Calamity

We were from the desert, and we told stories. That was our way of survival, our way of life. Every oasis and village we visited knew who we were; we were the wanderers, the ones who put on shows by fires reaching for the evening skies. My parents were the narrators, the voices; my mother could trap your heart with her words, hold it fast until she saw fit to release you from the fantasies she uttered; my father was a man with a million accents and tones, an infinitude of voices coming from the same mouth. Both could act, as could my cousins, who were all older than me. They all taught me; I learned how to be other people, just like them. I could never tell so good a story as my mother, nor master voices like my father, but I could portray greatness, and orphans, and woe, and merriment. I was often cast as a child, until one of my cousins found himself a wife, and they moved closer to the faraway kingdom in which it was rumoured that a young princess had been born, at the expense of the queen. It was that day my parents, smiling, proud, presented me with the blue and silver sword, with the green tunic, and the blond wig of the Great Hero, everyone’s favourite protagonist.

I looked at myself in the mirror that day, proud. I slipped the green tunic over my dark grey shirt, slid the sheath across my shoulder so it draped across my back. I, almost tearing up, tied my hair up and placed the wig atop. I was he, and he was me, the Great Hero, the brave one I always wanted to be. I stared at myself, hands on hips; I drew the Hero’s Sword, held its point towards the sky. I practised until I could no longer move, perfecting every sword stroke, slash, and pose my role mandated. I would be the best Great Hero my family ever told. Our first set of shows went flawlessly; the crowd marvelled at how adept I moved, at how sincere my warrior screams were, at how ferociously I swung. We moved onto the next village, the next oasis, the oasis after, and the small town; everywhere, we were loved. Adored. Cherished. The folk who listened to us were respectful, and fed us well, and for them I was appreciative, always.

We were making our way closer to the kingdom, I realised, because my parents dreamed of putting on our show for the royalty. Father always asked Mother if she thought the king would think well of us. She would assure him that he would, that the king was known for his kindness and good taste. Father would smile and suggest that he himself should be the king, if those qualities were all it took. Mother would smirk and remind Father that the king was known to be humble, too. They would laugh, and I would smile, and my cousins would tug me away as my parents pulled each other close, and their mouths would meet. Our world was perfect.

Was. Some villagers thought lesser of us. My mother warned us about this, explaining that those near the kingdom were less experienced with people of the desert than the people on the fringes, and so they may not understand our language, our ways; they may be frightened, overwhelmed by we foreigners. But none prepared us for the heckling. My father, who trained his voice so well over the course of decades, who studied every voice he ever heard, and merged those into ones he hadn’t, was chastised for not making the Calamity more terrifying, the Princess less commanding, the Great Hero more impressive. My mother’s face flashed dismay whenever members of the audience, usually held entirely in her sway, would yawn and rudely make their way back into their homes. Some villagers’ children would whisper about me, ask why I was playing the Great Hero when I was so pudgy, so weak, when my sword was so obviously fake, when my skin was dark and my red hair peeked from beneath the wig I wore.

But we ignored them and moved on. Mother learned the ways of the local storytellers and merged those with her own; Father learned the voices of the village denizens. I started dyeing my hair, rather than wearing the wig. We applied to be seen by the Court but were rejected; there were rumours that the king was working on something which would better the kingdom as a whole, and that he needed absolute focus to get it right. There were rumours of adventurers being sent out to retrieve the Great Hero’s tunic, cap, shield, and bow, to return them to the halls they had once protected. I wanted desperately to join them, to find the Great Hero’s gear, to revel in his glory, to somehow feel him through the relics which had adorned him. I wanted to be the Great Hero, despite what the villager children said about me. I felt that, could the time arise, I could be. I would be.

Our shows continued, despite the royal rejection. Some years passed. Mother lost her desert accent. Father learned the languages of the region, of the kingdom; he started infusing some of their linguistics into our plays, much to the local delight. Every once in a while, usually in winter, we would journey back into the desert, visit my parents’ siblings and parents, their aunts and uncles. They always remarked upon how well-fed I seemed, how happy we all looked. They were proud of us, maintaining our nomadic ways in a largely stationary culture. They loved that we could speak both our language, and those of the field people, of the lake people, that we were learning the languages of our cultural cousins in the volcanic lands.

