Zelda's days became one long procession of misery. She didn't want to lie in bed and didn't want to sleep, but when she was up, she didn't want to go anywhere and she was so exhausted, she couldn't have gone very far even if she had left her room. She didn't go to the dining room for meals anymore. One of her attendants brought breakfast, lunch, and dinner to her room like clockwork, but Zelda sent most of it back uneaten. It wasn't that she wasn't hungry, but that she just didn't feel like eating—just as she was tired, but didn't feel like sleeping.

Zeyde and Katherine seemed to be constantly visiting and trying to engage her, but the more they came, the more Zelda became annoyed by their presence. She didn't want their pity and she especially didn't want their lectures on how Link wouldn't want her to lock herself away, how he would want her to remain active because she was needed, etc.

She didn't need them to tell her what Link would think! She had known the man for more than one hundred and twenty-five years. They had been through hell together—to the very door of death—and back again. They could speak to one another without uttering a word. There were no secrets between them; a look or a gesture or a sigh said everything.

She knew Link's mind better than anyone else. And she knew what he would say to her at the moment. The ghost of his voice was already nagging her in her mind; she didn't need her children nagging her, too.


Katherine and Zeyde were sitting together at breakfast. Normally they ate in the main dining hall with the rest of their family—all their heirs down to the sixth generation—but since Link's death, they had started taking breakfast alone so they could have some quiet time. Zeyde, like his mother, was struggling emotionally. But the business of the kingdom couldn't stop completely—not even for so illustrious person as Link. And since Katherine was not a co-ruling monarch the way that Link had been, all of the work fell on Zeyde alone. But it was a blessing in a way, because it kept him from sinking into the same depression that Zelda was in.

"I'm worried about your mother," Katherine said as she spread butter on her croissant.

"You and everybody else," Zeyde said listlessly. He looked as tired as he sounded. It was strange to see; he had always had his parents' energy and was constantly looking for something to engage him mentally or physically. Now, however, he seemed like an old man, hunched-back and despondent. It even looked like his gray hairs had doubled overnight.

"I don't know what else to do," Katherine continued. "It's not like we can drag her out of her room and make her start living again."

A thin smile passed across Zeyde's lips—the first smile Katherine had seen from him since his father had become ill. "If we tried it, she'd kick all of our asses."

Then he chuckled softly.

"I'm being serious, Zeyde."

"I am, too. You'd have an easier time giving a cat a bath than making my mother do something she doesn't want to do." He picked up a sweet bun and took a bite, looking more animated than he had in some time. "See," he said, as he chewed, "you don't remember Mother when she was young, like I do."

"I grew up here in the castle, just like you," Katherine said, somewhat indignant. She had always been proud of the fact that her father had been the tutor of the royal children and she had grown up on the grounds with them as her playmates.

"You grew up here, but not around her—not like I did," Zeyde pointed out. "She was careful not to show her dark side if she could help it. Truly, she tried her best to keep her temper in check. But I saw her unleash it occasionally. It was like an earthquake. Or, as Father said, like a storm at sea. It was something terrible to behold. I fully expected that she would strike people dead just by looking at them, like an avenging goddess.

"She's mellowed over the years, but don't ever think that sleeping dragon doesn't still live within her. If you catch her wrong, you may just see it rise once again. And you'll understand how she endured—and triumphed—during the Dark Days."

"Your Father went through the same things, but he never seemed to have a temper."

Zeyde actually laughed. "How could he have one? Mother had it all locked up. Someone had to be the reasonable one."

He leaned back in his chair, his eyes dreamy and far away. "No, they were opposites in that regard; Mother could give you a tongue-lashing that would draw blood. Father, on the other hand, always knew what to say to make you feel better. He could make you feel pride or hope or happiness. Or he could make you feel ashamed. Oh, gods, could he make you feel ashamed! He saw me push my brother down one day—I couldn't have been but about six years old—and he gave me such a talking to! He never raised his voice, but he didn't have to; just his words and the fact that he was so obviously disappointed in me made me want to crawl into a hole in the ground and hide. I don't know if I ever felt sorry for pushing my brother, but I certainly felt sorry that I had let my father down. And I never did it again."

