Legend of Zelda 1. Chapter 1

The Legend of Zelda

Ocarina of Time: Da Capo al Fine

I

"I'll have another," hiccupped the gangly fourteen year old seated on a rickety, splintering barstool. The fire haired barmaid offered a smile mixed with both politeness and sympathy as the young man seemed to sway unsteadily on an equally unsteady stool. She grabbed the tin cup out of wavering hands and filled it with a crown of strong, frothy beer. After his beverage returned, he slurped at it; froth flowing down a sharp, stubbly chin down onto his tunic. Wiping away his beard of froth with a sleeve, he wondered at the sense of drinking while on a mission. Particularly since, as a squire of the elite Royal Knights of Hyrule, his body's experience with alcohol consumption consisted only of the occasional goblet of ceremonial wine. The sudden blurring of his vision, accompanied by a revolt in his intestinal tract, redoubled his insecurities. However, he conceded that he would look rather silly—as well as extremely conspicuous—sitting at a bar and doing nothing but staring about. After all, the man he was ordered to observe would easily notice.

The big man on his left stirred and planted a gloved hand on his shoulder. "Eyes up, Colin," he whispered in his gruff brogue. "Over there." The big man gestured to a dimly lit corner of what was otherwise a bright and lively tavern. The booth in the corner seemed to belch faint halos of pipe smoke which masked the sole occupant with a wispy veil. Mud caked boots propped lazily upon the table while two long muscular arms hung limply by his side. There he was—the greatest war criminal in Hyrule's history…and he was asleep.

Colin stirred; his hand dropping instinctively to a non-existent scabbard on his left side. Preempting him, the big man laid a meaty palm on his back to stay him. "Easy lad . . . we do this together. Just wait for the signal." That answer provided little comfort to Colin. The big man held his gaze an instant longer before the golden mutton chops on his face parted to reveal a toothy grin. "Jus' relax lad, and remember . . ." a smirk accompanied a wink ". . . You're drunk." Colin winced as he stopped sipping at his nearly empty beer, realizing that if he kept drinking at the present rate then he would no longer be pretending. The big man, detecting Colin's consternation, chuckled as he ruffled tufts of Colin's hair of cream between calloused, rough fingers. Then, in an instant, the mirth on the big man's face was replaced with a stony countenance—the kind which naturally evolves from decades spent as leader of Hyrule's most elite warriors.

But to Colin, he was more than just a warrior; more than a friend; more than a master; to Colin, this man was simply Rusl—and he was sure he was the greatest knight who had ever lived. Colin attempted to draw on an expansive fourteen years worth memory he had accumulated since his birth, and he could not recall a better leader, fighter, gentleman, or friend; which is why he felt sorry for the man dozing in the corner of the tavern. The plan itself was fairly straight forward. Rusl's voice echoed in his memory: _Let the sod booze his brains out then we nab 'em._ That plan was simple enough but for the nagging realization that he had never participated in a mission before, particularly a mission ordered personally by the King of Hyrule himself. Until a few weeks ago, Colin had lived as a page. That glorious breed of professional errand boys and janitors who obeyed their knight-master's every whim in return for the small hope of becoming a squire. Upon becoming a squire Colin, to his dismay, discovered that being a squire encompassed many of the same mundane and perfectly meaningless duties that made being a page so miserable. However, on the other hand being a squire substantially increased both his chances of being a knight and, more importantly, of being able to fight alongside Rusl.

As he saw the figure in the corner of the tavern stand, his deductive reasoning told him that chance to fight was about to be realized. Rusl stirred but a fraction, then slowly turned his head and toward another side of the room. He inclined his head in a small nod. Abruptly, Rusl's strategically positioned soldiers put down their mugs and ceased their revelry as one by one they surrounded the figure. They pulled out an assortment of daggers and short swords. As Colin and Rusl both approached the hedge of soldiers, the tavern went mute.

Rusl nodded to the sergeant-at-arms leading the circle of soldiers. "In the name of His Majesty, King Harkinian I of Hyrule, you are under arrest."

Steel eyes stabbed the sergeant beneath long bangs of bronzing wheat locks. "On what charge?" he demanded in an uncomfortably hard voice of gravel.

The sergeant ignored him. "The King has decreed you are to be detained for questioning."

The figure crooked a slight smile. "Tad problem with that. You see, I'm Terminian. Not my King. I got diplomatic immunity."

The sergeant looked at his other soldiers, and then to Rusl, scarcely containing his confusion. The soldier to the sergeant's left began eagerly scratching at his scalp. The figure frowned. "No? Well, I'm from Koholint." Silence answered him. "Holodrum? Gamelon? Aw bugger it."

"Get him!" The sergeant bellowed. Colin felt his legs reflexively rush toward the figure, only to be impeded by Rusl's massive paw impeding his path.

The sergeant rushed head first, attempting to use inertia and mass to tackle the figure to the ground long enough to clamp him in irons. His head was instead met with a precision palm strike to his nose. As a high pitched snap rang out, the sergeant reeled back and collapsed to the ground as he cradled a shattered globular mass of cartilage and bone in blood caked hands. The figure rushed through the opening left by the sergeant's incapacitation and sprinted for the tavern's exist. A soldier blocked the fugitive's exist and juggled a dagger between his hands as he waited for his comrades to tackle him from the back. The fugitive attempted to bypass him anyway, maneuvering around tables populated by either swearing or panicking patrons. The soldier attempted a wild stabbing motion with his dagger arm—an arm that the fugitive caught in mid-motion. Grasping onto the soldier's hand clutching the dagger, the fugitive wrapped his hand around the soldier's fingers and in one smooth motion ripped them back. Colin would never forget the unique sound that accompanies the dislocation of four fingers from their sockets, nor the shriek of a grown man experiencing it. The soldier crumpled to the ground.

In a haze of motion, Colin saw several more soldiers go fall to the ground. As soon as the fugitive looked cornered he would deliver a surgical punch or kick to the windpipe. In other cases he would just charge and trample over his assailant. Colin even saw a head butt. Regardless of how it happened the result was the same. And now the tavern was filled with screams and moans of grown men. Colin had had enough, and he certainly could not stand back idly. His body did the thinking for him as by reflex his legs maneuvered around the overturned tables and unconscious soldiers straight into the fugitive.

At least that's what he thought had happened. It took a couple of seconds to realize that the fugitive had side stepped at the last second and that his glorious tackled had instead deposited him onto the floor. And now, narrowed eyes of steel bore into him. He was quite sure he would be finished off now; an ignominious end to a career not yet begun. However, as the fugitive stared quizzically at him, confusion and even doubt played over his sharp features. Those precious seconds of doubt were all that was needed. As the fugitive turned around, Rusl tackled him to the ground. The remaining hand full of soldiers who were not grievously injured, responded in kind with a make shift body pile over the fugitive. Colin would later reflect that he had never seen so many clamps of irons on one person before. Colin heard a dull thud as Rusl brought the pommel of his sword down on the fugitive's scalp, depriving him of consciousness.

[*]

When the fugitive finally regained his sense of being, Rusl feared that he would instantly flail about in wild abandon—particularly since irons firmly bound his arms to a small wooden chair which was in turn bolted to the ground. Rusl also expected him to utter all sorts of obscenities and profanities his way. Shattering his expectations, the fugitive merely darted half dazed eyes back and forth, taking in the most relevant information—his imprisonment—and then the rest of his surroundings in turn. If he showed any surprise that he was not in a dungeon, instead being in one of the royal studies in the depths of Hyrule Castle, then he didn't show it. His eyes looked to the row of three massive windows on the left side of the room—probably identifying potential escape routes. He then systematically looked at the massive pair of doors in front of him with their intricate facings and ornamentation. He craned his head behind his right shoulder to assess the possibility of escaping through the single door that led to one of the castle's many corridors. Finally, his gaze averted to one of the many portraits above the row of gilded book cases, where a fair haired girl with violet eyes and a stern, snow bearded man were immortalized on oil canvass. Rusl noticed his eyes lingering on the painting, his jaw clenched tight. Then, almost in answer, the man in the painting materialized and burst through the pair of doors. Rusl straightened and bent his back low. "Your Majesty."

