Chapter Text
Part II: The Golden Thread
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The prison wagon rolled to a halt in the shadow of Arbiter’s Grounds. Zelda could barely glance up at its grim silhouette without the sun blinding her, but she knew that somewhere above her head was an amphitheater ringed with pillars, one for every sage but the seventh.
How symbolic. The leader stands apart. According to Link, the other Zelda could walk in two realms while all the other awakened Sages were restricted to one. She would be spared that loneliness in this lifetime, if Rauru kept his promise to carry out the sentence her people and the Gerudo had finally agreed on.
“Sit,” Impa ordered, guiding Zelda to a rock in the shade. “Drink some water.”
She was too tired to protest. Ganondorf was hunched inside his wagon, glaring at Nabooru as she handed him a canteen through the wooden bars. The rest of the Gerudo escort were passing around dried fruit and meat. Zelda shook her head when they reached her, but Impa took two portions and gave her one with a sharp look.
“You’ve barely eaten. And I heard you sneak away from camp this morning. How long have you been feeling unwell?”
“Since yesterday morning,” Zelda admitted, wishing it was possible to keep secrets from this woman. Her husband hadn’t woken when she rolled out of bed and vomited into the nearest basin. Not that she blamed him for sleeping heavily—Hyrule was working them both to the bone.
Impa wiped sweat from her forehead. “You should have stayed behind.”
Zelda couldn’t argue with that. Two days riding an irritable camel under the beating sun certainly hadn’t improved matters, but she felt she had to witness Ganondorf’s end with her own eyes. Maybe she owed it to her father. Maybe she owed it to Ganondorf himself, by virtue of the grim fate they shared.
The moment Nabooru unlatched the wagon door, he dropped to the ground and swung his manacled hands at her head. She dodged smoothly while two of her comrades seized Ganondorf’s arms, paying no heed to his snarls as they marched him towards Arbiter’s Grounds. Though the prison had fallen out of use before the civil war, the howling wind and deepening shadows made Zelda question whether the ancient Sages were truly its only inhabitants.
By the time they reached the top of the long staircase that twined up and around the coliseum, Ganondorf had tried to escape so many times that the Gerudo looked ready to kill him themselves. The setting sun poured into the roofless chamber, turning the stone nearly bloodred. There was no sign of the Sages, only an enormous stone slab and a dais that held a metal frame and a circle of dark glass.
“What now?” Nabooru wondered.
Before Zelda could respond, Ganondorf slammed his heel down on one guard’s foot and tried to wrench away. Nabooru grabbed him by the collar and slammed him back against the slab at the rear of the chamber. “You’ve gotten predictable,” she told him dryly.
“You’ve gotten weak,” he retorted. “You used to have a mind of your own, even when you used it against me. Now what? You serve the Hylians?”
Zelda was distracted by a flash of light from one of the pillars overhead, followed by another and another, until five glowing figures stood silhouetted against the burnished sky. The sixth took form between her and the black stone, where Nabooru was giving Ganondorf a piece of her mind.
“Greetings, my Queen,” Rauru said, bowing his head. He looked the way he had in Zelda’s dream, a bearded man in orange robes; the others gazed down with identical, masklike faces. The thrum of magic told her they did not belong on this mortal plane—Link’s letter had been exactly right about the fate of an awakened Sage.
“You’re certain this will work?” Zelda asked, trying to keep the desperation from her voice. “You can execute him without unleashing the beast he carries?”
Rauru turned his piercing gaze on Ganondorf. “The man will fall here, and the beast will have no way to rise. You must bind him in place and leave the chamber.”
“Leave? But—”
“We must take his measure—his alone—and forge a weapon strong enough to end him. No other mortals should be in range.” Rauru’s eyes softened by an increment. “We are prepared this time, my Queen. I will inform you when the task is complete.”
How could Zelda refuse, knowing that she lacked the power to handle this alone or the will to doom her six friends? She went to Nabooru’s side and found—to her disquiet—that chains were already bolted to the stone, making it easy to secure Ganondorf. He sneered at her all the while.
Zelda stepped back to study his mocking smile, his unruly mane of orange hair, his right leg that still trembled from the wound Link had dealt him. When he’d first come to the castle, Ganondorf had seemed larger than life, a figure born from nightmares to destroy all she held dear. He’d succeeded in a different lifetime, and nearly again in this one.
