saigatachi
Smash Cadet
- Joined
- Dec 6, 2010
- Messages
- 46
I hope you enjoy the story. I would gladly appreciate some constructive feedback; any feedback would be helpful. This is my first post, but I hope to incorporate any suggestions. I have also revised some of the following chapters and removed chapter IV on account of it being rushed. Let me know what you think of the changes.
PROLOGUE--(REVISED)
Within the highest level of the Begnion Empire's reverent, black tower, a corpse began to rise. As it levitated back to its feet, its knees locked back into place. Muscle spasms coursed up starting at the feet. Its shoulders twitched, arms flailed, and then the fingers wriggled insanely. Life craned the head forward and then erect, where on its face the sinewy clumps of red flesh were rift above a layer of bone, exposed by three massive claw marks that reached ear to ear. Finally standing, the wreath of an intense flame of orange and red and white hair, the light-consuming-black dress that cloaked it, and the exposed parts of white bone and torn flesh about the body stabbed the soul with the powerful image of a demon.
Its eyes opened.
“It is futile,” she said, “You cannot kill me.”
Ike and the rest of his company watched with a mixture of cringed brows, awe-stricken faces, and half-hearted smurks as the marks on her face sealed back up.
“What's going on?” Ike said, “This is insane! We defeated her . . .”
“You defeated nothing. This is nothing at all out of the ordinary. Mortals cannot defeat the divine. It is not possible,” returned a stoic Ashera.
This was bad. They didn't have the luxury of dragging out the battle. They were fighting a goddess. Not only that but the rest of the Greil Mercenaries and the other resistance fighters were still outside, fighting for their lives against Ashera's puppet-corpse army, fighting to give them this one chance at victory. Things were definitely grim.
Ike tightened his grip over his divine, orange blade, Ragnell. He looked left to a young man in an elaborate green-trimmed, white robe and gave a curt nod. Even amidst an impossible battle, Soren gave him an impassive look, glanced at the verdant book in his hand and nodded back. Ike then looked right to the flank on Ashera's left at a young man with a leaf-colored jacket-cape half-cut above the abs, and a large-buckle red belt hanging over his pants. Sothe caught his gaze, fanned his arm across the sheaths strapped over his pants and somehow wound up with five knives in between his fingers on each hand. It was do or die.
Soren opened his spellbook. A soft, green light and the intermittent crackle of lightning bolts emerged from the pages.
As this was happening, Ashera used her power to summon two fire-tail spirits, small-bucket-sized masses of wavering, red, barely-tangible light, behind Ike's left and right flanks.
The company formation was a standard pincer maneuver. Seventeen of them split into three groups around the enemy, with close-ranged fighters: Trueblades, Dragons, Hawks, Ravens, and Beasts on the front lines, long-range fighters: Sages and Snipers behind, then Healers and others in the rear. Where the fire spirits were, they threatened the rear line.
The fire spirit behind the left flank raced towards Rhys. Ike smurked. It was a good thing fire-tails weren't made with any common sense. However, on the right flank . . . .
--Sickling, emerald gusts whipped out of Soren's spellbook, funneling into massive veins of power that launched toward Ashera.
“Rexcalibur!” invoked Soren--
The fire spirit on the right flank advanced towards a human-sized, snow-white swan.
No! They're targeting the Herons!
In battle, the Herons were strictly for support, able to double the strength of any man or beast for seconds at a time through song. They were the weakest, most frail units in the company. An attack from one of Ashera's fire-tails and Reyson would be done for. Not only would he fall, the fire-tail's combustion would completely incinerate his body to ash. Battle was an unpredictable hell, but the golden rule for Ike was that he never lost one of his own.
Wind tugged at Ike's red-cape and pushed back his ocean hair. Soren's Rexcalibur spell whirled furiously, slicing the air; if Ike threw away this chance they might not get another.
The fire-tail's ruby core flared as its tails circled around it like a fan.
If I can finish off Ashera, the fire spirits will disappear. Ashera has to die now!
The winds quieted from sickling gust to whistling breeze.
Here goes!
----
It was chaos out here. Comets, wind torrents, forks of lightning, and anything else that could come out of a mage's book streaked over Oscar's head, scattering groups of golden-armor, enemy soldiers. As quick as the turn of a page, the red, green, and yellow light from these spells flashed over the battlefield and blasted apart clusters of enemies to weaken their battalion's assault. Dozens fell dead, but once dead they faded into nothingness, and rays of light shot softly upward only to descend behind the legions of the enemy flanks. Those still standing marched like machines to meet the first line of defense. “Not a single one through, men!” could be heard over the roar of the jungle cat laguz.
What was left of the enemy's first wave of golden soldiers squeezed into the bridge that led to Begnion's Tower of Guidance to meet a variegated wall of laguz beasts, and up-close fighters.
Soldiers in opulent robes and hugging red, ornate tomes worked their way to the front. The bloodiest crimson emerged when they opened their spellbooks.
Looks like you were right Soren: they did use fire.
A great, terrifying roar from the laguz resounded.
“That's the signal! Attack!”
Horsemen leaped over the laguz and charged. They spear-headed through the enemy, trampling, stabbing, slashing, and shooting down every unsuspecting mage.
Fallen, the mages' dead bodies faded away and then vanished with upward beams of amber light; a rain of light then immediately fell over the horizon of the enemy flanks. They would be seen again.
This certainly is crazy. We kill them and they just come back.
Despite the impossibility of victory, Oscar breathed with a rich excitement.
Geoffrey lead the assault. Oscar marveled at the menace of his strength as at that moment furious branches of electricity arching above reflected magnificently on his emerald-tinted-platinum armor, a spectacle made more intense by what Oscar knew of the man's background. There just wasn't anything more inspiring than a man who worked his way up from bottom to being the commander of the Crimean Royal Knights. Looking at him, none could have guessed that a man his age could demand some much respect, and perhaps that fact made him that much more fearsome. He was a supremely skilled warrior and like all the others ready to lay down their lives on this bridge, he rested on the cusp of greatness. To fight with such men, for so noble a cause impressed the tranquility of absolute contentment on the deepest level of Oscar's soul. If need be, he was ready to die.
“The enemy's line is broken. Kill all the ones left on the bridge!” Geoffrey yelled before drawing his armorslayer and decapitating a hulking sentinel.
A shade of red armor over an equine brown jetted past Oscar; Kieran dove in first, He made sure Oscar saw this, and as soon as he felt Oscar was watching, Kieran impaled a chest-plated swordmaster with his javelin, then equipped his silver lance and annihilated an axe general with a critical hit through the heart. Turning back, the look on his face said, “Top that.”
Oscar leaned into his horse, whirling his lance with both hands seemingly effortlessly.
This was a ploy he had once theorized when out of sheer curiosity he trained with Volke once.
“You're dead,” Volke told him, holding a knife to his throat “Luckily, you did manage to kill my coat. Admirable,” he incited, “Deception. That is why you lost. Give people a reason to believe in a lie and their lives are yours to extinguish,” Then he cut free a hefty sac hanging on Oscar's hip and let it fall into his hand. “My fee for the training and the advice; consider your life . . . complementary.”
A reason to believe in a lie. This is the highest quality lance. A highly dense metal composes the steel-hue bar and beryl-colored point. Finely thin, serrated edges, also, lay at the blade itself. But it's the weight that matters. Spinning it like this who would believe its actually a 65 pound beam of death?
To make killing a man as easy as wishing for it, that's why it was called the Wishblade.
Oscar shot into the ruck of soldiers, spinning his lance to a whistling velocity. A heaving sentinel raised his sword to catch Oscar's Wishblade. With a crash, the sword shattered in the sentinel's hands as the Wishblade cut a black hole--flesh, and bone, and metal yeilding as one and the same--from the top of the shoulder to the lowest rib.
With only the effort of spinning his lance, Oscar cleaved through seven more stragglers around the red-armored Kieran. When at once the bodies toppled over, they vanished to mystical light. Oscar turned his squinted glanced to Kieran and smiled the most gentle smile.
Maybe next time Kieran.
“The next wave is advancing! Paladins fall back!” ordered Geoffrey, using all the power of his voice to speak over the explosive volley of magic.
The pack of laguz advanced; so did the melee fighters.
As Oscar retreated, a sentinel barred his way and another started to approach him from the left, which being right-handed worked to his disadvantage.
He lunged on the first one immediately.
