POV Lance

Hundreds of eyes look at me expectantly. I fix my gaze on my notes, worn and crumpled, the words slightly smudged from the sweat on my hands.

A faint and constant tremor persists through my body, my muscles rigid. There's not enough air in this damned hall. My throat tightens; I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. I force myself to take a deep breath, just trying to survive the next few minutes.

My fingers run through my hair in an unconscious gesture.

"Is that… is that the Master Sword?" my eyes widen, disbelief washing over me as I realize it truly exists.

No.

I can't think about that now.

It's just a few minutes. Read the memory you noted, thank everyone for being here, and get out of there.

"That my father was part of the royal guard before becoming king, I believe all of you already know," I begin, stepping closer to the microphone. "His combat skills were legendary, superhuman.

"What not everyone knew is that what he really loved to do… was cook."

Some people laugh, surprised; others nod wistfully.

"I spent countless hours of my childhood in the castle kitchens, watching my father pester the royal cooks. Not in a rude way or anything like that — Link was the kindest person I have ever known. But… he had a habit of offering lots of opinions on the recipes."

Laughter ripples through the hall, and I feel a bit more confident to continue.

"As I said, he was very kind. So the chefs were quite patient with his constant interruptions. However… one day, he was particularly opinionated. After his tenth suggestion, the head chef simply gave up. He let out a curse — the first one I ever heard — shoved a wooden spoon into Link's hands, and told him to make the dish himself since he apparently knew better.

"To my surprise, my father just gave a conspiratorial chuckle. 'I'll apologize later,' he said. 'But your mother's craving this dish exactly as I learned it on Koholint.'"

The words catch in my throat as her image surfaces in my mind. But I force myself to go on.

"'He used too little coconut milk,' my father explained. 'And forgot the tomatoes. Which, by the way… don't seem to be here.' He looked around, puzzled. 'Can you fetch them from the pantry, son?'

"At the ripe age of six, I felt like I'd been given the mission of my life. A quest for the missing tomatoes. I had to find them; Dad needed them.

"The path from the stove area to the pantry was probably no more than ten meters. But for me, it was a journey. I imagined monsters along the way, navigating forests, defeating threats with my 'dexterity' and 'wit.'

"The tomatoes were in a box high atop a much larger stack than me. 'The Eldin Volcano,' my childish brain immediately declared. Dad had started teaching me how to climb a few weeks earlier; remembering his tips, I searched for footholds and slowly hoisted myself upward.

"The problem was that, until that moment, I'd only learned how to climb up. I always jumped into his arms after reaching the top of the small training mountains.

"I was very high up. The stack was more than twice my height, and I only realized this after making the mistake of looking down. The tomatoes were in my hand, and tears were in my throat. At that moment, shame washed over me — though I'd only recognize the feeling years later. Shame for being so close to completing the mission and failing. Shame for letting him down. And, above all… shame for being afraid.

"'You can do it,' I heard his voice from the pantry door. I have no idea how long he'd been watching me; he'd probably followed me the entire way, and I just imagined I was alone. I looked back; he was staring at me… his eyes shining with pride."

I need to pause for a moment. My teeth clench, my nose burns, and my vision blurs. When I blink, a tear slides down my cheek. My lips press into a thin line, my heart racing unevenly.

"'You can do it,' he repeated, nodding. 'Just follow the same path you used to climb up. And if you fall, I'll catch you. I'll always be here to catch you.'"

The tears flow freely now; a low sob escapes my throat, silencing me momentarily.

But I go on.

"I couldn't get down," I laugh softly. "Obviously. I misplaced a foot trying to descend with my hands full of tomatoes and fell backward. But he caught me; he was right behind me, probably waiting for the fall.

"Even though I fell, when I remember that day, I see the mission as a success. I may not have rescued the missing tomatoes… but that was the first time I felt courage. After hearing him, I started the descent despite the fear; knowing I had a safe place to fall made me believe I wouldn't fall at all.

