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In preparation for the official sword ceremony, Link is sent to the temple by the river. A couple of priests are already waiting outside as he slows his horse to a stop and dismounts. “I’ll take your horse, if I may,” one priest asks gently, and he hands them the reins.
“It’s a wonderful day,” the other says, as Link follows them on the sun-worn stone into the temple. It opens into a circular corridor which is nice and cool, and some of the sweat on his face starts to dry. The flowing robes of the priests should feel lovely on a day like this—royal guard outfits are made mostly for presentation. “The sun is out,” they continue, “And the skies are clear, and the Sword’s chosen graces us with their presence once more. It won’t take long, by the way. I’m sure you want to be back outside.”
No, he doesn’t, he’ll only be headed back to the castle surrounded by unfeeling stone and stares and the princess’ poorly hidden glares. But the priest is smiling, and it’s a sad smile, so Link nods.
He’s met priests of the sage temple before. Having no choice but to attend meetings discussing him and the sword, on the days of his fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth birthdays Link had sat at a table while the king and maybe three or four priests bickered back and forth whether he could keep the sword in his possession, or if it would be kept in the temple until he was the right age to carry it. The latter always made the meetings last far longer than they should. There’s no one proper age for the sword to claim its hero, apparently, and besides the sword had already chosen him and so on and so forth, and it went like that into horrid hours of the night. He spent most of them remembering how the wind ate away at the cliffs by the sea, and how the sea was cold, and that he used to take rocks home and stack them on the windowsills. It was decided at the last meeting that they couldn’t hold off said decision any longer, and the king wanted nothing but the best protection for his daughter so Link kept the sword. He wants it nowhere near him and when it isn’t required for presentation it’s at the back of his closet where it doesn’t collect dust but it should.
“Come, come.” The priest’s footsteps through the corridor mingle with the sounds of their nearby river. Their white robes swish just above the floor. Fine floral patterns switched with golden thread trail upwards, etching a garden into the cloth. Although he’d never forget how to sew, he’d forgotten he likes to do it.
They exit into a sunlit circle courtyard filled with connected pathways, made of stone gently weathered like the rest of the temple. Running in between the pathways are small streams, perpetuated by waterfalls from the surrounding walls—likely created by a system of pipes—and there’s fourteen of them, and for every two waterfalls there’s a Link-sized tablet standing in front, each engraved with a different symbol. Small wooden boxes at the edges of the pathways are filled with flowers. A familiar, curious rattling sound echoes from above. Butterflies and bees mill around, and other priests, at the tablets or tending to the flowers or chatting with their fellows, note his presence. They smile at him, and all slowly filter out as he’s led to a platform at the center where all the pathways meet.
The priest says, “Do you know what to do?”
Link shakes his head.
“No worries. Stand here, as you are, and unsheathe the Sword—place Her tip down on the stone, and clasp Her hilt with both hands. Like that, yes. Now…”
The Korok floats down in front of Link’s face; they must have been near the river. “Big day for Mr. Hero?”
They giggle and glide down nearer to his shoulder, pivoting to face where he does.
One of the paths goes directly around the edge of the courtyard, passing by all the tablets. The priest kneels at the first, to his right, and begins to ask for blessings.
Of time—of spirit—of shadow—fairies from the grass would nuzzle into his palm and leave behind soft pink residue. It’s otherworldly how dust touches everything but the sword. Not that that matters to Link—fairy dregs have only ever remained on him, nothing else, not even the grass.
Of fire—of water—the sword was covered in growth when he first saw it. Hateno is hills surrounded by woods that have swallowed fences and old cabins and wells, so the sword was nothing new and stayed like that for a precious small while.
Of wind—of light—The Korok makes a questioning sound. The priest slowly gets up.
“With hope,” they sigh, walking back to the center, “The sages of the past will grant you two their good graces.”
“They missed a sage,” says the Korok.
“If you are ready to leave,” says the priest, smiling warmly at Link—don’t look at me— “I will escort you out.”
Link sheathes the sword and follows them down the pathways. His knuckles ache to be cracked.
“But maybe they didn’t miss them,” the Korok wonders out loud. A bee flies by. “And the meanings just got mixed up. So I’m thinking that forest must have come beforehand—so it’d be the same—or maybe wind was forest, before forest was forest, ever think of that?”
“Has something caught your eye?”
Link’s stopped. He didn’t mean to, but no amount of anything could ever ignore a Korok’s musings. The priest follows his stare to the tablet. “Ah,” they say quite kindly, “The sage of wind. It’s interesting that you’re intrigued, but not surprising—despite our extensive records, there’s nothing known about them other than that they were.”
On the way back to the castle, he’ll pass by people leaving. Surprisingly, not everyone wants to be around for the end of the world. They’re not doing themselves any favors. Disaster always starts at the center, the old ladies at the town kitchens liked to say, and it lingers everywhere else. Lots buried deep below these hills.
“We take them to be of flight, as well as youth,” the priest continues thoughtfully. “But it would be more apt to say they were simply hidden.”
There was an old house with half of its wall caved in and soft from decay, and the rest stood firm enough to house a family of songbirds. In Hateno, your body is burned and your ashes scattered into the sea. What would it take to stain the sword, if not his own blood—Link can’t reach the sea from the castle so he’d rather it seep into the soil. He gets where the nameless sage was coming from. He needs to hide. He needs to disappear. He needs to tear his face away and plug the wound with rocks from the shore. The priest is smiling at him again.
“Shall we?” they say, and resume walking. He follows.
His horse is waiting under the shade of a nearby tree when they leave the temple. The priest who took her reins waters flowers.
The priests thank him graciously. They tell him he’s always welcome. They’re genuine about everything, at the very least. He passes by wagons on the road through Hyrule Field and more people on foot and most of them stare. He’ll be preserved in amber before he ever gets the chance to rot.
“They were one of ours, weren’t they?” he croaks to the Korok when there’s no one around. “That’d explain why no one knows shit about them.”
The Korok chirps. “Yep! Just can’t be seen.”
“Lucky them,” says Link.
“I wouldn’t say that,” says the Korok. They settle on top of his head, lost in thought. “One of them died. It’s a huge thing for a Korok to die.”
He knows that. Understands it as easy as anything—flowers poking through floorboards. Nests in the rafter. Link’s name was carved on a tombstone before he was told he’d die with a message moon-blue and dustless. It all puffs up from the road from under hooves and settles in his stupid uniform. His hold of the reins is steady. The sun beats down.
The Korok quietly vanishes as he approaches Castle Town. Link needs to follow. Needs to turn to dust so the wind whisks him away in millions of bits and pieces. The gates are raised.