He was silent for a time, still staring into space, seeing back into the past. Tears began to slowly leak from the corners of his eyes. He began to dab at them with his napkin.

"He was such a fine man," Zeyde said, his voice cracking with emotion.

Katherine reached over and put her hand over her husband's. He squeezed it tightly.

It took him a few minutes to compose himself, but he eventually put his napkin down and returned to his breakfast. He looked quite focused on what he was doing, as if he needed to concentrate very hard on what was before him, lest he lose control over his emotions again.

"We have nothing to offer Mother," he told his wife as he began to put food on his plate. "She had Father and there's nothing we can offer that would ever compare."

"I'm not suggesting that she try to replace him. Gods know no one would expect her to remarry."

Zeyde shook his head. "That's not what I meant." He glanced at her. "She and my Father were like . . . like two sides to the same coin. Where she was firm, he was gentle. Where she was serious, he was light-hearted. When she needed to be powerful, he was her strength.

"I won't say that he was all that was good in my mother, because she's a good person on her own. But . . . he brought that out in her, I think. She told me once that she had lived in a cage before Father came along to set her free. He loved her for who she was and he encouraged her to be true to herself. I think without her, she would have been a queen of ice. He was her fire.

"But now her fire has gone out. And there's nothing we can do to replace it—nothing we could even offer that would light the fire within her again—not even a little."

He turned away, his voice sad. "We must accept that something within my mother has died and it will never come back."


It was late at night and Zelda was lying in bed. She was probably asleep, but she thought she wasn't. She often felt like that—not quite asleep, not fully awake.

She hadn't sleep so poorly since the Dark Days, when fear kept her awake at night. But Link's presence had driven away all fear and allowed her to sleep in peace. Now it seemed that even her subconscious was aware that her room was empty and she stayed half-alert all the time—although it wasn't clear if it was because she was afraid or if she was constantly looking for Link's return.

And then she woke suddenly, as if struck by lightning. In fact, she was pretty sure she saw a flash of white light in her vision.

How could she have not thought of it before!?

She scrambled to get out of bed and hurriedly donned a robe and slippers. Moving faster than she had in some years, she went along the silent hallway and down the stairs to the first floor. She had to catch herself on the railing on the last step; she felt a little dizzy from the exertion. Hunger roared to life in her, making it feel as if her stomach was turning itself inside out. But she ignored it, and as soon as she caught her breath, she was on the move again.

She made a beeline for the side door that led to the chapel. She crossed the raised walkway outside and stopped in front of the two guards posted outside the chapel door.

"Open the door," she demanded.

One of the guards hurried to obey her. He inserted the key into the lock, turned it, then opened the door for her.

"I am not to be disturbed," she commanded, sounding very much like the Zelda who had once been queen.

"Yes, Your Majesty," the guard replied.

She pointed a gnarled finger at him. "And you are not to tell anyone I'm here. Not now, not ever."

"This door has been locked all night. I never unlocked it."

She offered him a fleeting smile. "Good man." Then she patted him on the arm. "I'm glad I kept you. I knew you wouldn't let me down."

"No, ma'am," he said fervently.

Like so many others, Oskar had been a lost soul rescued by the king and queen. His father had died when he was young and he grew up on the poor side of town, causing trouble and breaking his widowed mother's heart. One day, when he was just seventeen, he got into an argument with an older man over a dice game. The man pulled a knife on him and he pulled his own in retaliation. He ended up with a superficial cut, but the other man died from a stab wound to the belly.

Oskar had found himself before Link and Zelda, trying to argue that he had killed only in self-defense. He had been arrogant and even angry—feeling that he was the victim of a great injustice—but his mother had taken a different tack and she had prostrated herself before the king and queen and, sobbing, begged for the life of her only child.