"He didn't tease me for falling; instead, he celebrated that I tried to climb down, even though I was initially scared. He kissed my face, set me down, and taught me how to make that Koholint recipe. It was the best dish I've ever had in my life.

"In his arms, I felt completely safe. Since he left, I've never been able to feel that way again. But on particularly hard days, I remember this memory; and it reminds me what it is to feel courage. And even though I've never felt it as strongly as I did that day, remembering that moment makes me realize it's still inside me. And that's enough to get me through any situation I find myself in."

I lift my eyes from the notes. A large photograph of Link is displayed behind me; I can see the two of us on the screens in the background, mirroring what's being broadcast. For a moment, it's as if we're standing side by side. Then I direct my next words to him:

"I love you, Dad. I wish you were still here. I hope that, wherever you are, I can make you proud."

I take a deep breath; she's probably going to speak now. My eyes dart from door to door, wondering which one she'll come through.

I haven't seen her in months; we haven't spoken in years.

And yet, I find myself anxious to see her and hear her voice.

But Impa climbs the small stage steps again. I frown, confused. She approaches, affectionately squeezes my hand, and takes my place at the podium.

Maybe she'll make some sort of introduction before my mother appears.

But she begins reading a note of explanation, her voice calm and steady. Her eyes, however, carry a strange, ominous glint. My stomach tightens, and a burning sensation rises in my throat.

"Queen Zelda will not be joining us today. So I will continue with the tributes to the king," Impa announces. "Many of you knew him as king. Some as the young man with amnesia who defeated the Calamity. But I knew him as a silent and confused pre-teen; and I certainly have dozens of untold stories from that time. Sorry, Link," she laughs, addressing the air, "but I think I'm going to expose a few of your secrets today."

A loud buzzing fills my ears; I notice Purah fidgeting nervously with her phone as she quietly exits through the back door.

I take advantage of the fact that everyone is engrossed in Impa's anecdotes and slowly slip out of the hall. I find Purah giving frantic orders to some guards, her voice low but urgent.

"Search every wing of the castle and the surrounding perimeter. The message was sent during the prince's speech, but I only saw it near the end. We've already lost twenty minutes… it could be too late. Don't draw attention; there are too many visitors here."

"Auntie Purah?" I touch her shoulder, and she jumps. "What happened?"

She looks at me with distressed eyes. She hesitates for a moment before replying:

"Your mother is missing, dear."

. . .

"I'm sorry."

I'm sorry.

That was all she had to say. In a message in some random group.

A group I'm not even a part of.

The memorial ended just a few minutes ago. We're gathered in the sitting room, waiting for news from the search teams.

"Maybe she didn't…" Paya ponders. "She might just be apologizing because she couldn't show up publicly."

We all stare at her in silence.

"The message was crystal clear, Paya," my voice sounds cold, emotionless. "She gave up."

"But…" she tries to remain optimistic.

"Lance is right," Impa interjects. "We shouldn't have left her alone at any point today. She was more unstable than usual."

"No news yet?" Tauro asks Deen, who enters the room with a tense face.

"The guards are still searching. Her rooms are empty. They've already searched the libraries and labs; they're starting the search in the gardens and around the castle," Deen's voice is low, filled with concern.

"Don't forget to check the areas right under the windows and balconies," I say, unable to keep the bitterness from creeping into my voice.

"Lance…" Purah places her hand on my shoulder. "We'll find her."

"Well, that doesn't change anything for me, does it?" I shrug off her touch.

They all look at me, anxious.

I can't stay here.

"Sorry," I say, though I don't feel guilty. "I… I'm going to take a walk. Message me if there's any news."

I leave the room quickly, before anyone can object. I walk with my head down, avoiding the curious gazes of the visitors. My hands, tucked inside my pockets, tremble violently. My clenched teeth bring an intense pain to my temples.

