Here on the edge of Eldin Province, where the treeline runs down to Hyrule Field, the fitful drifts of snow toss on razor winds. Winter is in full stride over the rolling hills of Hyrule's broadest plains. The wind is sharp enough to cut, and snow covers the ground.

She shivers beneath her mourning robe, huddling closer to the dismal fire she had scraped together. The small cave she'd found offers some shelter, but not enough. The wind still slips in through every unprotected hole in the heavy garment. Blood spatters the stone beside her campfire where she had settled down; the usurper's hunters had left their mark on her, even though she had eventually driven them away.

No sense in pushing on. The mountain could well kill her, and she isn't sure that Zant's pet horrors even have a sense of smell. They don't even have faces.

Her eyes drop to the cavern floor. Her belongings are spread out on the stone beside the fire, as much to take stock of them as to let them dry. Perched atop her empty rucksack is the relic the flying creature had left at Faron Wood, when Thanatos and Magilou had helped her to drive them off. It's a harp of some kind, a lyre, and she's been studying it ever since.

She reaches for it. There's something terribly familiar about it that she can't put her finger on. As she turns it this way and that in her hands, she can almost feel the memories wriggling away from her grasp. Then, it hits her. She places it flat on her lap as her eyes widen.

It's a very old lyre indeed, a treasure of the royal family, passed down from mother to daughter since time out of mind. She recognises it now, because it had been in the hands of her mother for many years. She can remember now -- played by her mother to sing the princess to sleep as a child; fond memories of days long gone.

Her expression crumples, but she ignores the tears that well in her eyes. It's just another reminder of what was lost, but a precious reminder, and she clutches the instrument close as though she's been reunited with an old friend. In a way, she has. This piece of her childhood is irreplacable, and likely the only one to survive, after the Twilight King had put the torch to Hyrule Castle.

When she turns it over in her hands, there is a spatter of blood on the other side of the harp. Her fingers trace it almost involuntarily. Her mother's harp... she'd held this instrument when Zant's beasts had killed her. The late queen's blood stains the lyre's ancient, polished wood.

Zelda stares numbly at it.

It's a reminder of what was lost... and also a quiet beacon to do what needs to be done. Carefully, she pulls her fingers across the strings. One or two are out of tune, but that's to be expected after its rough treatment. She silences the strings with a touch and tries again, though her eyes are too blurry to see the strings. She doesn't need to see them to play it.

Her trembling fingers pluck out the soft, hopeful but melancholy strains of a lullaby she can remember from something deeper than mere childhood memories. She plucks the strings with a singularity of purpose, wholly absorbed in the melody, and the melody lights something deep within her; casts light on the grief and despair that has been preying on her since her flight from Hyrule Castle.

Zelda's fingers dance over the lyre's strings, and she wonders, briefly, how Midna and Link fare. Have they succumbed to the twilight? Are they battling it still, in some far-flung corner of Hyrule?

The ancient melody lends hope. For the first time weeks, she feels a serenity and a clarity of purpose settling over her.

The coming days will be trying, but her faith will see her through.