There were still mornings she woke up forgetting her father was dead, forgetting that she shared her bed with a good man she didn’t love. She wanted to hate Ganondorf for that, but she couldn’t summon anything besides exhaustion and a strange sadness, so distant it felt like it belonged to someone else.
“For whatever it’s worth, what my people did to yours was wrong,” Zelda said wearily. “It was war, and it started long before either of us were born—yet there is no excuse for the way we kept twisting the knife. I cannot reverse that past. But Nabooru and I will do our best to build a better future.”
“A future of servitude,” Ganondorf said acidly.
“Do you think I’d be her ally if that was the case?” Nabooru snapped. “Do you think it’s easy? It’s a choice, every day, to listen and think and work for something better than what you planned to give us.”
He ignored her, staring at Zelda with a grueling intensity that reminded her of the night her father had died. For a moment of freefall, she glimpsed every coil of the net that ensnared them both: the vengeful curse driving him, the love of a Goddess blazing inside her, the world dying and returning like the beat of a stubborn heart.
Tears rose unbidden. So did the longing for Link, sudden as a lance through the chest. She was not supposed to face this fate without him.
“Only a fool wastes water in the desert,” Ganondorf said impassively. “You are no fool.”
Zelda raised her chin, not bothering to dry her face or steady her voice. “Perhaps you’ll choose differently the next time we meet. Perhaps we’ll all be able to keep our hands clean.”
“No chance of that. Not for you or the boy. Certainly not for me.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not what we were made for,” he answered. The deepening twilight threw strange shadows across the chamber, and when she stepped back for one last look at Ganondorf, nothing remained in his eyes—no past, no future, nothing at all.
Zelda lowered her gaze and allowed the parched stone to swallow her tears, turning away to give Nabooru a final moment with the man she’d once called friend.
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Waiting was agony. Zelda paced up and down the ruins where they would make camp tonight, driving everyone mad until Impa grabbed her arm and hissed, “Will you sit down? You’re ill.”
Zelda sank down on a crate and watched stars emerge through the damaged roof. The Gerudo were gathered in a circle, telling stories of the days when their king was still deserving of loyalty. It was not the sort of conversation that welcomed outsiders. She rested her forehead in her hands while Impa struck flint against stone with increasing frustration.
“That wood probably rotted before either of us were born,” Zelda pointed out. “It won’t catch.”
“Not with that attitude,” Impa replied brusquely. She acted like this anytime she was worried about Zelda, as if one pebble rolling down a hill guaranteed that a landslide would follow, and stopping it was her sole responsibility.
“Impa, enough. I—I don’t think I’m sick. My bleeding never came this month.”
The flint bashed Impa’s knuckles instead this time, making her curse. Zelda might have laughed under different circ*mstances, but saying the words aloud had made them real, and now her eyes were stinging—wasting water again, as Ganondorf had said. Impa set down her tools and rested a hand on Zelda’s knee.
“I thought I’d have more time,” Zelda mumbled. “For—for all of this.”
“I know you did. Zelda…there are herbs you can take. Just say the word.”
That was a bad idea for Hyrule, and Impa knew it—but Zelda was just grateful that someone loved her enough for poor ideas to seem wise, so long as they took her fear away. “Thank you,” she murmured, covering Impa’s hand with her own. “But I’ll need an heir. I think this will be a good thing, someday. It’s just…bringing a child into all this…” She gestured helplessly at the wreckage of the cruel prison, a perfect example of the legacy she would be passing down.
“Your parents had the same worries,” Impa said quietly. She reached up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind Zelda’s ear, her features barely visible as the last vestiges of sun slipped below the horizon. “But it’s like you said before you went to face Ganondorf. We do our best to protect people, but when they’re ready…we have to let them go. You’re a guide, Zelda. Not a savior.”
Zelda wanted to protest, but those words made painful sense. Being a savior had pushed Link into such a terrible place. He couldn’t even recognize his own grief, as if the ability to care about himself—to accept anyone’s help—had been torn out of him before they’d ever met. She couldn’t go down that path if she wanted to be a good leader or a good mother.
Out of nowhere, the Triforce of Wisdom flared under her skin. Zelda sprang to her feet, feeling something shift in the world around her. She blinked and saw two identical crones frowning down at her; blinked again and saw a row of shrouded bodies, a girl biting into an apple, a stone door in a quiet temple, a metal door closing on a prison cell. And then, for a brief instant, a blond man shrouded by fire and ice, half his face covered in blood.
