The Legend of Zelda: The Lost Hero Chapter 1

Chapter 5

The mists swirled, and a figure coalesced. Static crackled as the entity returned to its true form, its silver skin deflecting the light that struck it unmercifully. Slowly, the surrounding area darkened, the creation of the being disrupting the heartbeat of nature itself.

As its putrid nature took root, the potted plants around it withered and died. Its breath was pure poison, and it commanded death itself at its fingertips. The long white beard it had guised itself with fell away as its true nature was revealed.

The hollow eyes stared straight ahead out from under its hood; its reason for being was explicit, but the dead were eternally patient, and now was not the time. The lich had no feelings, no heart, but it had a firm grasp of deadly logic. There were things to be done first, events to be set up. It had lain dormant within a very powerful host for a long time, but now its presence was required. One of its hated brethren had fallen already, and that loss, satisfying as it was, had to be made up for. They could no longer wait for their prey to come to them. There was no reward at the end, no seductive lure, only purpose. The lich did not need a bribe, though it had been offered one, and a weak one at that. No, the lich enjoyed its purpose; the thought that there was another strong soul waiting to be devoured, let alone five, was motivation enough. The strong souls always tasted the sweetest when they were broken. The lich had a target, a main objective, true, but as long as the princess was around, the hero would not fall.

Therefore, she needed to die.

This princess had always been at very close proximity, the bittersweet smell of her soul tantalizing it, but the lich knew it could not indulge itself. Not yet. There were things to be done first. But the thought of the princess’s soul still clawed at it, and the thought that it would eventually taste her excited the lich beyond mortal words.

A princess… now that was a treat it had not had in a long time. And this one… the souls of the magically proficient always held a unique tang. Very tasty, indeed.

The lich took a step out of the stone-worked chambers.

* * *

The air grew chill suddenly, and Miles and Nabooru shuddered in unison. The pair were descending the final slopes of Death Mountain, nearly to the mountain gate of Kakariko Village. After the defeat of the lava being, the mountain had grown silent.

Miles felt uncomfortable in the silence, wishing Nabooru would break it. Unfortunately, the young Gerudo fighter was thinking the same thing.

They stopped at the mountain gate and sighed as they ran their eyes over the charred ruin that was once a happy town. Without thinking, Nabooru reached to her left, grabbing Miles’ hand.

The maiden’s hand in his made the fighter even more uncomfortable, but for conflicting reasons. He was glad that she could find comfort in contact that they shared, but he was uncertain he had the potential to enjoy such a thing without the overwhelming fear of loss. Sure, he didn’t mind a physical fling, even a permanent friendship that strayed toward intimate at times, but the boy knew he would be unable to withstand losing something else he cared about.

Unfortunately, it was too late.

Miles gazed at Nabooru’s face with a sense of regretful sadness welling up within him. He knew what signs like this led to; there was no surprise factor for him, no sense of excitement at the thought of something new. Miles Tigard knew in his heart that he could never provide Nabooru with that which she would eventually seek from him.

Blinking away his inner voice, he released her hand, stepping forward into the ruined village. Regaining his composure away from the eyes of the maiden, masking it as a scanning of the ruins, he locked away those feelings from the past, the part of him that cried out to be set free again. It was those feelings that had caused his current predicament. The memory ached, but he acknowledged it only with his mind, not accepting it within his heart, for that would cause him to fall apart. His only option was to ignore the events that had transpired so long ago, to forget those who had been taken from him, who had turned against him. Why? He asked himself, as he had millions of times since leaving that place.

Because, he answered himself silently, nothing you can do will prevent history from repeating. Nothing.

Steeling his resolve, he turned to the Gerudo maiden with a light-hearted grin.

“Is it just me, or does it smell like someone burnt something?”

