"No I don't want to battle from beginning to end
I don't want a cycle of recycled revenge
I don't want to follow Death and all of his friends..."

-Coldplay, "Death and All His Friends"

Knightfall

You don't think you ever expected it to work out.

Sure, you went through the motions; you fought the demons, reclaimed the treasures, and saved the damsels in distress. But you don't think you ever saw yourself in the holy, Goddess-sent light everyone else did. To other children and adults-turned-children-by-hope, you were the hero of the fairy tale, the shining knight come to slay the dragon, but those fairy tales were ash in your mouth and bitter on your tongue (like something spat from the dragon's mouth itself). You refuted the idea of Happily Ever After, and you were sickened with yourself for perpetuating its falsity.

With every battle you grew stronger, and while such improvement might have inspired confidence in other men, given them wings and a lighter spirit, that same strength tore a dark hole within you, dragging you down within yourself.

You were a strange creature, you knew. Heroes were supposed to be gallant, forever-smiling adventurers who itched for battle after battle. They were supposed to be humble, yet confident in their task to protect those weaker than them. The heroes you'd always heard about charged with a cry into a fight, never once cringing from even the most fearsome of beasts. Yes, most of those heroes experienced fright, but you suspected that in their hearts they loved it. They loved driving away evil and saving those who depended on them.

You hated it. You hated how your blade was augmented with the blood of others, even if that blood had been black with corruption. You hated how you could never feel apathetic toward your quest now matter how hard you tried, how your pulse quickened, your fingers trembled, and your eyes dilated to swallow the enemy. You hated how your new adult body raised its adrenaline-charged, red-stained arms and charged into battle while the child inside curled up in terror.

You didn't sleep much, even in the beginning, even before your eternal nightmare invaded that elusive haven of unconsciousness. Often, you would simply lie back against Epona's rising and falling side, taking comfort in her life just as much as you did from her warmth. You would look at the stars, sometimes trying to connect the points of light into a recognizable shape. Saria had tried to teach you about constellations and the legends that clung to those distant, heavenly bodies, but you had never really had the patience to listen.

How many other things had you bypassed so carelessly in your rush to grow up? you'd wondered as you desperately tried to recall every star shape Saria had ever taught you. What was so important about the future that you had needed to discard your present, your past?

You would give anything to just lie with Saria under the stars again, letting the pitch-dark sky consume every bit of shadow that adhered to you while the starlight made your skin pure once more.

You suppose that's where this must have started: back in Kokiri Forest; more specifically, in the Lost Woods.

Because, you see, you remembered the story of the stalchildren and the stalfos. You remembered hearing how when children became lost within the woods, when they were finally digested by the labyrinthine trees, they were changed forever. Clattering bones replaced warm flesh, and red eyes suggested the spark of life that had once flowed in young veins. So they were changed children, yes, but children all the same.

Stalfos were no different than any other human who had ever been lost in life, except that their disorientation had cost them their skin, their semblance of humanity. Yes, some of them had worked for Ganondorf, drinking greedily from his cup of malevolence, but so had so many others more human than they.

So every time you sliced the light of life from a monster's eyes, flashes of children burst before your own. You couldn't stop yourself from wondering, as the corpse hit the floor, whether that creature had simply once been a lost child, as you had been.

For you had been lost; lost, frightened, angry, grief-stricken, and so terribly, terribly lonely.

You had never known your parents save a few shattered memories stored within the first year of your life. Yet you found their loss wrenched a deeper wound than you ever could have imagined when the Great Deku Tree told you of your past. With that knowledge came a clear distinction of what was yours and, more importantly, what wasn't yours to claim anymore.

The little triangle burning on your hand seemed to brand you as one of many cattle to be slaughtered rather than marking you as a deity-chosen savior. You can't remember how many times you stared at your piece of the Triforce, trying to decipher why the Goddesses had chosen a ten-year-old boy to carry out their work. Weren't there older, stronger warriors left in the world? Had the land become so destitute that dethroning a King of Evil fell into two hands almost too small to grasp it?