Oscar quickly retracted his Wishblade lance, splaying chunks of gold armor and blood on the limestone blocks of the bridge, then fanned his lance around over his head with both hands. He reacted to a blur in the corner of his eye, swiveled his head to a small degree, hearing the echoing slice of a silver lance's point, and buried his Wishblade into the slit on the other general's helmet. Before Oscar could free his weapon, two more soldiers in loose garments that ran to their feet, swords tightly clenched in one hand, Trueblades, approached him and his horse from behind.
Trueblades always managed the first strike with invaluable vantage. To devote all of their focus on a single strike characterized their best defense against their lack of armor and relatively frail constitutions. One strike from a Trueblade almost always spelled the end.
They poised for attack.
Oscar kicked his magnificently muscular mare. Agitated, its legs snapped up and bashed the swordsmasters in the face with its steel-printed hoves.
There's no enemy vantage in a surprise attack.
The trueblades vanished in light. Oscar thanked his on-horse-back defense training he received during his short term as a Crimean Knight and continued on.
The laguz pounced on the few enemy that were left, tearing torsos with knife-sized claws and shredding armor with vorpal fangs. The melee fighters cleaned up with earth-splitting strikes to the head. All of this happened before the third volley crashed on the ground.
However, there had been something which Oscar couldn't shake off his mind. It was nothing really, but then again he'd never been wrong before. An intuition, it was.
In front of him, the Tower of Guidance lay engulfed in gold light, its opaque architecture transformed to a sun-like beacon. It was a sign of Ashera's power. Up until now light from the tower had been shining over the battlefield in a soft blanket. However, looking at it now, Oscar had to shade his eyes.
Was Ashera's spell getting stronger?
CHAPTER I
Before time began, before spirits and life existed, three great Goddesses descended upon the chaos that was Hyrule. Din,the Goddess of Power; Naryu, the Goddess of Wisdom; and Farore, the Goddess of Courage.
Din, with her strong flaming arms, she cultivated the land and created the red earth. Nayru poured her wisdom onto the earth and gave the spirit of law to the world. Farore, with her rich soul, produced all life forms who would uphold the law.
The three great goddesses, their labors completed, departed for the heavens. And golden sacred triangles remained at the point where the goddesses left the world. Since then, the sacred triangles have become the basis of our world's providence. And, the resting place of the triangles has become the Sacred Realm.
Nothing in the History of Hyrule. Zelda closed the leather-bound tome and piled it atop the tower of other volumes that had offered her no helpful information. Among the rejects were The Sacred Realm: Dimensional Theorems, Astronomy, and Creatures of Legend.
Zelda breathed out.
Most of the castle's guards had already turned in for the night. The orange glow from her fireplace was probably like a maritime beacon from this height. Still in her royal white and pink gown, she wished very much to lay her mind to rest. Through the open-air windows the chirp of crickets offered a homeopathic orchestra, but a look outside at the flush of glittering moonlight compelled her to continue working.
Again she reached for Creatures of Legend certain she missed something, and planted it on her table next to a vellum scroll filled with the cause-and-effect chain of her annotations: “Strange reports from the outlying villages”; “Hyrule field not safe.”; “The stars seem to be changing course”; “Have to do this alone”.
Let's see. Leever . . . Like Like . . . Mad Scrub . . . Majora's Mask. Ciiirrrcaaa? . . . one-hundred years ago.
Before she could continue, a knock came from her door. It would be Impa come at her request.
Zelda walked from the opposite end of the room to her chamber door, magically guiding the stack of books on her desk to the empty shelves with the direction of her hand. When she answered the door, a warrior in black garments and purple hair, Impa, walked in noticing no books out of place.
Good, she does not suspect anything.
Once she closed the door behind her, Impa presented Zelda with a bulk wrapped in black cloth, which she took from behind her back.
“Here are the items you requested, Princess.”
As Zelda reached out to receive them, Impa's Sheikah senses rose to the surface.
“Princess, is everything alright?” Impa stared immovably, seeking--as it seemed--to find any reason to appease a fear that her former charge might be in danger.
Zelda yearned to say no, but she thought of the result: Impa would certainly try to protect her. She couldn't permit Impa to follow. It was on that basis Zelda promoted her, to keep her situated in the safety of the castle.
“Everything is as the Goddesses will it to be Commander Impa. I am certain you realize as Commander your priority no longer falls on my personal safety but on the citizens of Hyrule.”
Zelda could tell Impa was beset by how mechanically she had come across with her formality. She had to remember that this was her trusted teacher and confidant in front of her, and that made her twice capable of reading the troubles of her heart. It was likely she had just given away the existence of her concern, her fear for her kingdom; but at least not the nature of it.
“Forgive me, dear friend,” Zelda said cutting off Impa's potentially probing reply, “The hours have been long since the boy came to us two days ago. I've been reading into various omens to explain his arrival and his origins, and that has consumed much energy.”
“You shouldn't push yourself so hard, Princess. The boy isn't going anywhere. Hyrule's dungeons are reinforced with a strong magic that suppresses a prisoner's defiant nature. Also the castle priests are already working night and day to find the answers to those questions.”
“A Princess must do all that she can to protect the state of her kingdom, Impa. Alas I am the only one seated on the throne and so the task to lead my people cannot be taken lightly. I am sure as Commander you feel the same passions that I do?
“And what passions are those, Princess?”
“Those inner passions that call for one to give up their life to preserve those of others.”
“I hope that I have not made you think those passions so subtle in me that I must verify them even after all these years that you have been under my care.”
“Of course not. Of all those years, now more than ever do I feel that you would give your life in exchange for mine.”
“And without hesistation, Princess Zelda.”
Zelda watched with a strong enough gaze to conceal the sadness she felt as Impa held a cluched fist tight to her chest, very near her heart.
The firm posture, the confident glare of a duty-bound warrior, Zelda had to turn away towards her books to conceal the glaze emerging in her eyes. She said nothing for more than a moment.
“. . . Going back . . . to the castle priests; Have their efforts yielded any discovery?” she finally managed, sufficiently deafening the crackle in her voice with the sum of her willpower.
It took Impa a second longer than usual to answer. “None. The boy is . . . Well, we've tried every angle of research. We tried to trace his origins to any tribesmen known for having wings; we thought to speak to Baluu, the red dragon of the skies, who is said to grant wings to those who have earned his protection. But we dismissed the idea on account that Baluu grants brown wings not white ones. It was a dead end. Then we thought to find him by knowing the origin of his garments.”
“That was quite clever,” Zelda said, turning to face Impa with an open book in her hands.
“Thank you, Princess, but it was regrettably a dead end. There are no records as far as the Hyrulian Civil War that make reference to his plain, white robe; nor his gold bracelets; nor even his brown, knee-length sandals. The designs were so basic I was certain to find something but again nothing. The priests are--”
--This boy could be the harbinger of death and no one would even know about it. Nothing's been right since he's been here. Half the Kokiri Forest feels dark, and the pristine waters of the Zora's Domain . . . It appears as if they have lost some of their sparkle, their life. I hope it is not too late that everyone has not yet become aware of these dangers.
“Princess? . . . Princess?”
“Yes? Oh. Forgive me, Impa. I was thinking about the other territories, and became lost in my considerations.”
Impa simply gave a gentle smile as if to say, “Same old Princess Zelda”, looked at the book in Zelda's hands and said, “Did you find anything in your research, Princess?”
She paused.
This was a telling question for Zelda. She couldn't tell Impa how her dreams have haunted her since the boy's arrival, but she couldn't lie either—not to a fabled Sheikah, warriors skilled at using knives and shadows, skills which incidentally made them expertly capable of deciphering lies. She would have to choose her words carefully.
“There are times, dear friend, when I wish the Triforce of Wisdom made me omnicient, this is definitely one of those times.”
Impa shrugged, loosening up her entire composure, “Well I suppose there isn't much urgency in the matter. The boy is locked up after all.”
“How many guards are stationed in the dungeon?”
“I have the entire dungeon guard posted there and few extra soldiers from the reserve unit. The watch is divided into three shifts around the clock.”
“A bit too much isn't it?”
“Not if you had seen the skill with which he fought, a lion among kittens.”
“I am all in favor for prior planning, but the boy is already captured. And you are quite ferocious yourself. Wasn't it you who defeated him?”
