Chapter Text
There’s a small fork on the table, a cup, and a plate. Each item is spaced precisely and appears striking against the wooden table’s surface. Breakfast seems to be a small portion of eggs and a slice of toast. Apple butter is already slathered across the bread’s surface, permeating the air with a spicy warmth. It’s a shame the smell is so dull in the dream.
“Thank you, Mother,” the child crisply says, but the dream dulls the noise. Regardless, the clumsiness of youth still tugs the words wayward, but something distinctly methodical maintains their trajectory. The child seems well spoken and polite, Sky notes.
The child unclasps his hands from in front of them, lifting their head slightly from the reverent position they’d held. The child hesitates for a moment to grab the utensil, jerking back in a purely instinctive manner. The moment only lasts a brief moment, before they jolt forward abruptly to grasp it. The child flickers a look upward, before staring straight back into his lap. It was far too sudden for Sky to make out more than the vague impressions of two adult figures at the table.
The child shifts their fingers, tensing. The tips are wrapped in cloth, throbbing distantly in a way that might mean pain if this weren’t a dream.
‘She got hurt,’ Sky silently mourns. The child had likely grabbed a hot pot or fell.
The Mother says something in a clearly scolding tone, but something obstructs Sky from distinguishing the words. The Father replies, defensive or placating.
The child nods once.
“Yes, Mother,” the child blurts back, quickly scooping a bite from the plate.
The father glances over abruptly and warmly chuckles, stretching over to rustle the child’s hair. The child brightens, straightening up like a flower leaning into sunlight. A smile blossoms across their face.
Sky gets a clear picture of the family as they eat breakfast. For the most part the parents talk between themselves, but not in a malicious negligent method. It seems the child is quiet and withdrawn even when attempts at inclusion are made. Whether this behavior is recent or long standing isn’t clear to Sky, but it seems a little extreme to him, so he imagines something has happened. Maybe the injury gave them a fright. They can’t be older than 3 or 4. Burning your hands can be terribly traumatic regardless of age.
The mother is a blonde, similar to the child, whose hair drapes down their back. She appears older, at the point where wrinkles and graying hair is a prevalent concern of the future. She has vivid green eyes that stretch wide in curiosity, like they’re trying to capture every moment. She’s concerningly lanky either a product of heritage or potential health problems. Her hands are calloused and nicked with silvery scars. Two fingers on her left hand are particularly crooked.
The father is similarly aged with emerald green gems for eyes and a broad, scarred face. He has thick brows which tighten his soft expression bizarrely and a crooked nose. His hair is a rich brown that appears black everyone but where the lamp light illuminates. Recent age has brightened some strands and begun threading silver into the mess. He’s tall and broad, muscled like a fighter. He leans over, knuckles propped against his face as he stares lovingly at his family without a moment's break. This man watches them like they’re his whole world.
The mother chats animatedly, waving her fork or hands around as she explains something. After a few minutes where nothing passes her lips her husband pushes her plate closer silently. The child listens intently, but their gaze remains tied to their lap where their hands rest folded.
At some point the moment breaks and dishes are grabbed just as the dreams anchor rocks and loosens. Sky shudders awake, smiling faintly, feeling the kiss of the morning campfire. Winter's frigid force has approached suddenly and harshly, even as far South as they are. He would’ve expected being so close to the desert would’ve excused such weather, but it seems close isn’t close enough. Fortunately, Sky’s a creature of the sky, where the wind howls coldly all year round. He’s well equipped for such temperatures, but he still hates the chill when waking up.
Legend huffs from above him, nudging him with his shoe.
“Awake yet, princess?” he playfully mocks.
“Only if you’ll stop,” Sky mumbles.
“Sure. Lovebird,” Legend replies, nudging him again.
“Stop,” Sky exaggeratedly whines, turning away.
The shoe continues to wheedle into his side.
Sky silently bats at it, groans again, but ultimately throws himself to a seat.
“Your highness,” Legend greets, with a bow.
“Oh, stop,” Sky pleads.
Legend huffs, walking away closer to the fire where he stirs a pot resting atop the coals.
“Come on breakfast,” Legend announces, raising the ladle and letting the clumps plop out. “Nice and fresh. We’ve still got another two days till we’ll rendezvous. Don’t sleep now.”
“Fine,” Sky sighs.
“I can’t imagine Wild’s out here in the middle of winter,” he grumbles, wrapping himself in blankets and marching forward with a yawn.