The more Oskar and his mother spoke, the angrier Zelda became. Even Link was frowning unhappily. Finally, Zelda could contain herself no longer and she jumped to her feet and all but ran down the dais steps to him.

He was shocked that such a small, frail old woman could be so scary.

Then she began to slap him and his fear increased tenfold.

"Look at what you've done to your mother!" she had yelled at him. She caught him by the ear and dragged him down until he was on his knees, whimpering in pain. "Look at what you've done!"

His mother was watching the scene with shock on her tear-stained face.

"This woman risked her life to bring you into the world!" Zelda shrieked at him. "You will never know the pain she went through to deliver you. Or how much she has had to sacrifice to keep you fed and clothed and alive up to this day. And how do you repay her? By becoming a delinquent! By throwing away a free education that your grandparents would have died to have and choosing to remain an ignorant savage! And the shame! I can't imagine how ashamed your mother must be to look her neighbors in the eyes, knowing that you've been stealing from them or destroying their property.

But even though you've made her hard life so much harder, she's still here on her knees, trying to save your life. You'll let your mother shame herself for you, but you think you're too good to do it for yourself."

Then she pulled him back to his feet—still holding him painfully by the ear—and dragged him out of the throne room. The rest of the court—including Link—followed silently behind her.

She took him behind the castle, to a closed-off courtyard that was hidden from view. It was there that Oskar saw a heavy, red-stained block of wood sitting on top of a pile of straw.

Zelda pushed his head down on the block and he could smell the blood that had seeped into the old wood. It was then that he realized he was going to die. And it scared him. The years since his father had died came back to him in a flash and he realized that he had wasted all of them. Now that he was facing certain death, he wanted more than ever to live. But he had pissed away his chance.

"Give me a sword," Zelda demanded.

Without hesitation, Link pulled out his sword and handed it to her.

Oskar flinched as she brought the blade close to his face. "Is this what you want? To die?"

He shook his head—as much as he was able to; Zelda had him pinned rather tightly to the block.

"Then why are you living with one foot in the Other World?" she asked. "Why are you living as if there will be no tomorrow? As if there will be no reckoning? Obviously you think you aren't answerable to your mother, but did you think you weren't answerable to me? Or to the gods?"

"No," he squeaked out. Already tears were falling from his eyes and wetting the block.

"You sure haven't acted like it. You act like you have nothing to live for. So why shouldn't I kill you right now?"

Oskar had no answer to that—no good one anyway.

He could hear his mother sobbing uncontrollably on the other side of the courtyard, but no one else present made a sound; they just stared at him, waiting for whatever came next.

"I want to live," he mumbled.

Zelda leaned closer. "Say that again."

"I want to live," he said a little louder.

"Why should I let you live? You will just hurt your mother more. It would be better for her if you just died so she can go ahead and mourn you instead of watching you die every day right in front of her."

He heard his mother wail even louder.

"I won't hurt her," he said.

"Louder."

"I won't hurt her anymore!" he said loudly, his voice echoing off the stone enclosure.

"Will you get your life right?" she demanded.

"Yes."

"Yes, what?" she said, pressing his head harder.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

After an agonizingly long moment, she finally let go of him. She glared at him for a minute—he felt himself wilt under her gaze—then she finally returned Link's sword.

"I don't know if I can trust you," she said. "It's easy to slip back into bad habits—hang around friends who are a bad influence."

"I promise I won't," he swore.

"Not good enough." She glanced at her Captain of the Guard. "Do we have an opening at the castle?"

"We have one if Your Majesty wants one," the captain replied smoothly.

She pointed to Oskar. "Put him to work. He's to train to be a guard. And in his free time, he's to go school with the other children until he graduates. I won't abide willful ignorance in my presence."

"No, Your Majesty," the captain said. "I will see to it that he completes his studies."

She glared down at Oskar, who was still on his knees. "If you don't, then we can come back here and finish what we started."

