"Chapter One: Chaos in the Air"


When history is not documented, anything can be the truth while everything can be lies. What one can ever know to be true is what one has seen and heard and smelt and felt and tasted for themselves; without proof and evidence any argument or secondhand story is plausible and possible. The analysis of cultures without some form of documented history should only be scholastically valid up to a certain point. When extrapolation and synthesis overextends from its evidentiary foundation, the entire thesis shakes; no matter the amount of brilliant theories and how perfectly the ends become tied, if the threads being connected are frayed and rotten and fragmentary, there's no point in weaving the history when it can never say anything substantial. On the other hand, when all postulated claims are given a concrete foothold in multiple eye-witness accounts, the thesis shakes in a different sense, causing tremors to reverberate throughout the entire discipline and, indeed, across sometimes arbitrary fences into separate fields.

Truth may cause madness at times while lies can keep sanity unfractured. The key question remains: Is it always best to know things as they are or is it best to remain blinded by a veil?

He was fair, slight of build, and had a touch of feminine beauty in his face. Others would notice the manner in which his eyes gazed upon a subject —as if glancing at a thousand different beings and seeing all yet none simultaneously— and think that his mind was a fleeting and shallow thing, a spilt pool of water on a flat table and blown into a constantly shifting form due to the ambient currents of air. The grace in his gait gave the semblance of a dance, transforming a simple walk from a chair to a wall into ballet movement. His lips were thin and pink, his nose small and smooth, his chin round and dimpled. His appearance would often work to his advantage; no one would assume this adolescent cherub to be a prince, let alone the invalid ruler's son of the greatest country, Hyrule. For almost all purposes, although he was in reality twenty-eight years old, he appeared to be half that.

"The Gerudos' have captured another wagon train. No one was hurt, but all of the cargo was stolen."

"How many has it been this month?"

"Seven in the last two weeks, my prince."

"Assemble my personal attendants."

"Which ones, sir?"

"Both types, but I'll travel with the negotiating caravan first. The other squad can be deployed after I leave."

As the messenger left the room, the prince relaxed in his throne, his back against one arm of the chair and his legs over the other. He set his left elbow on his knee and then placed his chin into the open palm, looking out and through the window to the eastern horizon, searching for any beam from the sun to break apart the strange, dark storm clouds that have been slowly billowing over the land. Not a single spark burst though. The weather, in fact, seem to be mirroring his people's morale. Although the prince isn't sure which one began before the other, both the darkness of the sky and the darkness in the mood have been deepening at the same rate, as if they were the same downward sloping curve into infinity. True, no accurate measurement can ever be taken of an incorporeal idea, but he felt it grow nonetheless and everthemore.

He's been having dreams lately, extraordinarily vivid ones, a third twin to the previous reflections. In almost every single prophecy —as prophecy can be the only term to closely near the reality of those nighttime subconscious excursions—, a ray of light shoots out of his open hand and into the heart of those blackened clouds. However, instead of dispelling the darkness, it overtakes and converts that beam from what it was before and into what it wanted to never be. The prince can only watch as cracks appear in that molten ray of light and as tendrils of ebony creep along the unbroken path to the hand. They continue to thread down, approaching slowly, like tentacles in the foaming oceans, like madness through an impure mind, like dusk across an sprawling cemetery. Never do they reach his palm; he awakes before they cross that final inch.

"Prince Erebus, your horse has been saddled."

"And the knights?"

"In formation."

The prince slid his legs off the arm of the chair, placing his feet flat on the stone floor. His hand grasped for a small, sheathed knife beside him and hid it behind his belt. Although he has been on scores of missions before this, every new one brings new forms of danger unknown until they occur. It is this fear and desire to know what is not known that drives Erebus to continue to palaver with the other royals, as opposed to talking through a proxy. A single rush of adrenaline flowed into his heart, his breath grew quick, and his eyes slitted slightly.

"Then we shall go."