Chapter 14
Zelda Bosphoramus Hyrule, named and surnamed by the rule and tradition of the land and in honour of her mother's father, entered the world in Hateno Village shortly before dawn one cool, Midautumn morning.
Brought early to her time by the rigours of her mother's journey through the winding wooded pathways of Necluda, she was delicate and red when she emerged, perilously quiet, for her exhausted mother heard no cries or wails of a newborn when the priestess of Hylia, summoned hastily from the temple, drew her from the womb and clipped her birthing cord.
They washed her ceremoniously in milk of the Hateno cow warmed by the fire, as befitted a child of such rank, and the elder priestess swaddled her in the eminent blue colour of Hyrulean royalty before handing her to the Duke of Akkala, who had remained in the room for the last long hours of his ladylove's travail. The heroic noble, golden-haired and anxious, with his long flowing tresses covering his face, cradled the child, looking down upon her with an expression Princess Zelda could not entirely understand, but which she found deeply comforting nonetheless. After a moment, he walked over to her bedside and laid the child carefully in her mother's arms.
Zelda had not expected such gentleness. She had not known what to expect. She had only realized, when she felt the hour of her birth was come, she had to go southeast, however she possibly could. She had to come to this place. Anywhere but the cold, uncomfortable walls of stone. Beyond that, she had not thought so clearly about things.
The coming of the autumn ceremonies and festivals had given her the chance. Akkala Citadel lay near to the principal road which ran southwest and into the mountain pass, and each day Zelda had seen travellers and small troupes of tradesmen passing by them. Oft they stopped to worship at the newly-erected temples, or do a bit of business in the villages and smaller settlements.
Two days after King Sidon's visit to Akkala Citadel, Zelda wrote a letter to her lady-in-waiting, saying she was journeying south to her royal retreat to await the birth of the child. She had something of a dream, she lied, a premonition not unlike a terrible nightmare. She had read the histories, she wrote Isla, the recounting of infants and women who had died in labour at Hyrule Castle. The untimely vision had frightened her for the child. The citadel had left her ill at ease. Zelda hoped she would understand. Do not tell Sir Toren of it, she bade Isla, lest she be the source of unnecessary worry. She hoped the attendants would not think cheaply of her and the courtly affairs would resolve without either her presence or the duke's. Chancellor Galbert would remain, of course, along with the other dignified members of the parliament. She signed it with her name. There was little preparation for this. She had not the stomach for the balloons, for flight by strange means.
She left the citadel, unseen, by the postern gate under the cover of a starless night. By moonlight, she was led to her palfrey in the outer stables across the great bridge, where a hooded figure approached her. The guards at the stables had been sent away, nor would any who dwelled that night wish to tempt the wrath of a crown princess heavy with child. The hooded figure had helped her onto her palfrey to ride away, side-saddle, so she might not bear additional strain upon herself. He had followed her in escort, but still the landscape was both beautiful and frightening at night, the child large and heavy in her belly. Hope to reach her destination was faint, dim as the stars were in the darkest sky seldom seen this time of year.
Three nights and two days was all she had been capable of riding. Reluctantly, in great distress, she left her palfrey at a stable near a small hamlet and made her way onto the pillion saddle of her escort. At sundown on the second day, feeling the fatigues of childbirth and the sickness welling up from within, they came upon the encampment of a travelling troupe. The Stable Heroes, they called themselves. She knew of this troupe, had encountered them several times beforehand. The woman who was with them—Violynne, she remembered—exclaimed at her condition. Shrouded with a hood of her own, she watched her escort bark commands at the troupe, giving out false names and a story which vaguely reflected the truth. He told them they were travelling to Hateno Village in search of aid in childbirth. His lady was fearful her infant would again perish at birth. They were willing to do anything to save this one, Zelda said. That last part was true. It could only be the truth.
