Author's Note: This is a sequel to "The Legend of Zelda: Circle of Destiny" and its spinoff, "Legacy." While this story should be capable of standing on its own, it will make a lot more sense if you are already familiar with the world that I created in that original story.

Also, the first story was written as if it was a game; it has a clear quest, dungeons, bosses, and magical prizes (for lack of a better term). This story, however, is not intended to be a game. Rather, it's the story that happens in between games and it will set up a storyline for a subsequent game-storyline. So it will have a different flow than the first one.

Because of other things I have going on right now, updates will be slow, so be forewarned. That being said, if I've been silent a while, give me a nudge. I tend to be more productive if I feel like other people are relying on me.

"You don't look too good," Zelda said to Link while they were eating breakfast. Or, rather, she was eating breakfast; he had spent the last twenty minutes poking at his food, not taking more than two or three bites.

"I don't feel too good," he admitted.

"Is your shoulder paining you?" she asked. His left shoulder—where he had taken an arrow—had been the bane of his existence for decades. Arthritis had set up in it to the point that he couldn't stand to move it. Getting dressed had become such a torture for him, they had the royal tailor design a new garment for him. The new shirt cut across the body diagonally, tying on the left side of his waist. The right side had a long sleeve, but the left arm and part of the chest and back were left bare. For the winter, when it was too cold to be that exposed, there was a variation that had a cape attached to the left side, which covered him down to the elbow. He usually had his arm tied to his body—just so he didn't accidentally move it—but it was left free below the elbow, so he had some use of that hand. He had learned over the years, though, to be right-handed.

"My shoulder's no worse than usual," he said.

She put her hand to his peaked face. "You feel a little warm. Maybe you've caught a cold."

"Maybe," he said, listlessly.

"Go back to bed and get Doctor Roberé to give you something for it."

He nodded a little. "I think I will," he said, slowly rising to his feet.

Zelda knew he felt bad if he wasn't arguing with her. His infirmity annoyed him to no end and he usually pushed himself beyond what was reasonable. It was rare that he let his rebellious body win a fight.

Zelda finished her breakfast alone. They were usually surrounded by family, but Zeyde and Katherine were on progress, and they had taken most of the court with them. Link had said that he wasn't up to the trip this time, so he and Zelda had stayed behind.

That was also very much unlike him; he had always liked to travel and he especially liked to meet people. During their reign, he and Zelda had traveled more than any previous monarchs. It used to be that people lived their entire lives without ever glimpsing a member of the royal family, but Link and Zelda made it a point to be seen—to the point that it was the rare individual in Hyrule who had not seen them at least once.

When Zelda finished eating, she wandered back to the bedroom to check on Link; it would be like him not to bother to call the doctor. He would insist that he could get over the problem on his own and there was no need to take up the man's time—despite the fact that Doctor Roberé's sole job was to take care of the aging former monarchs; the rest of the royal family had a separate physician.

When Zelda opened the bedroom door, though, she was horrified to see the doctor standing by the bed, holding a chamber pot up while Link vomited into it. Even from across the room, Zelda could see he was bringing up blood.

Doctor Roberé was shouting at his apprentice and the servants, sending them scurrying for warm towels and hot water and various medicines.

Link sank back onto the pillows with a groan.

The doctor examined him and asked him some questions—which were interrupted by another bout of vomiting—then he hurried to a side table to begin mixing medicine.

Zelda's feet were numb as they automatically carried her across the floor.

"You didn't tell me you were this sick," she whispered.

Link cracked open an eye. "I didn't know I was. It just came . . . on. . ."

He leaned over the side of the bed and threw up again.

He was losing a lot of blood.

Doctor Roberé came back a moment later, pushing past Zelda. "Here, Your Majesty, try this."

"I don't think I can drink anything right now," he said weakly.

"Try. If you can keep it down for just a few minutes, it should stop the vomiting."

Link took the cup from him and reluctantly drank from it.

It wasn't the first time he—or Zelda, for that matter—had bled internally. They had both suffered bouts over the years—the lasting legacy of their fight against the demon-dragon. Zelda had had a particularly worrisome bout while she was pregnant with their seventh child; there was real concern that she would miscarry. Link had rushed to the fairy in the Northern Woods, gotten tears from her, then teleported back. Thankfully, the tears had saved both Zelda and their unborn child, but it was a very close thing.

Neither of them had had a problem for quite some time, but given their advanced age—and especially Link's other physical ailments—a bout at this point was worrying.

Link didn't manage to keep the medicine down for a minute; he was soon hanging over the side of the bed again.

Zelda closed her eyes.

Zeyde?

Yes, Mother? he answered almost at once.

Your father is sick; he's bringing up blood again. Can you send someone to the fairy and get some tears for him? Regular medicine isn't going to work.

There was a long pause. Mars is on his way now; he's closest. Expect him within the hour.

Thank you.

We're packing up now; we'll be home shortly as well.

I don't know think it's that serious, she said half-heartedly; in truth, she was terribly worried.

If it wasn't serious, you wouldn't send to the fairy, he argued.

Call me cautious.

Yes, and I'm being cautious as well. We'll be home in an hour or less.

By the time Mars arrived with the fairy's tears half an hour later, Link was so weak, he couldn't lift his head. Zelda stood at the foot of the bed, incessantly wringing the canopy drapes in her hands. Link was as white as the sheets. She had only seen him that colorless once before: when he had nearly died from his shoulder wound in the mountains of Shi-Ha.

Mars gently cradled Link's head, lifting him up enough to drink the tears. Link sighed wearily as Mars laid him down again, then he promptly fell asleep.

Doctor Roberé took Zelda by the arm and led her to the far corner of the room. Zeyde and Katherine were already there, keeping watch; the rest of the court was still dribbling in.

"I have confidence that the fairy's tears will stop the internal bleeding," the doctor told the three monarchs in a low voice. "But I also know that her magic has limited ability to heal the damage caused by the old poison."

"What are you saying? Zelda whispered.

"I'm saying . . . I don't know if he will recover from this. It's hard for an elderly person—much less someone of His Majesty's advanced age—to recover from a serious illness or injury; the body can't heal as it did when it was younger."

