Part 2
A week is an eternity when you are waiting for a friend who does not arrive. The initial worry over Elwin's lateness, a simple crack in the village's routine, had deepened and split into a chasm of collective dread. His absence was a heavy, suffocating blanket that smothered the usual sounds of Ordon. Laughter was quieter, conversations were hushed, and the children were kept closer to home, their games confined to their own yards. The world outside our valley, once a place of distant news and exciting goods, had become a source of fear. Every traveler who appeared on the horizon, every cloud of dust kicked up on the road, caused hearts to leap with a desperate, foolish hope, only to fall again when the approaching figure was revealed to be a stranger.
Elwin was more than a postman. He was a part of our lives. He had brought news of my own parents' passing in a letter sealed with the King's crest. He had delivered the beautifully illustrated storybook Elara had ordered for Link's fifth birthday. He had a kind word for everyone, and his cheerful, booming laugh was as reliable as the spring rains. His silence was a wound in the community, and it was beginning to fester.
Link felt the loss more keenly than most. Elwin had always treated him with a simple, uncomplicated kindness. He never seemed to notice Link's silence, chatting away to him about the goings-on in Castle Town as if he were receiving a full reply. He was one of the few adults who saw a boy, not a puzzle.
My son's shepherd duties took on a new purpose. He began to lead his flock to the high pastures that overlooked the main road, the one Elwin would have traveled. I saw him from my forge, a small, solitary figure standing for hours on the ridge, his staff in hand, his gaze fixed on the empty ribbon of dirt. He was not just watching; he was searching. He was using the skills the forest had taught him—that preternatural stillness, that unnerving focus—to read the story of the road.
One afternoon, he came home with his hand clutched tightly at his side. He ate his dinner in his usual silence, but his eyes were distant, troubled. Later, when we were alone, he opened his palm. In it lay a single, small object: a brass button, embossed with the familiar winged crest of the Hyrulean Royal Post. It was dull and coated with mud, but there was no mistaking what it was. He had found it half-buried in the tall grass beside the road, a tiny, forgotten piece of a man who had vanished. The mystery was no longer a distant rumor; it was here, a cold, hard piece of metal in my son's hand. It was proof.
That evening, the men of the village gathered in the elder's home. The air was thick with the smell of pipe smoke and fear. I stood in the back, listening.
"A search party," Fado argued, his voice tight. "We take our hunting bows and search the road. We can't just do nothing."
"And what would we be searching for, Fado?" the baker countered, his face drawn and weary. "Bandits? We are not guardsmen. And the stories… the stories are not of bandits. They are of beasts, of men vanishing into thin air. To go out there unprepared is to invite the same fate as poor Elwin."
The debate raged. They were good men, paralyzed by a fear of the unknown. They spoke of responsibility, of caution, of their own families. In the end, they made the only decision a council of sensible, frightened men could make. They would send a rider, young Toren, to the royal garrison at the border of the province. It was a two-day ride, if the roads were safe. They would report the disappearance. They would let the knights handle it. It was the proper, orderly, and agonizingly slow thing to do. I left the meeting with the taste of ashes in my mouth. Justice, I knew, would not be coming for at least a week, if it came at all.
Link had been waiting for me outside. He looked at my face and knew the outcome of the meeting. He didn't need words. The frustration was a mirror on our two faces. He held up the brass button, then looked at me, his eyes asking the question he could not speak: Is this all we are going to do?
He left me then and walked not towards our home, but towards Impa's. I let him go. If there was any wisdom to be found in this world, it was with her.
He was gone for a long time. When he returned, the sun had set, and a sliver of a crescent moon hung in the sky. He walked with a new purpose in his step. The troubled uncertainty in his eyes had been replaced by a calm, solemn resolve.
That night, our home was quiet. Elara, her heart heavy, went to bed early. I retreated to the forge, the heat a familiar comfort, but I could not bring myself to work. I simply stood in the shadows, staring at the coals, my mind a storm of worry. What could I do? What could any of us do?
The forge door opened silently. Link stood there. He walked past me, his gaze fixed on the loose stone in the foundation, the hiding place of the sword. He knelt, removed the stone, and drew the sheathed blade from the darkness. He rose and turned to me, his small face illuminated by the dying orange glow of the forge. He held the sword in his hands, its weight a heavy burden he no longer seemed to fear. He looked at me, and in his eyes, I saw not a question, but a statement. A declaration.
He left the forge and went to his room. I followed a few moments later and stood in the doorway, a silent shadow. By the light of the moon filtering through his window, he was laying out his gear upon his bed. The wooden shield, its red birds seeming to pulse with a soft, inner light. His slingshot, its leather strap worn with practice. The whistle, a gift from an elder who knew his path long before I was willing to see it. He retrieved the Keaton Mask from its hiding place and laid it beside the rest, its sly, carved face a keeper of dark secrets.
And finally, the sword. He placed it in the center of the others. It was the final piece, the one that changed everything. He was no longer just a shepherd preparing for his day. He was a warrior preparing for a journey.
His decision was as clear and as silent as his own soul. The knights were too far away. The villagers were too afraid. He was the one who had seen the shadow's face. He was the one who spoke the language of the forest, who carried its blessing on his shield. He had a connection to this darkness, a responsibility that the others could not comprehend. He would not wait for an answer to come from a distant castle. He would go and find it himself.
He stood there for a long time, bathed in the pale moonlight, the sword held loosely in his hand. The boy I had raised, the child I had protected, was gone. In his place stood something new, something older. He had made a silent vow. A vow to his missing friend. A vow to his village, which he would leave in order to protect it. And a vow to the world, whose vast and terrible secrets were now his own. And I, his father, could only stand and watch, my heart breaking with both pride and a sorrow too deep for any words.