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Last Light to Cast a Shadow

Chapter 3: chapter II: stare at a wall that has held a thousand tragedies

Notes:

happy new year!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Senehim has become quite used to the Scouts over the next week.

The Scouts are used as messengers, sending recordings throughout the Sacred Grounds and Hylia’s Loft. They have even learned how to send messages of their own to Hylia.

Mostly, the messages are Senehim asking her about a question that has come from what they had read in the magical texts, expanding the knowledge they had been ‘born’ with. Hylia’s use often is to remind Senehim to eat food or drink some water.

However, the other two Guardian sorts scare the Child, intimidating behind their odd masks. They can hear their approach, thankfully. The Priests are more noticeable, as they have a significantly heavier material composing their shoes.

The damn things still haunt their dreams, however. It is a presence that they cannot shake from their waking hours to peacefully sleep. However, Senehim is fortunate that if woken from a nightmare, they do not return to the horror’s dreamscape – instead, drifting to a place much kinder in sleep, a soft golden haziness that comforts and folds them in a sense that remains for some time after waking.

Senehim’s breakfast is a bowl of warm porridge with fruit from the Land. The fruit is sliced finely and placed decoratively, and Senehim is unable to figure out what the sliced fruit is aside from being good. The round sweet purple berries are much easier to identify. There are slices of smoked meat and a piece of toast topped with a soft-boiled egg.

It sits well in their stomach after they eat.

“Hm, I wonder what’s out there.” Senehim mutters to themself as they scrape the last few spoonfuls of cinnamon porridge into their waiting mouth, placing the bowl back down on the table. One of the Scouts will be by eventually to clean up the dirty dishes from their meal.

It lets them have the time to themselves, and they set off with the decision to explore more of the place they had been born into. To sate the curiosity of what remains beyond the halls between the dining hall and their room – see if the halls are any other colours than white and gold. What tapestries hang from the walls, and what lies outside the windows.

Finding out what exists beyond the building’s stone walls is a quick glance when they do leave the dining hall, refraining from returning to their room quite yet.

 It’s a boring void of white and gold haze that stretches on to the horizon. It’s another realm all together, and it does not do much to sate their curiosity. Senehim knows that there’s more to a world than the sight in front of them. Frankly, it’s disappointing that there’s nothing more to the void’s landscape. No buildings, no forests or anything else.

At least the halls contain secrets yet undiscovered.

Unsurprisingly, the walls continue the trend of clean white and gleaming gold, the carpet a fine cerulean with white stripes and details. It reminds them of the sky in the illustrations of some of the books they’d read over the last few days.

“Hm?” Senehim crouches to rub their fingertips across the rug, wondering how the carpeting felt. Plush fabric gives away beneath their touch. It makes sense that such fine fabric should be used in a Goddess’s halls. Their head tilts curiously as they rub the fibers back and forth a few times, experimenting if there was a difference in texture one way or another. No change is presented to their fingertips.

Exploring down the long corridor presents the occasional window to let in the odd foggy, bright light from the realm outside. Senehim questions where the realm is situated in relativity to the mortal realm.

“Hm. Is this the Sacred Realm spoken of in texts? Then there should be a way out of the realm and into the realm for inhabitants.” They muttered to themself while looking at a portrait. The painting was stylized, but clearly of Hylia. “How many different portraits does She have?”

They tap at the portrait’s frame, scratching gently at the gold coating. It is a paint that comes off after a bit of picking.

A looming presence burns over their shoulder. “What are you doing?” A cool voice speaks as a thin hand settles on their shoulder.

“Noth-nothing!” Senehim gasps, stiffening under the Cloak’s touch. The hand is warm on their shoulder, surprisingly. From what they have seen at their Inception, Senehim has assumed that the Cloak’s hands would be cold.

No, they are flesh and blood, like this form of theirs. Their dark hand is warm on his shoulder. But that mask is still terrifying, three eyes judging their soul, their being. Weighing their existence against something arbitrary, something unseen. The Watcher taps on their shoulder, before the grip changes to tug at their shoulder.

“I have orders that you need to attend private lessons.” The Watcher calmly reports to the spirit. A pout forms on their lips.

“I think I have been quite dutiful in studying.”