King Harkinian, however, either ignored or was unaware that his royal knight had spoken. His gaze was fixed on the man clamped to the wooden chair. Harkinian stood motionless with strong, rigid hands clasped behind his back. When not in the throne room, he abandoned his royal vestments of crown, scepter, and robe for a simple red tunic with matching dark trousers. However, he did not abandon nearly four decades of regality spent as Hyrule's sovereign. And yet, for all his rigid formality, he looked unsettled: his eyes were filled to the brim with hate.

The fugitive's jaw muscles clenched, accompanied with a slight sneer, as Hyrule's monarch spoke. "Link, you are charged with vandalism, assault on royal agents of the king, numerous parole violations, _and_ defiance of a royal decree. I think the legal term is known as treason."

Link shrugged as much as he could with his arms clamped to his chair. "Aye? Awful sorry 'bout that. Seems that a dozen or so of your blokes were hungry for a fight. Only happy to provide—charitable service and all that. Doing my civic duty."

Rusl found it considerably more difficult to ignore Link's insolence than Harkinian did. Rusl looked at Harkinian, praying to the Three Goddesses that he would agree to let him throttle the cheeky bastard—especially considering what he had to answer for. Harkinian continued. "So tell me, Link, why should I not let you rot in the dungeon for violating the agreed upon terms of parole?"

"I suspect because you know there's no dungeon that'll hold me. Forget the fact that I know the dungeons better than your grunts or—" Link looked at Rusl deliberately "—your armored wankers."

"Bastard!" Rusl spat behind clenched teeth."

Link continued, pretending not to notice. "Also, I can't believe his Imperial Godlyness would take the time out of his busy napping schedule to see me beg like a Scrub." He paused—his voice lowered to a whisper. "You want something."

Harkinian's beleaguered patience finally gave way to a surge of visceral rage as he clenched his fists and approached Link's chair. "Listen you, I'll tell you what I want. I want you to—"

"Help us." A surprisingly cheerful, yet fatigued voice chirped in Harkinian's wake. Rusl recognized him as Chancellor Potho. The small, ancient man with a cottony mustache that enveloped most of his face and a professorial demeanor took his usual place at Harkinian's side. His wizened voice continued. "His Majesty was passionately arguing for your assistance in an extremely urgent endeavor."

Link seemed to unimpressed. "Dungeon it is then."

"Link, while I understand you are probably not pleased with our hospitality, please allow us to expl—"

"They took her!" The words seemed to erupt from Harkinian's now quavering lips. Link's demeanor altered noticeably. The "perma-smirk" etched onto Link's features gave way to his mouth hanging agape.

"Who?" He asked cautiously.

"My daughter. They dared to take my Zelda! That bastard Ganondorf and his nation of inbred desert dwellers!" Mist pooled at the corners of Harkinian's eyes.

Potho nodded, though he winced at the racial slur. "Quite right, Your Majesty, which is why we believe that you, Link, can be of some help."

Harkinian stalked back and forth uncontrollably; a predator imprisoned by the jail of his own anxieties. "They escaped with her southwards last night. They were not detected—the sentries were all eliminated through stealth or subterfuge. We pursued them of course after we realized what had happened, but none of the scouting parties pursuing them have returned. We know at some point their party broke formation and divided up. We have received no ransom and no list of demands." Harkinian's eyes now narrowed intently on Link. "Link, your years of murdering and thievery have given you at least one redeemable skill set—"

"Yes, indeed." Potho interjected to attempt to ward off another argument. "Your skills as a tracker are unmatched. Furthermore, the hospital fees of the soldiers you dispatched the other night lead us to believe that you are an exceptionally skilled fighter for a man of twenty-four years."

Link was visibly growing tired of this "good guy/bad guy" routine between Potho and Harkinian. "Get to the point."

"We want you to lead a unit of our best royal knights to find Zelda and bring her home. In return, you will be given a full pardon for your past offenses, and your exile will be revoked. Additionally, on behalf of the Royal Treasury I am authorized to grant you an unspecified amount in compensatory damages to accommodate the hardships you experienced as a result of those criminal convictions."

Link's eyes bored into Harkinian's. "That's very clever—trying to bribe me with the freedom I should already have. You get to pretend to be the good guy and I end up owing you one." Link's voice became deadly quiet. "I told you they would do this one day. None of you sods listened. Why should I wipe your royal arse and clean up the mess you made?"

Shock played over Rusl's features when he saw the fury on Harkinian's face. "You malicious…petulant cur! If not for your actions years ago my daughter would be home! Instead, because the Goddesses have honed a scathing sense of irony, I have to ask the man who is the cause of all my misery to save this kingdom! Goddesses take you and your line to the Dark Realm! Damn you to hell!" Harkinian perched, hands trembling, on a velvet sofa as the silence tangibly held the room. Potho stirred.

"Yes well, Link, I believe the reason you should help us, besides the rewards we have already stated, should be quite clear. As I seem to recall, you and Her Highness were friends."

"Aye. A long time ago." Link replied softly.

"I wish to see my future queen returned safely." Potho approached Link, the smallness of his frame quite visible despite voluminous official robes. "I have had the honor of serving this nation in the highest office available to one who is not of royal blood: the office of Chancellor. For over half a century I have crafted laws and policies to service two kings and hundreds of thousands of this kingdom's subjects. But, in this I do not take pride. If there is one source of pride in the eighty-three years the Goddesses have given me it has been as royal tutor. I have trained numerous princes and princesses, but none of them has given me as much joy as Princess Zelda. If you'll pardon me Your Majesty, but as I don't have children of my own, I always thought of myself as a doting grandfather, and she as my granddaughter." Link inhaled sharply as Potho produced a key from his sleeve and unlocked the metal clamps that bound him to the chair. Potho's kneeled on skeletal legs and wrapped wiry arms around Link's earth-stained trousers. Crystalline streaks descended from squinting eyes.

"As a non-royal, I don't have any royal dignity to sacrifice in begging. So, I beg you! Please find her!" Rusl was surprised as the permafrost etched on Link's face suddenly, almost imperceptibly, thawed.

"Just answer my questions then."

Potho arose with a deep sigh of relief. "Anything."

"Why Zelda? Why not this sod?" He gestured to Harkinian who frowned in mild annoyance.

Potho shrugged as he suppressed his remaining sobs. "Fewer guards perhaps. Also, a king would not be so easily missed. Other than that, I admit that Ganondorf's strategy here escapes me. What is certain is this: that war between Hyrule and Gerudo has been going badly for quite some time. I know you are aware of some of this, but Ganondorf's armies could easily attack Castleton. His cavalry patrol all the way from Lon Lon to the outskirts of Lake Hylia. We…really aren't sure why he doesn't attack now. We suspect that he probably doesn't have the siege equipment seeing as there's little wood in the desert. Castleton would still be a proverbial "tough nut to crack," but, sadly, it is now only a matter of time. Lady Impa has been preparing the settlement of Kakariko for some time now in the event that it becomes necessary to…" His voice trailed off "…to evacuate the capital. Princess Zelda is dear not only to His Majesty and I, but to the people of this Kingdom. As the kingdom's sole heir, if word of her abduction spreads to the people, then the morale of the entire kingdom will collapse: desertion; panic; surrender; The war will be as good as lost."

Rusl tried to steel his nerves against a vision he had seen thousands of times in the wilds of his imagination: Hyrule ablaze. And yet, here they were, talking about the end of modern civilization. Everything he had fought for, everything he believed in, in the space of a couple of weeks could be erased from existence. Link's utterly aggravating voice interrupted his foreboding.

"Who's in command of the rescue mission?"

"You shall exercise discretion in choosing the appropriate route and the course of action necessary to rescue Her Highness. The Knight-Commander will of course command the squadron of knights."

Link cleared his throat impatiently. "And this 'Knight Commander' is?"

For some reason, Rusl felt incredibly apprehensive about what Potho was about to say. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry. Why, Captain Rusl of course."

In that moment, Rusl was convinced that the Goddesses hated him.

* * *

**Author's Note: I have not given up on my large epic, **_**His Fist**_**. However, I wanted to belt out a short story before I get back to writing something as expansive as that. Tell me what you think through your reviews please. I will continue to update it regardless, but admittedly it is much easier to donate your existence to a computer for several hours at a stretch knowing that it is for the enjoyment of somebody besides yourself. I am unsure of using a musical metaphor as the title so I may alter that. Other than that read, review, enjoy. **


	2. Chapter 2

II

He sat in defiance of Fate. No—in defiance of the Goddesses themselves. In fact, his very existence was a rebuttal to notions of predestination or determinism. He was born into a barren wasteland as its future king and given the impossible task of finding a way to prevent his people from perishing from starvation. Not only had he accomplished that more than minor miracle, but a scar snaking its way from his shoulder to his neck revealed that he had faced an assassin's dagger—and emerged victorious. When war erupted between Hyrule and Gerudo, every betting man with any common sense argued endlessly as to whether he could survive for one day, or _two_. The idea that he would survive against the massive wealth and power of the Kingdom of Hyrule—let alone win—was laughable. Now it was his turn to laugh.