Legend retorts, “It’s not that cold.”
***
The child sits wreathed in warmth. A large body curves around them, leaning over them to brace two elbows against the table. Sky sees large, masculine hands, scarred and robust. They nimbly maneuver above the table, inspecting and sharpening a large collection of blades. They whistle and shriek, rubbing against the whet stone in a display of sparking brilliance. The man, the child’s father, shows no hesitance, handling the equipment efficiently. He moves with an assured rhythm which proves years of practice.
After a few moments the sickle he’s been sharpening is placed down and he begins working his way down a set of small throwing knives. The child’s gaze follows each movement curiously. Their bandaged hands remain tangled in their hair idling braiding tiny strands without any sign of them attempting to reach forward for the weapons. The strands catch insistently against the bandages and each braid ends clumsily.
The table they work on is in the center of a room within what seems to be a workshop. Two other tables are in front of where the child sits, piled high with books, blueprints, and partly arranged items. Cabinets and bookshelves crowd the walls, stuffed with gears and mechanical parts. The part where the child and father sits is divided from the mess. A clear line halts the clutter. Whatever is stored in the remaining, organized half of the room is hidden within organizers, but what Sky can see seems like finished products and adventuring gear.
A blond woman digs through a box underneath the far table, tossing half the items halfway across the room.
Some sort of a fighter and inventor.
Sky sits with the thought, watching in the near silence. The mother mumbles during her chaotic search throughout the room and each item lands with a clank. The father is far more silent, but his actions still make noise. Some part of him hears the racket while the majority of him can only comprehend them as depressed muffles.
He eventually wakes up, realizing that it was the third time he’s dreamt of this family. He’s only had one other dream, and it was about some parents celebrating their daughter’s pregnancy.
It weighs on him suddenly. He thought it was mere coincidence. Something anxious races unvoiced in his head now.
“You said you all have some specialization with the soul stuff?” Sky asks abruptly that morning to Wind.
“Kinda,” Wind replies vaguely, picking bits of bread and rolling them before throwing them into his mouth. Everyone else has already left for supplies.
Sky waits for him to continue, but Wind doesn’t seem inclined to continue. He’s quiet from the exhaustion that everyone else carries and particularly withdrawn this morning.
“Are you going to explain?” Sky prompts.
“You didn’t ask. It’s kinda the Legend’s or Four’s deal honestly,” Wind shrugs idly.
“I’ll ask them later,” Sky claims.
“K.”
“Can you explain what you know?” Sky asks again.
“Sure I guess,” Wind rather meekly complies.
Sky begins worrying that Wind's sleep did not go undisturbed last night.
“Everyone’s just got something they’re good at with the whole magicky stuff. You already know Four’s really good at finding people. Legend does this spell stuff. He calls it compulsions. Time’s just really good at talking to Wild. We call him the Wild whisperer, but I’m not really sure what that really is. Twi’s just good at empathizing with everyone. Makes him good at helping people. Wild likes to stick to him.
“And you?”
“Couldn’t tell you,” Wind shrugs. “Wild tends to like me though, so maybe something to do with that.”
“Makes sense,” Sky replies. “Something like Twilight.”
“Yeah probably.”
“And dreams?” Sky asks. “I know we can share dreams. How’s that working?”
“Well, I don’t fucking know,” Wind pronounces, rolling his eyes and waving his hand. “That’s a Four question. It just works. You just sync up in your sleep or something, and you sometimes get something.”
“Has anyone been more susceptible to it?” Sky wonders.
“Eehhh, not really. It just happens when it happens. It’s not like we’re trying to get into each other’s nightmares.”
“Right. Has anyone shared dreams with Wild?” Sky digs.
“Not that I know of,” Wind shrugs. “He’s still kinda a mystery.”
Later Sky asks Legend, “Have you ever had dreams of Wild?”
“Dreams?”
“Like sharing memories or your vision in your sleep,” Sky expunges.
Legend purses his lips, eyes flicking up to meet Sky’s in a vulnerable plea.
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Legend whispers.
“I’m not sure. I’m really not sure yet,” Sky whispers, and he spills the beans about the 3 dreams. He shares his weak suspicions and his confusion.
