Chapter Text
He needed a red seven.
In the blue light of his star, Purlo reached for the metal flask that waited on the bench beside him. He grimaced and retched, not for the blistering trail it made down to his stomach, but for the taste of it. He only tolerated whiskey, it was a drink for thugs and ruffians and circus strong men. The lowest drink he liked was dark rum—wine was his true love. Still, ranchers did not drink wine. Wine was for women. Malon had left an entire cellar of wine when she passed on, and in her absence it had turned to sad, sour vinegar. A tragic loss, indeed. Rum was for pirates and thieves—he had to distance himself from that label. So he changed his colors, hoisted a new flag, and forced himself to tolerate whiskey.
His hidden stiletto pressed into his calf. His toes were hot in his boots. They were riding boots; they had to fit snugly, so they had to lace up. It was a nightmare trying to put them on, but if he took them off he would lose exactly seven minutes and fifty six seconds putting them on again—and that was unacceptable, even if he hated closed-toed shoes.
He shuffled through his free cards. Red seven… Red seven… Red seven.
He found two red kings and an ace in his hand—everything else was black, same as his face-up cards.
He looked at his clock laying flat on the bench, ticking softly. It was barely past eight, not even all that dark. Soon, he told himself, but not yet. The watch changed every four hours. His shift would end at—well, he chucked to himself, at approximately nine-forty, when he stole the horse. The next shift would begin at midnight, when either Lyle or Griff woke up to relieve him, and subsequently noticed he was gone… And he needed to be far, far away. But he had to wait until he was certain they were all asleep; and that was, on average, twenty minutes. It was only five minutes past now.
At least it was quiet. The salt-of-the-earth oafs Talon hired may rise early and live roughly, but they slept early, and deeply. It was much too early for his tastes, on all fronts. He was too creative to settle in to sleep, and his constitution was not suited to the early hours. He sighed and thought of the money he had been promised, of more delicate company, and more importantly, nights that were not filled with loud, bawdy talk, and then loud, drunken snoring. He had renounced that lifestyle long ago. He had thought it would be a permanent change.
"Just a little more." Purlo muttered, "A few minutes more and you can take your leave of this place."
If he had time to gripe, he had time to lay out another game of solitaire. He rolled his shoulders, arched his back so his spine would crack, and gathered up his cards to shuffle them well, and lay them out again.
Nothing but low red and high black in his face-up cards. Same as his hand. The only thing that could bridge the gap and get things moving were the black eight and six… and he had no red seven, no aces to be seen in his hand.
Why was solitaire unwinnable as well as horrendously lonely?
With a sigh, Purlo gathered up the cards, shuffled them and started dealing them out for yet another game. The moon vanished behind a cloud. He yawned. It was an absolute crime (and he knew so much of crime!) that there was not a single coffee bean to be found in Hyrule, but that was to be expected; it was costly, a pure luxury, and no one in Hyrule was worth selling to. The average peasant in backwater Faron would never hear of it, and would never become so cripplingly dependent on it, as he had. The well-to-do knew it was more likely to be stolen than make it to their cups. But he was well traveled, and being a dyed-in-the-wool criminal meant he had a few stains as well. One of those stains was strong, black coffee.
He looked at his cards.
He needed... A red seven.
He sighed through his teeth and leaned back against the wall. His neck burned. He had been sitting there since their late dinner (How horrible the food was here!) and since Talon had locked the stable. No one thought it odd. He had been there for three months, and had painted himself to be an unsociable recluse, with little care to talk about life outside the pasture gate. By now, they had gotten used to his habit of going from the dinner table to the pasture for the first watch. He always voiced his preference for it. In the silence of the pasture, he listened. He heard restless crickets. An owl hooting. The ranch hands snored in the bunkhouse at his back… But that was what anyone would hear. He was Hylian. He could hear thunder miles away. He could hear the whisper of rain on the wind. There was no such thing as silence for a Hylian.
He shuffled the cards and re-shuffled them and shuffled them again and looked at his clock. Only ten minutes had passed. Purlo surrendered to the boredom. He put his cards away. Thunder would spook the horses. Rain would make travel difficult and leave clear prints for Talon to follow. It was the last thing he needed. It was the last thing he wanted. He was too uneasy to focus now. He needed to use more basic ways to keep awake, and work off the energy the case of nerves had brought him. He got to his feet, rolled his shoulders, and bent his knees to loosen his joints.