And laugh Ganondorf Dragmire, King of the Gerudo, did.

Seated on his throne perching a hill that overlooked vast swaths of earth killed by the fires of war, he allowed himself an amused chuckle. The battered remnants of the Hylian army took position in small earthen trenches, the entrances of which were defended by wooden stakes planted into the ground at an acute angle. Archers intermittently stood behind the trenches—their protection against cavalry all but assured by the protruding palisade stakes. Behind them was the hillside ranch of Lon Lon and its neighboring residences and towns. It was not a bustling metropolis by any stretch of the imagination, but the ranch commanded a superior tactical position on a hillside that was easily fortifiable. Any intelligent commander would have fortified along the hill rather than dig trenches and extend their lines—and thus disperse their force—to defend the entirety of the county.

However, the Hylians had once again revealed their fatal flaw: compassion. For the sake of defending a few irrelevant villages, the Hylians had weakened their army and exposed it to Ganondorf's superior numbers. Ganondorf resolved that, when he wrote the definitive work on the art of war, he would coin the maxim: "He who defends everything defends nothing." It was their compassion for their subjects that would be their undoing here. Of course, the Hylians had no such difficulties suspending their compassion when he pled—practically begged—them to give his starving people necessary aid all those years ago. Ganondorf was pleased that the universal force of reciprocity had given him the opportunity to repay them in kind.

"Great King?" Ganondorf shifted his gaze to his right as the commander of his legions, the Northman knight Rebonack, spoke beneath armor the shade of blackened char and ash. "Your legions await your orders exalted one! What is your command?" Ganondorf stroked the beginnings of a smoldering red beard as he gazed at the map sprawled out before him with eyes the color of the sun during an eclipse.

"The attack begins here!" Ganondorf mandated, pointing to a fairly isolated northern corner of the map.

Though Rebonack's face was concealed in his heavy, ebony armor, Ganondorf could easily imagine the confusion on his general's face. "Forgive me Great King, but why? My scouts have not reported any information to indicate any important position or enemy force in that area."

The ashen skin around Ganondorf's lips twisted into a smirk. "Yes. We'll see. Order the attack general."

Rebonack snapped to attention and reflexively bowed low. "At once Great King!"

Ganondorf leaned forward in his throne and gazed out at the battlefield. To his satisfaction, columns of soldiers from hundreds of nations and dozens of races marched speedily northward to the position he had designated. At one point they had all opposed him. Now they were all conquered. They no longer fought for money or power. They no longer fought for misguided notions of patriotism or feudal loyalty. They no longer fought even for ideas or faiths. They fought for him. Some fought because they adored him; others because they were terrified of him. Regardless, they fought for their God-King.

Why?

Because he willed it. Because he was invincible. Because he no longer sat in defiance of Destiny. He _was_ Destiny.

A span of a half an hour passed as the two armies stared at each other across barren earth—interrupted by the occasional sounds of combat coming from the north. Ganondorf narrowed his gaze intently on two columns of Hylian men-at-arms and archers positioned in front of Lon Lon. He sat patiently and simply waited. And then, as if in resignation, the Hylian columns turned and marched northward. Ganondorf chuckled triumphantly. He whispered: "Prepare for attack."

Rebonack lost no time "Yes Great King!" Rebonack probably realized Ganondorf's strategy now. By extending their lines the Hylians became weaker, and thus more vulnerable to a flanking attack. Ganondorf had forced them to commit their only reserve of soldiers to defend against a potential northern attack—which was of course not designed to succeed. Nevertheless the Hylians were forced by their troop dispositions to defend inconsequential terrain. Now the Hylian army was forced to commit its last reserves to a fight over strategically worthless ground—leaving the way to Lon Lon painfully vulnerable.

"General Karuna!" He bellowed to his porcine moblin commander.

"Great King?" He grunted from behind scared jowls.

"Draw up your shock troops to screen our infantry columns if you please."

"By your will exalted one!" Ganondorf nodded approvingly at his moblin commander. When Ganondorf began making contingency plans for fighting the Kingdom of Hyrule, his advisors had impressed upon him as a young man that no army of any race, kingdom, or creed had ever defeated the Hylian military in open battle. Therefore, with his unsurpassed knowledge of alchemy and mysticism, Ganondorf simply bred a new race: the moblins—strong; fearless; and most importantly, completely subservient to his will. They towered an entire head above any other Hylian or human, appearing more beast than man. They rushed forward at full gait laden with armor, war axes, hammers, and maces, and still matched the pace of any sprinting human. With these loyal shock troops, he had annihilated the cream of Hylian nobility time and time again in open battle. They were vicious. They were cruel. They were beautiful. If only the Goddesses had been so inventive in their creation. He shrugged. Just as well.

Soldiers, screened by his resolute moblins, streamed down the hill in attack formation. The moblins, with their heavier armor and shields, absorbed the brunt of the archer volleys. The wooden stakes caused some disruption in his army's formation, but by that point it was too late. The moblins had reached the trenches. For about 10 minutes, the volume of the battlefield rose exponentially. The snapping of bone, the sundering of limbs, cries of anguish, rage, terror, triumph, all created an auditory palette that was as beautiful as it was terrible. To Ganondorf, war had certain artistic qualities that had no parallel.

Rebonack stirred uneasily at his side. "…forgive me Great King for my insolence. I will accept whatever punishment your exaltedness decides."

Ganondorf batted a hand lazily in the air, as if swatting the matter away. "You're a good soldier Rebonack, and I would be a poor king if I did not entertain the second guesses of my subordinates. Furthermore, I only ask for obedience, not blind faith." He pointed to the thousands of Hylians in the valley below who were swarming out of their trenches and throwing down their weapons in panic. "That, general, is the product of blind faith."

"Great King?"

Ganondorf gave a wry smile. "They are beaten, their armies cannot stand against our legions, they have been humiliated at every battle—and yet they fight. Why? Because the Hylians have never been defeated. They have become quite comfortable with the idea that their armies are always victorious, and their heroes always intervene timely. They have become accustomed to invincibility. Therefore, it was based on the foregone conclusion of their victory that they stood here today." He glanced at the pile of Hylian corpses that had steadily accumulated during the battle. "And it was based on blind faith that they died here."

A messenger silently approached Rebonack. "Great King," Rebonack relayed, "your legion commanders want to know your instruction with prisoners."

Ganondorf lazily swatted at the air again. "Bah. Can't be bothered with them. Am I to be expected to divert thousands of soldiers from the battlefield to nurse and serve the needs of a dishonored remnant of a defeated army? Psh. I think not. Just kill them." Ganondorf's mercy had its limits. The Hylians prolonging this war for years when the outcome was all but inevitable was running up a very high toll on his patience. Ganondorf would extract payment here by making an example of those who would oppose his future. After all, he was Destiny.

Without a second thought, Rebonack snapped to attention. "At once Great King!"

The dull cadence of gallops reverberated in Ganondorf's ear. A messenger on horseback dismounted and bowed prostate before Ganondorf. "Oh Great King! I have the joy of reporting that the raiding party was successful in kidnapping the Royal Whore of Hyrule." Ganondorf sustained his annoyance at the unnecessary hyperbole. "They now proceed south on foot as you commanded."

Finally—the news he had long awaited. "Are they being pursued?"

"Yes Great King! And I am sure it will delight your exaltedness to know who is leading the chase…"

[*]

As fourteen year olds go, Colin thought of himself as being fairly rational. As a child he had never pitched a fit (though he admitted, that might have been more because of Rusl's martial discipline than because of a personality trait). As an adolescent, and a future knight, he consciously restrained himself from the melodrama that infected so many peers within his age group. Today, however, was an exception to his otherwise omnipresent restraint. Nearly an hour after setting out from the castle, Colin remained slack jawed in shock. How was a man who had nearly killed a dozen soldiers not only pardoned, but had become leader of an expedition of royal knights—the royal family's personal bodyguard—on a mission that not even Colin was deemed worthy of knowing the details? His mind struggled to balance this seemingly hopeless equation. His bewilderment was interrupted as he felt a winged insect buzz heedlessly into his still gaping maw. He coughed it out—at least he hoped—and glared at the man who was, apparently now, their leader.

