Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Deep in the abysmal darkness of the long-forgotten Yiga archives wandered a young man guided solely by the light of his torch and the sound of a distant voice. Come, beckoned the voice from a distant corner of the room. Come to me, whispered the cavernous voice with an echo so prominent the man was unable to determine whether it was a single voice or a thousand. The beckoning grew louder as he wove his way through the archival room, brushing past ancient cobwebs and giant wooden crates filled with the Clan’s lost memories. The Blademaster rounded a corner and froze, holding up his torch to better view the chest pressed against a wall. It was a deep crimson wooden chest with intricate, golden inlays sprawling across the lid and sides. Around the chest swirled a deep purple and black aura. Nausea settled deep into the man’s stomach, but the voice called him to investigate further.

As he neared the chest, the golden lock securing the lid sprang open of its own accord. Come, you who hungers for more than you have been dealt, you who desires rightful power and dominion, beckoned the voice again, this time with heightened persistence. Come to me. Heart racing, hand shaking, the man knelt before the chest and raised its lid with a slow and echoing creak. Inside, resting on a bed of velvet, was a long sword with a golden hilt. The narrow, slightly curved blade was pure black and radiated with the same sickening aura that had surrounded its chest. The voice, which now certainly sounded like that of a thousand, shouted an overlapping command deep in the recesses of his soul:

Take it. Take it. Take it. Take it. Take it.

The voices only crescendoed as the man reached slowly for the sword’s hilt. He grasped it. A whooshing sound swept over him as the torch in his left hand extinguished along with the many voices. Thrust into obsidian darkness and deafening silence, the man knelt in the dust with only the sword as his companion. A single, growling voice pierced the silence.

Serok, Servant of Darkness, heed my words.

With this sword, you shall bring forth my kingdom.

Eradicate the enemies of your Magnificent One, and you shall rise in power as heir to my throne.

Serve me, my glorious vessel, and I shall serve you in return.

With another whoosh, the torch light reignited and ambient noise returned to the room. Serok found himself still kneeling before the chest, hand still gripping the sword with white knuckles. He examined the blade, turning it over in his hand. Suddenly, a sensation of darkness pulsated throughout his body and clawed at his heart. His breathing grew shallow as he gripped his chest and noticed tendrils of a black and red aura expelling from his skin. The sword thrummed with awakened energy and seared his palm. "Spare me!" he tried to cry as he writhed in pain. "I'll do it! I'll—" His words turned into a garbled roar as the pain crescendoed, extending throughout every inch of his body.

And then, just as suddenly as it came, it stopped. Darkness settled into his veins. Serok struggled to his feet, gasping for breath as he stared down at the peculiar sword. He secured it to his waist with trembling hands. His mind grew dim and devoid of thought. What feelings of terror that had once consumed him died away effortlessly. "I will serve you, Magnificent One," he whispered to the sword on which his hand still rested, "even at the expense of my life."

The sword hummed in response.

Chapter Text

For as long as they could remember and for more reasons than one, Tomoe had felt strange.

They were deemed strange by others early in life, when the realization dawned upon their father and the rest of the Clan that Tomoe, born prematurely as a result of their mother's fatal illness, was incredibly weak by nature. No amount of early childhood blade training seemed to combat the overwhelming fatigue which would descend upon their frail, petite body within minutes of a sparring session. “Here we go again,” muttered Clansmen to one another as they watched this little child collapse into the dust before their disapproving father. “Such a waste,” they clucked to one another, shaking their heads with grimaces concealed beneath their masks. In an attempt to salvage the child's reason for existence, their training took a sharp and sudden turn toward arcane studies. Tomoe, unable to conjure any spells beyond a rudimentary apparition, proved swiftly and definitively that they were unable to fulfill the requirements of Clan membership. The question arose among Clan leadership, of which their father, Azareth, was a member, on whether or not the child should be put out of their misery. Azareth had considered the proposition wholeheartedly. Weakness of any kind, after all, would render the child useless to the Clan's militaristic operations. It was Serok, Tomoe’s elder brother of five years, who intervened for them. “What if Tomoe could be useful in a different way?” he had asked, his pre-pubescent voice cracking beneath the question’s weight. It was this question which had caused Azareth and his cohorts to reconsider themselves. It was this question which had saved Tomoe’s life.

Tomoe was deemed strange again upon reaching the ripe age of fifteen and realizing that the title of “she” did not seem to fit quite right. “I don’t know what I am,” they muttered to their brother one evening after several weeks of noticeable discomfort. “I don't feel like I fit in with the other women, but I don't really fit with the men either. I don’t feel like one thing or another. I think I’m… something else, maybe? What do you think?”

Serok stared into the distance with a grimace for a long while before at last blowing out a sigh and saying, “We are Clansmen, one and all. What is beneath your uniform does not – should not – matter.”

“But what does that make me?” Tomoe asked, hungry for answers.

“You are Tomoe. Tomoe, and nothing less,” Serok said with a shrug. He glanced in their direction with a smirk. “And if anyone tries to give you shit about it, I will deal with them personally.”

It was this affirmation that ignited in Tomoe a feeling of familial warmth. It was this affirmation which reminded Tomoe that, no matter how ill-equipped they were to face the dangers in the outside world, no matter how foreign they felt in their own frail body, no matter how difficult life in the Clan became, their brother would be the rock to which they would cling.

Another five years, and the feeling of strangeness had slowly begun to give way to a sense of belonging within the Clan. Upon the recommendation of their brother so many years ago, Tomoe had been trained up as a strategist. Despite their inability to fight, they were soon recognized by Clan leadership as having a keen eye for weak points in battle formations, and despite their inability to practice magic, they held a creative spirit with regards to magic usage. By age seventeen they had been appointed the Clan’s first official Master Strategist, tasked with orchestrating every heist, every assassination, and every raid requested by the Glorious, Stupendous, Incomprehensible Master Kohga. At last, their presence was deemed not strange but necessary by the Clan, and Tomoe basked in the feeling of blissful acceptance.

It was a warm, dry evening, as was tradition in the Gerudo Desert. Tomoe idly chewed on a banana peel as they sat hunched over their desk, poring over their notes from the Clan’s most recent caravan heist. Though they did not attend every single Clan outing – who could possibly have the time? – they did attend some as necessary to observe plan execution and to take notes. The heist had been sloppy, to say the very least. Two of the four wagons had successfully fled the scene when a Blademaster became distracted by the outpouring of bananas from an overturned crate, and an overly confident Footsoldier had been killed in a final act of vengeance by his own prey, who should not have been able to get his hands on the sickle. Tomoe had watched the disaster unfold from their perch high atop a catwalk, furiously scribbling notes into their journal with a quiet sigh. They now reviewed the contents of that journal with a more elaborate sigh, nearly blowing out their candle light in the process.

Their stomach lurched suddenly, and the banana peel fell from their teeth. Tomoe was no stranger to fatigue, but stomach issues were a rarity. Nausea gripped their insides and a cold sweat broke out across their back. Before they could begin to assess their symptoms, they heard the familiar sound of Serok’s large frame stepping into their shared living space.

“Long time, no see,” Tomoe greeted as usual in an attempt to mask their discomfort. Serok did not offer a response. “That was a shitshow, wasn’t it? Hated to see Mitri go but, eh, he did it to himself. At least we got some spoils from the whole thing, y’know?” Serok remained silent. It sounded as though he had not moved a muscle since entering the room. Tomoe turned to see their brother standing in the doorway, still wearing his mask and staring down at his left hip. From the dim candlelight, Tomoe could make out the shape of a long, slightly curved blade hanging from his belt. It was not, however, his usual windcleaver. This blade was sheathed in deep red leather wraps and had an intricate hilt that appeared to be gilded with gold. Much of the hilt was concealed by Serok’s massive hand which held it with an iron grip. “What, uh… What is that?” they tried after a moment of silence.

“We must be better,” Serok muttered. There was something different about his voice, but Tomoe could not place exactly what it was. Their stomach continued to churn. They opened their mouth for a rebuttal, but Serok interrupted them. “We are the laughing stock of Hyrule. Our battle tactics are weak, our disguises are weak, our soldiers are weak. We should be doing so much more.”

Tomoe massaged their temples with an exasperated sigh. "Look, man, I get your whole 'I could do Kohga's job better than him' schtick, but when you look at things objectively, we're doing fine. We're taking care of ourselves, we've got more members than we've had in a long time according to Clan records, we haven't killed Link yet but if you ask me, that guy's too slippery and not important enough for us to even bother. Look, today didn’t go according to my plan, but once our troops pull their heads outta their asses we're gonna be better. I’m gonna adjust for a margin of error, you’re gonna train the troops to fight more effectively, and we’ll be back to conquering the desert for Master Kohga in no time, alright? Simple.” Serok’s hand tightened on the foreign sword – a feat Tomoe did not think could be possible given the grip he already had on the thing. “So, d’you wanna tell me where you found that thing, or…?” they asked, gesturing toward his apparent treasure.

“‘Conquering the desert?’” he echoed, his voice like that of iron gates. “Child’s play. We could be reaching for greater heights than this. I fear we have lost sight of what is most important.”

Waves of nausea continued to crash against the walls of Tomoe’s stomach and peppered their forehead with sweat. They wanted answers to account for their brother’s odd behavior, but more than anything they only wanted their stomach to stop folding over itself. Before they could ask him for clarification or why he was suddenly talking like some sort of cryptic prophet, Serok mumbled something incomprehensible beneath his mask and stepped out of the room, not to be seen again until the next morning. Tomoe’s stomach settled at last. Pure coincidence, they thought to themself, merely grateful for the long awaited relief.

Later that same evening, Tomoe had a dream. In it, they found themself staring into a blinding white, limitless void, watching a small, solid gold oval hover in the expanse in front of them. Though the strange little oval was far away, Tomoe felt as though it were making an effort to close the gap between them. Tomoe stared at the golden shape, and the golden shape stared back with an eyeless gaze.

Such was the first of many dreams in gold and white which the Yiga clansman would experience over the course of the next several months.

Chapter Text

From the moment the obscure blade appeared on his hip, Serok began to adopt his own definition of the word “strange.” He had always been the more stoic of the two of them, but he had grown to be far more rigid and meticulous than he had ever been before. Suddenly he took immense interest in Tomoe’s work, looming over their shoulder and asking detailed questions regarding every minute decision they made. At first, Tomoe did not mind so much. Serok had never tried to challenge their area of expertise, and they enjoyed the opportunity to enlighten him about their methodology. But as time progressed, Serok’s interest seemed less like it stemmed from a place of curiosity and more like it stemmed from a place of dominance, and the nausea that re-entered Tomoe’s insides each time their brother entered the room did not help alleviate the frustration that his presence began to create in them. The changes did not stop at this unwanted interest in Tomoe’s work. He did not laugh, he did not show any emotion other than dour brooding, his voice lost all sense of inflection and turned into a growling monotone. Serok rarely removed his mask anymore, not even to sleep. Tomoe could not recall the last time they noticed him consuming food or drink. Despite retaining an imposing physical presence, their brother had grown noticeably thinner. His right hand remained firmly attached to the hilt of his sword at all times, gripping it with what were surely white knuckles beneath the cover of his gloves. His words to Tomoe were both sparse and curt, laced with an unwarranted hatred the origins of which they could not understand. Each day that passed brought with it another measure of distance between the two siblings despite any otherwise efforts on Tomoe's part.

