The Goron's presence filled the entire entrance of the forge, a mountain of living rock and simmering heat silhouetted against the fiery heart of his furnace. Link stood before him, the oppressive sun at his back, the blistering heat of the forge on his face. He felt like a sapling at the foot of a volcano. The Goron's eyes, small and intelligent, glowing like hot coals, swept over him in a single, dismissive glance. They took in his worn green tunic, his mismatched shields, and his child's frame.
"Lost, little twig?" the Goron's voice rumbled, a sound like stones grinding together deep within the earth. "Or are you another sun-addled scavenger, come to try and steal my steel?" The question was not one of genuine curiosity; it was a territorial growl, a warning to be gone.
Link had faced down monsters of shadow and men with hate in their hearts. He was not intimidated, but he understood instantly that this was a different kind of power. This was the power of the earth itself, ancient, stubborn, and deeply weary. He knew that words, even if he had them, would be useless here. He needed a different language.
Slowly, deliberately, he unslung the sword his father had made from his back. He did not hold it in a guard position or a threatening stance. He held the sheathed blade respectfully across his open palms, a formal offering, a statement of purpose. This is why I am here.
The Goron's fiery eyes fell upon the sword. He grunted, a sound of grudging interest, and took a half-step forward. "Let me see it," he commanded.
Link offered the sword. The Goron took it, his massive, four-fingered hand dwarfing the weapon. He drew the blade from its scabbard with a sound of singing steel. He held it up, his expert eye examining every inch of its construction. He turned it over, feeling its balance. He ran a rocky thumb along the flat of the blade, his expression unreadable.
"Hmph. Good steel," he rumbled, the words a rare and valuable compliment. "Hylian forge-work. Folded a hundred times, at least. Quenched in mountain water, by the look of it. A master's hand made this." His glowing eyes moved from the blade back to Link. "Who was he?"
Link could not speak a name. He simply pointed from the sword, a tool of a master craftsman, to himself, and then tapped his chest—a gesture for father.
A flicker of something—not pity, but a deep, ancient weariness—passed across the Goron's stony features. He let out a short, harsh laugh that sounded like a rockslide. "A hero's son, then," he sneered, his voice dripping with a cynicism as hard as his own hide. "Of course. Following your father's ghost into the fire."
He slid the sword back into its scabbard with a final, dismissive shing and thrust it back at Link. "I've seen it a dozen times, boy. A good man with a good sword and a heart full of foolish hope. He dies for a king who never knew his name. He dies for a noble cause that ends in a shallow grave in an unmarked field. And for what? So the world can keep turning on its broken axis?"
The Goron turned his back on him, a gesture of absolute finality. He picked up his colossal hammer, his attention returning to the glowing ingot on his anvil. "The age of heroes is over. It died of corruption and bad faith. The world is broken, and no amount of fancy steel can fix it." He gestured dismissively over his shoulder with his hammer. "Take your father's ghost and go home, before this desert bakes the foolish dreams right out of you."
He did not wait for a reply. He raised his hammer and brought it down, the world-shaking CLANG of the impact a clear and final end to their conversation.
Link stood there for a long moment, the heat of the forge washing over him, the Goron's heavy, hopeless words echoing in the air. He could leave. He could accept the refusal and walk back out into the desolate plains, his quest a failure before it had even begun. He looked down at the sword in his hands, his father's legacy, the last gift of a man who had believed. He thought of the fading Dryads, of Elwin's broken body, of Zelda's determined eyes.
Despair was the enemy. Giving up was surrender. He would not surrender.
The Goron, Korgon, ignored him, hammering away with a rhythmic, angry force, certain the boy would be gone in a moment. But Link did not leave. He sheathed his sword, his resolve hardening. If he could not appeal to the Goron as a warrior, then he would appeal to him as a smith.
He walked to the edge of the forge's entrance, where a messy, neglected pile of tools lay rusting in the sun—dull-edged chisels, blunted axe heads, dented tongs. He picked up a heavy, blunted hand-axe. He looked around and saw, in a shadowed corner of the cave, a large, foot-pedaled grinding wheel, covered in a thick layer of dust. He dragged it out into the light.
Clang.
He sat down, placed the axe head against the stone, and began to pump the pedal. A new sound joined the rhythm of the forge. A quiet, persistent, scraping shhh-shhh of stone against steel.
Clang.
Shhh-shhh.
Korgon stopped his hammering, the sudden silence deafening. He turned, his fiery eyes narrowing in irritation. He saw the small Hylian boy, working at the grinding wheel, his movements focused and precise, a shower of tiny sparks flying from the stone as he carefully, patiently, began to restore the axe's lost edge.
The Goron let out a snort of derisive smoke from his nostrils. "You think you can earn your keep here, twig?" he growled. "You'll be dust before the sun sets tomorrow. This is no place for your kind."
He turned back to his anvil, expecting his words to finally drive the boy away. But they didn't. Link did not even look up from his work.
Clang.
Shhh-shhh.
The two sounds continued in a tense, rhythmic counterpoint, a duet of wills. The mighty, world-shaking percussion of the Goron's hammer, a sound of cynical, angry power. And the quiet, determined friction of the boy at the grinding wheel, a sound of unbreakable, patient hope.
Link had refused the refusal. He had not been accepted. But he had not been cast out. The test of the Lion's Den had begun.