* * *

“There! Approaching quickly!” Zelda was an archer at heart, and so her eyes had always been sharper than Link’s. Thus, she was the first to spot the approaching duo in the moonlight, and Link quickly caught the moving dot as she pointed it out. In a matter of minutes, Miles and Nabooru stood before them, Miles having run with the full power of the Pegasus Boots, and Nabooru having held onto the back of his vest, sliding along on the air itself with the Hover… Sandals.

“You will not believe what this thing is capable of,” the boy told Link as he dropped the ice stone into the hero’s palm. Shaking his head, the Hylian returned it. Seeing the resolve in his eyes, Miles sighed and set it back into Wrath.

“Then it’s lucky I pinched his Picto Box, yes?” Nabooru chuckled pulling the item out of her pouch. Link frowned, putting a hand on his own pouch. Rummaging about, he finally came up with a bemused glare.

Miles’ eyes went wide, having finally noticed Link’s heavily bandaged right shoulder and neck, the gauze and wrappings covering the whole right side of the hero’s neck.

“What in the name of the Triforce happened?” He inquired apprehensively.

Link sighed, opening his mouth, but Zelda forestalled him.

“Let’s just say,” she decided, neglecting the details, “that one’s past can be a nasty thing when used as a weapon.”

The Gerudo and the Sheikah looked at one another. The past? Darunia had mentioned a demon with power over an individual’s past. They explained as much to Zelda.

“A demon?” She frowned. “Are you sure that is what he said?”

“Spirit was more the word he used,” Miles admitted.

“Ah.” The princess thought for a moment. Looking up, she spoke again.

“There is a third.”

It was a statement, not a question, and the intended targets nodded.

“Darunia mentioned the power to draw strength from resistance,” Nabooru proffered.

“That is only the beginning,” Zelda informed her. “I know these three. Ganondorf has truly bitten off more than he can chew this time.”

“Ganondorf?” Nabooru was suddenly concerned. “You mean he’s returned?”
“The seals to the Sacred Realm are breaking,” the princess responded. “It was a rather large hint.”

“But they are not all broken, not yet.” All eyes turned to Link, for none but Zelda had ever heard him speak. As a result, his words were of great import, being so rare.

The Hylian hero continued, meeting their gazes. “As long as we live, we have the power to prevent history from repeating. It is not a matter of ability –” his gaze lingered on Miles “– but a matter of will. If you truly desire something, if your heart truly holds it dear, then nothing can ever have the power to prevent you from securing it.” Link gazed at Zelda out of the corner of his eye.

“Nothing.”

As the hero walked away, toward the castle gates, Miles shrugged uncomfortably, stealing a glance at Nabooru. She was looking at him curiously, and his heart began to pound. The Hylian had proven quite shrewd, and the Sheikah fighter was beginning to doubt his own opacity. Still, Link’s dual-natured words planted the seed of doubt in the young fighter’s heart. For having been born with the virtue of Courage, the hero had more than his share of Wisdom, and Miles’ respect for him grew. Still, there was his problem… no, he would deal with that later. For now, there was a more important task at hand, one that required the attention of all four of them.

That number suddenly increased by one as Miles was tackled by a large shape, dark as the night itself except for the brown stripes on its face and belly. Akrir pinned the boy’s arms to the ground with his front knees, deliberately slobbering on his face.

“AAAAARBLARBLARBLARBLE!” The fighter gurgled, pummeling the horse in the face with all his might. Finally relenting, Akrir let the boy up, trotting in a circle around him with his tongue flopping out.

“Uuuh-huuuh-huuh-haaaaagh,” the boy shuddered in disgust, wiping the viscous slobber from his face as the horse circled him. “You are SUCH a –”

The boy was cut off as the horse darted in, whipping him in the face with his tongue before darting back out again. The boy fell to the ground and rolled, drawing his swords, mumbling through gritted teeth.

“That’s it. Horse dies. Free dinner. Invite friends. Bring sauce.”

