The journey back down the mountain was uneventful. Link did not seen anyone or anything that disturbed the cold, crisp morning. He stopped only to refill his waterskin at the River of the Dead, where a handful of fish flitted in its depths.

In a brief moment of whimsy, Link used the Sheikah Slate’s cryonis rune to create a square pillar of ice in the middle of the river. It rose in immovable solidity, forcing the frigid waters to divert around their new obstacle. Further experimenting with the slate revealed its ability to remove the same object it created. A second use of the rune caused the pillar to break apart, restoring the river to its natural course.

Shaking his head at the wonders of the slate, Link returned his attention to his current surroundings. He was back on the familiar path leading from the Shrine of Resurrection to the Temple of Time, his focus completely on the latter. Though he had passed through the temple’s northern plaza two days before, he had not taken the time to fully appreciate what the structure was. Or had been.

The temple stood on a natural rise leading toward the mountain behind it, with stone stairs, plazas and buildings spilling out before it. Though the main structure was still recognizable, it was overcome with vines and weeds seeking to win a terrible battle of attrition. Holes pockmarked the main walls, while beautifully arched window frames sat devoid of the colored glass that had no doubt filled them more than a century ago.

Link noticed the remains of smaller (if only compared to the temple itself) buildings nestled into the elbows of the descending staircases. Unlike the temple, these were completely ruined, with nothing more than foundations and some jagged remains of walls still standing. The roofs were completely gone, while the few remaining window frames were often cut short like the walls that held them.

Link removed and packed away the warm doublet given to him by the old man. It was no longer necessary now that he was removed from the biting altitude of Mount Hylia. The sun shone more warmly here as the presence of lazy butterflies confirmed the peace of this place.

Seized by momentary curiosity, Link turned off the path and approached one of the smaller ruins. He found a gap through the low, crumbling wall and entered, only to find himself face to face with another decayed, single-eyed metal monster.

Link’s hand whipped his sword out in the same amount of time it took him to leap backwards. It did not matter that the thing was, by all appearances, lifeless. Link did not want to be near it, especially in the close confines of this ruin.

“That, Link, is called a Guardian.”

Link spun around, sword upraised, before recognizing the voice’s origin as the old man. Seeing him standing with nary a sign of concern or wariness was enough for Link to lower his weapon, though the act fought against the very recent memory of seeing that single eye up close.

The same eye as the one from my dream! Link thought suddenly.

The realization filled Link with elation. True, he did not know what the dream meant, but at least he knew it had been more than just that. Something about that dream, about these creatures, had been real in his life. He wondered suddenly if the old man knew what.

As it was, Link's revelation had not gone completely unnoticed.

“Do you remember, then?” the old man asked quietly, searching Link’s face. “Does hearing the name awaken something in you?”

Link shook his head.

“I dreamed last night that one of those things — a Guardian? — was hunting me,” he said. “Me and another.”

The old man’s eyes widened.

“Do you remember who the other person was?” he asked, and Link heard a note of hopeful eagerness in the question.

Again, Link shook his head.

“I only remember helping her get away,” he said, wracking his brain for any other details of interest. “The Guardian caught up to us. I pushed her behind a tree, tried to give her time to escape. That’s when I woke up.”

Unshed tears glistened in the old man’s eyes, and something he had said two days ago resurfaced in Link’s mind.

“You said it was unfortunate I did not know who spoke to me atop the tower,” Link slowly said. “Is it the same person from my dream?”

“Yes, I believe it is,” the old man said, his composure returning quickly. “I will tell you who that is shortly, Link. Please, follow me.”

Securing his sword to his back once more, Link followed the old man out of the small ruin and up the stone stairs toward the temple. Like the wider steps leading to the lower plazas, these were mostly overgrown with grass. Link could see they had been cunningly built into the rising land, leading up to the climax that was the Temple of Time.

As they approached the front entrance, Link saw that more dead Guardians littered the abandoned grounds. One even lay directly at the top of the stairs, its bell-shaped body completely devoid of clawed and serpentine arms. Link could see a large hole in one side of the thing, and he wondered what had dealt the machine its death blow.

“Ganon despises the temple and everything it stands for,” the old man said conversationally. “Legend says he was once imprisoned beneath these very grounds, bound here for centuries before he built up enough power to break free.”

Red fire flashed through Link, a mindless rage threatening to engulf him completely. A scene stole across his mind's eye: a circle of barren ground, unmarked save for a small black pit at its center with tendrils of smoke rising from its depths.

The image vanished, and Link was left grasping at the old man’s last words.

“Was that what happened one hundred years ago?” Link asked.