"Are . . . are you saying . . ?" Zeyde choked on his words, unable to continue. Katherine slipped her hand into his, squeezing tightly as he fought to blink back tears.

"The next day or two will tell," the doctor said evasively. "If he shows signs of improvement, then he might soldier on for a while longer. But if not . . ."

The words he left unsaid hung in the air like a terror no one could look at, much less acknowledge.

"We shall have to see," he repeated. "I've seen people will themselves to live and others who have willed themselves to die; that kind of drive is very powerful. And His Majesty has a willpower that's unlike anything I've ever seen before, to be honest. He might cheat death once more."

He left to check on Link again, leaving Zeyde and Katherine and Zelda alone in the corner.

Without saying anything, Zeyde pulled his mother into a hug, holding her tight. It was only then that she noticed she was trembling.

"I can't do this," she whispered.

Zeyde put his head down, whispering in her ear. "He's so strong, he'll outlive us all."

But Zelda thought his words sounded hollow—as if he didn't believe them. And Zelda didn't believe them either; despite their long lifespans, she and Link were only mortal; their end would come someday.

But as much as she knew that to be true, she didn't want it to come today. At least, not for Link. She could face the prospect of her own death better than his.

Everyone kept a hushed vigil, watching anxiously for some sign that Link would pull through, but he slept the rest of the day and didn't stir. Later in the evening, when everything was dark, his breathing became more labored.

"You better bring the family in," the doctor whispered to Zeyde.

Zelda couldn't stand to be in the room anymore; she fled to the Council room and shut the door, leaving Katherine and Zeyde to organize a final family reunion. Katherine began instructing the staff to prepare rooms in the castle and reserve rooms throughout the city, while Zeyde teleported in his siblings. They, in turn, brought in their spouses and children, and so on through each subsequent generation. Link and Zelda had over twenty-five hundred descendants, so it was no small feat to handle all of them. But Katherine managed it, one wave at a time.

Even though they had enough descendants to create a good-sized city, Link and Zelda had met most of them at least once. It had become traditional for each generation of royal heirs to live in the castle and raise their children there, so the castle had never lacked for children since Link and Zelda had Zeyde. And the tendency of all of those children to play with their cousins meant that hundreds of children spent at least some portion of their childhood inside the castle.

And staying in the castle meant being petted and coddled by Papa Link and Mama Zee—but most especially by Link. He was perhaps the biggest softie in the history of the world. All the children knew he kept sweets stashed in his pockets and whenever there wasn't anyone else around, he doled them out. Before his arm became too bad, he played and chased and roughhoused with all of them. Sometimes he let the little boys "kill" him with their wooden swords, and they happily bragged that they were better swordsmen than even Link.

And when those children grew up and looked back fondly on their vacations at the castle, they wrote letters, asking if their own children could come for a visit.

No one was ever turned down.

All through the night, groups of fifty people at a time went into Link and Zelda's bedroom to say goodbye and receive a final blessing from their patriarch.

I was nearly three in the morning before Link and Zelda's children began going in, one at a time, to spend a little time with their father.

Zelda was asleep at the Council table when a soft knock woke her up.

Zeyde stuck his head inside. His face was splotchy and his eyes red. "Everyone's done," he announced. "He wants you now."

Zelda rose to her feet stiffly and walked to the door. She had to purposefully avert her eyes and not look at Zeyde's tear-streaked face; if she looked at him too long, she knew she would break down.

Zeyde escorted her to the bedroom. She was about to remind him that she remembered the way to her own bedroom, but when they turned the corner, she saw that the hallway was filled with people. Some of them were family, but many were advisors and servants. Just as there was always a gaggle of people awaiting the birth of the next heir, now they were waiting for word that their king had passed on to the Other Side.

Zeyde had to push some of the people away to make room for Zelda to pass. Many people seemed too lost in their own grief to notice at first.

"Move, please. Let my mother through."

They finally made it to the door and Zeyde opened it for her. When she went into the receiving room, she breathed deeply; she hadn't realized it, but she had practically been holding her breath while wading through the crush of people. The anteroom was empty and silent, though. There weren't even any physician assistants in it.

Zelda paused at the bedroom door and took another deep breath. Then, steeling herself, she quickly opened the door and stepped inside.

The bedroom was empty, too, save for Link, and there were only a few candles lit. She might have just been coming to bed late on a normal day. Link always left some candles burning if he went to bed before she did.

She went to the bedside and looked down at him. His eyes were closed and she could hear a faint rattle in his lungs. Color had not returned to his face, even though he had stopped vomiting blood.

In one hundred and forty-two years, she had kept the death-watch beside many a person: human daughters- and sons-in-law, loyal advisors and other members of court, those taken before their time due to illness or injury; she knew a dying person when she saw one.

As if he could feel the weight of her gaze, Link opened his eyes. They were cloudy with age and glassy from his illness, but when he managed to smile at her, she saw the bright, blue-eyed boy who had won her heart more than one hundred and twenty-five years before.

"There you are," he said weakly.

"Here I am," she said, sitting down gently on the side of the bed. But he shook his head a little and weakly motioned her away with his hand.

"Don't you do that."

"Do what?" she said, standing up again.

"Sit beside me like you're a stranger. Get in bed, woman."

She couldn't help herself; she chuckled softly.

She walked around the bed and pulled back the covers, but he stopped her again. "I get sick and you lose your mind," he continued to scold.

"What now?" she demanded.

"Do you normally wear your clothes to bed? Put on your nightgown."

She caught herself sighing in exasperation. Trust Link to be the exact same person on his deathbed that he was every other day of his life.

"You know, I never have understood why you like arguing with me," she said, as she headed for the closest. Strange, but she was starting to shake off the funerary pallor that had enveloped her and the rest of the castle all day. It was easy to forget and think that today was just a regular day of playfully bickering with Link before bedtime.

"I don't know," he said, his voice so weak she could barely hear him. "I just do." Then he breathlessly chuckled. "I've always thought you are at your most beautiful when you're mad."

She emerged from the closet a moment later wearing her nightgown. She blew out all but a couple of candles near the door so that if the doctor had to come in, he would have some light to see by.