It was there they were welcomed wholeheartedly by Mastro, the troupe leader, for joining their journey eastward. So thus Zelda and her escort rode through the mountains in a rattling, lurching wagon with his courser and the rest of the party in toe. Pyper, looking curiously at her escort, questioned if they had crossed paths once before. There was an air of familiarity about them, to be sure, but the hooded man ascribed it to be merely chance. Zelda grew weaker still, and every time the wagon struck a rock or rut in the road, she would tense up, face wincing in discomfort. They talked as little as one could, for it would be the poshness of her accent which would ultimately give her away. This was relatively easy with the hooded man in the wagon: He was one of those men whose quietude silenced others around him. And so, the other members of the troupe kept to themselves, sometimes plucking tunes at their instruments, or mimicking the call of the autumn birds from their perches in the golden-glittering canopy above them. Quickly, she grew accustomed to their silence, and when her eyes grew weary and sleep took her, she would awake in the arms of her escort again. Three slow days it took them, from the base of the peaks and along the snaking Fir, deeper still into Necluda, whither troubles of worldly affairs vanished to the coming winds and nature's song. It began to seem to her she had always been here, with these people . . . riding in this wagon; and Akkala Citadel was just a distant dream, something from another woman's life.
On the fifth morning, Zelda opened the canvas of the wagon and gingerly stepped outside just as the sun was rising over the mountains east of them. She looked west over a landscape both familiar and strange to her, and saw the river Fir, bright blue in the pale morning light, flowing beside their dirt road. In the distance, scarcely visible over the tall trees and hills, she saw the very much fondly thought of plumes of smoke.
"There would be Hateno Village," said Eustus matter-of-factly from behind her. She peered over her shoulder, managing a weak smile. He adjusted his queer-looking spectacles accordingly. "Never have we travelled this far east before. They say folk have been wary of this place, you know? Ever since the vanishing of the old town mayor earlier in the year." He sighed deeply, as if straining to recall something. "I struggle to remember his name. Mayor Reede, I believe? In any case, his widow heads the village now. We should arrive by tonight, I would think."
Before one could bid him reply, he had turned back toward the wagon to wake his other slumbering companions.
Zelda placed a hand over her full, round belly and looked along the bright, nebulous line of the river going away eastward. There were cypresses all round them on the ridges above, tall oaks riddled with ivy. Closer to the terraced slopes beneath the mountainside, she could see apple trees growing. It was strange to behold. She had not encountered apple trees in Necluda before.
She gazed at them for a moment, then turned back to look again at the far, tall plumes of smoke over the horizon, from where they would encounter a widowed Mrs. Clavia. She remembered her words, about the stranger things abroad. Long had they searched for the source of it, but found nothing; and after some time had passed, there was nought else to do besides return from whence they had come. She was in no state for adventures of the past, she had realized quickly. She honestly did not see what other choice they had, and as the days passed onward, Link himself became increasingly worried about her tenuous state of health. So much had he dedicated himself to the toils of the country's safety, of his bond to the land and its people. It had necessitated the worry of child and fatherhood to wrest him away from such oathbound assiduity.
When word of Hyrule's restoration had reached the outer realms, the suitors from Labrynna and Holodrum followed, sailing across the great sea for the first time in a hundred years; ill-able to shield her state any longer, her belly had begun to swell uncontrollably. It had been in this moment, her heroic Link was created Duke of Akkala, and their royal courtship finally commenced. Marriage had still yet found them tied and bound by the rule of law, so her later stages with child kept her unseen and out of the public eye, where her lord-intended saw to the courts and formalities in her stead. By ceremony, the command of the Knight Academy was passed to Sir Hoz. Their stalwart ranks had expanded greatly in the past year. New settlements continued to sprout up in places long since abandoned in the wake of the second Great Calamity's fires. The green country of beautiful Hyrule was made safe yet again.
Later in the day, with the sun high in a bright, rousing autumn sky, she began feeling the first great pains. Zelda hid them as best she could, but eventually her escort had taken notice, and he demanded Mastro whip their carthorses repeatedly until they were played out. Her travelling companions tried with difficulty to comfort her, but they had miles yet. By nightfall, when they had passed through the gates of the village, she was set down at the newly-erected temple of Hylia.
Link, the Duke of Akkala, bowed his head and smiled down upon the child, now swaddled in its royal blue, and carried her to the mother. It was a healthy, well-made baby girl, Zelda thought, feeling the immense pleasure she felt holding her. The babe was quiet, but it was evident there was nothing yet to fear. Her pink eyes were lidded, their colour unknown, and she seemed to be peaceable enough. Under all circumstances, this was the most she could have hoped for. This child, rather this extension of a lineage long and illustrious, symbolized the birth of a new age of peace and freedom in their majestic and beautiful land of old.
