Chapter Text
Hour after hour they tack and heave against wind and current, striving across the arm of the hurricane they hunted down in the treacherous western seas.
The ghost and the rock agree that the tempestuous waters caged by a ring of iron-rich archipelago probably churn above the fabled Sand Sea of ancient days. The weird snake-limbed godling Ishet wouldn’t confirm it either way, but at least he helped with the coordinates to excavate for the final component. Which to no one’s surprise lay in the southern arc of those ruddy islands, surrounded by fiercely territorial pirates unamused by a ghost ship poaching in their waters… and pursued by ardent pirate-hunters.
At last, it is done.
Or at least it is begun, which is the first necessary piece to achieving the other.
Tetra reluctantly lets the hulking betusked first mate bully her away from the helm for a catnap. He is right about the windspeed and barometer readings. If they have not reached the edge of the arm of the storm yet, they will within the next watch, and then.
Then they can really spread canvas, run out the studding sails, and fly toward Bellum’s Meridian to hunt down her wayward Miranda.
He is right that she will want to be aloft for that moment.
He is right that a good captain must trust her crew to be faithful.
Even though they are all to a hand monsters.
They are still a good crew. She should know. She forged them into a unit side by side with the spook.
Who is reduced to nothing but a colossal haunted stone sword taking up a third of the captain’s cabin.
Ganondorf’s blood is still pooled in the inscription, but otherwise the industrious little bokoblins did a fair job of securing the remains of their last captain alongside the trunk of the mizzenmast in the middle of the main room. She pats the stone blade and crossguard as she wriggles past him to the berth, assuring him he did a good job.
Only crazy people talk to rocks, but she long since sailed past crazy.
Thinking of that reminds her of the other soul bound up in the Great Work. She dragged the lump of shimmering blue topaz from under her shirt and settled into one of the window seats astern, mostly to save her own bed a soaking.
“You still there Actually Zelda? It’s been two solid watches,” she said to the stone.
Cousin — oh at last — I am so tired.
“Sorry about that. Turned a bit complicated. Forgot to release you when I went to the helm.”
You are clear of the storm now?
“Not yet. Soon. Hurricanes are big sonsof- er. Big.”
Then I stay. The deans here are more understanding of these things, and I have Lyrne with me this week as well as Eshlu. It was supposed to be a holiday, says the rock, and there is a sense of nervous laughter on the edge of hysteria.
“Well, it’s gonna be boring. I’m absolutely shot— TIRED. I mean tired. Last sight of unfriendly sails was five watches agone. But I probably won’t even dream to keep you amused, or I kinda hope I don’t. No offense.”
None taken. Have enough experience with my own nightmares to wish them on no one.
“Ugh, you’re always so nice. How do you do that shit without exploding? I’d be in little bits all over the deck like his shell if I tried.”
Goddess Bright have mercy — what happened—?
“Fuck, I’m sorry, I forgot you can’t see what I see. I had to keep you — well, your rock anyway — under wraps on account of the storm.”
No apology needed. You did what you had to. We knew before we began there was a chance it wouldn’t work — would backfire — forgive me, I just. Hoped. Anyway I’m still going to stay in trance tending the waylight on the spiritroads until you’re safe.
The sorrow in the voice of the ghost in the rock called up a resonating ache in her own chest, clenching her heart in grief real and borrowed. She fought to unstick her tongue from the roof of her mouth, glad she had the cabin to herself.
“Hold your mourning wails, cousin. We ain’t done yet. He’s fighting the magic, but this is after all Ganon-fucking-fight-god-dorf we’re talking about. Ishet warned me his son might try and pull some nonsense, so I had the little bokos help me weave a grapple net with thunderstone and topaz in every other crossing, and sure enough, soon as he drank from the shell, off he goes like four pounds of shot in a nine pound cannon. Got him before he hit the surf, so it shouldn’t count as swimming.”
Light be praised — it worked? The ritual actually worked?
“Started to do, yeah. What I meant with shell — you remember the stone yeah? How we thought it would soften back to how he was when the spook struck the blessed blade? Instead it shattered like a sealed bottle packed with hot cabbage for pickling. Took his swords and robes and I think some skin with it. He looked raw and ruddy as a newborn, and howled like one too.”
Did the kurta fit? Kotake said the Book of the King aligns perfectly with the memory about the size of a mantle, and she added a bit after I gave her the measure you took of the stone—
“Bit big actually, drapes like a potato sack, but I dunno that we could’ve got him in it with even an inch less. Took me and two dozen blin to wrangle him into that and the woolens and get the rawhide bound fast.”
I’m so sorry. I hope he understands we’re trying to help him when the bloodrage cools.
