It was a day that brought promise of storms on the afternoon wind, gusts of air that blew hot and thick and powerful through the swaying, yellowed fields. It was a wind that did little to alleviate the sweat beading on the back of Malon’s neck as she worked, a wind that blew her hair and her skirts around, slowing her down. It was a wind that stung, a wind like one that fed a burning field, a wind of bad omens. 

Bad omens… Malon sighed. These last six years had been nothing but one bad omen after another, nothing but one hardship after another. Dry skies and cracked dirt, sick calves and rotted grain. Smoke born of no flames blotting out the sun, eerie howls at night and things that had the voices of lost loved ones begging to be let in to sit by the fire. Missing children, plundered silos, and murky water. Torches and bandits and shouting soldiers, old women haunted by visions. Yellow eyes that watched from the woods, peeking out from the shadows behind trees and hidden under brush. 

There was something in the woods on the other side of the fence Malon was mending, she was sure. As she tore down the rotted planks of wood and nailed up new ones, she wondered if maybe it was human, once. Her heart hurt for all those who wandered, lost beyond hope of being found, even if they somehow did make their way back into the daylight. 

No matter. The new fence should be enough to keep creatures of dark nature out of the pastures, at least for the coming winter. They were losing cattle faster than they could afford, and Malon would sooner march up to Hyrule Castle and fight the evil lord herself than let the things that prowled in the bitter cold sate their hunger on her cows. 

There was a rustling in the sharp, thorny thickets that grew incessantly onto the field no matter how much they cut them back, and a dull thud, barely a yard away. Malon tensed, watching the spot along the fence where the noise had come from. There was no more noise or movement, not even a quivering leaf. She raised her hammer, slowly approaching. Leaning over the fence, Malon cautiously peered into the thicket. 

She gasped, almost dropping her hammer when she saw the figure lying prone in the brambles. Malon clambered over the fence, picking her way over for a closer look. It was a person, collapsed on their side, dressed in an odd, form-fitting blue garb, their face hidden by a white mask and scarf, and long blond bangs that stuck out from beneath the blue hood pulled over their head. In a sheath on their belt was a blade, and a worn but sturdy pack was strapped to their back. Their eyes were closed, and they were still. Their clothes were torn and there were scrapes and cuts on their face, probably from the thorns, but what was really horrifying was the long, deep gashes along the person’s stomach and side, shredded fabric revealing torn skin, blood pouring sluggishly onto the dirt. 

Malon tossed the hammer over her shoulder and grabbed the person, heaving them back over the fence and laying them down in the field. Getting a closer look, she was pretty sure it was a man, a man that must have been walking through the forest all night. A man with pale cheeks, sharp-boned and sallow, whose lithe figure was hard with muscle. The circles under his closed eyes were dark, and his eyelashes were pale and long. Malon felt her heart skip a beat, even as she searched for his pulse. 

If she found nothing, then… it would not be the first time she’d buried someone on this land. 

But there, under her fingers, was a faint thump-thump, thump-thump. It was quiet, and slow, but it was there, and Malon’s lungs weren’t big enough for her next breath, imbued with relief. She looked back at her tools, the unfinished fence, and down at the unconscious young man. 

She left the fence as it was, lifting the young man over her shoulders with a strained grunt, and in the late afternoon sun, carried him to the barn. At first she thought he wasn’t too heavy, but by the time she had trudged across the field and heaved the barn door open, she was drenched in sweat and panting for breath. She dropped him, not quite as delicately as she probably should have, into the hay piled at the back of the barn. The cows and horses shuffled noisily in their stalls, mooing and whinnying in response to her arrival. She turned her head, shushing the animals, but that did little to temper the noise of the barn. 

The man made a noise, and Malon twisted to look at him. His head turned from side to side, a small groan escaping his hidden lips, his brow furrowed and sweat beading on his forehead. It could have been the subdued lamplight of the barn, but he looked ill… Malon chewed her bottom lip as she looked down at him, eyeing the ugly wound on his torso. It looked like it came from a set of large claws, a mark of some moon-following creature… it could have been infected. 