One year, my father’s mother was dying. We returned early to visit her, cutting our summer season in half. The people of the forest we had recently come to know were grateful for our presence but wished us well on our way. How I had come to love those people who had tortured me so frequently before; how I yearned to protect them at all costs, from all sorrow! I bid them farewell, and joined my father, my mother, the cousins remaining in our troupe, and even those who had left us nearly a decade beforehand, whose families wore the garb and dark facial paste which marked our period of mourning. We wore it so my grandmother would know we already missed her, that we loved her so. She gave each of us firstborn grandchildren a gift. To one cousin, she gave her book of recipes. That cousin was already a renowned cook; it was of most use to him. To another cousin, my grandmother gave her sewing kit; to another, a map to all her secret dwelling places and hideaway stashes. These befit them, the one who made fine linens and the one who guarded mysteries.

To me, however, my grandmother bequeathed a great tome. She told me that the book was a vessel for great power, that it was a book handed down throughout the generations, a book to be safeguarded. The power in the book was one to bring about great change, she warned me. She was to say one last thing, but she merely lay back in her bed, looked towards the heavens, clasped my hand tightly one last time, and breathed her spirit into the universe. I let go of her slowly chilling hand hours later; I fell asleep in my mother’s arms that night, softly crying to myself, the book clutched to my chest. That’s how I would sleep for a month; we would put on our first show at the beginning of autumn, solely for our family. They would weep when we referred to my late grandmother as the Great Tree, which offered such sagacious wisdom and warm comfort to the Great Hero. I kept my hair red for the performance. My family did not mind. For that night, even the Great Hero could have been a Gerudo.

As with most Gerudo families, Father was not a Gerudo by birth. Gerudo men were rarely born, though I was an exception, having been the by-product of a union preceding my mother’s marriage to Father, who had been born in the fields surrounding Hyrule. He had been adopted by the Gerudo, when his family was ravaged by those stormwinds which tore through the desert every few months. My mother had fallen for him when she was younger, but the full-blooded Gerudo man born before me had his sights on her, and, as at the time it was understood that the surviving Gerudo male would be the clan king, Mother had no choice but to obey my birth-father’s affections. He perished shortly after I was born, it was assumed. My mother, still in love with Father, married him; over the years, he’d become more Gerudo than the culture he’d been born into. I did not realise until after my grandmother died that there was still some resentment amongst our family members that Mother remarried, and that her new husband was Hylian. As if my grandmother’s passing relinquished its hold, the next few weeks I became aware of the animosity my aunts and uncles had towards Father, and it tore me apart to see them mistreat one of the sweetest, most caring men alive. I elected to stand up to them, demanding they apologise to him, explaining how he was the greatest man I’d ever known, who took care of not only the woman he loved, but a son who wasn’t even his, who treated me as if he were.

In reply, some asked if I were truly the male Gerudo, if I were a Gerudo at all. Some of the more calloused ones demanded I return to them the book I’d been bequeathed, that I didn’t deserve it. They tried to take it from me, my cousins; they made pig sounds at me, mocking me; they broke the sword I used when I played the Great Hero, threw my shield into the fire. I could do nothing but clutch at the book as they kicked me one night, daring me to prove my strength, to be as great and mighty a king as my father before me. They laughed, knowing I couldn’t. Knowing I wouldn’t. I cried onto the book until my parents discovered us and sent my cousins scurrying away. Their laughter rang in my ears throughout the entire journey back to the lands near the kingdom. I was too traumatised to act, and so my younger cousin, with a swiftly fashioned wooden blade and shield, painted hastily and yet still perfectly to replicate the adornments of the Hero’s Sword. My cousin, so sweet and kind, would always ask me if I were better, if I could return to my role as the Great Hero. I wished I could, but something awoke in me the night my other cousins beat me. I felt something from within the book, as if it spoke to me. I felt my grandmother’s presence; I felt warmth, and comfort. I felt from the book something so familiar, uncannily so, as if my ancestors were speaking to me from within, reassuring me, promising me a greatness which would silence those who had doubted me.

It was late one evening, when I could no longer sleep, that I opened the tome, and an infinitude of lore and understanding filled my mind. I remembered closing the book at sunrise and realising why my grandmother had given it to me. I realised how I could protect my family, how I could make it so I would never be beaten by my cousins nor foreigners again. I saw it unfolding in my mind, the way I needed to go. I told my parents, who frowned at first, worried that I was doing this as an act of revenge, or because I felt restless, as if a journey was necessary to find myself. I assuaged them, promising that it was part of the gift grandmother had given me, that there was another piece I needed to find. Mother asked if I were to leave them, how could they continue? I gave my younger cousin my wig, my sword, my shield, my tunic, all of the regalia I wore as the Great Hero; I told him to be brave, that he would do well, to live through my parents’ narration and storytelling, to be the Great Hero. I kissed the damp cheeks of my mother and father, and I, having packed food and some of the money which my father gave me, went to follow the urgings of the book.