"You know, most people get uglier when they get mad," she pointed out as she crawled into bed beside him.

"Not you," he said. "You are like a storm cloud rolling over the sea—wild and dangerous and exhilarating. I always have liked a good storm," he added as an afterthought.

"The real kind or mine?" she asked.

"Both."

He tried to move his arm, but wasn't able to make it move more than a few inches. But Zelda knew, without anything being said, what he wanted, so she picked up his arm and put it around her shoulders as she cuddled up close to him.

Even through their nightclothes, she could feel how cold he was. Link had never been cold-natured; it was he who had always warmed her up. But after a few minutes, Zelda's body heat warmed him up.

"This feels so much better," he said, closing his eyes with happiness.

The normalcy she had been feeling suddenly fell away and she was struck by the knowledge that this would be their last time together on this earth.

She felt the need to say something to him, but she didn't know what to say. She felt as if thousands of jumbled-up words were roiling inside her and she couldn't pick out the ones she needed.

"You've got something on your mind," he said, not opening his eyes. "You're all stiff and holding your breath."

"Well, yes . . ." she slowly admitted. "Link, I . . ."

She couldn't find the words. Anything she could say would be something he had heard a thousand times from her before. This moment needed something else—something unique—but how could you sum up more than a century of love? There just weren't words for that.

"You don't have to say anything," he said. Then he slowly opened his eyes to look at her. "Don't you think I already know?"

"But . . . I want to say something more than that."

"Yes, and I already know that, too."

He gave her a ghost of his old cocky smile.

"Link . . ."

"Why are you talking when you could be kissing me?"

She was taken aback for a moment, but her natural inclination to argue with him kicked in. "Well, you don't want to hear words you already know, so why should you want a kiss when you already know what it feels like?" she retorted.

"It's because I know what it feels like that I want one," he bantered back. "Now kiss me."

She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. Unlike the rest of him, they were warm—to the point of feverish—and dry. But he managed to respond, kissing her back.

"Link, don't leave me," she whispered before she had a chance to stop herself.

He looked at her, his eyes sorrowful. "I would stay with you, if I could. You know that."

Tears began to fall from her eyes and drip onto his face.

"I'm only going ahead of you on a trip," he whispered. "Soon enough, when your work here is done, you'll join me. And I'll be waiting for you."

"I don't want to wait."

"You must. It's not for you to decide when to cross over. There are still children to care for. And Zeyde and the others will need you—they will need your strength while they sort themselves out. You still have people to take care of."

"But who will take care of me when you're gone?"

He smiled a little. "Do you really think I will be that far away?"

"What if . . . what if we don't get together in our next lifetime?" she blurted out. That possibility had been weighing on her mind for many years.

"Sweetheart, do you think anything could keep me away from you?'

"We were apart for many, many lifetimes," she pointed out.

"Yes, but now I know what it's like to be with you. You are imprinted on my soul and I will never forget that. No matter what, I will not forget." He turned his head and kissed her hair. "I will always come to you."

That thought comforted Zelda. Even if they forgot this life completely when they were reborn, she had every confidence that Link would do as he said. Between his stubbornness and the fact that the gods seemed unable or unwilling to deny him anything he wanted, she was sure he would find her again.

"Do you think that you will be born common again, or have you gotten a taste for being king?" Zelda mused.

Link laughed breathlessly. Zelda—her ear pressed to his chest—could hear his lungs struggling to allow him to do even that. But he seemed to pay it no mind; he was no more afraid of death than he was of anything else.

"If I am destined to be king, and you are born a princess, that would be a bit awkward, as we would, by default, be siblings." He wheezed with laughter again. "When I said I would come back for you, I didn't exactly mean in that way."

"We might be royals from different kingdoms," Zelda pointed out.

"I am a Knight of Hyrule, always descended from Knights of Hyrule. You are always Hyrule's heir. I don't think we'll come back in separate kingdoms."

"So you'll be common?"

"I'll be whatever I must be to be with you. . . . So long as I'm not your brother," he added with a chuckle.

"Cousins?" she teased.

"As long as we're the kissing kind."

She laughed. Then she leaned up and kissed him again. When she pulled away, he was smiling. "Yes, just like that," he said approvingly.

She lay back down, snuggling close to him. "You're a silly man, you know that?"

"So you keep telling me. But you know what?"

"What?"

His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "I think you like silly men."

"No, I think I just like you."

"And I like you. Don't you love it when a plan comes together?"

They laughed together.

Zelda was vaguely aware that someone was softly calling to her. A light swelled in the darkness and the voice became more instant. Then there was a hand on her shoulder, shaking her.

"Mother."

She finally responded to that voice and opened her eyes.

Across the bed from her, Doctor Roberé was leaning in, a candlestick in his hand, looking at her anxiously. When she glanced behind her, she saw Zeyde on the bed, on his knees, trying to gently pull her out of bed.

"What is it?" she croaked, still sleepy.

"Come. Get up," Zeyde said, almost in a whisper.

"It's the middle of the night," she complained. Even after all these years, she still hated getting up too early. A man took his life in his hands if he dared wake her before daybreak; the castle ought to be on fire, a child grievously injured, or the kingdom invaded; Zelda felt those were the only legitimate reasons for waking her up when it was still dark.

If someone needed to be woken in the middle of the night, Link was always the preferred choice. He was never overly grumpy.

Zelda glanced at Link and she suddenly knew what was going on.

He had been pale before, but his skin now had a grayish tint. When she reached out to touch his face, he was as cold as a stone.

She stared at him in disbelief. Despite his pallor, he looked as if he would wake up at any moment. There was even a hint of a smile on his lips, as if he was only teasing.

"Link," she whispered. But he didn't respond.

Zeyde was pulling her away, but she began to fight him with a strength that a woman her age shouldn't have possessed.

"No . . . Link . . ."

"Mother, come," Zeyde pleaded.

"No!"

She began to scream—screams so desperate and piercing, people all around the castle were startled out of their sleep. They were only drowned out when the cannon began booming out, announcing to the city that their king had passed.

Zeyde finally gave up trying to coax his mother away and resorted to picking her up and carrying her out—Zelda fighting him every step of the way.