Quickly she kneeled in the hay next to him, her hands hovering over his chest for a second, hesitant to touch him… but despite the nervous fluttering in her stomach, she reached first for his equipment, setting his pack and his weapon aside, then for the scarf that continually slipped further from arnound his neck. She unwound it and laid it on top of his pack. The ties of the thick fabric panels which covered his chest and that his hood was attached to were undone easily, and she folded the edges outward. Underneath that was a tight, lighter blue shirt which clung to his form, and had a large, unfamiliar symbol stitched into the chest in deep red; an eye, with three triangular eyelashes on top and a single, long teardrop at the center of the bottom of the eye. The top appeared to match his pants. Malon timidly searched for a seam around his waist, unsure what she would do if it turned out to all be connected, but she did find one tucked under his belt, and gingerly pulled the shirt up until it was scrunched up under his arms. Doing so revealed old, sweat-stained but clean-of-blood bandages covering his chest. The muscles of his abdomen were firm and defined, marred by the jagged, ripped lines of his wound. It glistened with fresh blood, and the skin around the wound was pink and inflamed. Malon’s next breath came out shaking, and she glanced around, before getting up and running out of the barn. 

She fetched a bucket of clean water from the well, and dashed as quietly as she could through the house, looking over her shoulder all the while she collected old rags from the mending. She slipped back into the barn, unseen. 

The man hadn’t moved, his eyes still closed, but he stirred in his sleep. Malon looked at him carefully. She glanced at his weapon, which she had just set aside in the hay, and something had her putting the cloth down and picking up the blade. She dashed over to the stall where they stored all their saddles and equipment for the horses and cows, stashing it away, disguising it amongst the leather, wood, and iron tools. Only once the blade was out of sight did she return to the unconscious man’s side.

She kneeled next to him, wetting the cloth in the bucket and wringing out the excess water. Her hand trembled just the barest amount as she brought it to his wound. Just as the cold, wet cloth touched his heated flesh, the man tensed and jolted, his eyes opening, scrambling backwards in the hay away from Malon. Malon froze, watching him carefully, her hands raised like she was faced with a frightened horse.

He stopped with a hiss of pain, pressed back against the pile of hay, one hand clutching his side. He looked at Malon with a sharp, low glare, his knees pulled back towards him, like he was shielding himself. His dark, crimson eyes flashed with distrust. Malon shivered under his piercing red gaze, even as she made a calming motion at him. Something about this man was steeped in mystery, something about the cut of his sharp shoulders and the light behind his eyes that had Malon unable to look away.

“I was just going to clean your wound…” she murmured. The man only looked at her, breathing heavily, saying nothing. He looked a second away from running. Malon gulped, looking him intently in the eye. “I won’t hurt you,” she said, “you’re safe here.”

The man narrowed his eyes further. He looked away from Malon only to glance around them for a second, before his intense gaze settled back on her. “...where are we,” he muttered. 

His voice was hoarse, but soft, and had almost a musical lilt to it. Malon tried to focus.

“You’re at Lon Lon Ranch,” Malon said gently, “my family’s ranch. You collapsed at the edge of our field, and I brought you here.” 

The man said nothing. He shifted, twinging in pain. Malon glanced down at his wound and back up at his face. “Your wound is infected. It looks very painful. Please, let me treat it.”

“I’ll treat it myself,” he said, reaching for the cloth. Malon gave a small shake of her head. She shuffled forward on her knees, and the man tensed, but still held out his hand. Gently, she placed her hand on his and lowered it, curling his fingers back with her own. Amazingly, he let her, with a widening of his eyes, and a hitching of his breath Malon only just heard through the din created by the animals. She came closer, and the man moved his knees back out of the way. He appeared to relax, but he was still tensed, ready to run… or pounce.

