Amid endless deserts and vast oceans, there lies a tiny island where the last living thing; a simple flower, grows. There is only one left, now. As the sun falls beneath the line of ocean governing the end of the world, its leaves droop, and wilt, falling to the bare earth.
By morning, there is only one leaf left. The plant struggles to survive, the flickering candle-flame of life fanned by the urgent pleas of three divine voices as they rose in song, begging it to live. Their will gathers power, and is focussed, focussed on this one infinitesimal speck of resistance against the grave. Even the omnipotence of these Gods cannot sustain this for eternity. One by one the voices falter and fade away. As the sun goes down again, as the final note dies, the flower dies with it. Shadow covers the world, and the Gods are dead.
The shadows spread, and writhe like living creatures. The sunlit lands on the south of the world are overrun, and eternity becomes the void. Nothing moves. Nothing breathes. Nothing stirs.
Aeons pass. A shadow twists. A shadow moves. A shadow breathes. The shadow remembers a time before the darkness, and rises from the ashes of a dead world. The raw power of the void tears a rent in the formless chaos, and searches. Every shadow must be cast by something. The shadow searches long and hard – for what cast it. The shadow finds an echo of the past, another world, a soul reborn! The shadow gathers all the might of the silent place after a world becomes nothing, and tears the veil between eternity and the void once more. A tiny rent and it slips through. It searches for the soul that echoes its own form – the reborn being of light incomplete, with no shadow.
---
Rays of purest light filtered down through the clouds onto the small cluster of concrete buildings, light that seemed impossibly bright for an English school even now, in the midst of summer. Illuminated by the sun's rays, large groups of children walked past; most of them too old to be referred to as children any more, a wild assortment of people. They ranged from the giggling first year students – the eleven year olds running at each other with shrieks of laughter, their voices still high pitched and squeaky - to the seniors, soon to be leaving behind their school to step forward into the real world, whether that be into one of the many well-acclaimed universities that were open to the more gifted students, to working the checkouts in their local supermarkets, possibly in the early hours of the morning where they were less likely to embarrass their superiors who earned more money for far less work, for no reason other than that they wore suits – often shabby - and sat in a small room signing unnecessary paperwork.
Most of this crowd was broken into smaller groups, often of five or so people, with the occasional pairs standing talking by their lockers, ungracefully throwing their many books haphazardly into the narrow wooden and metal boxes. After careful observation a watcher might see that the groups, though not always, were frequently dominated by members of a single year group. At a quick glance, any student could say the same. There were so many little social hierarchies and boundaries, never to be crossed, that none but a student could keep up with them all. The observer, if they stood for the duration of the short lunch break, would see one figure, seemingly a lone monkey in a sea of apes, emptying his locker, then to slowly trudge back to one of the many rooms he took lessons in. Not for another of the lessons he dreaded, instead to a simple registration period; only a quarter of his lessons length, but still as hated at the rest of his life- both in and out of school.
Long matted locks of dark blonde, almost brown hair framed a weary face that should have been handsome, yet all the features of his face was hidden behind a mask of uncaring detachment. In all meanings of the word 'Mask' his face could be described, for it did conceal his true feelings, hiding just how much he hated his life, the eternal solitude he felt and resented, and, most of all, concealing the constant pain that plagued not only his seemingly endless days of depression, but also his dreams. The pain of those dreams stopped all but a few dreaded hours of sleep every week. The dreams filled with his anguish, his anguish, and his memories. How he hated those memories.
The night before had been particularly gruesome. Willed by the weight of several restless and tiring days, his eyelids had drooped, only for the nightmare to spring into vibrancy as soon as his slumber had crept too deep for him to wake. In the dream, his eyes were closed, and he felt the cold edge of metal against his back, reassuring him with its presence, although he had never been able to say what it could be. He had recognised the nightmare as what it was this time. He didn't always. Clawing desperately at his eyelids, he finally prised them opening, covered in cold sweat and gasping for air. He opened them – in the dream.
---
He stood on a huge, grassy plain, stretching from horizon to horizon. A high stone wall rose up before him, and fresh blood ran down his cheeks, like the tears of Din as she wept for her children. Long ridged grooves stood out on his face, but the eyes themselves stared ahead, frozen in horror. It was dusk.
The pain of his sanguine tears was nothing! As he stared before him, the shadows congealed into a vile figure astride a dark horse. The figure dominated the land around him, looming from the ground to the horizon. From his lofty perch, he seemed to loom from ground to sky, several times larger than the boy rooted in fear beneath him. Behind the figure, a closed drawbridge stood tall – and firmly shut in defiance of the only route to freedom. Flickering torches drew thin bubbles of light around themselves, like divine sentinels against the evil before them. As this man – no, this fel creature – raised a hand in what almost looked like a greeting, the flames flared a cold blue.
