Authors Notes: Ummm . . . am I really writing Zelda again?

I don't know where this fic came from. It's a little bizarre . . . but I've always been fascinated with the idea that because she has the Triforce of Wisdom and is also a prophet, Zelda might somehow have interacted with the other Zeldas. I don't know. It's strange.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

~*~*~*~*~

From the door, one cannot see all the way to the end of the hallway. The walls are tall and cavernous, bending with the weight of infinite tapestries draped from their stones. Each needlepoint is intricate and subdued, the colors muted and the string weaving from one into the next.

No one ever tries to find their own. It seems somehow impolite.

They are different, each of them—some of them wild and fierce, blue-grey eyes stormy and impenetrable. Others are quiet, shy, demure. Some are laid-back or light-hearted; or obstinate; or sarcastic; or goofy; or confident; or fun. Some are proud and some haughty, some feel stifled and ache for freedom. Some are wise and some are sentimental, some awed by human grace and dignity and others simply above it.

All are brave, all are strong, and all of them are Zelda.

Here there is no hierarchy, only equality. None are in charge, for they all are in charge: the smallest and the tallest and the shyest and the most vivacious.

The Hall of Prophecy is a beautiful place, overlooking the land of dreams idle wishes without judgment or opinion. It is where they gather, when in all timelines across every plane the moon has risen and the sun's fire doused by earth and sky.

In another room in another land—across rainbow mountains and through forests of edible trees—each Zelda is in her bed, eyes rested lightly against her cheek, the same radiant beauty glowing softly from her skin. Sleep, yes; but it is a stupor from which she cannot be woken until the meeting has ended and her duty fulfilled.

"A Gerudo man came to the castle today," the smallest one says, her voice tainted with sadness. "Ganondorf Dragmire."

They look at her with pity—infinite pairs of the same color eyes—all knowing and aching and praying for the Hyrule in which she lives, this Zelda, who has just begun to come to the Hall and barely understands it yet.

The oldest takes her hand, bending down so that they are eye-to-eye. "You will have your hero, Zelda," she murmurs softly, wiping away tears as the little one begins to cry. "Do not fear."

Another grins, a wry and tired feature, moving towards the window as she speaks. "Yes—and he'll undoubtedly drive you crazy." When she turns, her eyes are kind. "But it will be a nice distraction, for a while."

No one speaks but for a ripple of laughter, and slowly the youngest Zelda manages to hoist her mouth into a smile. She listens intently as a new Zelda helps the old woman to her feet and takes her place with a gentle expression. "Ganondorf will try to take Hyrule, child. You must not let him." The youngest nods solemnly. "There will be a boy—young, scrawny, fair-haired. He will be wearing a ridiculous color green and donned in a silly cap. He will have a fairy. Zelda, this is your Hero. He is the Hero of Time and you must do everything you can to help him."

She presses her hand to the child's cheek and kisses it, pressing a small blue instrument into her hands. "There is only one of these on any plane in any dimension. For now, it belongs to you."

Young Zelda smiles once, brilliantly, and they watch with sad anticipation as she fades, soul sinking back into her body with a relieved sigh.

For the rest, their time with Ganondorf has past or long in the future; only one battle can rage at a time, for only one mortal can bear the weight of the Triforce. There are other prophecies to be made, of course—dreams of other battles, other struggles, other conflicts.

Only here do they speak of him—that scrawny, fair-haired hero. For, too, there can only be one Link, only one Hero of Time to slip back and forth across the planes. Each has loved and each has lost him, and it is this shared pain that dulls the decorated walls.

"He will be a nice distraction," one says again, her voice distant and faraway as the marshmallow clouds.

The oldest leans against her cane, too tired for the weight of her own clothes. "Yes," she agrees, "For a while."

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