Tomoe’s dreams, meanwhile, grew in frequency and vividness, the golden oval growing slightly in size with each occurrence. The dreams were not constant, much to Tomoe’s relief, though they happened frequently enough that Tomoe knew they must have some significance. No one in the Clan was informed of these dreams, least of all Serok.

About six months after the blade had appeared on his hip, Serok was rejected for the seventh year in a row from his formal bid to replace Kohga as Clan Master. Though the Yiga held somewhat democratic votes for new leadership each year, Kohga, with his immense popularity among the Clan, was almost unanimously sworn in as Master every year for the last nineteen. Any who opposed him in the elections were gracefully absorbed as members of the leadership council in the process and Serok, despite having earned for himself a number of extremely loyal followers in recent months, was no exception. Tomoe studied their brother’s reaction to the news during the Clan gathering. While everyone around them rejoiced, Serok stood quietly fuming, his hand trembling around the hilt of his blade. All the while, a sinking feeling grabbed hold of Tomoe’s stomach and did not let go.

That same night, their dreams witnessed an evolution. The golden oval within its signature white void had grown dramatically in size to reveal that it was no longer an abstract shape, but now distinctly the figure of a person. This person was the most beautiful woman Tomoe had ever seen, her shimmering golden hair billowing around her striking white gown in a breeze which blew only for her. In her right hand was a sword, its blade golden and glistening as though it had just been pulled from a purifying fire. Its blue, oddly shaped hilt looked familiar to Tomoe, but they could not place where they had seen it before. Her left hand reached out to them, beckoning them wordlessly toward a warm embrace.

Tomoe, frozen in a trance, found themself wanting to reach out as well. 

Chapter Text

The following morning, the Glorious, Stupendous, Incomprehensible Master Kohga was yet again sworn in as Grand Master of the Yiga Clan. The entire Clan gathered in the war arena to hear his acceptance speech, carefully avoiding the Neverending Pit of Despair that loomed a mere twenty feet away, as was tradition.

“Alright guys, alright, calm down already. Listen, I’ve been doin’ a lot of thinking and I think we gotta cut back on how much we talk about bananas while we’re wearin’ our Hylian Masks.” The Glorious, Stupendous, Incomprehensible Master Kohga was met with a rumble of divisive mutters from the crowd of Yiga Clansmen. Tomoe, having been the one to have advised Kohga on this very topic weeks prior, merely rolled their eyes. “I know, I know, but listen, I think they’re catchin’ on to us. Seriously! Apparently there is no such thing as a banana salesman out in the rest of Hyrule. I know that’s hard to believe, but you gotta trust me on this. So just… I dunno, cool it with the banana talk, alright?” He paused to lift his horned mask just enough to take another large bite of banana and carried on talking with his mouth full. “Anway, on to our second point of business: We still haven’t caught that asshole Link, but if ya ask me, I think we’re getting close. Keep doing what you’re doing, folks, and his head will be served to me on a silver platter in no time!” This sentiment was met with a few rousing whoops from the audience.

Tomoe shook their head with a bemused chuckle. Long ago, the Clan had been formed as an offshoot of the Sheikah in rebellion toward their decision to bend knee to the Kingdom of Hyrule, and somewhere along the way the choice to worship the Demon King Ganondorf, who seemed to rule in favor of those oppressed by the Kingdom, instead of the Triune Goddesses, who seemed only to serve the Kingdom itself, had been declared. As decades wore on and Clan leadership came and went, particularly so in the last twenty years, the mission of serving the mystical Demon King had fallen to the wayside. Tomoe wondered how long exactly it had been since Ganondorf’s name had been mentioned even in casual conversation, let alone as part of official Clan business. As they pondered this quietly to themself, they suddenly realized their brother, who had been standing beside them during much of the gathering, had departed from their side. Serok now strode dutifully through the crowd which parted for him without hesitation.

“Serok?” Tomoe called. Their brother did not acknowledge them as he continued to stalk toward Master Kohga’s pedestal. The hairs on the back of Tomoe’s neck began to rise beneath the cover of their uniform. A sick sensation swirled at the base of their stomach. “Serok?” they tried again, their call this time more faint than the last as dread began to overwhelm. Serok climbed the pedestal, his hand gripping the hilt of his mysterious blade.

“Hey, whoa, Serok! Buddy, what are you doing? If we need to talk we can talk later! Seriously, Serok, this shit’s unprofessional. I’m tryna hold a meeting over here,” quipped Master Kohga, holding his unease at arm’s length. Serok did not respond. His grip on the blade only tightened as he towered over the cowering Master Kohga.

“You sicken me,” Serok growled. Kohga stamped his foot as he stammered for a response. He was silenced by the metallic ring of Serok’s blade as it was drawn from its sheath. Tomoe stared slack jawed at the weapon, now seeing it in its fullness for the first time. Its obsidian blade absorbed all light from the desert sun. More obscure were the swirling magenta tendrils which snaked around its razor sharp edge and crawled up the length of Serok’s arm. “You worthless, pathetic worm of a man,” Serok continued slowly. “You call yourself a leader. Where have you led this Clan except to miserable defeat under the oppressive thumb of the Kingdom?” Serok now turned to address the crowd, half of which listened intently and half of which were too confused to make a move in defense of their leader. Tomoe stood in the center of the crowd staring at Serok with eyes nearly as wide as that of the Inverted Eye on their mask. The sickening feeling in their stomach only intensified with each word Serok spoke.

“My people, this man has failed us for long enough. All of Hyrule mocks the name of the Yiga Clan. They laugh in our faces, and what have we done to prove them otherwise?” The crowd murmured among themselves. “We are the Yiga! We are a proud Clan, one who dared depart from our rightful homeland so many moons ago when our lesser brothers and sisters swore their allegiance to the wretched crown. We are strong, we stand united, we have magic the likes of which simple Hyruleans could only dream of performing! We have been summoned by the Demon King Ganondorf himself to bring forth his magnificent kingdom, to shatter the Hyrulean family’s oppressive reign and thrust the world into utter, blissful darkness once and for all! And I,” Serok hoisted his blade above his head, “I, with the sword bestowed upon me by the Magnificent One himself, shall ensure we carry out this mission. My brothers and sisters, I shall lead us toward the dawn!”

With these words, Kohga attempted to conjure a combative spell with trembling hands, and an insecure metal sphere covered in spikes began to bloom between his palms. The spell could not be completed quickly enough. The shadow of Serok’s blade grew upon Kohga’s neck as the sword descended from the blue sky. The head made a horrific smacking noise as it hit the floor of his pedestal, accompanied by a collective gasp that rang out across the crowd. Serok, unphased, plucked the horned mask from its face and placed it on his own. For a moment as he exchanged masks, Tomoe caught a glimpse of their brother’s unmasked face for the first time since he had taken hold of the sword. Sunken red eyes that seemed to glow with sheer malice were accentuated with novel, dark circles under the eyelids. His chapped lips were curled in a nauseating smile which only deepened as the horned mask drew nearer. Tomoe watched him don the horned mask with mouth agape, wondering where their brother had gone.

A Blademaster with windcleaver drawn and vows of loyalty sworn to Kohga alone rushed toward Serok, encouraged by the whoops and cries of a few vengeful Clansmen in the crowd. Within an instant, they were met with death bestowed by the obsidian sword from hell. Serok sheathed his dripping blade, gathered the bodies of his victims, and carried them to the Neverending Pit of Despair, into which he discarded them. The shell-shocked crowd listened in silence, and after twelve seconds the bottom of the chasm welcomed its new arrivals with a soft yet deafening thud. Serok walked back to his pedestal and acknowledged the Clan once more. "Does anyone else wish to defy me? No?” No sound or movement could be observed from the crowd of petrified Clansmen. According to Yiga bylaws, which clearly stated the inherited authority of anyone who took the life of the Grand Master, there was nothing that could be done. Tomoe watched their fellow soldiers hold their breath and stare at one another in helpless disbelief.

“People of the Yiga Clan!” Serok bellowed from his pedestal, “I am your master now! You shall bow to me! Together we shall bring forth the Magnificent One’s kingdom and rise in power and glory! Kneel, my good and faithful servants, kneel!”

One by one, the members of the crowd knelt in silence, pledging their loyalty to the rightly named Master Serok. Tomoe watched in horror as their people fell prostrate all around.

“You seem displeased, Tomoe,” Serok observed coolly. Tomoe only shook their head.

“What…” they gulped, praying to any god who would listen that a drop of moisture would return to their throat. “What are you doing, Serok?”

Serok chuckled. “I have become our people’s salvation, dear Tomoe. Come.” He sheathed his weapon and extended a bloodied hand. “Hyrule will not bend its knee without your revered guidance. Join me.”

Tomoe shook their head again with more fervor, desperately trying to comprehend the bizarre proposition. “Serok, you– you can’t be serious! You killed Kohga! Shit, man, you just killed him! What is going on with you?!”

“I am merely carrying out the orders of the divine,” he explained. “The Magnificent One wishes for us to prepare the way for his inevitable return. The Kingdom of Hyrule will not stand a chance against him once we have worn down their defenses, and in the end we shall rise in glory with Him. You shall play a crucial role, Tomoe. The Magnificent One needs you, your Clansmen need you, I need you, my beloved sibling. Rule with me, Tomoe.”

“What– Why are you talking like that?!” cried Tomoe as they stepped toward the pedestal. A voice detached from their conscience cried out in the depths of their spirit, begging them to refuse his proposal and flee from this place. “Serok, listen man, I wanna support you but you can’t– I can’t explain it but something doesn’t feel right, okay? I feel like something really bad is going to happen to all of us if you do this. Think logically for a second here, will you? What if Ganondorf’s not all he’s cracked up to be? What if his reign of darkness extends to us as well? I– I don’t know! I don’t know anything! But Serok, come on, snap out of this!” They clamored onto the pedestal and stood before their sibling, hands trembling as they curled into fists.

Serok tilted his head to the side like a perplexed coyote. “You do not wish to serve the Magnificent One alongside me?” he asked innocently. “You would question the authority of your own brother? Your new master?”