Link, at least he thought that was his name, had cleaned up considerably since their encounter in the tavern. His beige under shirt and trousers were enveloped by an evergreen tunic with a matching, ridiculous looking, green cap that sagged off to one side. Colin liked to imagine that the hat was to mask the raised knot Rusl gave him when he was knocked unconscious. He rode well on his beautiful chestnut mare—he thought the name was Epona—ahead of the other knights and slightly to the right, as if he was trying to keep as much distance from the rest of the party as possible without looking blatantly hostile. Colin had to give him credit though—he was prepared. In addition to a sword encased neatly in a scabbard dangling from his right flank, he carried what looked like a longbow and a crossbow slouched across arched shoulders. Colin could not imagine why both range weapons would be necessary, but he had to applaud Link's comprehensiveness in weaponry. Colin was fairly sure he had seen him wield other weapons too—as if Link could spontaneously will weaponry to appear out of thin air, and then remove said weapons just as quickly.

Colin looked around him, his confusion growing as the outer edge of what looked to be the southern forests grew ever larger. He leaned to his right where Rusl sat pensively in the saddle of his white warhorse. "Sir Rusl, where we going?"

Rusl shrugged and gestured up ahead. "Ask _him_." His voice was soaked in venom.

Colin arched a golden eyebrow. "Who _is_ he?"

"He's a right bastard."

Colin seemed dissatisfied with Rusl's explanation. "What'd he do? I mean, before all this."

"You mean before or after he started the war with Ganondorf?"

Colin shrugged and cocked his head to one side. "Both."

"Before the war he was a right bastard. And now that the war's started—he's an even bigger right bastard."

The small, pudgy, and cheerful knight behind Rusl, the impossible to ignore Niko, chimed in indiscreetly with his a heavy estuary accent. "I heard he was some kind of professional assassin like. Then one day all the contracts dried up you see. I heard crawled into a bottle o'the Red Potion and been there ever since."

The knight behind Colin, Mako, snorted derisively and replied in his signature smart and clipped tone. "Don't be an idiot Niko. He was a tracker—and quite a good one in fact. He explored the lands south of the Kokiri Forests, and the lands west of the Gerudo Desert: a real explorer. Several noteworthy scholars have cited his influence in the recent resurgence in transcontinental exploration which has grown precipitously in recent years. In fact, some scholars posit . . ."

Niko yawned and smacked his lips lazily. "You know, I heard 'bout like the first three or so words of what you said." Colin grinned. Tragically, despite Mako's very considerable intelligence, he never found a way to present it in a way that was remotely . . . interesting.

Colin heard a grumble from Mako; something about how Niko retaining three whole words was actually better than his usual record. The company's two archers, Niko and Mako, were as dissimilar as night and day, but no battlefield had ever witnessed a better partnership.

Niko's head turned around. "Oi! Our lad al-Phonzo, what you think he did mate?"

Colin turned toward the massive dark skinned knight from the east who thoughtfully stroked his luxurious raven beard. Otherwise, his features were etched in stone. His reply shocked all with its uncustomary verbosity. "Ahmmmm."

Niko nodded thoughtfully, digesting the comment's profundity. "Hey Mako ole bloke, what you got to say 'bout tha—"

Colin saw Rusl groan in vexation. "Squadron, close up formation!" The column tightened with all riders moving closer together, unfortunately making it impossible for anyone to talk about Link behind his back. Colin knew that this was just a deterrent to shut Niko up. People like Niko were endowed with prodigious combat abilities once adrenaline and the rush of battle took over, but were nearly dysfunctional in every other endeavor that could be classified as normal.

Colin saw the knight in the vanguard of the group lean in his saddle, peering closely to the ground. Braided locks of matted and unkempt gold snaked earthward as they framed a sullen and careworn face. The knight hailing from the wilds of the north wielded a massive war hammer, and yet had the strength and dexterity to stay balanced in the saddle. Colin could only recall the first two lines of his name. Therefore, everyone simply decided upon the arbitrary nickname of Nudge. He exposited with an enunciated, frostbitten meter. "De tracks seem to split up here. Some go dis vay. Some go de other vay."

Link abruptly held up a clenched fist, a nonverbal cue ordering the party to halt. Colin thought he could hear a frustrated sigh escape Rusl's lips—possibly out of irritation that the convict was using pseudo-military forms of communication. Not to be outdone, Rusl held up his arm encased in plate and mail. "Hold."

Link slid out of his saddle and hovered low to the ground. He seemed to make outlines of the footprints with his fingers and noted the trajectories of each set and approximated where they would end up. Colin noticed Rusl sliding out of his saddle, stroking his auburn mutton chops and mustache as he silently walked up to Link. "What do you make of it?" Rusl queried, barely concealing the extent of his contempt for his upstart guide.

"I don't." Link responded tersely.

Rusl cocked an eyebrow. Link seemed to hiss and then continued. "It doesn't make bloody sense. Where are the horse tracks? Why on foot? They'd be gone by now if they brought horses. But, there're no horse tracks. Not a bloody one."

Rusl tapped his lips with a calloused index finger thoughtfully. "Maybe they bollixed it—or maybe horses were just too noticeable."

"Aye. Which is why if I was doing this job I'd at least have brought some for a diversion. They didn't even try."

Rusl mulled it over in his head. "Maybe they couldn't scrounge 'em up?"

Link snorted. "Most powerful man in the world and all that toss, and he couldn't find a way to get horses? No. They _decided_ they didn't want them. Which takes me to something else; the tracks—they don't lead to the Gerudo desert. They don't even lead west. They lead straight for the Kokiri Forest."

"They could be using the tree line to protect their flank as the move west."

"No. Then they would move straight west and they run into your army. Even your lads couldn't miss'em."

It was quite obvious to Colin that Rusl was fighting the urge to skewer the funny looking man who was wearing what looked like an overgrown green stocking on his head. "So what advice would you give the almighty Ganondorf in this situation?" He asked, more than a bit sardonically.

"Make for the mountains to the north and lose them there—or make for the Gerudo Desert on horseback and hope I'd outrun everybody. No. They made for the forest—and they're playing a different kind of game here."

A shudder coursed down Rusl's sweat caked back. "What kind of game?"

Link shrugged as he remounted his horse. He waved the group on ahead toward the thick crowns of green that dominated the horizon.

Colin craned over to Rusl. "Sir Rusl? May I ask him about where we're headed?"

Rusl shook his head. "Nay lad." Rusl stewed on the thought for a while longer before he added, "In fact, I want you to keep away from him as much as you can."

Colin nodded, perplexed. "Of course sir, but may I ask why?"

Rusl grimaced slightly, and Colin was not entirely sure if that was on account of his impertinent questioning as much as it was of its poorly contained resentment for their convict-turned-hero. "You listen lad, and you best listen well. That shite in green riding on a horse is the worst thing that ever happened to this country. If not for the king's protection, I would ride up and slot him personally. I don't know what his game is, but I feel like when he goes down that he'll die hard—and probably take the world with him. I'd rather not have you or me caught up in that. So, I want you to promise me that you'll stay away from him as much as you can. Aye?"

Rusl posed more questions then he gave answers, but the unnaturally stern look in his eyes gave Colin abundant notice that that was all the information he could expect. "Aye." Unfortunately for Rusl, his reply only enflamed Colin's curiosity all the more.

"Good." Rusl said, somewhat pensively. After a moment he craned his head and shouted toward the massive eastern knight who cradled his pole arm, some fierce looking thing called a naginata, as if it were a newborn. "Al-Phonzo! You take rear guard and tell us if we're being followed"

The big man grunted behind the curtain of black whisp snaking down his face. "Ahmmm."

When nightfall finally came and cots were deployed at the edge of the towering forest for a few hours of sleep, the tents were all deployed in a circle to give the illusion that it offered some form of protection. There they slept. All but one. Before he succumbed to the irresistible demands of sleep, Colin thought he heard the faint, somber sound of an ocarina descend from the canopy of the forests.