Some people would have been flushed with importance, completed by the idea of a destiny. But you felt no satisfaction when the Great Deku Tree hinted at your greater purpose. Where others might have seen the glimmer of glory you only saw the dread of battle, the crushing weight of a thousand clasped, pleading hands. You, a child, should never have been exposed to the hatred in Ganondorf's eyes, never tasted the bite of metal against flesh, never been expected to hold the world on your small shoulders.

Sometimes, in flash of selfish regret, you almost wished you'd shrugged, just to see where the world would have spun without you.

So, no, you didn't believe in fairy tales. You hated the premise of them. You always suspected, later on, that fairy tales were written for the heroes rather than those who only dreamed of heroism; you, however, found no comfort within their gilded words. Fairy tales were a soothing lullaby through the storm, a cheerful whisper of "Everything will be alright," and you hated the hypocrisy of that promise. Most heroes in the stories were not members of happy, complete families living ordinary lives. They were the broken, the beaten, the forgotten; they were just like you. Fairy tales promised that out of even the blackest ashes, the phoenix could rise, that one could seal a hole in the spirit with grateful smiles.

But you would not retain even that small comfort, and nothing would ever be "alright" anyway. Your parents were dead, and your once-content past was sealed within an immortal forest. No amount of evil slain or wrongs righted could ever make up for that.

Your body matured with the passage of seven years, and your mind had to struggle to catch up. You felt like a stranger in your own skin, really, which only added to your feeling of perplexity. And somewhere deep down, from that lost little boy that wept in your heart, leaked the promise of defeat.

As you spent sleepless nights tossing on the hard ground, he whispered to you that this task could never be completed because nothing in real life ever worked out the way it was supposed to; you let it get to you, let it poison your purpose and still your steps.

You faltered, you'll admit it. You were selfish. For a while, you ran away, closing your eyes and blindly, absurdly, calling upon someone else to save you all.

And, somewhere along the line, you grew up. Your mental self finally eclipsed the physical, and you learned to separate the two.

You learned how to become a stranger when engaged in battle, how to pretend that you were merely watching another person wade through gore and dying screams.

You learned how to delude yourself into continuing on. You lied to yourself, "one more battle," "one more rescue," "one more mile," just to keep your tired muscles moving. Your mind rejected these incessant fabrications, twisting against the deceit and begging for at least one refuge of purity within your scarred soul.

But as long as your sword arm kept swinging, your destiny continued to play out.

You tried desperately, in the years that followed, to forget the battle with Ganon. Those seven years Zelda had sluiced away had grabbed the face of Ganondorf within their viscous grasp, and now no one in Hyrule remembered the shadow that had once haunted their land. But you still remembered him quite clearly, and no matter how far you back in your memory you shoved him, he always returned. He rose with the moon and laughed at you in your dreams. Your muscles still recalled fighting him and, thus, reacted instinctively. You tensed up in your sleep, lashing out helplessly at an evil you had already vanquished. You slashed and stabbed again and again while a red sky swirled above you and bubbling lava churned thickly below: two halves of a menacing maw that threatened to swallow you whole. You ran down flight after flight of stairs, Zelda walking in front of you, but you never found the ground this time. You fled endlessly, panted and sweated every breath you had to give, and the only thing you found was Ganon's laughing, mocking roar.

And you were still lost, no matter what else had happened. Sure, you'd returned to your home in Kokiri Forest after it was all over, but you knew it could never last. One day, you would grow beyond childhood, and there would be no hiding the difference between you and the only family you'd ever known. You would have to leave, and you didn't think even Saria would halt your departure.

Even Navi, the fairy who had been the light leading you through layers and layers of darkness, was no longer by your side. It didn't sting as much as you expected it to, though, because you'd guarded yourself against that moment ever since you first met her, ever since you first dared to believe you belonged.