Beside her, Link was pacing, hood down and perturbed, as if something worried him greatly, but Zelda knew the source of his disquiet was not altogether born of the child's health, but of its untimely manner. The nuptials commonly expected of royals had been planned a score of days ahead, but the child came earlier than expected. He was almost certainly hoping they would be bound and unified with the Goddess's blessing before the come of the heir to the kingdom. And the child's sex was another matter: a girl, and not a boy. Some time ago, they had discussed and agreed upon names for their children, however many there might be. As per tradition ancient and unending, the first-born daughter would be named 'Zelda'.
And it was a fitting name, it seemed. A child born of the Goddess's blood was a child born beautiful, and perfect. Princess Zelda was quite clearly bone-white in the candlelight, her emerald-green eyes enormously large and unafraid as she looked down upon her newly-birthed daughter. She felt resolute, stronger than she had ever felt in all her years. She flashed a sincere, toothy smile toward Link, who returned one of his own making. In their solace and comfort, they touched their foreheads together, a quiet, private celebration for the safe coming of their infant child. The past week was almost a blurry mystery to her, as were the birthing pains: the very reason for their coming here, even.
Such worries did not bother her anymore. Not with this child in her arms like so. He would probably deny it in the future, but Zelda was almost certain her chancellor, too, would be moved by her story. Her distant ancestors—her father, even—all bore the wisdom and foresight of premonition. But it was more than visions which brought her to this place, she realized then. It just seemed right to her. Throughout the long night of labour, rambling incoherently through her pain, she had made her hidden feelings known.
In a life lived so distantly long ago, she recalled what her father had told her as a young child. She herself had been born in a temple, much like this one. Brought out into the world twixt the wings of the Goddess. Her mother's travails were not much unlike her own, after all. But she had struggled greatly with child, having to pass through such trials thrice over until finding their endmost success. Indeed, it was a charitable blessing of the Goddess that she might not suffer through the same ordeals.
"The child is beautiful, Zelda," Link said softly by the bed, aglow with elation. "It would be the mother's honour to first speak her given name."
"Zelda," said the princess, lifting her voice high so the heavens up above might be announced the coming of their daughter. "Her name is Zelda Bosphoramus of Hyrule." She cradled the babe gently in her arms.
There was little else to share here, besides the two of them now gazing down at the child. She was glad Galbert had not been here to witness this; the chancellor had enough stress handling the ever-growing affairs of the country. She felt quite weary herself, weighted by her nightly trials and the long years of her troubled living. She hoped the time of music and laughter here in this ancient land would persist—such were the fantasies of her newly-revived kingdom. Looking down at her babe again, Princess Zelda's smile grew wider, her own emerald-coloured eyes large and round.
"She has her father's eyes," she exclaimed. "She is looking at us, Link! Isn't she beautiful?"
"Like her mother," said Link.
There was a defiance in those pale-blue eyes, the princess knew. She bore the colour of her father's eyes, yes. But she was strong-willed, indeed like her mother was. The child had been so aptly named, she surmised. Zelda looked up with her own clear verdant eyes and said, "She has taken after the best of both her parents." There was an intonation there, something proud on the last bit, like a note of music, but not quite audible, sensed only by the keenest ear for such things.
She knew he would hear it.
"Yes, you are right," said Link.
Something swiftly crossed Zelda's mind. She said, "My dream is for her to be reared here, amongst the kindest people, the farmlands, and betwixt the trees and endless sea."
"If that is what you wish."
His voice was quiet, timid almost. He was not unsure of himself, however. Rather, his voice trembled not with uncertainty, but wonder and amazement. She reached outwards with her left hand to grab his own. Their fingers interlaced against each other.
"My dreams have now come true," said Princess Zelda, genuinely happy, looking down at the child, and then back to her dearly beloved. She had never seen something so perfect. Born in Midautumn at a temple of their benevolent Goddess; swathed in the majestic blue of her ancestors. Such a moment this was, when Zelda looked downward once more to see her daughter at the breast, and said to the Duke of Akkala: "I have never felt such happiness, Link. Never once have I thought—after everything which has transpired—there would be a time when we truly share such gladness together as one. Don't ever wake me from this dream. Do you hear me? Don't you ever wake me . . ."
Zelda did weep then, and, moments later, she felt the touch of someone's fingers upon her cheek. They were rough, hardened by toil and war, but underneath its coarseness, there was an indelible softness she could not deny.