***
The child sat silently on a couch. Dolls are laid out in front of them untouched in a brilliant display of ivory and pink. Instead the child sits at the back of the couch hugging their knees beneath a blanket and peeking out only to stare down a long, endless hall to the side. The hall’s empty, devoid of everything but the doors which line it and hung lanterns.
The house is silent. Nothing moves and it’s only half lit. No wind buffets the walls of this house. No sunlight peeks from the windows.
The child habitually raises their thumb, but the second their lips touch the bandages they abort and tuck it underneath the blanket’s cover. They stare.
Then, a door flies open. The father marches out, in dark clothes with bags tossed over his shoulder and weapons sheathed at his hip. Following, the mother frustratedly spews indistinct words. The man nods occasionally, not pausing as he prepares himself. Once or twice he murmurs something placating back that seems to do little to settle his wife’s incited mood. Her face flushes red and her eyes widen progressively as she paces around, but she doesn’t seem to aim her ire towards anyone but the world.
Once everything was finalized on the father’s end, he smiles warmly, pulling the mother into an embrace. He hugs her, kissing her brow and whispering soft things into her ear. She droops, clutching him so tightly she quivers. After a long tender moment, he parts and approaches the child to do the same. He hugs them, bleeding a warmth they are desperate for. The child throws themselves into it, resisting once it finally comes time to part. With a softness akin to sunlight on a breeze he brushes his lips against the child’s temple. Then, he leaves, disappearing around the corner.
The mother stares for a long moment after him. Slowly her eyes pull over towards the child and states something. A one-word prompt almost snappish in force.
The child jolts then grabs the closest doll. A smile molds their face, plastic and intentional. Silently the child begins to play.
***
“It wasn’t pretty,” Blue reveals one day as they ride out in the snow. The words echo blithely, like an old man remarking on gravity. It’s a blatant cover, rippling from the restlessness of what boils beneath. The turmoil shifts oddly. It must be strange, shifting from numb reminiscence and volatile echoes. It sticks out like a stone beneath a sleeping bag with startling clarity.
Sky's begun to realize he is one of the more astute regarding the link. Its flow makes sense to him, much like the wind’s shifting waves in the sky.
“What?” Sky has to ask, uncertain of the topic suddenly at hand. He shakes his head, trying to rid himself of the cobwebs from the long ride.
Four makes it a habit to ride in silence, occupying himself with notebooks. He never expected Blue to be any different, especially since he tends to be the more aggressive aspect of Four.
“Wild’s captivity.” Blue states, looking ahead without pause. The forest is open before them. Pale roots and dark branches against the sky. A fine layer of snow blankets everything and a few clouds in the distance warns more. In the far distance the Gerudo Highlands peek out in gray layers from the horizon.
“His-”
“At the end of…last time. It wasn't pretty. Bishop never touched me.
“Okay, what brought this on?” Sky wonders.
“Just wanted to,” Blue proclaims somewhat forcefully.
“To me?” Sky dubiously adds. Time’s been trying to talk to Four for weeks. In fact, everyone has, even if they aren’t as direct as it. Sky’s hardly involved, but he can clearly see the concern.
Blue sighs irritated.
“Cause they know, and you don’t,” he states plainly.
Sky furrows his brows. “I don’t get it. Shouldn’t it be the other way?”
“You’d think,” Blue huffs, amused. “No - well. Sometimes. I won’t talk to you about most of that shit. Probably won’t for a long time. But for this? You don’t know. It won’t mean the same thing. Something’s attractive about that disconnect. You’re just an outsider in so many ways. Which is fine. You’ll miss that one day, but there’s some sense of division. There’s knowing and then there’s knowing. I think we all pray that it will never come. But…there’s a lot we envy about that state of suspense.”
“I think I miss it or that I miss the stability of it,” Blue admits, abruptly mournful. “It might also be the fact that I don't want to see their reactions. For my and their sakes.”
“So you tell me?” Sky questions. “Not to dissuade you, but do you not expect me to react? We all know that I’m not the most stoic.”
Four chuckles, “No, but you’ll be far better.”
“I still want to share,” Four whispers. “With someone.”
“Who knows why though. Life would be better if such things were forgotten for good.”
Sky had no answer for that.
***
“What’s happening?” Sky asks bewildered at the sight outside.
A great crowd chokes the streets and alleys of the usually languid town. Children and adults rush forward in one mass that seems to have no form. Sky takes one step back, shrugging back into the store. Someone bumps into the door harshly, so he cowers just a little more into the building's safety. The sudden swell seems strange to him. There was no warning then suddenly a horn cries out and the town flips on its head.