“I do not relish the victory, highness. It's bitter-sweet defeating the already-wounded. However . . . since the boy is in custody, I feel compelled to ask: what do you plan to do with him?”
That was the question Zelda was afraid of. Luckily she was well prepared. It would be un-princess-like but it would work.
Impa's look growing more inquisitive, Zelda suddenly let out a big yawn and stretched out her arms, resulting in a few alleviating but rude cracks in her back that weren't ultimately a part of the plan.
Impa simply smiled. She probably didn't know what to say.
“Sorry, Impa. Sitting for as long as I have has made my back tense with discomfort. I simply couldn't resist.”
Impa laughed, which threw Zelda off guard. “Quite alright, Princess. What have we not been through you and I that has not allowed us to be this open with one another?”
The question jerked Zelda's heart, and even more so seeing the pearly smile on Impa's face.
“Well let me not detained you any longer. It would be improper to have the Commander of Hyrule's army arrive late to her duties on her first day as Commander.”
They both began walking towards the door.
“Quite right, Princess, but understand that no matter what circumstances may fall upon us I will not neglect my duties as your personal guard; no matter what the circumstance, Princess, my life is your shield for as long as I have it in my power to use.” Upon saying this, Impa was exiting the door but gave an immovable look that seemed to reflected the state of her greatest promise.
“Goodnight, dear friend.”
“Goodnight, Princess,” Impa said with a bow before Zelda closed the door.
With Impa gone, Zelda walked over to take stock of the materials now in her possession. She had the boy's swords, blue and gold twin blades, a red fairy in a glass bottle, and finally an azure ocarina taken from the Royal Family's treasury. Tomorrow everything would be ready.
But tonight (She looked at the pink satin sheets that dressed her luxurious bed) everything would crumble. Tonight her nightmares would rule her sleep, and the deep void would consume everything she knew. Tonight Hyrule would plunder into the darkest chasms of shadow and her dearest friend would die for the third time.
CHAPTER II
The one thing Mario hated more than the fire-breathing, hammer-chucking, turtle-shelled Koopas of every-day life was just not knowing what to do next. On a massive mountain that towered above all creation, Mario had awakened, absent of every memory that could allude to his arrival. On top of that, a feeling lingered in his heart, a feeling that experience had made undeniable to him; alert, poised for battle: a new adventure had called . . . but to where? And for what?
In cases like these, Mario could usually follow the trail of sharp-toothed enemies, which he could always rely on to point the way to some furtive power-star, or a rich cache of gold coins, but the silent, blue sky filled him with more fear than if he had walked into a nest of 100 sadistically antagonizing boo's. Nothing looked normal. The sky had some pretty harmless clouds too. They just floated peacefully by, no suspiciously low and solid nimbi on which to stand and float over to some secret grotto of treasures. Man, what he would have given for a lakitu to show up, and waste a million years of his life to rain down spiny's from the safety of its cloud; at least then he'd know what direction to head.
Mario wasn't really the type to go looking for trouble, but the silence was eerie. Time had trained him to expect some half-baked plot on behalf of his age-old enemy, Bowser. So he made an impulse decision, and started walking up the trail that wound around the mountain, figuring as he walked that the higher he got the better the view he would get of wherever he was.
The trek up made him more aware of the overpowering wave of car-exhaust-like heat emanating from the surface of the mountain. He had to slow down; breathing was getting uncomfortable. That heat couldn't have been coming from the sun, and with that in mind he took into account yet another incomputable, and annoying circumstance. Every difficult moment that passed made him less patient, and less patient still, until the first draw of sweat beading down his face emerged from the brown locks of hair tightly packed beneath his thick, bright-red cap, and traced a tickling-itch of a line of moisture down the length of his bulbous nose, to the outline of his bushy mustache before finally plopping off his chin. That plop was the straw that broke the toad's back. Now he wanted a fight. He just wanted Bowser to hurry up, jump out from one of the large boulders that lined the wall with some fancy, but ridiculous new weapon, grin his evil grin, and say—Mario mimicking Bowser's gnarl and the poignant movement of his sharp nails--“Bwahahaha. Mario, I'm glad to see you. My new weapon will make it be for the last time! Bwahaha.”.
Passing another conspicuously large boulder, Mario found no Bowser lurking.
The giant, white gloves on Mario's hands curled with tension. There had to be something, just something to point him in the right direction.
At a peak where the path wound sharply to present its travellers to the immensity of the ever-green forests and the purity of the sky, Mario's frustration melted as if the heat of the mountain had dispersed when he found a wooden sign posted. The letters looked like chicken scratch from twenty feet away, so he ran to it eager to decipher its message, whatever it could have been. The approach, however, wasn't doing anything to make sense of the lines etched into the sign. It was all just gibbirish even from close up, and didn't resemble words from English, Italian, or even Japanese. The way the sign was written, it seemed like stencils, so Mario took a step back, and became locked in a standoff that made his brow scrinch with intense concentration. His first thought was a general one: signs were made either for directions or warnings. At this point, Mario didn't care which and was more hoping for the warning. But eventually the complexity of the sign's alphabet said exactly what he figured it would say: gibbirish.
Mario did determine something vital from the sign, however. Someone must have written it. Someone who lived close-by.
Walking on, he continued his trek upwards through the arid heat that refused to ease up. Stifling as it was, he knew that if he had any hope to find anyone the best bet would be at the summit. Mario's foot suddenly floated over empty space. His eyes fell to the ground, and he immediately forced his head to swing back, unable however to prevent his gut from advancing. He teetered on the sole of a single shoe, flapping his arms like a crazed hummingbird, trying desperately to balance on the deadly see-saw of his left foot. As he floundered and flailed, badges popping out of his blue overalls sprinkled the air, glistening like a chart of colorful stars.
Of course, stupid, stupid.
He always carried a few items on him just in case; he should've checked.
The ever-shifting weight of his body interrupted his thoughts. He finally managed a perfect equilibruim that left him to helplessly watch as he lost a myriad of valuable and powerful items to the wildlife below.
With one determined thrust, he willed himself back onto solid ground, wasting no time to check the front pocket of his overalls. A light-blue boot-shaped badge; an orange-red, hammer badge; a squiggling, oval-faced, red flower; and finally a power star were all that remained in his inventory. Relieved to at least have something left, Mario fell flat on his back, letting the adrenaline settle and his vision wander upon the solemnity of the heavens. The stillness of the world above suggested the loneliness of the earth below.
This world wasn't home. Maybe it wasn't a home to anything at all; maybe it was a prison world. Compared to the necropolis-like, underground caverns or the fireball-spewing pits of other worlds he was unlucky enough to delve into, the idea wasn't too far off.
He'd been was used to going to other worlds, used to traversing the fabric of space and time through what no one could believe was a mere, man-size, green, PVC pipe, but back home he was just a plumber, a brawler against the ordinary dangers of the stopped-up toilet and the occasional, broken pipe; this wasn't the place for him. A plumber belonged in society where the waste of toilets gathered in piles.
If only, if only . . .
Mario shook his head like a person delirious from fatigue as his sad thoughts bombarded him, until he caught a glimpse of something that contrasted sharply with the reddish-brown of the mountain terrain. Mario jumped to his feet, eyes wide with disbelief.
Platformed on a rectangular crag several feet high from where he was, the curve of a Bob-omb's black, pearl-shaped body stuck out as if to call out from the side. He couldn't hear what it might have been saying, but--
--Who cares? This was a Bob-omb, and where there's a Bob-omb, there's a cannon. If he's nice, I'll ask; if not . . .
Mario noticed the positioning of the crags and zig-zagged up the walls to reach the Bob-omb.
It wasn't saying anything. But the black-orbed body, the fuse at the base of the head, this was unmistakably a Bob-omb. Mario walked around it to get its attention, but no response. He found more Bob-ombs close-by in a den within the mountain face. Dozens.
Eureka!!
He jumped and yelled to get them to acknowledge him. Still nothing.
The heat started to weigh on him once again. The sweat dripping in rivers from his reddening head.
Alright. So they're asleep. I'll just have to wake them up.
Mario wiped the sweat off his face with the length of shirt on his forearm, then walked up to the herd of Bob-omb's with a stomp to his step. He raised his white glove and shoved the first one in front of him.
He'll be mad but I'll explain it to him that I was lost and was just looking for directions.
A hiss pierced the air.
What?! Bob-omb's were sometimes hot-headed but--No time to think about it!
