Part 3
The deepest hour of the night is a sacred, silent thing. It is the moment when the world holds its breath, caught between the memory of yesterday and the promise of tomorrow. It was in this profound stillness that Link began his journey. The village of Ordon was a landscape of slumbering shadows, each home a dark, quiet vessel of dreams. Not a single light burned in any window.
He moved with a silence that was more than mere stealth; it was his nature. He was already dressed. The clothes were a gift from his mother, made a year ago. A tunic of a deep forest green, the color of moss in the shade, and sturdy brown trousers, both practical and warm. She had told him they were "for when you're older," but the look in her eyes had betrayed a deeper, more fearful knowledge. She was clothing a son for a future she prayed would never arrive. Now, it had.
The familiar weight of his gear was a comfort. The enchanted shield, a gift from a grateful forest, was strapped securely to his back, the painted birds a silent promise of protection. His whistle and slingshot were at his belt, familiar tools from a life that already felt a lifetime away. He tucked the Keaton Mask into a small leather pouch, the carved, sly face a secret he carried close to his heart. Everything was in its place.
He took a last look around his small room. It was a perfect capsule of his childhood. On the windowsill sat a row of smooth river stones and a single, perfect hawk's feather. On the wall hung a small, crudely carved wooden wolf he had made the day the merchant came to town. These were the artifacts of the boy he had been. He left them all behind.
He crept into the main room, his bare feet making no sound on the cool, wooden floor. A fire still glowed faintly in the hearth, its embers painting the room in soft, dying colors. His mother was not in her bed. She was asleep in her rocking chair, the one his father had made for her as a wedding gift. A half-mended tunic lay in her lap, her needle still threaded. It was clear she had fought sleep, waiting for a reassurance that never came, until exhaustion finally claimed her.
He stood beside her for a long moment, a silent, unseen farewell. Her face, so often a picture of gentle warmth, was etched with worry even in her sleep. He felt a pang in his chest so sharp and painful it almost made him cry out. This was the price of his vow. This was the sorrow he was leaving in his wake.
On the table beside her chair sat a small, neatly wrapped package of oilcloth. He knew, without needing to open it, what it was. Journey bread, dense and full of nuts and seeds, the kind that could sustain a traveler for days. And folded beside it, a small, warm woolen cloak. His mother had not known when he would leave, or even if he would. But she knew him. She knew his heart. Unable to speak the words of goodbye, she had instead prepared for his journey. It was a final, heartbreaking act of a mother's love. He carefully took the package, his fingers trembling slightly, and tucked it into his satchel.
He slipped out the door and into the cold, clean air of the night. The moon was a sharp, silver crescent, and the stars were a brilliant, scattered dust against a canvas of pure black. The village was a collection of familiar, sleeping shapes. He could see the bakery, where the baker and his wife were dreaming, unaware that the small goat he had rescued for their daughter was the very reason he was now leaving. He saw Fado's ranch, the dark shapes of the herd a peaceful, slumbering mass. He walked to the pen where Pip was kept, and the small goat, recognizing his scent even in its sleep, stirred and nuzzled its head against the fence. He gave it one last, gentle scratch behind the ears, a goodbye to the shepherd he had been.
He made his way through the sleeping village, a ghost departing his own life. He reached the edge of Ordon, where the neat, packed-earth lanes gave way to the uneven dirt of the main road. This was the threshold. One more step, and he would be in the wider world, a place of rumors and shadows. One more step, and he would be truly alone.
He was about to take it when a soft glow bloomed in the shadows beside him. A lantern, its flame rising steadily, was lifted. It illuminated the grim, sorrowful face of his father.
Rohm stood there, his massive frame blocking the path, not as a barrier, but as a silent, final witness. He wasn't asleep. He had been waiting. He had known, just as Elara had, what choice his son was going to make. He didn't look angry. He simply looked… heartbroken. A profound, bottomless grief swam in his eyes, but beneath it, like a hot coal in the deep, was a flicker of terrible, undeniable pride.
There were no words. There was no need for them. Their entire lives had been a conversation held without speech, and this moment was its culmination. Rohm looked at his son, no longer a boy playing with a wooden staff, but a young warrior, armed and ready to face the darkness of the world. He saw the sword on Link's back—the sword he had forged. He saw the package of food in Link's satchel—the food Elara had prepared. Their quiet, separate acts of love and acceptance were now united on the small frame of their departing son.
Rohm let out a slow, shuddering breath. He stepped aside. He raised the lantern high, its golden light pushing back the darkness, illuminating the first few feet of the long, empty road. It was not a gesture of restraint, but of release. A blessing. A father, in his final, most difficult act of love, lighting the way for his son to leave him.
He reached out a large, calloused hand, not to hold Link back, but to make one last, small adjustment to the strap of the shield on his arm, ensuring it was secure. It was a blacksmith's gesture. A father's touch.
Link looked up at his father, his twilight eyes reflecting the lantern's flame. He poured all the love, all the gratitude, all the sorrow of his silent heart into that one, long look. He gave a single, solemn nod.
Then he turned, walked past the grieving statue of his father, and stepped out of the circle of the lantern's light. He crossed the threshold and was swallowed by the night.
Rohm stood there, holding the lantern aloft, a lonely beacon in the darkness. He watched until the faint, receding sound of his son's footsteps had vanished completely, leaving him alone with the cold and the silence.
The road was dark. The world was vast and unknown. Behind him lay the only life he had ever known, a warm, safe place he had just willingly abandoned. Ahead lay… nothing he could name. Only shadows and a missing friend. He felt a sharp pang of fear, of a loneliness so profound it was a physical ache. He was just a boy. A boy with a sword and a shield that felt too heavy for his small frame. But he thought of Elwin's cheerful laugh, of his mother's sleeping face, of his father's hand on his shield. He was not just walking away from them. He was walking for them.
He clutched the hilt of the sword on his back, its familiar weight a reassurance. He felt the steady presence of the shield, the magic of the forest a silent companion. He kept walking, his small figure a determined silhouette moving through the sleeping world, one steady step at a time, toward the rising sun he could not yet see. The quest had begun.