Oskar never saw the inside of that courtyard again. It took him nearly three years—and he had to swallow his pride on more than one occasion being a grown man and still in a classroom with the castle children—but he finished his studies and became a model guard. The day he graduated from school, Zelda called him into her presence and released him from her service, saying he had completed his punishment. But he had gone down on his knee to beg to remain at the castle, in her employ. She readily consented and he had been there ever since. He had even married one of the cooks from the kitchen and their own three children were growing up in the castle, going to the same school that he had once attended.

Oskar knew that the queen had saved his life by scaring him straight and she had given him the chance to redeem himself. And although King Zeyde was now the one who paid his wages and commanded his loyalty, Queen Zelda was the one who had his utter devotion. He would never be able to pay her back for what she had done for him; all he could do was love her with his whole heart.

"Give me the keys," Zelda said, holding out her hand. Oskar gave them to her without question.

"I'll come out when I'm ready to come out. Do not disturb me."

"Yes, Your Majesty. And may I assume if someone were to come by and want in, I should not let them in?"

"You assume correctly," she said. "Tell them whatever excuse you want, but do not let them in."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

She disappeared inside and shut the door behind her. A moment later, there was a metallic click as she locked herself inside.

"I wonder what that's about?" his companion whispered.

"I don't know and it's not for me to know," Oskar said firmly to the younger man. "And it's not for you to know, either. Now, never speak a word of this again—not to me or anyone else—or you'll lose a lot more than your job."


Inside, the chapel was dark, save for dim moonlight shining through the lead-glass windows. But it was enough that Zelda could see the cabinets on either side of the altar at the other end of the room. She made for the right-hand one and used Oskar's keys to unlock the case.

It had been a very long time since she had held the Soul Scepter in her hand. She had used it at her coronation because Nagadii had stolen the kingdom's scepter and it was never recovered. When the kingdom became prosperous again, she had commissioned a new one which she used for formal state occasions.

She had only used it to call up the dead a handful of times, and the last time had been more than a century before. She understood the seductive power of the scepter, and she understood that the dead were best left to rest in the Other World. But now, she didn't care a fig for what was right or wrong.

She held the heavy gold and opal-studded scepter above her head. "I call forth Link." Then she waited.

. . . Was it her imagination, or was nothing happening?

The Great Fairy had warned her that the dead would respond only if they wanted to; even the Scepter couldn't force them out of the Other World if they didn't want to come.

But why wouldn't Link want to come to her? Hadn't he said himself that he would always come for her?

Had something gone wrong? Did someone have to be dead a certain length of time before they could be called?

"Link . . ." she pleaded in a whisper.

And then, in the weak light, she saw a fog moving across the floor. She breathed a sigh of relief as the fog began to rise and coalesce into a humanoid shape that was mostly opaque, but as intangible as smoke. Then the features sharpened until she was looking at Link once again.

She was surprised—but pleasantly so—to see that his ghostly form had been restored to its youth. He looked as he had when they first met—a young man of seventeen or eighteen years—wearing the garb of Kakariko—down to the floppy stocking cap. His shoulders, which had been hunched forward in pain for so many years, were back and his posture as straight as a ruler. His unruly hair was thick and his eyes bright and clear. His face was unlined by age and, Zelda was extra surprised to see, unlined by Tarsus' scars. She had become so accustomed to seeing the white, parallel scars running from his cheek to his throat, she had forgotten what he looked like without them. All the portraits in the castle—even his tomb effigy—were of him after the scars; none showed him as he had been before he went on their quest.

Zelda was so happy to see him again, she couldn't speak. It felt as if her heart was going to swell and burst out of her chest.

Link, however, didn't look like he felt the same. His face was blank, but his eyes disapproved. And when he spoke, he confirmed it. "Zelda, why did you bring me here?"

She was a little taken aback. "You have to ask?"

"You should have let me be."

She was even more startled. This did not seem like her Link at all. Where was the man who insisted she lay beside him on his death bed and cuddle and laugh like old times?

"I . . ." It was a rare occurrence, but Zelda was left speechless.

