zeldatriforce

His hair is like my father's, wavy, blond, blowing about carelessly in the wind. He smiles like my father, hugged like my father. And when he opens his eyes, they shine with a vivid blue—just like my father's. As they said, he was the same. Everything passed from one generation to the next. Except for me. I hold the boy close, gently pressing him to my breast. My feet struggle down the steep hillside without the use of my hands. Ordon Village lay below us. My deepest regret is that I cannot raise him, cannot nurture him as my parents would have wanted, remain as a mother, and teach him all that the Hero of Time would have wanted. Now

My hands slip through strands of black, through hair belonging to a face I no longer recognize. All that I learned from Zelda, I have applied to myself. My eyes, my body, my birthright, all are hidden so that I might walk among my companions without scrutiny. My given name… I no longer remember it. So long has it been since any who mattered knew me by it. They call me Ashei. Auru, Renado, Shad, three who would think to call me their friend, three who would seek to thwart the King of Darkness without need for the cycle. They are the bravest people I have ever known. They stand defiant in the face of an overwhelming power, a hunger that

I kneel. Though such formalities are unnecessary, given the situation, I feel as though I must adhere to them. I am the only thing I can control. Though life is unwilling to involve me, and death is unwilling to claim me, I shall control how I lead my life. I choose to adhere to such formality because I can choose to. I'm the only one with a choice anymore. Zelda is beautiful, even when cast against the dark shadow of Twilight. Only we remained untouched by evil, by the plague of worlds that sweeps across the land. Only we know the truth, only we stand to comprehend a grand scheme larger than ourselves. In that fact, I find some comfort in

Hylians do not understand the nature of immortality, or even the nature of those granted unnaturally long lives. I see it in their stories, their legends, their folklore. They believe that time is a petty thing to us, that decades pass in minutes and years in seconds. They're wrong. Time does not pass us by as they would like to believe. We cannot close our eyes and allow ourselves to slip into the next century. To us—to me, time crawls. Our days mean just as much. We watch with learned eyes, waiting for signs of the familiar. Life drags itself across the ground in front of us, a slow, painful death. Each decade means something. Each