"Hero" the figure intoned - his voice a harsh, sneering slur "Link. Boy!" Roaring the last word, he threw back his head and laughed with the harsh rumble and all the humanity of an avalanche. Blue flaring flames and raised hand alike tightened, one into an upraised fist, the other into a black emptiness that rushed to encircle this threatening fist. "The saviour of the light must not have any darkness within the dredges of his pathetic little soul. Should he?" His voice rose, the last two words an imposing, angry shout of rage. "Perhaps I shall serve the Goddesses in my own way, just as they will serve me, in time. Fitting, don't you think?"
"Farore will not permit you to kill me. My soul is hers and hers alone!" Courage, stemming from Link's valiant heart, forced out a show of defiance against the hate and the darkness personified in his aggressor.
"I have no wish for your soul, boy, yet the shadow in your heart… it is mine." The void began to swirl inwards, sparks of a nothing deeper than shadow spiralling outwards into a great orb. "Tell me…what do you think of my power? They will be greater still before I am done with you."
There was no chance for Link to answer. A wolf uncaged, the ethereal evil leapt from fist to force to flesh. Agony filled the world.
No screams tore from his throat. 'Have courage', a voice deep within him whispered. 'Withstand the trial of pain, there are more to come. Withstand the trial of dissolution, there are more to come. Withstand the trial of death, it will never end. The loss of one half of your soul is a loss that you must overcome. Let what comes, come. I watch over you. I guide your footfalls. I am your divine warden.' The presence of a Goddess was unnatural, and powerful. Her being entrapped within his form was more than his soul could bear. The centre of his being tore apart, weakened by shadow-magic, savagely destroyed by the embrace of courage and life itself.
A formless shadow was ripped from Link's body, emanating from everywhere and nowhere. It pooled together in front of his eyes, and was grasped firmly by the figure from hell. Consciousness was a fading memory, even within the dream. Writhing in intolerable torment, Link slipped into real sleep. Restless, and tortured, yet free from the black phantom which repeated this act of desecration every time he dared to sleep.
---
A large rubber ball shot through the air, and impacted with the side of Link's head, sending him to the ground. A single drop of blood formed in the corner of his mouth, eerily reminiscent of the dream. By the sniggers coming from the direction of the ball, it was no accident.
He turned sad, reproachful eyes on the group of brash youngsters who were already disinterested in their petty attack, only to meet their backs with his gaze. They simply didn't care enough to watch him fall. He was nobody.
She was somebody. Long, golden hair sweeping down her back, braided in places, she was the embodiment of elegance. She was not attractive, in the conventional sense, yet had an overwhelming archaic beauty that even the most unobservant lout could see. She swept past the brazen youths, towards Link.
She bent down, and Link could only stare in amazement and wonder. He couldn't help but wonder if she was really going to – she picked up a tiny glittering object from the ground beside him. It was an earring. Another tear almost formed then, one not of blood, before Link pushed away the flood of misery that washed over him. It was his own fault for allowing himself to believe someone cared. Or so he told himself.
"Zelda…" he murmured to himself, so softly even she could not hear him, so close they almost touched as delicate fingers closed around the miniscule jewel. He could feel no vehemence towards her. The group had retrieved their ball from where it had rolled, and began their old game anew. As before, the ball shot out towards Link. He didn't even think they were aware of what they were doing to him. They can't have been, because this time there was something else – someone else – in the way.
Link glanced at the ball as it sped towards Zelda, and the back of his left hand suddenly began to twitch, an irritating itch that almost knocked him off balance. The hand shot out, almost of its own volition. Link could barely realise what he was doing. His hand came into contact with the ball, a hair's breadth away from Zelda's silken hair. The ball stopped. Zelda turned her face, and gave a squeak of shock, more than pain, as her nose was crushed against the ball held by Link's fingertips. Naturally, he dropped the ball quickly, and was grateful she thought it to have been kicked at her, rather than blaming him. Her back had also been turned. Nobody had seen what Link had done. Nobody important saw.
He brooded on this for the rest of the day, the itching hand a constant reminder. The itch faded, for a while, almost dying away, but then something completely unexpected happened. Zelda wandered into a lesson, late. Some note or other was clutched in her hand, and she explained at great length about trivial events delaying her. A younger student injuring himself, or herself – itself, Link would have said, but in a fond way. Young children could be nice, before they grew up and were corrupted. He liked them as much as he could be said to like anyone.
More than anyone else, he despised Zelda. He loathed her for her impossible perfection and impeccable charisma. He detested her for her huge ring of friends and admirers. He hated her above all else – for being so unattainable. Always, he had harboured affection towards her, never able to act on it. How could he, when he couldn't even speak to a person he couldn't care less about? Lust burned in his heart. Not love.
Being late, all the seats in the room were occupied save for one. The one that nobody would sit in unless necessary; the chair next to Link, the chair she was forced to take. As Zelda sat, Link's heart began to race, and his hand began to itch. The lesson dragged on in awkward silence as everyone about them chatted amiably. Link didn't speak to anyone. He longed to, but every time Zelda attempted to engage Link in conversation, his throat dried and his tongue froze in his mouth.