Link's eyes softened ever so slightly. "Zelda, you know the dangers of doing this—of living in the past. You need to stay in the land of the living."

"But, I don't want to be here. I want to be with you."

"Don't be so quick to throw away life. Don't you think I would like to have it back again?"

"If I had been the one to die, you'd feel the same as me," she accused.

"That's different."

They looked at one another for a moment, then both laughed.

"You always were a hypocrite," Zelda said. "Remember how you used to tell me I couldn't curse, but then you'd do it?"

"As I kept trying to tell you, people expect different things out of men and women—especially queens."

"I didn't hear anyone complaining about my reign."

"Sweetheart, they were too afraid to complain."

She probably should have felt guilty about that—because it was mostly true—but it only made her laugh more.

He stepped up to her and lifted a ghostly hand to her face. She felt a cool air lightly brush over her skin. "I have missed hearing you laugh," he said sadly.

"Have you been watching me?" she whispered.

"Yes." There was pain in his eyes. "Watching, but unable to do anything to ease your pain. Death takes away most emotions, but even it could not stop me from feeling love for you—or from hurting when I see you hurting."

"I'm sorry I made you hurt," she said truthfully. She had no idea that Link would suffer along with her.

"There's no helping that," he replied. "What was it that Zeyde told Katherine the other day? We're two sides of the same coin. In life or death, what happens to one of us happens to the other."

"Have you been watching Zeyde, too?" she asked, curious.

"Yes. He is hurting much more than he lets on. And he fears losing you, too. All your talk of wanting to die makes him very afraid. He's not ready to lose both of us yet."

That did make Zelda feel guilty. She hadn't stopped to think what Link's death—and her own—would mean to her children. They were all grown with children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren of their own, so she didn't think about protecting them from the harsh realities of the world as she had when they were children. But, she supposed, even adults might fear the world more without their parents in it. Although Zeyde had been king for four years, his parents had always been available for advice. And if anything truly awful had happened, they would have stepped up to help. Even now, Zelda commanded activities around the castle when Katherine was unsure of herself.

Without Link and Zelda, they were completely and totally on their own. There would be no more help and no more advice. They would have to figure out everything on their own. Their safety net would be gone.

"Now do you see why you must stay?" Link said, watching her carefully as if he could read her mind.

She looked at him, her feelings conflicted. "But it's hard."

"Of course it's hard. But that's never stopped you from accomplishing anything before." He pressed his hand against her cheek again. If Zelda closed her eyes, she could almost feel his touch. "Where's my warrior-woman?" he asked softly. "Where's the girl who snuck out of her room every night and went off onto the plain alone?"

She smiled a little at the memory, then opened her eyes to look at him. "She got old."

He laughed. "Old, perhaps, but she's not gone." He grinned. "I heard you arguing with Zeyde at my wake, threatening to take back your crown."

"So much for telepathy being silent."

He shrugged unrepentantly. "Nonetheless, my argument stands."

She sighed. "So, what exactly do you expect me to do?"

"Be there for Zeyde. Help Katherine. Be seen around the castle. You've been living with one foot on the Other Side and trying to force your way in. Put both feet firmly back in the land of the living and let people see you that way. That will give everyone courage."

"I don't want people to think that I'm heartless—that I don't mourn you."

"Sweetheart, I don't think anyone thinks that of you. I think people are much more worried about you mourning too much."

Zelda considered this for a moment. "I'll do it one condition."

"Damnit, Zelda, this isn't a trade," he said, half-annoyed, but also half-amused. "You're supposed to be doing this to help others."

"I've put others ahead of myself all my life. I think I'm owed a favor in return."

"What?"

"You come to me in the evenings."

He was shaking his head before she finished her sentence. "You haven't heard a word I've said. You're supposed to keep your feet in the land of the living; you won't be doing that if you're calling me up every night. This is the problem."

"I can play my role all day long, so long as I know I can spend time with you in the evenings," she argued. "I have to have something for myself. At the end of the day, I have to have a little something for myself."