“Yes and no,” the old man replied as they passed through the incredibly high and arched entrance to the temple itself. “Ganon did indeed free himself a century ago, but that tale is far different than what took place here countless ages past.”

Link stopped and stared at the back of the old man, who seemed to sense his companion halting. He turned, and though Link still beheld the same trustworthy light in his eyes, he could hold back his doubt no longer.

“Who are you?” Link demanded. “How do you know all this? How do you know my name? Why did I sleep for a century? Who is the girl I have heard in my mind and seen in my dreams?”

The questions poured out of him in roiling rivers of white-hot frustration.

“How do I know how to fight? Why don’t I remember anything? Who am I?”

The last question echoed loudly throughout the high-ceilinged temple, startling nesting birds among the half-exposed rafters. Their flapping exit was the only other sound as Link’s voice faded into silence. He saw the old man was once again looking at him with an expression of pure pity.

“Your last questions are more pertinent than the first,” the old man said finally. “Come. Come see who you are.”

He gestured toward the back of the temple. At the end of a short flight of steps and raised upon a platform stood a large statue. It was made to look like a woman, robed and bearing wings upon her back. The old man, however, walked toward the side of the stairs, and Link realized he was gesturing not toward the statue, but to a full-sized mirror standing just around the staircase.

Irrational fear clawed at Link. He had shouted the questions. Now the answers were only a half-dozen steps away. Would he recognize himself? Or would a stranger stare back at him from the glass?

“It is alright, Link,” the old man said kindly, still gesturing toward the mirror. “You will not find anything unnatural there, only yourself.”

More reassured than he would like to admit, Link approached the rectangular frame. It was taller than he was, allowing the viewer to observe him or herself completely. Link stood in front of it and saw himself for the first time since awakening.

Bright blue, almond-shaped eyes met their reflection. They looked hard, far harder than they should given his youthful appearance. They gazed from below a head full of dark blonde hair, which was tied in the back at the nape of his neck. Pointed ears and slanted jawbones framed a modestly pointed nose and small mouth, combining to form an extremely youthful, if reserved, visage.

Link saw that his body was on the thin side, but he felt it fit him. Recalling his battle with the Bokoblins, he knew speed and stealth were greater allies to him than raw strength. Even so, he thought enough of the latter remained should he need it.

All in all, Link was not disappointed in his appearance save for the lack of recognizing it. Somehow, the reflection seemed slightly off. He thought it might be the sword. Its short hilt seemed to fall short of what he expected to see, and Link could not help wondering why.

Turning slightly, Link saw the old man’s reflection observing him. He rounded to face him, resigned to the fact that his image would shed no light on forgotten memories.

“You do not recognize yourself?” the old man asked gently.

Link shook his head, lowering his face to hide the hot tears that threatened to overtake him. If his own likeness spurred no recollection, what hope was there of ever remembering who he was?

“This is not unforeseen, Link,” the old man said quietly. “I will tell you how you arrived at your current state -- and why. As for your memories, I believe that they will return in time. ”

Link looked up, hoping against hope that the old man’s words were more than consolation. He nodded, then allowed himself to sit down on the lowest step below the statue. The day was only half-gone, but he already felt spent from the turmoil in his mind and heart.

The old man also walked toward the steps, but remained standing in front of Link.

“If you know who I am, if you knew what happened to me, why wait until now?” Link heard himself ask. He was not angry. He was just tired of the riddles. Tired of not knowing.

“I did not think it wise to overwhelm you while your memory was still fragile,” the old man replied. “I thought it best to assume a temporary form, at least until I knew you were ready or would not wait for the answers you needed.”

“A temporary f—?”

The question died on Link's lips. He had looked up to ask it, only to see the old vagabond he knew gone, replaced by a man of equal age but of a far different station. A golden crown rested on top of his white-haired head, from which the familiar beard still extended. Instead of a traveler’s garb, he wore a cream tunic embroidered with golden triangles down its center. A belt of office encircled his waist, cinched by an enormous golden clasp with a sapphire at its center. Inlaid upon the jewel was a pyramid of three golden triangles identical to the one embroidered on the back of Link’s cloak. A coat and boots of blue, each embroidered with golden designs along their respective lengths, completed what Link could only conclude was a royal ensemble.

“I am — I was — Rhoam Bosphoramus Hyrule, the last living King of Hyrule,” the old man said in a full and confident voice.

Rhoam’s eyes were prouder now that he had revealed his true identity, and Link could not blame them. Only now did he realize the look of a king fit him far better than that of a humble traveler. Link felt an instinctual impulse to kneel, but something the old man — no, Rhoam — said nagged for his attention.