Mario jetted up the mountain path, counting down the seconds before--
--Explosions erupted from the den. One after another in toppling succession, the Bob-ombs shook the foundations of the mountain, producing quakes that collapsed Mario to his knees.
The sound of a crashing wave descended on him. At his feet, his shadow suddenly began to enlarge. Mario's thoughts flashed; he dove forward as far he could, barely escaping the monstrous boulder that blasted through the mountain path. A wide crater scarred the path.
Droplets of shadow then appeared on the mountain and began to enlarge, consuming the entire path at Mario's feet. Stone and gravel rained from above. He dodged left, right, dove forward, then somersaulted back to his feet. All the while a smile was building on his face.
Rocks haphazardly bounced off the ground, forcing his attention to the left, but it was nothing he couldn't handle. This is what he was used to. This is what this world was missing! Here was the action Mario knew best!
Mario braced himself in a fighting stance and sunk his stare deep into the chaos of crashing rocks. In that stare, he could see every movement and possible movement. He could calculate and time when each boulder would fall and at what moment he would need to act. He watched and waited calmly . . .
1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . 4
. . . until . . .
1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . .4
. . . a pocket appeared . . .
1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . 4 . . . THERE!!
With only four seconds to act, Mario thrust himself into the falling bedlam; he exclaimed, as he evaded the intensifying rain of stone with a single, “Woo!”, then a double, “Woohoo!”, and finally a masterful, triple somersault, “Yahoo!!”. Mario's body surged with victory, knowing that he had just escaped.
The giant mound of earth bellowed behind Mario's perfect landing like some animal roaring to spite him. Angry, the avalanche continued its course along the side of the mountain, raging in its wake, where Mario could spy faint billows of smoke emerging from several rigid and colored peaks at the foot of the mountain.
A town!! A town?!
“Oh no!” Mario yelled as he trailed the advancing waves of jagged boulders down the mountainside.
That town'll be crushed.
He looked into his overall's pocket, eyeing the star from his four remaining tools.
Not on my watch!!
He dug his glove into his pocket to scoop the star, before his fighting senses forced him to roll left instead, to avoid the deadly, behind-the-back tackle of a boulder twice his size. Mario went for the star again. He raised the star high when he finally snatched it from his pocket, but his accomplishment left him blind to the same boulder when it veered towards him.
What! It can roll against the slope of the hill!
Mario felt the draft of its spin breeze against his cheek as he stepped away, but it was too close. The star was slapped away from his grasp. Free to pursue its unpredictable nature, the star jounced along the path, but unlike the boulder it continued downhill.
Typical! The star's headed straight into the avalanche.
With the boulder's impossibly persistent attacks, the star bounced further and further away and with it any hope of saving the town below.
Mario found his back to the face of the mountain. He could only watch with frustration as his star jumped off the edge. At the same time, he heard five more boulders rolling down to him. With nowhere to run, the boulder raged to smash him against the wall.
If I dodge, the other five'll tear me to pieces the second I land. That's IF I land . . .
A quick, forward step and Mario launched his body back into an aerial half-somersault that put him face to face with the mountain wall.
Gotta get this right.
The boulder crashed just beneath him, blasting more stone everywhere, as Mario then kicked off the wall that propelled him over the mountain path and then over nothing but empty space.
Got it!
Mario was now falling as his plan intended into the depths of existence below. He quickly accounted for the runaway star, then shot a glance at the boulders gathering around the one who had attacked him. The boulder had finally stopped rolling, allowing him to glimpse its speckled back and the outstrecth of arms and legs.
It was alive?!
His look of disbelief continued to widened as he looked back down and was stricken with horror not when he realized the height from which he had fallen, but when he thought of his plan and realized he didn't have one.
Chapter III:
Pit wished he was dead. At least death would have been more honorable. Instead, his body was pushing rocks through its veins. How could he have been so careless!
'You can only keep flying with your wings for five minutes before you burn up,' my lady says. And what do you do? You try to take on the entire enemy fleet on your own. Five minutes to defeat millions? Good thinking, Pit. If it hadn't been for Pelutena's softening your fall you would have been killed for sure.
Hecate, I hope the centurions can defend Angel Land until I return. Please . . . please hold out for as long as you can.
Pit shook his head more awake. His mistake had cost him his freedom, and for an angel captivity was the worst of fates. Even worse were the conditions of the prison. Orange rust scabbed over on the prison bars. Flagstone walls pulsated with a mildew that powered a disgusting musk throughout the chamber. Worst of all, the cell was making Pit feel extremely weird; like he was thousands of feet underwater with the entire ocean pressing down on him. Truly this was hell.
He sat up on the wooden cot, shooting a current of pain all over. He crossed his arm over his chest, and looked over his body. Someone had dressed the wounds, but the bandages were still wet against his skin; moving an arm, Pit could feel the aggravation in the cuts. These injuries would make escape by force almost impossible.
Injuries or no injuries it was his duty to complete his mission. He wouldn't allow himself to fail. Thinking back on it he'd already broken one his orders, considering he was imprisoned. The Goddess instructed him to “minimize contact with outsiders as much as possible.” On his honor, Pit couldn't allow himself to fail anymore than he already had.
The air felt denser. His head was spinning a little.
Pit closed his eyes to keep the walls from closing in any further.
He remembered he was fighting a woman in a black breast plate, purple hair, and physique of a warrior. It didn't seem like she wore an emblem on her, and in the fury of battle there wasn't much else he could take note of, except that somewhere during that fight he blacked out.
So he was a prisoner. There were only two ways a prisoner could escape from his cell: he either had to blast his way out, or someone had to open the door for him. The palm of his hand empty, Pit stretched his glance to as far as it could reach beyond the cold, iron bars. There was no one . . . as far as he could tell. No use getting someone to open the door if there was no one around, and no way to cut his way out without his weapons.
The small pyre torches on the wall opposite the cells were dimly lit, giving sufficient potency to the darkness as to allow it to vivify the imagination. Pit was use to the crystal-clear venues of his Goddess's palace, so that his eyes saw a few bars from the adjacent prison cells was a feat all itself.
“Hey,” he hoped, “answer me if you're there.”
No answer.
“Hey--
Clangor from the dungeon door screeched to interrupt him. The chattering of armor matching a series of militant footsteps bellowed from the darkness ahead.
Two men.
A faint scraping sound led him to believe that they were also dragging something.
Best not to let them know I'm awake.
Pit vanished from his post, and assumed a corpse-like position on the cot, eyes to the flame where he could best observe.
Two soldiers in padded armor and metal greaves carried another man in their arms. Their captive was obviously some sort of warrior. His blue garments fitted him tightly. Bandages wrapped around his legs and fists suggested a close-ranged fighter, but the cloth wrapped around his face evidenced a thief of some kind.
They stopped and looked into Pit's cell.
“Looks like this one's still out,” he grunted to the other.
“That's what happens when you get on Commander Impa's bad side,” scoffed the other.
“Commander Impa?”
“Yeah, didn't yah hear? The Princess made her Commander of Hyrule's army this morning? Prolly promoted her for taking this kid down.”
“What? Boy, I tell yah they don't even bother to let the lowly dungeon guard know these kinds of things?”
"Yeah well they prolly figure word'll get around somehow." This one shifted his head to point ahead, urging his friend to help him heave the prisoner into his cell, more, it felt, to be done with their business quickly and continue their conversation elsewhere.
Wait! What's he . . .?
In one brilliantly efficient maneuver, the man in blue swiped the soldiers keys dangling from his side as he kicked into a whirl, and tripped the two men with his outstretched legs. The men knocked their heads against the wall and fell limp from the impact
The man in blue then stood before Pit a daunting monument of skill, showing no fatigue at all but spinning the jailer's keys with his finger playfully. Pit could sense the argument in his ruby-red gemmary eyes. Pit would have argued the same of him: “The two of them together had a better chance of escaping, but was it worth the risk to trust him—they were both criminals from the looks of it?” Pit caught himself hoping for the man to take a leap of faith, knowing full well that he couldn't escape on his own.
As though the man's eyes drank a sufficient fill of his soul, the man slipped the key into the door and creaked it open. He then nodded slightly, a seal to the agreement on a silent contract between them, and with his fingers gestured “follow me”. Whether it was by a secret admiration that Pit felt for the man's abilities or his lack of confidence due to his injuries, Pit followed and discarded any ill intentions on the man's part. This would be his ally for the time being.
