade lashed toward him on its own.

"What is done cannot be undone. It was a necessary sacrifice."

"One I never asked for."

"Without her, you would not be here. And with her, you will be able to quell the darkness and the pain that our world will succumb to."

"She is not a tool!"

"No, a tool is used and abandoned. It easily becomes lost and rusted with time, but a mouthpiece, an instrument, is as eternal as blue skies and summer days."

"Enough of this!" Link roared, and his blade struck again. The swing was harsh as it connected with the Shade's shoulder, so harsh that as soon as it met the opposing metal of armor it recoiled. It was then that the Shade attacked with a thrust of its own sword.

The blade found refuge in Link's gut, relishing in both his warmth and his blood as it clawed its way within him, through him. His grip faltered, his own blade slipping as pain blossomed in his middle. Hot blood burned his skin, and his fingers relented the hilt of his weapon. It clattered between them, its noise muffled as a cry birthed from his lips. Loud and agonizing.

"I am sorry, truly I am. But this is not something that you–that we–cannot escape. What's done is done. She was made for you, and you for her. Without her, we are nothing. With her, we are everything. And in time, we will surpass our need for her. Only then will we–will you–surely find peace, at last." The Shade's voice crowded his pained cry, sounding so hopeful and wanting as its blade buried deep inside his gut. Blood tainted the black beneath them, painting it.

Despite the pain and the fear that it dragged along his bones, the Shade's words were far more agonizing. Though its words were, as always, confusing. They held an omen that his soul could not help but find a truth in.

One day… he would surpass his need for her. One day, she would no longer be by his side with that beautiful, captivating smile of hers. Her hand would no longer be entangled in his own, her lips no longer brushing against his temple.

Our legacy requires sacrifice, many… many sacrifices.