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Impa hated the dark. She didn’t know when it started, there was no specific incident or place when she had come to the realization that she hated the shadows and their lapping at her heels, like she could drown in herself. The idea that the shadows were always there, nipping at the edges of her mind, ready to blow her off the thin precipice of control that she had clawed out for herself. The calm, the illusion, as all things were, had been made with tooth and nail and dagger, sharpened to a needle point.
Impa often wondered if it was as tiring for the others as it was for her, to keep up the act. Maybe it wasn’t an act for them. Maybe the others enjoyed being confined to what they were, what they would always be. Unknown. Forgotten.
Except nothing was ever truly forgotten among the Sheikah. From names, to faces, to allegiances and promises that had long since overstayed their welcomes like light lingering at dusk. Impa never forgot her mother’s face, no matter how much she would have liked to. Maybe it would make everything easier, if she didn’t know so much. If she was anyone other than who she was. Anything other than what she is.
But Impa was the best of them. Memorizing ancient scroll after scroll, deciphering text after text, breaking codes like bones. She had torn through libraries like daggers tore flesh, peeling apart the tendons and scripts of hieroglyphs like she could pry some kind of sense from them. A reason, an answer, for why they needed to hide.
“Knowledge is power,” Her mother had said, “guard it well.”
“Why can’t we use it?” Impa said in a whisper, as if afraid of being heard. Impa didn’t know who she had to be afraid of here. But there was always someone there, lurking in dust filled rafters or under rusty grates. It felt wrong to even talk in a place like this. As if a single breath could turn the tomes in her hands to dust, the wisdom lost to the ages of time like so many others.
It’s a courage the Sheikah have never possessed. The ability to change the fate they record, the histories they write.
Impa had loved learning. It was the knowing that she couldn’t stand. Knowing they wouldn’t change. That they couldn’t change anything. That the endless cycle was coming once again and no one could do anything to stop it.
Maybe it ran in the Sheikah’s blood that they always shed for someone else. As if there were ever enough sacrifices to justify humility. Maybe their blood wasn’t even their own anymore. Maybe they had lost what they truly were somewhere between the spies spread like ink stains through maps and scattered through countries like blood splatter.
The tattoo under Impa’s eye stings as she traces her finger over the tear on her face. No one even knew what they were crying for anymore. It wasn’t the Sheikah way to tell secrets. Maybe the true reason had died in some chamber like so many others had, lips pressed shut as another finger was ripped off. Maybe they did it to themselves. Maybe their secrets died with someone else.
Impa was the best of them. Not a single grain of dust disturbed by her shoes. Not a single shine of a dagger in her hand. Not a single movement before the flick of wrist and it was over.
Do you envy them? Impa had asked herself when no one else would, pouring over the pages of festivals, of traditions, of cultures, of foods, of people—
The book slams shut as Impa yanks her wrist back to avoid her fingers being crushed. She can’t see her mother’s face through the shadows. She knows what it would look like anyway, a disappointed scowl permanently etched into her brow.
Impa was made to memorize each step, each path, each line, each text, all to file it away and never use. And she could never understand why. Maybe that’s what she envied. The understanding, the belonging, the whole of it— the acceptance that they would never be more than they were that every Sheikah but her seemed to share. Content to warn no one of what was coming.
The others prepare for the coming forces. They are going to die and this time there will be no scraps left to use to put themselves back together. They’ve seen the omens in a million tomes, the prophecy that constantly haunts them. Some ancient tales of a sorceress undone by time, her havoc now approaching. Impa begs them to understand, to run, to hide and flee but they won’t abandon the archive they have spent millenia preserving.
Impa leaves for the Hyrulean Castle at dusk.
She doesn’t know if it was a blessing or a curse that she was able to memorize her mother’s face. It is all she has left of her anyway.
Impa is alone with only her shadow as company, billowing like a cape on the stones beneath her as she deliberately announces her presence to the entire guard. They are so baffled by her appearance, light hair, red eyes on a scowling face of tattoos— she is not supposed to exist anymore. The last of her race they call her. She’s not sure if it’s a compliment to her willingness to survive. Maybe they are cursing her survival, questioning what bodies she must have crawled over to be the last one standing.
They are right to question her. Shame burns like the sun on her back.
Why is she here? Why come now, when the young have fallen and there is no one left but the veterans that might remember the stories of the once great protectors of the Hyrulean royal family?
But If Impa had the answers she wouldn’t be here. There is nothing these people can give to her. No information to be plucked, no strings to cut what was already severed. She has no attachment to this place. Like a shadow that will fade without notice. It is not freeing, like they all said it would be, when she is bound by their gazes. They whisper behind helms obscuring their prying eyes, but Impa knows these sentinels are circling like vultures. Watching like gargoyles with wings of chainmail and spears of feathers.
