My husband must die.

One day, one distant unnamed day, I will lead him free of this castle, past the patchwork-quilt fields disallowed me, into the shadowy woods where the unlettered horde lurks, and kill him. I will slide a dagger between his ribs when he holds me close and later, weeping before his court, recount how the horde swept over us and took the brave king's life. I will accompany him out when the drifting black snow falls again and when afterward he lies abed, delirious with fever, I will bathe him in icy water until his shivering stops. I will feed him sweet lies and sweeter poisons, and smile to myself when he is lost in coma. I will—

I will do nothing of the sort. This I know. We are the goddesses' instruments, he and I, imbued with their favor, but his Power far outweighs my own. Should my husband die, we in this castle will not long outlive him. He has delivered us from death once, a thousand times, pushing back the dark's advance through the sheer force of his will when my strength reaches its end. We are a kingdom unto ourselves now, a castle surrounded by a ravenous shadowy sea. If Hylians still live past the portcullis that separates us from the dark, I do not know of them. We are alone together in the world now.

Without him, I would have died. We would have all died. Yet…he is no true king. Before the dark came, he was a lord, a rebel when he claimed that cold crown while we dwelled in anarchy, but that isn't enough. He is gifted with potent Power, the least subtle of the goddesses' gifts, yet also the most unpredictable when possessed by one of his temperament. A king must never possess Power without knowing how to wield it.

"Zelda." His voice is like a whip, rousing me from my thoughts. I look up from my hands; he is waiting for me near the door, his skin shimmering with Wisdom's warm glow, his eyes burning with Power. Seeing he has my attention, he gestures toward my bed. "The supplicant awaits us. Your gloves…"

I feel shame warming my cheeks as his scrutinizing gaze remains upon me; I should not have to be reminded of that, not after so many years. My own gift decrees the gloves, if I wish to live my days free of Power's siren song. Quickly, I cross to my bed where the gloves have been laid out by Roselin and pull them over my soft white hands, at once feeling calmer. Despite the dubious comfort that provides, I feel my heart beating like a bird trapped in a cage of bone at the thought of the task that awaits us this night.

My steps are hesitant as I walk over to accompany him. I look him up and down with badly concealed anxiety. He is dressed as befits the warlord he once was: black breeches, wool jerkin, and pieces of boiled leather scavenged from the lower levels of the castle. My eyes take in the sight of the hard set of his mouth and the way he grips the hilt of his sheathed sword; he is handsome, for an older man, but I've always disliked his restless eyes.

And I see the other things as well, as noticeable to me as the lines of age on his face and the calluses on his hands: the warm cloud of energy that surrounds him, the goddesses' favor made starkly apparent, and beneath it all the crushing exhaustion that saps the strength of us both. I feel a rising anxiousness, brought on more by the fact that I cannot share my worries and fears more than anything else. None other would see – or question – what I see in him.

He is looking at me as well. Those eyes, at once the brightest and darkest I have ever known, seem to peel away my clothing and even my skin, baring my very soul to his judgment. Beneath my sheath of silk, I shiver. What does he see when he looks at me like that? A prize, a possession, a burden?

Finally, I reach him, and even from behind my meticulously built walls, I tremble under the force of his Power – but Ganondorf is looking at me expectantly, so I know I must show no weakness. Tentatively, I take him by the arm.

He leads me without, never saying so much as the slightest word. In the hallway, dungeon shadows dance along the walls, their sinuous movements unimpeded in the absence of light. Disquieted, I try to concentrate instead on the feeling of Ganondorf's arm linked with my own, on the knot of anxiousness in my middle growing ever more concentrated with every step.

Our footsteps echo loud in the darkness, sounding a ghostly procession behind us, but elsewise all is still. I want to say something, want to break the strained silence that has marked our time together, but each time fear kills the words in my throat. Ganondorf never notices my minor turmoil – or at least does nothing to alleviate it, not the sort to engage in idle chatter.