“What in the dried ocean? Think something’s happened?” Wind considers, peeking out around his arm.
“Something,” Sky mutters confused.
Someone stomps up, pushing him out of the way quickly while snapping, “Piss off.” The sour woman melds in the bustling mess, disappearing instantly.
‘I wasn’t asking you,’ Sky scowls.
He could’ve just asked me to move like a civilized person.
“Sea crazed baboon,” Wind scoffs underneath his breath.
“What’s happening?” Sky asks again, turning towards the store owner he’d just purchased from a moment ago. The man bustles behind the desk, closing things at a rapid pace.
“The Crimson Knights,” he cries. “They’re here!”
“The who now?” Wind loudly interrogates, crowding the man.
“The Crimson Knights,” the man claims again, slamming something closed behind the counter.
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“The new taskforce under order of his majesty the king,” the man busily states, rushing around the counter.
“Now, I hate pushing you out, but I really have to close up. Out now,” He shoos.
“Wait, but,” Wind argues, but the owner pushes them out the door, which he swiftly locks. Then with hardly a glance he slips into the thinning stream, leaving Wind and Sky dumbly on the doorstep of his store.
“Well, shit…” Wind mutters. “Think I heard something ‘bout them somewhere.”
“What?”
Wind shrugs, “Can’t recall. Bar rumours and all. Y’know I’m not listening then.”
“Wind,” Sky scoffs.
“Oh, shut it, birdbrain. I’ve been drinking for years,” Wind rolls his eyes.
“And Twi’s been letting you?” Sky cringes, upset but well used to situations like these. Things don’t necessarily align with the others. They’ve all dealt with stress differently, but he’d hoped Twilight would keep Wind away from alcohol a little better. Maybe he needs to ask Time to reshuffle the groups again.
“Twi’s busy. He’s not in charge of me.”
‘No, but I think we’d all prefer you didn’t drink yourself to an early grave,’ Sky thinks.
He bites his tongue because if he’s learned anything, it’s that Wind hardly listens to anyone. Sure he’ll listen to reason and be a reliable team member, but these personal things. Not even Time can put a stop to it all, and he’s probably one of the people Wind respects the most. Sky hasn’t folded himself into a niche yet with the others. He’s squeezed his way into the group. Maybe even found a place in their harmonic disharmony, but he’s a bit like an unfinished sculpture in a gallery.
Time could get Wind to stop with his uncanny connection to the kid.
“Mask?” Sky had asked before to Legend, watching Time help ease Wind from another nightmare.
“Dont ask them. They don't know either. It just slips out sometimes,” Four quietly sighs.
“Time fuckery.” Legend remarks, wearily.
“Maybe,” Four frowns.
Legend glances around. “Definitely,” he reasserts.
“Right. Anything else like that.”
“Ehhh, sorta,” they both hum.
Not that any of that is prevalent right now, Sky tells himself.
He frowns, trying to return to the topic at hand. He turns his face upward, churning the phrase the shopkeeper said over in his mind.
“I might remember a few people mentioning the Crimson Knights for the past few weeks,” Sky slowly adds.
Wind nods, “I’ll betcha Leg knows.”
Sky smiles at the familiar phrase.
“Probably,” Sky agrees. Not only have Sky and Wind been part of the two groups primarily out of town since winter, but Wind had a fever and a terrible cough recently, keeping him out of town. Time had to confine him to his room. The sailor was sick for weeks before it finally became too much and the rest decided to kidnap him. The remnants of Winter caught all of them one by one, so none of them have had the energy to mingle with the locals much less engage with the rumor mill. Besides, all of them find that unbearably tedious, except Legend and Time who take it as their solemn duty to know what’s going on. It’s not that the rest of them don’t like a good rumor, it's just that 99% of it’s about some person’s friend’s goat who got lost last night rather than anything else. Directing such idle chatter and persevering to the useful stuff gets old. Unsurprisingly, most people don’t like it when you intrude by asking odd questions either. They start getting antsy and more than likely call the guards. People around here are wary of strangers and even more weary of prodding strangers.
The entire kingdom is on edge and accusations fly freely in the tension.
It takes one small mistake before people are willing to cry spy.
Suffice to say, Legend and Time are more suitable for what subtlety and patience is required than everyone else.