She pressed the cloth to the bloodied wound, and he hissed, the muscles of his stomach jumping as Malon carefully dabbed away the blood and grit. She had no healer’s hands; Malon’s were the hands of a worker, hard and calloused and strong, used to handling rough ropes and tools that splintered. “Sorry,” she whispered, but the man shook his head. 

Next, Malon dabbed the wound with healing salve from a jar, smearing it over the inflamed skin. The man sighed, some of the tension leaving his brow, and Malon hid her small smile as the magic worked. 

Finally, she wrapped a roll of bandages around his waist. “Sit up, please,” she muttered, a little meekly as she realized just how close she would have to get to finish this task. The man leaned towards her. Malon pressed the end of the bandage to his stomach, and her face flushed at the heat of his skin under her fingers, separated only by the thin cloth bandage. She had to wrap her arms around his slim waist to wind the bandages, and the act only made her more flustered, worsened by the fact that the man barely reacted at all, only the tensing of his abdomen and a tiny hiss through gritted teeth giving any indication that he was in pain. 

His mask slipped, and as Malon was able to see more of his face, she thought that perhaps this mysterious traveller was more of a boy, rather than a man. Just as she, though eighteen years of age, was still more girl than woman. 

When she finished securing the bandages she sprung away as if he’d burned her, and he pressed a hand to his wrapped side. “What is your name?” He asked her, and Malon swallowed. 

“My name is Malon,” she said, and the boy nodded. 

“Thank you, Malon,” he said, looking her in the eye with an intense, sober expression. “Hyrule has been made a better place than it was yesterday, thanks to your act of kindness.” The boy started to rise as if to leave. 

“I…” Malon started, but froze as she heard footsteps outside the barn. “You have to hide! Quickly!” Panicking, she shoved him back into the hay and he landed with a disgruntled oof. She grabbed a nearby pitchfork and threw more hay over him, hiding the stranger from view just as the barn door slammed open.

“Malon!” A hard voice boomed, and a lanky man with thinning black hair and a moustache stormed in. Malon jumped and turned to face him. “There you are, stupid girl! I knew I would find you slacking off here, you were singing to the animals again, weren’t you! The fence isn’t finished, and you’re losing daylight fast!” 

“I— I’m sorry, sir, I—“ Malon stammered but was cut off by Ingo’s raging.  

“Quit wasting time daydreaming and go finish the job, or we’ll have wolfos tearing up the crops again!” The man snarled, and Malon flinched back.  

“Y-yes sir…” she mumbled, setting aside the pitchfork. As she did, she glanced down and noticed the traveler’s pack left out on top of the hay, and froze, her heartbeat booming in her ears. She prayed Ingo wouldn’t notice as she slowly walked back towards the door, trying not to draw attention to the pile of hay. Malon passed through the door, past Ingo, and she held her breath, thinking dreadfully that he would go into the barn, that he would discover the boy… but he didn’t go inside, and pulled the door closed with a heavy thud. Her relief was so strong, she felt it in her fingertips and knees.  

“Hurry up,” Ingo snapped. “I'm busy too, you know. It’ll be winter soon, and I can’t afford any more losses because of you.”  

He stormed off towards the house, and Malon sighed, waiting until he was inside before trudging back out to the field.

Sheik waited until he was certain no one else would come in before he so much as shifted. Before he so much as twitched even a single finger. Slowly, quietly as the mice he could sense skittering in the rafters, he pushed the dry, coarse hay off of him, pulling pieces from his hair and clothes. He sat up, holding his wounded side as he moved, releasing a long, slow breath against every twinge and spark of pain that seized his ribs. He ought to collect himself and his things, he ought to slip away into the encroaching night while he knew no one would see, but instead he simply sat for a minute, watching the closed barn doors, his brow pulled taught in contempt. 

