The Book of the Dead

As dry as Gerudo Valley was, it was a proverbial oasis compared to the wastes of the Great Desert.

Sands to the north. Sands to the south. Sands certainly to the west, as far as the horizon, where even as the sun set, this land couldn't escape its blazing heat. He led thirty gerudo by the banks of the River Tharsis – once a lifeline to a civilization that had flourished here, now no more than a trickle. Time had taken everything from this land. The wind ever blew westward, cackling, taunting the people of the west of the bounty that lay to the east. A wind that carried naught but death, and had whispered to him since his eyes first opened upon this world. As surely as the fire within drove him onward, and the wind mocked him, water was departed, and barren earth his constant companion.

Soon, the King of Thieves told himself, that would change. Soon, a new wind would blow. Sand would come to the east, and the golden light of sun would be nothing compared to the golden light of the Triforce. Thirty had marched with him to this deserted place, but once he got what he came for, thirty would be more than enough. If the legends of the book were true, then he wouldn't need to lead his people into war at all. It would be over quickly, and over cleanly, which was at well – from all he had read, wars were best fought in a manner like the butcher's blade. Quick cut, no regrets, sever the head of the enemy, and reap the spoils. So far, he had yet to take up the blade against the sheep that called Hyrule theirs, but in due time, he told himself. In due time.

Or not. For as his destination loomed before him, he was reminded how cruel time was. Time was not on his side. Already 27 years old, he was well into half-life by most peoples' standards. Time had taken this city, a great arch buried under sand being all that remained. He called the column to a halt, and squinted downwards – the sun was at its apex, and his shadow was long, but the sand got everywhere.

There you are.

He could see three figures standing at the entrance. Three could not defy thirty, but if they knew what was good for them, they would grant him access to the necropolis. His ambitions lay in lands where the sun rose, not where it set. In civilizations still alive, not long dead. So to that end, he led his mount downwards, and his column followed. The three figures, clad in shawls and rags to protect them from the elements, made no motion to stop him. He saw the hand of one linger on his sword, but he knew that they knew that bronze was nothing compared to steel. Rags could not compare to the armour forged for him. Even in this heat, he wore it – a reminder to all that he was king. Ganondorf Dragmire. King of the Gerudo. The future king of all lands. He dismounted from his horse and walked up to the first of the three, not bothering to hide his sneer. None of them spoke.

"They call this place the necropolis," he murmured. He looked past the trio, to the great arch, and the darkness beyond. "Literally a city of the dead."

None of the guardians spoke.

"They say a great civilization was here once – even before the time of the gerudo. Before we too were reduced to beggars and thieves as the land died around us."

The guardians remained silent.

"I understand that you are their descendants," Ganondorf continued. "That if I were to ride further west, I would see the remnants of a once proud people, fighting over water and camel-hide, as the land killed them as often as the sword."

Still, they remained silent.

"I would invite you to join me in my crusade," the king continued. "Still, you refused, but did allow my warriors to leave with their heads. So…" He glanced round at his company. Thirty women, of leather armour, shield, and spear, standing in formation behind him. He returned his gaze back to the guardians. "You know what I'm here for."

One of the men lowered his head slightly. "Your messengers told us as such. The Book of the Dead."

Ganondorf smirked. "Well?" he asked. "Where is it?"

The man glanced over his shoulder to the arch. "Deep below the earth. Deep even before the dunes took this city."

The smirk turned into a frown. "I'd have hoped you'd have understood that when I asked for the book, I wasn't asking at all. I was demanding it."

"Demanding," one of the men murmured. "A thief who calls himself king making demands of us."

Ganondorf tapped his armour with a fist. "Do you not see this, wretch? You think I could not take it if I so desired?"

The man said nothing.

"I have thirty soldiers, and you are but three – guarding a book which is in the company of five-thousand warriors. A book that has the power to resurrect them and lead them into battle."

"So many say," the first man said.

Ganondorf looked at him. "What's your name?"

"Anwar."

"Well, Anwar, you must understand that you're a fool, to have a relic of such power at your command. But also know that I could kill you where you stand now, and simply explore the depths of the earth for myself."

He said nothing.

"Of course," Ganondorf said, as he looked over his shoulder, "you should also know that my quarrel is not with you. My eyes are mostly fixated on the east."

"We know," Anwar said.

He looked back at him. "Do you now? What, you've sent spies to my people?"

Anwar sighed. "The wind carries whispers with it, King of Thieves. We hear the sound of hammer and sword, of arrow and bow, of spear, horse, and banners being sewn. We hear the sounds of war."

"And I will have my war, and my victory, and I will claim my prize, while you dwell in the shadows of better men."