“Serok, please–”

“Then if I cannot use you…” His voice lowered suddenly to a vile growl unlike anything Tomoe had ever heard come from his lips before. The hand which had once been extended to them now curled its fingers around the hilt of that terrible blade. “...no one will.”

One moment, Tomoe was standing before their brother on the pedestal. The next moment, they were staggering backwards off the pedestal’s edge, only half aware of the deep burning sensation which wrapped across their torso. Tomoe landed on the compacted dirt with a pained whimper. A crowd of bewildered Yiga soldiers stared at them from a safe distance as they awaited a command.

“This traitorous villain wishes to inhibit our progress toward the light. They are no longer one of our fold. Show them no mercy, Yiga Clan,” Serok’s baritone pierced through the ringing in Tomoe’s ears. With effort, they raised their head to look at the man who used to be their brother one more time.

“Please,” Tomoe rasped, stars clouding their vision.

Serok pointed the tip of his sword across the crowd toward his sibling’s face. His first command as Master of the Yiga Clan was uttered with cold apathy.

“Dispose of them.”

What followed Serok’s command appeared to Tomoe as a blur. A moment of hesitation from the crowd was followed by swift obedience. A hand gripped their hair and pulled Tomoe backwards toward the center of the arena. Tomoe's fingernails clawed at the dirt, their heels dug into the ground, anguished screams and pleas for mercy spilled from their mouth. Those Clansmen who considered themselves loyal followers of Serok surrounded them, delivering sturdy kicks to the ribs and knees, their blades ripping into their skin from all angles, tearing the feeble fabric of their armor to shreds, all while Kohga's remaining loyalists stood by in frozen terror. What was left of Tomoe's clothing darkened and dampened with blood and sweat mixed with the gritted earth. They howled as their body was torn and sobbed beneath the suffocating bondage of their mask, all while being dragged closer and closer toward their fate. The Clansman holding their hair stopped, but their arm continued to drag them forward. Tomoe felt the ground beneath their back slip away, felt the cool, empty air of the chasm caress their exposed wounds. Through the slits in their mask they spotted their brother one more time, who stood in his place of power and ignored them as he cleaned their blood off his blade. They tried to cry out for him, but what came out was no more than a hoarse scream. Their topknot was released with a push, their torso tumbled backward, and darkness rose to meet them.

12 seconds.

Wind whipped past them, fluttering the shreds of their uniform and icing their torn flesh. Their guts lurched upwards into their throat and hung suspended as their body continued its descent.

8 seconds.

Tomoe opened their eyes and saw nothing. Reality began to settle in. I don't wanna die, they thought to themself.

6 seconds.

I don't wanna die, I don't wanna die, I don't wanna die, I don't wanna die.

4 seconds.

Tomoe closed their eyes and attempted to steady their mind as the bottom of the maw drew nearer. They dragged their arm toward their chest, clawing to resist the pull of the wind.

2 seconds.

In one final act of desperation, Tomoe brought their bloodied, broken fist to their chest with a thud.

Chapter Text

Tomoe collapsed onto their hands and knees as the red and gold tickets weakly disintegrated into the dry air around them. With as much haste as they could muster, they lifted their mask just high enough to vomit a mixture of blood and bile. With frantic eyes they scanned the surrounding area, their arms wobbling precariously beneath them. They had attempted to apparate to the farthest point from the Hideout that they could visualize. Unfortunately, given their wealth of inexperience in the outside world, this meant they were still in Gerudo Canyon.

They’re coming for me, Tomoe thought to themself as they attempted to draw enough energy to apparate to the furthest point down the Canyon they could see. No such energy could be found.

They’re coming for me, they’re coming for me, they’re coming for me, Tomoe’s internal monologue chanted as they crawled slowly, desperately toward the deepening shadows cast by the Canyon walls. Incriminating though their bloody trail may have been, they knew they could not afford to be caught out in the open. Time passed. The last glimpse of sun gave way to darkness as their adrenaline began to wane, accompanying the cooling air in the form of a chilly symphony that rattled their broken bones. Tomoe dragged themself into a shallow cave and curled into a ball. They were cold now, terribly cold, and the world around them was beginning to disappear. Tomoe lay bleeding, thoughts dissipating, as the ebony blanket of unconsciousness descended upon their vision.

-- -- --

Over the hills and through the woods bathed in twilight rode Hyrule’s Champion, ever accompanied by the legendary Sword on his back.

Link glanced back at the little clay pot which sat nestled in a spare tunic between his two rear saddle bags. From within the pot, a solitary Silent Princess bobbed its head along to the rhythm of his horse’s hooves. Its petals gleamed radiant in the moonlight, almost shimmering in time with that of the emerging stars above. As Link guided his black stallion along the path, he breathed a sigh of relief that the delicate flower had survived the journey thus far. The evening was still and silent. Link had forgotten how sparse civilization was in this portion of Hyrule, between Satori Mountain from which he had just ridden and the Plateau. A year ago, when his life was filled with silence, the emptiness would not have disturbed him. But now, riding alone for the first time in many months, a pang in his heart reminded him of the absence of company. Zelda had stayed behind at the Castle, promising that she would not dare leave its walls while he was away so long as he carried out this mission for her.

“I cannot leave your side, Zelda. King's orders.”

“Please, Link? Summer is almost gone and I have yet to see one of these flowers bloom in the garden! I remember they grow in abundance on Satori Mountain… If I can replicate the mountain’s soil conditions, perhaps I can encourage them to grow in captivity after all.”

“So come with me.”

“I would in a heartbeat if I did not have so many commitments here to attend to. Impa is here with me; she will keep me safe. Please, just this once, do this for me.” She looked at him with those big doe eyes which could convince him to set the entire world on fire. “I promise I will stay right here.”

And thus Link had set out on his swiftest steed that morning in search of one pristine Silent Princess from Satori Mountain for his Princess to study as part of her most recent pet project. As he watched the moon ascend into the sky above, he nudged his mare to a canter in hopes of arriving back at her side by dawn. Just after he sped past Serenne Stable, however, he performed a sharp tug on his reins. Epona reared and shook her head in confused disagreement, stamping away the urge to carry on running from her hooves upon returning to the earth. Link turned his head to the right and frowned. Just beside the Great Plateau’s westward walls was the well worn path toward Gerudo Desert. He whispered a quick word of comfort to his horse and then held his breath, listening. No sound emerged. Still yet, the urge to travel down that well worn path was insatiable.

If there was one lesson Link had learned in his life, it was to listen to his gut. And at that moment, for whatever reason, his gut was telling him to take a detour through Gerudo Canyon. Unsure of what he was to be looking for, he turned Epona’s head south, clucked once, and the mare sped onward.

The suspension bridge was free of suspicious activity, as well as the entrance to the Gerudo Canyon Pass. Link carried on at a trot, squinting through the darkness and straining his ears to listen through the whistling wind and the sound of Epona’s hooves. Some time after rounding Mount Nabooru, just as he began to consider turning around and giving up on this silly notion, he noticed a long, dark streak in the dirt ahead. Link dismounted, drew the Master Sword, and walked slowly toward the horizontal streak. He could not make out what it was by sight alone, but the faint smell of iron in the air around it suggested blood. It appeared that the trail had started at some point deeper into the Canyon, but had suddenly veered off to the left where Link was standing, leading into a small, shallow cave. He followed the trail, and his hand gripped the Sword a little tighter.

Soon at his feet lay the broken, bloodied body of a Yiga Clansman, curled into the fetal position. Link knelt beside them beyond his better judgment. By some miracle, they were still breathing. Death was in the cave with his scythe at the ready, this was to be sure. Link reached out and gently removed their splintered mask. Their small, mangled body was thin like the footsoldiers had a tendency of being, but not thin in their typical lean, muscular sort of fashion – thin more in a frail, skin and bones fashion. Their long black hair was at some point tied into the sort of topknot Link was accustomed to seeing among their kind, but it hung half unraveled, clinging to the damp grime that covered their neck. Their sullen face had sharp, pointed features and what appeared to be perpetual dark circles beneath their eyes. Link gingerly lifted an eyelid. A dark pupil looked through him, then lolled backwards. He gave the body another once over and grunted softly. Perhaps most obscure was the fact that this Yiga bore no sickle, no windcleaver, no weapons at all.

Link straightened and slowly scanned the area for signs of additional Yiga soldiers. If this was another one of their traps, it was proving to be far more elaborate than their previous, more ridiculous attempts on his life. The cave, as well as the Canyon outside it, seemed devoid of any additional presence. If there were more members waiting to attack him, they would have done so by this point. Link looked back down at the battered Yiga member and frowned. Something was deeply wrong with this picture, but there was no time to ponder. If he wanted answers for this person’s bruised existence in that cave, Link knew he would have to rescue them from their demise.

He built a hasty campfire and set to work right away, gingerly removing their tattered, skin-tight uniform to assess their wounds while whispering a word of apology to his Princess. Their body was covered in gashes and bruises, but the long, horizontal slice across their stomach was the most concerning. Unlike the rest, it seemed to fester with a dark, swirling aura that extended upwards from the wound like fingers. Link rummaged around in his saddle bag for a heart potion and passed its contents through their lips. In moments, the aura disappeared, leaving only the shallow wound. It was odd, Link thought to himself, that the slice was so lengthy yet so light. The attacker must not have desired to end this person’s life. At least, they did not desire to do so at that very moment. Link chewed on his lip, then shook his head as he reached for the gauze. “Heal first, ask questions later” became his motto as the night wore on. By the time he had finished wrapping every affliction, blue morning light began to peek through the canyon walls. Link grimaced, knowing Zelda would be worrying after him if he did not return soon. He could only hope she would understand.

Chapter Text

Tomoe awoke as though they had been held underwater, gasping and searching frantically for security yet somehow unable to move most of their body. They blinked several times, willing their peace of mind to come back to them. Slowly, the panic subsided and allowed their vision to clear. They were staring up at the rocky ceiling of a cavern, not that of their home, and their heart sank to realize that Serok’s uprising and their subsequent, attempted murder had not all been an elaborate dream. Light gently streamed in through the cave’s narrow opening. A campfire crackled nearby and the delectable aroma of assorted meats and vegetables graced their nostrils. They gained awareness of their body and the many tightly bound bandages that seemed to be covering most of it, as well as the unfamiliar green tunic and loose-fitting pants that covered them. Tomoe turned their head toward the campfire’s heat, trying to ignore the wracking headache that gripped their skull, and stared at the boy who sat humming while he stirred the contents of a little cooking pot. He wore a bright blue tunic, had long blonde hair tied back into a ponytail at the base of his neck, and lying on the ground beside his hip was none other than the Master Sword.