[*]

Ganondorf was positively ebullient as his messenger concluded his recitation: his nemesis had finally revealed himself. What was more, he had also committed himself. There was but one thing left to do.

"Send raiding parties of cavalry into the Kokiri Forest. Harass them every way possible. If Princess Zelda ever leaves that wood alive, I will take immense delight in personally executing whoever is responsible."

More than slightly disturbed, the messenger nodded dumbly. "Y-y-y-es, Great King!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Warning: **This chapter contains very extensive and descriptive graphic violence. If this offends your sensibilities do not read further. I would say this occupies the upper boundaries of a T rating.

* * *

III

The advent of morning was signaled by a variety of cues. It began when the sun surmounted thickets of trees and oceans of fields to the east, bathing them with golden phosphorescence. Slowly, the cacophonous roar of crickets and frogs receded to but a whisper, albeit interrupted by the occasional shriek of a rooster or some other fowl. Curtains of mist clinging to wet grasses were banished to the dark depths of the wood before them. However, none of those signals interested Colin. What interested him was the interesting aroma that now filled his tent.

He arose from his cot. Putting on armor was so cumbersome that the squadron of knights decided to simply sleep in it. That might have been the biggest mistake of his life. He was fortunate not to have to sleep in plate armor. Nonetheless, faint indentions from his neck to his ankles remained—a souvenir from sleeping in the thoroughly uncomfortable mail armor.

The carnivorously seductive aroma, however, made him forget his discomfort as he rolled out of the tent and into the crisp, slightly frigid morning air. He halted as he saw Link sitting by a newly rekindled campfire eating rapidly from a small iron pot. His gaze not deviating from the soupy mix, he tossed Colin a soup ladle and with an open palm gestured to him to eat.

Colin dipped the chipped, wooden ladle into the steeping concoction and brought it to his lips. He sipped at it. His eyes widened. He ate some more. This was delicious. It almost seemed to have the same taste as the shellfish he was fortunate enough to have eaten on a rare trip to Lake Hylia with Rusl when he was younger. "What's this?" Colin asked over a melody of noisy slurps.

"Skulltula in soup."

Colin nearly gagged, "I'm eating a spider!"

Link grunted, "Well, boiled spider, but aye. Tasty isn't it?" Colin coughed a few times and spat out the soup which remained in his mouth.

Link sighed in a tone Colin thought was annoyance, "You're not in Hyrule Castle. Animals don't walk up to you begging to be killed. There might not be much in that soup, but it'll keep you going a while."

Humbled and more than a little embarrassed, Colin dipped his spoon down and resumed his slurping—sans gusto.

Link nodded and continued to devour his concoction, "'Twas a good tackle." Colin looked across the iron pot and arched an eyebrow. Link clarified, "At the tavern."

"You could've slotted me at the tavern, but you didn't. Why?"

Link shrugged as he hocked up a thick hunk of saliva and spat it over a shoulder. "Figured I'd reached my quota for killing boys that day." Part of Colin's mind explored whether he was actually serious. "Still though, good tackle."

"Thanks," Colin awkwardly managed. He looked over his shoulder towards Rusl's tent slightly uncomfortable. Had Rusl not said something about not talking to Link?

Link's gaze traced the contour of Colin's chainmail armor. "So what? They're letting wee lads become grunts now?"

"I'm not a grunt!" Colin snapped with a little more venom than he would have liked. "I'm a knight!" The look of incredulity Link flashed at Colin was all the retort he needed, "Well, I hope to be—one day."

"That so?" Link seemed to be staring at the sword nestled in Colin's scabbard. "You fight?"

"Yes."

"Really?" Link queried in mock surprise. He stood and began walking to the edge of the wood. "Then attack me."

Colin's eyes darted back and forth. "Now?"

"In the time it took you to ask that I've already killed you three times. Now . . . attack me."

Colin reluctantly, and a little perplexedly, unsheathed his short stabbing sword and readied his shield. Link stood motionless at the edge of the camp, scratching at the dirty blond stubble that formed a curtain around his chin. Colin stared at Link for a hand full of seconds, assessing the possibility that he could actually wound or kill the green-clad lunatic standing in front of him. Colin inhaled, closed his eyes, and willed his legs to bring him into a charge.

He moved forward, closing the distance with Link rapidly. Leaping into the air, his arm darted forth in a simple yet effective stab—which Link almost lazily sidestepped as he grabbed Colin's arm, twirled him around, and finally shoved him to the ground.

Link shook his head as he tossed Colin's short sword back to him. "Again."

Colin stood up and brushed himself off. He charged again, this time withholding his stab until the last possible moment. Within that moment, he had seen marble busts livelier than Link as he stood, as if frozen in time. Then suddenly, Link seemed to vanish into the atmosphere as he soared above Colin in a back flip.

Landing behind Colin, Link shook his head. "You're fighting like out of a textbook. This is real life boy. Fight like a man."

Colin gritted his teeth at the emasculating remark and now swung his sword with wild abandon, instinctively.

"That's the stuff." Link said, dodging, jumping, and pushing his way out of every swipe until Colin finally collapsed in exhaustion. He also felt as though the spider soup was about to be ejected from his stomach. Link grunted, "What's that on your left arm there?"

Colin was not amused. "It's a shield."

"What's it there for?"

"It _shields_ you from opponent's attacks." Colin was growing tired of this exposition.

Link shook his head. "No." He pointed to his head and his legs. "This and this are your shields. That piece of metal and wood on your arm there? It's a weapon. Use it."

Colin felt his teeth protest as he ground them tightly together. He released a battle cry as he dove toward Link, rushing at him with his shield. To his surprise, Link dove toward him—only to smack against his shield and skid to the ground.

Link gave a lopsided smile as he brushed soil off his trousers. "See?"

Colin grinned in return until he saw a startled face full of anxiety and mutton chops emerge from the tent. It was not a pleased face.

"Oi! What's going on here?" Rusl bellowed.

Link seemed to glare at him for a moment before answering, "Training."

Rusl's jaw clenched and his eyes narrow. In a quiet voice, almost a whisper, Rusl muttered, "Colin, go fill the canteens."

"But sir, the canteens are nearly ful—"

"Now!" As his voice exploded, sending echoes reverberating throughout the forest, Colin quickly surmised that the matter was not open for academic debate. Wordlessly, Colin briskly darted away into the wood leaving two of Hyrule's supposed heroes locked in a death glare.

[*]

Rusl held his clenched, mailed fists tightly behind his back, the chain links rending deep grooves into his fingers. Once his peripheral vision lost sight of Colin, he marched up to Link as he attempted to brush dirt off his ragged clothing. Link finally regarded Rusl after his glare exceeded the even the most generous boundaries of awkward. "Problem?"

"Aye. Let's get a few things right before we go further. You can lead us anywhere you want—my orders are clear in that respect. _But_, for anything else, you can't so much as breathe unless _I_ say so."

Link dismissively shrugged his shoulders, "You have a talent for stating the obvious, mate." He muttered as he walked away.

Unsatisfied, and even more annoyed, Rusl pressed further. "Also, I don't want you going near my lad."

Link turned back over his shoulder, his voice strangely mirthful, "Like you said: I'm only a killer and a thief—not a pedophile. That kind of thing is for knights and their 'squires'."

Rusl stalked after Link, all the while fighting that growing impulse to unsheathe his long sword and smartly cleave the bastard in two. "I said stay away from him. I've noticed that your acquaintances have a habit of getting kidnapped—or turning up dead when you're around."

Link's nostrils flared. Rusl noticed the muscles on his forearms flexing as he clenched calloused fists—in an instant, he became a massive coil of strength ready to spring. "Aye? There's still room for a few more dead _acquaintances_."

That _did_ it. Before the none-too-subtly veiled threat escaped Link's snarling lips, Rusl's hand had already gripped his sword, sliding it out of its gilded sheath and pointing it towards Link's throat.

Except Link was already there with his own blade— a type of curved sword popular among the Gerudo called a scimitar or some such thing. Even against a Captain of Hyrule's warrior elite this was no contest. A single parry and a flick of his wrist was all that was required for Link to send Rusl's long sword flying off into the distance. A kick to Rusl's gut sent him sprawling onto the ground. "_That_ was for back at the tavern." Link grunted in annoyance.