She didn't even bother to say goodbye properly.

"I'm sorry."

I doubt she means it.

She definitely didn't feel that way ten years ago, when she abandoned me after my father died.

"What happened?" was the first thing she asked me that day when we finally met. I was confused, scared, not really understanding what had just happened.

"I… Dad… we were fighting… he tripped and fell… and didn't get up. The other soldiers took me away… Where's Dad?"

I'll never forget the coldness in her eyes when she answered me, direct and succinct:

"He's dead, Lance."

I knew the concept of death by then. But I had no idea of its weight; its finality. I knew it was something bad, but I didn't feel sadness at the time. I felt fear. So I sought her arms, looking for comfort.

But she pulled away.

"Not now, Lance."

In my life, I had never felt so alone until that moment. And suddenly, loneliness was all I had. I felt small, invisible; as though I, too, had become a ghost.

Of course, I still had Impa, Purah, and all the other close friends of my parents around me. But I wanted my mother's arms; I wanted to hear her voice, be comforted by her warmth.

It took me years to understand that she blamed me for Link's death. And when that realization finally hit me — like a stone on an otherwise ordinary day — I began to blame myself as well.

And I still blame myself to this day.

Even though I was just a child. Even though I know it was impossible to predict. Even though I know it could have happened at any other moment of physical exhaustion.

That day, the idea of training was mine.

So, I never resented her for rejecting me after what happened. After I understood this, at twelve or thirteen, I stopped seeking her out. I respected her space. I started spending as much time as I could away from the castle walls. I waited, patiently, for her absolution.

A fool, that's what I was.

Maybe I don't deserve forgiveness, but I didn't deserve all this rejection either.

Or no goodbye at all.

I'm surprised to find myself standing before the small building where my father's body rests. My feet freeze in place; the cold night breeze pulls me out of my thoughts.

The hairs on my arms stand on end. I don't understand why my feet carried me here. But I embrace the chance to be near him again, even if it's only his remains.

I approach the door, but I'm struck by a wave of dread. It's ajar. Holding my breath, I slowly push the wood, trying not to make a sound.

At first, I don't see anyone. But the corridor leading to the large marble tomb is narrow, hiding a lot. I reach for the dagger at my belt, stepping quietly.

The lid of the tomb is crooked, as if someone tried to move it but couldn't push it more than a few inches. A few candles are lit, casting a subtle light on the surroundings.

I hear nothing except the soft flickering of the candles. I look around, searching for something, and finally spot a shadow on the ground.

My heart pounds against my ribs. I take one of the candles from the wall sconce. At the foot of the tomb, a small pedestal was built to hold the Master Sword. It should have been returned to the Lost Woods when Link died. But my mother had a meltdown when she heard that idea; she wanted it buried with his body. The compromise was to keep it stored there. No one would be able to take it from the pedestal except for my mother or the next hero, centuries or millennia from now, anyway.

So, the sword remained here.

And, gripping its hilt, I find my mother's body, half-sitting, half-slumped on the floor.

I send a brief message to Purah: "Found her. Tomb."

I crouch beside her, fighting the panic rising in me.

What a lovely family reunion.

I lean on her arm, trying… I don't know, wake her up? Check if she's dead? But her skin is still warm and, as I get closer, I realize she's still breathing.

As the understanding sinks in, my blood surges furiously through my veins, my heart racing.

She was going to kill herself using the Master Sword.

My nose wrinkles in disgust, and I reach for her hands, which are still tightly gripping the sword's hilt, trying to make her let go. But they're stuck, and no matter how much force I apply, they stay firmly shut.

And when I place both of my hands over hers, trying a new angle, the world explodes in white. A horrible shock surges through my arms, making my muscles cramp. My throat tightens and my heart constricts painfully, as though it's about to explode.

The next moment, I feel the ground against my back and a sharp pain in my temple; a metallic taste fills my mouth and unconsciousness sweeps over me.