“Well, time to go see what the commotion’s all about,” Wind proclaims, dragging Sky into the now empty streets.
They rush after the crowd’s remnants, guided by the ruckus in the distance and the spare few traveling the streets. Very briefly, a crowd begins forming, cheering and swarming the main through street of the town. They’re already deep enough in the crowds that it’s far too loud to ask anyone anything, and what everyone is screaming is too disjointed to interpret now. A small blonde boy tumbles into them, not looking back for a single moment before wiggling between people. Sky takes a step forward, intending to begin pushing through to see what’s caught everyone’s attention.
Before he could complete that step, Wind catches his sleeve, and points away from the crowd. He says something, but it’s lost to a stranger’s voice.
“What?” Sky asks, finding his own voice empty and weightless. It’s swallowed ravenously by the rest.
Wind wrinkles his nose perplexed, before tugging Sky’s sleeve hard enough to pull him down to him.
“The roofs!” Wind screams. “Let’s climb a roof!”
Sky nods, letting Wind pull him back out of the crowd to find a relatively shorter building. Most of the buildings in the town’s center are multiple stories, but there’s a particularly older building that’s shorter than the rest which they could use as a good lead onto the taller ones closer to the street.
Wind doesn’t hesitate to snatch out a small mechanism, point it upwards, then fly upwards when the projected line snatches the building's lip. With a silent apology for the owner’s roof, Sky digs out his clawshot and does the same. Abruptly, the line pulls taunt, yanking him up in one smooth movement until he can snatch the roof’s lip and pull himself onto the steep roof.
Wind peers over the top, leaning forward inquisitively. It scrunches his face up ridiculously.
“Welp, can’t see shit,” Wind declares, leaving the edge. He preps his hookshot again as he walks over to the building hopefully close enough to the street. Otherwise, they might have to start hopping rooftops, and that’s a recipe for disaster.
Sky peeks over himself as he joins him, seeing the jovial mass of people ripple. Just ahead they can see a sliver of the street where everyone seems to be directing their attention, but he can’t see the actual ‘Crimson Knights.’
At the new rooftop, they’re close enough to see down the street and see the town square. For a moment they see nothing but the people, eagerly waiting below them. Then, in the distance, far in the street from the other side of the square from them the crowd parts and jolts. Instantly a way is torn through, and Sky sees a horseman carrying two banners: a navy blue and a crimson one. The first is a rising bird embracing the triforce emblazoned in gold. Beside the Hyrulean flagIs an obsidian eye pierced by a golden blade on a red backdrop. Behind the first man emerges an entire entourage of armed men bearing the crimson sigil. Horses and carriages and proud men pour from the street in a never ending flow.
At that point the crowd reaches a crescendo, yet meet in a unique harmony.
“Praise the king!”
“Kill the traitors!
“Down with the Yiga!”
“Praise Hylia!”
“Blood for blood!”
“For Hyrule!”
“Blood for blood! Blood for blood! Blood for blood!” They hound. The anthem snaps in the town like a whip as it gains momentum, strengthening voice by voice. The town stills between each chant eerily, taking a joint breath. It seems to Sky like sound fails to exist then, and his ears ring with a phantom whine.
‘I suppose that answers a few questions,’ Sky thinks stunned.
Yiga hunters. He wonders how prevalent they were previously. This might be an answer, he thinks, silently praising Hylia. It must be.
Will there be a battle? Or does it mean something else? If only Zelda were here to untangle the meaning.
The procession travels quickly through the streets, but doesn’t shy away from basking in the praise. The soldiers seem to be envigorated by their quest and hopeful much like the people cheering them on. The sheer size of the group makes it take a long, long time for the order to pass completely through the town. Many people chose to follow behind continuing the volley of celebration.
“Come on!” Wind hollers, moving to follow after.
Sky finds himself abruptly distracted by nothing, but yelps in time, snatching his shirt. “Wait. We should meet the others.”
Wind pouts momentarily, but nods gaining immense intensity.
“Come on,” Wind urges, then convinced.
Sky pauses a moment, gaze snagged by the civilian followers, feeling the air turn frigid. For the briefest moment, something wraps around his chest and pulls then disappears. He stands for a moment wondering if he might’ve forgotten something or if something important nags his mind on the brink of realization.
Nothing murmurs in his thoughts in such a way.