At Zeyde's instance, Doctor Roberé drugged Zelda and she spent the day in a motionless stupor, halfway between sleep and consciousness. It numbed the sharp pain, but it also kept her stuck in a frightful place she couldn't escape from. She lived in a gray fog of terrible loneliness that no one would rescue her from.

She fought against the drugs for a long time and, finally, in the middle of the night, she was able to wake up. Afraid of falling asleep again, she tumbled out of bed, falling to the floor in a tangle of covers.

She waited, holding her breath, afraid that someone might have heard her moving around, but no one came.

She untangled herself and got to her feet. When she glanced around the room, she didn't immediately recognize it. There were bedrooms all over the castle and it could have been any one of them. All she knew was it wasn't her room.

She stormed out, full of righteous indignation. She'd give Zeyde and the doctor a piece of her mind for taking her away from Link and leaving her so drugged she couldn't wake up.

She went down the hallway, but it took a couple of turns before she finally recognized where she was. She was on the third floor, which was reserved for their councilors; they must have put her in one of their suites.

Still angry, she stomped down to the second floor and went to her room, flinging doors open as she went. But when she opened the inner doors to the bedchamber, she found the candles lit, but the room—including the bed—were empty.

This brought her up short. Where was Zeyde and the others? And where had they moved Link to?

Panic suddenly gripped her so hard, her heart constricted ominously and she had to grab onto the door frame to keep from falling. Her breath came in ragged gasps.

They . . . Surely they hadn't had Link's funeral without her? Without giving her a last chance to say goodbye?

She sank to the floor, gasping for air as the panic threatened to take control of her.

"Help," she called out, her breathless voice barely above a whisper. "Help me, please."

Luckily there was a guard posted nearby—one who had already been watching his queen worriedly. When he cautiously poked his head around the corner and saw her collapsed on the floor, he ran in to help her.

"Your Majesty, what's wrong? Did you fall? Do you need the doctor?"

She gripped his arms, her fingers digging into his muscle like claws. "Where . . ? Where . . ?"

"What, Your Majesty?"

"Link," she finally managed to say.

He looked at her with confusion for a moment, then finally caught on. "The King Father? They took him to the chapel, Your Majesty. The knights are keeping a vigil."

The constriction in Zelda's chest eased just a little, making it easier to breathe. "He's . . . They haven't . . . haven't had the funeral yet?"

"No, Your Majesty. That's scheduled for the morning. They needed time to make all the arrangements."

Zelda let out a shuddering breath and sagged in the guard's arms with relief.

"I better go get His Majesty," the guard said.

Zelda's head snapped up. "No."

"You're not well, Your Majesty."

"I'll be even less well if they drug me again."

"I'm sure they just wanted to ease your pain."

"By trapping me in a place where I couldn't wake up or even move? No thank you."

The guard looked hesitant, as if he knew he ought to get someone more qualified to take care of the Queen Mother, but not wanting to go against her express command, either.

"Help me up," she demanded.

He got to his feet, then pulled her to hers. Zelda's knees felt a little shaky, but after a few deep breaths, she felt more in control of herself.

"Shouldn't I fetch the doctor, at least?" the guard said, half-pleading.

"No." She looked up at him. "Don't tell anyone you've seen me."

He looked pained, but he acquiesced. "Yes, Your Majesty."

"Link's at the chapel, you said?"

"Yes, Your Majesty. At least, that's what I heard them say when they left at sundown. I assume they're still there."

"Thank you. Remember, not a word."

"No, Your Majesty," he said, bowing his head dutifully.

Zelda ducked into the closet and found a loose gown that she had had for decades. It had originally been made for her when she was late in pregnancy, but it had been so comfortable and trouble-free, she had continued to wear it off and on for years. Now, she slipped it on and put her feet into the first pair of shoes she came across and headed out of the room. Downstairs, on the first floor, she took the hallway to the west wing.

More than half a century before, Zelda and Link had commissioned the addition of a chapel to the castle. Their weapons had long been stored in the Jewel Room, but Link was worried that some of them might lose their magical powers if kept in a non-sacred space.

"We don't want your Light Arrows to die the way the Master Sword did," he had warned. "I don't think there's a place we can take them to and get them renewed."

So they had a chapel built in the courtyard on the west side of the castle. A raised, covered walkway connected it to the main building. Inside, there were a few pews—enough to seat about fifty people—an altar, and the large wooden and glass cases that housed all of their magical and mechanical weapons. Visitors to the castle still wanted to come see the weapons—which they were allowed to do—but the chapel was more than just a tourist stop; it fulfilled its primary function as a religious building. Over the years, many people had gotten married there—from people who worked in the castle to younger princes and princesses who wanted a small, private wedding. Major holidays had been celebrated by the Royal Family there, too.

And more than a few deceased family members had been laid there prior to their funeral and burial in the family crypt under the monastery.

Zelda slipped out the side door that led directly to the chapel. The air was damp and chilly, mocking the sweet perfume of the spring flowers already in bloom.

The double-guard that was normally posted outside the chapel day and night was noticeably absent. Confused, Zelda opened the door, expecting to find the chapel empty after all.

The interior was a bit dim—the chandeliers were all lit, but the wall sconces weren't—and there were long shadows on the walls. Adding to the eerie atmosphere was the presence of dozens of knights in full-armor, standing as silent sentinels down either side of the center aisle and along the edges of the room. The visor of every helm was down, obscuring the face of the person underneath it. And none of them were wearing their customary heraldic tabards, making them completely anonymous.

Zelda stood there for a moment, but not one of the knights moved or spoke or acknowledged her presence in any way. She began to wonder if the suits of armor were all empty. She wasn't sure which was creepier: the thought of so many people standing there silent and motionless, or empty suits of armor staring at her.

She slowly walked up the aisle, glancing around. No one tried to stop her, but she had a feeling she wasn't supposed to be there. She was intruding on some ritual that she wasn't invited to. But she felt her claim on Link was stronger than anyone else's—even his brother knights'—and she was determined to see him again.

