The Game of Shadows

So, this came as an off-hand request from Tumblr—and sometimes I do go there and take elements for some fanfics, never a whole idea before, but oh well. This is for Mismagireve. Sorry this took forever. Hope it lives up to your expectations.

Anyway, I'm just going to post it here, see how it goes over.

Disclaimer: Yeah I can't even claim the IDEA at this point. Absolutely nothing original. I basically just threw Dr. Faciller in a blender about one fourth of Twilight Princess, a chess motif, and some medieval fashion (because no one told me no—that's like half my excuse behind everything)

Also I'm going to do something a little different and say this is in in the Defeated Timeline somewhere (As opposed to Interlinking—I don't care where that one goes because it's so damn far in the future it doesn't matter.) Hell, that could take place in some re-unified timeline or something Idgaf.

Chapter one:

"Creda!"

Link turned his head just in time to see Creda drop like a stone. He could hardly believe his eyes. One moment she was suspended there, almost as if she was held up by strings, her head lolling back, looking up, like she was half asleep, or simply checking the position of the sun, arms spread out like she had just pushed a pair of doors open, feet positioned mid-step, still moving, as if her toes expected to meet the ground soon. Her wooden clog balanced precariously, barely hanging on to her flexed foot. Link could have sworn, in that moment, that he saw her say something. Then she plunged down; black hair and white dress flying up, shoe bouncing, splintering, just beyond the reach of her fingers, as she she was stopped abruptly, folded completely, by the ground, ten feet away from him.

"Creda!" Her father shoved past him, pushing him back into the wall of the shed with so much force it knocked the wind out of him. Link put a hand to his chest and staggered forward, just as worried.

"You should not have locked her in!" He said breathlessly, he reached towards her, grabbed a hold of her arm. He felt a slow, steady pulse at her wrist. Her eyes fluttered open. She showed no signs of pain. "Everyone said not to lock her in!"

Her father shoved him back. "Fetch the Sage!"

"Nayru's Love! She still ties to stand!"

And she did. Her head swiveled back, over her left shoulder, craning to get a look at the barn, and her mouth moved again. "Cows." she muttered, then she rolled out of her father's arms, hitting the ground with a grunt as Link and Caulder tried to stop her from moving. She slipped out of their arms, trying to stand. There was a loud crack when she put weight on her right leg, another when she caught herself on her left.

Link tackled her, pushed her down before she could do any more damage to herself. He caught a glimpse of her right calf. He could see the broken bone nudging against her skin under her woolen chausses, trying to stab through it. Creda did not seem to notice. Her foot dragged a line in the dirt road as she moved her leg. "Creda!"

"The Sage!" Creda's father screamed at him.

He was right. He should not have locked her in that room—but he was right. There was no way around it—this was beyond their ability to handle. A Sage had to be summoned. While her father wept bitterly and rocked her, clutched her tightly to his chest as she tried to squirm away, and Link scrambled to his feet, the leather patches sewn to the soles of his hose slipped against his wooden clogs and he fell out of his shoes. He left them there. He ran. Past the fields of barley and wheat, the Cuccos in their pens, a crowd of women washing the linens; table cloths, towels and bedsheets, and hanging them out to dry. He pulled the back door open to the sage's garden, and came to a dead stop.

He carefully picked his way through the garden of medicinal herbs.

Faron, the Sage, was a stooped man, with a concave chest and a hooked nose. He had a habit of wearing green and greyish brown, coating himself with dirt up to his elbows, and blending in with his garden just like the Princess's little lap dog blended in with the marble in the hallways. Link would have nearly stepped on him while trying not to trod on the chamomile if he had not said, loudly, "What is it you need, lad?"

Link reeled backwards, and managed to catch himself without killing a single plant. The old sage stood up to his impressive height of four-and-ten-inches, looking up at Link from under eyebrows over-grown like weeds. He had a booming voice for such a tiny fellow.