A hand suddenly appeared on his shoulder, calming him. He turned, weapons down, to face Nabooru. Something in her eyes… suddenly, his fury evaporated, and he sheathed Wrath and Thorn. Sure, the horse was still retarded, but his ire was spent.

Miles nodded to her, and Akrir squinted at the two of them. Motioning that she wanted to talk to Miles out of earshot, she walked away.

With one last glare for the horse, he walked away.

“I sense that Link’s words held a special meaning for you,” the observant Gerudo recounted.

Miles’ heart beat a little faster, but he forced himself to be calm, recalling past mistakes.

“They did, but I can’t take his advice, sage as it is.”

“Why not?”

Out of the corner of his eye, the boy noticed the retard-horse building cones out of dirt. They were almost the exact shape of his hair spikes. Odd.

The Sheikah fighter sighed. “It’s… it’s not the right time.”

“The right time for what?” Nabooru prodded.

“Um…”

Akrir was rolling in the dirt. Miles noticed Zelda watching in amusement, further off.

“Miles,” the maiden said, soothingly, “you can trust me. I promise nothing will happen.”

“Those are the exact words I heard the last –” he snapped his mouth shut.

“So it was another person?” Nabooru deduced.

Akrir appeared behind Nabooru, spikes sticking up on the back of his head in a mimic of the Sheikah fighter’s hair. Miles frowned, and the horse pointed his lips, making googly-eyes at the Gerudo. Nabooru, catching Miles’ frown, looked behind her, but all she saw was the horse standing at attention, bored expression on his long face. Nabooru turned back to Miles.

“You were involved with someone else, weren’t you?” She prodded.

Akrir’s eyes rolled back as he pretended to lick Nabooru up and down, his whole body moving with the effort. Miles glared fiercely at him, and Nabooru’s head whipped around just after the horse snapped back to attention. The Gerudo gave Miles a worried look, and the horse reared up behind her, pelvis thrusting repeatedly as his eyes rolled back, mouth hanging open as his head rolled with the motion. Zelda’s laughter drifted over the plain, but the Sheikah’s face darkened. With lightning speed born of training among the Sheikah assassins and defenders, Miles leapt past Nabooru, flashing Wrath in a wide stroke and resheathing it so quickly that the blade hadn’t been visible.

To Nabooru, he spoke.

“My heart lies bleeding in a vault none can reach,” he explained. Gazing at her, he added, “But you are very pleasing to behold, if that matters.” She raised an eyebrow, and Miles turned back to the horse.

Akrir stood, literally frozen in that position, eyes flicking back and forth between Nabooru and Miles. Holding up a hand, the fighter drew the chill out of the ice around the horse’s snout, melting it so he could breathe. The fighter didn’t want to kill the horse. Not yet, at least. He wanted to enjoy this.

A panicked whine caught his ears, and an evil grin spread across Miles’ face.

Sweet, sweet revenge.

* * *

The night air was refreshing after being imprisoned so long. In the cool, crisp air, the figure allowed itself a moment’s joy. Freedom had come at a price, a bargain, but that bargain was more than easy to make. In fact, the bargain was more of a parting gift, the way the figure saw it.

The wind gusted, blowing back the figure’s hood. The slender Sheikah girl had the white hair of her ancestors as well as the naturally shadowy complexion. In the light, she seemed rather fair of skin, but the olive color made her near invisible the dark. The cloth that covered her face up to the eyes was drawn back, and she let herself breathe in the night air. The hilt of a thin, black bladed sword poked over her right shoulder. Attached to her nightsword’s sheath was a shortbow, with a spill-proof quiver of ten arrows hanging at her left hip; she never missed a target at range, and so did not need more. Her left gauntlet was equipped with two forearm-long spikes for assassinations, and her right glove sported inch-long tiger claw blades that flipped out onto her palm with the squeeze of a button. Strapped to her skin-tight leggings were five long, thin throwing knives for distance and stealth operations. Her hooded cloak hid more than just her weapons, though. She dressed in the traditional assassin’s garb of the Sheikah, a purplish-black skin tight suit adorned with belts and pouches to hold various weapons and items crisscrossing her form. Her boots were thin and blended with the material on her legs. The moonlight glanced off of her red eyes as she took another breath of the unbelievably fresh air. This was truly the best day of her life.