When she came to the front of the room, she saw Link laid out on the altar table. It had been draped with cloth of gold that dimly glowed in the candlelight. Link lay on top, also wearing a full suit of armor—polished until it shone like a mirror—and holding his sword in both hands, point down. It took Zelda a moment, but she eventually recognized it as the suit of armor that had been made for him in Erenrue during the Dark Days. He had worn other suits of armor since then; she didn't think he had ever worn his Erenrue armor again.

It made her curious; who had selected this armor for him? Had it just looked the best because it got the least amount of use, or had someone known the history of the suit and selected it for Link's final appearance?

Unlike the knights in the room, he had on a silk surcoat. Zelda was again surprised to realize that it didn't bear the arms of the king of Hyrule; instead, it had his family arms on it. She knew the surcoat had not been kept in the armory with the suit; the surcoats that she and Link wore to the battle on the field before Pallis had been burned to try and hide their identities once they escaped. As best she could remember, whenever Link wore a surcoat after that, it had always borne the arms of Hyrule. In fact, she was quite certain they had ridden to battle against Shi-Ha wearing matching surcoats.

The surcoat had to have been specifically made for this last display. But why?

She glanced at his helmet, which sat beside his head. It was not original to the suit; the original had been left on the field at Pallis. But at some point another helmet had been made to match the suit. It had feathers in its socket—two short blue plumes and one long gold plume: the mark of the king or supreme general—but it lacked a crown. She knew that Link's other helmets had a metal crown rived onto them, but although someone took the time to make him this helmet, they had not put a crown on it.

Was someone trying to imply that Link was not a king? After all these years, did someone want to point out his humble origins?

Mother, what are you doing here?

Zelda jumped and hastily looked around. Everyone was still in their places, standing silent vigil. But she noticed that all the knights standing on either side of the altar all had crowns on their helms. The people standing at Link's head and feet had larger, more elaborate crowns than the others. A quick look at the style of armor gave away her daughter, Anne-Marie, Queen of Shi-Ha—meaning the other monarch was Zeyde.

Zelda turned to face him, but she replied telepathically to keep from breaking the almost holy silence. I was afraid that you had buried him while I was drugged. I came to see for myself that he's still here.

Of course we wouldn't exclude you from the funeral, Zeyde replied, sounding rather hurt and offended that she would think so.

Of course I wouldn't have thought my own child would drug me, she retorted acidly.

Mother, you were hysterical. We just wanted to calm you down. The doctor was afraid for your health if you kept on.

So? If I grieve myself to death, it's my right. Besides, it wouldn't bother me at all if I went now, too, and you just had a funeral for both of us at once.

Even without saying anything, Zelda could feel him sigh the weary sigh of a man having to deal with a difficult and unreasonable parent.

You will not drug me again, Zelda stated. It was not a request.

I will do what the doctor says is necessary.

She marched right up to him and glared at him. She could see his blue eyes through the slit in his visor. You will do as I say. I'm old, but I'm not an imbecile. I still have the right to make my own decisions. And remember who gave you that crown. I'm not dead yet; I can still take it back.

So which is it? Do you want to die of grief or live to spite me?

Gods! You are so much like your father! she fumed. Then she suddenly burst into tears.

She staggered over to the altar and collapsed against it, burying her head in her arms. Oh, gods, Link, how could you leave me? she said, speaking to him as if he could hear. Am I going to have to fight with Zeyde for entertainment? It's not the same. Nothing will be the same without you.

She felt a hand on her back. She looked up, and through her haze of tears, she saw Zeyde standing behind her. He had taken off his helmet and she could see him looking at her with pity and kindness. He looked horrible, though. His eyes were bloodshot and there were dark circles under them; he looked like he hadn't slept in days.

"Mother, let's go," he whispered. "Come on; I'll take you back to your room."

"No drugging me," she whispered back.

He shook his head. "No drugs. I promise.

Zelda turned back to Link. "Give me a moment," she told Zeyde.

Zeyde stepped back, giving her space.

Tears began to flow heavily down her cheeks again. Is he more like me or you? she asked, speaking to Link again. You used to make fun of me for arguing, but you know you always started the arguments. The only difference is that you didn't take them seriously, but you knew that I did.

She leaned in and kissed him, but his lips were cold and unmoving. Suddenly, she wished she hadn't touched him. She preferred the memory of the last time they had kissed. Even though he had been quickly slipping away, he had managed to retain his essential essence to the end. What lay before her now was just an empty shell that looked like her husband. Nothing that had truly made Link who he was could be found in anything physical—not even in his endearing smile. Everyone had a smile. What made Link's special was the light inside him that shone through that smile.

She turned away, dashing tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. "Why is your father in his old arms?" Zelda asked, latching onto something that was less painful to think about. "Why isn't he dressed as the King of Hyrule?"

"He wanted it this way," Zeyde replied. "He told me, the . . . the last time we spoke, what he wanted."

It all made sense now. Link, who would surely go down as one of Hyrule's greatest kings, didn't want to be buried in his kingly finery, but in the things that had been truly his: his family's arms and sword, and the armor that had been given to him when he fought for Erenrue. They were what he had earned by virtue of his deeds and his bloodline. Zelda had given him the title of king out of love for him, and gods knew he had done the work of a king—and more—but now, at the end, he was giving the title back and taking with him only that which was truly his.

Zelda had to hurriedly wipe away fresh tears. "You will never know his like again," she whispered, her voice threatening to crack even then.

"I know," Zeyde replied sadly. "We all know."

Then he put his hand on her shoulder and walked her back to her bedroom.

Zelda spent the rest of the night in her room, crying. She buried her face in her pillow to try and muffle the uncontrollable, wracking sobs that convulsed through her; she was afraid if anyone heard her wailing, they'd drug her again, despite Zeyde's promise not to do it.

She was sorely tempted to press her face into the pillow until she couldn't breathe and just let everyone think she had died of a broken heart, but she never actually attempted it. She didn't think it would work, for one, and secondly, she may fool everyone else, but she'd never fool Link. And the thought of having to face him on the Other Side after killing herself was enough to stop her.

A bluish light was starting to shine through the windows when Zelda finally rolled onto her back, exhausted. Her eyes ached, but no more tears would come from them; she had cried herself empty.

