Fire to Fire

Part I

"There was a silly damn bird called a phoenix… every few hundred years he built a pyre and burnt himself up. He must have been the first cousin to Man. But every time he burnt himself up he sprang out of the ashes, he got himself born all over again. And it looks like we're doing the same thing, over and over, but we've got one damn thing the phoenix never had. We know the damn silly thing we just did. We know all the damn silly things we've done for a thousand years and as long as we know that and always have it around where we can see it, someday we'll stop making the goddamn funeral pyres and jumping in the middle of them."

-Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451

Twenty-First December
Telma's Pub
9:40 p.m.
New Hyrule City, Lanayru Province
New Hyrule

The woman stands in the shade of a marble archway, tapestries and rose petals swimming in the spring air which surrounds her. A circlet is wound in her thick golden braids, and there's the hint of a flirtatious smile dying to escape her lips. Her slender neck is perpetually held at a regal angle, her piercing blue eyes drinking in her audience-

"She's very beautiful," somebody comments, and just like that, the artist's hand stills. The woman melts away from his line of vision, and he's surrounded once more by the clinking of glasses and rumbling of voices. All that remains is a sketch of the woman; it's a perfect recollection of her likeness, but all of the soul is gone. Slowly, the artist allows his pencil to rest on the bar, and glances up.

"I agree," he says gruffly. The bartender is polishing a glass as her eyes trail again over the drawing.

"Well, honey, you must be quite the artist."

He shrugs. "I do tattoos."

"That's an art. I've got one myself, though you probably can't guess where." She chortles now and points to the figure on the page. "What a darling; I know a fella or two'd pay a pretty rupee to have a picture of her on his bicep."

The artist struggles with that one. He knows the woman in the drawing, and she's worth more than a patch of a pervert's skin. But he also knows that the bartender only has good intentions, so he nods and gives a weak smirk.

"No doubt," he mumbles, and bows his head. The bartender lets loose a smile and leaves to refill someone's glass, her loose red braids bobbing behind her.

He returns to his sketchbook, looking wistfully at the beautiful figure one last time. Then he slams it shut and pockets it, the woman and her royal surroundings vanishing from sight.

There's a shot of whiskey waiting for him, glimmering in the lamplight. He doesn't think twice before he downs it, his throat burning as he lets out a long, low sigh. That's when he staggers to his feet, scraping through his pockets for the last of his rupees. They clink as they shower onto bar's wooden surface.

After wiping his mouth with his tattooed forearm, he shrugs on his long, thick black coat. The cotton smells familiar as he inhales it, pulling the collar close around his face and shouldering his way through the crowded pub. Mahogany chairs scrape against worn-down floorboards as people rush to abandon the hulking artist's path, and then the heavy oaken door is hoisted open, a gust of cold air swirls inside, and Ganondorf Dragmire steps out into New Hyrule City.

He's met with the blaring of car horns and loud voices. Neon lights burn his retinas and he steps a little dizzily onto the curb. Next to him, a desperate zora plucks at his guitar and howls out his own hopeless lyrics. He's left out a case for money, but it's empty. Rupeeless, Ganondorf barely spares the singer a look.

He can't ignore the hopeless lyrics, though.

"We're slowly dyin', yeah, yeah, slowly dyin'…"

The tattoo artist is relieved when the traffic light swinging overhead changes and cars come screeching to a halt, their engines humming as they wait. He crosses the street swiftly and passes through a tall iron gate. The city park is bitterly cold at this time of night, but somehow it is still busy. The artist passes over slush-covered cobblestones and ducks underneath bare, low-hanging branches. He turns the corner. He breathes.

That's when he hears a giggle.

It's coming from a little Hylian girl not ten feet away. She's cradling a porcelain doll in her arms. Ganondorf's stomach drops when he suddenly sees the yellow curls, the royal gown-

"...And they were meant to be, Gor Hanna!" the girl exclaims to a friend. Her comrade, a little Goron girl, is watching the princess doll greedily.