He paced. No one heard him. The grass was soft, and they were all deep in drunken delirium. He paced along the side of the bunk house, going over the littlest details. He had hidden what he needed in the hayloft; no one had mentioned finding it. It was most likely still there. He heard a rat scurry away, but he did not see it. He turned and walked back. Time crawled by.
He drummed his fingers on his elbow, pressed his left fist against his mouth, "Three hundred pieces of gold." He assured himself, "Even if you die, you'll still turn a profit."
Six hundred hundred if he counted the money he had been paid in advance, but had to spend to get here and look the part—all to steal a horse.
Not just any horse, he knew that very well but it bore repeating: the horse. The only horse anyone ever spoke of after he set foot in Hyrule. The horse that stole sons across the country, the horse that noblemen toasted behind gritted teeth and pinched brows, the horse that raised taxes. The horse to end all wars, because it would grind every opposing kingdom into dust on the road to giving Ganondorf more. Stealing Ganondorf's horse? He would be immortal—and so, so very dead.
The riding lessons had come with a steep cost, but they had served two purposes. He could never pass for a farmhand if he could not hold himself in a saddle, and he would never have gotten close to Koyla if he could not train a horse. He had spent months watching that man, learning every trick he could. He had spent months here, sucking up to Talon, acting like an absolute brute to keep anyone from noticing his footsteps were just a little too light in his boots and his fingers just a little too quick on the ropes, and too delicate with the tools. The spurs, heavy boots, clothes that could withstand the rough work days, or at least were not so finely crafted they would be missed when they were ruined, were a cheaper costume than he was used to—heavier, too. He was an actor by trade—acquiring a costume and performing a character were second nature to him. He was a thief by choice—and a damn good one.
He emptied his flask to steady his nerves. The thunder was coming closer—too close. It was a little early, or never. Ganondorf would be coming to collect his horse at first light, and he would not dare steal the horse from Castletown. He was no fool. He was tired of Lon Lon Ranch; he was ready to leave. It was time.
He put away his cards. (Sugar…? He had the sugar…) The saddle was in the barn. It was bright enough outside; the moon was not full, but it was not past its first quarter, and that was bright enough for him (lock picks…? Oh dear, had he..?) There were his lock picks. In his vest pocket. Right where he had left them. He needed to calm down.
No, he needed to get it over with.
He hopped the fence. The gate was there—it was latched, not locked, and he had oiled the hinges recently to make sure it would not squeak—oiled the hinges on the doors, too, sanded the tracks down on the windows, because he was not sure how he would go about stealing the horse at first, he wanted all of his bases covered. He had disguised it as regular maintenance of the house; unfortunately it had been necessary to patch the roof to really sell the illusion. Talon had thought he was an industrious little thing, (shows how much he knew!) and that had gotten him a nice little bonus, (not nice enough to make him change his mind) but Purlo had gained a greater understanding of the words intolerable suffering.
But the bunk house roof stopped leaking, and to the ranch hands, that had made him less of an indifferent recluse, and more simply… withdrawn.
He was just… too uneasy to use the gate he knew damn well was oiled and silent. Sure, if it squeaked loud enough to wake the hands he could simply say he wanted to walk around the pasture, or he heard a noise from the barn and went to check on the horses, and he would be believed. It was his job to check the horses if he heard a suspicious noise. But he did not want to take the risk. The heist would be over before it began and he would be out three hundred gold coins—worse still, he would have to scrounge up another three hundred to pay off the man that had hired him in the first place. He would be out six hundred gold pieces.
He was not used to this. He was not used to stealing horses. He was used to stealing trinkets. It was not going to be hard, he assured himself, in fact, it may be the easiest endeavor he had ever undertaken. This was the first instance his quarry was also his escape. And Koyla knew him. Koyla trusted him. Shockingly, Koyla obeyed him. A little lump of sugar (oh, how hard it was to smuggle in that sugar!) and the horse would be pleased to vanish into the darkness of night.
The key to the barn was kept with Talon. There was no need to try to steal it—he had been prepared to try, but he had the foresight to practice picking it before. He could do it in twenty seconds. It would take him fifteen agonizing minutes, approximately, to get back inside, steal the key, and get out again, if Talon did not wake. It was not a worthwhile trade. The looming thunder and the threat of rain just made it more interesting. He did not need the light, the sound of the tumblers clicking was enough. The heavy iron padlock fell to the dirt at his knees.