She still expected Link to come in at any moment. She would help him undress and get ready for bed. His shoulder always pained him the worst at night; he had to drink something every night to ease the pain enough so he could sleep. Zelda could see his pain in the tightness in the corners of his eyes and the weariness in his face. But, despite that, he still cracked jokes and started arguments as if there was nothing wrong with him. Sometimes he got that mischievous look in his eye and he began to kiss her hand and whisper things to her that still—after so many years—made her blush. He promised all sorts of things his advanced age would no longer allow him to deliver, but they enjoyed pretending they were young again, anyway.

The room seemed to echo with him—with his laughter and his smile and his larger-than-life personality. When she rolled over and hugged his pillow to her chest, inhaling, she could still smell his scent. He had always smelled of sunshine and warm skin and leather; even in winter, he smelled like the summer.

How could she come to bed alone every night and wake still alone? She had been sleeping with Link since before they were married. He had been comfort and security; he had protected her and made her feel loved. Now, she had nothing but a cold, empty spot in the bed beside her.

She laid her head against his pillow and began to cry again, although her sobs were strangely dry; her eyes ached mercilessly, but her body could squeeze out no more tears.

A short time later, there was a knock on her bedroom door. She scrambled to sit up, afraid someone had heard her. She did her best to mask her voice so it didn't sound as if she had been crying for hours.

"Yes?"

The door cracked open and her maid stuck her head in. "Your Majesty?" she asked timidly.

"Yes?"

"It's time."

Zelda didn't have to be told what it was time for. She merely nodded.

The maid entered the room and headed straight for the closet. "It's cold out this morning, Your Majesty. There's a frost on the grass. You'll have to wear something warm."

"That's fine," Zelda said wearily, not particularly caring what she wore. She had been to many funerals over the years; she had a selection of mourning clothing for every season.

The maid bustled out of the closet and brought a dress over to Zelda, offering it to her for her approval.

Zelda looked it over, then nodded. One black dress was pretty much like any other. Whereas Link had wanted to make a statement by wearing his family's arms on his surcoat, Zelda had no statement to make on this day. She was not a former queen nor the Queen Mother; she was simply a widow.

She let the maid help her dress, but then sent her away. "I can finish the rest myself," Zelda said.

"Are you sure, Your Majesty?"

"Yes. I want to be alone for a little while."

The maid looked at her sympathetically, then nodded and left the room.

Zelda let out a sigh. As much as she didn't want to be alone, she didn't want to be around people, either.

She sat down at her dressing table and studied her face in the mirror for a while. Link had always said the years had been kind to her, but there was no denying that she was an elderly woman; the smooth-skinned girl she had been a century before was gone. Her silvery-blonde hair had slowly become silver over the years and it had thinned somewhat. But it was still long and straight and everyone remarked that it was quite handsome. Certainly it was more attractive than the steel-gray that other women were cursed to have. Link's thick, blondish-brown hair had turned white. It had thinned some over time, too, but he still had a full head of hair—which was the envy of many a bald man at court.

Silently, Zelda braided her hair, then she pinned it up in a bun on the back of her head. She had arthritis in her shoulders from so many years of archery—although her pain had never been as bad as Link's—and a part of her wished she hadn't sent her maid away. But she didn't want anyone to know that she wasn't wearing shoes and stockings; her maid would certainly never let her leave the castle without something on her feet. But it was considered a great show of respect and devotion to walk in someone's funeral cortege barefoot. And if anyone deserved the show of respect, it was Link.

She rummaged through a drawer in her dressing table, looking through various veils and scarves. She finally found a large square of black lace. She put it over her head and pinned it through her hair in a few places. Now her vision was almost completely obscured by the heavy lace—which meant that others couldn't see her, either. She preferred it that way.

She went downstairs—careful not to let her bare feet show under her dress—and found the foyer full of people. Everyone seemed to be speaking, but their voices were so low, it sounded like the hiss of a distant hive of bees.

A guard posted at the foot of the steps looked up as she came down. She could see him scrutinizing her, trying to decide who she was. Zelda was certainly not the only woman present wearing a mourning veil, so she might have been anyone.

She put a hand on his shoulder. "Good morning, Lisle," she said quietly. Lisle had been a guard at the castle for decades and had often been posted outside Link's and Zelda's bedroom.

He caught her hand and lifted it to his lips. "Sweet lady," he murmured.

His gesture touched her. Under any other circumstance, none of the staff would presume to take her hand like that. But she understood that Lisle was offering her what comfort he could.

Zelda glanced around. "Is there any method to this madness?" she asked him in a whisper.

"Yes, Your Majesty, I believe so."

"Can you show me where to go?"

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Then he bellowed out, "Make way for the Queen Mother!" The room grew quieter and the crowds parted before Lisle like water before the bow of a ship. Zelda followed in his wake.

In the center of the room, there was a line of people and the Master of Protocol was anxiously trying to arrange everyone. The genealogist was standing beside him with two pageboys holding open a giant roll of parchment. Link and Zelda's family tree was spread across it in a great tangle of branches. Their descendants had married cousins on more than one occasion—in fact, all of Hyrule's nobility were cousins to some degrees—and sometimes, when a person lost their spouse early, there was a remarriage that produced additional children; depending on the rank of the first and second spouses, the younger children of the second marriage might outrank the older ones of the first marriage. But if someone married a person of higher status, then the spouse typically conferred his or her status on that person.

It was enough to give any anal-retentive herald a heart attack.

The Master of Protocol looked up as Zelda approached. He dipped his head in a quick bow. "Majesty."

"How bad is it?" she asked. Even though she was technically no longer in charge of anything, she found it hard to let go. And given that people still responded to her as if she was the queen in truth, she thought they might be having trouble letting go of her as well.

"Not too bad," the Master of Protocol said, almost sounding surprised. "We've had a rough list of who goes where for some time now and we've been working to firm it up the last couple of days. We just have a few questions about some people who have gotten married in the past few months."

"You know, at a time like this, I don't think anyone will much care where they're located. And if someone's mind is on what honors they're due instead of what honors Link is due, then they can take their honor and get the hell out of the procession."

The Master of Protocol glanced at the genealogist. The older man shrugged, then he directly the page boys to roll up the parchment.