My lady Pelutena. I shall return soon . . . I will save you. I will save you all.
PROLOGUE--(REVISED)
Within the highest level of the Begnion Empire's reverent, black tower, a corpse began to rise. As it levitated back to its feet, its knees locked back into place. Muscle spasms coursed up starting at the feet. Its shoulders twitched, arms flailed, and then the fingers wriggled insanely. Life craned the head forward and then erect, where on its face the sinewy clumps of red flesh were rift above a layer of bone, exposed by three massive claw marks that reached ear to ear. Finally standing, the wreath of an intense flame of orange and red and white hair, the light-consuming-black dress that cloaked it, and the exposed parts of white bone and torn flesh about the body stabbed the soul with the powerful image of a demon.
Its eyes opened.
“It is futile,” she said, “You cannot kill me.”
Ike and the rest of his company watched with a mixture of cringed brows, awe-stricken faces, and half-hearted smurks as the marks on her face sealed back up.
“What's going on?” Ike said, “This is insane! We defeated her . . .”
“You defeated nothing. This is nothing at all out of the ordinary. Mortals cannot defeat the divine. It is not possible,” returned a stoic Ashera.
This was bad. They didn't have the luxury of dragging out the battle. They were fighting a goddess. Not only that but the rest of the Greil Mercenaries and the other resistance fighters were still outside, fighting for their lives against Ashera's puppet-corpse army, fighting to give them this one chance at victory. Things were definitely grim.
Ike tightened his grip over his divine, orange blade, Ragnell. He looked left to a young man in an elaborate green-trimmed, white robe and gave a curt nod. Even amidst an impossible battle, Soren gave him an impassive look, glanced at the verdant book in his hand and nodded back. Ike then looked right to the flank on Ashera's left at a young man with a leaf-colored jacket-cape half-cut above the abs, and a large-buckle red belt hanging over his pants. Sothe caught his gaze, fanned his arm across the sheaths strapped over his pants and somehow wound up with five knives in between his fingers on each hand. It was do or die.
Soren opened his spellbook. A soft, green light and the intermittent crackle of lightning bolts emerged from the pages.
As this was happening, Ashera used her power to summon two fire-tail spirits, small-bucket-sized masses of wavering, red, barely-tangible light, behind Ike's left and right flanks.
The company formation was a standard pincer maneuver. Seventeen of them split into three groups around the enemy, with close-ranged fighters: Trueblades, Dragons, Hawks, Ravens, and Beasts on the front lines, long-range fighters: Sages and Snipers behind, then Healers and others in the rear. Where the fire spirits were, they threatened the rear line.
The fire spirit behind the left flank raced towards Rhys. Ike smurked. It was a good thing fire-tails weren't made with any common sense. However, on the right flank . . . .
--Sickling, emerald gusts whipped out of Soren's spellbook, funneling into massive veins of power that launched toward Ashera.
“Rexcalibur!” invoked Soren--
The fire spirit on the right flank advanced towards a human-sized, snow-white swan.
No! They're targeting the Herons!
In battle, the Herons were strictly for support, able to double the strength of any man or beast for seconds at a time through song. They were the weakest, most frail units in the company. An attack from one of Ashera's fire-tails and Reyson would be done for. Not only would he fall, the fire-tail's combustion would completely incinerate his body to ash. Battle was an unpredictable hell, but the golden rule for Ike was that he never lost one of his own.
Wind tugged at Ike's red-cape and pushed back his ocean hair. Soren's Rexcalibur spell whirled furiously, slicing the air; if Ike threw away this chance they might not get another.
The fire-tail's ruby core flared as its tails circled around it like a fan.
If I can finish off Ashera, the fire spirits will disappear. Ashera has to die now!
The winds quieted from sickling gust to whistling breeze.
Here goes!
----
It was chaos out here. Comets, wind torrents, forks of lightning, and anything else that could come out of a mage's book streaked over Oscar's head, scattering groups of golden-armor, enemy soldiers. As quick as the turn of a page, the red, green, and yellow light from these spells flashed over the battlefield and blasted apart clusters of enemies to weaken their battalion's assault. Dozens fell dead, but once dead they faded into nothingness, and rays of light shot softly upward only to descend behind the legions of the enemy flanks. Those still standing marched like machines to meet the first line of defense. “Not a single one through, men!” could be heard over the roar of the jungle cat laguz.
What was left of the enemy's first wave of golden soldiers squeezed into the bridge that led to Begnion's Tower of Guidance to meet a variegated wall of laguz beasts, and up-close fighters.
Soldiers in opulent robes and hugging red, ornate tomes worked their way to the front. The bloodiest crimson emerged when they opened their spellbooks.
Looks like you were right Soren: they did use fire.
A great, terrifying roar from the laguz resounded.
“That's the signal! Attack!”
Horsemen leaped over the laguz and charged. They spear-headed through the enemy, trampling, stabbing, slashing, and shooting down every unsuspecting mage.
Fallen, the mages' dead bodies faded away and then vanished with upward beams of amber light; a rain of light then immediately fell over the horizon of the enemy flanks. They would be seen again.
This certainly is crazy. We kill them and they just come back.
Despite the impossibility of victory, Oscar breathed with a rich excitement.
Geoffrey lead the assault. Oscar marveled at the menace of his strength as at that moment furious branches of electricity arching above reflected magnificently on his emerald-tinted-platinum armor, a spectacle made more intense by what Oscar knew of the man's background. There just wasn't anything more inspiring than a man who worked his way up from bottom to being the commander of the Crimean Royal Knights. Looking at him, none could have guessed that a man his age could demand some much respect, and perhaps that fact made him that much more fearsome. He was a supremely skilled warrior and like all the others ready to lay down their lives on this bridge, he rested on the cusp of greatness. To fight with such men, for so noble a cause impressed the tranquility of absolute contentment on the deepest level of Oscar's soul. If need be, he was ready to die.
“The enemy's line is broken. Kill all the ones left on the bridge!” Geoffrey yelled before drawing his armorslayer and decapitating a hulking sentinel.
A shade of red armor over an equine brown jetted past Oscar; Kieran dove in first, He made sure Oscar saw this, and as soon as he felt Oscar was watching, Kieran impaled a chest-plated swordmaster with his javelin, then equipped his silver lance and annihilated an axe general with a critical hit through the heart. Turning back, the look on his face said, “Top that.”
Oscar leaned into his horse, whirling his lance with both hands seemingly effortlessly.
This was a ploy he had once theorized when out of sheer curiosity he trained with Volke once.
“You're dead,” Volke told him, holding a knife to his throat “Luckily, you did manage to kill my coat. Admirable,” he incited, “Deception. That is why you lost. Give people a reason to believe in a lie and their lives are yours to extinguish,” Then he cut free a hefty sac hanging on Oscar's hip and let it fall into his hand. “My fee for the training and the advice; consider your life . . . complementary.”
A reason to believe in a lie. This is the highest quality lance. A highly dense metal composes the steel-hue bar and beryl-colored point. Finely thin, serrated edges, also, lay at the blade itself. But it's the weight that matters. Spinning it like this who would believe its actually a 65 pound beam of death?
To make killing a man as easy as wishing for it, that's why it was called the Wishblade.
Oscar shot into the ruck of soldiers, spinning his lance to a whistling velocity. A heaving sentinel raised his sword to catch Oscar's Wishblade. With a crash, the sword shattered in the sentinel's hands as the Wishblade cut a black hole--flesh, and bone, and metal yeilding as one and the same--from the top of the shoulder to the lowest rib.
With only the effort of spinning his lance, Oscar cleaved through seven more stragglers around the red-armored Kieran. When at once the bodies toppled over, they vanished to mystical light. Oscar turned his squinted glanced to Kieran and smiled the most gentle smile.
Maybe next time Kieran.
“The next wave is advancing! Paladins fall back!” ordered Geoffrey, using all the power of his voice to speak over the explosive volley of magic.
The pack of laguz advanced; so did the melee fighters.
As Oscar retreated, a sentinel barred his way and another started to approach him from the left, which being right-handed worked to his disadvantage.
He lunged on the first one immediately.
Oscar quickly retracted his Wishblade lance, splaying chunks of gold armor and blood on the limestone blocks of the bridge, then fanned his lance around over his head with both hands. He reacted to a blur in the corner of his eye, swiveled his head to a small degree, hearing the echoing slice of a silver lance's point, and buried his Wishblade into the slit on the other general's helmet. Before Oscar could free his weapon, two more soldiers in loose garments that ran to their feet, swords tightly clenched in one hand, Trueblades, approached him and his horse from behind.