Anwar smirked. "The man who had a shadow cast over him since birth speaks to me of dwelling in the shadows of men greater than myself." He shrugged. "Very well. I will take you to the book, Ganondorf Dragmire. On condition that your warriors wait outside."

Ganondorf scowled. "Do you take me for a fool?"

"No. I take you for a monster. Nevertheless, those are my terms." He took a short-sword out of his belt and cast it down on the stone between them. "You may even keep your weapon, if it so pleases you. No doubt a time will come when your sword meets another, whose mastery of steel is greater than yours."

Ganondorf, after a moment, nodded, deciding to ignore the insult. "Lead on," he said.

"We too call this the necropolis," Anwar said as he led Ganondorf onwards. "The true name of this city has been lost to time." He glanced back at Ganondorf, his oil lamp casting a shadow upon his face. "Does it please you?"

Ganondorf said nothing. He was too busy staring at the ruins. The rest of the city was buried even further under the sand, and he knew that technically, they were in a single structure. Making their way through passageways that were once well above the desert rather than deep beneath it. But even in such a confined space, he couldn't help but marvel at the ingenuity that would have been required to craft such a marvel. The amount of people that would have to work, not to mention be fed, clothed, and watered. It was proof that in an older time, a gentler time, the deserts west of Hyrule had been able to give rise to marvels that dwarfed anything the people of the east claimed as theirs.

And yet with that wonder came a simmering anger – scarce different from the anger he had felt as long as he had a comprehension of what anger even was. He-

"Good king?"

He looked at Anwar. "What?" he hissed.

"Your face is red – perhaps we need not this lamp?"

Ganondorf grunted. "Lead on little man."

"Little man you call me." He turned back to the corridor. "Fair enough. You tower above me. The gerudo consider themselves above lesser men – lesser men which must breathe life into their wombs of course."

Ganondorf said nothing.

"Did you ever find out who your father was?"

"No king of the gerudo ever asks that question, and it is not for his mother to say."

"Of course not."

There was a tone in the man's voice that Ganondorf didn't like. "I am gerudo," he said. "I am the Son of the Sands. The Son of Din."

"Yes, Din, the Goddess of Power. Small wonder then, that it is her virtue above all else you crave, even while lacking wisdom-"

"And no doubt courage is your virtue," Ganondorf muttered. "Certainly you lack the wisdom to keep your mouth shut."

Anwar sighed. "Before the sun sets, I will have imparted wisdom to you, King of Thieves."

"Heed my words now, little man – hurry it up. The dead can wait eternity, but I can't."

"Eternity," Anwar whispered. "Oh, you will know eternity as your brother before the end."

Ganondorf scowled. He returned his gaze to the corridor, and the scowl deepened.

The gerudo had never built anything like this. Gerudo Fortress was but a hovel compared to this majesty. He was walking in the ruins of ancients to…

To do what?

He shrugged the doubt aside. The fire left no room for doubt. Anger could not allow doubt. Even here, beneath the sands, in this dank, cool place, away from the light of sun, the anger…

He had to keep the anger. The anger was what kept him going. He reminded himself to hang onto the anger, even as he gasped at the sight before him.

"Here we are," Anwar whispered. "The heart of the necropolis."

It was a mausoleum – so long, so wide, so tall, that it was as if it was crafted by the goddesses themselves. As if Din herself had shaped this place, so that the wisdom of Nayru could be preserved eternal. The gerudo worshipped the Goddess of the Sands. To them, the false faith of the east was not to be entertained. Still, all his life, Ganondorf had felt a fire inside him – something no dead goddess at a dead temple could account for. The people of the east told tales of golden goddesses, of golden triangles, and he had come to believe them. That he walked in a world created by Din, and a goddess named Farore had breathed life into creation…and in the case of this desert, abandoned it to die.

"Magnificent, no?" Anwar asked.

Ganondorf lowered his gaze. Away from the roof and the dropping flecks of sand, away from the pillars that supported it, and down to what lay on the surface. Stone coffins. Thousands of them. The final resting place of the dead. A sleeping army that with but an incantation, could be awoken and set loose on the world.

"Come," said Anwar. "The sooner you get your book, the sooner this charade ends."

"Charade?" Ganondorf murmured.

Anwar scoffed as he led Ganondorf down into the crypt. "Why do you think you're here?"

"To get an army to let loose upon my people's enemies, and take what is rightfully ours."

Anwar, in a low voice, asked, "and how often did you tell yourself that lie before you could say such words with that conviction?"

Ganondorf came to a stop. "Excuse me?" he whispered.

Anwar looked at him – the lamp was still shining, and the shadows on his face were still long. "You speak of your people," he said. "But when you lead them into battle, when you try to take what lies in the heart of the Sacred Realm, will they be the ones who benefit from it?"