"The Carpenter's daughter—" Link felt like grabbing a hold of his brittle, old arm and dragging him. But he knew his place—and he knew no one, young or old, appreciated being dragged. He took a step back, "The milkmaid—Creda. Pray, you must come. She is badly injured."

"What happened?"

"She has broken her legs."

"I see, I see." Faron turned away, gathered up his long robe and shuffled through his garden, getting his hose coated with dirt, moving towards his shed, where he kept his store of ready-made remedies. Link heaved an impatient, worried sigh, and took the longer way around the garden to get the door for him. With out a word, he shuffled in and out again, with a little glass jar filled about half way with a thick salve made of chu jelly, poppy's tears, and an infusion of elderberries, and Link had to wait while he shuffled to the gate. He took the long way again, fetched his donkey for him, set him on it, and guided him, at a much slower pace, back to where Creda and her father waited. It would be faster, Link thought to himself, if he just carried him on his back.

Link guided the donkey by the reins, hurrying it along, though it clearly wanted to dig in its hooves and was only willing to be forcibly dragged. The Sage berated him, "Tis but a broken leg, boy!"

Link huffed. It was much more than just a broken leg, but it was not something he could easily explain, not with out Creda right there. Any explanation, any description, of what he had witnessed, the sudden change that had overcome her, was too hard to explain. It was nothing short of witchcraft. He shook his head, "No—you must come and see for yourself. She had been taken in to some kind of waking stupor—she is truly under the influence of a bad star. Either by curse or illness, she had been left stripped of her will, simply going through the motions of life."

A guardsman passed them, pulling along a pack of snarling hounds. The Donkey grew startled, but the dogs were not snarling at him. Link steered him away as the guardsman pulled the dogs in the opposite direction, raising his one free hand to his green hat to keep it on his head. Link did not know how he managed to hold three leashes and his spear so securely. He worried that he would not be able too, but he did, and the dogs grew obedient as they were dragged away, only tugging occasionally to bark down the trail.

The Sage, instead of scoffing and dismissing Link, tilted his head, straitened his back and took heed of his words, then hastened his donkey along. It usually did obey him, but the closer they got to Creda, the more ornery and stubborn it became, until it refused to move another foot, squealed and hawed in protest. Link gave up trying to move it, and simply tied it to the nearest fence post with a pile hitch. They continued slowly on foot at a shuffling, agonizing pace.

When they reached Creda, she bad been laid on a straw mattress in the breezeway. Her breath was shallow and quick, but it did not seem to be particularly labored. Her legs had already been bound and splinted with the straightest boards they had managed to find, the broken handle of the spear, and rough flax rope. The guardsman that had loaned the wood sat on the edge of the breezeway, boots in the grass, waving the crowd away as they gathered with what remained of his spear—an iron point riveted to six inches of wood. They were peering around one another, baskets of berries and vegetables at their sides watching in fascination, whispering to each other. Across the way, from the pantry, the old hook-nosed crone that did nothing but grind flower and churn butter straightened her old dowager's hump to get a good view. Children looked from behind skirts. As Link wove through them, he heard someone whisper, "The Waste."

He turned slightly, but he could not see who had spoken. He shepherded Old Faron through, then followed. The woolen fabric of Creda's hose had been torn away, revealing a gash, and a seeping, dark stain of blood on her left shin. She had managed to stand again, make her injuries worse, but she could not now, fortunately. Her shoulders were tied down, tight enough that she could not move. Her head turned from side to side, craning up to look at the barn. Her father stood by, wringing his hands.

Old Faron knelt down by Creda, pressed the back of his hand against her forehead, felt her wrist for a pulse, and took the back of her head, muttering to her, "Creda, be a good lass."

She twisted her head away, the potion spilled down her chin and over her chest. The sage quickly pulled the bottle away, so no more of the precious remedy would be lost.

"Hold her head still!"

