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The Goddesses shouldn’t have chosen two children for Their game of heroes and villains.

He’s the first to talk to the boy in Hyrule. He guides him to the stones. He sees how, little by little, a fire starts burning in his eyes; how, little by little, they lose their childish innocence.

(No, there was never any).

The boy fights, for a kingdom that is not his, for people that are not his.

(Who are his people, anyway?)

And he still fights, shaking arms and legs against the dream he’s lost in. He’s old enough to wield the sword of the hero. 


As she waits for him to return, she wonders whether the outside world is more dangerous than her forest.

It must be. Day after day, foreigners come to the forest, hoping that that they won’t meet the fate that waits for those who desecrate its grounds.

The Deku Tree kept the Kokiri safe while he still lived, but now monsters dwell in more than their nightmares.

What has become of him, lost in a strange world...? No. His. They won’t ever be part of the same world.

(She hopes that he’ll come back to her as more than just bones). 


A new brother has joined their tribe, one who doesn’t even flinch when he, their leader, first looks into his eyes. There’s no doubt that the blood of the legendary Goron hero flows through his veins, as there’s not a shadow of a doubt about how he’ll name his son.

And the memories of his blood brother bring memories of the song that, like him, came from the forest. Though he had never told him anything—for he usually said little—he knew he was from the forest.

If only he and his son could dance together to that music.


Pride will always stop her from admitting it, but when her father refused to become Ganondorf’s vassal, she felt a feeling of surprise that will always shame her. He left his perpetual passiveness behind in those hours when even the water surface could feel the tension. He told the Gerudo with the dead eyes that his loyalty would always lie with Hyrule.

The princess would have fought for her people, had the Gerudo done anything. But she did nothing; there was only passiveness in her dead eyes.

They’ve been waiting for that automaton to come back with her king’s answer for weeks.


This is not the first night the princess comes back with her body covered in bruises and her arms covered in blood. She never asks her where she’s been; she already knew what to expect when she accepted training her.

She tells her that she wants to end, with her very own hands, the suffering that she brought.

(‘It wasn’t your fault’, she says again).

A lullaby won’t keep the princess away from danger anymore. She fears that her wish of protecting her people while they wait for the lad to wake up—how long?—will soon become something much different. 


The witches give her some short moments of consciousness, sometimes, bathed in the colour of the desert. Her cunning eyes shine once more, only to see her scimitar stuck in the body of an innocent.

(It’s been a little boy, this time).

The red of his blood on the green of Hyrule. His master, as they make her call him, is spreading the wind of death of the desert over the fields of Hyrule.

Giving the witches a defiant look is becoming harder. She only gets more moments when the fact that she has lost her freedom is painfully obvious.           


Funny, she thinks, sitting with her back against the altar. She believes that he’ll come back today.

She remembers the mirror that she broke seven years ago. She hated the blue and still innocent eyes reflected on it; the red reminded her, in her penance, of the blood that her mistakes had spilled.

(He told her once, many years ago, that her nanny could never scare him, with eyes so warm).

Under her bandages, she feels her lips curving into the smallest of smiles as a pillar of light comes from the pedestal.

Seven years of waiting have been enough.