Minutes, seconds, and eventually an hour – they all dragged by in agonising slowness. At last, the period was over. A bell rang shrilly somewhere overhead, interrupting the lecturing teacher mid-word. Students shuffled and fidgeted, reaching for bags or books, gathering together their things, getting ready to leave.
Zelda pulled back her hair and wound it in one hand, into a long flowing knot. Letting it fall back over one shoulder, she rubbed at her left hand absentmindedly, and shifted slightly before standing.
As she stood, she placed one hand upon the old wooden surface of the desk – right on a thick splinter.
"Ah!" she inhaled sharply, and jerked back her whole arm, away from the sting, like the bite of an institutionalised insect. The palm of her flailing hand caught the back of Link's. The back of his left hand – and flames erupted where their flesh met.
A deep gold flare burned around their skin, shining so brightly. Tongues of flame licked around three triangles of an even deeper gold, emanating from the point where their hands met – gold so deep and so powerful that human eyes could not bear to look upon it and saw only black.
All this was over in an instant. Light, flame, the pain and smell of sickly burnt flesh – all gone. Over so fast that nobody in the room had noticed, save for the black spots dancing across their vision, as if caught in a sudden spell of dizziness. Link didn't notice. Zelda didn't notice.
She rubbed her hand again, curiously – the tiny cut from the splinter had healed, and the tingling stopped. Not worrying about it for even a moment, she smiled at Link, out of a habit of being nice, rather than really seeing him, and left his side with a hasty
"See you".
He couldn't reply before she was out of the room, and was left standing there, alone again. What seemed like hours, but must have only been seconds passed, and then a whispered reply crept past his lips.
*Goodbye… Zelda."
---
Night fell with the eagerness of a pouncing lion, ready to savage its prey. Thick roiling darkness obscured the tiny pinpricks of stars, only the pale eye of the moon glowing forth from the shadows.
Between gaps in the penumbra of clouds, pools of feeble moonlight shone forth. Within one of these pools lay the shadow of a young man, darker than the shadows outside the pool. There was no body to cast this shadow.
The shadow raised its head and screamed a wordless cry of victory. For decades it had searched this world of steam and oil. Grease-ridden air seemed to plague him, but it was worth it. A vile horseless metal chariot rushed past, foul smog bellowing in its wake. The shadow held its ground as it shot past, and the driver shuddered as a rush of cold air passed through his body and his vision flickered darkly for a fraction of a second; all as the shadow touched the driver's body.
It left the body of the driver – he was not what it wanted. And yet…
The shadow could sense it was almost there.
The shadow waited.
---
Link trudged along a dark path, tall hedges and cast iron fencing sealing off the gardens before all the houses by each side of the road from him. Every time he stepped through a pool of moonlight, the back of one hand glittered with a tiny shapeless fleck of gold.
It was a warm night, and he was wearing thick clothes, so he found it strange when a chill burst through him, but it was quickly replaced with a sense of joyous elation. He wanted to open his mouth and yell defiance at everything around him. It was inexplicable, yet inexorable. The feeling faded, and the shadows brightened back into their ordinary depth of shade.
Deep within his soul, tendrils of gold and black wrapped around one another, like fingers of a clasped hand. Had the shadow a mouth, it would have smiled. It smiled – with Link's mouth. His pace quickened cheerfully. He had never felt this way before! He wanted to rush across the darkened streets and dance upon the sky. He tilted his eyes back to view the moon, and casually saluted his sister, the moon.
'A strange thought', he wondered about his sudden affinity towards the moon for a moment, before becoming distracted by something new. The darkness was no longer an obstacle. Every contour and texture of shade seemed almost as bright as day – still unmistakably pitch black, yet also somehow more alive than the brightest day had ever seemed.
Deep within his soul, the shadow faded into the last thin glow of black, and drew itself tightly around the golden light of Link's soul. Black and gold struggled against one another, biting and tearing, until at last all was still.
No longer black, no longer gold, Link's heart beat slowly, a steady measured beat. New blood raced around his body, bringing vigour to his tired limbs. Before he knew it, he stood outside the orphanage he called home.
With a single bound of flexed muscles, barely an effort, Link soared through the air to land on the sill of his window, well over ten feet above the ground. Graceful as a cat, he stepped lithely into the room – his room, and exhaustion overtook him.
Never had he felt so drained, and so alive. Energy pumped through his veins, screaming out for him to move, but his limbs refused to obey, becoming as stiff and brittle as aged lead. They stiffened up completely by the time he reached his bed, and he collapsed like a puppet with severed strings.
Sleep rose up in unison with his falling down, both meeting together in the depths of his being, pulling him totally and completely unconscious.
For the first time in his memory, Link did not dream that night. The empty shell of his being through which a remembrance of evil would seep was now full, and living. He was whole.