It took me first to the desert, back home, beyond the lands my family knew, beyond the oases, beyond the trails. I did not stop on my journey, but to briefly sleep before the sunrise; the book lent greater knowledge to me than those who had strove to ingrain in my mind their ideations regarding family and fortitude. I learned of truer power, of the sacred creatures who yearned to be awakened, to return the world to glory. Were the creatures to resurrect from their slumber, I surmised, the king could once again open his gates to all, and we would be invited, my true family, those members of our beautiful troupe, and put on a play with the king himself as the Great Hero, all my efforts left known only to the sands I crossed.

I smiled with the thought, with the premonition of my parents’ abject merriment, of my cousins’ pride and accomplishment. Of the realisation from the rest of our family that they were, in fact, wrong, that I, who had liberated the kingdom from any threat whatsoever, was fit to be the Gerudo King. And they would kneel, but I, seeing them as my family, despite their contrary arguments, would lift them to their feet, and promise to restore unto them their pride, which, in fearing the variant, they had so callously surrendered.

The book directed me to a great ruin; it was there, the book assured me, that the first deity I needed to uncover would be. The book showed me to a vacant pool, in which there was naught but sand. The book told me to dig, and so I did, over the course of days, removing sand with my hands until they bled from a lack of moisture. I paused, as the sand stung in my wounds, but I remembered that the Great Hero, in his quests, was unyielding, save to recover as necessary; I could do no less. So, I urged on, and on, until the pool was empty and there was, suddenly visible, a shallow engraving which covered the floor of the pool. Exhausted and proud, I, like the sun, fell, fatigued, and allowed my blood to run freely through the space allotted. The book lay upon my chest. I felt its warmth, was lulled to sleep by the heartbeats emanating from within.

Screaming. Terror, unfettered. Calamity.

The scorching on my hand jarred me from my sleep; a line, bright yellow, tore itself into my sinew, sending blood in an arc which splashed across my face. I leapt to my feet, thinking something had attacked me, but I realised that this was not the case, that the wound I’d been dealt had already healed. My palms, having been pouring crimson the last time I’d seen them, were sealed, as if they had never been opened. The only alteration was the yellow scar, a slant on my right hand, leading from the joint of my thumb to my middle knuckle. It did not hurt. I did not cry. I plucked the book from the ground and perused it once more, inquiring both what had happened to me and what I was to do next. It only answered the latter. I left the pool and its scarlet engraving, which had once been pallid stone, and, scarred hand outstretched, pronounced the words which flowed from the book, up my veins, and out my mouth. I only knew what the words meant when they left my mouth. I called for the great deity of the desert to resurrect, to return to us, to show us its might, to eradicate blight from the world. Thunder filled the sky; lightning struck the world around the pool, lashing out vehemently as the spell took. The book commended me. Evenings later, I would look back in the direction of the pool, having travelled towards the forests. Into the pool flooded darkness, the blight I had hoped to erase; a black torrent racing into the spot I had purified. I was proud of my work and turned towards the forests to do more.

I found the fountain in the centre of the deepest forest, a long-forgotten ruin in which only the memory of water lay. Etched in the bottom was another sigil, one I felt that my mind recalled but could not form. It was a memory without meaning. I entered the fountain; days passed. I spent the time trancelike, clearing the fountain of forest debris. My palms were torn open by the splinters and barbed leaves I grabbed by the fistful, to clear the fountain. Again, I fell unconscious; again, I awoke, covered in blood, jarred from slumber by a new scar upon my right hand, one which tore itself from my middle knuckle to my wrist, this time away from my thumb, so that the scars conjoined formed a V. Screaming. Terror, unfettered. Calamity. I exited the fountain, extended my hand towards it once I made seven paces away, opened the book, and recited those words which flew from my lips as falcons towards their quarry.

