This fic seeks to create a backstory for Pipit and his mother, Mallara. I will make use of canon realities, but will resort to my own inventions, particularly regarding Pipit's father and the existence of more Skylofts with Hylians residing there.

Roughly-hewn splinter-infused furniture neatly rested on a patched, quickly laid wooden floor. The long-ago plastered walls cracked and drape-less entryway surround a simply lighted lamp bolted above the studious head of a furiously scrawling pupil. Carefully-read books line a near shelf, and the engrossed boy shuffles beneath a layer of clothing. The heaven-bound island world is chilly. Fog's nipping embrace shrouds the hill-submerged stone home in which the boy resides. Nearby, a mother sleeps, coddled in patched sheets and a comforter; scarecrow-garment-quilted curtains enveloping her sleeping nook, containing the warmth of her body heat and the cloth-covered heated stones at her feet. Her walls- and those of the home- are a pale pink, sparsely decorated in other hues. A shining, freshly cleaned vanity mirror and other such well-carved, smooth furnishings. The small home held a pink rug and wooden table at its core, along with two fine lamps over it. Over the mother's bed the same lamp hung vigilant.

Pipit- the boy- sighed, as he emerged from the knighthood techniques offered in next week's reading. He liked to read ahead, to stay afloat and above the rest of his peers. He decided it was late enough, and moved himself to his bed, shuffling from his patched blanket and placing it on his bed, snuggling underneath it. He shivered. His feet, blocks of ice, and his back, crawling in frost, he trembled with cold. He forgot the heated stones in his haste for warmth. Reluctantly, he dashed to the small cracked fireplace's embers and selected three small, smooth, warmed stones; quickly wrapping them in rags, then dashing to his colder bed and shivering, while clutching the bundle of warmth. Gradually, he drifted asleep.

Dawn settled, the sky awash in pale, dark hues and the sun's preliminary piercing rays adorned the sky and the sky island's surroundings. Pipit arose, stretched, and carefully built a fireplace from last night's cold embers. He boiled water on the stove in old pots, and dragged a washtub from the cellar before the heat of the fire. He grabbed his father's knight-training uniform and placed it in his pouch after changing out of his sleeping-clothes and into a towel. He ran out the door and toward the waterfall-draped pool of water before leaping in after tossing his pouch on land. Frigid water sliced his flesh as he scrubbed himself clean with a small soap. His fingers massaged his scalp clean as other Knight Academy male students joined him. Today was the entrance examination. Tradition dictated that future knights bathe in the Goddess's pure water to prepare themselves for knighthood tests. He ran out of the fresh water and quickly wrapped himself in his thin towel. He quickly dressed himself as the winds grew stronger and moved his body completely off the ground. His father's training clothes were a deep purple, faded by time. It was a tunic and gray cloth belt. Beneath it he wore borrowed underclassman Knight Academy pants and old toe-vice-grip boots. He trudged back home, refreshed from his cold bath.

His mother, rising woefully from her deep sleep, reluctantly straightened her old- but lush- comforter and quickly crafted a weak tea, along with a poor breakfast of sparsely salted oatmeal. She plopped spoonfuls of the oatmeal into two cracked bowls, and laid them at the table. The rest of Pipit's heated water went to the laundry. Pipit's mother languidly tossed yesterday's clothing and rags into the washtub and poured quickly cooling water over them, and slowly, half-halfheartedly, scrubbed. Her purple-encased son threw the door open in haste, allowing a billowy cloud of dust to rise from the table's rug. Releasing a cough or two, he hurried to his lukewarm oat sludge and gulped it down, chugged the weak tea and hurried out the door to his life-altering exams.

Mallara rose slowly, closed the door her hurried son left open, and searched the cupboard. In the very back, a carefully guarded yellow-porcelain jar rested. She uncorked the jar and scraped around its insides for some moments, before finding the last of the honey she bartered her sewing skills for months ago. The odd boy, Stritch, traded honey for a purple cape. The honey was now crystallized, rocky, and coarse. She applied it to her hardening oatmeal lump, along with her tea, swirled it, and ate daintily. Her elbows made no contact with any surfaces, and she dabbed at her mouth as she ate with a faded orange cloth napkin. She carefully placed Pipit and her own dishes into the washtub, and walked back to her bed. She lifted her comforter and settled into sleep.

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