Chapter 65: The Sleeping Blade
The dawn that broke over the ruins of Ordon was a thing of cruel, indifferent beauty. Soft, grey light filtered through the smoke that still rose from the blackened timbers of homes, illuminating a scene of profound and absolute devastation. The crater where Korgon had made his final stand was a glassy, black wound in the earth, already beginning to collect the morning dew like tears.
The survivors moved like ghosts through the wreckage of their lives. There was no wailing, no screaming. Their grief was too deep for that. It was a hollow, silent thing, an emptiness that mirrored the empty spaces where their homes and their loved ones had once stood. They worked, their movements slow and mechanical, gathering their few remaining possessions, tending to the wounded, and performing the grim, sacred task of preparing their dead.
Rohm sat amidst it all, a statue of petrified sorrow. He had not moved since the battle's end. He sat on the splintered remains of a cart, his unconscious son cradled in his lap, the Master Sword lying on the ground beside them. He had wrapped Link in his own cloak, a futile attempt to ward off a chill that was coming not from the morning air, but from deep within the boy himself.
Ilia knelt beside them, her face streaked with soot and tears. She had been trying to tend to Link's wound, a dark, ugly puncture in his shoulder where Asmodeus's shadow spear had pierced him. But the wound was unnatural. It was cold to the touch, the flesh around it a pale, deathly grey. Her herbal remedies, which should have eased the inflammation, had no effect. It was as if the wound was not in his body, but in his very soul, a sliver of the demon's despair driven deep inside him.
Impa, her ancient face a mask of grim focus, came and knelt beside them. She placed her wrinkled fingers on Link's forehead. He was cold as marble. "This is no wound of steel," she whispered, her voice a dry rustle of leaves. "It is a poison of the spirit. The demon's malice clings to him, draining his light."
She then reached out and tentatively touched the Master Sword. Her hand recoiled as if burned by an intense cold. The blade, which had blazed with the light of the heavens just hours ago, was now dull and inert. It felt like a common, lifeless piece of steel. The divine hum was gone. Its light was out.
A terrible understanding dawned on the old woman's face. "The hero's spirit and the sacred blade are one," she said, her voice filled with a new, dawning horror. "As his light fades, so does the sword's. And as the sword sleeps, he cannot find the strength to heal himself."
The survivors who had gathered around, their faces already etched with grief, now looked upon their fallen hero with a fresh wave of despair. They had witnessed a miracle, a victory bought at an impossible price, only to discover that their savior himself was now slipping away. Their hope, rekindled for a single, fiery moment, was about to be extinguished for good.
It was into this tableau of absolute hopelessness that two figures appeared, riding hard into the valley. They were mounted on swift, grey horses that seemed to glide over the broken ground, and their faces were set with a grim, urgent purpose. It was Paya and Elwin.
The postman, his leg now healed enough for a hard ride, slid from his horse, his face a mixture of grief and horror as he took in the full scope of the devastation. Paya dismounted with a fluid, silent grace, her red Sheikah eyes already scanning, assessing, understanding.
"We came as soon as we could," Elwin explained, his voice choked with emotion as he saw the state of the village and the small, still form in Rohm's arms. "The Princess… she had a vision. A terrible one. At the same time, we felt a cataclysm. A wave of power so immense it shook the very foundations of the sanctuary. We knew… we knew it was here."
Paya did not waste time with greetings. She went directly to Link, her movements swift and precise. She knelt, her long, slender fingers hovering over the dark wound, her eyes closed in concentration. She could feel it: the cold, clinging tendrils of the demon's despair, a spiritual poison of immense potency. She then examined the Master Sword, her expression growing more grave.
"Impa is right," Paya said, her voice a low, urgent whisper. "His spirit was nearly shattered by the demon's final blow. The sword, being a mirror of its master's soul, has gone dormant. It has formed a protective cocoon around what remains of his spirit to stop the poison from consuming him entirely."
A single, fragile sliver of hope cut through Rohm's grief. "Then you can heal him?"
Paya looked up, her red eyes meeting the desperate father's gaze. "I cannot. No single healer can. His light is too faint, and the poison is too strong. If he stays here, in a land scarred by this battle, he will fade within a week. The sword will remain a useless piece of metal, and the world will lose its hero before his journey has truly begun."
"Then what do we do?" Fado demanded, his voice cracking. "Where can we go?"
Paya stood, her gaze turning to the north, towards the familiar, ancient trees of the Faron Woods. "There is one place," she said, her voice ringing with a new, clear authority. "A place where the light of the Goddess Hylia is purest. A place where the sacred earth itself can mend a wounded soul and reawaken a sleeping blade. He must be taken to the Faron Spring."
A murmur of awe and fear went through the villagers. The Faron Spring was a place of legend, the most sacred of Hyrule's three great springs, a place said to be a direct conduit to the Goddess herself, hidden so deep in the woods that no one living had seen it in a century.
Rohm looked down at his son, then at the handful of traumatized, wounded survivors. "We cannot all make that journey," he said, his voice thick with the weight of a leader's choice. "My people are broken. They need shelter. Safety."
A new, desperate plan was forged in the ashes of their old lives. The survivors, led by Impa and Fado, would make their own slow, sorrowful exodus to the neighboring valley, to seek refuge. But Link was too weak, his condition too fragile for such a slow journey.
"I will not leave him," Rohm declared, his voice an iron vow.
"Nor will I," Ilia said, stepping forward, her fear replaced by a fierce, unwavering loyalty.
Elwin placed a hand on Rohm's shoulder. "I swore an oath to see him safe. My journey ends where his does."
Paya nodded, the new fellowship now formed around the fallen hero. "It will be a perilous journey. The woods are waking again, and the shadow's agents will be hunting for the boy and the blade. We will be his guardians."
Paya placed a hand on Link's forehead. It was as cold as mountain ice. The golden Triforce mark on the back of his hand, which had blazed so brightly, was now just a faint, barely visible outline, like a dying ember. "We must hurry," Paya whispered to the small, determined group. "The hero's light is fading."