Nothing else moves. The way before us looms dark, silent, and still. Behind the oaken doors we pass, what remains of our court is likely lost in uneasy dreams. Few are foolish enough to wander the halls after true dark has fallen, opting instead to hide within their apartments till the most dangerous time has passed and dawn has come once more. Would that I could do the same this night…

We climb a short stair leading to the roof and proceed down a hall lined with swords and spears and morningstars, reserved from a time when the dark held us besieged. At the far end, black rain is falling, softly pattering against the roof and raising cold mist wherever it lands. Ganondorf nudges me and I hurriedly pull my cowl over my hair. We are not completely insulated from threat here in the castle. Going unprotected into rain or snow is enough to drive a man as mad as if he's in the dark amongst the horde.

Finally, we emerge from the gallery, and almost reflexively, I turn my head to the side, to look past the battlements at the grounds below. As always, the supposedly expansive lawns are shrouded in a gloom so deep I cannot so much as see the path that once led to a town. Instantly upon looking below I am reminded of the darkness of a widow's bedchamber, of last twilight's gloom, of the funeral shadows dwelling in a tomb. More disquieting still, to my eye it seems as though the shadows are moving, doubtless under control of whatever force compels the horde to walk. I hear, or imagine, the faint sounds of struggle, of something fighting to break free – perhaps, even so close, the horde is lurking… Determinedly, I direct my gaze forward and hold Ganondorf's arm more tightly.

My eyes are burning with fatigue; I close them for a moment, rubbing them gently in an attempt to stave off the inevitable. That does nothing to stop the syrupy feeling of weariness from stealing over my body, though. I want so badly to sleep, but I can't let my mind rest, not even for a second.

From a distance, I see two torches flickering as faintly as hope before my eyes. I mistake the flames for some magic spell impervious to the black rain until I see the nondescript tarp stretched like an awning over the two guards that hold them. Only as we near our destination do I see the other things: the bored and miserable way the soldiers slouch as they wait for us, the ragged condition of the tarp, and one other…the one thing that drove us to the roof this night. When I finally notice the sodden, ragged creature the soldiers are bracketing, a chill races itself down my spine.

I know why we have met here now. Ganondorf's cozy audience chamber might have been a sweeter setting, but we've tasted disappointment too many times to risk being burned there again; the roof will work just as well if we have found the third at last. And if this supplicant should prove to be lying like the others… In the face of shame, my husband is implacable, unsympathetic, and utterly without mercy.

As we approach, one of the soldiers calls out a feeble challenge that falters when they notice the king. "Your Grace!" they say in unison when we stop in front of them under the dubious protection of the tarp, lowering their eyes respectfully. Never paying me the least bit of attention, one says, "This is the one you wished to see."

My heart freezes when I look at her. A girl, she is a girl, and no older than I am. She is pale, hollow and gaunt, wearing the roughspun gown of a commoner. Her hair is lank and unwashed, her eyes watery, flicking suspiciously from side to side as if searching for a means of escape. I know her face well. She is a serving girl from the kitchens, and no hero.

If Ganondorf is battling similar emotions, his face does not betray it; he gives the girl the merest cursory glance before saying, "So, you are the one who performed…acts of valor…in the great hall a moon's turn ago." His dark upper lip curls.

"That's so." The girl smiles, revealing a mouth full of crooked teeth. Her gown is damp and discolored from the rain and sweat gleams on her forehead. "They said I was blessed by the goddesses after I saved one of the kitchen boys, and he wasn't complaining none, so I thought it might be true."

"Many men have said the very same thing to me over the years. All of them were liars. Do you have proof of your claim, girl?"

"Aye. The proof is in my blood." The girl gives us a ragged grin, but I can see the sweat shining on her forehead. "You can see I tell the truth with the taste of a drop of my blood, I know. Isn't that the way of it?"

"That is the way," Ganondorf allows, every word methodical and precise. "It takes more Power than you could comprehend for the princess to exert herself this way, however, and I dislike wasting our resources. This is the last chance you have to turn back, girl. You'd best pray to the goddesses that your claim is true, because I'll kill you by inches if you lie."

The girl gives me a nervous glance. "Begging your royal pardon, but the princess doesn't frighten me none. I tell it true, I do so swear."

"As you wish." After a while, he turns to look at me with Din's eyes, impatient, implacable, distant. "Zelda, the dagger."

My hands – soft, stupid, clumsy hands – reach up my sleeve and withdraw the ceremonial dagger. I look down at the falling rain reflected on the flat of the steel blade, considering all the times before I've drawn this blade for the purpose of letting blood, trying to delay the inevitable for as long as possible. I've done this thing too many times, in truth.