Leaping from the ground, Rusl regained his stance, retrieved his sword, and started moving cautiously back towards Link. Gripping with both hands, he held the sword over his head and prepared to bring it down upon Link's skull. "Bastard!" Rusl screamed as all the years of carefully contained rage at all the lost comrades took form in this singular moment.

"Shhhh." Link commanded in a hushed whisper.

Niko, flanked by a nervously squinting Mako, suddenly appeared over a hillcrest near the camp. "Oi! What's goin' on here? Nearly thought we heard a fight we did. Ain't that right our—"

"I said shut it!" Link hissed with death in his eyes. He crouched low and brought his ear to ground which only seconds ago had been a battlefield.

Mako tiptoed—at least as much as one could in chain mail—up to Link's side. His small, tired looking eyes squinted over the horizon. "What do you hear?" He inquired in his crisp, academic tone.

"Cavalry patrol." Link hesitated for a moment longer as he listened, "Maybe a dozen."

Nudge rubbed his grizzled chin with massive palms. "How can ye be so sure of de number?"

Link shrugged easily, "The nor'easter carries their sent. Plus it sounds like about a dozen."

Mako squinted ahead into the dark mists of the forest. "Are they friendly?"

Link snorted. "Hylians haven't patrolled here in years; they're all up at the western front. I don't think it's chance that horse patrols are sighted here the same time Zelda is." Link regarded Rusl in a manner which, considering their near death blows moments ago was strangely dispassionate. "Where's your lad?"

Rusl searched the recesses of his short term memory. "He's..." Then the inevitable blood curdling realization dawned. "Oh shite."

Before he could answer, Link was gone into the distance. Rusl and his knights flew after him.

[*]

Colin followed the small trickle of brown, shallow water for what felt like half a mile. The still moist underbrush of the forest clung to his mail leggings like parasitic insects as he tromped through the thick wood. The burden of carrying around canteens that were nearly three-quarters of the way full also threw off his balance, making him look more like a patron returning home from a tavern than a squire among the king's royal knights. It wasn't the most graceful sight.

Colin's annoyance converted into excitement as he heard a splashy roar in the distance. Quickly tracing the sound to its source, Colin's eyes expanded in delight as he spied a steady flow of water descend from a well weathered rock face into a crystal clear pool below. Indulging his fancy, Colin slipped off his mail coat in record time down to his white under tunic and waded into the pristine pool. Dirt and grime flaked off his clothing and bare flesh as he reveled in the experience of a fresh—if frigid—bath. He knew that as soon as Niko and Mako heard about this spot they would dive in too. As his imagination conjured images of Niko and Mako attempting to playfully drown one another in one of their stupid games, he spied frantic movement amongst the trees at the edge of his sight. Grabbing his shield and sword, Colin waded out of the pool and began scaling the rock face behind the waterfall to see if a higher position would be reveal more information.

As he squinted into the distance, panic gripped his now chilled heart. They were definitely riders. He didn't know who and he didn't know from where, but it was obvious that they certainly were not Hylian. He considered doubling back to the camp to alert the others before he thought better of it, realizing that he would be caught by the riders before he even got close. Looking around frantically for a spot to conceal himself, he noticed a gap in the rock face immediately behind the waterfall—which widened to become a quite extensive cave. Settling on this as his best option, Colin quietly slid into the cave and found himself trying to bargain with the Three Goddesses, Din, Nayru, and Farore for some form of fortune. Though the roar of the waterfall seemed to drown out all ambient noise, Colin remained too frightened to breathe. He braced his back against the moist face of the rock as he stared down at the pool.

A line of thirteen riders rode up to the pool. Eight of them looked like they hailed from the tribes of men that populated the northeastern expanses of the Gerudo desert. Having few precious resources and having little arable land of their own, they offered themselves as commodities for waging war; a nation of mercenaries. They had yet to shed their long, flowing robes which were still stained yellow by blasts of desert wind, and they carried an assortment of curved swords, bows constructed of bone, and various pole arms. The five other riders were dressed in vibrant shades of red and purple. Their skin had browned to the color of bronze beneath the desert sun, and each had a long mane of red curly hair. As Colin took notice of the fertile swellings protruding from their chests, he cleverly deduced that they were female. These were the Gerudo, a race of warrior women to whom one male is born every century. They had a legendary contempt for men, except for their warrior king—Ganondorf—whom they worshiped as a god incarnate.

The Gerudo barked orders to the mercenaries in a language that Colin could not understand, but he deduced from their gestures that the men were to water the horses. The men bowed low and led the horses to the bank of the pool. Colin held his breath as he hoped and prayed that their detour would be a quick one.

Suddenly, the eight mercenaries standing at the banks made frenzied cries in various tongues that sounded tantamount to panic. Colin spied a Gerudo in purple parade over to where one of the men proceeded to gesticulate wildly towards something on the bank.

Squinting, Colin bit his lip to prevent from uttering a curse as both he and the riders spied his chainmail armor lying conspicuously at the pool's edge. The Gerudo in purple began barking out orders, and judging from the way all riders dispersed in different directions, it did not take a talented linguist to understand that the orders were to search for the unfortunate owner of the chainmail.

Colin's heart crawled into his throat as he realized that it was now only a matter of time before he was discovered. He wondered to himself if anybody would ever find his remains within his lifetime. He shook such thoughts from his head as his mind turned toward his duty. He knew that it was his responsibility to make his death as difficult for his adversaries as possible, and Colin would be happy to oblige. Hopefully, if several of them climbed the rock face at once, he could sprint down from the cave and knock several of them off the rock face through force and inertia. That might give him enough time to finish off several of them before the remaining riders finally reached him and inevitably finished him. He wed himself to this plan—and his scripted end.

It took several minutes before two of the mercenaries began carefully climbing the slippery rock. Colin had seconds now. He crouched to make a smaller profile as he saw a thin, bearded man with a drawn scimitar enter the cave. As his eyes met Colin's, his mouth opened to announce his findings—before his forehead erupted with thick red paste tinged with globules of violet. As Colin noticed the fine steel head of a crossbow bolt protrude from his skull, the warrior slumped to the ground. His eyes clouded as his breath existed his body one final time.

The second warrior leapt in surprise as he turned back and bellowed something which caused the riders to search frantically along the horizon. No longer interested in some cave hideaway, the riders banded together and peered into the infinity of the forest—the most likely origin of the attack. Colin's ears perked as he thought he heard a peculiar sound over the roar of the waterfall—like the sound of a raising drawbridge. Colin could not remember seeing a castle or any fortification nearby. These ponderings were banished when he heard a sharp scream of agony as yet another crossbow bolt seemingly took form slightly above one of the mercenary's collarbones. He fell to the ground, trying desperately—but futilely—to remove the lethal projectile from the base of his neck.

The soldiers looked about more frantically, and Colin noticed that now even the more disciplined Gerudo were beginning to look nervous. In the distance Colin heard that sound again—a dull _clank clank_ that seemed to have no discernable source. Colin was beginning to wonder if he was just delusional.

Without notice, one of the Gerudo fell to the ground, grasping at the wooden shaft protruding from her midriff. With a countenance brimming with agitation, the Gerudo leader mounted her horse and pointed to a nearby tree. The Gerudo commander peered suspiciously at the leafy canopy of one particularly large tree. Groaning in annoyance, she brought her horse around and began riding back towards the pool where her warriors huddled together in a confused pack. The Gerudo commander made some sort of dismissive comment. Then, all at once, she seemed to vanish.

To Colin's disbelief, it looked like some sort of gigantic, tapered chain had skewered her. The Gerudo commander was lifted off of her saddle and into the canopy as the dull _clank clank _resounded through the woods. A moment later her body rained from the treetops back down to the ground. She lay still.

And then he appeared. Soaring down from his hiding place in the treetops, Link descended to the forest floor; his curved sword in hand and his expression consumed with vengeance.

Link goaded them by firing some sort of chain shot that was the source of the peculiar sound moments ago. It thrashed at the pack of riders violently. To their credit, the nine remaining riders acted swiftly. One charged at Link with his sword within a few seconds—only to slump to the ground with a long gash across his midriff. Recovering, Link produced his longbow and released two arrows in quick succession, pinning a Gerudo through the chest and one of the mercenaries in the thigh.

Seeing that the odds were quickly turning against them, the remaining riders began mounting their horses and fleeing. One mercenary, however, made his way up the rock face, perhaps adopting Colin's strategy of hiding in one of the natural caves. The warrior, a broad heavy set man with several facial scars, halted as he reached the cave entrance. Spying Colin, he grimaced as he unsheathed a dagger and gestured toward him.

