Reason
by shike77
Chapter I
Trial One: the Closed Eye
DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Legend of Zelda, its characters, its races, or blaggity-blag; namely Sheikah, Hylians, and Hyrule in general. The wold-people race, the characters, and this versiojn of the Sheikah-religion-doo-dad is all of my own devising. Take, and I will hand your ass over to a very sadistic group of people who will flame it to no end. Have a nice day.
Well. I know it's not HCS, but… ::coughs, then glances at that story:: … Blah? It's not coming to me, folks. So, I'm working on this instead. Wootage.
I've been reading too many Sheik fics lately… so, I've become a bit obsessed with Sheikah. Wootage. ::innocent grin:: If I mentioned all the Sheik doo-dads I've been reading, you'd all be blinded by the Shounen-ai-ness of it all. XDD!
In spite of this; there's no Sheik, here. No Impa, either. -.- Oddly enough, it's all OC's. Just an amusing little drabble that caught my sole attention these past few days. Hehe. I've been reading waaay too much Terry Brooks. ::rolls eyes:: As if THAT'S possible. XD!
So, about the story; it's really confusing, yes. Some chapters will be in the current time. Meaning this one. ;; These are the trial chapters, and occasionally I might have one or two in between. Or something. There will be chapters that take place in the past—some chapters that are to help you understand the background of the situation, characters, and exactly why these things are happening. I'll let you know beforehand. Don't panic.
… And before anyone asks how I manage this crap—eat your fruits. ::blinks:: Not kidding around—I was eating fruit throughout writing most of this chapter. In spite of the fact that apples can give me diarrhea. o.O
He was staring at her, she knew. He was staring as she unbound the black cloth that wound about her wrist like bandages, binding away old scars so that the world may not see them. Her entire lower arm was criss-crossed with them—those white marks that were hidden from all but whom they served by several layers of cloth.
This boy, the youngest of the Royal Family, yet the single son born to an elderly King. The man was in his deathbed—minor politicians had taken over ruling the commonfolk for the time-being, all biting at each other's heels and praying for the role of regent.
It was rare someone should look and see a Sheikah in the courts these days. It was believed that the Sheikah were dying away, and no one really seemed to care. In truth, Sheikah were not in their former numbers. But they would not be seen where they did not wish it.
No one saw the Sheikah in the courts—but they saw would-be-assassins with miniscule needles in their throats. That was enough for most to claim that Sheikah were still quite alive.
He was watching as she ceremoniously folded the black cloth and placed it on the table. She slipped off the small bandages on her fingertips and knuckles, those finding their own place, as if premandated by some higher forces.
She knelt and began to unwind the cloth on her lower legs, pitch gathering in dark-skinned hands. The material was soft and sleek—woven using methods secret as the rest of the Sheikah's lives. Secrets that became harder to keep once you were 'that age'—the hardest stage in anyone's life, when emotions and changes threaten to overtake who you are. Some she had trusted had fallen prey to those urges—apparently, from what she understood, the boys had it worse. But that was all right. She had been rapidly growing stronger with each day.
She folded up the cloths, then slipped off her boots. Treated cloth with leather bottoms, they barely made a sound as she set them down on the stone floor. Discernable only to the trained ear. Her movements liquid, she gingerly slipped the overshirt bearing the Sheikah standard over her head. After it was folded and settled into its place on the table, she slowly began to unravel the length of fabric wound about her torso.
It was about those years that she first found she was distancing herself from her charge, half a year younger than herself. In those years she went from guardian playmate to just another who would protect him with her life—only, she was the head of that small group. She was turned into his tutor. She knew the ways of the world, having been taught them earlier on herself. She took over training him with weapons and linguistics. Politics, she mused, the Sheikah had nothing to do with—but she was to encourage the growth of strong ethics and love for the people he must rule. He must have empathy, and the strength to make the decision for the common good.
That length found its own place on the table, and she slowly slipped off the shirt underneath it. It was a tight fit
She had been surprised when she found that he obeyed her commands and remained silent throughout the process—at this moment, she knew he started and began to move away, wondering at her motives for having him there. He must have really given a good look into the shadows, then, and noticed the Sheikah gathered in the shadows, the people he knew how to look for. She would have assured him if she could. But this part of the ceremony could not be interrupted. No matter what happened.
The rest of her clothing was ceremoniously placed upon the table—all save the facial mask. She stood naked, facing him, not noticing the chill that hung about them in the midnight air, in this place that held the smell of ritual preparations and cleansing. This place of shadows and dark—the only light a missing wall off to one side, brought about by the little light that shone in from the remainder of the moon. The first day.
The Sheikah in the shadows stepped forwards—all members of his personal guard. Few he'd ever seen face-to-face, only lurking in his footsteps.
"My Lord and Prince," she began, softly, breaking the spell of the moment. His eyes—crystalline blue that glowed in the lack of light—shot up from where he'd been staring since she'd taken off her shirt to meet her own, their bright crimson fire undaunted by hair that fell in front of her eyes or the cowl she still wore. "There is something that needs explaining."
He nodded, slowly, glancing at those gathered around them nervously.
"You are aware that your father has done many wrongs since he has come to the throne."
She paused, and after a moment, he nodded dejectedly, as if it was a painful reminder.
"He came to the throne young. And, it is becoming clear to us that you will be gaining your crown soon, if not this very week."