"Are these tears of sorrow," asked Link, "or is it something else?"
His question beckoned her back in time. He wiped away the lone tear which streaked her left cheek, and then with a carefulness, his finger went to touch the child cradled in her arms.
Words were not needed. Her answering smile was enough for him. There were already so many layers of interwoven memory here, so many echoes, and now one more, as her child, too, came forth and into it.
She looked out through the stained-glass windows; unclear as it was, the first hints of grey were probably in the western sky. Her toils had taken her all the way through the night and into the early morning of an autumn dawn. Something occurred to her then, far too soon; another impression, another thread in this bright, time-spun weaving of evocations: "Let us give her a brother. Wouldn't that be delightful, Link?"
And saw then, having been carefully observant of him all her life. There in her heart could she find an immediate answer. Link's earlier disquiet, like a discordant melody of almost-heard music, came back to her. She had questions for him, several in fact. But it was not the time for them, and it might not ever be the time. Zelda suddenly desired to embrace him, wished very much to hold him tight, and tell him everything was going to be fine.
Link said, speaking very carefully, "For now, one is burden enough for your kingdom to bear. Many more will come, but let us first give attention to this child here before we talk yet of another. Rejoice the Goddess has bestowed her blessing upon us."
Princess Zelda frowned. "I do not think this child a burden upon anyone, let alone the kingdom. She will be a blessing all her own, I believe."
Link shook his head, masking a growing unease. "It is not the child I worry about. I fear the uncertain times ahead, that is all."
The princess looked down at the child on her breast, struggling to deal with what her dearly beloved was saying. The young Zelda had an unexpectedly full head of hair, lying thick in whorls and ringlets upon her pink forehead. In the candlelight, it was distinctly golden, a shade lighter than even her own—very nearly platinum, even. Quite like her own mother's, she realized. His thoughts on the matter had not surprised her so much; she had always considered Link to be her level-headed counterpart. Princess Zelda closed her eyes for a brief moment. It was so difficult to think about these things now. She was made worn and quietly spent by her long labour.
She looked up at Link. "I am quite tired. Will you go and fetch for Purah and Josha? They have been working out of the Ancient Tech Lab as of late. I know they would want to see the child, and Purah does have some expertise in these matters. I was told she frequently served as midwife in Lookout Landing."
In the end, Galbert the chancellor went himself with two knights of his own to find Princess Zelda. By balloon he made his way across Hyrule, landing at Hateno Village the very next morning. It took some time, genially approached by Symin first, and then Purah second, before he had found her and the duke in their hideaway quarters at the edge of the village across a rickety bridge. In all likelihood, it was the worry for the kingdom, for the princess he served, which lured him to this faraway place.
Zelda heard them come just as the sun was rising above the mountains, sending light, majestically so, like a blessing through the windows where she lay. Galbert entered that room with the morning brightness highlighting his old features. At the bottom of the staircase was Sir Earl and Sir Toren, two duly-anointed knights. He looked at the princess first, and lastly he looked down, without speaking, upon the cradle at the foot of the bed where he saw the sleeping child.
After a long time during which one could view his expression changing slowly, he looked back at the mother lying in the bed. The priestess of Hylia had washed and dressed Zelda in a plain robe, and had evidently aided her with her hair. It laid long and golden in the mild sunlight, combed out meticulously upon the pillow and over the amber coverlet. Her eyes were strong and verdant like the trees and grass in summer.
"My congratulations," Galbert said formally. "You have a beautiful daughter. I wish her the best of fortune to come."
She was seemingly reading all she could: the morning light, his clear, sternly spoken voice, his long and dangly beard, the way his typically phlegmatic face had altered slightly when he pulled it away from the cradle. The princess, keen and intellectual, was always so sharp to such things.
"The child has a name," said Zelda, without preamble or her normal pleasantry. Her voice was demure, but carefully measured; she had clearly not expected him to follow her here. Isla had informed him of their destination. He knew it was not her intention to bring him unease. Galbert did have her complete and unwavering trust, after all. He is the one who rescued her dearly beloved from the grips of death.
"As do all babes when they are born," Galbert replied with his gentle voice. "One can surmise this young one's name with little more than a simple look. Yes, she has taken after her mother quite expectantly. Am I correct, Princess Zelda?"
