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Gods have different priorities.
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She has always loved them, her desert people. That’s what they say around the campfires, when they still used campfires. Even a nearly immortal race has to change. Stones are dragged together, and walls are built. A fortress is raised. They worry for a long while if she disapproves of such Nayru-like civilization.
Din does not say anything. After all, she is not coming back. But she loves them, still. She will always love them. That is why she has given them her fire. That was why she left them Power.
Oh, wait. Another people have built another one of those funny fortress structures near her fairy. Oh well. Her people still dance, ride, and sing. They can travel. They are free. All is as it should be.
Why have these funny people with the taste of Nayru in their minds, and the songs of Farore in their lungs built such a stone building over the area where she left her people her power? Oh well. It is stone. Stone is strong. Din made the stone. All is as it should be.
Her daughters are asking for the small things that the other people have. The small little things that Din does not understand. But the small things are cute, and they become her people eventually. But according to Nayru and Farore, her daughters will need other things. Other daughters, without even the hint of the small breasts her people have, and with dangly bits between their legs. Din smiles. Other powerful daughters. New desert people to love.
She makes one. This daughter is better than any Farore dreamed up. Her daughter is powerful, with hair of flame, skin of stone, and grows tall into the air. Din approves, although Farore is horrified. Din used so much power to make that one, how can she give her people more of them? Nayru is still. She knows what will come of Din’s new creation.
She has always loved them, her desert people. They love her, but forget all but the stories. They forget the prayers they made for men. They have sons, slowly. Slow enough for a nearly immortal race. They forget. And another boy is born, with hair of flame, skin of stone, and he grows into the air. He listens around the campfire. He learns of the one who loves him, and will always love him.
She loves him. He will love her. The music and dance of the desert surrounds his young life, and the harshness becomes ingrained. He carves through the world like the power which has always loved him. He seeks it, relentlessly. He wishes for the loving kiss of his goddess.
When he dies in a monstrous shape his soul is taken up. Din is fire. She is power. She is the desert. And he remembers the songs, and the dance, and the training, and knows that they have forgotten the most important point. Fire is pure. Her kiss is a burning agony running from his forehead to his heart. All his black thoughts and deep sins are cleansed by the flames of her love.
Din smiles. She has always loved her desert people, and she thinks she has a soft spot for this daughter, the poor little soul trembling and quaking in front of her. The goddess holds her special daughter in her hands until she stops hurting. And then she gives this daughter back to the world that she loves so much. Farore disapproves, and Nayru is silent. Din waits for her powerful daughter to come back. Her daughter is powerful. How can right and wrong compare to that?