Tomoe had never encountered Link personally like some of their fellow Clansmen had. Their poor health had prevented them from venturing beyond the walls of Gerudo Canyon, a destination which the Hylian Champion did not seem to visit quite often. They had, however, seen his crudely drawn likeness plastered around the halls of the Hideout for the last two years and had heard countless tales of lost battles and utter disdain. They were supposed to hate him, this much they knew. The wielder of the Triforce of Courage was a Royal pain in the Yiga’s collective ass, plucking off Clan members one by one and stifling their advancement across Hyrule, humiliating them at every twist and turn. Tomoe had concocted several strategies to overwhelm him in the past, none of which had taken much effect on him, much to Tomoe’s continued irritation. And for as much as Tomoe had been taught to hate him and all who were like him, they were well aware that Link had been taught to hate them back. They continued to stare at him in silence, thinking through their next steps in this precarious scenario.

Before they could reach a decision, the Champion swiveled around to meet their gaze, his free hand taking cautious hold of the Sword’s scabbard. They stared at one another for what felt like hours before Link finally parted his lips. “Soup?”

Tomoe blinked. “Soup?” they parroted, wincing at the hoarse quality of their vocal cords. He nodded. “What… What are you saying to me?”

Link’s head cocked to one side. “Soup,” he said again, as though a second iteration would alleviate all of Tomoe’s misunderstanding. Tomoe began to realize just why their people loathed this person so much. “Do you not know what soup is?”

“Clearly not.”

Keeping one hand on the Sword, Link procured a little wooden bowl and spooned some of the pot’s contents into it, then shuffled over to sit beside them. “Try it,” he urged as he held a spoonful of the mysterious substance known as “soup” to Tomoe’s lips. It smelled wonderful, Tomoe could give him that, but it was against their moral code to accept strange food from strange men, let alone to allow themself to be spoon-fed. They declined with little more than a shake of the head. “You should eat,” he said with a frown. Tomoe kept their lips in a thin, tight line. Link held eye contact as he retracted the spoon and brought it to his own lips, taking a massive bite. “Suit yourself. You're missing out, though."

Tomoe watched in silence as he carried on eating. Their eyes wandered over to their soiled mask, lying discarded by their feet. "You… You know what I am," they said.

"Yup," said Link through a full mouth.

“Then why are you helping me?”

He thought for a long moment. “Feels like I'm supposed to, I guess.”

Tomoe was growing restless. This — this entire, stupid charity act — was against the rules. Not that Tomoe ever truly cared about rules, but… rules were rules. “Look, are you going to kill me or not?” they snapped. “It’d be the easiest job you’ll ever do, I can promise you that.”

Link set down his now empty bowl of soup and shrugged. “Maybe later. But in the meantime, I want to know why the Yiga tried to kill you first.”

As the question danced about in their mind, the cavern air became suffocating, the “soup” smell grew nauseating, their vision became blurry, their heart felt like it was being held in a fist. They tried desperately to push aside the imagery that appeared at the forefront of their mind, to little avail. All they could see was red, all they could smell was iron, all they could hear was their brother’s last words repeated over and over and over again. Something nudged their shoulder, and the present world began to claw its way back to their comprehension. “Hey,” they could hear Link saying to them. Something warm started to pat their cheek rapidly. “Snap out of it, come on.”

Tomoe forced themself to blink several times while taking long, deep, shaky breaths. “They didn’t,” they finally managed to whisper toward the ceiling. “It was… a wolf… I mean… wolves.”

“For an assassin, you are a terrible liar,” he chided with a sigh, tapping them one more time on the forehead with his damp spoon for added insult. “Look, I don’t plan on taking your life. Clearly you’re not a member of the Yiga any longer, and if you tried to return now I’m sure they’d finish the job for me anyhow, isn’t that right?”

Tomoe swallowed hard. “How do you know that?”

“Lucky guess.”

The two sat in silence for a long while, staring at anything except one another. Just as Tomoe’s mind began to grow clouded once more by memories and thoughts of dread, Link’s voice cut through the silence. “What’s your name?”

Tomoe’s eyes cut toward his. “Why?”

“I’m being polite. You should try it sometime.”

Tomoe glared at him, only mildly irritated by his sarcasm. What truly perturbed them in this moment was the inability to speak their name. Tomoe was a Yiga Clansman who had only recently earned a sense of belonging within the Clan. Tomoe was a battle strategist, concocting perfectly aligned plans for success so long as their brethren were competent enough to follow them correctly. Tomoe was a legacy member of the Yiga Clan, following in their own version of their father’s, grandfather’s, and great grandfather’s footsteps before them.

Tomoe should have been lying in a cold, dark grave at the bottom of the Pit.

This torn, beaten, battered body could not belong to Tomoe. This frightened coward who escaped their own judgment, now eternally on the run from their own people, could not share the name of such a noble Clansman. Tomoe was dead, never to rise again in the good graces which had once surrounded their identity.

Link hummed to himself, either unaware or unbothered by their obvious internal warfare. “Probably could use a new one, huh? How about… ah… Speckle?”

This was a suggestion abhorrent enough to snap Tomoe out of their existential dread. “Speckle?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “I’m better at naming horses,” he mumbled. “What about… Yoshi?”

Tomoe grimaced. “Absolutely not.”

“Haru?”

“No.”

“Hmm… Hets… Dar… No, uh… Oh! Daem?”

They opened their mouth for another rejection but hesitation. Something clicked with this name. It wasn’t the best name out there but… somehow it felt right. “Kind of a stupid name, don’t you think?” they muttered, unwilling to grant him any semblance of satisfaction.

“Perfect for you, then,” Link laughed. Tomoe tried to be annoyed but instead, for just a moment, they felt a little tug of familiarity deep in their heart toward one of their top enemies in all of Hyrule. It was a similar sort of feeling that they had experienced with their brother in the past, before he became… whatever it was that he had become. They tried to swallow the feeling, as well as the lump that began to form in their throat, as Link cleared his dinner.

“Get some rest, Daem,” he said softly.

As Tomoe watched him turn his back on them, the allure of sleep, aided by an odd sense of security, slowly overcame them. For the first time in a year, the golden woman did not appear in their dreams.

-- -- --

Tomoe was ripped from sleep by the unconscious awareness of a presence hovering over them. They flung themself upright, heedless of their lingering pain, and located the intruder. It was not Link, as they had suspected, but instead a young woman wearing a dusty uniform.

“Oh! I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you!” she apologized as she retracted. “I just wanted to see how you were doing. Sir Link asked me to check on you. I’m Kaya, by the way.”

Tomoe hardly regarded the woman as they looked frantically around the space. They were no longer in a cave, but rather in a large, circular tent lined halfway with beds. The air was filled with the smell of hay and manure and a nearby campfire. The land beyond the tent opening was obscenely green, more green than anything Tomoe had ever seen before, and the sun that shone through was oppressively bright. They squinted up at the girl, who fidgeted with her fingers as she watched them with an expectant gaze. “Um, anyway,” she continued once she realized Tomoe was not going to offer their name in return, “Sir Link asked me to leave you this.” She gestured toward the neighboring bed, upon which rested an aromatic assortment of elixirs and neatly packaged meals. Kaya handed them a small piece of paper, which Tomoe read as they knocked back a pungent hearty elixir.

Daem,

Caves have their uses, but they aren't great places for recovery. You are at Serenne Stable, just beyond the Gerudo Canyon walls. I’ve returned to Hyrule Castle but your stay here has been paid up for the next three days. Take that time to rest and recover before you depart. I’ve left you with enough food, elixirs, and rupees to help you along. I discarded your Clan uniform, but feel free to keep the clothes you are wearing.

I have arranged for you to take one of my horses. When you’re ready, go to a place called Lon Lon Ranch. I marked it on the map I left for you. They know you’re coming and will offer you a place to stay in exchange for some farm labor. You’ll be safe there.

It’s my duty as a knight to protect and care for the people of Hyrule, no matter their circumstances. You are no exception. Go make a new life for yourself.

May our paths cross again, Daem.

– Link

Chapter Text

A warm breeze stirred the Castle garden’s thriving flowers, wafting their gentle scents along the stone pathways, past the towering center fountain, and under the ivy-covered trellises to caress the cheek of the Princess, who squatted beside an uncharacteristically barren flower bed with a frown. Her worn research journal hung limp in one hand while the other tapped a quill pen against her dimpled chin. Zelda sighed as she scribbled the day’s notes.

Day 32, 8:33 a.m., 19℃, partly cloudy skies, 3 days since last precipitation.

Summer is dwindling into autumn, yet the Silent Princesses have still shown no significant signs of growth. I have done everything I can to match the soil quality of their garden bed to that of the wild, but to no avail. Perhaps this flower is truly not meant to grow in captivity. Nevertheless, I shall not give up just yet.

Zelda’s frown only deepened as she re-read her entry. It was not quite as informed as she would have liked, but she felt unable to contribute any more to her research on this day. Something had been troubling Zelda – something more than just the flowers – but she could not place what this something was. The pit in the bottom of her stomach dissipated when she heard a familiar shuffle of bootsteps behind her. It was her knight, wearing a smile he seemed to wear only for her.

She returned the smile, as she had a recent habit of doing. “I’m glad you’re back.”

Link nodded once as he knelt to the ground beside her and extended the potted Silent Princess, which had miraculously survived its journey halfway across the Kingdom. Zelda accepted the gift with glee. “I did my best to take care of it on the way back,” he explained. “Hope it did okay.”

Zelda nodded. “Yes! Yes, it’s more than okay, thank you! I’ll run some soil tests to show me what we’re working with here, though if the key to growing these flowers in captivity truly is the mountain’s sacred soil, I am not sure how I will manage that here…” As she rambled on about pH balances and other such terms which she was aware Link understood little of, Zelda was dismayed to notice that the warmth in her chest began to disappear, replaced yet again with the bottomless pit. What does this mean? she wondered as she wrung the edges of her journal in her hands.

“Something's wrong, isn't it?” he asked, the slightest hint of unease escaping through his tone.

“So you feel it, too." Zelda sighed. "There is a change in the air. It's subtle, but I can feel it all the same… Something terrible is about to happen, Link. Perhaps Ganon's return is closer than we thought." She attempted to brush away the concern with a shake of her head and cleared her throat. “But things will be fine, right? They must be.”

Link frowned as he unbuckled the Master Sword from his torso and lowered himself to a seated position on the cobblestone path. He rested the sword across his knees and drummed a loose rhythm across the scabbard's golden inlays with his fingertips as he stared into the far reaches of the garden. Zelda sat down with him and waited.

“I need to tell you something,” he finally said.

And so Zelda listened to Link’s tale of the oddity that occurred while he was away. The feeling of dread only increased as he spoke, as though her terrible notions were solidifying before her very eyes. “Link, are you sure that was not a Yiga trap?” she asked after he concluded. Link shook his head.