“The books you have been reading, Senehim, aren’t as up to date as you think.”

Senehim huffs.

“Surely you want to leave this realm?” The question hangs in the golden air.

“Well, yes.”

“You must attend lessons there. I think you will be quite interested in what topics are ahead of you for today. It is on current topics – the history of the future. I’ve seen that you’ve been reading the history tomes.”

“They border on religious script, but yes.” They huff again, crossing their arms to stare up at the mask.

There is an amused huff that leaves the Watcher, and the hand moves from shoulder to shoulder blade, spinning the Child on their heels with surprise on their face to usher them down the hall, continuing to speak.

“Well, the mortal realm’s history is currently being written, and surely you would like to write some of it with your own hand.”

Senehim chews on their lip, contemplating.

Fine,” Senehim tilts their head back with their pout only sticking out further. The Watcher laughs as they travel through the gilded halls.

As they travel, Senehim’s eyes wander over the tapestries. They are the same wherever they go, and the halls remain the bright white and gold. Hylia’s portraits seem to continue, as if they are simply offerings from mortals. A note is added to the back of their mind to ask Her Grace about that.

“You see, the books you read only cover what has been recorded. Oral diction is still one of the more reliable ways to learn information while the world is so young.” The Watcher speaks nonchalantly about it, steering the Child into a room to sit on a comfortable chair.

The hooded figure drops into the chair opposite the Child, folding a slender leg over the other knee and shifts to get comfortable.

“Do I get a name for you?” Senehim tilts their head back before the Watcher truly begins their lecture. “Can I give you a name?”

“Child, I do have a name. You will learn it in time. For now, I am Teacher.” The Watcher huffs, holding up a hand, palm first. The mask tilts away as if recollecting thoughts. Senehim smirks. But, there is a wonder of what the Watcher thought – their intent locked behind that mask.

After a moment, Teacher relaxes. “So… tell me about what you have learned so far. It will allow me to understand what you know, and what I will need to correct.”

And so, Senehim nods. They tell Teacher about what they have read in the tomes on their desk.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

“How was your lesson today?” Hylia asks the Child over a plate of salmon and rice for dinner, with some sauce concoction poured over the fish. Senehim immediately ranks it under the soup in terms of meal preference.

“Hm.” They take a moment to think before responding. “Acceptable.” They speak with a shrug, stirring up the fish and rice, breaking the flaky flesh into shreds. It tastes a little better with the sauce coating more of the food and not just the pink fish.

Hylia can hardly hide the little smile that turns her lips. Senehim’s gold eyes stare up at her through their bangs.

“Well, I would like you to have more knowledge of the present before we visit the mortal realm.” She neatly cuts into her fish, taking an even bite of rice and protein. “As well as a more practical knowledge of swordplay.”

Senehim perks up at the mention of learning more than the initial fundamentals given to them at their creation. It’s enough for them to defend themselves in a time of need, but past that – there are no skills at their disposal in case of worse than a spar, or a bitter monster.

“As well as some information on the beasts and other monsters that crawl the surface.” She explains. “I need you to be prepared to what we might face out there. Farore created life, but she had to create not just those to uphold Nayru’s law in the people of Din’s land. She had to create beasts and monsters to challenge mortals.”

Senehim nods, pausing from eating while they listen.

“I need you to be prepared for when you are a companion.” She looks over Senehim’s face. “We will be travelling once you are trained more, starting with the villages. I need you to be familiar with the lands outside. We will speak with the Guardians of the land.”

Senehim shudders, thinking of the gilded masks and shrouded eyes of the Guardians.

“Do not tell me what they look like.” Cold words leave them as they cross their arms, meal abandoned in favour of their conversation. Hylia laughs at him openly.

“They are dragons on the surface. Nothing like my Guardians.” She softly explains, and the Child relaxes. “Now, finish your dinner, my Beloved.”

“Yes, Hylia.” They bow their head and dutifully finish the remained of the meal.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

“Again.” Teacher’s voice echoes out as Senehim slashes down against the straw and linen dummy. Its blank, basic round face is close to ripping open, straw visibly poking out of where the sword had torn into it.

“You’re going easy on me. The dummy is about to break.” Senehim huffs. “An actual monster isn’t going to react like this.” The spirit gestures with the simple sword in their hand, before striking again.