Link obeyed, cradled Creda's head in his hands, holding her still so the Sage could open her mouth and tip the remainder of the potion into her mouth, a little a time, to make sure she swallowed a few drops. Link knew no instant change would come. At best, if there was any immediate reduction of pain, it would be the effects of Creda's own mind. However she was in her own world, oblivious to the poppy's tear potion slowly seeping through her body. Link laid her head down on the straw mattress again, brushed off a nipping insect, and twisted her hair away from her neck and face. Old Faron turned to her father and demanded, "What happened?"

"I-I don't know!" he said, "She seemed so normal this morning, when she woke up, perhaps a little tired, quiet. Creda normally talks so much—but, just ask Link here, she did not say a word. But her affliction goes beyond simply being tired. She barely ate her breakfast this morning. She did not comb her hair. She dressed, and while we were all eating, she went right to the barn to milk the cows. If—If Link had not been sleeping in the loft..." he trailed off, choked up with worry. Link finished for him.

"She could not get near them. As soon as she opened the barn door, they panicked. They have never been spooked around Creda—they have never had a reason. She walked towards them like it was nothing, like she did not even notice. She could have been hurt if I had not dragged her out. I asked her what she thought she was doing, getting near them when they were trying to kick her head in, and she just said she had to go milk them, and she tried to go right back in. Nothing could keep her out—" he looked at her father, and found himself blurting out, "It isn't his fault. He never thought she would—He should not have done it."

"Done what?"

"We could not keep her out—and it was her. The animals were frightened of her for some reason. Only her. Ophelia went in and milked them. We tried to show her that there was no reason for her to go into the barn, the cows were milked, she could go and help harvest the turnips, but she insisted, she had to go milk the cows. She had clearly gone mad. It did not matter how much distance we put between her and the barn. She would go to them, regardless. All we could do was put her in a room on the second floor, and bolt the door. We never thought that she would climb out the skylight."

"She jumped off the roof?"

"No." her father answered, "She did not jump. She climbed out like the ground was just half and inch below. Stepped out into empty space like it was nothing."

The Old Sage smacked his lips, nodded thoughtfully, turned to the guardsmen, and said, "Prepare to have her moved with the others."

Link and Creda's father turned, "Others?"

The guardsman nodded, picked up his green hat again, brushed off his small, starched ruff, and walked the long trail to the palace, broken spear in hand. Creda began to move a little less. Old Faron explained; "There is an ailment of unknown origin sweeping through Castle Town. I have prayed that it would not reach us here—but it finally has. It has left hundreds of people," he motioned over Creda's body wearily, "Just like this. Blind to their own safety. Simply going though the motions of life, determined to do nothing but work until starvation and fatigue consume them. There have been many deaths and careless injuries—and the disease has only been here a few weeks. Those are the lucky ones, the ones that will at least work. Others simply lay there, they do not eat. They do not rise for anything. They just... Waste away." He turned, looked to Link, then to her father, "Has she been to the town recently?"

A cold pit settled in his stomach. He glanced to her father, too, and waited for him to say something. He did not know what he wanted him to answer. If he said no—that meant it was something anyone could fall victim too, no reason at all. If he said yes, that still meant that he could contract it, anyone that had been near her could. Finally, he did. "She went last night."

Old Faron heaved a sigh of resignation, scooted away and patted his knees. As he got to his feet clumsily, the three-sided silver pendant he wore swung forward on its chain, glinted in the light. Link hurried to help him, and he said, "They will come to take her, soon."

"Is there anything we can do?" her father asked, he looked at Link, "S-suppose one of us... caught it?"

The Sage shook his head, "We do not know how it spreads. In the city it appeared to spread at random, appearing in one house when no family members, no neighbors, were affected. Those who tend the ill have yet to show any signs of the affliction. This is no disease—no cough, no plague of the flesh. It is as young Link described it to me—the gaze of evil simply turns to them. The sages knew it would come to the castle. It is only a matter of when."

"The King must be told."

"The King knows."

"And he does nothing!?" Caulder demanded with the justified anger of a concerned father. Link helped Old Faron step down to the stones that served as a stair into the breeze way. Part of this was simply to put a little more distance between him and the man's anger. He turned.

"There is naught for him to do, Caulder, my friend." Old Faron told him, "The King is but a man and this is clearly above even him."