“Was?” Link asked questioningly.

The pride slowly dissipated from Rhoam’s eyes. He sighed, closing his eyes as though bracing himself against something troubling or painful. Then he opened them and refocused on Link, who sat waiting patiently.

“Your story, Link, begins before you were born, and continues after my own life met its end. Hear me out, then feel free to ask me any questions you may have. I promise to remain long enough to answer them.”

Link nodded immediately. He was already curious as to what Rhoam meant by the beginning and end of his “story.”

“You asked me two days ago what Calamity Ganon was,” Rhoam began, “and that is where our tale begins. Legends, stories and histories all agree that the Demon King was born into the world of Hyrule, though he is not bound to it in mortality as most are. He is evil incarnate, a formation of the purest malice made flesh that is reborn in time without end.”

An echo of the Rhoam’s words, albeit in a far harsher voice, suddenly echoed from some dormant corner of Link’s memory.

“My hate never perishes… It is born anew in a cycle without end!”

In his mind, Link once again saw the boar-like monster of red smoke and vapor rise from the depths of the fortress, swirling around its central spire in an effort to block out the gleaming light that had beckoned him.

“Those legends and histories,” Rhoam continued, “teach us that Ganon has attempted to overthrow Hyrule countless times over the ages. He can be turned back, defeated, even slain. But, like the eternal evil he is, Ganon can never be completely eradicated.

“Ganon’s history coincides with that of two others. In my studies, I learned of a princess with a sacred power bestowed to her by Hylia herself, and her appointed knight, chosen by the Sword That Seals the Darkness. It was they — or rather, their resurrected selves — who kept Ganon at bay, time and time again.”

Link looked up. He was not sure what called to his shrouded memories more: the mention of the princess or that of the sword. It was like hearing a song recently forgotten, with his mind trying desperately to recall the words.

“Such a war had not taken place in many long ages,” Rhoam continued. “Peace had ruled the land so long, I did not fully believe the tales of Ganon until after I ascended to the throne. It was then that the first signs of evil were seen. Bokoblin bands raided traveling caravans. Animals were torn apart and left uneaten by monsters during the night. Disappearances that no one could explain occurred more and more frequently.

“Around that time, I was approached by the Sheikah, a rarity even for a king,” Rhoam added with a small smile. “They had presented themselves openly to me just once before, and that was the day I accepted the crown. He had been little more than a messenger, a representative sent to confirm my ascension to the throne. This second meeting, however, was with the oldest among them, likely older than any living human in Hyrule. She told me a prophecy existed that foretold Ganon’s return, and that its fulfilling was at hand.”

Rhoam paused, making sure he had Link’s full attention before continuing. He needn’t have bothered. Link was hanging on every word, willing all the different pieces of this story to form the answers he sought. He thought he could feel that moment drawing nearer.

“The prophecy,” Rhoam continued, “stated this: ‘The signs of a resurrection of Calamity Ganon are clear. And the power to oppose it lies dormant beneath the ground.’”

Link found himself interrupting for the first time.

“Did you believe her?” he asked. “Did you believe Ganon would return?”

“I could hardly have done otherwise,” Rhoam answered dryly. “To discard rare counsel from the Sheikah would be extremely foolish, and then there were the signs that were already showing themselves. Bokoblins had not been sighted openly for decades. And then,” he added incredulously, “there was this: the Sheikah pledged their people and labors to help us fulfill the prophecy. Such open assistance from them is all but unheard of. We knew, then, they considered the matter of the utmost importance.”

Link could only imagine. These were the same people who had built the magnificent towers and shrines, who had designed the slate hanging from his belt. No king would lightly value their advice or help.

“In the end, we decided to heed the prophecy,” Rhoam continued. “All we had to guide us was the power that lay ‘dormant beneath the ground.’ We interpreted that quite literally, and began excavating large areas of land that had lain undisturbed for centuries. Hylian masons, Goron miners and Sheikah advisors collaborated their efforts. It wasn’t long before they were rewarded.”

Link relaxed at this. For a split second, he had been afraid he was supposed to be the power “dormant beneath the ground,” though the only power he knew belonged to the Sheikah Slate on his hip. True, that had also been stored away in the Shrine of Resurrection, but if that was the answer to the prophecy, what need was there for Link to be put to sleep there for a century? In any case, Link thought, I was not underground when the prophecy was told, so it could not be me.

Then he remembered the girl’s voice.

“You are the light. Our light. The fate of Hyrule rests with you.”

Frowning at his own indecision, Link tried to focus as Rhoam went on.