“It would have lasted longer if you were using the practice sword I gave you. It doesn’t have that edge.” Teacher crosses their arms in disapproval of the child.

“But I need to get used to an actual sword.”

“And you will, in time. You might as well finish off this dummy, and I’ll retrieve a new one.” Teacher turns, their back to the spirit as they cross the room.

Senehim makes a face, sort of chewing at their mouth in a pout before flicking the sword in a hand, tilting their head before lunging forward, slicing the dummy clean in half.

“Alright.” Teacher returns, arms full of a new dummy and a wooden weapon in their arms. They set the dummy up, and a wave of a hand vanishes the remains of the one that Senehim destroyed off to be repaired.

They thrust the wooded practice blade into Senehim’s arms, raising a brow. “Here. This should allow you to build your muscle memory without destroying all of the available equipment.” Teacher speaks, likely with a concealed quirked brow.

The spirit huffs, taking the lopsided hunk of wood one can call a practice sword to restart their trials of striking against the mounted stuffed straw soldier. Teacher nods their approval.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

After an hour of repetitive strikes, and some more advanced drilling; they break for a meal. Teacher offers a simple sandwich of rough bread with frilly lettuce and slices of some meat and cheese.

“Once we finish, we will be going over some languages from the surface.” Teacher speaks as Senehim rips a sizeable mouthful of the sandwich off, chewing obnoxiously to try and get a rise from the fairly even-tempered Watcher.

“Mostly what humans will be speaking, as well as primers for the languages spoken by the other races, other than the common language humans speak.”

“Do we not already speak Common?”

“No, we speak a higher language currently. It the language of gods, and it is too holy to hold a name that can be said by mortals. It is an old language that the Elder Three have spoken before they departed.”

“How can you speak it, aren’t you mortal?” Senehim tilts their head. They reek of mortality after all.

“I was mortal. The Guardians Her Grace decides to guard her realm forever are gifted the touch of immortality and allowed to learn and speak Elder Tongue.”

“Hah!” Senehim points. “You gave it a name! You said it couldn’t be named!”

Teacher laughs, it echoes behind the mask and in the draping cover. “Neither of us are mortal, Child. Giving it a name we can say without punishment. Mortals call it the language of the gods, after all.”

Senehim crosses their arms and pouts.

“Now, Child, now is not the time for that.”

Their arms relax, and they fiddle with the gold hem of their royal blue tunic, shining eyes fixed on the gilded edge. “Yes, Teacher.”

“Now, finish your food. We have much to cover in today’s lesson.”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Senehim’s language lesson drags on – however it is due mostly to the incurable curiosity that grips the holy youth. As they proceed down empty opalescent halls, voices catch pointed ear.

Following the sounds, and peering into the room they originate from, there is a figure hunched over in the dim room, illuminated by a panel.

“We have recorded patrols are increasing in frequency along the border.” The voice is tinny, distorted by the mask and the Scout’s projection of the voice. The distance is not helping either, clearly from beyond Hylia’s realm.

“Do we know the purpose to their patrols?” Hylia quietly asks, rubbing at her jaw with her newly manicured hand.

“No, but it appears that they are scouting, Your Grace.” Panic edges into the Scout’s voice, barely on the tip of one’s tongue.

“Hm.”

“My apologies, but all we can do for now is continue our own patrols. We will ensure that the patrols are compromised of Priests and Watchers, and that everyone is armed.”

“Careful, the demon troops could assume that our forces are longing to start conflict.” A sigh heaves from Atlasian shoulders.

“It is self-defence, it should be fine.” They voice a protest and Hylia raises a hand in frustration to slash through the projection.

“I would advise to carry smaller weapons, then, and keep them stowed unless needed.” She orders firmly.

Senehim scoots further back from the doorway, Hylia’s soft voice growing faint as they retreat to their bedroom. It unnerves them to see the rage clear on her shoulders, even so restrained. Sleep is difficult to find after. The image of many talons slashing through their form grips their nightmare well into what should be an early morning.

Notes:

NOTICE: once chapter 3 is ready, i will be combining the prologue and chapter 1 into one AO3 chapter for better flow. I hope to have it done before february.