The goddess Nayru bequeathed me with Wisdom upon my birth, but that alone is not enough. Other people were gifted with Wisdom in easier times, and they could not stem the dark's flow. I am also, as Ganondorf calls me, a channeler – able to give and receive each of the three Virtues that hold the dark at bay, and able to sense their presence in others. But my ability hinges on bloodmagic, the most Powerful and dangerous of the gifts allowed us. Ganondorf styled me as a princess when he discovered I knew the way of it. Others attainted me as a witch and tried to kill me, before Ganondorf rooted them up from the rest of our court and gave them to the dark.

I know what Ganondorf is waiting for me to do; I've delayed it long enough. Smothering my mingled dread and anticipation, I remove one of my gloves and take Ganondorf's hand in my newly bared hand, flesh against callused flesh, Wisdom against Power. My knees weaken and for a moment, I want nothing more than to wallow in that feeling. I try to concentrate on something else, on the cruel curve his mouth makes as I lay the edge of the dagger against his hand, on the curve of his palm under my weapon as I guide it across the scarred skin. Ganondorf sneers.

Often it feels like our two lives are balanced on the edge of this blade. There is always sweetness to our pain, sharpness to our joy… As quickly as that, the cut is made. I look down at Ganondorf's blood, dark on the edge of the dagger, as he pulls free of my grip unflinching. Without even looking at him, I know what he's waiting for now. Almost unthinkingly, I draw the knife down my own palm, too mesmerized by the sight of red blooming amongst my own scars to feel the pain.

Half-blind from the sheer pleasure and disorientation of it all, I grab Ganondorf's hand and press our wounds together. I nearly flinch away, nearly gasp; it's too close, too intense, entirely too much. The dread that I felt earlier now feels like some half-forgotten dream. I can feel the goddesses' holy energy flowing through my veins, pulsing agonizingly at the place where our wounds are joined. I am aglow with energy and Power. For what feels like the first moment in a lifetime of moments, I am alive.

Before I realize just what has happened, Ganondorf wrestles the dagger from my hand. I imagine I can feel the girl being cut as we are cut, as vividly as I hear her cry out in pain. My head is swimming to the degree that I barely feel like I'm on the roof at all.

Now Ganondorf pulls completely away from me, his part done. Bereft, I reach out for the girl, somehow unable to move towards her. "Come here," I whisper thickly, already lost in the rush of psychic sensation. After a pause, the guards attending the girl nudge her forward so that she falls to her knees before me. Carefully we clasp hands, me entwining my fingers with hers as gently I tear into her…

A lifetime of memories flash before my eyes in a single moment, so fast and furious that they seem more like fractions than anything that could cohere into a recognizable timeline. Skies that are black, dark gray, the peculiar pearl-white of sunrise, a kitchen boy's hand on my shoulder, hand on my hand, hand leading me through the hallways to a place where we can indulge in our mutual longing for motion and heat. That same kitchen boy, his face turning a mottled sort of purple, then pink again after he coughs up an obstruction with my help. That kitchen boy once more, telling me by candlelight to seek appointment by the king. Obscuring any meaning from those memories is a shroud of sadness…sadness that I suddenly feel so strongly that it's all I can do to keep from sobbing.

And nothing else. The goddesses haven't heard my prayer.

Dreamily, I open my eyes. Still I'm lost in silent contemplation, barely noticing the tears coursing down my cheeks.

As if from a great distance, I finally hear Ganondorf's voice. Realizing the importance of his words, I try to focus my attention more solidly upon him, try to banish the last of my psychic afterglow. "Zelda. What did you feel?"

She is not the one. There are the words, as deadly and stark as shadows. Yet Ganondorf does not stir, so I know the sound of them hasn't risen above the fierce thudding of my heart. I fear to speak; I am no murderer, and this is just as good as that. But I have a duty to protect my small kingdom as well, a responsibility that drowns out the bitter taste of the words as they finally rise from my throat. "There is…" I shake my head, unable to look at any of them. "I feel nothing. She has not the Courage."