This was Colin's time. Without a second thought he reflexively rushed toward his assailant with his shield—ejecting him from the cave and sending them both tumbling down into the pool below. Recovering as his body smacked against the frigid water, Colin frantically searched for his sword. His assailant, who had landed face first in the water, began to stir. Instincts taking over, Colin forced all the weight he had in his fourteen year old body down onto the warrior's head, keeping him submerged beneath the waterline. The warrior's stirrings became squirms, and after a few seconds his body thrashed wildly as his head tried desperately to emerge from the pool for air. His arms beat Colin violently—his movements now at random. Ten seconds became an eternity as Colin desperately tried to summon more weight to keep the warrior's head submerged. Thirty seconds passed as the warrior's body writhed in mortal protest. Second by second, minute by minute, Colin felt the life slowly drain away. A few minutes later, the life had ebbed out of the warrior's body into the pool. He was gone.

A year might have passed by the time Rusl laid a palm on Colin's shoulder as he sat, numbly, in the middle of the pool—his hands still grappled tightly around a now lifeless corpse. Colin yelped in surprise.

"Shhh…It's alright lad. You can let go." Colin looked down at the man. "He's a goner," Rusl finally said.

Those words hit Colin like a sledgehammer as he suddenly sobered to reality.

He had killed this man.

He hadn't intended it to happen.

No. That wasn't right. He _did_ intend for it. But had he really wanted it?

He had heard some of the knights at the barracks in Castleton brag about the glories of battle and combat. He had heard that killing for the first time was seen as a sort of spiritual or metaphysical experience for all true warriors. But that's not what Colin saw as he stared at the pool tinged with red.

All Colin saw in that pool was lifelessness and the reflection of a fourteen year old whom he no longer recognized.

They still managed a full day's march. Link had insisted on it in fact, making comments throughout the day about their slow progress. For Colin, the minutes and hours had somehow become a gigantic blur that somehow culminated in nightfall situated around a campfire in a small clearing within the depths of the Kokiri Forest. He vaguely remembered the massive arms of al-Phonzo hauling him from the pool all the way to the camp and his answers of "Ahmmmm." He also recalled some sort of mindless jabbering exchanged between Niko and Mako. Nudge and Rusl made some conversation about where the trail would lead and their location in the forest, but that was the extent of his memory. For the entire day his mind had simply replayed images of that lifeless body floating in a pool of bloody water.

Rusl was very complimentary—praising Colin for his bravery and his initiative. How much he meant of it and how much of it he said simply to ease a troubled conscience Colin could never be sure. Colin certainly tried to act like the affair had not bothered him. He knew that these sorts of moral dilemmas were never going to be something he could broach to Rusl, especially since this sort of thing was technically part of his job description. Colin could not help but think that any discussion of his misgivings would betray something of the paternal bond that they had slowly formed over the years. He was not sure if he preferred a troubled conscience or a disappointed Rusl. He shrugged it off and tried to simply enjoy the wholesome warmth of the fire as he waited for Rusl to return from his scouting run.

Link mutely sat down beside the waning fire, running a grimy cloth along the flat end of his curved blade. He scrubbed at it for a moment before running a sharpening stone over the blade's edge in smooth, calculated strokes. Colin's gazeless stare at last found focus on Link as he at last ended his silence.

"Does it ever get any easier?"

Link halted in mid stroke and regarded Colin. "What?"

"You know…killing?"

Almost imperceptibly, Link appeared to wince. "Aye. It does."

Colin seemed to take a kind of solace in that hope. "That's good then." Colin said absently.

Link gazed up at the clouded sky, his eyes melancholy. "No. It's not." He threw down his sword and wandered off into the night.

[*]

He tried to match Link step for step, but this was getting difficult as Rusl tripped through underbrush while following him on this nighttime sojourn. While the fact that Link had saved Colin's life had forced Rusl to swallow part of his vehement hatred for Link, he was still suspicious of anybody venturing off without notice in the middle of the night. This was still _his_ mission. He followed the dull golden globe of torch light that Link carried with him. It was a moonless night, and Rusl was having some difficulty navigating through the labyrinth of woods when he could only see a few feet in front of him. The forest reverberated with its usual chorus of frogs, crickets, birds of prey, and the none-too-graceful stomping of one very tired royal knight.

He pursued the sputtering flame ahead of him until he noticed that the chorus of animal life had stopped. Rusl looked around and noticed that he had arrived at some sort of unnatural clearing. The ground, instead of having the soft and wet texture that forest undergrowth should have, was instead hard and ashen. It was not clear from torchlight, but Rusl could make out the burnt out remains of massive trees—now as dead as the earth. The lack of existence here was palpable. Link stood motionless in the middle of the clearing. Approaching his side, Rusl spied a collection of what looked like wild flowers in his left hand.

"What do you want?" Link demanded—so much for stealth and subtlety.

Rusl scratched the back of his neck, unsure exactly how to begin. "Listen, I was thinking that maybe we got off to a bad start," Rusl said as he forced out every painful syllable. Link's gaze was fixed on a stone tablet lying flat on the ground. Rusl sighed and continued, "Don't misunderstand me lad, I still think you're a right bastard and there's no place in the Dark Realm that can truly come close to paying back all the suffering you've caused this kingdom—And me."

Link shifted his gaze toward Rusl for a minute. He had a strange expression on his face, but what was it? Regret? Melancholy? "What's your story then?"

Rusl shrugged while trying to preserve the goodwill he had so carefully cultivated for this moment. "Same as every other soldier: I didn't like having to see all my mates die for a war that you caused." Link's jaw tightened while Rusl continued, "But, you saved my lad's life today. For that I just…" Rusl seemed to chew on the words for a moment as if they tasted sour "I just wanted to say 'thanks.'" He forced himself to add "Bastard."

After more than a handful of seconds, Link made a soft grunt in affirmation.

Rusl continued, "Look, we're gonna have to work together on this. We have to agree that we kill all our enemies before we kill each other."

Link sighed, "I don't care about killing you or anyone else. I just want to get this done."

"So you can be done with it and be a free man?"

Link shook his head, "I've also lost too many friends to this war. I'm not going to lose another." After a few more seconds in silence, Link finally stirred again, "It's late. Let's go."

As Link turned to walk back to camp, Rusl peered at the stone tablet atop a raised mound of earth that Link had stared at so intently. As Link turned to go he had apparently deposited the wildflowers on top of the mound. As he stared closely, Rusl made out a faint Hylian engraving etched on the rock: "SARIA."

* * *

**Author's Note: I have a love/hate relationship with this chapter. I dislike writing angsty characters and depressing or melodramatic stories. On the other hand, this is ultimately a story about a very violent war which is something that is very dramatic. I'm interested in feedback. Writing something this dark is a first for me and I am not sure what I think of it. I might edit this at a later date considering that this is exam period (just completed torts) and I have gotten only a few hours of sleep. If anyone is interested in being a Beta Reader for this story let me know. Thanks. **


	4. Chapter 4

IV

It was truly impossible to determine whether her eyelids were open or shut. Truthfully there was no substantive difference as oblivion surrounded her asleep or awake. And sleep she did; in vast quantities in fact—perhaps as a consequence of the blood encrusted wound at the back of her skull.

It is said that the Dark World, called "hell" in the parlance of humans, is a fiery medley of burning seas and gnawing demons—an unending cycle of torture and despair. To clerics and religious leaders, these images represented the zenith of their originality in trying to create metaphysical realms terrifying enough to encourage good behavior and obedience in more corporeal existences. However, these clerics suffered from the limits of their own imagination. A state of hell is not the sensation of eternal pain; hell is eternal existence without sensation at all—the imprisonment of the mind in a cage of its own idleness. And so was the mind of Princess Zelda Harkinian, heir to the throne of Hyrule, imprisoned. And it was hell.

Despite the spasmodic delirium of her head wound, she had made at least a few cursory deductions. She was pitted into a small, dank hole that extended but ten feet on all sides. Approximately twenty feet above her, iron grates barred any entrance to what was undoubtedly some sort of dungeon. She speculated that she was the sole prisoner as no voices or footsteps were audible, save that of a single attendant that dumped small globules of rank gruel through the grates. Water tasting of rusted iron and cobblestone poured through the grates at irregular intervals, pooling at cracks and indentions in the stone allowing her to take measured sips. Zelda grimly placed a bet with herself as to whether she would die first from the putrid water or the insanity of isolation.