No, she corrected herself. When you lie dead, Tigard, I will have achieved my greatest joy.

Her releaser had even given her an idea where to find the man she hated. Grinning as she slipped the cloth back onto her face, she hopped down from her perch.

* * *

“No,” Zelda sighed. “We do not have a concrete strategy, as we do not know the location of our foes.”

The princess’s words echoed off of the smooth, polished stone walls of the Royal Audience Chamber. The King regularly received requests and ambassadors here, as well as suitors for Zelda to turn down. It was decorated so as to seem welcoming, red and yellow tapestries hanging in loops from the arced ceiling, and the realms most prized trophies in the display compartments carved in each side of the walls.

“We know of one,” Miles interjected. The group had been told in brief of the monster that had attacked Link in the forest.

“If we strike that fiend,” Nabooru mused, “we may be vulnerable to counterattack by the last spirit.”

“Very true,” Zelda confirmed. “However, it is unlikely that they are working in unison, seeing as how each seeks to cover the land with their own influence.”

“The influence of each conflicts,” Nabooru observed.

“Can we turn them against each other?” All eyes went to Link.

The Hylian continued. “If we can locate the other spirit and lure it to the forest clearing, with the help of Miles’ Sheikah training, we may be able to disappear from the scene, leaving the two spirits to battle it out.”

“So we take winner,” Miles grinned. “It’s cheap, but it’ll work.”

“But how do we locate the other spirit?” Nabooru inquired.

Zelda looked up. “It comes this way as we speak.”

Silence hung in the air at Zelda’s words, and Miles felt his hands begin to sweat. He was not Link, blessed with eternal courage. The Sheikah fighter preferred hordes of stupid enemies that he could see. The thought that one single spirit was making its way there, with no way to tell how close or how dangerous it was, made his stomach unsettled. Nabooru caught the change in his demeanor and put her hand on his shoulder, but Miles signaled that he was okay and walked off.

Oddly, all of the curtains were drawn over all of the inset wall display sections. The sections tended to be about seven feet wide, tall, and deep, and housed a variety of relics; from the swords and armors of ancient kings to the trophies taken in battle against Hyrule’s most feared adversaries, the displays instilled courage and morale in all who looked upon them, so magnificent were they.

Right now, Miles needed courage.

As the others set about planning their lure of the third creature, the unsettled fighter stepped over to one of the walls. Drawing back the huge curtain, he marveled at the splendor of a bust of Sarsanico, first King of Hyrule, securer of the realm which he now called home. The ancient ruler’s confident countenance added stiffness to Miles’ backbone, instilling him with positive feelings. Closing the curtains, he stepped over to the next one.

This one contained the legendary Sword of Woe, a huge, double-edged blade that the sorcerer Ganondorf had used against Link years back. Surely, if they could take Ganondorf out, two spirits shouldn’t be a problem. With renewed vigor, he shut the curtains.

Feeling confident now, he whipped back the third curtain, and the hall exploded with the sound of flapping horse buttcheeks as Miles was thrown backward with the force of Akrir’s fart. The trio around the throne turned at the sound, and watched in horror as the Sheikah bounced against the far wall, coming down on his hands and knees. Shaking, he gagged silently; his mouth had been open when the fatal flatulation had taken place.

Miles stood finally, cold rage flicking across his features.

“How did the retard-horse get in here?” He growled.

Leaving them no time to answer, he darted forward. Akrir’s butt was still sticking out between the curtains, and Miles dodged his anal explosions, which the horse fired off as rapidly as cannonballs. Sidestepping the last, the Sheikah fighter dashed forward, kicking the irritating stallion in his horse testicles. A high pitched squeal was heard, and Akrir’s legs came together, knees buckling as he toppled over inside the display compartment.