"We will do as you say, Your Majesty," the Master of Protocol said, turning back to Zelda.

"Good. Now, show me where I'm supposed to be."

He took her by the elbow. "Up front," he said, gently leading her to what looked like—more or less—the head of the line. Katherine was already standing there. Zeyde—and all her other sons and Anne-Marie—were still with the knights in the chapel.

Katherine gave her a brief, pained smile, then went back to looking around the room anxiously. Katherine was a good queen and a good wife to Zeyde, but she had never been the queen Zelda had been—or the king that Link had been, for that matter. Born common—the daughter of Zeyde's tutor—she was always slightly ill-at-ease when it came to large assemblies of court. She always made things work flawlessly, but her nervous nature reminded Zelda of a child who was afraid she was about to be scolded. She looked to the advisors for guidance, whereas Link and Zelda had always just blazed their own trail, telling people what they wanted rather than asking for advice.

Zelda wondered if that was because that was just her and Link's nature, or if their long fight against the demons and Nagadii had caused them to be that way? They had certainly spent a long time doing things their own way, and after facing down a poisonous dragon and the greatest demon of the Dark World, people at court seemed insignificant obstacles indeed.

The Master of Protocol came hurrying up a moment later. "Your Majesties," he said quietly, addressing both women. "We're ready to begin."

Katherine looked to Zelda. It was Zelda who had to nod to the Master of Protocol, giving him the go-ahead.

He signaled the guards, who pulled open the huge front doors. There was a collective gasp from the assembly as the outside air assaulted them. They had grown accustomed to spring days that were almost as warm as summer and balmy nights without a touch of chill. But the temperature had dropped precipitously and there was a dampness in the air that soaked into a person's bones and became hard to dislodge. Overhead, the leaden skies threatened a downpour of rain at any moment.

It seemed that even Hyrule itself grieved Link's passing. That was as it should be, Zelda thought. She didn't know if she could have borne it if it had been warm and sunny and the birds had been singing pleasantly while they had to carry out their heavy duty.

The Master of Protocol discreetly led Zelda out of the castle—the rest of the extended family following her. In the courtyard, they paused as all of the Knights of Hyrule slowly processed out of the chapel. Their visors were up now and Zelda could see that the pallbearers were all of her children. Every knight present was shoeless.

Two knights went first, carrying banners bearing Link's family arms and the royal arms of Hyrule. Then came another knight leading the rider-less horse to signify a fallen soldier. Of everyone present, only Link and Zelda had ever fought in a real battle; they had outlived everyone else who had stood with them so long ago at the Second Battle of Erenrue Fields, much less the ones who had gone with them to the First.

Next came the pallbearers carrying the bier, then Zelda followed it and everyone else followed her. The remaining knights—carrying long tapers which flickered in the cold wind—fell in on either side of the procession, escorting it.

The damp stones under Zelda's feet were cold, but she was already numb inside and out and so hardly noticed. She had cried so much, she was empty inside and it was hard to feel pain; she just felt detached, as if she was in someone else's body.

Most of the castle guard were arrayed on either side of the main gate. As the procession neared, the Captain of the Guard called out an order and all the men came smartly to attention and saluted Link as he passed by. Zelda was surprised to see the salute was not the typical martial one, but the particular gesture of farewell in Kakariko Village. Link had always used it whenever he was sending anyone off, but Zelda had never seen anyone else outside the village use it. But it was appropriate that they should do it for him.

They passed through the gates and into the throngs of the common people. Zelda had been in many processions over the course of her life, but she had never seen so many people in the city before. It seemed as if the sidewalks were so full, they might burst open and spill people out into the street. But despite the great press, everything was eerily silent. It seemed that there wasn't even so much as a dog barking anywhere in the city.

As they passed, people threw flowers and greenery on the road so thickly, Zelda felt as if she was walking on a carpet of flowers instead of a cold road.

The wind began to blow harder until it blew out all of the knights' candles and the sky grew darker until it seemed to be dusk instead of dawn. White petals blew off the blooming trees and filled the air so thickly, it looked like they were walking in a snow storm.

Zelda was reminded of the time she and Link fought the great Storm Demon on top of the mountain in western Erenrue. It had been bitterly cold and blustery then, too. She half-expected a face to appear in the heavy gray clouds above, but none did.

Although the monastery which was their final destination was not terribly far from the castle, they did not take the most direct route. As with any other important event in the lifecycle of the Royal Family, as many people as possible must be allowed to see. So the procession took the longest possible route through the city. And every last inch of pavement and every window overlooking the street was filled with humanity.

Not one of the people watching the procession—and none walking in it—could remember a time before Link and Zelda's reign. They had not just been great monarchs, but they had been a stabilizing force as well; they seemed as eternal as the castle itself. But now, everyone was confronted with the knowledge that a great age was passing and things would never be the same again. Which is why there wasn't a dry eye anywhere Zelda looked; everyone was crying . . . save her.

She lost track of time. She knew only that she was cold to the point of numbness and so weary that she could hardly put one naked foot in front of the other, but she soldiered on, knowing if it had been her on the bier, Link would have walked. Besides, it was something to do. Zelda knew that reality would sink in when she grew still and the gaping hole in her life that she was running from would catch up to her.

When they finally processed outside the city gates, the full strength of the wind—unblocked by buildings—hit them in the face. The knights bore it stoically, never flinching, but the rest of the party bowed their heads to the cutting wind.

The monastery had been enlarged over the years to accommodate the influx of monks from the Westeastern monastery and the dozens of new recruits who flocked to the Academy every year for a chance to prove themselves worthy of the sacred knowledge contained therein. Most came because they wanted to be knights, although less than one in ten ever made it to knighthood. Some found that the trials were too hard; their determination was just not up to the task and they went home to learn an easier trade. Others found that they preferred study to the physical demands and they became scholars or magicians or teachers instead. And some found they were excellent craftsmen and they became blacksmiths.

But despite the growth in the community, the sanctuary at the heart of the compound had not changed. It still looked exactly the same as it had when Link and Zelda had spent hours huddling in blankets around a solitary candle while they played chess and gambled for sweets.