No one would begrudge him his anger, his feelings of helplessness. Least of all Link. He asked, holding it all back, "What do you propose we do, then?"

"Pray." he replied, "Tis all you can do, Caulder, pray that this plague comes to an end as swiftly as it begun." He turned to the waiting, watching crowd, "Go. Begone. All of you. The King may be on a hunt—but he will still expect a feast with his kill in the evening, clean cloth for his table. After three days he shall return to his bed—are the sheets clean?"

Gradually, they dispersed, looking back on occasion. Link escorted the Sage to his Donkey. It had nearly tugged out the fence post trying to get away, and it put as much distance between himself and Creda as fast as his stout legs could. Link returned, slipped his wooden shoes back on his feet, and sat down in the breezeway, waited with Creda's father for the four infantrymen that appeared, carrying a heavy stretcher made of canvass and smooth, sanded wood. The pieces were hand fitted together, secured with whittled wooden pegs, not with rough rope. Creda was subdued now, and would be for half the day, perhaps more. They untied her, carefully lifted her up, and slowly carried her away on the stretcher. Her father followed, dragging his feet. The anger was gone now—there was only despair.

Link had his own work to attend too. He knew this, but he also knew there were other fishermen, and plenty of people to gather watercress by the riverside, and berries in the woods. He followed, too. He did not want to see just how many the disease had claimed, but at the same time, he wanted to know the truth that had been hidden from them all. Palace servants like himself lead a particularly sheltered life, arguably even more sheltered that the King or the Princess, who were obligated to make public appearances, to leave the palace and see the streets of Castle Town, should she be prosperous or suffering.

He had never really been to Castle Town, himself. He always had the option, they all did. Link, like many servants and workers, and many in Hyrule, were extremely devoted to at least one of the three Golden Goddesses, Nayru, Din, or Farore, some were devoted to all three. And during the week, three days were given, one to each Goddess. Link had chosen Farore, Goddess of courage, prudence, and service. As such, he was given leave on Faroresday, for prayers, contemplation, and relaxation. The servants devoted to Farore usually spent the morning in the castle chapel, praying, listening to Old Faron preach, remind them of her good deeds, her fierce and undying loyalty, the fortitude and piety she would grant them in exchange for their prayers, and of the good deeds of the Hero.

From there, they would head through the small gate in the palace's high wall, head into town, to spend their wages on trinkets, and spend the latter part of the day there. Link spent the day as he always did. He took his bow and arrows and went through the back gate to the open, wooded area that the city had yet to touch, and followed old trails that passed by the most productive berry bushes, took good flint from the bottom of the clear stream, strait, sturdy sticks, and spent the day crafting arrows. Perhaps in the church he heard Farore's words, but in the woods, he felt her presence. Yes, she was the goddess of service, of prudence and courage, but she was also the goddess of life, the forest, the breeze that drifted through it, the sound of flutes and reed pipes.

Farore, be with us. Link reached under the collar of his woolen tunic, took out a braided leather cord. Laced through the cord was a small copper medallion, with a diameter no greater than the first two digits his smallest finger, a rough-cut, imperfect, green stone nestled in the two etched crescents, making Farore's symbol on one side. The back was plain. Usually, words of encouragement were etched there, or locks of hair preserved behind tightly-fitted plates of glass. Link's was plain. He had nothing to put there.

He looked back at Creda on the stretcher.

Then, he noticed something the chaos of trying to restrain her had not allowed him to see. Her shadow.

Link looked at the shadow of Creda's arm on the dirt road. It appeared half-formed, drifting and grey, like ash swirling through water, light passing though foggy, dirty glass, or thin silk. It was no trick of the light—the stretcher, the infantrymen, his own figure on the dirt road, all of them were normal, dark, crisp, moving in perfect time with their steps, but the shadow of Creda's arm, Link noticed, moved just a little slower than her, trailed behind, and the more her arm moved, the more the distance became, it had been just a tad, no more than a hair's width out of sync at first, but by the time they had reached the castle walls, it was too great for Link to ignore.

