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My heart cannot break, for I am made of stone.
For aeons I have stood here, an edifice of wisdom, blessing all the people who kneel at my feet and beg me to alter their trivial fates. Out of duty, I oblige, but all this time there is one and only one person I have wished to see. Centuries have passed and I have not seen his face. So I kept waiting, and waiting, and waiting to see him amongst the congregation that gathered at my altar every day, without fail.
But a hundred years ago, they did fail.
I watched on, my benevolent, stone-carved smile unfaltering, as my followers were slaughtered where they stood; as my roof caved in, my windows shattered, my altar split into two.
A few stragglers ran to me with their surviving belongings in a knapsack as they fled, pleading hastily for safe passage before running on in hopes of escape.
I do not know how many of them lived. The horror weighs on me daily.
But my heart cannot break, for I am made of stone.
A century drags its feet. My temple is in ruin. My sanctum has been desecrated; my pews are empty; my ceilings are overgrown with ivy. My granite form has eroded slightly; my features softened by time, my shiny surface now coarse and tarnished.
And I am growing weary.
Rumours reach me on the wind that the knight is dead. The Hero of Time. Dead. All those years I spent waiting for him are snuffed into insignificance like an incense stick burning out.
But my heart cannot break, for I am made of stone.
I do not believe it anyway. I feel that he is close at hand, although I cannot tell whether it is by time or location. Is he near? Does he stir? Does he know that I wait for him?
The sound of a pot smashing wakes me from my trance.
I stare at the shards of ceramic on the floor. Another smash, and more join them. And for the first time in a century, my weathered stone smile feels genuine.
Who else would it be? Who else would dare to destroy the offering jars of Hylia Herself, in Her own temple? The Temple, no less?
It is my knight. My hero. He is here. He has risen.
After breaking all my pots, he looks around and then runs up to me. He looks younger than I expected… although not in appearance. In mind. His eyes do not reflect the experience his appearance would suggest he has. There is some childlike wonder in them, as if he were only just born, and a notable lack of recognition… Does he know who I am? Who he is? What he must face?
It seems, although he does not know me, he senses what must be done. When he kneels at my feet, head bowed in prayer, I am sure. I am sure this is my Link. I am sure he will save my daughter. I am sure he will save my world.
I want to thank this incarnation of my beloved, my chosen one. I want to place my hand on his small head and assure him it’ll be alright. I want to hold him close and tell him of all the feats he's accomplished in past lives, all the people he has saved, all the times he's rescued Hyrule from certain demise.
With an instinct bordering on maternal, I try to reach out and touch him.
But my heart breaks, for I am made of stone.