Satisfied, Miles stalked out of the castle audience chamber.

He needed to wash his mouth.

* * *

Shadow. That was all that existed, all that mattered. Darkness, unseen and fleeting. The shadows shifted as Archaea flitted across the treetops, making her way into the courtyard of Hyrule Castle. Making her way past these fool guards was too easy. She sighed in disappointment as she sailed over their heads soundlessly, landing in a crouch on the other side of the wall. Stepping back, she blended into the wall as a patrol crossed her path. One of the pair was Hylian; she was going to have to be especially careful to conceal the sound of her passing from him. Heart beating faster, she waited until the guards were to the east wall before she darted forward, crossing the courtyard using the lines of bushes as cover. As she ran, her hands worked an intricate silence spell, blanketing the area she passed through with it. All that mattered now was sight. Ducking under a tall one, she surveyed her surroundings; there was a deeply shadowed area on the west side of one of the castle turrets. She would make her climb there. Glancing around, she made her way slowly and meticulously to the shadowed corner. She popped the tiger-claw spikes out of her right palm, preparing to climb, when she sensed a presence behind her. The Sheikah assassin froze, gazing toward the fountain she’d passed.

A lone figure walked toward it, back to her. She frowned as she watched him scoop water from the fountain into his mouth, shaking his head and spitting it into the dirt. Sighing, he rested his forearms against the fountain wall, gazing into the water. The short rapier at his right side clinked against the stonework, drawing his attention. The figure drew the blade, watching as it gleamed in the moonlight, drawing a finger down its length. She knew that blade, Thorn. That blade had given her a permanent scar on her left thigh, and it burned as she thought of the person who had dealt it. Thorn had been her father’s sword, the mark of honor among the leader of her clan. Had been. The figure sighed again, sheathing Thorn, and resumed his reverie into the depths of the fountain.

Suddenly, Archaea realized she was no longer hidden in the shadows; she ducked behind a bush she had involuntarily walked up to, claws in hand. Memories flooded through her, and she blinked back a tear. She was so close, less than ten feet away from him. She could kill him right now. So easily, and yet… Shaking her head, she allowed herself another glance.

Miles was still staring into the water, obviously distraught. His shoulders shook, and she realized he was weeping. Her mission was clear, but… Archaea stepped out from behind the bush, the left-hand gauntlet releasing its hidden blade. It made no sound as it slipped out and locked, stealth being its reason for creation. It was for killing without sound.

Something made Archaea stop three feet away from Miles’ heaving shoulders. She had to plunge the blade into his back, kill him right there. She had to, but…

She couldn’t do it. She stood, blade poised to enter him, but her arm would not obey her. Slowly, she lowered it, feeling the utter weight of her failure. For an instant, she created a hole in her silence spell, allowing the rest of it to blanket the whole courtyard.

“Tigard,” she whispered, eyes downcast.

Miles whirled around, eyes widening, tearstains tracing his cheeks. Hurriedly, he drew Wrath, a chill permeating the air. His skin recognized the familiar weight of a silence spell, recognized the window through which the sound came. Upon seeing the assassin, he hesitated.

“Archaea?”

She looked up at him, her rose-red eyes meeting his amber ones. Suddenly, she screamed as an arrow blossomed from her shoulder, and Miles dropped Wrath, catching her as she fell forward. It was lodged in the meat of the muscle, and hadn’t hit any bone or arteries, luckily. Miles’ head shot up.

Link ran, twenty paces away and closing, putting away his bow in favor of his sword and shield. The hero closed the distance and jumped, sword poised to eliminate the assassin –

A metallic crash was heard as Ragnarok met Wrath. Miles had blocked his fatal cut, only inches away from the assassin’s head. The ringing of the blades cut off abruptly; the window in the silence spell must have patched itself, and was now complete again.

