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Zelda scowls, jotting down yet another dour structural report in her hand-bound journal:
‘West Grounds Garden Gazebo: Roof has partially caved in. Five out of six of the pillars remain standing, in varying degrees of disrepair.’
Ugh.
Damage surveys. She hates this endless, arduous process with a burning passion, but she has no choice in the matter. It’s a necessary task. After all, while they may have emerged victorious from under the Calamity’s poisonous wrath, the ultimate fate of Hyrule’s future still hangs in a delicate balance. The engine of war makes no concessions on which corners of the land it spares and which it destroys. As a result, whole villages now lie in ruins… their farmlands infested with lingering malice. Much of the population has evacuated to safety, yes, but thousands of lives will no doubt be forever uprooted.
(It’s a fear that still goes unspoken, a bitter pill she’d much rather spit back up than swallow, but at this point she kind of doubts she’ll ever live to see her kingdom rise to its former glory.)
Of course, their age of history is yet to be recorded— their future still malleable. It’s a reassurance she’s eternally thankful for. Her entourage clearly has much work to do, though, if they wish to lift Hyrule out of its current ruination. At this very moment her father is traveling on foot through the streets of Castle Town, personally delivering aid and rations to injured, hungry soldiers. The champions and their descendants from the future work steadfast at his side… an active demonstration of their solidarity. Once the soldiers of Hyrule Field are tended to, they plan to return to their home regions to aid their kin. (Although if there's any way for the descendants to return to their time, they don't yet know how.) Meanwhile, Purah and Robbie have been tasked with checking on the status of the Royal Ancient Lab, and ensuring all the once-hostile guardians are now completely offline. Truth be told, Zelda desperately wishes she could’ve tagged along with them, but it’s probably for the best she’s tarried behind, surveying the castle with Link and Impa. Crossing the bridge to the western ridgelands of the kingdom would involve making… a public appearance, should she say… and to be frank, she’s in no shape to bear the weight of such attention yet.
Sighing in quiet disappointment, she flips her journal closed, tentatively stepping forwards towards the remains of her favorite garden gazebo. But once Zelda notices the skinny, splintered tree stump nestled in the scorched soil surrounding this caved-in structure, it’s unspeakably difficult for her discerning gaze to peel away. So she tucks her papers and quill in the crook of her armpit like her father always chides her for (though she frankly doesn’t give a damn about the potential of ink stains in the wake of everything that’s just happened), and slinks away from her friends to take stock of this easily overlooked point of damage. After all, it’s just one detail in a thousand. A mere pinprick of a scar scattered amidst broad, mottled swaths of burned flesh.
And yet, the destruction of sacred icons and priceless tapestries cannot hold a candle to the loss of this singular, fledgling oak tree. Not to her. Not with everything it represents.
With a shaky exhale, Zelda sinks to her knees in front of the stump. Sets her things down. Gently runs her fingers across the jagged edges of what little remains. This poor thing must have been snapped at the base by rampaging monsters, or else, by the stalking advance of a guardian. Gods know where its delicate, leafy boughs ended up in all the chaos. They were probably knocked into the river below, or reduced into ash, like every other trace evidence of green on these blasted castle grounds. Her throat clenches tight upon the mere thought, her eyes prickling with yet unshed moisture. She shifts her weight back until she’s sitting on her heels, hastily blinking away the burgeoning teardrops. A princess mustn’t cry. Not with so many thousands of people relying on her for strength in the wake of such tragedy.
Sucking in a deep breath of soot-laden air, she glances up from the tree’s remains to drink in the once-familiar view of west Castle Town from atop this fortified hillside.
(Minutes later, she’ll realize that— in her current mental state— this was a grave mistake.)
Hoarse, messy sobs— the first she’s expelled since the beginning of this whole affair— overwhelm her exhausted, shaking form before her mind can even consciously acknowledge the roots of her grief. Link, the chivalrous young man he is, rushes to her side in mere seconds. He kneels and rests his partially gloved hand on her bare shoulder, his calloused fingertips pressing warmth into her skin. But his generous offer of comfort barely matters. Her lungs are already burning to cinders within her chest, her tears carving raw valleys across her ruddy cheeks. She seizes her fists tight, clutching them against her bosom as she continues to breathlessly weep. Nonetheless, her knight’s touch remains constant through this perilous storm.
Oh, she’s finally crumbling to pieces, isn’t she? She’s finally gone mad. A young woman heir to nothing but a shattered, blighted kingdom… eroding away like dampened gypsum in the sheer agony of this bittersweet aftermath, just like this very castle she once called home.
She finds herself doubling over, wetting the hardened soil around this small stump with her sloppy tears, clawing her fingers through what little loose dirt is left. This Calamity has truly taken everything from her. Her mother— by the hands of the Yiga ten years prior— her confidence, her sense of security, countless innocent soldiers and civilians, her childhood home, Terrako, and now this…!
It’s not fair!
Eventually, she hears light footsteps approach behind her. Precise and purposeful, the central dogma of any Sheikah advisor worth their salt. Her dear friend Impa.