He pushed the door open. The horses shifted, but they were not shocked by the noise. He had been doubly sure to make sure these hinges were quiet. Horses were not delicate creatures, but they were temperamental. The slightest thing could set them off, from thunder to a snake. A squeaking hinge in a barn twenty yards away from the main house would wake no one, but a chorus of screaming horses in the dead of night? That would wake everyone.
The horses slept standing up. It was a matter of instinct. They had to be ready to flee at a moment's notice. Even in the stable, surrounded by land that had been hunted clean of predators, they did not feel safe enough to lay down at night. Considering he was there to steal one he had to complement their instincts.
Of course, the horses adored him. They could identify him on sight, even in the darkness, as he was the only man on the ranch that was so lithe, at only half the weight of their other handlers. He was also the only one that smelled of sugar cubes. They shifted, huffed bewildered greetings and they searched for the sweet treats he always brought with him. He reached into a small pouch at his hip and picked out a clump of sugar. The horses' ears flicked forward. To keep them appeased and quiet, Purlo gave each one a taste. Koyla was kept at the back of the stable. His was the only pen that had a padlock on the latch. Purlo made short work of that lock, too. Eagerly, the horse counted on the ground. The hinges did not make a noise. He pushed his nose forward, insisting Purlo give him another lump of sugar. Purlo took a deep breath and forced himself to keep calm as he whispered, "We're going for a ride, Kolya."
Ride. It was a word he loved, particularly when he said it. Talon was fond of riding crops and sharp turns, and the others were fond of their rowel spurs, but Purlo had always taken a delicate approach. The tips of his spurs were round and smooth, they were for making suggestions, not demands, and he had never used a whip or insisted on a gallop. He focused on footwork, on easy bends and on slow rides—partly because he wanted the horse to associate him with easy training, partly because he had gotten this job on spitpolish and charm and he did not have legitimate experience with horses.
The horse tossed his head and made a noise of approval. Purlo busied himself with the layers of equipment, the harness, the bit and bridle and reins, the saddle pad and the heavy leather saddle. The horse was so tall Purlo needed a stool to do it properly. The other horses shifted uncomfortably. They wanted to be taken for a ride. They wanted to know why Koyla was being given the star treatment in the dead of night and not them. The fuss would give him away.
He soothed them with a few soft words and more lumps of sugar, "So much nicer than the crab apples and carrots Talon gives you, right, Rose?" he whispered to a horse so pale it was nearly pink, "It's why you ladies all like me more."
She nodded. They did like him more.
After grabbing his hidden supplies by the hayloft—his bow, his quiver, his knives, his fire striker, a few extra lumps of sugar and what little he could steal away from the kitchen day-by-day—all neatly bundled together. He led Koyla to the door by the reins. To avoid raising suspicion and give himself the longest head start possible, he took the padlock from the ground and closed it around the chain again. If nothing looked amiss at the shift change, (he was known for taking long walks, and had slept through breakfast before, that would raise no eyebrows) or if they woke up late with out him to wake them, there would be no race to see what had been taken out of the stables, no rush to track him down until they opened the barn doors again at six in the morning. With Koyla's size and the impending rain, searching for hoof-prints in the mud would make tracking him too easy.
"We'll need to put some distance between ourselves and this place, Koyla." he said softly as the heel of his boot caught the stirrup. An average-sized man had to be flexible to swing himself into that saddle. Fortunately, he was extremely flexible. The horse was meant for Ganondorf, after all, and he was quite tall. Purlo felt like a child precariously balanced on Kolya's back.
It would be simpler, and far more thrilling, to dig his heels into the horse's sides and gallop to the fences, but a galloping horse made noise. Patience and silence were the keys to his freedom. Rather, they were keys that would put many locked doors between himself and the gallows. A man would hang for stealing a horse, even if he stole a horse from a man who had plenty. Purlo was in no hurry to die. He gave the reins a gentle flick, and the horse started to amble forward.
He could jump the fences. Ingo had learned his lesson his last prized horse had been stolen, and he had made the fences at least a foot higher. It was obvious to everyone that passed by, even seventy or so years later. Kolya was larger than Epona, however, and tall enough to jump those higher fences. Talon, last the in the long line of many, had not taken the same measures his father had. Strange how things happen that way, but fortuitous for him.
But either it would stop short and balk while he went flying (and for all his pride, if Kolya threw him, he would scream) or, as Kolya was wont to do, he would be so excited to run that he would stand on his back legs and let out a loud neigh that could be heard for at least half a mile, and Purlo would be very dead.
So he stayed ambling.