Her footsteps make too much noise on the cobblestone, the flat soles of her feet slapping the pavement with none of the practiced ease she had gotten used to, avoiding creaking, moldy floorboards that could collapse under her at any moment. The solid feeling of it all is foreign.
Impa approaches the front door with nothing but her title, requesting an audience out of her standing for no other reason than because she can.
The guards or soldiers or whatever they like to call themselves are fools to let her get this close to their monarch without protest. Impa has breached the Hyrulean stronghold without even needing to sneak into a single room. Impa is not sure if she deserves the armed escort— but soon, either way, she will prove them right or wrong.
The Princess, no the Queen of Hyrule sits before her, only a hundred paces and a daggers striking distance away. The amount of necklaces adorned in gold might hinder Impa’s dagger, but with the right amount of force and true aim, the Queen could be choking on her own blood before the guards could even see the knife leave Impa’s wrist.
The Queen couldn’t run in armor like that, the jewels from her earrings would swivel and take out her own eye before Impa’s knives could— the breastplate is ceremonial. It does a better job blinding Impa and magnifying the rays of sun caught on it’s well polished and intricate carvings.
For a long moment the Queen only watches her, a girl dressed up as a woman, regarding her with cerulean eyes.
“You’re too late,” There is the blame of a child without a family in her voice. Impa doesn’t flinch, simply waiting for her verdict. “You have awful timing. I have a council meeting in half an hour, which doesn’t leave me nearly enough time to discuss what to do with you. Send her to my chambers. I’ll deal with her when I’m done.”
Impa feels herself tense at the dismissal, not moving as the Queen walks past her without even a glance in her direction, door shut to her face.
A chandelier hangs above them, the chains suspending it in place unblemished with rust, the candles free of melted wax. The fireplace is empty of soot, held up with marble columns. Impa stared at the chalice rather than the servant who poured it, stomach sloshing like the liquid in the glass. She took it hesitantly, careful not to let her eyes drift to anyone else in the room, fingers carefully laid in the correct position around the spine of the glass.
This was a test. She knew better than to expect anything else. She was careful to let the enjoyment show on her face as the only sign of gratitude. It wasn’t hard, the tang of the drink vibrant and sweet with a hint of honey. Impa had to resist sticking her entire nose into the glass to get another sniff, the only natural scent in the palace. Perfumes and incense settled around the palace like a fog. It made her nauseous.
The thud of footsteps outside the door alerted Impa to her Majesty’s presence. It was hard not to hear the bustle of her armor. Impa got to her feet, prepared to mimic the servant’s correct response to royalty in this setting, but the attendant was so startled by Impa’s sudden movement he almost dropped the pitcher. The two of them dipped their heads in sync as the door opened, not looking her Highness in the eye.
“Finally,” The Queen said in more of a sigh of relief than a greeting.
“I am honored to have my request for an audience grant—”
“If you were to address me in that way in front of the court you’d be dead.” The Queen interrupted as Impa’s eyes shot up. The child had the audacity to smile, a victorious little thing, like Impa’s attempts were the most humorous thing she had seen in months. The taste in Impa’s mouth went sour and she had the urge to spit. The Queen of Hyrule strode forward as her retinue stood at attention by the door.
“Someone of your standing must know how to bow, at the very least. Keep your shoulders straight. And a hand over your heart— no, the right one. A clenched fist will do. And do not look at me unless I speak to you directly.”
“Is that not what you are doing now?” Impa questioned as the others in the room tensed. The Queen’s smile widened.
“Perfect. A general of the Hyrulean Royal Army must have the gall that no one else in this palace does.”
Impa did not let the surprise show on her face, but she could hear the collective swallow of all the retainers surrounding them, throats bobbing with the action.
“Your Highness,” An old man at her side starts hesitantly, wringing his hands together. “To have an outsider rise to such a high position—”
“Did I say you could speak?” The Queen asks with a raised brow as the man snaps his jaw shut. “Honestly Auru, an advisor should know when their advice is not wanted. Even she knows not to speak unless spoken to.”
“Queen Zelda, I apologize but I must protest against this course of action—”
“Leave, then. I have no use for someone who doesn’t see the tactical advantages that my plan presents.”
“Ze—”
“You're dismissed. All of you. I don’t intend to repeat myself.” The Queen snapped with a tone cold as ice as the retainers bowed and left. Auru opened his mouth, before thinking better of it, and strode through the door, mumbling under his breath. Impa was surprised to see the girl’s posture melt as soon as the door was shut.
“You see what I have to deal with? Queen of this whole nation and no one listens to a word I say.”
“Am I permitted to speak freely now, Your Highness?”
“Please, I don’t even know your name,” The Queen— no, the girl, teased with a smirk.