Zelda perceived herself as a generally passive and stoic person, but right now she could barely contain her bubbling fury—with herself. She was enraged at her inability to establish even a rudimentary chronology of events, or even definitively establish how she had arrived here—wherever "here" was. The only facts she could deduce was that she must have been kidnapped as she slept and that, owing to the wound sustained by her skull, she must have been forcefully subdued and knocked unconscious for a prolonged period of time. But, owing to the complete lack of light or even sound save the irregular _pit pat_ of water sloshing down from the grate above, she had no idea where she was, how long she had been here, and, most importantly, who brought her here.

She could, of course, without much mental effort infer her probable captors. Unfortunately, with Zelda being the sole heir to the throne, the list of possible captors could be seemingly infinite. She conceded that Ganondorf appeared the most obvious and likely, but it would be easy to take for granted other possible culprits. As she began considering the candidates, she became dazed and faint. Her ears rang out in a macabre choir of pain as she slumped on her side onto the floor of her own little hell.

As the throbbing head wound gradually ground down her consciousness, she could make out the faint rasp of a voice that had pervaded her nightmares. "Princess Zelda?"

Zelda willed unconsciousness away and rose with what little start her malnourished body could provide at the sound of the first voice she had heard since she had arrived. She coughed as she tried to clear a voice hoarse from atrophy. "W-who's there?" She whispered with her broken voice into the void far above. She regretted the fact that her voice was tinged more with fear than with the defiance she had hoped to project.

The form responded in measured wheezes, noticeably inhaling in the precious little fresh air that remained in the decaying pit. His voice was a lifeless hiss—as if he was a creature birthed by the very dungeon that Zelda now found herself. "I shall be the last thing you will see or hear for the remainder of what little life you have left. My name is Lord Cradock."

That name she most certainly did recognize; the dean of Ganondorf's college of mages—or Wizzrobes as the Hylian Army grudgingly codenamed them. While his life and physical appearance remained a mystery aside from his signature thick, black cowl, it was widely known that he was one of the King of Evil's most powerful and capable lieutenants.

Zelda coughed and felt clouds of dust and rot coat her bruised skin. "Tell me, Lord Cradock. What does your master hope to accomplish with this foolhardiness? Do you really think my father such a fool that he would sell his entire kingdom for the benefit of one life?"

She could almost sense Cradock's form heaving as he erupted into a sickly laughter. "Save your energy my dear. You know as well as I do that after a week's isolation the signature stubbornness of your family will be as hollow as your mind and body; at which time, you will tell me what I want and you will do what I will." He inflected his raspy hiss with a tone that seemed to poorly approximate empathy. "You're an intelligent woman. You know the futility of resistance. Besides, your survival is not necessarily required, my dear, for my Master's designs."

Bitterness infiltrated the pit of Zelda's stomach after she quickly realized that that Craddock was right. "What do you want?"

"Why, the same thing you want, no doubt: information."

"And why should I be motivated to tell you anything?" Zelda demanded in a tone with all the defiance she could muster.

"As I said, my dear, you're an intelligent woman. You know I'll get my information eventually. In a fortnight at most, I will hear your screams reverberate down the corridors as you vainly plead for your mind to stop its inevitable plunge into the depths of its own madness. And there will be _no one_, not even your Hero of Time to save you. You now have two options. You can either tell me what I want to know now and I shall reciprocate in kind, or you shall tell me everything eventually, and I in turn shall tell you nothing. I care not for whichever option you choose."

Zelda realized that she was quickly becoming a liability as she realized that Craddock was correct. Eventually he _could_ make her talk. She might hold out longer than he expected her to, but eventually her mind would descend into dead pulp. There was only one true option. She argued down her most basic life affirming instincts and resolved to end her life on her own terms without betraying both her family and kingdom. All she needed was a way to cut the veins in her wrist and simply bleed out. That would solve all problems.

"And, my dear…" The hissing continued. "Do not think to depart from this corporeal realm so soon. I am aware that the Sheikah and their disciples are quite an inventive lot . . . but so am I. Just so you're aware, my dear, I am well versed in how to sustain life for prolonged periods of time with a bare minimum of…anatomical functionality. The torments you experience now would be trivial in comparison."

The voice's omissions said more than his spoken words. Zelda tried, in vain, to forcibly remove the dark imaginings of her subconscious featuring her mind in a void without sight, sound, smell, or any other form of sensory perception. The image burned into her mind, causing her to visibly shudder.

"What do you want to know?" Zelda offered, silently cursing every syllable as it escaped her lips.

A sadistic chuckle rebounded off the cold, barren walls of the dungeon. "My Master wishes to have a complete account of everything that happened from that day fourteen years ago. Please begin…we have all the time in the world."

[*]

_Curse you Sages! Curse you Zelda! CURSE YOU LINK!_

Beads of sweat stung the now wide open eyes of a very disturbed Princess Zelda as she awoke. The familiar surroundings of the ten year old's room provided no comfort from the vivid nightmares as she hurriedly exchanged her nightgown for her day clothing. As possibly the most educated ten year old in the entire Kingdom of Hyrule, her mind categorically rejected concepts like prescience and oracular foresight on the basis of reason and logic—which made it all the more frustrating that her instincts were treating her recurring dreams and visions with more credibility than her mind was willing to extend to them.  
Supposedly her mother had also possessed what her nursemaid Impa called "the gift"—pseudo prophetic foreshadowing and the like. Zelda had never given it much credit as it apparently did not benefit her late mother overly much; having died in the throes of childbirth. And yet, her mind could not escape these visions which imprisoned her every thought. She hurried down winding staircases to the Castle Gardens, martialing physical activity as her weapon of choice for removing her mind from her haunting visions. Approximately two hours of running later, despite successfully running into three guards, a chef, two gardeners, and a rather pompous looking cucco, she was no closer to ridding her mind of her poisonous visions than when she began. She approached her favorite spot in the garden where she could both spy on the happenings of the throne room while enjoying a scenic panorama of innumerable trees, shrubs, and flowers that formed a living collage which she found more compelling than any of Hyrule Castle's classical statues which were eternally imprisoned in a lifeless marble stupor.  
She peered into the paned, arched window which overlooked the throne room. Impa had always told her that a leader's most valuable commodity was information—and it was a lesson Zelda took to heart as she silently monitored the Kingdom's affairs of state from a small patch of garden. As she peered into the cavernous throne room, dread seized her as she imagined the cruel looking man from the desert, Ganondorf, poisoning her father with insincere promises and falsehoods.

Ganondorf . . .

Her small form involuntarily lurched as his blackened presence invaded the deepest recesses of her mind. Since he had reemerged from the deep reaches of the Gerudo Desert, the Gerudian King had wasted no time in cultivating alliances and agreements with the various nations and fiefs that composed the Kingdom of Hyrule. The firebrand young monarch that had marched out of the desert years ago, with the audacity to demand tribute and aid from the King of Hyrule, had grown a silver tongue. It was this newfound skill that he had used to great effect, combining eloquence and an uncanny knowledge of Hylian law and politics to arbitrate agreements among the various feuding fiefs and duchies within the kingdom. He was becoming, in a word, indispensible, and his burgeoning popularity was certainly not lost on Zelda.

She peered into the gaping maw of the royal throne room at the dark mass of the man bowing in the center of the room. His prominent, aquiline nose barely concealed an uncontrollable hunger etched onto the corners of his mouth, and residing in the irises of feral yellow eyes. Deceit manifested in every word, every gesture, every breath. And not for the first time, Zelda felt that Ganondorf Dragmire was watching her as she was, in turn, watching him. She forced her gaze away from the window pane.

Zelda stood in her own retreat and sanctuary besieged by the weight of the world. As much as she would like to ignore it, every instinct in her small form screamed at her in warning—foretelling the imminent end of her small world in this Kingdom of Hyrule.

Finally, the sun pierced the tempest raging in her mind. And there, stepping out from her world of dreams and visions, he materialized in front of her. Motionless he stood, the wearied—almost ancient— eyes of a child fixed squarely on her. Time stilled. And so they stood watching; waiting.

[*]

**Author's Note: I hope the flashback isn't too jarring. Let me know what you think. Read, review, and enjoy. **


End file.