They passed through the sanctuary without stopping. Link had requested that they not give him a full funeral service because he felt it would be too hard on everyone. And everyone had agreed it was best to honor his request, not only because there wasn't a person in Hyrule who could have eulogized him without breaking down, but because there were no words adequate to eulogize him. The only person who could ever speak about such a legendary man was Zelda, but she was the person who least needed words; she shared an understanding with him that went beyond words and that could never even be put into words.

The cortege paused in the Sanctuary so the knights could relight their candles. Most of the mourners stayed there, though, and only the knights, Zelda, and her children went on through the door under the altar and into the old crypt.

Many years before, when the human spouses of the princes and princesses began to die, it became obvious that the crypt under the sanctuary would not be adequate to contain the entire Royal Family and their numerous descendants. So stone masons had been working continuously since that time to carve out a space under the original crypt. Their original plan had been for a circular room which would contain Link and Zelda and their children and their children's spouses, but when the first grandchild died an untimely death, it was decided to enlarge the crypt further to allow multiple generations to be buried there.

The knights fanned out around the circular room so that it was well-lit. In the center of the room was a large stone sarcophagus that Link and Zelda had commissioned long ago when the lingering effects of the dragon's poison had threatened to take them before their time. The lid was off of it, and as soon as the remaining mourners had filed into the chamber, the pallbearers put the bier down, then lifted Link up and laid him inside the tomb.

It struck Zelda then how small Link was. Even in his armor, he had never been a very big man; it was as if he had never gotten a growth spurt as a teenager and had remained stuck in early puberty. He had always been about Zelda's size—and she was borderline petite when compared to other women. All of their children, save Tatiana, were bigger than they were.

Yet for all his diminutive size, Link had done more than any person since the last Hero of old. He had fought against not just men larger than himself, but powerful demons many times his size. He had trekked from one end of the world to the other—and even beyond the world as they knew it—then went back and forth across it a few more times.

A child had once scoffed upon hearing the story of how Link and Zelda had defeated the Dragon Demon; he said it was impossible for two such small people to ever defeat anything so huge. The storyteller had replied, "It's not the size of the dog in the fight, but the size of the fight in the dog."

Link had laughed and used the quote ever after. And it seemed wholly appropriate. He had had a lot of fight in him, and what he lacked, Zelda more than made up for. Even the skeptical child admitted that he would not want to take on Link and Zelda both.

The knights stepped back and, as one, they began to sing a sad melody—their deep voices echoing in the stone chamber until it sounded as if a great chorus was singing.

"Of all the money that e'er I spent,
I've spent it in good company.
And all the harm that e'er I've done,
Alas it was to none but me.
And all I've done for want of wit,
To memory now I can't recall.
So fill to me the parting glass;
Good night and joy be with you all."

Zelda was immediately taken back to that night one hundred and twenty five years before when she and Link and Rayliss and Sir Elgon and her cousin, Nicoli, had all stood on Rayliss' balcony, watching Nagadii's army marching across the plain towards them. Night fell and they knew that the next day the battle would commence. Link had sung the bittersweet song for them. He had said they sang it for a comrade in the palace guard who was leaving, but he failed to mention it was only rarely sung outside a funeral. He had sung it as a dirge for all of them. Sir Elgon and Rayliss had been captured and spent months locked in a dark, dirty cell under Hyrule Castle. Link had taken an arrow to his shoulder that nearly killed him and which caused him pain for the rest of his life. Nicoli had died; attacked by demons, his own father was forced to kill him before he turned into one. He had just passed his sixteenth birthday.

"A man may drink and not be drunk;
A man may fight and not be slain;
A man may court a pretty girl
And perhaps be welcomed back again.
But since it has so ought to be,
By a time to rise and a time to fall,
Come fill to me the parting glass;
Good night and joy be with you all."

Not long after the fall of Erenrue, she had sung the song for Link as they huddled in a stone shelter on the side of a mountain. A blizzard trapped them there and they had quickly burned through what remained of their fuel. Link had a fever and was so weak, he couldn't have gone on even if there hadn't been a blizzard. Zelda had held him in her arms and sang what pieces of the song she could remember as they slowly began to freeze to death.

"Of all the comrades that e'er I had,
They are sorry for my going away.
And all the sweethearts that e'er I had,
They would wish me one more day to stay.
But since it falls unto my lot
That I should rise and you should not,
I'll gently rise and I'll softly call,
Good night and joy be with you all.

Good night and joy be with you all."

As the last note faded away, the emptiness that Zelda had been running from suddenly hit her, leaving her breathless. She reached out, grabbing Katherine by the arm, hanging on as if she were being pulled into a sand pit in the Great Southern Desert.

"Mother Zelda?" Katherine said worriedly.

But Zelda couldn't respond. She needed to cry—needed to scream—but the emptiness was inside her, sucking all the sound and even the very breath out of her.

Link was gone and he was never coming back. But she might live for many years yet; she was a year younger than him and the dragon's poison had never affected her as badly as it had him.

The blank, empty years yawned before her like a dark chasm.

She wasn't aware of Zeyde moving over to her until he spoke. "Mother, are you alright? Are you sick?"

"I think she's having some sort of fit, Zeyde," Katherine whispered. "Or a heart attack. It feels like she's trying to break my arm."

Just past Zeyde, she could see a group of knights lifting the carved tomb lid and carefully setting it atop the tomb—oblivious of what was happening to her.

On the tomb lid, Zelda's life-size image rested beside Link, their hands clasped tightly between them, but it was a lie. She had cheated death. She should be lying beside him in the tomb, clasping his hand in death, but instead, she had been left behind. He had risen and she had not.

"Mother, I think we should take you back," Zeyde said anxiously. He tried to steer her toward the exit, but she didn't budge.

"Mother, please, you're worrying me."

Now, everyone in the room noticed that something was going on, and they turned to watch the Queen Mother.

"My soul is gone," Zelda said in a whisper that all present nonetheless heard. Many shuddered; some made a gesture to ward off evil. But none doubted the veracity of her words. All of them felt as if a piece of themselves had been taken away—as if a light that had always burned had suddenly been snuffed out.

But, for Zelda, it was not a light that was gone; it was all the light.