But no one else saw it. No one else said a word about it.

Link scanned their faces when they stopped so that the door could be opened for their little procession. None of them seemed to notice it. Link looked back to Creda's arm. It had gone still, the shadow, however, still moved freely, swinging back and forth, as if she was still being rocked by the timed steps of the infantrymen. Link gripped Farore's pendant tighter. He could feel the green, sharp-edged stone digging into his palm. No one seemed to notice her shadow's arm, the way it moved.

The doors opened up and Creda was moved again—the shadow of her arm, however, dragged behind. Link stopped short, stepped back, to avoid treading on it. There was no telling what that would do. He skirted to the side, slipped in, and stayed out of the shadow's way. More servants mumbled, pointed, skittered away at the sight, as they made their way through the castle to where the 'others' had been moved to.

The king had opened his ball room, the kind meant for the most lavish of parties. Link had never actually seen it before—as a fisherman and woodsman, the closest he had ever gotten to it was when he took fire wood to the base of Princess Zelda's tower in the wintertime, or hauled grayling and trout, or foraged vegetables, to the kitchen. He recalled details he had heard by word of mouth, about the gilded metal that was always glimmering, the chandelier of glass and crystal. Link glanced up. It was not in use right now, so that hot wax would not drip on anyone. Link had heard once, from a valet who was trusted enough, respected enough, and knew the ways of courtly graces, that during the parties it was freshly polished, and the candles glowed brightly, reflecting on the finely-buffed mother-of pearl, getting caught by the crystal, and painting the room with small, delicate rainbows. There was a stage for a chamber orchestra—the room was large enough for all of the nobility and higher gentry to gather, have dinner, and dance with out ever having to say a word to each other. The vaulted ceiling was covered by large sheets of highly buffed metal, the surface was so pure and smooth, Link could see the scene reflected back at them.

It was hardly grand now.

The afflicted were crammed together so tightly, between cold, unyielding marble pillars, they had no room to move. The soldiers had a hard time carrying Creda to one of the available beds with out nearly stepping on some poor soul. None of them cared to notice. They were either catatonic on their own, or kept immobile by ropes, or one of Faron's remedies. Link pressed himself against the white wall. The marble had a certain soft, fine smoothness to it. Plain tallow candles burned, the windows were thrown open, and the room would need a good scrubbing down before it could be used again. It may look like a ballroom under the still, quiet, wasting bodies, but it did not smell like anyone would want to throw a lavish party any time soon.

They were keeping it as clean as they could.

The thought of Creda in here was horrible, but there was nothing else for her. This was truly the best place, where she would be watched at all hours of he day.

Link looked to the shadows—they were all laying down, but from what he saw, yes, those affected all had the same grey, smoke-like shadows the Creda did. He knelt down, looked around, and lifted the arm of a boy that was just laying there, eyes open, unseeing, unblinking, mouth occasionally moving. He looked at the gray shadow his arm cast on the white pillar, then let the arm drop. The shadow remained, briefly, then slowly dropped down, not following the exact path the boy's arm had—it melted quickly, like a castle of sand slowly collapsing. He looked around again. There was a Sage looming over him, eyes narrowed, arms folded. Link tried, "You—you didn't see what I saw, did you?"

"What did you see?"

"The shadow." Link answered. He took the boy by the wrist again, held up his hand, and looked at the pillar. Slowly, the shadow caught up. Link dropped his arm again. The Sage made a noise of disapproval and scorn. Link pointed, "You—you don't see that?" he asked as the shadow melted away.

"I see a brat playing games." she chided him, "I see a fisherman who does not know his place."

Link shrunk back, cheeks burning red, gaze trailing from her blue eyes to her white wimple, to the silver, three-sided pendant around her neck, resting against the white fabric of her robe, then to the blue sash around her waist, fringed in gold and embroidered with Nayru's sigil, then to the pointed tips of her shoes.

