Divine Right

Conversations

In Impa's loft Zelda lost track of time beyond the first twisting, turning hours of trying to fall asleep. Exhaustion had pulled her away from the world for one blissful hour after realizing the scale of time spent in the ephemeral battle against Ganon; the welcome of the Shekiah had wrapped her in warm arms, but she still felt like a six-year-old fumbling for a parent's hands after a shock. Her existence eighteen hours prior had been in a completely different but no less real state of being, and the task of existing in the physical world was reconnecting physical sensations, reordering her sense of time, and adding an unending stream of emotional dis-cognizance.

Her most precious treasure won from the years of battle had shed an old skin of insecurity and emptiness from her mind; those bone-weary moments where her spirit waned into a thread worn thin, and she skirted the hereafter. Her innermost being knew that some core part, some divine, different other-self took those moments in hand, and a wash of ethereal and glorious, waking-from-a-dream wonderment washed into her consciousness.

In that other place she felt at times real, physical, more real than ever before, enraptured with the sway of grasses in an endless field of lush greens and immaterial colors that danced beyond the touch of the human eye. Mountains and seas and deserts and heavens in an endless glory lay just beyond, which she could see with but the smallest desire of her heart. The depths of the sea beckoned with jewels of color and vibrant, dancing life; her fingers could entangle in the rich kelp-beds and breathe the water as many-colored fish darted under her arms. In the otherworldly forests, the trees sang with an unending, unfolding revealing of their innermost secrets, the sap playing up to the life of the leaves, the breath of the rich hues like kisses to the wind.

That first discovery kept her among the trees for what felt like days in wonderment, enraptured in understanding at last the throng of life in the simplest breath of creation. A song lived in the forest, a melody of divine life, a persona who's name slipped her memory each time she grasped for it and faded into the background for the next swell of euphoria.

A claw curled around her shoulder, electric thrills sparked and played at first in softness against her back; there was the faintest glimpse of greens and massive scales of emerald, and a floating form of glory that stretched for endless yards and yards through the trees. It was massive, it passed along and through the swelling symphony of plants and creatures and every strength of nature.

She did not have time to soak in what it was - the creature looped upon itself, sparks of golden light dancing out from a massive, crowned forehead that pressed to her face, down her entire unseen but perfect form. Her mind was embraced, and wordless, golden divinity and agelessness washed in, and she forgot for a moment the name Zelda.

Farosh, the lingering joy of Farore, kissed her soul with every answer the goddess had murmured and whispered and sung in powerful swells of agreement as she had wept in the ancient stone dragon's maw. A girl had torn at her clothes in the dark half-cavern of ancient greatness in despair, begging for the power to destroy an unknown threat and was met with silence in the physical realm.

The flying dragon that straddled the realms lavished the woman in the most subtle healing, and she lingered with the thrumming glory of tender, confident courage under the shadows of heaven. He lingered there, silent until her heart was filled and she was whole and ready again for the raging battle.

The demon's assaults had not been of a constant nature; the endless and malicious rage of the ancient past was of a terrible cunning, twisting in disgusting ways to crack the mind of its' only opponent. Zelda faced the twisted rage of a sunken devil in the same way her conscience interwove with the calm, thrumming power and knowingness of Farosh and the moment her mind flinched in doubt, the slithering vigilance of Ganon would focus upon it like a knifepoint. She had at points observed Link and his equals circle and narrow in upon their opponents' figure in the ring, a dance in motion, and that became the war she fought. Her father had insisted upon her presence in seemingly unending hours of political intrigue, trade negotiations, and wrangling the petty arguments of lesser nobility; what was once trivial became a weapon in her immaterial hands.