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don't call me out like this

He follows this stranger warily, one hand used as purchase against the rocks as his other stays close to the sword beneath his cloak. He keeps glancing over his shoulder, half certain this is some sort of trick, but when no Gerudo come chasing after him, he starts to relax. After all, this man looks Hylian. At least from the descriptions he’s heard; pale skin, pointed ears… And much shorter than he.

      He steps into he cave the man has chosen, though stays near the mouth of the thing. The fact that outsiders have heard of him is surprise enough, knowing he’s never stepped out of that tower. Though, the Gerudo do talk. It’s entirely possible that their insatiable need to gossip had spread word of him throughout the kingdom.

                       “Every one hundred years, a voe is born to the Gerudo people.”

The people. Not his people.

                         “They say he will be their king, but so often he is only a vessel for evil. He will only grow to destroy and rule with fear.”

He recites it. A well known superstition flung at him as accusation. He doesn’t look at this stranger as he says it, still standing as he looks down at his hand. He’s wearing gloves to cover the mark, but he can still feel it there. Burning at his flesh. He clenches it into a fist, finally turning to look at the man once more.

                                           “The way you speak of searching… Were you searching for me?”

To hunt down the evil and kill it now? To take action where the Gerudo hesitated? His hand rests fully on the hilt of a scimitar, eyeing the man for any foul play. He cannot be killed here. He cannot let his quest fail so quickly.

                                                     “What do you want?”

He stops, back to the looming maw of the cave and the one standing in it. Slowly, he lets his bag drop from his shoulder, lowering himself onto one of the flatter rocks that line the floor. After another second of stalling, he pushes his hood away from his face and nods.

         “Yes.”

A hand slinks out from under his cloak to gesture at the ground, sparking a small flame that casts sharp angles across the gauntness of his face. He doesn’t make an effort to look at the one he speaks to as he does, keeping an idle eye on the fire from behind thin, untended bangs.

        “I’m aware of the legends. What puzzles me,” he says, taking a moment to chew his words. “Is why you don’t seem to fit into them.”

Still, he keeps his back towards the stranger, hands visibly empty at his sides and staff laid out of arm’s reach. Vaati doesn’t expect him to buy into performative vulnerability, knowing well that his displays of magic have been less than subtle; I’m aware we need no arms to harm each other, he implies, but would prefer we had a few words first.

       “For the record, I am Vaati, and following your narrative I’m guessing introductions are useless. You are correct in your assumptions, but they’re ridden with holes.”

He’s committed to being slow. Vague, if only because too much information may be too much. At once, at least. He has little patience for gentleness.

That light swings between them, startling a desert mouse that had been collecting weeds that grow sparse in the dunes. It scatters with a squeak drowned out by the winds, knowing better than to linger in this space.

         It’s odd enough to Ganondorf to find a man out here, but from what he can tell by the light of that staff, he is not dressed for the weather. Even the way he speaks is different; where Ganondorf uses short vowels or rolls Rs on the roof of his mouth, this man speaks plainly. Directly, with none of the southern dialect.

                          He can’t argue the fact that shelter must be found. He had been so keen on getting as far away from the town as possible, he hadn’t even given a thought to where he might find rest. He hasn’t slept save for an afternoon nap, and already, rest sounds so tempting. He needs to stop, to collect his thoughts. And if this man is a foreign traveler, perhaps he can at least learn of what he’s about to walk into once he leaves these sands.

“The only ones out here are the Gerudo. I doubt any of them would be summoning you to visit. Men are not allowed in the city.”

A truth he knows firsthand. Kept in a guard’s tower outside of town, forbidden to ever leave it…

                 His eyes stray to the mountainside, where shadows fall darker at the entrance to caves. Anything could be lurking inside, but his weapons aren’t for naught.

                                           Though, he doesn’t have much to trade.

“I have my own rations. I’ll come with you, stranger. If only to make sure the Molduga haven’t rested in their caves for the night.”

Or to question him…

He tips his head, slowly turning and making his way towards the spreading dark of the cliffside. The wind settles as they walk.

        “Much obliged.”

       “And I’m aware. I wouldn’t have found them there, no. Not particularly interested in being turned away after a six hour walk.”

He dims the light of his staff enough to cover them in the night. He has no idea what may come up on them, or if anything is plotting to; but knows the infamous value behind each syllable of their names. Being careful never hurt.

          “Men are not allowed in the city,” he echoes, stepping up a ledge and crossing under the shadow of a sheer rock. Vaati speeds himself along on rougher, firmer ground, an eye on the sky and ear to the wind as he passes it through several of the caverns nearby. Many are too shallow to be of use; the ones that aren’t, too deep to thoroughly scope.