Trueblades always managed the first strike with invaluable vantage. To devote all of their focus on a single strike characterized their best defense against their lack of armor and relatively frail constitutions. One strike from a Trueblade almost always spelled the end.
They poised for attack.
Oscar kicked his magnificently muscular mare. Agitated, its legs snapped up and bashed the swordsmasters in the face with its steel-printed hoves.
There's no enemy vantage in a surprise attack.
The trueblades vanished in light. Oscar thanked his on-horse-back defense training he received during his short term as a Crimean Knight and continued on.
The laguz pounced on the few enemy that were left, tearing torsos with knife-sized claws and shredding armor with vorpal fangs. The melee fighters cleaned up with earth-splitting strikes to the head. All of this happened before the third volley crashed on the ground.
However, there had been something which Oscar couldn't shake off his mind. It was nothing really, but then again he'd never been wrong before. An intuition, it was.
In front of him, the Tower of Guidance lay engulfed in gold light, its opaque architecture transformed to a sun-like beacon. It was a sign of Ashera's power. Up until now light from the tower had been shining over the battlefield in a soft blanket. However, looking at it now, Oscar had to shade his eyes.
Was Ashera's spell getting stronger?
CHAPTER I
Before time began, before spirits and life existed, three great Goddesses descended upon the chaos that was Hyrule. Din,the Goddess of Power; Naryu, the Goddess of Wisdom; and Farore, the Goddess of Courage.
Din, with her strong flaming arms, she cultivated the land and created the red earth. Nayru poured her wisdom onto the earth and gave the spirit of law to the world. Farore, with her rich soul, produced all life forms who would uphold the law.
The three great goddesses, their labors completed, departed for the heavens. And golden sacred triangles remained at the point where the goddesses left the world. Since then, the sacred triangles have become the basis of our world's providence. And, the resting place of the triangles has become the Sacred Realm.
Nothing in the History of Hyrule. Zelda closed the leather-bound tome and piled it atop the tower of other volumes that had offered her no helpful information. Among the rejects were The Sacred Realm: Dimensional Theorems, Astronomy, and Creatures of Legend.
Zelda breathed out.
Most of the castle's guards had already turned in for the night. The orange glow from her fireplace was probably like a maritime beacon from this height. Still in her royal white and pink gown, she wished very much to lay her mind to rest. Through the open-air windows the chirp of crickets offered a homeopathic orchestra, but a look outside at the flush of glittering moonlight compelled her to continue working.
Again she reached for Creatures of Legend certain she missed something, and planted it on her table next to a vellum scroll filled with the cause-and-effect chain of her annotations: “Strange reports from the outlying villages”; “Hyrule field not safe.”; “The stars seem to be changing course”; “Have to do this alone”.
Let's see. Leever . . . Like Like . . . Mad Scrub . . . Majora's Mask. Ciiirrrcaaa? . . . one-hundred years ago.
Before she could continue, a knock came from her door. It would be Impa come at her request.
Zelda walked from the opposite end of the room to her chamber door, magically guiding the stack of books on her desk to the empty shelves with the direction of her hand. When she answered the door, a warrior in black garments and purple hair, Impa, walked in noticing no books out of place.
Good, she does not suspect anything.
Once she closed the door behind her, Impa presented Zelda with a bulk wrapped in black cloth, which she took from behind her back.
“Here are the items you requested, Princess.”
As Zelda reached out to receive them, Impa's Sheikah senses rose to the surface.
“Princess, is everything alright?” Impa stared immovably, seeking--as it seemed--to find any reason to appease a fear that her former charge might be in danger.
Zelda yearned to say no, but she thought of the result: Impa would certainly try to protect her. She couldn't permit Impa to follow. It was on that basis Zelda promoted her, to keep her situated in the safety of the castle.
“Everything is as the Goddesses will it to be Commander Impa. I am certain you realize as Commander your priority no longer falls on my personal safety but on the citizens of Hyrule.”
Zelda could tell Impa was beset by how mechanically she had come across with her formality. She had to remember that this was her trusted teacher and confidant in front of her, and that made her twice capable of reading the troubles of her heart. It was likely she had just given away the existence of her concern, her fear for her kingdom; but at least not the nature of it.
“Forgive me, dear friend,” Zelda said cutting off Impa's potentially probing reply, “The hours have been long since the boy came to us two days ago. I've been reading into various omens to explain his arrival and his origins, and that has consumed much energy.”
“You shouldn't push yourself so hard, Princess. The boy isn't going anywhere. Hyrule's dungeons are reinforced with a strong magic that suppresses a prisoner's defiant nature. Also the castle priests are already working night and day to find the answers to those questions.”
“A Princess must do all that she can to protect the state of her kingdom, Impa. Alas I am the only one seated on the throne and so the task to lead my people cannot be taken lightly. I am sure as Commander you feel the same passions that I do?
“And what passions are those, Princess?”
“Those inner passions that call for one to give up their life to preserve those of others.”
“I hope that I have not made you think those passions so subtle in me that I must verify them even after all these years that you have been under my care.”
“Of course not. Of all those years, now more than ever do I feel that you would give your life in exchange for mine.”
“And without hesistation, Princess Zelda.”
Zelda watched with a strong enough gaze to conceal the sadness she felt as Impa held a cluched fist tight to her chest, very near her heart.
The firm posture, the confident glare of a duty-bound warrior, Zelda had to turn away towards her books to conceal the glaze emerging in her eyes. She said nothing for more than a moment.
“. . . Going back . . . to the castle priests; Have their efforts yielded any discovery?” she finally managed, sufficiently deafening the crackle in her voice with the sum of her willpower.
It took Impa a second longer than usual to answer. “None. The boy is . . . Well, we've tried every angle of research. We tried to trace his origins to any tribesmen known for having wings; we thought to speak to Baluu, the red dragon of the skies, who is said to grant wings to those who have earned his protection. But we dismissed the idea on account that Baluu grants brown wings not white ones. It was a dead end. Then we thought to find him by knowing the origin of his garments.”
“That was quite clever,” Zelda said, turning to face Impa with an open book in her hands.
“Thank you, Princess, but it was regrettably a dead end. There are no records as far as the Hyrulian Civil War that make reference to his plain, white robe; nor his gold bracelets; nor even his brown, knee-length sandals. The designs were so basic I was certain to find something but again nothing. The priests are--”
--This boy could be the harbinger of death and no one would even know about it. Nothing's been right since he's been here. Half the Kokiri Forest feels dark, and the pristine waters of the Zora's Domain . . . It appears as if they have lost some of their sparkle, their life. I hope it is not too late that everyone has not yet become aware of these dangers.
“Princess? . . . Princess?”
“Yes? Oh. Forgive me, Impa. I was thinking about the other territories, and became lost in my considerations.”
Impa simply gave a gentle smile as if to say, “Same old Princess Zelda”, looked at the book in Zelda's hands and said, “Did you find anything in your research, Princess?”
She paused.
This was a telling question for Zelda. She couldn't tell Impa how her dreams have haunted her since the boy's arrival, but she couldn't lie either—not to a fabled Sheikah, warriors skilled at using knives and shadows, skills which incidentally made them expertly capable of deciphering lies. She would have to choose her words carefully.
“There are times, dear friend, when I wish the Triforce of Wisdom made me omnicient, this is definitely one of those times.”
Impa shrugged, loosening up her entire composure, “Well I suppose there isn't much urgency in the matter. The boy is locked up after all.”
“How many guards are stationed in the dungeon?”
“I have the entire dungeon guard posted there and few extra soldiers from the reserve unit. The watch is divided into three shifts around the clock.”
“A bit too much isn't it?”
“Not if you had seen the skill with which he fought, a lion among kittens.”
“I am all in favor for prior planning, but the boy is already captured. And you are quite ferocious yourself. Wasn't it you who defeated him?”
“I do not relish the victory, highness. It's bitter-sweet defeating the already-wounded. However . . . since the boy is in custody, I feel compelled to ask: what do you plan to do with him?”
That was the question Zelda was afraid of. Luckily she was well prepared. It would be un-princess-like but it would work.