You remember, one night, standing at the entrance to the Lost Woods. You stepped into the treeline, gazing at barely-perceptible points of starlight peeking through the branches. For a moment, you contemplated how easy it would be to become lost. Sure, you knew your way through these trees quite well; you'd had to journey here many times in your quest, and you'd always found your way through. Still, you imagined that if you just let go of your mind, if you just let your feet wander aimlessly from clearing to overhang, that you'd eventually have no idea where you were. Then it would only be a matter of time before your skin melted into the forest, leaving behind only an animated skeleton.

Why bother lying to the world anymore? you'd asked yourself, anguished. Why pretend you knew what your life entailed when you were more lost than any stalfos wandering the woods? You convinced yourself it was time to take your true form, to let the forest swallow you.

But you left the forest behind, and you never thought about it again.

You decided to leave Hyrule; there was nothing for you here anymore. Sure you had friends, but they, too, had vanished into those lost seven years, and you doubted even your "brother" Gorons knew who exactly you were anymore.

You didn't even know who you were anymore.

Before you left, you decided to say farewell to Zelda. At least, that's what you pretended to think as you easily snuck past her guards. In reality, you wanted to yell at her, scream at her for everything she'd put you through. You hated how she had put such a huge responsibility on you when you were so young, and you were sickened with your blind obedience. You loathed what you had become in order to defeat evil, and how you could never turn back now. You cried for your lost innocence, for calloused and bloodied hands that could never be wiped clean again. So, as you stormed into her circular garden, you fully intended to let her know just exactly what was on your mind.

That, however, was before she turned around and met your eyes.

There was so much sadness there, so much regret, that it cooled your temper instantaneously. You felt an enormous amount of guilt, even though you had yet to say a word to her. She knew what she had put you through, you realized, and she wept for it every day. You suddenly felt foolish for complaining about your own responsibilities.

Here was a child as young as you had been, and she had faced just as much, if not more, than you had. She had never asked for anything in return, never screamed about how unfair her lot in life was. She had never balked from her duty.

So, even though it had to be said, when you told her, "I'm leaving," you felt like a coward.

She seemed to understand, though, and sent you off with a smile.

And even though you hated battle, even though the stench of blood made you sick, you found yourself quickly wrapped within another dangerous plot. You never escaped it, either. Wherever you went, there was always someone to be saved, some monster to be slain, something to be reclaimed, and a clear lack of anyone else to rise to the challenge.

So your days were filled with new enemies salivating for your blood, and your nights were drained by past memories laced with a chilling, mirthless laugh.

It was Zelda's eyes, though, that really stuck with you.

No matter where you went, every time you felt like giving up and receding into the shadows, the memory of her eyes halted you. You knew you could never back away from your duty and stand to face her again.

And that's when you realized that, at some point, you'd made the decision to return to her, that there was something in her worth returning to.

You cleaved your way through infested countries as you slowly waded back to Hyrule, helping those that you could and giving peace to those you couldn't. Epona caught the scent of your homeland (since when did it become home?) before you even saw its shape, and she charged ahead without command. You let her carry you both back and watched as Hyrule rolled past your eyes.

You didn't make a grand entrance, like some fairy tale heroes are wont to do, but instead tried to remain as invisible as possible. You crept quietly into Lon Lon Ranch, leaving Epona within the safety of the pasture and trusting Malon to take care of her without being asked to.

You paused before leaving the ranch, though, and for a moment you thought of Epona's safety. It was here, after all, where you first witnessed the incredible malleability of the human mind. You remembered what had happened to Ingo the ranch hand. When you first met him, he was a faithful yet surly worker for Talon. However, with one touch of evil, one peek at the treasures proffered from Ganondorf's palm, he transformed into a selfish usurper who seized the ranch greedily with both hands. Yet it only took one lost horse race and the whiff of failure to break him down, to transform him into a doting, extremely loyal friend of the ranch. His shifts in character had been so swift and strange that you hadn't understood them at the time. It was only later that you accepted the human mind as an entity incapable of being understood.