His mouth moved silently, but he had no words. He could only shake his head at Link.

The Hylian frowned, disbelief evident on his face. Archaea shifted, and Link jumped backward, weapons at the ready. Miles held a hand up, trying to signal that Archaea was friendly, but he wasn’t a militant, and therefore had not learned the militia symbols. Link flipped his sword around his wrist, setting himself in his stance, and Miles understood. Link thought he was a traitor. The Sheikah fighter glanced at the assassin; she had fainted from the pain. He had to protect her. He looked up, and had to throw Wrath up to parry an overhand the hero had darted in with.

The vibration traveled down his arm, and he staggered. Link was indeed a powerful swordsman. Miles kept parrying and dodging the hero’s slashes, and attack by attack, it was becoming clear that Miles would not survive if he did not take the offensive. With the power of the Pegasus Boots, he dashed to the side, rolling and coming up with both swords in his hands, placing himself between Archaea and Link once again. The Hylian attacked with a flurry of rapid stabs, and it was all Miles could do to turn them all aside. His hands were a blur as he deflected the hero’s strokes, stepping back quickly as Link advanced with lightning-fast slashes that changed direction often. He’d never seen the hero fight like this; Link was almost faster with one blade than Miles was with two. Almost. Wrath turned aside a trust, and Thorn’s counterattack was knocked aside by the hero’s shield. Ragnarok swung upward, and the Sheikah leaned to one side, letting the sword pass him by mere inches as he spun downward, taking the hero’s legs out from under him with a well-placed backward sweep. Link caught himself on his hands and knees, rolling away from Miles and settling into his stance again. The Sheikah fighter dashed forward, rapid strokes from both Wrath and Thorn forcing the hero back as he dodged and parried. The fighter swung Wrath upward, and the power of the strike staggering the Hylian, who had blocked with his shield. Miles leapt at him, swinging Wrath in a downward arc, but Ragnarok’s counterstroke was so powerful that it carried him into the air backward as the swords met, forcing him onto the defensive once more. The red sword came up rapidly and repeatedly, each blocked swing carrying Miles into the air. It was all he could do to knock aside the fiery arcs that continually flashed before and under him. Blocking an especially powerful upward strike, Miles turned a backflip in midair, sheathing Thorn in favor of the clawshot. Upside down, Miles sighted and fired, latching onto the Hylian’s shield. The recoiling of the chain sent him straight downward, smashing Link into the ground under his shield. Miles sprang off the shield, turning in midair toward the rising hero and firing at a tree that lay several yards behind him. The Sheikah fighter flew toward Link once more, horizontally this time, knocking Ragnarok’s trust aside with Wrath and smashing him into the ground again.

Miles landed, looking back. Link rose again, shaking pieces of the broken paving stones from his tunic. Glaring at Miles, he stood straight, sword pointed upward and glowing. Light seemed to fade into the fiery sword, and Link swung it downward, releasing a wave of fire at Miles. The Sheikah fighter twirled Wrath in his hand and countered with a slice of frigid wind, cutting through the fiery wave. Link cut through it with Ragnarok, sending a horizontal slash back at Miles, who sliced it in half with a frigid chop. As the icy slash traveled toward the hero, Miles knew this was not his battle. The Hylian had been forced to do this versus Ganondorf many times, and was a master at it. After a few more exchanges, the slashes traveling faster, Miles hit upon a different idea. He was not going for lethal strikes, but Link was. He had to end this soon, before he perished. Link returned a vertical slash, and Miles dashed around it and behind the hero in a single, split-second blur thanks to his boots. As he passed Link, he shot the clawshot onto the hero’s back, finding a good grip as he continued his run, chain lengthening. As the hero turned, Miles locked the chain and twisted, throwing the hero across the courtyard and into the wall of a turret. Stones fell from the wall as the hero hit, bouncing off and landing on his knees.

Suddenly, sound was present as the stones of the turret rumbled down. Sheathing Wrath, Miles ran to the Hylian.