“I don’t get it. How many ages he spent spitting on Fate and punching gods, and now this? Throwing over his second chance before it’s even took hold? I get the tantrum drawing steel at the end, I do. If he can’t have it, no one can. I’ve met the kind a thousand times before. Fighting like an animal in the ropes, I get that too. I’ve seen it plenty when the skull gets rattled hard, the body rousing right where they left off and the mind a few ticks behind. This is just. I dunno, it don’t fit.”
Unfortunately, I agree with Ishet. It fits the character of the man we knew exactly.
“I don’t see it. I can’t. Giving up is for sad sack losers. He was just sore he didn’t get his shiny.”
The Triforce is — was — much more than treasure — but that’s not important anymore. What you must try to understand dear cousin, is if he’d truly wanted you or Link dead in that moment? You would never have seen it coming. He was one of the best warriors his people had to offer in a time when the whole world was fighting all the time over everything. How long has Link really studied the blade? Be honest. Even with divine help, that skill isn’t forged without a lifetime of hard work and practical application. The words you shared with me were not a threat, but a cry of grief.
“Sure sounded like a threat to me. I’ll show you the future you have? Fucker.”
I know it’s hard, and you have been through so much you never asked for. Please, just try to imagine standing in his place as your bitterest enemy knocks over all your pieces one by one and your death is all but sealed. Imagine losing everything. Imagine the only thing left is the narrowest possible chance to persuade the gods to let you into Elysium with your ancestors and your sisters and your lost beloveds — your crew! — if you die with honor. Imagine you know you have sinned against every creed ever written for the sake of what you believe to be right, and all of that can be forgiven if — and only if — you die still fighting for it.
“Goddamned foolish.”
Yes. Religion often is.
Tetra sighed, cradling the pulsing topaz to the hollow at the base of her throat, hoping the faint warmth of the magic would soothe the ache. “He’s gonna try again.”
Probably, yes. Most people with those kinds of spirit-wounds do.
“So this was all a waste. Months of searching and making shit and—”
Not at all. Life is always worth fighting for. It may just be… a bit longer of a battle than you thought.
“Ok, but if he needs a Noble Death to get to you, shouldn’t he have picked up a weapon and come at us instead?”
He may try that too, especially when the rage starts to cool, but now the weight of the underworld and the anger of the gods and the inertia of natural law is pulling him directly toward the veil alongside the grief.
“So like Nitimri got harpoons in his heart and Her crew at the capstan. Even if he sobers up, She’s still closing distance and aiming to fuck up the rituals however She can.”
Likely so. Every religion I know of that personifies the concept of Death warns of jealousy.
“Well I got plenty of beef with Her myself. Win or lose with the old man, I don’t mind giving Her a bad day in the process. Bad year or seven would be even better.”
I hope it is not so long. I chose this. You didn’t.
Tetra shrugged, wishing she could fold back the shutters from the window, even if all there was to see was rain and wake. “I chose to hunt the ghost ship. Some pirate queen I am anymore.”
Maybe that is a tack to try. You forged some common ground before — if you can find your way to that place again—
“Don’t think I could’ve without your help then, and fat lot of good it did at the end.”
Please, remember. Even Link said that while you slept he promised to release you both once the Triforce was restored.
“Yeah. And Link wouldn’t give him credit for anything he didn’t have to. He hates the old man. Even more than me.”
Beware of hate, my friend. There is no measure of that poison that is safe for one of us.
“Yeah yeah, blood of some goddess. He said the same. Arrogant twit thinks himself the exception to every rule in the book,” Tetra sneered, mimicing his gravitas for the rock. “There is a seed of wisdom even in superstition. Your ancestors did not compose the maiden laws at random, nor purely to spite headstrong gremlins in their charge.”
You do realize that’s an endearment, yes?
“Yeah cause he’s so charming and kind as his usual habit,” she countered, rolling her eyes. She puffed her chest and tried to match his cadence even closer for the rest of the remembered lecture. Complete with asides like some port town stage player. “Subtlety and nuance are a talent unique to mortals, and the more of your own nature awakens, the more care you must take with every step. In a very real sense, a lie is a powerful spell, and requires a disciplined mind accustomed to — let us call it negotiation — with darkness to handle safely. A truly effective deception will be too much for you.”
Can you truly not hear the confession between his words?
“I dunno,” Tetra grumbled irritably. “I’m tired.”
There is a proverb: the lodestones argue that stand too close. Draw them apart. The journey moves the spirit. Thus all harmonies are forged.
“Fuck me running, you sound like him.”
I should hope so. It is written in an ancient holy text from his homeland.
“Bookwyrm,” she teases fondly.
No offense may be taken where truth is spoken. However. There is time for strategy later. Your body is one pillar of your strength—
“Can only harvest what I nurtured, yeah yeah. Still. Broken chronometers and all.”
Sleep on it before you chart your course. I will still be right here when you need me.
“Yeah, thanks.” Tetra said, clutching the topaz tight, reminding herself pirate queens don’t cry.