In a world where fate had turned their backs on them, all the people of Hyrule had left was the kindness they afforded each other. Sheik looked down on those who chose to be selfish in hard times, who chose to act cruelly towards the good and wicked alike… all souls must be treated with dignity, this his Master taught him until he knew nothing else. 

All he could do was hope the girl… Malon, would be alright. 

He gingerly put his clothes back in order, picking yet more pieces of hay from the fabric lest he endure an excruciatingly itchy journey back to the castle. He fixed his hood, mask and scarf, and checked that his belongings in his pack were as he left them. His waterskin he pulled out and shook; not much water left. Popping the cap open, Sheik drank the last dregs, soothing his cracked and dry tongue. His harp was as it should be, untouched and undamaged. His map, his compass… all there.

Sheik closed his pack and stood despite the pain, and the lingering prickling heat of the fever that Malon’s healing salve was working to combat. He slung the sturdy leather pack over his shoulder, and placed a hand on his hip…

His blade. 

Where was his kodachi? 

Panic sucked the air from his lungs as Sheik turned, digging through the hay in search of the sheath containing his sword. He couldn’t have lost it, all these years he was too careful to have lost it… its thin, sharp and deadly edge had been his most reliable companion in his travels. That kind of blade was an ancient Sheikah weapon, that his tribe had been forging since long before his birth and would continue to forge long after his death. It had been a gift from his master, a show of respect and trust, when he left Kakariko village. 

He dug through the hay until his fingers bled on the dry pieces, his hands scraping the wooden floor beneath, straw scattered all around him. He felt as though the cows and horses were judging him, their restless noises made in mocking. Pausing on his hands and knees, Sheik took a long, deep breath to steady himself, remembering his lessons. 

First, he put the hay back the way it was before he made a mess of it. Then he scanned the interior of the barn, his sharp eyes picking out every shadowed crevice, every cluttered corner… of which there were many. That girl had to have hidden his weapon, he was sure, though for whatever reason he could only guess… was she afraid of him?

She could have stashed it anywhere, it might not even be in the barn. Sheik groaned, putting his forehead in his hands. He couldn’t stay there any longer, but he couldn’t leave without that blade, either.

By the time Malon opened the creaky barn door again, the sun had long set. The few lanterns already lit inside offered little light and cast long shadows, and Malon peered around as she crept inside. In her hands she had some extra bread and stew, and a dented tin cup filled with water. The pile of hay was disturbed, but empty, no sign of the mysterious stranger. “Hello?” Malon called out into the dark barn, only the snuffling sounds of the animals greeting her ears. 

She walked towards the middle of the floor, craning her neck to look up at the shadowed rafters. “Anyone in here? I brought you some food… hello?”

There was a rustling above her that had Malon pausing, straining her ears… nothing. It was probably just the sparrows. There was no sign of another human in the barn. Disappointed, Malon turned back towards the door. 

Just as she took a step, there was a rush of air and a thudd behind her, and Malon yelped, spinning around and spilling some of the water over her hands and skirt. The stranger rose from a crouch in front of her, re-dressed and watching her like a big night cat stalking its prey. He was only a few inches taller than her, but he stood with a silent power in his posture that made him seem much bigger. It wasn’t until she heard the water sloshing in the cup that she realized her hands were shaking. The boy narrowed his eyes at her further, taking a step towards her. Malon took two steps back. 

“You are afraid of me,” he said. Malon frowned, planting her feet and jutting her chin. 

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“No?” The boy cocked his head and took another step. “Then why did you hide my blade?”

Oh, that’s right. Malon had actually forgotten she’d done that, in a moment of impulse in the midst of several other far more interesting moments. But she couldn’t just say so, she knew that his missing sword was probably the only reason the stranger was still here. And she didn’t want him to leave yet, she brought him stew. Not to mention it would be foolish of him to go out into the night now, injured as he was. 

Speaking of foolish, and speaking of injured… Malon’s eyes widened. “Wait a second, did you just jump down from the loft?!” 

