A philosophy, to a soul in torment, is not an abstract concept. It is a lifeline. A map. A promise that there is a way out of the endless, churning sea of pain. The Sage and the Great Deku Tree had offered Link a map that led to a distant, hazy shore of peace, a journey that required him to first learn how to swim. The old man had offered him a different path: to stop fighting the storm, and instead, to become it.
The morning after the encounter, Link awoke to a world that felt different. The profound, aching sorrow was still there, a cold, heavy stone in his gut. But it was no longer a paralyzing weight. It was a source. A reservoir. He looked over at the twisted, thorny sapling, its dark form a stark silhouette against the rising sun. It was alive. It was strong. It had been healed not by a gentle song, but by a pure, honest act of will. Of rage. He saw it as proof. The old man's words were not a temptation; they were the truth.
His purpose was now chillingly clear. He had been trying to burn the darkness out of himself, to purify his spirit to become worthy of the sword. He now knew that was the fool's path. He did not need to be worthy of the sword. He needed to be strong enough to command it.
He sat before the dormant Master Sword, its beautiful, inert form a mockery of the power it was said to contain. He did not meditate. He did not seek a quiet center. He did the opposite. He reached into his memory and seized upon the nightmare of Ordon. He focused on the image of Asmodeus, on the demon's mocking, triumphant smile. He let the cold, black, and righteous hatred he felt for the creature well up inside him, no longer suppressing it, but cultivating it, nurturing it like a precious flame.
"Answer me," the command was a silent, furious snarl in his mind. He focused all of his will, all of his pain, all of his rage, and tried to force it into the blade.
The Master Sword did not awaken with its holy blue light. But for the first time since he had woken in the spring, it reacted.
A low, dissonant hum, like a single, angry note from a broken harp, vibrated from the steel, traveling up Link's arms. A faint, sickly, violet aura, the color of the Blood Moon's sky, flickered around the Triforce on the hilt for a single, jarring moment before vanishing. The Triforce crest on his hand did not glow; it grew hot, a searing, painful brand.
Link pulled his hands back with a gasp, the vibration ceasing. He stared at the sword. It was still dormant. But it had responded.
He did not see the violet light as a sign of corruption. He saw it as a sign of progress. The sword had tasted his will and had been forced to acknowledge it. He was on the right path. He just needed to be stronger. His will needed to be more absolute. His pain needed to be sharper.
His journey now had a new, terrible training regimen. He was no longer a pilgrim seeking healing. He was a crucible, seeking to temper his own soul in the fires of conflict. He needed to find that fire.
He packed his meager supplies, his movements now imbued with a cold, sharp focus. He set out from the secluded valley, his path no longer aimless. He would not hide in the wilderness. He would seek out the places where the shadow was strongest, where the conflict was most raw. He would go looking for a fight, not to save anyone, but to find fuel for the furnace inside his own heart.
As he walked out of the valley, he passed the thorny sapling one last time. He noticed for the first time that the ground in a perfect circle around its base was now barren and grey. The soft moss and small, hardy wildflowers that had been there the day before were withered and dead, their life force seemingly drained to fuel the sapling's twisted, unnatural growth.
A flicker of something, a distant echo of the Faron blight, touched his mind. A moment of doubt. But he crushed it. The old man's logic was a fortress. Strength required sacrifice. The weakness of the grass had been sacrificed for the strength of the tree. It was the harsh, simple truth of the world.
Link walked out onto the Ashen Plains, a solitary figure in a vast, unforgiving landscape. He is no longer just a grieving boy. He is a willing student of a dark and seductive new philosophy. He is actively cultivating his own inner darkness, believing with all his heart that it is the only true path back to the light. He looks at the cold, silent Master Sword on his back, his expression one of grim, absolute determination. He would make it answer to him. No matter the cost.
The gardener of grief had planted his seed well, and the hero, in his desperation, was now tending to it with all the care of his broken heart.