His hair is like my father's; wavy, blond, blowing about carelessly in the wind. He smiles like my father, hugs like my father. And when he opens his eyes, they shine with a vivid blue-like my father's. As they said, he is the same. Everything passed from one generation to the next.
Except for me.
I hold the boy close, gently pressed him to my breast. My feet struggle down the steep hillside without the use of my hands. Ordon Village lay below us. My deepest regret is that I cannot be his mother, and teach him all that the Hero of Time had learned, knowledge that could be only gleamed from any other source.
Now I am alone, torn from he who would be my son, from he who I would shield from inevitability. I am forced to watch from afar, watch as he grows, watch as he loves, watch as he falls victim to the cycle that has befallen all those before him, all those who would choose unbound by destiny.
My path is not that of the chosen hero, no matter whose blood flows through my veins. I may only watch, watch and keep him to the path. It is a false destiny, for he may not escape it. As it has always been-as it will always be-he will follow the cycle of the hero.
The cycle of the hero.
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