The boy blinked, taken aback by her aggressive change of tone and topic. “Uh—“

“You’re wounded! Why the acrobatics when your side is all torn up! I know you didn’t think that salve was a magical super-cure, that was for the infection! Sit— sit down!” She advanced on him, herding him back towards the pile of hay she first deposited him on, the boy shuffling backwards, eyes wide. She pushed the food and water at him until he took them, still looking at her like a startled deer. 

“I’m fine,” he said. “Really. I’m sorry for acting carelessly.” He lifted his arm to show her his side, his clothes over the bandages clean of fresh blood. 

“You haven’t been a very gracious guest, you know,” she sniffed, sitting down in the hay near the boy. She watched closely as he pulled down his mask and raised the tin cup to his lips. “You jump down at me from the rafters like a wraith, try to intimidate me, you are eating food from my kitchen, but haven’t told me your name.” 

The boy glanced at her quickly before looking back down at his meal. “You gave me this food.” He tore off a piece of bread and dipped it in the stew. Malon turned her nose up. 

“And you haven’t given me your name.” 

The boy paused with the bite of bread and stew halfway to his lips. Malon looked at his eyes, but he did not look at her. He put the food in his mouth, chewed, swallowed, said nothing for a moment more. Then, “A name is an intimate thing to give a stranger. Maybe I do not wish to share it.” 

Malon crossed her arms. “I am not a stranger. You are the stranger,” she said. “You have my name. You are eating my food. I have carried you from the edge of the woods here, to my barn, where it is warm and dry, and treated your wound. The least you could do is tell me your name.” 

Sharp shoulders slumping slightly, the boy closed his eyes for a second. He looked down at his stew as if it were a scrying mirror that might tell him the secrets of fate. “I’m sorry. My actions thus far have been unfitting of a gentleman… my name is Sheik,” he eventually said, his voice little more than a whisper. Malon smiled. 

“Sheik,” she repeated, and he turned his head away. “What an interesting name. I’ve never heard one like that before.” 

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Sheik said softly. “You wouldn’t have.” 

“Oh?” Malon tilted her head at him. He took another bite of stew. “Is it foreign?” 

“No,” Sheik said, and left it at that. He continued to eat. Feeling a little awkward, Malon picked at the hay, not sure what to say next. But, to her surprise, it did not fall on her to continue the conversation… though, what Sheik said next was not exactly something Malon wanted to discuss. 

“That man,” he started, and Malon tensed, to Sheik’s notice. “Who came in earlier. Is he your father?” 

“No,” Malon practically spat, and Sheik gave her a surprised look at the unexpected venom, surely having already figured such harshness was uncharacteristic of her. “He’s not my father. His name is Ingo, and he used to work for my pa. He was always a hard man, but when pa died he took over the ranch, and since then he’s just been…” she deflated, laying her hands in the folds of her skirt and apron on her lap. “Awful. He’s so cruel to the animals…” 

“And to you,” Sheik said. It was Malon’s turn to look away, then. She didn’t say yes, but she didn’t need to. “I’m… sorry for your loss.”

Malon sighed. “That’s just life, ain’t it? The days are all the same, and then something awful happens and everything is different, but soon enough that different will turn into the every day again. And on and on until you eventually die.”

Sheik leaned forward. “It doesn’t have to be that way,” he said in a hushed tone, like he was telling her a very important secret. “People aren’t meant to live that way. You could leave, travel the world. You could see something new every day.” 

“Your life must be so much more romantic than mine,” Malon laughed self-deprecatingly. She picked at her fingers, glancing around the barn with sad eyes. “I couldn’t leave the animals here with someone who didn’t care for ‘em. I couldn’t leave my home for something as silly as a little girl’s dream.” 

“Dreams are never silly,” Sheik said adamantly. “Our dreams guide us through the world and connect us to the realms beyond our mortal one. Dreams are rich with meaning, and truth. Especially those of little girls.”