"Really?"

"Yes," the Hylian breathes. Her eyes are sparkling with excitement. "Princess Zelda and the Hero of Time were born over and over again, and whenever she got kidnapped by monsters, he would come and save her. They met a zillion times without knowing they'd met before." She sighs dreamily, but her friend is confused.

"I don't get it."

Another sigh, this one of exasperation. "It's romantic, Gor Hanna. Just like a fairy tale."

They don't see the troubled expression on the artist's face. In fact, they don't see the artist at all. They see a shadow, tall and dark against the lamplight, and that is all.

Ganondorf drags himself away from the scene and stampedes over wet pavement. Two lovers are entwined on a nearby bench, one murmuring sickly-sweet promises into the other's ear. Something malicious writhes within Ganondorf, but he suppresses it.

Well, he thinks bitterly to himself, what the little girl says is true. Over and over again, Link and Zelda met, in different bodies, different eras…

...but I was there, too.

Zelda's face is burning in his mind: eyes like sea glass, freckles like cinnamon, voice clear, melodic, powerful. She always was enrapturing, all of her glowing, all of her magnificent; of course he remembers. He owes it to her- every single one of her- not to forget.

And yet… she has forgotten him. She was always born fresh, new, and devoid of memories of her past lives- and Ganondorf, too. With every new lifetime, she forgot him, but he always remembered.

The question: Who are you? From her royal lips, just like that. Each word a stab wound. The accompanying smile: salt.

His response: If only you knew.

It aches, now, to think of her. The year is 2014 and he has made himself numb to the hatred that once cursed him. Now he tries to suppress memories from long, long ago, and turns his visions of a long-dead kingdom into artwork.

After all this time, he doesn't understand why he was cursed to always remember when all the others were allowed to forget. He can see the fortresses and castles of a thousand years ago as clearly as the city park where he now stands. The tremor of orchestra strings at the fringe of a gala are as loud as the zora musician wailing a few blocks back. Time is confusing and Ganondorf Dragmire, the once-king, is everywhere at once.

And he's thinking of Zelda again, which is pain enough in itself. He's been around for long enough now that he's seen her dozens of times, and she's always had that same impact on him… the kind of impact which makes him ache and wish that their ancestors weren't mortal enemies, or that he wasn't a demon's servant, or that she was not hell-bent on obliterating him and his power.

I loved you every minute, he thinks stupidly, shivering underneath a brittle oak tree. I loved you every damned minute and you never knew.

A thousand years a thief, a king, a rebel, a prisoner, an ambassador, a beast, a warlock, a slavedriver, a dictator, a god.

A thousand years a princess' shadow, watching her life play out from womb to the grave not once but a dozen times. A thousand years playing both her closest companion and the monster under the bed. A thousand years enduring her kindness in spite of his malevolence, and many times, the other way around.

A thousand years knowing at her birth that she will someday be extraordinarily beautiful, and watching it come to fruition again and again.

A thousand years betraying her and watching her crumble. A thousand years at war with himself and his ancestors. A thousand years fighting the voice in his head.

A thousand years trying not to fall in love with her. A thousand years failing.

And now he is here and the year is 2014 and he is thinking of her again. He's thinking of her with blonde hair and red hair, blue eyes and brown, in satin robes, in pirate wear, in a beaded dinner gown, in nothing at all.

From fire to fire, ashes to ashes, he's been born and reborn, a phoenix at heart. But she... well, she is long gone, now. She choked on the cinders before she could spark. Time has swallowed her entirely and put out her flame.

What I'd give to see her again, the voice in his head muses.

At least it is his own voice for once.

"Not everything set on fire will rise."

― Darnell Lamont Walker

I've been kind of addicted to writing this fic. It came out to almost 12,000 words, which is why I'm splitting it into five or six short parts. Stay tuned for lots of drama, reincarnated Zeldas, angry demon-gods and sentence fragments. (Yeah, son.)

Don't forget to review!