It was here, too, that you witnessed the greatest example of forgiveness you'd yet seen. Even after his inexcusable betrayal, Malon and Talon accepted Ingo back with open arms. You, admittedly, had been confused to see Ingo back at the ranch following his defeat. When you asked her about it, Malon just explained to you, with a warm smile, that everyone deserves a second chance.

Everyone deserves a second chance…

You scaled the walls surrounding Castle Town and slipped between buildings like a wraith, Malon's explanation echoing through your mind. You snuck past the guards along the way to Hyrule Castle with an almost shameful ease, just like you used to.

You didn't want to meet with Zelda during the day, where your return would be watched by hundreds of eyes. So, you sought her out while the moon was full, while most of the world slept and the demons lurking in your dreams taunted you to close your eyes.

Your feet led you instinctively to her garden, where you'd first met her all those years ago. You didn't know why you went there, why you thought she would be there instead of inside the castle.

But your instinct proved to be right as you stepped around moonlit flowers.

She was standing there, as if waiting for you, with a smile identical to the one she'd given you in parting.

You never expected any of this to work out, and, standing there, you weren't quite sure why you had returned to Hyrule in the first place. Sure, the hero and the princess always had their Happily Ever After at the end of the story, but that only seemed to imply that the opposite would happen in real life.

Then again, you'd never even expected to live through the battle with Ganon, so you supposed, sometimes, those fairy tales held more truth than you'd ever allowed yourself to admit.

You slowly stepped closer to her, not yet daring to meet her eyes, and eventually closed the gap between you two. You knelt down in front of her respectfully, your shoulders stiff with formality.

She gently touched your shoulder, though, and beckoned for you to rise.

She lifted her hand hesitantly, and you half-expected her to slap you across the face. You wouldn't have been surprised, really; it was far less than you deserved. You would have welcomed the sting, praying that the brief touch of her pure hand would exorcise some of the ghosts swimming through your veins.

Instead, she wrapped her arms around you and drew you into a hug; your muscles relaxed and hummed with a new anxiety at the same time as a revelation dawned on you.

You'd always thought you'd carried the world on your shoulders, but now you saw you were wrong. It had always been Zelda. She had held the crying world with one hand and a lost little boy in the other, tirelessly trying to heal them both.

And you'd never even thanked her.

She'd thanked you graciously for your efforts, for giving your life to rectify a tragic mistake, but you had never even muttered a word of gratitude to her.

As you met her eyes, opening your mouth to stammer a belated thank-you, you realized you would never have to, that it would be insulting to her if you did.

She did what needed to be done for her country not out of duty, as you'd previously thought, but out of love.

And love never required gratitude.

So, instead, a helpless sob wrenched its way from your throat, accompanied by unintelligible apologies, one after the other. You clenched her arms desperately with your hands, hoping you wouldn't break apart as you gasped for air between the howls that ripped from your heart.

She held you closer as you wept on her shoulder, seven-year tears staining her gown, and didn't say a word. She stroked your filthy, sweaty hair with her long, clean fingers. She placed her chin on top of your head as you sank to the valley of her neck.

Soothing vibrations pulsed against your heaving skin, and somehow you realized that she was humming. When you recognized what it was, you wept all the harder.

It was Zelda's Lullaby. It was her lullaby, and she was sharing its comfort selflessly with you.

It was there, as you emptied yourself of every morose thought, every bottled-up regret, that you decided to stay in Hyrule.

Because even though your hands had a nearly-tangible coat of death covering them, she let you hold onto her with those same, tarnished hands. She knew from your haunted eyes and scarred skin that you had seen your share of battle, had become little more than a machine with a dark purpose, but she thought no less of you for it. The memory of your hateful eyes had no doubt burned her, saddened her, but she had accepted you with open arms when you came crawling back.

You would stay here with her, you knew, until she sent you crawling away.

And you only hoped one day she would realize, just as you had right now, that she needn't have thanked you for saving her country (your country) all those years ago.

Actions done out of love, after all, require no gratitude.