Malon gave the strange boy a long look. Shaking her head, she sighed. “Me and you are obviously from different worlds.” She stood up, brushing the bits of hay from her skirt. “Maybe we aren’t meant to live this way. But as long as that demon in Hyrule Castle spreads his poison, it’s the only life any of us can have.” Not noticing the tightening of Sheik’s hands at her words, she turned and started to walk away. 

Intending to leave the barn, she only got a few steps before she heard the boy call out to her. “Wait, Malon.” Malon stopped and looked at him over her shoulder. Behind her, Sheik set aside his meal and stood from the hay. “I apologize for speaking carelessly. You know your own life better than I ever could.” He bowed to her, a sign of respect that no one had ever shown Malon, little more than a lowly farm girl as she was, and in a way she had never seen, both his hands folded in front of him instead of having one behind his back and one sweeping out, like the knights and princes did in the plays in town. 

“Thank you for the food, and medicine. I have little in the way of rupees to compensate your hospitality with, but if you would allow it, may I express my gratitude through song?”

With a quizzical expression, Malon turned slowly back to face him. “A song?” 

Sheik pulled from his pack, to Malon’s shock, a beautiful golden harp. “A song,” he repeated softly, gesturing to the hay where Malon had been sitting. Intrigued, and admittedly eager, as the quickest way to Malon’s heart had always been through music, she sat back down. 

Looking up at the mysterious boy, Malon couldn’t help but hungrily take in the way the soft lamplight casted dancing, delicate shadows across his face, hidden by his mask and hair, the places where the light touched made a shade of gold like the kinds of dresses and rings she would only ever see in her daydreams. She watched closely as his bandaged fingers floated through the air, barely skimming the strings of his harp as he lowered his eyes in consideration. When he plucked the first note, it was as if Malon could feel it echo in her chest, and when he played the second, and third, and every one after, it was like the song was slipping gently between her ribs and embracing her heart. It was a peaceful, comforting song. He plucked the strings and drew the notes out into the air with his skilled hands, and Malon had thought quite a bit in her life about what the golden spirits looked like, but now she was sure they looked like this. 

The song ended far too soon. Malon swallowed a small mouthful of regret as she stood once more, feeling the late hour in the heaviness around her eyes. “That was beautiful,” she whispered. Sheik inclined his head at her. 

“Thank you,” he responded just as quietly. “Malon, I ask that you please return me my sword, so that I may be gone from here before sunrise, and no longer burden you.” 

Malon glanced at the door, up at Sheik’s eyes, down at the harp in his hand, with which he had played a melody so lovely she would remember it greedily for the rest of her life. “You can’t leave until you have your sword…?” 

“It is very important,” Sheik said. 

Taking a step backwards towards the door, Malon played with a piece of her hair. “It would be… quite foolish to go back out into the wilds with an injury like yours…” she said slowly, looking away. “Maybe… you ought to stay just for one more day, to rest. The hay is warm, and I promise the cows are good company. Just rest a little while.” She looked back at Sheik. “You would be no burden.”

Sheik narrowed his eyes at her, looking at her for a long moment, as if he were seeing past just her face. Malon tried not to blush under the scrutiny. “You’re right,” he eventually said. “It couldn’t hurt to rest. Just for one more day.” 

“One more day,” Malon smiled, skipping back to the door to the barn. “You oughta finish that stew before it gets too cold. Goodnight, Sheik.” 

“Goodnight, Malon. Sleep well.” 

Malon flashed one last quick glance at him over her shoulder as she slipped out the door and shut it behind her as quietly as she could. She took a deep breath of the crisp, cool night air, her lungs feeling too small to contain her excitement. She ran back to the house, her heart racing, unable to keep a giddy smile off her lips. 

A boy was a very, very dangerous secret to keep in your barn… and certainly the most thrilling.