He was not racing the rain. Not yet. Not really. It was far enough away he was sure he would be gone from Lon LFon Ranch by the time it came. He hoped it was a downpour, mud hid old tracks just as it preserved fresh ones. He needed all the luck he could get.
The main gate was a harder lock to contend with. That one took him two minutes, usually more, and that was as fast as he could manage. The horse counted the ground again, anxious. He looked back into the distant lightning, like he suddenly realized a sugar cube was a fleeting pleasure, and a safe, warm barn was what he needed.
"You're fine." Purlo soothed him, "Just fine."
Kolya was used to his peculiar habit of dropping to his knees to open doors. The horse had stood there, bewildered, while Purlo had picked the lock on his stall, closed it again, opened it again, closed it again, while muttering little numbers to himself, a minute and twenty, a minute and twenty… Forty five. Better. The horse had not understood what he was doing, it probably still did not understand what he was doing.
It took three minutes. Purlo blamed his nerves.
As he brushed off his knees he could have kicked himself. If he had stolen Talon's keys he could have locked them in, ensuring himself even more time while they had to break the barn open, and then break the main gate, because he had playfully left the keys on the wrong side of the gate.
Or, not. Talon had a spare set of keys. The man was no fool.
Kolya was reluctant to leave. Purlo was certain his fear stemmed from the time Talon had ridden him at full gallop through a field of bombs to steel him for war. The horse had been terrified, shaking for hours after, and of all the things to do, Talon had made him do it again. He would never want to leave his house, either, if fields of bombs awaited him.
"Come, Kolya." he bribed him with another sugar cube.
The horse did not come at first. Somehow, Purlo convinced it to put one hoof in front of the other without braying in fear of his past trauma. He closed the main gate and shut the padlock. Even the few seconds it took to open the lock were a few more seconds he had to escape. Though, if he had really wanted to cause trouble, he could have switched the main gate and the barn locks, or replace them with entirely new ones—none of the keys would work and Talon would waste time trying them while he got further and further away. He chuckled to himself, and tucked the idea away for safekeeping for the next time he was tasked with stealing a horse.
"You're the fastest horse in Hyrule." he kept the glee out of his voice. It was still important to keep the horse calm. He swung himself into the saddle again and gave his neck a firm pat, to assure himself as much as the horse, "They'll never catch us."
He could not read the horse perfectly, but he could tell it was still nervous. He clicked his tongue to send him forward, not at a gallop, but at an easy trot. Talon had never made Kolya trot through live bombs, the slow pace put him at ease, and kept him silent. All he needed was to keep the horse silent.
But fate had other plans.
It all started harmlessly enough, within the hour, or perhaps a few minutes over. Clouds gathered around the moon, and Purlo braced for rain. Seven or so minutes later, and the cool night turned icy as the winds came fast, spooking the horse and biting through his clothes. He patted the horse's neck to soothe him, but the horse was not reassured. It started looking for some imagined danger as the dry grass shivered. Then the thunder came very close, very fast, like an actor that walked to the wrong mark or hit the wrong que. The rain came in haste, and drenched him through to the bone. The winds tore his hood off and hail started to pelt him. Purlo had spent enough time at sea to experience many sudden storms; they did not scare him.
Lightning struck, close enough that he turned his head. If he were a superstitious man, he would have called it a warning shot, a wordless order to get off the horse and fall to his knees before he spent the rest of his short life agonizing over the repercussions of his every action. He did not see the lightning, but he saw the tree fall, split in two and smoldering, and then his chance was gone. The lightning struck again; close enough Purlo saw it singe the grass and his eyes were overwhelmed by the flash of light. The horse screamed like he had been betrayed, and bolted.
There was a sharp pain in his neck and the reins were ripped from his hands as Kolya thrashed and bolted under him. He was nearly thrown, but he squeezed with his knees and pressed himself against the horse's neck as he searched for the reins, the saddle horn, before finally threading his fingers in its tangled mane
He had learned what to do in this situation. It was a simple set of instructions. Do not panic—the horse will sense it and you will lose what little control you have. Steer the horse into a tight circle and force them to stay in reality. Do not let them run blindly. You are the master, your will is law.
Learning was one thing. Doing it was entirely different.
He was already blind in the darkness, with stars in his eyes for the pain spreading from his neck to his shoulder, and the splotches in his eyes from the thunder, and air and rain rushing at his face, the lesson was difficult to apply. He bowed his head and tried his best to ignore the pain—he could whine about it later. He did not need to see to get the horse under control. He just needed to find the reins.