The girl's eyes open wide. "You are lying!" she spits, a fine trembling nevertheless running up and down the length of her body. She turns those eyes, such sad eyes, on my husband. "Make her tell the truth. Tell her, I swear it by my life, I'm not—"

Ganondorf's jaw clenches. He gives her a vicious backhand slap and the girl's head snaps to the side as she takes the blow. Fresh blood glistens on his already soiled hand.

I watch, feeling queerly detached, as the spot where Ganondorf struck the girl turns an angry red. She tries to run, darting both left and right, though she's stopped both times by the very force of Ganondorf's stare. "Take this lying bitch in hand before she hurts herself," he says. From behind us, the two soldiers who were holding torches earlier come forward and take the girl by the arms before she can go more than two paces.

A sick feeling has built in my stomach. I look at Ganondorf anxiously, wondering what he will do, but his face is hard and unreadable.

"Throw her to the dark," he finally says; his voice is no more than a hair above a whisper, a funereal murmur. "Throw her to the horde. Let her Courage shield her, if it can."

"No!" the girl screams furiously. She struggles against the viselike holds the soldiers have on her to no avail. The guards pull her, squirming and resisting, to the battlements. All the while, I watch the execution by the side of my husband. Below us, the shadows are screaming, sending up a high keening wail full of hunger and anger and malice.

Bodily, the soldiers force the girl to stand at a gap between the crenels, the better to throw her to her death. The girl is weeping, screaming vile curses. Then she is gone…flying head over heels as our guards throw her over the crenels, sending her tumbling down into the dark.

The screaming of the shadows turns triumphant. My mind cringes, doesn't want to hear. Nevertheless, the girl's screaming soon joins that of the shadows, until the entire cacophony sounds like a long lament full of agony to the goddesses above.

When the shadows finally fall silent, I sink to my knees on the roof in my exhaustion. Ganondorf kneels beside me and lays his bloody hand on my shoulder. We are quiet for a time, him thinking thoughts I'll never know while I let the ceaseless fall of the cold black rain wash my sluggish blood away.

--

I dream of my father.

He was a king, they say, but I don't remember him at all. If ever there were portraits of him, they were lost to the dark. "He was mad," Ganondorf told me the first time I asked about him. "Your gift wasn't long hidden after your mother gave birth to you. A witch, they called you when you saved them. He would have killed you himself had we not risen and thrown him to the horde. I saved your life. You must never take the fact that you are here for granted, Zelda."

I never have. Daily I kneel in pious prayer to thank the goddesses for allowing me to keep my life, for allowing me the chance to protect my people. I can't forget what I've done and what's been done for me, can't allow myself the relief. That knowledge must be nurtured, picked-at, cherished, guarded. What I've done is more than my father ever did, Ganondorf says. He never cared one whit for his people when the shadows began to engulf them, not so much as lifting a finger to ease their suffering. He never underwent any supreme hardship for the sake of his kingdom, as I have… I feel righteous superiority flood me, and I'm powerless to stop it.

"Ravings," my father says suddenly. Sometimes his face is Ganondorf's, or that of other men I've known, but tonight he appears younger and comelier than any of them. His expression is still and he appears without ornament, nevertheless sitting above me proud as a king in some celestial throne room. He looks down his nose at me as he continues, "Will you listen to what a bastard king tells you, child? He wed you while you were still in the cradle."

Shame washes over me in waves so strong that the stress of my waking moments seems a mere squall. I want to say something, anything to make the contempt bleed from his voice, but no words will come. I can't say anything he'll take ill. I can't face the judgment he'll surely pass on me. Instead I look down at the rushes and say nothing.

He continues on, oblivious. "I see he has you bewitched as ever. Tell me, if the goddesses gifted you with such Wisdom, why are you not able to see and excise the greatest threat that cleaves to you? How it shames me to see such…filth in my father's proud halls."

"He saved my life," I tell him. The slightest bit of heat has crept into my voice and I'm immediately remorseful. This isn't how a daughter speaks to a father. This isn't how a girl speaks to a king.

Finally, my father deigns to look at me. I want to seep into the stones, want to escape the emotions that have overcome me: shame, agitation, sickness. His eyes are even worse than Ganondorf's; they are the same color as my own, yet appear as blue glass instead of liquid, reflecting disgust and faint anger. You've forgotten your place, that look says. You've forgotten who you are. Why are you here?