Link sighed and turned away. He was quiet for a moment, but Zelda already knew that he would give in. He always gave in.

"Very well," he said, looking at her again. "If you promise to abandon all your talk of dying, and you engage with Zeyde and the others normally, I will come whenever you call." He held up his finger. "But I'm going to hold you to that. If you get all sullen and reclusive again, I won't come."

"Fair enough," she agreed. Then she smiled, feeling better than she had in days.


Everyone noticed a change in Zelda. She began joining the family for breakfast again, eating with a ravenous hunger that was rather surprising. Then she would plead weariness from her age and leave to take a "nap" that lasted until nearly supper. She would visit privately with Zeyde and Katherine for a little while, just to discuss the affairs of the kingdom, then they would go to dinner with the court. Afterwards, she would spend some time with the young children, listening to them play their instruments or show off their schoolwork, and then she would tell them a story and put them to bed.

She would then retire to her room for the evening and work on her correspondence or read something until the castle was quiet and still. And then, just as in her youth, she would sneak out—going back hallways and staircases she knew to be unguarded—and go to the chapel to spend her nights with Link. When dawn came, she would go back to her room, change her clothes, and begin again.

Katherine was a little worried that Zelda spent so much time sleeping—she, of course, had no idea that Zelda stayed awake all night long—but Zeyde was so happy to have his mother back, he dismissed her concerns.

"She's older than anyone since the coming of humans to our shores," he said. "I'm not surprised that she needs to sleep a lot. And maybe she's just saying that she's going to take a nap; maybe she really just needs some time alone. She's still not over Father's death, even if she's better than she was. Let her have her time alone, so long as we get her a little bit every day."

And so it was, with a bit of intentional ignorance on Zeyde's part, that no one, save the guards at the chapel door, knew that Zelda was sneaking out of her room every night. And even the guards had no idea what she did locked up in the chapel for hours. They could only assume that she was going in there to privately pray and mourn. The thick stone walls muffled the sound of voices and laughter all night long.

This routine continued for a little over a year. Zelda adapted to it until she hardly noticed Link's physical absence. As long as she got to spend time with him every evening, that was enough to sustain her. She still missed having him in bed beside her, but she didn't notice his absence so much when she slept during the daytime. She felt as if she was really just taking a nap.

And then one dark summer's night, when she called Link, he came to her with a peculiar look on his face.

"What's wrong?" she immediately asked.

He held out his hand. "Do you want to come with me?"

"Come where?"

He perked a brow. "Where do you think, silly?"

She looked at him skeptically. "Is this a trick?"

"Would I joke about death?"

"Yes. I seem to recall you were none too somber when you were facing your own death."

He couldn't help but chuckle. "True. Maybe a better question is, 'Have I ever tricked you?'"

"No," she admitted."

"Then you should probably assume I'm not tricking you this time."

"But . . . why? Why are you offering this to me now when you wouldn't before?"

"I suppose the gods think you deserve it. You have upheld your end of the bargain with me and have worked hard to stay cheerful. Zeyde and the others feel better about things and won't take your death quite so hard—especially now that they have good memories of you again. If you had followed me, they would have remembered you as lost and broken."

"So I did a good job and am being rewarded with death?"

He spread his hands. "It's up to you. No one can live forever, but you can choose when to go—now or later."

"Would you come for me again if I postponed it?"

"Of course."

Zelda considered her options for a minute. Then she looked up at Link again. "My time has passed. Zeyde and Katherine must have the freedom to rule completely on their own, not live constantly in our shadow."

"We have certainly made our mark on the world."

"Yes, but now it's time to let someone else make a mark."

Link smiled at her, then held out his hand again. This time, she put her hand in his. She was surprised, though, that she was able to feel his hand so completely. It was no longer the cool air of a ghostly caress; he felt as real and solid as ever.

She happened to glance behind her, only to see herself lying on the floor. It was strange to be looking down on herself. She somehow looked older and smaller from the outside.