“We can always plant a new one, Your Highness,” Impa says kindly, kneeling down on her other side, opposite of Link.
She widely shakes her head, letting out a pathetically strained sob most unbecoming of her position.
No, she can’t just plant a new one. Impa doesn’t remotely understand; how could she? To her, this is just some stupid, insignificant plant, one of millions. There was never any signage. No distinct marker to set it apart from the others. Nothing.
“This tree in particular was special to you?” Link suddenly asks, breaking his customary silence with a carefully constructed sentence. Few and far between are the days he speaks out loud, but on the rare occasions he does, she always finds herself melting in the wake of his gentle tenor.
Nodding slowly, Zelda reaches forward to graze her hand against the oak’s bark once more, finding new strength in the spirit of his calm, controlled demeanor.
“I planted it with Mother,” she says, her hoarse voice cracking on the vowels.
Everything that she made with her as a child. Finger paintings. The flowers they cultivated in the gardens. This very tree. Terrako. Gone.
Link sits back on his haunches, removing his hand from her shoulder. Out of the corner of her eyes, she catches him signing something brief to Impa. The Sheikah woman sighs with a somber understanding.
“Ah, so that’s why you’d always escape everyone’s watch to come sit here.”
Zelda gives a watery chuckle. It’s true. Ever since her mother died, she used to occasionally play hooky from the more boring lessons to run out to this gazebo with her books. It’d drive her tutors insane. She’d sit right by that youthful oak tree and spend hours pouring over the latest ancient tech breakthroughs, or brushing up on her botany knowledge, or losing herself within the pages of some silly, pulpy romance novella she borrowed from her handmaiden. Sometimes… she’d even read aloud, pretending that her mother’s spirit could actually hear her from the next realm. But most importantly, it gave her a proper setting to pray. Not to the divine pantheon above, but rather… to her ancestors, as per classical Gerudo tradition. She never felt a shred of spiritual resonance in the chapels, or at any of the Goddess springs. But at the foot of this precise oak, this once-living entity that they planted as one, she could almost feel her mother’s hand wrapping around hers. Could almost hear her golden, lilting laugh.
And now, their tree is gone. Forever.
So what does this mean for the future of her devotion? Of her quiet mourning rituals? Will she ever feel Mother’s presence as strongly as she did here, in this sacred place? Or is there not a single physical memento left in the whole world of the close bond they used to—
“Wait a minute—” Impa interrupts her melancholy train of thought, rooting around in her belt pouch. “Oh sweet Nayru, in all the chaos, I completely forgot…”
Zelda’s brows furrow in abundant curiosity. She sits up, wiping the dried tears from her ruddy cheeks with the backs of her knuckles. “Forgot what?”
“Well, while you’re right there’s no replacing that tree,” she begins, closing her fist around something in the pouch and pulling it out, “I think there might be a chance we can save Terrako.”
Her palm opens, revealing a single, faintly glowing ancient screw. The same screw that the brave little guardian left behind after leaping ahead of them to self destruct and cripple Calamity Ganon. Zelda gasps.
“Stars, I- I thought I lost that during the battle!” she exclaims, reaching out to grab the screw and cradle it reverently in her own palm.
Without any pockets in her dress to safely stash it in, she dropped it when the sanctum floor crumbled underfoot, and they plummeted into the observatory hidden below. When she couldn’t find it at the conflict’s end she all but assumed it had been crushed in the rubble, or by the ceaseless rampaging of their enemy. And yet… with Impa’s revelation… perhaps fate may yet shine kindly upon her. Perhaps whatever spark of life clings to this singular screw is enough to bring Terrako’s memory back from the brink of oblivion.
Link rises to his feet. “There’s, ah… tons of partially explored dig sites across Hyrule,” he begins softly, his current line of logic already seeming to mirror her own. “I-I… I’m sure that, uhm… i-if we—” He clamps his lips shut. A sharp wave of frustration washing over his countenance, he continues in swift, fluid sign. “I’m sure we can collect enough components to repair his shell if we search these ruins.”
“Yes,” she chimes, grabbing her journal in her other hand and standing to her full height as well. “Good idea! Once we’re finished with surveying the castle grounds, we can make that an additional priority on our travels, alongside organizing relief efforts for displaced families and assisting with reconstruction.”
Impa’s brow creases. “Are— are you sure you’ll be ready? To step back into public so soon?”
Zelda pauses, flexing her fingers against the worn, well-loved leather of her bound writings. “I think… I’ll be okay, now,” she finally responds, glancing once again at the remains of her and Mother’s oak tree. No tears pool at the surface this time.
Because hope still remains. A glistening light calls to her from the darkness… singing her an ancient lullaby she genuinely thought she’d never hear again. Her fist tightens around this precious memento, the remaining sum of Terrako’s essence. She has one link to her mother left and she intends to save it. After all, the precise shape of their future is still malleable.
With his sacrifice, that bold, plucky little robot guaranteed as much.