The words stick to Impa’s throat. She has never had to introduce herself before. Everyone has always known who she was. “My name is Impa. I’m the last of the Sheikah.”
“Ah. Well then, I’m Zelda, the last of the Hyrulean line. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Is it really?”
Zelda laughs, cutting herself off with an undignified snort. “I suppose not. After all, I'm sure your arrival here heralds no good news.”
“You’re already sure of what I have to say?”
“I’ve been an omen of doom since the day I was born,” Zelda says with an easy shrug that doesn’t fit the carefully neutral expression on her face. “I’m sure I can handle one more proclamation of destruction.”
“You’ve already seen it, haven’t you?” Impa asks, recalling the legends of the Hyrulean bloodline of centuries ago and their visions. “A darkness like nothing this wartorn nation has ever seen before is coming to overtake Hyrule.”
“Yes!” Zelda says, grabbing Impa’s hands as she flinches. “Yes, I’ve seen it! Every night when I go to sleep until morning when I open my eyes, the same dream, prophecy, whatever you want to call it.”
There is a desperation in the girl before her, worn into the lines on her face and the bags under her eyes. A desperation that has made her trust the first stranger she has let into her castle. Impa has a feeling that, for the first time in a while, this is the first real conversation the Queen has had. Not that she can judge.
“They don’t believe you?” Zelda bites her lip and shakes her head in frustration, earrings dangling. “Then we’ll make them.”
The months pass in blurs of meetings and introductions and dinners. The Council has made their disapproval of the newest of the Queen’s impulsive decisions known. Impa hasn’t left Zelda’s side since. The Sheikah general informs her of the constant attempts to undermine her authority, the meetings taking place without her knowledge or invitation. Auru’s constant placations and insistence that Zelda is not experienced enough to make the military decisions that are required for the coming threat.
For the first time in her life Impa meets someone with a thirst for knowledge that rivals her own. Zelda pours hours into strategy, ignoring her etiquette lessons in favor of battle history. It is rare that a night passes without Zelda waking, restlessly pouring over whatever books she can get her hands on. The screams from her constant nightmares invite the idea of assassins. Impa stays in Zelda’s room, bringing her candles when the ones on her bedside have long since melted.
Now, the common sight of a dim light that glows under Zelda’s door greets her. Impa opens the door soundlessly. The Queen hasn’t bothered to lock it since she came here. The guest list for the funding campaign dinner tomorrow is sprawled across Zelda’s desk as she pinches the bridge of her nose.
“You should sleep,” Impa advises as Zelda rolls her eyes.
“I would if I could,” She responds, wrinkling her nose at the options before her. “I don’t have the patience to sit by Auru for an hour. But if he’s by anyone else he’ll tell them all how ridiculous they are for coming to entertain me.”
“He’s on bad terms with Rioma,” Impa notes, pointing at the seat chart over her shoulder. “He’s been sending less pleas to her recently, if his letters are any indication. At the very least she's less likely to believe anything he says.”
“The real problem is Minister Zeu,” Zelda sighed, slouching in her chair. "He won’t approve any motion for increased patrols in his region if it requires materials he doesn’t have.”
“Why can’t we give them to him?”
“It would be a sign of bias, especially when the activities we want the soldiers under his jurisdiction to perform can be seen as hostile.”
The Sheikah hums, heading for the windowsill. “You should try to get as much rest as you can for tomorrow. The less sleep you have the more uncharismatic you become.”
“Impa,” Zelda starts, seeing her deflection for what it is. Impa hesitantly turns to look at her. “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”
“...I don’t know if I have that choice. I’d hate to leave you by yourself.”
“Please,” Zelda laughs. Impa can’t remember the last time she did. “I’ve been dealing with these fools for far longer than you give me credit for.”
At Impa’s lack of response to her teasing, Zelda's smile softens. “You don’t have to wear the Hyrulean crest. Or any ceremonial armor you don’t want to.”
“They will think less of someone who pledges allegiance to Hyrule without wearing their colors.”
“Let them. You are my General, regardless of what they have to say about it.”
“That isn’t worth the cost to your reputation—”
“Of course it is. And there’s nothing the Council could say to change my mind.”
Impa feels herself smile more than she allows it. Zelda squeezes her hands in assurance.
“In that case I regret to inform you that I will still be absent from the banquet.”
Zelda pouts. “And there’s not anything I could say to convince you otherwise?”
“As tempting as it is to stand still at your side for hours on end I will have to ensure the documents proving the increased monster activity at Zeu’s borders are on his desk by the time your speech is finished.”
“That is if I finish my speech,” Zelda complained, sliding in her seat as she dipped her quill again.
Impa almost laughed. “I have every confidence in your literary capacities regardless of the late hour, Your Highness.”
Zelda threw a scroll at her head. She missed.