“Yiga are clever, but not to the extent of sacrificing one of their own just to get to me. As much as this person tried to hide it, the Yiga Clan had discarded them.”

She hummed thoughtfully. “You… you did take care of this person, correct?” He hesitated, then nodded. "Link?" she asked warily, and his eyes widened ever so slightly.

"They will no longer be a concern for us," he said, meeting her eyes with a resolute nod.

Zelda exhaled a sigh of relief as she rose to her feet. “Well. Thank you, then. At least that is one less problem for us to face.” She began to pace back and forth across the walkway. Link, acting out of reflex, stood to watch her at a respectful distance. “This is likely indicative of a shift in the Clan’s structure,” she muttered, tapping her journal against her palm to the ever increasing beat of her footsteps. “And if the Yiga are strengthening their tactics… This could have dire consequences for us as Ganon's return looms. We must keep a close eye on them. I will send word for Urbosa; perhaps the Gerudo have noticed disturbances in the desert lately that could provide us clues.” She finally stopped pacing just before Link and grasped his forearms, staring him in the face with the intensity she learned from her father. “I believe something sinister is brewing from the south. Link, please,” her grip tightened, “do not leave my side again until this matter is resolved.”

Link, distress not fully leaving his eyes, offered a gentle smile. “I promise.”

And warmth slowly began to return to Zelda’s innermost being, its light piercing through the darkness which had so quickly taken hold.

Chapter Text

The Yiga Clansman formerly known as Tomoe spent much of the following three days sitting against a tree trunk just across the dirt road from the stable entrance. They surveyed the land before them as their palms brushed against the prickly, plush grass, as their fingernails dug deep into the rich soil below, as their skin embraced the feeling of cool moisture in the air. They looked out as far as the eye could see into the great unknown, trying to identify the mountain ranges and monuments they had seen charted so frequently during their time in the Clan, realizing how little could truly be told about a landscape through cartography alone. They sat alone and weighed their options each day from dawn until dusk and then, after a short reprieve in their bed, carried on with their inner deliberations during the wee hours of night. Only death awaited them in Karusa Valley. They could never don the inverted eye again, they realized as a breeze caressed their bare face. They could never return home, they accepted with a pit in their stomach. If anything, their brethren would be actively hunting them from this point onward. They were lucky to be alive, and if they wanted to stay alive, they thought to themself as they looked out across Hyrule, they could only move forward.

They thought of their brother often in those days. I shouldn't have questioned him, they found themself thinking one morning as they watched the sun rise. I should have done what he wanted me to do, if only to stay by his side. And yet as their mind formed these thoughts, an unfamiliar voice in the recesses of their soul seemed to scream otherwise, that they had refused for a reason, even if they could not articulate what that reason was, that to go along with Serok’s mysterious plan would be to choose death in the end, both for themself and for every single one of their brethren. They did not know where this voice came from; it certainly did not sound like one of their own. But something about the voice felt authoritative, and they were inclined to listen.

On the dawn of their final day at Serenne Stable, as the sun continued to rise in brilliant hues of orange and pink, they sat beneath their tree and re-read Link’s note for perhaps the hundredth time. “You’ll be safe there,” his words read. “Go make a new life for yourself.” They took a long, slow breath, tucked the note away in their pocket, and looked down at the dull dinner knife that they had swiped from the stable, lying next to them in the grass. After several imprecise hacks and a litany of curses, the majority of their long hair rested in their hands and the remaining shag flopped disgracefully into their face. It didn't look like much — this much they could tell for certain as they brushed it out of their eyes and felt the jagged ends — but it would do.

Daem rose from the ground, allowed their severed hair and the memories it carried to blow away in the breeze, and returned to the stable.

— — —

They were not certain of the placement at first. Daem had never even ridden a horse before they had mounted Link's mare, Speckle, the day prior (their interaction with the stable hand, Kaya, in which they had to admit to their blatant inexperience with horses and be hoisted unceremoniously into the saddle with all the grace and poise of a beached sand seal, had been painfully uncomfortable to say the very least), and manual labor had never been their strong suit. Nevertheless, after a half-day's journey north, Daem found themself standing before the great walled structure known as "Lon Lon Ranch," peering up at the namesake wrought in iron above the broad gate. They took a deep breath and knocked on the gate doors, then stepped back toward Speckle to wait. A small door just to the right of the gate swung open with a creak and a stout man with hair everywhere except for the top of his head peered through the crack.

"Door's over here," he said.

Daem grimaced. "I see that now."

"Y'must be the fella Link told us about. Daem, right?"

Daem hesitated, then nodded. The man nodded once in return, and a warm smile blossomed on his face. "C'mon in, Daem," he said. "Welcome to the Ranch."

The man's name was Talon, and he was the proud owner of Lon Lon Ranch, Hyrule's premier dairy and livestock business for over thirty years. Talon was a hearty man, gruff in tone but kind in spirit, and gave pats on the back that sent Daem's rickety frame stumbling forward several steps. He co-operated the family business with his younger brother, Ingo, who was a polar opposite in terms of personality.

And then there was Malon.

She was Talon's daughter, but by appearance alone one could never guess it. She was tall, broad-shouldered, with long red hair that cascaded gently over her shoulders and bright green eyes that glimmered in the sunlight. She was Lon Lon Ranch's pride and joy, in Talon's own words, and the first glimpse of her traipsing through the paddock gates and flashing them a welcoming smile caused Daem's breath to catch in their throat.

Talon wasted no time in putting Daem to work, especially once he learned they had no real luggage to put away and therefore no need to "settle in." As soon as Speckle was stabled, Talon thrust a pitchfork in Daem's hand, pointed to a stall filled with more manure than hay, and said, "Have fun, kid." It took them three hours to muck that single stall between the amount of time they needed to sit down and catch their breath. Talon, who kept an eye on them from his own appointment across the barn hall, did not seem bothered by their continuous need to rest. "Long as the work gets finished," he called out unprompted, "you take all the time you need, kid. We don't rush around here."

Night fell at long last. Daem, slick with sweat, flopped down onto a bale of hay and looked around the space. They had been granted the hayloft at the top of the main barn to sleep in. It was quaint, to say the least, furnished with little else other than a thin yellow blanket atop a litany of hay and one rusted pitchfork resting against the wall, but it was theirs and theirs alone. Having lived in cramped quarters with their mountain of a brother for the last twenty years, Daem could say with confidence that they had lived in worse. The moonlight was beginning to fade, and with it the only light that was illuminating their space. Daem lay back on the itchy bale and closed their eyes, taking a long, slow breath.

And then, the barn door slowly creaked open.

They've come for me.

Daem's eyes shot open. They did not move a single other muscle, and cursed the way in which their heart beat rapidly in their chest. Every muscle in their body seized with anticipation as a warm orange glow began to radiate from below the loft. Someone was climbing the ladder with slow, delicate steps. Daem slipped off the bale and grabbed the pitchfork. They were at a height advantage, they reminded themself, and any Yiga dumb enough not to simply apparate to the top of the loft already would surely be an easy foe to defeat, even by Daem's standards. They crept toward the loft's edge as quitely as they could manage, pointing the pitchfork toward the ladder. The steps were growing louder. Their heart thumped in their neck. They gritted their teeth together.

A head popped up over the landing and regarded them first with surprise, then with sympathy. They stared at one another for a moment.

"Oh dear," she finally said, glancing at the pitchfork tines, "did I scare you? I just weren't sure if you were sleeping or not. Didn't wanna disturb you. Can I come on up?"

Daem blinked a few times and laid down the pitchfork with a nod. Malon slipped a wooden bowl onto the landing, then hoisted herself up to sit on its edge.

"Brought you some dinner. Made it myself," she said with a smile. Daem felt their face grow warm. They peered into the bowl. It looked similar to Link's "soup," but with far less liquid. A few chunks of unidentified meat floated alongside some bright orange and tan vegetables. It appeared that Hylians enjoyed cuisine that was just a lot of assorted foods jumbled up together. It smelled lovely, they had to admit. Better than the 478 various cooking methods the Yiga used to cook bananas or the scraps of assorted goods scavenged from travelers in the canyon.

"Um. What is it?" they asked.

Malon raised an eyebrow. "Y'ain't never had roast before?" she asked incredulously.

Daem tried desperately to save face. "Right! Right, yeah, roast. Love roast, always have. I meant, uh… I meant what's the meat in it?"

"Cow, of course. Our very own Lon Lon Ranch beef, grass fed right here in our pastures," she boasted, watching them expectantly.

A few moments passed in silence. "You want me to try it," Daem concluded.

She nodded. "Ain't got all night."

They tried the roast. They had to give credit where credit was due: it tasted as heavenly as it smelled. They nodded, not wanting to seem too eager. "It's good," they announced, and the smile which beamed across Malon's face could have lit up the entire world.

"Glad you like it," she said. "I can, uh… I cook most nights so… if you want I could bring you something tomorrow too? I- If you want, that is."

Daem blinked, felt the heat rise from their neck into their face. "O-Okay, sure."

Malon nodded, slowly looking around the barn as though seeing it for the first time. She drummed idly on her thighs. "Dad said you're from Faron," she said.

Daem's chewing slowed to a halt. "Um. Yeah," they lied. "How, uh, how did he know that?"

"Link told him. He swung by about a week ago, told us he had a friend from Faron in need of a place to stay." She stopped short, wringing her hands together in her lap. She chuckled softly at her own embarrassment. "Sorry, I don't mean to make you uncomfortable. Just making conversation. Don't get a lot of long-term visitors, y'know?"

Daem nodded slowly, their mind racing as they tried to formulate a decent reason as to why they might have left Faron, what they were doing prior to leaving the region, how they could explain their relationship with Link, or how long they would manage to keep up this elaborate lie before the truth was finally revealed.

"Um," Malon broke their silence, startling Daem to attention. Their face must have betrayed their unease, because she lifted a hand as though to touch their arm, then folded it back into her lap. "You don't have to tell us why you're here, if that's what you're worried about. We trust Link's judgement, anyway — he's an old friend of the family. Just, um… Just know that you're safe here. And you're welcome to stay as long as you like. Okay?"

With this, she slipped back onto the latter rungs, gave a sheepish smile, and descended. Light slowly faded from the room as her latern disappeared with her. Daem sat alone in silence, stirring the remaining contents of their bowl absentmindedly.

I have to make sure, they thought to themself, staring down at the door through which Malon had just exited, that the Yiga never harm this place or these people.