“Link?” she gasped aloud.
He was gone as quickly as he’d appeared. The golden thread felt so distant, so frayed. But the new connection was viciously strong. Zelda stumbled out of the ruins and ran for the stairs.
When she reached the top of the coliseum, the chains bolted to the slab of black rock were empty. Five Sages stood in a silent semicircle, turning at her approach. “What happened?” Zelda demanded, her eyes wheeling around the chamber. Impa caught up a moment later.
“Gone,” Rauru answered. “He claimed the Sage of Water’s life, but he is gone.”
Zelda glanced down at her still-glowing hand. “Where is the body?”
“We were not expecting the Triforce of Power to—"
“Where is the body?”
Rauru sighed, a sound as old and tired as the desert wind. “He was still breathing when we sent him to the Twilight Realm, Lady Queen.”
“I trusted you!” Zelda shouted. “You said you would be enough! What are all you Sages and spirits and gods good for?! What’s your power worth if you never use it to keep us safe?”
“You are safe,” Rauru said patiently, and Zelda had to wonder if he’d used the same infuriating tone after Link woke up from seven years of slumber. “Ganondorf has been grievously wounded and cast into a world that will not welcome him. Recovery may well be impossible.”
Anything was possible for the inferno of ancient malice that dwelled inside Ganondorf, bolstered by the Triforce. Why had Power returned to him? The piece was supposed to be sealed away in the Sacred Realm—unless something drastic had happened in the other version of Hyrule. Zelda’s stomach churned at the thought. This kingdom demanded sacrifice after sacrifice, and so few of them stayed in place.
Maybe that was why Link had left. Over the years, she’d glimpsed him in a foggy forest, on the shore of a vast ocean, fighting some fell beast in the snow—but she hadn’t thought there was anything real about those dreams. Today’s vision carried the brutal weight of clarity. He was alive. He was in pain, or would be in pain, and she was helpless to stop it.
Impa touched her elbow. “Zelda, come here. It’s over.”
“It’s not,” Zelda mumbled, but she went into Impa’s arms without hesitation, wondering if there was anyone to hold Link. If only she could reach him, keep him safe with her love, tell him all the things she never had the chance to say.
Impa stroked her hair. “Did you hear what Rauru said? The Twilight Realm. There’s no record of anyone returning after being exiled there. We could be safe for generations to come.”
Generations without the beast breathing down Hyrule’s neck. The Door of Time would remain shut, the Master Sword locked safely away. And there was an even greater reward. Impa was here in her arms, Nabooru was coming up the staircase with her people—and in the far reaches of Hyrule, Ruto and Darunia and little Saria would all have a future.
Zelda couldn’t regret that, no matter the cost.
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When she walked into the royal suite, Owen looked up from his paperwork—he was the only person she’d ever known to actually enjoy paperwork—and smiled at her. Zelda was surprised to realize that she’d missed him. It was nothing like the constant gravitational pull of missing Link, but that didn’t have to be a bad thing.
“Ganondorf is gone,” she announced. There was more to the story, of course, but it felt less important than the news her physician had just confirmed.
“Thank Farore,” Owen sighed, standing up to refill his wine glass. “Want some?”
Zelda leaned her hip against the desk and watched him pour, wishing she could accept a glass to steel her nerves. There was nothing to do but say it. “I’m pregnant.”
He choked mid-drink, and Zelda lunged to rescue his precious paperwork from the wine, giggling at the look on his face as he coughed and spluttered. This king of hers could be stately and charismatic when he tried, but she liked him more when he didn’t.
“You’re laughing,” Owen gasped when he finally caught his breath. “You’re happy? Is this a happy thing?”
“For Hyrule, certainly. Between us, I…I have to admit I’m a little frightened. It feels awfully fast. Goddesses, I don’t know anything about children.”
“Nor do I.” He ran a hand through his curls, a slow smile tugging at his lips. “Can’t be that different from ruling, can it?”
“Sounds like something my father would say.”
“Actually, I was imitating mine.”
Zelda laughed again. Owen pulled her into a hug, resting his chin on her head, and Zelda closed her eyes. The storm had blown through and demolished so much of what she’d known. And she was still heartsick some days, still weary—but more and more, she was learning to pick up the pieces and fit them back together into something new.
“We don’t have to be perfect,” she murmured into Owen’s shirt.
“No,” he agreed, “but we’ll be enough.”
And that was all Zelda needed.
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