When the chill whips again, not of his own doing, he stops his train of thought and settles on a deeper system that seems quiet enough. He nods his head, and despite being very confident in not needing help should anything be lurking—well. It’s best to travel in groups.

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He hums. There are no words of comfort to offer, regardless of whether or not doing so is in his nature. There are no words to gloss centuries of running, hiding, battling dead-end against rumor and stigma. There are no words to waylay the panic of living in the shadow of old deeds. No words to describe the loss that follows.

Damn the prophecies and those that blindly follow them. Damn him for being one of those people. Damn Din for not killing him when she had the chance, the Gerudo for locking him up, these dreams that haunt and plague him-

      He had managed to escape, though not without the help of a young Gerudo woman that felt sympathetic to him. Perhaps she only did it to get on his good side, for fear he may harm their people one day, but it doesn’t matter. Not now. She had given him a thick cloak to fight off the nightly chill and two scimitars, a shield strapped to his back. A sand seal had taken him to the base of the dunes that rise like slumbering giants before the mountains, and as he looks upward, he pauses at the sight of a light.

A lantern? Has he been spotted already? Was this just a trap laid out so now they might have reason to kill him? Golden eyes panic as he glances towards the sleeping town that has been reduced to naught more than a speck of light, and he stubbornly continues. If he must, he will fight.

           The flash of light is what calls him to look over at the figure, and his tired steps finally come to a halt. The sand is cool where it pools into his sandals, yet he can taste it on his tongue and feel it between his fingers when a hand itches towards his scimitar. The voice is not female, so it cannot be a Gerudo… Though either way, he’s certain he looks just as suspicious as the one questioning him now.

                                                              “Travel.”

               His voice is tired and dry with thirst, and though a canteen hangs from his belt, he makes no move to drink. He does not know when he may come upon clean water again. And if a fight ensues, he may need it.

                                                     “I could ask the same of you.”

He hadn’t expected a response. Surprised, he stands shock-still on the slope, one foot turned on its heel in preparation for disappointment. Slowly, he draws it back and raises his hands. The warm light from the staff swings as he lets it rest in the crook of his elbow, illuminating the stretch of sand between them.

          “One doesn’t travel in these conditions without a very good reason.”

He steps closer, stopping near ten feet out, and waves his light towards the steep of the mountains. Then, he gives a little jerk-nod towards the southeast.

        “—But neither do they stand and talk in it. I’ve been looking for someone. If your business is similarly benign, it may be in your best interest to take shelter before something worse than the cold rolls in.”

If the wind howls in portent of a brewing storm, he’ll deny having anything to do with it. In truth, he only exacerbates what’s already there, playing at the strings in hopes of having more than half a word with the legend he’d spent expensive time chasing. Ideally, having those words somewhere slightly less exposed.

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            “And I doubt you’d be willing to take my word for it.”

It’s an irrational anger, he knows. But it’s there, steadfast, and he couldn’t make it budge an inch if he wanted to. Conveniently, he doesn’t.

           “How does it feel knowing men have died in pursuit of the idea of you? That history hinges on the hopes they’ll continue doing so?”

If he knew what he was doing, he doubts he’d be doing it.

A walking staff is plunged into the crest of a dune, shifting sands underfoot making the idea of leaning his full weight against it less than appealing. The cinnabar at its neck is a warm headlight in the cold desert night, casting hard shadows that melt away even in the clarity he’d asked the wind to grant him. He faces north, cupped by a mountain range whose name he can’t place on one side and exposed to frigid open air on the other.

He won’t admit that he’s lost because he isn’t, of course. He has his (vague) goals and his (impulsive) plans and he could very easily abandon them, should he choose to. Inching his scarf a little farther up his nose, he closes his eyes against another blast of chilly air and focuses until it’s blowing away from him. Not yet. Surrendering would waste time that he doesn’t have.

He follows what little movement he can sense, hoping that the vague shapes turn out to be something other than another sand seal taking its evening stroll. When he’s close, close enough to almost see, he taps his staff against the ground—it flashes—and calls out.

Someone turns the lights on. It'd bother him less, he thinks, if it weren’t the first time in a few thousands years.

The stink of mold and worn stucco is nostalgic, even if the place he’s woken in seems unfamiliar. It isn’t unusual for things to change. He comes to slowly, senses flipping on one after the other like the rhythmic manual switches of old Sheikah circuits. Last is a sense of space—he unfurls each wing, a thousand years of stiffness rolling off as he tests them against the air.

And notices he isn’t alone.

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             “Mm.”

For once, he means no disrespect. Elbows rest on a line of fences and he makes himself comfortable enough to enjoy the view of grazing cows. An old voice, old fear—choosing complacency only because breaking away seems too steep. Too much.