"Indeed, you are," she answered. "Her name is Zelda Bosphoramus of Hyrule."
Link, who had been standing beside her bed, bore in his left hand the sheathed Master Sword from where it lay against the wall. He ran his fingers through his tousled, golden hair to push his bangs aside. Zelda eyed him curiously enough.
"The Princess needs her rest," he said in his serious and terse way.
"And where is it you are taking off to?" she asked.
"I keep some business of old here which remains unresolved," Link said quietly. He settled the magical sword in his belt, fastening the leather strap. "Ever since our coming here, an uneasiness has taken hold of my heart. I would ask of the knights to keep their watch here in earnest. I do not think I will be long."
A troubled silence grew in the room. The knights standing at the base of the staircase shuffled anxiously. Galbert stood perturbed, silent as the graves near the forest of Retsam.
"I will pray for your safe return," Zelda said.
By the staircase, Galbert the chancellor heard those words exchanged and watched the princess move to sit up in her bed. She looked terribly weak and fragile, but beautiful like ivory. He remained silent, fixing the front of his shirt and smoothing it down anxiously. The two lovers shared a kiss together and bid each other their goodbyes, and when Link had left the room, Princess Zelda would speak no more than her request for him to retire from her quarters.
And the days went by, the autumn sky passing lazily over Hateno Village, the sun going down earlier in the day now. It was near to the time when the warblers would leave the myrtle tree by the well, and Zelda had not learnt anything of her beloved. She had prayed so much to the Goddess Hylia, to the stars, or anything which reminded her of what is holy. A score of days passed by her in the blink of an eye, and still her dearly beloved had not returned. It was said he had gone to Mrs. Clavia, to offer his condolences for her husband's demise. It was there he inquired further about the strange occurrences in the village of late, but gleaned little information. It was always the same: the nights were odd, misshapen like queer dreams would be, and the memory of them distant like things forgotten from a young age. The disappearances had persisted long since their departure earlier in the year. Travellers were being spirited away to another place, the village folk talked.
Her young child was healthy, growing well and full of spirit already. Purah had already fallen dearly for the young thing, and Josha taken a liking of her own to the golden haired, blue-eyed babe. Still, the worshippers at the temple had told her things on the day when they lit their candles. They talked of blasphemous things, said there was a place the head priest spoke of in secret. It was a place between here and Lurelin Village where time seemed to come to a still, and the very fabric of existence would tear at the seams. Like something of a ripple in the water of morning with the rising sun glittering upon it. It would pull you in like that, they said, its mystical allure far too strong for the average passerby to ignore. And one day, walking late from the nursery of her child, past the temple and toward her empty home, and looking out onto the evening, recalling she worshipped something good and great, she called to mind the holy things of the Goddess, and tried to remember all she was told of her grace as a child. She was born pious, had dedicated fourteen long years to prayer and worship. And it was prayer Zelda eventually turned to in her most dire hour of need, as she always did in the past. The Goddess would guide her hero home, she told herself over and over.
And then one day, hoping still, with her strength again strong in her grasp, she would go off with Sir Toren for a bit of exploration around Necluda. So they went out past the windmills and into the night; and again over the shadowy meadows and through the grasses to where a thin brook silvered by the moon ran along the road. By day, the pebbles in the brook shone beautiful in the water, but under the cover of a gloomy sky they were now all dark. They had come this pathway before, but somehow tonight she felt it had changed slightly. The stones seemed larger . . . flatter, even. Such things should not have changed from day to day, and it was in the strangeness of this realization where she recalled some distant memory of Link and what he had said to her earlier in the year. She had been forewarned of the funny nights here in Necluda, told to mind the smaller details one might forget about. Memories rushed through her mind. She heard his voice, clear as the stream before her: one would be apt to step halfway into a dream without ever knowing it.
With a carefulness Zelda knelt down and drew some of the flat stones out of the brook; they were weightless, as if they were there, but not there all the same. She laid them all down in a row, and then peered down at the reflection of herself in the water. Finally, it was there in this watery mirror, she saw something stranger than what mortal words could tell.
Her knight and protector, coming up from behind her, staggered at the uncanny sight.
"What demon work is this?" asked Sir Toren.
And in the stream, like a ripple in time, she saw not herself in that mirror, but a new world, one so horribly warped and shaped to be evil.