Ganondorf nodded. "Lead on, little man."

Anwar did just that. Before him was a dais, and on it, a book. One that here, protected from wind, sun, and sand, was still intact. Its cover old and weathered, its title illegible, but his prize, all the same.

"The Book of the Dead," Anwar said. He looked at Ganondorf. "You can read, I assume."

Ganondorf walked past him. "You think I came all this way for nothing?"

"I think you came all this way for the same reason dozens of men and women like yourself have."

Ganondorf looked round. "Excuse me?"

Anwar shrugged. "So many come to this place, King of Thieves. In my own short life, I have escorted two before you, and my father escorted three."

"And yet the book remains here." Ganondorf's gaze narrowed. "Why? Why let the army slumber?"

Anwar shrugged. "Read the book and see. Behold its incantations, and what it will cost you."

Ganondorf, scowling, gingerly picked up the book in his hands.

What it will cost you…

He shook his head. What this book would do would give him an army to get a power beyond mortal comprehension. Whatever it cost him to do that, that was a price worth paying. So slowly, carefully, even as the fire raged inside him, he opened the first page…

Habib I, 277-309.

And stared.

Habib II, 309-351

"No," he whispered.

Kamset I, 351-352

Sharan I, 352-388.

Ganondorf turned around at Anwar. "What is this?" he asked.

Anwar was grinning like an idiot.

"What is this?!"

"The Book of the Dead," Anwar said.

Ganondorf looked back. He turned the pages, and found nothing but names, numbers, and more names.

"A hundred kings and more," Anwar whispered. "And over five-thousand names of those who served them in life."

No.

"The Book of the Dead is simply that – a chronicle of the dead. Its magic is the ability to record those who lived. Those who will never be forgotten."

Ganondorf threw the book down with a roar.

Kill him.

The fire burned. The fire raged.

Kill him!

He drew his sword and advanced on Anwar. "You miserable lying little-"

"Lying?" Anwar whispered. "Pray tell me, before my life is taken, when I lied to you?"

Ganondorf stood there, the sword pointed at the man before him. Breathing as heavily as a horse in heat.

"When did I lie?" Anwar asked. "What statement of absolute truth did I provide as to the properties of this book?"

"You…the legends…"

"Are legends, and nothing more. Legends told over and over which appeal to those who seek power without wisdom."

"Your book. Your legends."

"We let the legends grow, so that people like yourself may come here," Anwar said. He walked past Ganondorf and gingerly put the book back on its dais. "They come seeking power, and leave with wisdom." He turned around and looked at Ganondorf. "But I already know you are different. Yet even so, I brought you down here. Away from the sun. Away from the sand and wind. Into this cool place, away from fire."

"To what? Kill me?"

"No. To save you."

Ganondorf lowered his sword. A chill was in the air. The fire raged, but the chill killed that as well.

"I know what lies within you," Anwar whispered. "From the day you were brought into this world, the fire has always been there. A fire that will consume everything it touches."

"What are you talking about?" Ganondorf whispered.

Anwar sighed. "You are here, because you are meant to be here. Your will is your own – he cannot change that – but the fire drives you. The fire poisons you. The fire will corrupt time itself, splitting it three ways before it re-joins for calamity."

"Keep talking little man. I might just split you three ways."

Anwar shook his head. "You feel it, don't you?" He took a step forward. "The hunger. The desire." He looked up at the ceiling. "Here, in the dark, he is weak. But you…you can just turn away."

"From the book?"

"From everything. From your war. Your envy. Your hatred. Power does not corrupt – power simply allows the corrupted to do terrible things. But power, the power that you as man, as king, as incarnation possess…you could do great things."

Ganondorf said nothing.

"Do you understand?" Anwar whispered.

He did. The fire flickered.

"Do you…" Anwar trailed off.

"I understand," Ganondorf said, as he withdrew his sword from the man's belly. He smirked as he watched Anwar stagger back, horror in his eyes and blood on his hands as he looked at his wound.

"Little men like you, they talk too much," Ganondorf said.

The fire intensified.

"Fine," Ganondorf said. "I don't get my army. But you will be the 5001st member of this tomb."

Anwar collapsed. It looked like he wanted to say something, but he was too busy drowning in his own blood, pouring from stomach and mouth.

"Hyrule will be mine," Ganondorf said. "The Triforce will be mine. And little men who prattle on about wisdom and deem themselves brave will not stop me."

Kill him.

He resisted the fire. For now. The little man was going to die here anyway.

"Farwell, Anwar," Ganondorf said. "I will remember you."

It was a lie. But it didn't matter.

Power mattered. The Triforce mattered. Sword, steel, and strength were what mattered. The demise of his enemies was what mattered.

The fire mattered.