"Easy now," it was drowned out by the wind. He pressed against the horse with his left leg, and tugged on his mane, back and down, trying to pull the horse into a tight circle, to stay right there, and see it was nothing more than hard rain and hail, but lightning struck so close he felt it in the air. It should have hit him—what else was there for it to strike but him? The horse shook his head and wrenched its hair free of his fingers. It wanted to bolt and flee; it would bolt. Purlo could only hang on tight, the saddle horn striking his sternum as he clung to its neck trying to keep himself steady in the saddle as his hand searched for the reins. He felt the leather cord whip his fingers. Stupidly, his hand pulled back on reflex, missing his chance to grab hold of the reins and get the horse under control.
He did not see her.
Kolya brayed loudly as he reared back. Purlo drew in a quick gasp, then he hit the ground. He heard a snap, and pain cut across his left thigh and he knew it was broken. He sprawled there in the mud, dazed as he heard the horse running off into the storm and the distant thunder. The rain on his face made him feel like he was drowning.
He heard her.
She made a gastly noise, torn between a scream and a cry except she could not breathe. It was barely audible over the rain and his own groaning, but he heard it—so close, so painfully far. He turned on his side, his leg burning, his head swimming, to drag himself through the mud to the crumpled mess of her. He could not see much; only that she was slight and fair-haired and wearing only her shift. He ignored the pain in his leg to gather her up. She was so small—she was dead weight but she felt like nothing. She could not be more than… He could not bear to think about it. He felt blood, hot and sticky, seeping into his sleeve and pooling in his palm. She was drenched to the bone, but even in this cold, she was not shaking. Her breath was a bubbling wheeze, shallow and weak.
It was the dead of night. He had stolen the horse in the dead of night for a reason . No one was supposed to be wandering around. No one was supposed to see him. No one was supposed to get hurt — his own life was one thing; but a kid…? A child? He would never . He could never… Why was she out here? What had she been running from? If she had bruises, he could not see them in the dark. If someone was hunting her, they were far behind. She had escaped them just to die like this? It was just them. No road, no town, not even a farmhouse. Just a deluge so powerful it seemed like the Goddesses had chosen to flood the world.
Purlo was not a man to pray. He had given the Goddesses up a long time ago. He did not consider clutching her to his chest and screaming because he was willing to bargain with everything he had to undo that moment to even qualify as a prayer.
He noticed the rumbling first, deep in the earth below them, before she appeared as fire and soot spilled from the breaking earth, the red halo at her feet did not reach her face. She was an obelisk of shadow, taller than any mortal—but she was not mortal. She came with thick, heavy heat. The skin of his face and hands pricked like he had been lost in the desert for days. The rain crackled with hot steam as she turned the air itself into a furnace. If she looked at the girl’s body in his arms, he did not know. If she weighed his sins against his merits, he did not know. If she was even there to help or simply gawk, he did not know.
“Please…” the air was too hot to breathe, too hot to beg or bargain or trade, “Please, I didn’t…”
She extended a hand to him.
Purlo was paralyzed. She matched it with calm and patience, as if the night and the storm and the impossible heat would continue for centuries at her leisure. She said nothing. What he chose was of no consequence to her. He could leave the girl dead on the ground and walk away in guilt and cowardice, except, of course, he could not walk . He would be caught. If he took her hand…? Would he be better off? What about the girl? He did not ask. She would not have answered. Their lives were no consequence. He was not being granted this boon because he had asked, he was being granted this boon because it was her whim.
And there would be no mercy for him if he spurned this charity.
Her fingers were as hot as branding irons as they curled around his hand. The air burned in his lungs. He could not breathe, he could only scream. He could only whimper. He could not let go. He bowed his head and tightened his grip around the girl’s slight shoulders. He could see her now, in the overbearing radiance of the Goddess' magic. She was alive—barely. Her eyes were green. Green as moss on a river’s edge. Green as the forest canopy. Green as emeralds, her pupils huge and deep but unseeing as a cold, hidden cave. Her face was pale, marred by a splattering of blood that looked more like cracks in porcelain than a kick from a horse.
Then he needed a red seven.
In the blue light of his star, Purlo reached for the metal flask that waited on the bench beside him...
... And his cards scattered to the grass as his hand was stricken with sudden, burning pain. He watched in horror, his free hand clamping over his mouth to stifle his scream as the mark of Din glowed like a dying ember below his middle finger, and script so old only the gods could read it seared itself into his flesh.