“Link!” He shouted. “Arch –”

His words were cut off as he was smashed aside by Link’s shield, sending him into a sideways half-flip before he landed on his back. He shook his head, dazed, as Link’s form leapt into the air, sword coming down. Miles knocked the pogo aside with the clawshot, kicking the hero upward with both feet. The hero twisted as he landed, dashing in again, and Miles was forced to dodge a flurry of rapid strokes and slashes, many tearing his clothing, so close did they come. The Sheikah fighter was forced to use the clawshot’s guard to deflect many of the lightning fast swipes, never getting a chance to draw either of his blades. After one such parry, Miles was smashed into the ground once more as the hero’s shield met his face again, so hard that stones from the pavement piled under his head as he slid backward. The fighter shifted his shoulder, and Ragnarok sank into the stonework where his heart had been. Miles kicked with both feet again; Link sailed upward, and Miles clawshotted him, hurtling upward toward the hero. The Sheikah fighter avoided Link’s sword as he shot above the hero, grasping his tunic on the way up. The momentum caused the two of them to flip through the air a couple of times before Miles swung Link upward once more, drawing Wrath again. As he flew, the hero sheathed Ragnarok and put his shield away, drawing his bow. As he fell, Miles twisted to avoid a hail of fire arrows, deflecting a few of them with Wrath, and fired the clawshot upward again. Catching the front of Link’s tunic, Miles whipped the chain with all his might downward, the force of it throwing him upward slightly as the Hylian’s body made a crater in the paving stones of the courtyard. Retracting the chain, Miles finally landed, sheathing Wrath again. The Sheikah fighter dashed to the hero’s side.

Blood leaked from the corner of Link’s mouth, and the hero tried to raise his sword, but Miles stepped on it. Crouching, he spoke to the hero.

“Link,” Miles said apologetically, “I was trying to tell you, she’s alright. She’s not a threat right now. I wasn’t trying to kill you, but you wouldn’t let me speak, and…” The boy’s jaw ached with the memory of Link’s shield. Miles rubbed it, feeling the swelling for the first time. Shaking his head, he looked at the hero again. Link’s eyes had changed from anger to understanding.

“I’m sorry, Link.” Miles held up the clawshot. “It was only because of this that I was able to survive this. You’re always rescuing people, whether you know it or not.”

The fighter helped the hero up, and Link grimaced in disgust, holding up two fingers together.

“This is the sign for friendly,” he told Miles. “Just to avoid a repeat of this.”

As the hero walked with him toward Archaea, he spoke again.

“You’re not a bad fighter, especially with the clawshot,” Link recounted. “You actually saved my neck once.”

Miles’ eyebrows rose. “How so?”

Link related his encounter with the maze guardian in the Lost Woods, emphasizing the use of the clawshot as a weapon.

Miles felt honored at the compliment, but guilty because he’d used the object of interest to incapacitate the hero. Link was hiding it well, but he was obviously in pain. How much was unknown to Miles, who hurt all over from the effort of deflecting the lightning fast strokes and the hits he’d taken from the ground and the hero’s shield. The adrenaline was leaving his veins, causing his nerves to flood with pain he hadn’t noticed before and his muscles to tremble from exertion. He had never fought someone so difficult, and was very glad to be on the same side as the hero.

“How do you attack so fast?” He asked the Hylian.

The hero was silent for a moment before his reply.

“You drive your sword with the strength of your arm,” he told the fighter. “I drive mine with the strength of my heart.”

“You were going easy on me,” Miles observed, raising an eyebrow.

“On the contrary, that’s the first time I’ve had to actually try in years.” Link’s lips twitched in a suppressed smile as they reached Archaea, who was breathing shallowly.

Miles scooped her up. “We have to take her to Zelda.”

* * *

“Why do your arrows have to have such thick shafts?” Zelda complained sourly as she slid the arrow out of the assassin with the expertise of experience.