He drops to the next building after Wind. The plummet steals his breath away in a way that’s familiar enough it doesn’t strike him as odd. The damage from that last battle will probably forever haunt him and make his every breath fall short.
They drop to the ground with such vigor it feels like it ripples beneath them, like a stone thrown into a pond. He stumbles a moment finding his balance, tongue numb from the disorientation.
Wind drops to a half crouch, blinking abruptly along with Sky.
“Come on,” he urges, rushing away.
Just a few steps forward, and Sky feels that snap again, like a rubberband trying to pull his attention away. It ultimately snaps, unable to bear the weight. This time the motion was so powerful it felt like a punch. Only the pain doesn’t exist and only the displacement remains.
His breath lungs in his lungs, and anxiety sparks to life.
“Wind,” he mumbles, tongue dead in his mouth.
The sailor looks at him similarly stunned, eyes wide with dawning fear.
Wind pauses, turning to look at him, a question on their lips. It happens so slowly, he watches each motion he makes, unable to hear the sound it makes. He feels Wind reach out to him, alarmed and already under the same spell as Sky himself finds himself noticing.
The pull snatches him again. This time its hold isn’t fragile and clumsy. It pulls and pulls, and like putty torn from its cage he parts beneath its might. Everything becomes unsaturated in a fatal swoop. Tilted and silent. The moment stretches like time’s lost its elasticity and it droops. His breath feels frail, thinned almost to nothing and goosebumps erupt along his arm. The tension is so strong it pulls at his spine painfully until it shears straight from his skin. A sudden sense of imminent doom bombards them. Death seems to linger without warning and without escape. Other than the primal fear from such a fate a dull sense of surprise dawns on him.
With a shudder his heart pauses along with the world, aching as it's squeezed so tightly it threatens to pop.
An eternity later he watches Wind’s eyes grow wide and his face bleaches. He watches the horror breach his face along with him like some corrupt mirror. At the same time their knees drop, and they watch each other slowly fall to the ground. As the light extinguishes, images flash through Sky’s mind faster than he’s used to.
It is no dream of Sky’s, tethered to Wind. It is at best a mystic cousin of his prophetic dreams, warped by something he can’t name yet. He’s never fallen under one awake. Never seen someone else fall under it. This is no dream, but it holds the same importance. It flows by in a torrent like a flood he’d never known he escaped before. It flowed too quickly to understand and too quickly to consider.
In a cycle these images flow: a hand, a face, an altar, and the dark.
A hand, a face, an altar, and the dark.
A hand clutching another’s, a face with teeth bared, an altar littered with offerings, and the dark wholy indestructible.
A hand, a face, an altar, and the dark.
A hand, a face, an altar, and the dark.
A hand clutching another’s, a face with teeth bared, an altar littered with offerings, and the dark wholy indestructible.
A large hand clutching another’s. The force so severe the child’s wrist bubbles around the adult’s fingers. They trip over themselves, yelping over a sob. Their breath is so harsh it hurts their chest.
A face with teeth bared, seething words. The adult’s eyes are wide with a shaken stability. Anger alights unrestrained unleashing something uncanny and unpredictable. For now the adult screams, spittle flying everywhere.
An altar littered with offerings. Food and curious oddities, and delicate pink items of all varieties swarm its small surface. It overflows onto the floor. A desk lies beside it swarmed with heaps of notebooks and strange magical items. A pink lotus lies atop the surface.
And the indestructible dark.
The dark so impenetrable no light unveils the scene. It’s suffocating and tight in a sense that doesn’t translate clearly through vision, but still strikes Sky undeniably. Something so strongly terrifies him of this scene that he can’t explain. He can’t hear, but he hears wailing and incomprehensible begging. Thud. Thud Thud. ThudThudThudThudThud as someone pounds and pounds with a horrific intensity.
Then the scenes repeat again in a flutter of images.
Hand, face, altar, dark.
Hand, face, altar, dark.
Hand, face, altar, dark.
Hand…face…altar…and something pierces the dark. A skull. A stone box so tight one couldn’t reach forward more than a few inches flickers in sight. Entangled beside them lies a child’s skeleton. Its skull kisses the temple of the wailing child. Too afraid to move, the child hardly dares to move from the corpse's embrace. Even then, there’s nowhere to go. Small bandaged fingers pound helplessly on the coffin’s lid.
Darkness, a crypt, a corpse, and a hand, embraced in a gold triforce illuminating the crypt.