“In various parts of Hyrule, we discovered ancient relics crafted by the hands of our distant ancestors," the former king explained. "They were enormous, as big as villages and more powerful than armies. The Sheikah told us they were called Divine Beasts, giant machines each meant to be piloted individually by warriors of great skill.”

“Our search,” Rhoam continued, “yielded more fruit. We also found the Guardians, mechanical soldiers that, when repaired and set right, fought autonomously for their master.”

“You found the Guardians?” Link interrupted disbelievingly. Even now, his skin crawled at the mention of the metal monsters. “They fought for you? I thought, I just felt that they were, well, on Ganon’s side.”

Rhoam gazed beyond Link, staring at something only he could see. His voice dripped with bitterness as he responded.

“Your feelings serve you well, Link,” he answered. “They were originally meant to serve and protect Hyrule, as were the Divine Beasts. The ancient texts said as much, that they were the forces to be marshaled around those who commanded them: the princess and the knight that I mentioned before.”

Link stood up and began pacing. A worm of dread had begun to wriggle its way into his stomach, and he couldn’t explain why. Rhoam seemed to know, however, that he was still listening.

“One hundred years ago, there was a princess set to inherit the sacred power. We knew this because such was her inheritance, an inborn gift passed from mother to daughter. With training, she, too, could master the magic that would bind Ganon upon defeat.

“Around the same time,” Rhoam added, “the Sword That Seals The Darkness came forth and chose one to wield it. He was young — very young — but extraordinarily skilled. I did not doubt the Sword had chosen a worthy vessel. With those signs, along with what we had discovered, it was clear that we must follow our ancestors’ path.”

The worm was now a snake writhing in Link’s middle. He could feel bile rising in his throat, threatening to make him retch. Rhoam was the king of Hyrule, which meant the princess...No. He told himself. You don’t know. Let him finish. Rhoam pressed on, either unaware of or unconcerned for Link’s discomfort.

“We selected four skilled individuals from across Hyrule and tasked them with the duty of piloting the Divine Beasts. With the princess as their commander, we dubbed these pilots and her chosen knight Champions, a name that would solidify their unique bond. They trained well, learning to pilot their mechanical charges as no one else could. Meanwhile, the Guardians were operating as expected, better even.

”We thought,” Rhoam added with regret, “that we possessed an army large enough to turn aside any threat, that we were sufficiently prepared to seal Ganon away once again. We were not.”

Link stopped pacing, which had ceased to provide sufficient release for the mad energy that now suffused him. Unthinking, he seized stone pillar that marked the bottom of the short staircase. His hands gripped it convulsively, trying to squeeze unyielding stone while simultaneously leaning on it for support. When he spoke, he hardly recognized his own voice.

“What happened?” Link asked hoarsely.

“Ganon was cunning,” Rhoam admitted bitterly. “He responded with a plan beyond our imagining, emerging from deep below Hyrule Castle when we least expected. Using dark magic, he seized control of the Guardians and the Divine Beasts and turned them against us. Facing the very tools meant to assist them, the Champions lost their lives, as did everyone residing in the castle and the surrounding town. From there they rampaged across Hyrule, forcing all to flee before them.”

“The appointed knight,” Rhoam added quietly, “was gravely wounded, and he collapsed while defending the princess from Ganon’s hordes even as they fled to escape them.”

Link sank to his knees, unwilling to face the untold truth that was already whispering inside his head. In a daze, he recalled the dream from the night before, the desperate need to run, the need to keep his companion moving, to protect her from the faceless horror that pursued them. His right hand convulsed as though it could still hold her by the hand or wrist. Instead, his own nails dug deep into his palm, threatening to draw blood.

“What…,” Link paused to swallow. It was a struggle to get the words out. “What happened to her?”

Rhoam’s appearance had not changed, but he no longer looked like a king. He looked like a man who had lost something irreplaceable, something beyond recall.

“She returned to the castle,” he whispered, “to face Ganon alone.”

Link looked up at the king — at his King — and saw the devastation that surely marred his own features. If his soul had snarled at seeing Ganon soar above the spires of Hyrule Castle, it now howled in agony at the thought of this yet unremembered girl confronting that same horror alone.

“That princess,” Rhoam finished brokenly, “was my own daughter. You were her appointed knight. It was you who protected Zelda to the very end.”

Link’s vision swam. He did not remember falling, nor did he recognize the scream that rent the air as his own. It went on forever, and he vaguely registered the angelic statue looming over him. It offered no forgiveness, no relief from the pain searing his soul. Its neutral expression seemed to silently confirm the merciless mantra screaming within him.

You failed her. You failed her.

Darkness took him.