“Distance and power,” Link replied.

Nabooru and Miles watched from either side as the princess worked her glowing hands over the assassin’s shoulder. The flesh knit itself together under Zelda’s touch; Archaea’s eyes opened, and she jumped up immediately, kicking Miles across the room. The Sheikah fighter bounced against the wall, coming down on his knees.

Four swords were instantly at her throat. Ragnarok, Nabooru’s twin scimitars Moon and Starfire, and even Zelda’s own shortsword, Salvation, held the assassin motionless. Surrounded on all sides, she gazed around, and gasped.

“I apologize,” she murmured to Zelda. “I awoke in a strange place, with people surrounding me… I am sorry.”

The swords were lifted, and Miles rubbed his throat as he recovered, edging closer, but still keeping out of reach.

“Thank you, Miles,” the fighter gurgled. “Or, I am glad you stopped Link from killing me, Miles. Or even, thank you for sustaining injury on my behalf, Miles. But all I get is a kick in the throat. Last time I help you.”

“It’s not like you don’t deserve it,” Archaea shot back.

Miles’ face darkened, and he spoke dangerously softly. “You don’t know the truth of what transpired that night. This is water you do not want to tread.”

Silence held sway in the small medical room for the next few moments as the remaining companions exchanged looks. Zelda broke the silence, and all eyes focused on her.

“Everyone has a past,” she told them gently. “A single person’s past may affect the balance of the entire world, but we cannot always be made to dwell upon those things. To do so is to lose oneself in the darkness of bad memories.”

She turned to Archaea. “I can see the pain in your eyes, Sheikah, and I understand loss as acutely as you do. But you cannot lose yourself in the pain, or that is all you will become; that is what your life will be about. I know this from experience.” She gestured widely. “We all do.”

Archaea looked around the circle, eyes meeting everyone’s in turn before settling on Miles once more.

“I can never forgive you.”

“It is not I who needs forgiving,” the boy stated. “In time, I may tell you what happened that night. For now, I’m not sure you’re the same person I used to know. Until I trust you, you will remain in the dark. Hate me if you want, kill me even, but there is no way to take it back when you finally know the truth.”

With that, the uncharacteristically somber fighter trudged off.

* * *

Miles shut the wooden door of the guest chamber Zelda had granted him. It was a very neatly arranged room, a shelf full of books decorating the wall the head of the bed sat against. There was a small desk near the shuttered window, and several colorful tapestries adorned the stonework of the walls. One large oval rug bearing the Hyrulian crest graced the floor, pointing to a second doorway that led to a large balcony. The doors were closed, and he’d never seen the balcony, but he didn’t feel like getting a view right now.

The fighter sat on his bed, head in his hands. He’d finally gotten his wish, but his past had followed him. He had hoped…

Miles sighed, slipping Wrath’s sheath off his back and leaning it against the bed. It was too late for what he had hoped; there was only what was now, and what would come to pass. To try to pretend otherwise was nothing more than foolishness.

The Sheikah fighter began to unbuckle the belt that held Thorn when a horrible smell reached his nose. Coughing, he strapped Wrath on again, peering around. His eyes stung, watering, and he gagged, nearly losing his supper. The fighter fell to his knees in torturous agony, the heat of it searing his throat and nostrils, burning the stench permanently into his very being. It was unbearable, and getting thicker by the second. He heard a small sound, like the buzzing of a bumblebee, coming from the wall that separated the room from the balcony. Nearly choking to death, Miles crawled toward it. He had to stop twice, gagging so severely he thought he might retch. He was trembling, the odor was so bad, tears pouring freely from his face.

Miles pulled open the doors and stood, drinking in the fresh air, and realized the sound was coming from his left.

There stood Akrir, quietly farting into his window. The horse noticed him and, instead of retreating, charged forward. Miles only had time to throw up his hands before he was headbutted off the parapet, tumbling downward into the