Impa's look growing more inquisitive, Zelda suddenly let out a big yawn and stretched out her arms, resulting in a few alleviating but rude cracks in her back that weren't ultimately a part of the plan.
Impa simply smiled. She probably didn't know what to say.
“Sorry, Impa. Sitting for as long as I have has made my back tense with discomfort. I simply couldn't resist.”
Impa laughed, which threw Zelda off guard. “Quite alright, Princess. What have we not been through you and I that has not allowed us to be this open with one another?”
The question jerked Zelda's heart, and even more so seeing the pearly smile on Impa's face.
“Well let me not detained you any longer. It would be improper to have the Commander of Hyrule's army arrive late to her duties on her first day as Commander.”
They both began walking towards the door.
“Quite right, Princess, but understand that no matter what circumstances may fall upon us I will not neglect my duties as your personal guard; no matter what the circumstance, Princess, my life is your shield for as long as I have it in my power to use.” Upon saying this, Impa was exiting the door but gave an immovable look that seemed to reflected the state of her greatest promise.
“Goodnight, dear friend.”
“Goodnight, Princess,” Impa said with a bow before Zelda closed the door.
With Impa gone, Zelda walked over to take stock of the materials now in her possession. She had the boy's swords, blue and gold twin blades, a red fairy in a glass bottle, and finally an azure ocarina taken from the Royal Family's treasury. Tomorrow everything would be ready.
But tonight (She looked at the pink satin sheets that dressed her luxurious bed) everything would crumble. Tonight her nightmares would rule her sleep, and the deep void would consume everything she knew. Tonight Hyrule would plunder into the darkest chasms of shadow and her dearest friend would die for the third time.
CHAPTER II
The one thing Mario hated more than the fire-breathing, hammer-chucking, turtle-shelled Koopas of every-day life was just not knowing what to do next. On a massive mountain that towered above all creation, Mario had awakened, absent of every memory that could allude to his arrival. On top of that, a feeling lingered in his heart, a feeling that experience had made undeniable to him; alert, poised for battle: a new adventure had called . . . but to where? And for what?
In cases like these, Mario could usually follow the trail of sharp-toothed enemies, which he could always rely on to point the way to some furtive power-star, or a rich cache of gold coins, but the silent, blue sky filled him with more fear than if he had walked into a nest of 100 sadistically antagonizing boo's. Nothing looked normal. The sky had some pretty harmless clouds too. They just floated peacefully by, no suspiciously low and solid nimbi on which to stand and float over to some secret grotto of treasures. Man, what he would have given for a lakitu to show up, and waste a million years of his life to rain down spiny's from the safety of its cloud; at least then he'd know what direction to head.
Mario wasn't really the type to go looking for trouble, but the silence was eerie. Time had trained him to expect some half-baked plot on behalf of his age-old enemy, Bowser. So he made an impulse decision, and started walking up the trail that wound around the mountain, figuring as he walked that the higher he got the better the view he would get of wherever he was.
The trek up made him more aware of the overpowering wave of car-exhaust-like heat emanating from the surface of the mountain. He had to slow down; breathing was getting uncomfortable. That heat couldn't have been coming from the sun, and with that in mind he took into account yet another incomputable, and annoying circumstance. Every difficult moment that passed made him less patient, and less patient still, until the first draw of sweat beading down his face emerged from the brown locks of hair tightly packed beneath his thick, bright-red cap, and traced a tickling-itch of a line of moisture down the length of his bulbous nose, to the outline of his bushy mustache before finally plopping off his chin. That plop was the straw that broke the toad's back. Now he wanted a fight. He just wanted Bowser to hurry up, jump out from one of the large boulders that lined the wall with some fancy, but ridiculous new weapon, grin his evil grin, and say—Mario mimicking Bowser's gnarl and the poignant movement of his sharp nails--“Bwahahaha. Mario, I'm glad to see you. My new weapon will make it be for the last time! Bwahaha.”.
Passing another conspicuously large boulder, Mario found no Bowser lurking.
The giant, white gloves on Mario's hands curled with tension. There had to be something, just something to point him in the right direction.
At a peak where the path wound sharply to present its travellers to the immensity of the ever-green forests and the purity of the sky, Mario's frustration melted as if the heat of the mountain had dispersed when he found a wooden sign posted. The letters looked like chicken scratch from twenty feet away, so he ran to it eager to decipher its message, whatever it could have been. The approach, however, wasn't doing anything to make sense of the lines etched into the sign. It was all just gibbirish even from close up, and didn't resemble words from English, Italian, or even Japanese. The way the sign was written, it seemed like stencils, so Mario took a step back, and became locked in a standoff that made his brow scrinch with intense concentration. His first thought was a general one: signs were made either for directions or warnings. At this point, Mario didn't care which and was more hoping for the warning. But eventually the complexity of the sign's alphabet said exactly what he figured it would say: gibbirish.
Mario did determine something vital from the sign, however. Someone must have written it. Someone who lived close-by.
Walking on, he continued his trek upwards through the arid heat that refused to ease up. Stifling as it was, he knew that if he had any hope to find anyone the best bet would be at the summit. Mario's foot suddenly floated over empty space. His eyes fell to the ground, and he immediately forced his head to swing back, unable however to prevent his gut from advancing. He teetered on the sole of a single shoe, flapping his arms like a crazed hummingbird, trying desperately to balance on the deadly see-saw of his left foot. As he floundered and flailed, badges popping out of his blue overalls sprinkled the air, glistening like a chart of colorful stars.
Of course, stupid, stupid.
He always carried a few items on him just in case; he should've checked.
The ever-shifting weight of his body interrupted his thoughts. He finally managed a perfect equilibruim that left him to helplessly watch as he lost a myriad of valuable and powerful items to the wildlife below.
With one determined thrust, he willed himself back onto solid ground, wasting no time to check the front pocket of his overalls. A light-blue boot-shaped badge; an orange-red, hammer badge; a squiggling, oval-faced, red flower; and finally a power star were all that remained in his inventory. Relieved to at least have something left, Mario fell flat on his back, letting the adrenaline settle and his vision wander upon the solemnity of the heavens. The stillness of the world above suggested the loneliness of the earth below.
This world wasn't home. Maybe it wasn't a home to anything at all; maybe it was a prison world. Compared to the necropolis-like, underground caverns or the fireball-spewing pits of other worlds he was unlucky enough to delve into, the idea wasn't too far off.
He'd been was used to going to other worlds, used to traversing the fabric of space and time through what no one could believe was a mere, man-size, green, PVC pipe, but back home he was just a plumber, a brawler against the ordinary dangers of the stopped-up toilet and the occasional, broken pipe; this wasn't the place for him. A plumber belonged in society where the waste of toilets gathered in piles.
If only, if only . . .
Mario shook his head like a person delirious from fatigue as his sad thoughts bombarded him, until he caught a glimpse of something that contrasted sharply with the reddish-brown of the mountain terrain. Mario jumped to his feet, eyes wide with disbelief.
Platformed on a rectangular crag several feet high from where he was, the curve of a Bob-omb's black, pearl-shaped body stuck out as if to call out from the side. He couldn't hear what it might have been saying, but--
--Who cares? This was a Bob-omb, and where there's a Bob-omb, there's a cannon. If he's nice, I'll ask; if not . . .
Mario noticed the positioning of the crags and zig-zagged up the walls to reach the Bob-omb.
It wasn't saying anything. But the black-orbed body, the fuse at the base of the head, this was unmistakably a Bob-omb. Mario walked around it to get its attention, but no response. He found more Bob-ombs close-by in a den within the mountain face. Dozens.
Eureka!!
He jumped and yelled to get them to acknowledge him. Still nothing.
The heat started to weigh on him once again. The sweat dripping in rivers from his reddening head.
Alright. So they're asleep. I'll just have to wake them up.
Mario wiped the sweat off his face with the length of shirt on his forearm, then walked up to the herd of Bob-omb's with a stomp to his step. He raised his white glove and shoved the first one in front of him.
He'll be mad but I'll explain it to him that I was lost and was just looking for directions.
A hiss pierced the air.
What?! Bob-omb's were sometimes hot-headed but--No time to think about it!
Mario jetted up the mountain path, counting down the seconds before--
--Explosions erupted from the den. One after another in toppling succession, the Bob-ombs shook the foundations of the mountain, producing quakes that collapsed Mario to his knees.
