The forge was quiet. The rhythmic clang of hammer on steel, the hiss of quenching water, the roar of the bellows – all were stilled. A heavy silence, the kind that spoke of profound exhaustion and the anticipation of a momentous dawn, had settled over the canyon. Link lay curled in his cloak near the dying embers of the furnace, his breathing deep and even, his sleep the only peace he had found in days. His body ached, but his mind, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, was utterly calm. He was a sharpened blade, ready for the whetstone.
Korgon, however, did not sleep soundly.
His dreams were not the simple, earthy visions of rock and fire that usually filled a Goron's rest. Tonight, his dreams were lucid, crystalline, and impossibly ancient. He found himself standing not in the familiar, harsh landscape of the Ashen Plains, but in a place of impossible beauty and tranquility. It was a vast, open plain, stretching to a horizon where twin suns, one gold and one silver, cast long, serene shadows. The grass underfoot was a vibrant, impossibly green, and a gentle breeze, smelling of forgotten blossoms, whispered through fields that hummed with a quiet, vibrant life. He was not in Hyrule. He was in a place beyond time, a memory perhaps, or a prophecy.
Standing before him, silhouetted against the gentle, otherworldly light, was a man.
The man was slender, dressed in flowing robes of black adorned with elegant, golden floral patterns. His dark hair was neatly kept, and his features were calm, almost serene, yet held an air of profound wisdom and a hint of melancholy. His eyes, dark and knowing, met Korgon's, and in that gaze, an entire history of unspoken understanding seemed to pass between them. There was no surprise, no fear, only a quiet recognition. They knew each other, though from what age or what realm, the dream did not immediately reveal.
"Korgon, my old friend," the man's voice was a soft, resonant melody, like wind chimes in a sacred grove. It spoke of deep sorrow, yet also of an unshakeable peace. "Your end is near."
Korgon, in his dream-form, felt no fear. His massive, rocky frame stood firm, his fiery eyes meeting the man's serene gaze with an ancient, stubborn defiance. "That is for me to decide," he rumbled, his dream-voice echoing with the familiar force of colliding stones. There was no anger, only a profound sense of an old, familiar argument.
The man simply smiled, a small, sad curve of his lips. "Perhaps. But the wheel turns, old sentinel. And even the mountains eventually crumble to dust." He did not say more, his message delivered, his purpose fulfilled. He simply stood there, an echo of a connection that transcended time and space, a mystery woven into the very fabric of Korgon's long, solitary existence.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the dream dissolved. The tranquil plain, the twin suns, the serene man – all faded into the familiar, oppressive darkness of the forge.
Korgon bolted upright, his massive, rocky chest heaving with a breath that rattled the very air. He was back in his own rough bed of piled sheepskins, the scent of charcoal and metal filling his nostrils. The cold, eerie silence of the dream was replaced by the low, guttural snore of Link from his sleeping place near the embers.
The dream was not a dream. It was a memory. A warning. And a prophecy.
He had known that man. Not in this lifetime, perhaps, or even in this realm, but in some deep, forgotten corner of his immense, long-lived Goron soul. An ancient guardian, a sentinel to a primordial power, like himself. Their bond was one of shared burden, of watching the cycles of creation and destruction unfold through countless ages. And the man's warning – Your end is near – resonated with a chilling finality that even Korgon's stubborn will could not entirely dismiss.
But the Goron was not one to be easily deterred by omens. His purpose was clear, dictated by the Great Deku Tree's vision. His task was to forge the weapon, to prepare the child. His own fate, whether it was to crumble into dust or to defy the turning wheel, was secondary to that sacred duty.
He looked over at the sleeping form of Link. The boy was utterly still, an unlit lamp, waiting for the spark. He was the reason Korgon now faced his end. And he was the only hope for a new beginning.
Korgon rose, his movements deliberate, his massive body stretching out the stiffness of the uneasy night. He walked to the mouth of the forge, the pre-dawn air cool on his rocky skin. The stars still blazed, but on the eastern horizon, a faint, pale line was beginning to appear. The first, reluctant breath of a new day.
Today was the day. The day the hero would try to claim his destiny. Korgon felt the weight of countless ages, the echoes of ancient friendships and prophecies, pressing down on him. But he also felt the surge of a renewed, fierce determination.
"That is for me to decide," he whispered to the approaching dawn, the words not a challenge to fate, but a promise to himself. He would stand until the very last, a mountain against the tide. His end might be near, but he would ensure that Link's beginning was secure.
He turned back into the forge, the colossal anvil gleaming in the faint light. He picked up his great hammer, its weight familiar and comforting. There was no more teaching. No more training. There was only the final task: to escort the boy to his destiny.
He let out a low, rumbling growl, a sound of profound acceptance and grim readiness. It was time to wake the hero.