— — —

Days turned to weeks, and with each passing morning, Daem awoke feeling more secure in their new life. Visitors passed through the gates frequently to purchase livestock, to have Talon shod their horses for them, or any number of mundane services. In the beginning of their tenure, every time they heard the gates swing open, Daem retreated swiftly into the shadows to observe from a safe distance, not daring to come out until they were absolutely sure that the strangers were not, in fact, Yiga Clansmen sent to finish carrying out Serok’s command. Not once did a Clansman pass through the gates, and though Daem ran to hide less and less as time passed, they refused to let themself fully let their guard down. The memory of the Yiga haunted them, lurking just over their shoulder in every waking moment, daring them to trust in their safety for even one single, fatal instance.

Malon visited the hayloft every night to deliver Daem's dinner, often lingering to chat while they ate. It struck Daem that Malon must have been rather lonely prior to their arrival, having few others to talk to on a regular basis besides her father and her uncle. She would sit on the edge of the loft and talk away, telling stories about her childhood on the Ranch, sharing what details she could remember about her mother, dreaming up ideas for the future, stopping every now and then to ask if her chatter was annoying Daem. The answer was always no. True to her promise on their first night, Malon talked frequently of herself but never pried into Daem's past. "If you want me to know, you tell me," she encouraged them one night, and Daem promised that they would.

Desperately, Daem wanted to give in fully to the comfort and security they were growing to feel in this place. Desperately, they wished to leave the past behind and embrace their new life and new identity. They wanted to trust Link's promise, which they read over and over again to themself every morning, that they would be safe here. Instinct told them not to trust he who would have surely tried to kill them had they not been on Death’s doorstep already, but with each passing day spent in peace at the Ranch, they became more and more inclined to reject the instincts which had been taught to them long ago and to instead accept that maybe, just maybe, goodness truly did exist in this strange, new world.

Every night, after as Malon had gone back to the main house, Daem lay in their makeshift bed and allowed their mind to roam the neverending fields of anxiety. They feared for the future of the Clan under Serok’s reign and wondered what he could possibly be plotting with that terrible sword. They wondered what life would have been like if they had never defied Serok. They wondered whether they would ever choose to go back, even if they could. Daem dreamed often, though they always woke wishing they had not. When they did not dream of the golden woman they had nightmares about the Yiga, recounting their attempted murder, fantasizing the many ways in which Clansmen may arrive on the Ranch and take the lives of not only them, but of Malon, Talon, Ingo, even the innocent livestock.

It was almost four months after their departure from Karusa Valley when Daem dreamed a particularly harrowing dream. They found themself in pitch darkness, surrounded by eerie silence. They blinked. Before them was a small, red dot. Daem ran toward the dot which grew into the figure of their brother, lying in the fetal position with his back turned toward them on the glassy black floor. Daem knelt beside him and reached out. “Serok?” they whispered, their voice swallowed by the void. He curled tighter into himself. His skin beneath their fingertips stretched taut over his bones – Daem could not remember Serok ever being so skeletal – and a soft moan escaped his lips. Daem scrambled over him to regard his face, but they could not pry the mask from his skin. The Eye stared into them as they desperately tugged at the mask’s edges, but they were effectively melded into his face. “Tomoe,” he strained. “Help me.” His voice was so small, so fragile. His hands were wrapped around the hilt of his mysterious sword, which emanated a sickly violet and black aura.

“I'm trying,” Daem said as they tried to pry his cold fingers from the sword. “Serok, please, you’ve gotta snap out of this. Let go of the sword and let’s get out of here, okay? We can have a new life. We can go wherever you want, you can be whoever you want to be, I promise. Please,” Daem sputtered, “please let me help you, Serok.” The aura surrounding the sword lapped like flames, engulfing Serok’s entire body for only a moment before he vanished entirely.

They awoke, their body drenched in a cold sweat. Daem curled into themself, hugging their knees to their chest, and stared into the endless darkness until it grew light.

Chapter Text

“With Ingo gone now, we need the extra support,” Talon grumbled one early morning, gazing disdainfully toward the gates through which his insubordinate brother had stormed out several days prior. Daem propped themself up on their pitchfork, relishing in the warm sunshine that pierced the cool morning air. “We need to earn some revenue in the market, but I can't leave the Ranch unattended today. Malon swears she can do it alone, but it'd be good experience for you, helpin' her out. All you’d have to do is help her with inventory, smile nicely to customers, things like that. Nothin’ too complicated, promise. That alright?” The thought of showing their face in a crowded market space brought a sick sensation to Daem’s stomach. The desire to spend time with Malon, however, crowded out the feelings of dread just enough to make them agree.

The Castle Town square was indeed far more crowded than Daem could have anticipated. It was a lovely Sunday morning, and it seemed that the entirety of the town’s residents had chosen to spend their day basking in the delightful warmth and cloudless skies. Daem, feeling suffocated by the volume of unfamiliar bodies around them, kept their head low and their senses open as they carefully stacked a display of fresh eggs. There was no sense of dark magic to be perceived. There was no trace of bananas haunting the gathering of smells around them either. Nevertheless, they remained vigilant.

“Everything okay?” Malon asked, resting a crate of milk bottles on her hip. Daem blinked out of their trance and nodded.

“Yes! Yeah I'm, uh, I'm great. So great,” they lied. “I just… You know… It's a lot to remember with the uh… eggs.”

Malon smiled gently, and Daem's heart rate picked up again for entirely separate reasons. “It’s a bit overwhelming sometimes, isn’t it? There’s nothing to worry about though, okay? Just let me do the talking," she laughed.

The sun continued to rise and the crowds, much to Daem’s amazement, only grew in size. An elderly woman approached the stall, asking kindly for a bottle of Hyrule-famous Lon Lon Ranch milk. Daem retrieved the bottle as Malon collected payment. They handed the bottle off to the stranger, who smiled at them fondly.

"Lovely to see you again, Tomoe,” whispered the woman as she disappeared into the crowd.

Daem’s blood ran cold. The hairs on the back of their neck rose to attention. Their eyes frantically searched the crowd for any sight of the old woman, to no avail. There were still no indicators of Yiga presence, but there hung in the air a thick sensation of dread which no one else seemed to notice. They were here, somehow unperceived entirely, but present nonetheless. “They’ve come for me,” Daem whispered, their voice cracking with terror.

“Hm?" Malon asked aimlessly amid counting the day's earnings thus far. "You say something?”

Daem’s mouth gaped like a carp. “Go,” they managed despite the lack of moisture on their tongue. “We have to go. Right now.”

This pulled Malon's full attention. She cast them a sideways glance, raising an eyebrow. “What are you talking about? The day’s only halfway done, Daem, we can’t–”

“Malon, listen to me,” Daem said softly, their gaze still fixed on the crowd ahead. There were more of them out there. They still could not detect the slightest hint of magic usage, but the sinking feeling in their stomach made them sure of the Clan's innumerous presence nontheless. “We have to leave, okay? Come on!” When she refused a second time, desperation truly began to sink in. Daem grabbed her by the arm and pulled, but Malon would not budge. Just as she opened her mouth to reprimand them, a scream rang out from the center of the town square. One after the next, ten, then twenty, then no less than fifty good, kind citizens vanished in clouds of smoke at strategic points around the square. The sounds of market ordeals disappeared in favor of a chorus of mortified screams that joined the first in harmony. From the smoke which now billowed out around the shins of the innocent, dozens upon dozens of Yiga clan members began their slaughter.

Daem grabbed a now-unrelenting Malon’s arm once more and dragged her into a nearby back alley. The sound of terrorized wails and tearing flesh and stampeding feet followed close behind. What are they doing? Daem wondered as they gave way to Malon’s more experienced lead, winding through the crooked alleyways as their heart threatened to claw its way out of their chest. The Yiga were known for their element of surprise, but never had Daem seen so many participants in a single job. Seven to ten members at once had been considered overkill mere months ago, but suddenly it seemed they were dispatching nearly the entire Clan at once. This was more than their typical heist or assassination – this was an attack meant to incite war.

The familiar whoosh of an apparition sounded and a Blademaster crashed down onto the cobblestones between Daem and Malon, causing them to relinquish their grip on Malon’s hand. The soldier straightened to full height and glared down at Daem through the unblinking Eye for only a moment before turning their attention to Malon, who had already raised her fists to fight.

“You have no place here, foolish girl,” the Blademaster growled, and Daem’s ears perked up at the familiar voice. Malon drove a right cross toward the mask, ignoring Daem's protests. The Blademaster drew their windcleaver, slicing Malon’s approaching forearm open in the process. In an instant, Malon retracted her injured arm and hooked her left fist into their ear. The Blademaster staggered slightly, then changed the direction of their windcleaver. Without thinking, Daem barreled into Malon’s side, knocking her away just before the blade could reach her neck.

“Yet again your defiance interferes with Clan business,” the Clansman said calmly. “You are a traitor and a nuisance. Step aside.”

“No,” Daem whispered, wrestling with their quivering jaw while their heart thrashed against the walls of their chest. They clamored to their feet, willing them not to begin running in the opposite direction. “I’m your enemy here, not her. Take me and let her go.”

The Clansman laughed. “Oh, but Tomoe, any fool can see that killing her first will only add to your misery, and there is nothing I would enjoy more than making your last moments a living hell.”

Daem’s breath hitched in their throat as they glanced over their shoulder. Malon stared at them in fearful disbelief, unsure whether she should try making a run for it or wait for Daem to rescue her. Neither option was ideal, Daem knew. She was trapped in this alley unless they did something. “Her?" They forced a laugh. "Do what you want with her, for all I care," they said, and swallowed the lump which formed in their throat when they heard Malon take a hesitant step backwards. "But know that if you take the time to dispose of her I could easily slip away while your back is turned. Hell, if I wanted I could just conjure an apparition in the middle of this sentence, and then you'd have lost your entire chance for revenge. I taught you better strategy than this, Miko. You’d be a traitor just like me if you let this opportunity pass you by.”

Miko hesitated, then tore her gaze away from Daem long enough to let Malon go with little more than a head nod. Daem’s breath shuddered as they listened to her frantic bootsteps decrescendo through the alley until they were no more. They could only hope against all hope that she would truly make it out of the city gates alive. “You always were a terrible liar,” Miko muttered as she lowered her weapon. The two stared at one another for a long moment.

“What’s happening out there?” Daem dared ask. “What is Serok doing? Surely the leadership council wouldn’t have agreed to sending this many soldiers out all at once, would they?”

“There is no leadership council,” Miko said slowly. “There is only Master Serok.” She waited for a moment in silence, listening to the continued screams just beyond the walls beside them. “This is all your fault,” their old friend at last said, her voice leaden with pain.

Daem, who had, in shock, been turning Miko’s words regarding their brother’s reign over and over in their mind, snapped back to reality. "My fault?!” they hissed. “You're out here setting an entire fucking town on fire and you're saying it's my fault?!"