Weeks passed; I reached the volcanic lands of the north. Heat unlike any I had known chapped my lips. Fire licked at my feet. The rock, hot enough to evaporate instantaneously the sweat dripping from my body, swayed, trapped in place by its brethren as currents of unmitigated warmth rippled underneath. I made my way to the centre of the mountain, following the path laid out by my book. There lay the old shrine which needed awakening. Although there was a great amount of heat present, I could feel that the god who rested in the volcano had not seen wakefulness in aeons. The shrine needed clearing; my skin sloughed off in blisters from the heat of those rocks I shoved from the shrine, an offering to the lava below. I remembered those children from near the kingdom, calling me weak, pig-like. They knew not the strength of a boar; they knew not its ferocity. At the time, neither had I. But I had grown, on my journeys. I came to understand. I fought wild boars, and I respected them for their tribulations. I knelt in the shrine, letting the blood from my palms flood the raised circle, fill the engraved mark so that my knees were covered in the life pulsing through my veins. I had grown, on my journeys. I lay in the blood, letting the trance overtake me, allowing my exhaustion to take hold. I came to understand. The king would call me a sage. I closed my eyes. Screaming. Terror, unfettered. Calamity. They had become calming to me, the outbursts of those I would defeat. I stood outside the shrine, the familiar ripping of muscle and skin completing the triangle on my hand.

The final guardian lay within the castle, my book instructed me. I stood outside its gates when I looked back, seeing the three pillars of darkness being hastily absorbed by those places I had purified. I smiled. The guards asked if I had permission to enter the kingdom. I informed them of my station; I said I sought to speak with the king. They knew of the Gerudo. They knew they had a king. They accepted my premise and showed me to the beautiful castle which had for so long kept my family from its halls. And here I walked, freely, the guards glad to show me to the throne room, in which the king awaited me. I explained my mission to the king. I smiled, speaking in his dialect, explaining that I sought to resurrect the deities who once guarded the land so as to ensure that he could sleep easily, knowing his kingdom was protected. He asked if I were responsible for the corruption of the domains outside his walls. I, bemused, thinking his statement a joke, laughed, thinking it appropriate. He did not smile. He did not laugh. His knuckles whitened as he gripped his throne. I asked him if he would ever consider opening the gates to my family, who yearned so greatly to amuse him with their rendition of the Great Hero. He asked if I intended to destroy his kingdom. I retorted that his and mine had been peaceful neighbours for so long, that to do so would be foolish. Pointless. Madness. My book urged me to complete my mission. The king asked me about the scar on my hand. He asked about my travels. I did not lie. He asked if I were wanting a bath. I did not lie. His guards led me to the springs, in which I bathed, revelling in the removal of dust, sweat, and cinder from my skin.

My book plead with me, begging me to finish. I abandoned the springs, putting on the clothes which had been left for me. I made my way to a quiet part of the castle, in which no one seemed to travel, behind the throne room. No doors were locked to me; I passed them with ease. There were no guards to stop me. I heard the glee emanating from my book as I stepped into the final shrine. Where there had once been a sword, embedded in rock, there was but a slit in the pedestal. My book commanded me to put it upon the slit; I obeyed, opening it to the page it dictated. I placed my right hand upon its spine and uttered the words it directed me to speak. I heard no sound from my mouth, but I knew I was speaking. I resonated with the very air of the chamber, with the chamber itself, with the castle, with the kingdom. I urged the last guardian to awaken, to protect the kingdom, the world, from those blights I had encountered, and their families; for all of my enemies to crumble before me, to invoke in me that which I had been searching for all along, for my rightful station. The guards tried to pry hand from the book, but there was no use; I was stronger than they. My hand glowed red as the aspect of the Triforce embedded in me awakened. As I had done to the land, so had the land done unto me, and we were purified.

There was screaming. The castle walls shook as an unfathomable darkness washed over me, summoned by the book. All the blights in the world were being eradicated, summoned to every spot I had cleansed. They were the embodiment of terror unfettered. I revelled in their suffering. The king ran into the room, pleading for me to stop, to return from whence I came, to leave the world alone, to leave his daughter alone. I would do no such thing. I assured him that this was for the best; he disagreed. Vehemently. He ran against me; I waved my hand, and he was but stone. Around me were people screaming, guards straining to protect their petrified king. I was the sole person in the chamber who did not embody calamity. I was peace, and goodwill. Order. The book dissolved, its purpose served, its memory running through my veins. Where there had been only din was now silence. I left the chamber unopposed, save for a young girl who stood on the steps below me, tears running down her face. I did not recognise her. She asked after her father; I told her he was within the chamber. She made as if to see him, but I stopped her, plucking her from the ground and tossing her back down the stairs. I explained that it was not a good room to be in. There was a sudden haze, and the girl was gone. I plucked from my shoulder the dagger which had embedded itself there. No blood stemmed from the wound, I realised, letting the knife clatter to the ground. I raised my eyes to the king’s and kept his stare, standing there a long while, deriving meaning from his mournful, terrified gaze. I lifted my fingers to touch his outstretched, marble hand. It was frigid. I promised him that I would make glorious his kingdom, and I left him and his guards, all frozen in time, captors of their own prejudice.