She turned back to Link to see him smiling at her in all his physical glory. Gone was the white, smoky form; now his skin was flush with color and his eyes as blue as ever.

"It's good to really touch you again," he said. Then he leaned in and kissed her. It was just like she remembered, and as she melted into him, they seemed to fall back into nothingness. But it didn't matter where they were going, so long as they were going there together.


Oskar grew nervous as the sun rose higher and Queen Zelda didn't appear. She had always emerged from the chapel around dawn and he knew that she went to breakfast with the Royal Family shortly thereafter. He was afraid if she didn't appear soon, someone would start looking for her. And while he was willing to lie for her—he owed her that—the thought made him uncomfortable. He didn't want to have to lie to the king.

Finally, he rapped his knuckles on the door. "Your Majesty?" he asked quietly.

A minute passed without a response. He knocked a little louder. "Your Majesty?"

He still got no response.

"What if something's happened to her?" his companion asked.

Oskar frowned. What if something had happened to her? It would be his fault that she hadn't gotten medical treatment. But at the same time, what if she had just fallen asleep? She would be none too happy if he came in with the king to expose whatever secrets she had in there.

But a decision had to be made soon; his shift would be over in an hour or less and he didn't dare walk away with the Queen Mother still locked inside. No one would know to check on her.

"Go down to the Captain on Duty and get the spare key," Oskar said in a low voice. "Tell him . . . tell him that the Queen Mother wants to get into the chapel, but my key has bent and it won't work. You need the key right now because she wants to pray before breakfast and is in a hurry. Don't let him come back with you; just get the key!"

The young man ran off while Oskar continued to knock and call for Zelda. But there was still no answer by the time the breathless guard returned several minutes later.

Oskar unlocked the door and stepped into the chapel. His eyes went immediately to the frail little figure lying on the floor, bathed in the sunlight streaming through the eastern window.

"Go get the king. Quick!" Oskar ordered the other man.

When Zeyde came running in a few minutes later, the first thing he saw was his mother lying on the floor, but the bright light smoothed the lines on her face so that, for a brief second, Zeyde felt he was seeing his mother as she had been when she had been in her youth. The Dark Days had not yet forged her and Link hadn't yet freed her. She was unformed potential—a girl of duty, but also a young woman full of passion, longing to be free.

His feet carried him numbly forward, and then the light changed and he saw his mother's face as he knew it once again.

Oskar was kneeling beside her, holding her hand in his and trying vainly not to cry. "She's gone, sire," he mumbled. "She's gone."

Zeyde stared down at her, not comprehending that his mother was really gone. Unlike Link, she hadn't even been sick. She had been chipper the night before when she had kissed him goodnight before retiring to her room.

This was totally unexpected.

Then he saw the golden scepter lying on the floor beside her, as if it had just rolled out of her hand.

"What was she doing in here?" Zeyde heard himself ask.

Oskar tried to dash the tears from his eyes. His oath to his queen was gone now; his loyalty to his king had to take precedence. "She's been coming in here every night for ages, Your Majesty. Since . . . since just after your father died, I think."

"Every night?" Zeyde asked, bewildered.

"Yes, sire. She came late—after everyone was in bed—and stayed until about dawn. I assumed she wanted to pray or something. But she never said why she was here and it wasn't my place to ask."

Zeyde stared at the Soul Scepter and suddenly everything clicked into place. He now understood why his mother had recovered after his father's death—why she had been like her old self after teetering so close to the brink. Her "naps" that lasted all day . . . it all made sense now.

A moment later, Katherine rushed in, breathless, but stopped in shock when she saw Zelda lying on the floor.

Zeyde looked up at her. "Father came for her last night."

She slowly walked over and put her arms around him, resting her cheek against his shoulder. "I'm so sorry, darling."

Zeyde was fighting against his tears, but quickly losing. "It's . . . it's better this way," he said, as his throat tightened, threatening to choke off his words. "She stayed for us, but she wanted to go with him. Now . . . now they're together."

Then he broke down and began to cry in earnest.