The sound of a crashing wave descended on him. At his feet, his shadow suddenly began to enlarge. Mario's thoughts flashed; he dove forward as far he could, barely escaping the monstrous boulder that blasted through the mountain path. A wide crater scarred the path.
Droplets of shadow then appeared on the mountain and began to enlarge, consuming the entire path at Mario's feet. Stone and gravel rained from above. He dodged left, right, dove forward, then somersaulted back to his feet. All the while a smile was building on his face.
Rocks haphazardly bounced off the ground, forcing his attention to the left, but it was nothing he couldn't handle. This is what he was used to. This is what this world was missing! Here was the action Mario knew best!
Mario braced himself in a fighting stance and sunk his stare deep into the chaos of crashing rocks. In that stare, he could see every movement and possible movement. He could calculate and time when each boulder would fall and at what moment he would need to act. He watched and waited calmly . . .
1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . 4
. . . until . . .
1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . .4
. . . a pocket appeared . . .
1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . 4 . . . THERE!!
With only four seconds to act, Mario thrust himself into the falling bedlam; he exclaimed, as he evaded the intensifying rain of stone with a single, “Woo!”, then a double, “Woohoo!”, and finally a masterful, triple somersault, “Yahoo!!”. Mario's body surged with victory, knowing that he had just escaped.
The giant mound of earth bellowed behind Mario's perfect landing like some animal roaring to spite him. Angry, the avalanche continued its course along the side of the mountain, raging in its wake, where Mario could spy faint billows of smoke emerging from several rigid and colored peaks at the foot of the mountain.
A town!! A town?!
“Oh no!” Mario yelled as he trailed the advancing waves of jagged boulders down the mountainside.
That town'll be crushed.
He looked into his overall's pocket, eyeing the star from his four remaining tools.
Not on my watch!!
He dug his glove into his pocket to scoop the star, before his fighting senses forced him to roll left instead, to avoid the deadly, behind-the-back tackle of a boulder twice his size. Mario went for the star again. He raised the star high when he finally snatched it from his pocket, but his accomplishment left him blind to the same boulder when it veered towards him.
What! It can roll against the slope of the hill!
Mario felt the draft of its spin breeze against his cheek as he stepped away, but it was too close. The star was slapped away from his grasp. Free to pursue its unpredictable nature, the star jounced along the path, but unlike the boulder it continued downhill.
Typical! The star's headed straight into the avalanche.
With the boulder's impossibly persistent attacks, the star bounced further and further away and with it any hope of saving the town below.
Mario found his back to the face of the mountain. He could only watch with frustration as his star jumped off the edge. At the same time, he heard five more boulders rolling down to him. With nowhere to run, the boulder raged to smash him against the wall.
If I dodge, the other five'll tear me to pieces the second I land. That's IF I land . . .
A quick, forward step and Mario launched his body back into an aerial half-somersault that put him face to face with the mountain wall.
Gotta get this right.
The boulder crashed just beneath him, blasting more stone everywhere, as Mario then kicked off the wall that propelled him over the mountain path and then over nothing but empty space.
Got it!
Mario was now falling as his plan intended into the depths of existence below. He quickly accounted for the runaway star, then shot a glance at the boulders gathering around the one who had attacked him. The boulder had finally stopped rolling, allowing him to glimpse its speckled back and the outstrecth of arms and legs.
It was alive?!
His look of disbelief continued to widened as he looked back down and was stricken with horror not when he realized the height from which he had fallen, but when he thought of his plan and realized he didn't have one.
Chapter III:
Pit wished he was dead. At least death would have been more honorable. Instead, his body was pushing rocks through its veins. How could he have been so careless!
'You can only keep flying with your wings for five minutes before you burn up,' my lady says. And what do you do? You try to take on the entire enemy fleet on your own. Five minutes to defeat millions? Good thinking, Pit. If it hadn't been for Pelutena's softening your fall you would have been killed for sure.
Hecate, I hope the centurions can defend Angel Land until I return. Please . . . please hold out for as long as you can.
Pit shook his head more awake. His mistake had cost him his freedom, and for an angel captivity was the worst of fates. Even worse were the conditions of the prison. Orange rust scabbed over on the prison bars. Flagstone walls pulsated with a mildew that powered a disgusting musk throughout the chamber. Worst of all, the cell was making Pit feel extremely weird; like he was thousands of feet underwater with the entire ocean pressing down on him. Truly this was hell.
He sat up on the wooden cot, shooting a current of pain all over. He crossed his arm over his chest, and looked over his body. Someone had dressed the wounds, but the bandages were still wet against his skin; moving an arm, Pit could feel the aggravation in the cuts. These injuries would make escape by force almost impossible.
Injuries or no injuries it was his duty to complete his mission. He wouldn't allow himself to fail. Thinking back on it he'd already broken one his orders, considering he was imprisoned. The Goddess instructed him to “minimize contact with outsiders as much as possible.” On his honor, Pit couldn't allow himself to fail anymore than he already had.
The air felt denser. His head was spinning a little.
Pit closed his eyes to keep the walls from closing in any further.
He remembered he was fighting a woman in a black breast plate, purple hair, and physique of a warrior. It didn't seem like she wore an emblem on her, and in the fury of battle there wasn't much else he could take note of, except that somewhere during that fight he blacked out.
So he was a prisoner. There were only two ways a prisoner could escape from his cell: he either had to blast his way out, or someone had to open the door for him. The palm of his hand empty, Pit stretched his glance to as far as it could reach beyond the cold, iron bars. There was no one . . . as far as he could tell. No use getting someone to open the door if there was no one around, and no way to cut his way out without his weapons.
The small pyre torches on the wall opposite the cells were dimly lit, giving sufficient potency to the darkness as to allow it to vivify the imagination. Pit was use to the crystal-clear venues of his Goddess's palace, so that his eyes saw a few bars from the adjacent prison cells was a feat all itself.
“Hey,” he hoped, “answer me if you're there.”
No answer.
“Hey--
Clangor from the dungeon door screeched to interrupt him. The chattering of armor matching a series of militant footsteps bellowed from the darkness ahead.
Two men.
A faint scraping sound led him to believe that they were also dragging something.
Best not to let them know I'm awake.
Pit vanished from his post, and assumed a corpse-like position on the cot, eyes to the flame where he could best observe.
Two soldiers in padded armor and metal greaves carried another man in their arms. Their captive was obviously some sort of warrior. His blue garments fitted him tightly. Bandages wrapped around his legs and fists suggested a close-ranged fighter, but the cloth wrapped around his face evidenced a thief of some kind.
They stopped and looked into Pit's cell.
“Looks like this one's still out,” he grunted to the other.
“That's what happens when you get on Commander Impa's bad side,” scoffed the other.
“Commander Impa?”
“Yeah, didn't yah hear? The Princess made her Commander of Hyrule's army this morning? Prolly promoted her for taking this kid down.”
“What? Boy, I tell yah they don't even bother to let the lowly dungeon guard know these kinds of things?”
"Yeah well they prolly figure word'll get around somehow." This one shifted his head to point ahead, urging his friend to help him heave the prisoner into his cell, more, it felt, to be done with their business quickly and continue their conversation elsewhere.
Wait! What's he . . .?
In one brilliantly efficient maneuver, the man in blue swiped the soldiers keys dangling from his side as he kicked into a whirl, and tripped the two men with his outstretched legs. The men knocked their heads against the wall and fell limp from the impact
The man in blue then stood before Pit a daunting monument of skill, showing no fatigue at all but spinning the jailer's keys with his finger playfully. Pit could sense the argument in his ruby-red gemmary eyes. Pit would have argued the same of him: “The two of them together had a better chance of escaping, but was it worth the risk to trust him—they were both criminals from the looks of it?” Pit caught himself hoping for the man to take a leap of faith, knowing full well that he couldn't escape on his own.
As though the man's eyes drank a sufficient fill of his soul, the man slipped the key into the door and creaked it open. He then nodded slightly, a seal to the agreement on a silent contract between them, and with his fingers gestured “follow me”. Whether it was by a secret admiration that Pit felt for the man's abilities or his lack of confidence due to his injuries, Pit followed and discarded any ill intentions on the man's part. This would be his ally for the time being.
My lady Pelutena. I shall return soon . . . I will save you. I will save you all.
; I still remember the wolfos fight when the Mario Bros. got dumped into that extradimensional maze by Bowser. Definitely a keeper; it was a vivid picture.