The day afterwards, I stood atop the highest parapet, analysing the kingdom I had been entrusted with. I looked to each shrine I had purified, smirking with the satisfaction in that I had directed the world’s evil into four centralised regions. I was content with this for the first year of my dominion. I began to wonder about the condition of the world beyond the kingdom. Using those magicks I learned from the book, I crafted scouts and soldiers, the former so as to glean the situation of the world, the latter so as to correct those who still succumbed to those contagious, malevolent forces I sought to eradicate. As my scouts and soldiers filled the world, I relocated the king and his men to the throne room, hoping the venue would prove more comfortable to them than those haunting, lurching poses they took in the castle shrine. I allowed the king to move, guiding his weakened frame to his throne. He rasped that I would be defeated, that destiny foretold my destruction. As I helped him into his seat, I smiled, placing my hand atop his chest and restoring him to his stony disposition.

I practised in front of him and his men, remembered the monologues of the Great Hero. I put on the entirety of those plays my parents had crafted. I came up with new ones, even, later in the year. An idea blossomed in my mind: I awoke the king from his slumber and asked him to invite my family. He asked why I was so insistent on their performance. I asked him again, assuring him that he would love their production. Imbued with the power necessary to write a letter, the king invited my parents; a scout took it to them. They replied, mentioning that they were scheduled for the rest of the year, and would like to put on a fresh show, solely for the king and his court. The king, persuaded by my steadfastness and candour, claimed that this would be fine. I brought the rest of the court to the throne room, in which the play would be presented; they each took their seats, eager for the show to begin. They seemed as excited as I; perhaps, more so. They waited the few months it took for my family to arrive, smiles upon their faces as they were shown into the hall. They did not recognise me, but I wanted it that way; I stood as a guard, off to the side, my eyes shining with gleeful tears as my mother and father bowed, followed by my cousins, some of whom, I realised, were the children of those with whom I had performed. They asked if the king was ready for their performance. The king glanced to me, who imperceptibly nodded; the king smiled and plead for the commencement.

The Great Hero, this time, spent most of his journey searching after the lost Goddess, who had vanished years before the tale my family presented. The Goddess, not knowing her true nature, had been stolen away by a member of the kingdom’s secret guard, the Sheikah, whose physical and magical prowess were equal and of great magnitude. The Goddess, taken for her own safety, was growing in power every day, learning the extent of her ability. She was developing those Arrows of Light, which could seal away the Darkness which threatened the world. It was the task of the Great Hero to collect his armour, so as to take on the Darkness directly. Each piece of his armour was held captive by a glorious beast. Each beast had been contaminated by the Darkness when they tried to take it on themselves, and this initially led them to attack the Great Hero rather than help him. However, the Great Hero, valiant as ever, fought off their rampages until he and they could parley, and he could remind them of their tasks. Finally, tempered by the armour he wore, he was summoned to the place where the Darkness lay in wait. The Goddess was within the fortress, having mastered her art; she had been captured by the Darkness so as to be there when the Great Hero inevitably appeared. Despite the Darkness’ traps and soldiers, the Great Hero made his way through the fortress, to its heart, where the Darkness and the Goddess waited.

