Before the Storm

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Chapter 53
Before the Storm

A storm was imminent. Billowing clouds draped the sky like a black curtain, plunging the realm into perpetual darkness. The air felt tense, as though the very land was holding its breath in anticipation of what was about to unfold.

Zelda had to stop herself from biting her lip. She hated storms. It wasn't that she was afraid of them, but rather that they reminded her of that terrible night nearly eight years ago when her family had died. If she shut her eyes, Zelda could still hear the cries of Hylian soldiers, the screams of men, women, and children—all butchered like animals in a slaughterhouse. She remembered the ominous bells that heralded the town's impending doom and the crackling flames that hungrily devoured the ransacked city.

"No," she thought. "Don't think about that." There was still hope for her after all of this was done. She took comfort in that, knowing that even if she failed, there was still another left in her line. She would not be the last of House Nohansen.

She breathed deeply, feeling her heart flutter within her chest. She reminded herself that she needed to remain focused and calm. How could one do that when her decisions over the next few hours and days might determine her realm's fate? It wasn't only Hyrule at stake; the fate of the other nine Kingdoms hung in the balance.

"Are you not well, your majesty? You look pale. Shall I send for Lady Impa?" one of her attendants asked. She was a young, dark-haired Hylian, not much older than Zelda.

"I am quite alright," Zelda said. "Thank you."

The woman didn't seem convinced but kept quiet. Both attendants sensed Zelda's fretful mood and went about their work silently.

To settle her uneasy nerves, she tried focusing on the mirror rather than the lonely melancholy her thoughts produced.

The dress Zelda wore was breathtakingly beautiful. The Mithiran seamstresses had outdone themselves. It was white and immaculate. The pink bodice and dress itself were adorned with golden embroidery and glittering gemstones untarnished by war or age. Such a dress had its time and place, but right now, the sight of something so elaborate nearly made Zelda ill.

How could she wear something like this? Even her attendants weren't wearing anything so immaculate. The soldiers, Kakariko's villagers, and the Gerudo mostly wore used garments crisscrossed with stitches from excessive use. The garments she'd adopted for her disguise were in a similar state: torn, faded, and stained with the blood of lives she was forced to take. Zelda hated killing, even if it was in self-defence or duty made it necessary.

Her thoughts drifted towards the bundle of cloth lying on a table beside the bed and the mask within it. After wearing it so often in the last seven years, she'd longed to be rid of it. Now, ironically, she wanted to put it back on, to slip away into the shadows, away from all this attention. Wearing that mask, she had tasted a freedom she would never again know in the life of the court with all its trappings and regalia. She was quickly distracted when one of her attendants handed her a pair of long, white gloves.

Zelda pulled them on and felt the heavy weight of the pauldrons on her shoulders. They felt extremely uncomfortable after her light Sheikan garb.

As much as she hated wearing it, the lavish royal regalia was necessary. Perhaps she had used her disguise for far too long; Zelda wanted her people to see that she was still their princess and to prove that Ganondorf hadn't defeated or killed her, as many claimed. She wanted them to know that she hadn't abandoned them all these years, nor would she.

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