“Yes!" Miko stomped, and the ground shook beneath Daem's feet. "You are the one who rejected your own brother, you are the one who ran away from your punishment like a coward, you are the one who abandoned your own people when they needed you most! You think your execution was only to serve those who followed your brother but we all wanted you dead, Tomoe, because it is you who failed to keep Serok from becoming the monster that he's become! We are dying because of him, did you know that? Ever since you left we have been worked to the bone, forced to train beyond our limits every day. We're running out of food and we are not allowed out of the Valley to find more. This is the first time any of us have been allowed out since you betrayed us, and we were only sent out to start a war with the fucking Kingdom!"

"Then revolt, dumbass!" Tomoe shouted. "Every single one of you is an assassin, and you're telling me you're scared of Serok?"

Miko stopped short and, to their surprise, began to laugh. "Oh," she said when her laughter began to subside. "Oh, you have no idea, do you? You have no idea what he's become or how many Clansmen have chosen his side. But of course you wouldn't know, would you? You stumbled into this big, wide world for the first time and didn't think twice about leaving behind everyone and everything you've ever known. Look at you, risking your life to protect that of the enemy, trying to assimilate into their culture and pretend you are nothing more than a humble citizen of Hyrule when you know damn well you’ll never be one of them. You had an identity, a home, people who cared about you enough to let you live this long despite knowing how utterly useless you are, and you chose to give it all up. You can change your name, you can change your clothes, but deep down you are nothing more than a worthless, spineless, useless waste of a Clan uniform. You deserve a fate far worse than death!”

Miko’s blade lunged forward; Daem's untrained hands rose in defense. The blade grazed their right forearm, and Daem staggered backward and fell onto the cobblestone just before it could reach their neck. They did not have enough time to conjure an apparition before the weapon hurled downward, forcing Daem to roll away from its impact. They skittered away on their belly toward a nearby crate and ducked behind it to catch their gasping breath. They heard the familiar sound of Miko’s fist striking the earth, followed by the rumble of disoriented cobblestones making their way toward them rapidly. The earthwake reached its climax just beneath the crate against their back, splintering it into a million pieces with a tremendous roar. They fell forward onto their stomach, clamored on their hands and knees away from the wreckage and glanced sideways. The alley curled to the right and led directly back to the square, where Yiga continued slaughtering everything that moved. Their attempt to escape their one opponent had placed them back in the Clan’s line of sight. No matter how far or how fast they ran, they would never be able to escape their fate. Footsteps approached from behind them, then stopped. A flash of gold and red tickets assaulted their vision, and Miko appeared before them in all her vengeful rage.

"They'll kill you, you know," she said, her fingers adjusting their grip upon her well worn hilt. "The Hylians do not care about you like we did, Tomoe. When they find out what you really are, just after they've used you for what little you're worth, they'll kill you. Death awaits you, no matter where you run. Consider this a favor." The windcleaver glinted against the mid-afternoon sun. Daem closed their eyes and braced to receive their punishment. There was silence amid the cacophony of violence. Then, a sizable thump which rattled the ground beneath them. Daem opened their eyes.

Miko lay in a crumpled heap before them, an arrow lodged in the side of her skull.

Daem's eyes followed the arrow and found no source amid the chaos. They looked back at Miko's body through watery eyes, drew their knees to their chest, and cradled their head in their hands. Their lungs were on fire, their heart felt it was about to give out, their vision was growing spotty, their limbs cried out in exhaustion. They at last allowed themself to look at their forearm. The windcleaver had left a sizable gash, sending blood trickling up their bicep and down their fingertips. Daem stared at the wound, unable to form a single articulate thought amid the chaos in their mind. A peculiar sound materialized through the nearby turmoil, interrupting their attempts at regaining focus. The sound was quiet, but it demanded an audience. Daem tore their eyes from their arm and looked out at the battlefield formerly known as the Town Square. Somehow, as though it were emerging from within them, a small and vaguely familiar voice called out.

Daem.

Rise, Daem.

Chapter Text

Link had dutifully reported his odd findings to her father those months ago. The King had reacted much in the way Zelda had expected: intrigued, yet confident in his Kingdom's ability to counter any more unusual activity from a rebel Clan which had historically been, up to that point, laughably incompetent. Adding to his confidence, a report from the Gerudo Chief Urbosa had stated a noticeable lack of activity from the Clan in recent months. He did, however, urge Zelda to remain nearby the Castle for some time, just in case. He also forbade Link from leaving the Princess's side to chase after any more of her frivolous notions — an order which both Link and Zelda did not mind in the present moment. The pit in Zelda's stomach began to lessen as time passed. Perhaps Link's story was simply an obscure coincidence — some strange Yiga banishment ritual that he had stumbled upon. After all, what did it matter? Link had taken care of the Clansman in the end. Sure, rumors of Ganondorf's calamitous return swirled on the horizon and Zelda's inability to awaken the fullness of her inherited divinity did little to fully alleviate that concern, but the Yiga Clan in all their continued incompetence had become the least of her worries. Things were going to be okay, she reminded herself as she took Link's arm one fine afternoon and strolled through the Castle Town square. They wandered aimlessly through the crowded space, speaking with market vendors, bidding hello to Zelda’s subjects, delighting in the beauty which surrounded them.

And suddenly, as she was admiring the arrangements of a local florist, the hairs on the back of her neck rose to attention. She could not pinpoint the specific detail which caused her intuition to inform her that something was wrong, but as she breathed in the scent of beautifully preserved Hylian wildflowers, Zelda paused and lifted her head to observe the crowd. The pit in her stomach began to reform rapidly. Link placed a firm hand on her arm. He felt it, too — he always did. Something, something was deeply wrong. Without a word, the pair left the florist’s cart and slowly began to survey the town square.

She heard Link’s breath hitch quietly in his throat as his grip on her arm tightened. “Yiga,” he whispered.

Zelda stiffened. “We must evacuate the city,” she whispered in return, mouth rapidly growing dry.

Link shook his head once as he drew the Master Sword. “There’s no time, Zelda.” As he spoke, a multitude of crowd members vanished into clouds of smoke, returning in the form of Yiga Clansmen. The screams of her people rang in her ears. Link grabbed Zelda’s arm and dragged her through the crowd, dodging civilians and Yiga alike. They maneuvered into an alleyway which would provide a clear escape to the outskirts of town. Zelda, however, dug her heels into the cobblestone.

“We are not leaving!” she hissed, attempting to wrest her forearm from his grip.

He stared back at her, face hard as iron. “Zelda, I can’t keep you safe unless I get you out of here. Let’s go,” he commanded with a tug. She jerked away and glared at him.

“My people are being slaughtered.” Her hands curled into fists. Hot tears brimmed at the base of her eyelashes. “I cannot leave them, and neither can you. We stay and fight.”

Link stared at her for a moment, appearing to wonder whether she was being serious. She held out her hand palm up, gesturing toward the bow on his back, and he groaned. There was no changing her mind. Without another word of protest, he hastily handed over his bow and quiver and checked his pouch for battle provisions. No meals; only one elixir left. He had carelessly assumed nothing would happen on their adventure outside the castle that morning. He should have known better. He should have prepared. His stomach churned as he pressed his last hearty elixir into Zelda’s empty palm.

“Take this," he commanded, shrugging off his hood and wrapping it snugly around her shoulders. She dutifully pulled it over her head. "Stay hidden, please. I’ll be back.”

“I beg your pardon?!” Link winced at Zelda’s bewildered look. “Link, you promised me you would not leave my side again! No, we will fight together!” Tears now cascaded freely down her flushed cheeks. “Please… Please don’t leave me alone,” she whispered.

Link wiped a tear from his princess’ chin. “I promise I will return for you.” Something felt deeply wrong about this situation. It was wrong to begin with, but something about this moment terrified Zelda to her core. She could not determine what that something was. Link must have felt it too. He always did.

“Zelda?” he said as he grazed her cheek with a trembling hand.

“Yes?”

“I lo—"

"Stop that," she snapped a little too harshly. She made the effort to soften her tone upon seeing the modicum of hurt in his eyes. "Please, just don't. Not now. You promised you would return for me, so be it." A soft sigh escaped his lips, but he nodded resolutely as always. One more lingering glance and his hand retracted. Zelda withheld the urge to shed more tears. Now was not the time to give in to fear, she reminded herself. They would see each other again. They had to.

She clamored into a partially concealed kneeling position atop a stack of crates and watched as her knight barreled headfirst into battle. He was met with resistance almost immediately, the swift, cunning attacks of the Yiga Clan exponentially more difficult to combat without also striking innocent citizens in the process. Most soldiers would consider a single-handed retaliation against this sort of meticulously crafted attack a hopeless cause. Zelda nocked an arrow and took a deep breath as she watched Link grit his teeth and face the challenge regardless. Inspired as always by his unfailing courage, she began firing.

Time passed with agonizing lethargy. Zelda sniped Clansmen from her post, careful not to be perceived lest she be forced to join the fate of her citizens who had not been fortunate enough to escape in time. A Clansman met her gaze at one point, to which she responded with an arrow that landed in the center of their skull, knocking them backwards with a splinter of clay and skull. Zelda gritted her teeth and tried not to wince upon seeing the impact. Link had disappeared from her sight a while ago, causing a small pit to form in the base of her stomach. She shrugged off the feeling, assuring herself that all was fine. He would come back for her. He had to.

The battle raged on, and the Yiga targeted far more than the innocent. Stalls were decimated, windows were shattered, several homes turned up in flames. The ground was littered with bodies and stained with blood, and the few survivors who remained were those prepared enough to fight back along with the Hylian soldiers who had begun arriving at the scene. Zelda lodged an arrow into the temple of a Clansman in an alley across the square from hers, rescuing a citizen from what was nearly certain death. As she nocked another preparatory arrow to her bow, she spotted a cyan blur amid a sea of red and her heart rejoiced. Link fought on, carving his way through the crowd amid a near-constant flurry of red and gold tickets as countless Yiga, who had surely identified him as a top priority, disappeared and reappeared all around him. He was bruised, battered, and weary, Zelda could see despite their distance, but the gritted determination on his face told her he had not given up yet. A rather large Yiga member with a long katana apparated just behind him. Link spun to meet it, and it disappeared just before the Master Sword could reach its side, reappearing just behind him yet again. Zelda could hear the Yiga’s deep, vile laughter as it taunted Link on and on again. At last, the Master Sword made contact, slicing the Yiga’s chest with deadly precision.

At the same time, a second Yiga Clansman appeared behind him, hooked its sickle deep into his abdomen, and pulled. Link froze for a moment before collapsing to the ground, the Master Sword clattering onto the cobblestone beside him.