The Darkness was preliminarily defeated by the Great Hero alone, who released the Goddess from her prison. The pair fought the second iteration of the Darkness, whose ruthlessness was ultimately its downfall; it tired out its physical form, making it easier for the Goddess to ensnare. Before she could finish her binding spell, however, the Darkness surged forth and snatched the person whose appearance had foiled it, yet again. Together, within the confines of the Goddess’ spell, the Darkness and the Great Hero raged against each other. The Goddess did everything she could to maintain the boundary, so as to restrain the Darkness within and liberate the Great Hero, but there was no way to release one without the other. The Goddess fell to her knees, emotionally exasperated, physically fatigued. Despite all her wisdom, the Goddess could not compel her mind to create a credible release for the Great Hero, whose armour waned in its strength. A shield broke, then the mail he wore. Every potion he carried was drank. There came a blow which sent the Great Hero to his belly, and the Goddess yelped, uncertain as to whether the Great Hero could rise. She shook her head; there was another way. Her mind had given it to her all so suddenly; it was clear. She rose to her full height, taking a deep breath, resolving to give the Great Hero exactly what he had pledged to her. She broke through the boundary of her spell and slid between the Darkness and the Great Hero, just as the former unleashed a finishing blow which, rather than slice through the Great Hero, tore through the Goddess’ torso, sending her blood flying in a wild arc which splashed every boundary of her spell. The Great Hero, screaming, used his Sword to rise to his feet; he stumbled over to the Goddess, who put her hands upon his face and smiled. She had faith in him, she admitted, more faith than she had in anything. She fell, then, holding limply to the Great Hero’s waist before falling aside entirely, spent. The Great Hero stiffened, his own resolve reinvigorating his exhausted sinew. The Darkness faltered, meeting the Hero’s eyes; defiantly, the Darkness surged forth with a mighty roar which shook the walls of the castle. With an equal roar, the Great Hero spun aside of the Darkness’ feral lunge. The Great Hero’s blade was a column of white light. The Darkness stumbled forward, one step, another. Its gargantuan blade clattered to the ground in pieces. The plumes of red which perpetually erupted from the Darkness’ scalp dimmed; the Darkness reached for something upon which it could bear its weight. There was nothing; the Darkness fell to a kneel. The Great Hero stood over the Darkness, swivelled his blade once, brought it up, and down, its point piercing the Darkness’ core, shattering its heart’s calloused exterior and pouring light into that which had, like a deepest cavern, been naught but void.

The court openly sobbed, having cheered mere seconds before with the defeat of the Darkness; the Great Hero cradled the Goddess, weeping as he pronounced that, when wisdom and power clash, it is the courage of the former which quells the unyielding madness of the other. But the cost, the Great Hero mused, kissing the inanimate Goddess’ brow, the cost…

My cousins rose from the ground, and my parents joined them. They all bowed. The court and king applauded them, tears flying from their eyes. The king remarked that this had been the best interpretation of the Great Hero he and his court had ever seen. My parents bowed, grateful. I saw the tears cascading down my father’s cheeks, unmitigated pride lifting his heart beyond the reach of any potential sorrow, except that which darkened his brow. He clutched at his chest, furrowed his brow further, and fell to a kneel; my mother crouched beside him, asking him if it was his heart. He coughed; blood flew from his lips. I dismantled the illusion I wore and ran to him, crying out in terror. My cousins gasped, amazed that I was amongst the court, that they had not noticed me. I begged my father to breathe as I turned to the king and demanded that he summon his healers, that the court summon one of theirs, that they save my father. My father reached out for me, shaking his head. I sobbed, arguing that he was wrong, that we could save him. He shook his head; it was his time, he assured me. I told him that I wasn’t ready for him to go, that I needed him to teach me how to be the Gerudo King. He told me that he knew nothing of the matter, that he was merely a playwright, that he had raised me an actor, to serve the people, and that that was enough, that what I had learned from him, from his writings, were all he could offer. He told me he loved me. I replied in kind. I told him that I’d received power, that I could find a way to keep him with me, with all of us. He asked me to let him go, that he would die doing that which he loved, and that was enough. I screamed, begging him to let me keep him a while longer. My mother touched my shoulder, whispered that it was okay, that all of us must pass, to share our stories with our ancestors. I threw her aside, rage blinding me to her wisdom; I awoke the power within me and roared against the world which would take from me those I loved, just as I had reunited with them. It was unjust, unfair, and I had the power to stop it. And so I would.

It wasn’t until I looked down and saw my cousins’ petrified, screaming faces that I understood. My father’s face was the exhalation of his final breath. My mother’s was terror, unfettered. In a stupor, over the course of months, I meandered throughout the kingdom, unaware of where my feet led me. One morning, I noticed the sable column amongst the forests was a steady stream of white. Another, I realised the fire mountain no longer bore the clouds of black which matched the torrent I had put there. A third, I saw there was no longer darkness in the desert. I found myself standing in the castle shrine again, staring at my visage in the pool of water which filled the clear fountain. My hair, untouched, had become an unmanageable mane of crimson and scarlet. There were no longer the features which had adorned me as a child. What had been round was made sharp by time. The lines upon my face which had once guided my many youthful smiles only pointed down. There was no longer the eager spark in my eyes, but a placid, tired restlessness. I turned to the youth in the green tunic, his blade and shield drawn, ready to combat me. In his eyes was that eager spark, the unbridled conviction to do what was right. I blinked, slowly, knowing him for what he was. I blinked again, recognising the face he saw, dark and uncontrolled, marred by an ambient fury, by unrestrained need, the face I wore.

Calamity.