"I'm sorry." Without meeting her eyes, he got up, made his way carefully along the wall. He felt her disapproving eyes glaring holes into his back. Still, he knew what he saw—perhaps the sage had not, but he knew what he had seen. He had seen dark magic at its worst.

And when dark magic was a foot, it was wise for any fellow named Link to seek out the nearest Princess Zelda.

An educated girl like Zelda might be knowledgeable about what he was talking about, with the wisdom of the Triforce, she might already have an idea of what was going on, or at least the willingness to lend an ear to him. She would have the power to do something. There were better sages than Old Faron. He was a good herbalist, yes—but anyone could make his remedies. Even Link could. They were slapdash, the measurements never exact as the ingredients. There were better mystics than Old Faron. But what if she did not see it? What if he came to her, a simple fisherman? She would laugh, dismiss him as a malicious liar, a fear monger, at the very best she would think he was deeply disturbed. A name was only as good as the family behind it and he had no family.

Besides—Link stopped by the wall and looked backwards, to the tallest tower in the middle of the castle—Princess Zelda was doing all she could. She probably already knew about the strange, otherworldly effect the Waste had upon Shadows. She did have the Triforce on her side. Princess Zelda spent many hours in the tower of the Triforce, bathed in its light, in prayer. She had been spending many more days before it, as of late, according to rumor. Now Link knew why.

Zelda did not need him, or his input. She had the foot soldiers in the palm of her hand, the knights wrapped around her fingers, the Cavaliers—her own father's bodyguards!—clinging to every breath she took. Let evil even glance at Hyrule castle, let some foreign king try to take take the Triforce from her. They would have no easy time.

Old Faron was right, anyway. He had work to do. When the King returned from his hunt there would be plenty of feasting and midday was coming. As Link walked past the kitchen, he could see that preparations were already underway, with a host of Pike, Roach and Greyling fish cramped in water-tight barrels beside the hot kitchens, cucoos and geese pinned in, and two fattened hogs awaiting slaughter, herbs and vegetables waited in baskets, covered in damp linen to keep them from spoiling in the sun. Pears would be brought from the orchard soon.

Link figured more of everything could not hurt. The fishpond was just beyond the beehives. He took a loosely woven basket and fishing pole from the kitchen wall, and went down to the lake side. He anchored the basket to the fishpond, with the basket in the water, and waited. He past the heat of the day like this, waiting for the tug at the line, and while he waited, he filled a second, larger basket with the watercress, and caught enough fish to fill the tall, slim basket. As the sun went on its lazy path, and Link found himself looking more and more frequently to the tower where Princess Zelda was surely praying, he wondered why the King would go out on a hunt while his subjects were wasting away in his own ballroom. The only viable reason he could think of was to keep up appearances—but to the best of his knowledge, there was no one to keep appearances for—then again, why feast if there was no new noblemen in the region?

He looked back up at the Triforce's tower. Zelda was sixteen—The king could probably not keep them away at this point, even with a plague descending on the town. It was summer, the people in the ballroom would be easy to hide away. The King could throw a celebration in one of the many courtyards, claim he wanted air, or show off one of the vast, colorful sunsets, or out on the field. Or, perhaps Zelda would think of that. Her mother had passed some time ago, and so the duties of the late queen, hosting parties, supervising and organizing meetings of the head of state, ensuring all diplomatic relationships went smoothly, and that the royal coffers were always taking in more money than they spent, all fell to Zelda—perhaps she was even in charge of making her own match.

It was not his place to think about such things.

He carried both baskets to the kitchens, tucked the watercress under the wet linen, and emptied the basket of fish into the least full barrel. He gathered more watercress—but did not catch anymore fish. It was good not to over-fish the pond. When that task was done, Link took an axe and set to work chopping wood for the roaring fires that would fill the kitchens for the better part of the day, still wondering. What was the cause of the Waste? It was clearly magic. It was as plain as day to Link. Was it some kind of convergence in the heavens? A foreshadowing of things to come?

Link felt a slowly growing fear turning and twisting in his belly, like a millstone turning in a storm.

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