Zelda’s heart dropped into her stomach. Before she allowed herself to lose her composure, she sank her last arrow into the skull of the Yiga who committed the atrocity. As soon as the assailant hit the ground, a wail escaped her lips. Zelda ran, heedless of the war which raged around her, desperate to reach her knight. She collapsed to the ground beside him and cradled him in her arms. “No, no, no,” she stammered as she felt warm dampness seep from his torso into her clothing. She sought her pockets desperately for the heart potion he had given her, unable to remember where she had put it. “No, you can’t– this isn’t– you’re going to be just fine, Link! I’ll find help, okay? You’re going to be okay! You must be okay!”

Link looked up at her through bleary eyes, panting. His lips moved as though he wished to speak, but no sound came forth. He reached up with a trembling, bloodied hand to caress her cheek, his eyes fluttered, and his body at last went limp. She caressed his still-warm face, examining his body through blurred vision and praying that his chest would rise, that he would leap to his feet and carry on fighting, that he would live again. No such prayer was answered. Lying on the ground beside him, the Master Sword glowed with a brilliant blue light. Through the chaos, a still, small voice echoed in the recesses of her frenzied mind.

There is hope.

"There is?” Zelda whispered to no one.

Take Link to the Shrine of Resurrection.

“‘The Shrine…’” she trailed off, too weary to echo the sentence in its entirety.

From the ashes which now rest, another will rise to take his place.

Zelda looked up at the pair of Royal Guards who had arrived by her side. “Take him to the Shrine of Resurrection, now. Leave me – I can handle myself. There is no time to waste. Go!" The metallic words turned over and over in her mind as she watched her guards scoop Hyrule’s Champion from the ground and carry him away. So transfixed was she that she almost failed to notice the figure which stalked toward her.

Chapter Text

Daem, it is time.

The Yiga betrayer searched frantically for the source of the voice, desperate to find the culprit and force them to silence. The voice was not that of a man, but not quite that of a woman either. It was a single voice, and yet it rang in Daem’s ears as though it were a thousand.

Daem, Daem, Daem…

Metallic, yet warm. Comforting, yet petrifying. Familiar, yet foreign altogether. The voice chanted their name over and over, growing louder with each repetition. Through the chaos of the ongoing battle, Daem searched for the bastard whose voice would not leave them alone. Finally, their eyes landed on a body lying against the central fountain. Amid the chaos of the war, cast aside and forgotten by all but the disheveled princess who cradled him as the battle raged all around, Link lay in a crumpled heap. No muscles in his torn stomach contracted as a sign of breath, no fingers twitched in hopes of a resurrection. Beside him lay the fabled Master Sword, blade oddly clean given the circumstances, glowing with an eerie blue light. The voice in Daem’s head, allowing them no opportunity to begin processing what they were seeing, grew louder still. It had now drastically changed its tune. Its words rang like a resounding bell throughout their entire body:

Daem, Servant of Hylia, the time for which you have been created has arrived.
Take up now the Sword which is yours to claim.
Protect Zelda; eliminate the enemy; deliver Hyrule from darkness.
Rise, Daem, and fulfill your destiny.

An unseen force pulled Daem toward the blade. Their torso lassoed, their feet shackled, helpless, desperate to be released, Daem was led to the weapon like a lamb to the slaughter. Their conscience, muffled beneath the metallic voice which continued to chant their name, screamed at them to turn back, run away, fight against the power that bewitched them. The effort was hopeless. Battle raged on all sides of the confused bandit as they reached for the hilt which they knew was touchable by none but the Chosen Hero. Daem gritted their teeth and braced for the fiery impact of the forbidden blade. None such impact occurred. Time slowed as their fingers curled around the blue corded grip and lifted the Sword from the ground. The voice in their head rejoiced, the blade thrummed against their palm with life and energy, their heart soared as though they had just reunited with a long lost friend. Warmth which emanated from the weapon enveloped Daem in a constrictive embrace. As they beheld the blade, marveling as though seeing the break of dawn for the first time in their life, Daem was overcome by both utter joy and sheer terror.

Protect Zelda.

Daem looked down at the golden-haired girl, who stared up at them with watery emerald eyes and mouth agape, her face streaked with blood. She was yelling something Daem couldn’t quite hear over the blood which rushed in their ears. Movement from the opposite side of the fountain caught their eye. A footsoldier began to rush toward the princess, sickle drawn and lusting for blood. Daem found themself captivated by the overwhelming urge to protect her.

Eliminate the enemy.

A surge of energy coursed through their veins. This was more than adrenaline; this was life. Clamoring over the fountain’s edge, Daem moved to defend the princess they had once sworn to destroy. They met the soldier in the clear blue waters, anticipating the attack which they had watched countless of their fellow Clansmen execute over the years. The sickle lashed out, and Daem flipped backwards with pristine grace just before the hooked blade could sink into their neck. They landed on their feet and noticed the sickle was still hurtling through the air beside them, now in excruciatingly slow motion. Everything was happening in slow motion now, even the water droplets which had still not returned to their source upon being flung upwards by Daem’s leap. There was no time to question the physics of the situation. Daem took advantage of the opportunity and, without caring who was behind the mask, forced the blade through the footsoldier's stomach with all their might. Time restored itself and the Yiga collapsed into the fountain, soiling it with the expulsion from their torso. Daem’s bewilderment toward their ability to carry out such an extreme action was smothered by the excruciating, terrifying compulsion to deliver a similar and immediate fate to each and every Yiga member in attendance.

Deliver Hyrule from darkness.

Surrounding Yiga members froze in their tracks, heads turned to marvel at this familiar stranger wielding the ancient Sword. One by one, they disappeared in a flash of red and gold tickets. Daem did not watch their departure, nor did they regard the princess or the Royal Guards who rushed toward them. Daem stared at their own reflection through the bloodied, sacred blade for a moment before obeying the instinctual urge to hoist the Sword skyward. They held the pose for only a second before the energy which once overflowed within suddenly departed from their body. Their arm quivered, their knees buckled, and Daem collapsed unceremoniously at the princess’s feet as the world grew dark.

Rise and fulfill your destiny.

Chapter Text

"You did what?"

The footsoldier's confident boasting was snuffed like a timid flame. He tilted his head to one side and brought his hands together to fidget with his gloves. "I, ah, what? I- I mean, what do you mean, Master?"

The Grand Master of the Yiga slowly peeled himself from his recently erected throne and towered effortlessly over his subordinate. His solid black katana quivered beneath the trembling grip of his massive hand on its hilt. "Tell me again of your accomplishment, Kye," he said, his voice like distant thunder. "I would love to hear it."

Kye gulped. Suddenly the feat did not feel quite as good as it had a few minutes ago. "I... ah... I succeeded in taking Link's life, Master. Like we have worked toward ever since he found the Master Sword, er, Master. I..." The trusty sickle resting on his back seemed to weigh far more than usual. "I thought that was what you wanted... Master."

Serok seemed to hold his breath as he stared through him with painstaking stillness. In the blink of an eye, he drew his blade, impaled Kye, and drove him backwards to slam against the far wall. Kye hung helpless, feeling the nauseating dark magic expell from the blade and permeate his organs, and stared with fleeting vision into the unblinking Eye upon his Master's mask.

"You were not supposed to kill him, you insolent, foolish maggot!" bellowed Serok, twisting the blade with a sharp turn of his wrist. "You have single-handedly ruined the entire mission, Kye. Now die slowly in your dishonor and shame." He withdrew the blade, allowing Kye's dying body to crumple to the floor. A flash of gold and red tickets appeared in the entryway.

"Master!" cried the footsoldier before the tickets surrounding them had fully disintegrated. "It's Tomoe, Master! They were seen in Castle Town and— and they—"

"Yes?" said Serok as he calmly cleaned Kye's blood from his sword.

"Master, I don't know how or why, but… Tomoe picked up the Master Sword. They killed one of our own with it to protect the Princess."

Serok raised his eyebrows. The sword seemed to vibrate gleefully beneath his fingertips. "Is that so?" he asked, and the footsoldier nodded. Serok hummed. "It would appear destiny is at work, then. The future is fickle."

From the floor, Kye stirred. "So the m-mission… isn't over?" he managed to choke out as his body disintegrated from the inside out. "Then p-please… Help me… Master…"

Serok turned his attention back to the disappointment on the floor. "Oh, Kye," he sighed. "I liked you. I truly thought I could use you. It is unfortunate that you only think of yourself." He drove the blade through Kye's heart then regarded the newcomer once more. "Bring me a parchment and quill at once."

Chapter Text

Through the blood stained streets of Castle Town wandered a lone soldier.

Mikael searched every nook and cranny for survivors and corpses alike, praying to the Golden Goddesses above that he would find more of the former than the latter. His deployment led him down the narrow alleyway behind Telma’s Tavern, several paces away from the major portion of conflict. His brow furrowed as he surveyed the area. Around him stood broken crates and shattered glass flecked with drops of blood. An attack had taken place here, he concluded, but there were no bodies to be found. Suddenly, a noise like the fluttering of leaves sounded behind him. He turned slowly as a sense of dread climbed its way up his spine.

Before him stood a rather large member of the Yiga Clan wearing a far more elaborate mask than Mikael had ever seen, with tusks protruding from its jaws and what appeared to be flames rising from its forehead. In one hand the Clansman gripped a sword with a golden hilt, and in the other it held a scroll which appeared miniscule in its gargantuan palm. Mikael drew his sword with a trembling hand, praying that his sudden wave of nausea would not hinder him from service.

“Put your sword away if you wish to live,” the Clansman said with an icily deep voice that sent a shiver down Mikael’s spine. Ashamed of his cowardice, he did as he was told. The Clansman extended the scroll. “For your king,” the voice rumbled. As soon as the scroll was placed in Mikael’s waiting hand, the Clansman vanished in a flurry of red and gold tickets.

Mikael's stomach settled at once. He stood alone in the alley, staring down at the letter with bated breath before at last turning on his heel and sprinting toward the Castle gates.

— — —

“King of Hyrule, heed these words:

For too long have the Yiga lived in Hyrule’s shadow. For too long have we been regarded as your enemy of least concern. We shall be oppressed no longer. A new dawn breaks. Righteous darkness spills over the mountains and floods the plains. The Magnificent One returns, preceded in triumph by His loyal servants, the Yiga. He shall claim what is rightfully His: not just central Hyrule itself, but the Gerudo Desert, the Hebra peaks, the Eldin mountains, the Lanayru wetlands, the Faron woods, every inch of land and sky from sea to shining sea shall be bathed in His glorious, magnanimous darkness, and we have every intent to bend this land to its knees in preparation to usher in the new era. We shall not be stopped; we shall not be swayed. Hyrule’s demise is imminent.

You shall hand over your Princess, lest more innocent Hylian blood be shed. You have one week.”