"He saved your life, that's true enough," my father says at last, "but you are a fool if you think his motives were pure. Is he some altruist, to save Hyrule's princess without want of reward? Is that what you think? His kind has been killing Hylians since the beginning of time. No, he saved you because he had need of your sickness or your maidenhood, most likely both."

I feel a flush creep unbidden up my neck. Not even Ganondorf has spoken to me so frankly; it is galling beyond the scope of words to hear such things from my father. My shame turns into anger, turns into words. "You're wrong. He's never touched me. He never has! And…and…you have Wisdom yourself. How is my gift something worth hating me for?"

"Your mother had Wisdom, before the midwife cut you out of her. But she didn't have your deformity. A king must be a wolf, but only a hedge wizard is fit to serve as a channel for the blessings of greater men. The goddesses were singularly cruel to visit that curse upon one such as you, girl."

"Zelda! My name is Zelda!"

"Why should I use it? You are no daughter of mine, so long as you cling to your shortcomings. You must understand, when the darkness came, it was not my wish to kill you – only to cull the sickness from your body. If your shadow king had not given me to his subjects, things might have turned out quite differently."

I'm trembling from my rage, so much so that what my father has said goes almost completely unheard. Almost as frustrating as him is the fact that I can never say to him what I want to. No matter how many times I face him in this dreamscape, some lingering passivity pins me to failure, declaring my father the victor he could not be in life. Why… "Why…" I whisper as tears burn at the corners of my eyes, "I saved you. All your lives, it was me…why do you do this?"

"You saved me as much as you saved your mother," he says coldly. "You are freakish, and worse, inept. How many lives have been lost due to your negligence, simply because you didn't understand how to harness the ability your curse grants you? Perhaps I bear some of the blame for that. I am your sire—"

"You're not." My anger flares. "You'll never be."

His nostrils flare at my daring. "You will not speak to me so. I am your king."

"You misremember. Ganondorf is king."

"Aye, he is king. He is the king of shadows. He is the Twilight King." He sneers. "Let him enjoy his spoils while he can. Where is your third, girl? Already I see the shadows creeping into your dungeons. Without Courage, you two will cower in your castle until the dark claims you as it has the rest of us, mark my words."

Now it's my turn to burn with indignation. "We will never face the same fate as you; that I promise you."

"A bold promise that, doubtless, you'll never be able to fulfill. We were wolves and could not stave off the end for all that. Wisdom alone is not enough to sustain you; you need Courage to act upon your desires and Power to make them reality, but Power is temperamental, and Courage elusive. You will never find the third among these scared sheep you call courtiers. Why, girl, are you so confident you'll survive?"

"Because I am your daughter." I have to laugh at the absurdity of it all. "I am your daughter…your daughter…Father, look at me!"

I reach for his arm – crossing the distance in half a heartbeat – and press my fingers into the softness of his tunic, longing to make him hurt. Just the touch is enough, I realize too late. My father yells a curse as this dream shatters into pieces as fractured as my thoughts – and then I wake with a start, shivering in the dark while tears stream down my face.

Before my handmaid, dreaming soundlessly at the foot of my bed, can hear my sobs I turn on my side and press my lips together, determined to rid myself of the memory of his voice. I try to tell myself that he wasn't real, that my father died a long time ago, but that doesn't help any more than it ever has. Slowly, I unclench my fists and bring a palm to my mouth, tasting the shallow half-moons of blood where my nails broke the skin in my sleep.

I wish that I was stronger, sheathed in steel. I wish that I could ignore the empty place inside of me that longs for my father's approval, but I never can. I am a weak reed. I am just as soft and pathetic as my dreams portray me. How can I be anything more, when I weep at the merest glancing vocal barb, when I simply stand aside as yet another attainted supplicant is thrown to the shadows? How can I be anything more when the reflection that stares back at me in the looking glass is that of a pallid cowed girl, unable to bear the weight placed on her shoulders?

What does Ganondorf see in me?

What does anyone see in me?

I'll never rid myself of the specter of my father. He doomed Hyrule to the dark, but he was a king as well. He was a wolf. Surely that will be kinder than what history will say of me.