He dreams of her, sometimes.

Link dreams of her coming to him like some deity of lore, his own Pallas Athena; and with her she brings all his heartache, everything he's ever desired – and everything he's ever lost. She brings her swirling jadeite robes and flaming hair, eyes the color of war. She's a will-o-the-wisp, a devil, her laughter thundering around his head, although it's no louder than the wind on snow.

She comes through the wind and the muck of battle, fairy-fingers turning the blood into rivers of gold, the Master Sword into rust. But she's always just out of reach. She skips through the canter of his dreams, a hairs-breadth away, the wind flapping her clothes like the wings of a butterfly.

When he finally, finally catches her, she allows him to trace the supple curve of her calf with his lips, climbing up, up, past her knee and the soft flesh of her thigh – and she vanishes.

Crumbles into ash. Completely gone.