He stiffened a little at that, biting his lip fiercely at the words. In spite of this discomfort, her held her gaze, as if afraid that one small glance elsewhere would send him off into a daze he would be unable to get out of. She admired that in him—the ability to know his own limits.
"I have taught you all I can," she added, softly, bringing her left hand up to touch the cowl that still covered her face, as if it were a lifeline to which she clung all but desperately. "Now it is time that you prove that I have taught you well."
She narrowed her eyes, as if she were suddenly looking straight into his soul, the fire within her twin orbs slowly gathering in the wind. "If you agree, you will be ready to face the hardships in your coming years. There will be no backing down from these three trials. If you fail them, you will die."
He watched her for a long moment, considering what she was proposing. A strange expression crossed his face, for a moment, then he nodded. "I… I will do whatever it takes."
I will do whatever it takes. Six words to seal a man's destiny. So be it.
She turned away from him, breaking eye contact. Her back turned to him, she instructed, "Turn away from me and take your clothing off, then."
The Sheikah heard the rustle of clothing—a brown tunic and weatherworn breeches, which he neatly folded and gingerly placed them on the table he was standing beside.
"The first trial is stealth."
Of the three red-eyed women who stood nearby, Naiume stepped forwards, holding various pieces of worn leather cloth. She began to bind these about the naked Sheikah's body ceremoniously, using the smaller to secure the larger in place about her. Dayum, one of the men, began doing the same for the young Hylian prince.
"It is in the beginnings of the world that the Sheikah found the need to disguise our movements and hide our presence."
Naiume opened three jars of paint and began to apply the colours, by hand, to her face.
"We so clothed ourselves in the skins of our prey, and painted ourselves with the juices of berries and the blood of the slain."
The designs were applied to every bit of skin left bare, and then the paint slipped away. She was handed a spear, a bow with a quiver of ten arrows, and a knife. All were fashioned with twine, rocks, and sticks. The most primitive forms of these weapons.
The Hylian Prince, she knew, was handed only the spear.
"This is the first trial. I am the hunter; you are the prey. We will both be blindfolded and transported to a remote location far in the woods. You must find your way back to this location without me finding you—before sunrise. You will be forced to use every skill to hide your tracks in the night as I have taught you—and perhaps come up with more of your own. You will also have to track the footsteps of the Sheikah around you as they head back this way."
She was handed a waterskin—not, however, filled with water.
"This is a drink that will turn you into our ancestors—we share common origins, you and I, Hylian and Sheikah. This will take us back there; back to the time when all were one with the Land, Sky, and the rest of the Living Creations. Drink, and your primal instincts will overcome all but what you need for this test."
She uncorked it and paused. "May the trial of the Closed Eye—She who represents the past, the unseen, and the forgotten—begin."
She drank deeply, and slowly lost hold of her thoughts—she slipped into the world of kill or be killed, into a realm of predator-prey, where all she needed were her instincts and her wits about her.
She could smell the stink of the creatures around her—what were they, these strange creatures from a netherworld? They stunk of impurity; of a world where grass and tree were no longer home, where old ideas were forsaken and new embraced. She shuddered visibly—how could anything survive in such a horrid place?
She was aware of a thought deeper within her; something that whispered of thoughts that perhaps she, too, lived in that place. She quickly cast those aside. That was abhorring and impossible. She would not stand such an idea. The wild was her home.
And suddenly she caught scent of her prey.
Teeth bared, she prepared to turn and strike, but the creatures held her at bay. Momentarily, a thought whispered that she should wait. Wait to kill and taste the life's blood. Wait to slaughter and to feast upon the still-warm flesh.
Something screamed at the thought of that. It was hideous to this… presence, inside. This weak presence.
She shut it out and let herself be led away from her prey. She let her eyes be covered. That was fine. She could smell and taste the air, still, and she needed that. She needed to know where her prey was. That was necessary. And she didn't need her sight for that.
She held onto the scent, taste and sound, and kept hold of them all even as she was led away.
She would find. She would kill. She would feast.
Something inside of her was still screaming, as if those thoughts were abominations. But she ignored that.
He was left in a small glade, the chill biting at his skin—a nuisance he could ignore—and the stink of those strange, alien people slowly leaving him. Yes, he was safe from them here… But, he added ruefully, not the one that hunted him.
He gathered the weapon close, removing the binding cover about his eyes, and slipped into the trees again. For some reason, his own scent was so different then that of the forest, so a whiff of him could be caught in the ocean. It was strange—hadn't he always been there?
He remembered, vaguely, a liquid. Yes, a bile liquid that made his throat sting and body ache. That set him apart from his surroundings—marked him for the predator. Luckily for him, she had drunk as well—and it set her apart. She was approaching, silently and smoothly. He needed to find something to get rid of that stench…
He strained his ears, holding his breath, until he heard the river.
He immediately sprung into action, shifting through the foliage around him, listening and keeping downwind. First, he'd rid himself of the stench, then he'd double back farther upstream to find the tracks of those who'd led him away. For some reason, he knew he had to follow them back to the strange, foreign place he'd been in. That bizarre thing made of stone would protect him from the predator.
He didn't like being chased by anything, but he allowed himself to be subdued for the moment. Another time would come when he would take control of the situation—when he would fight back. He was ill equipped for such a thing now, so he was forced to wait. For now, he just needed to be faster and quieter. He needed to rid himself of the stink-!
He soon found the river. He hadn't bothered to set a false trail quite yet—the stink would give him away, and it was a waste of time. Baring his teeth, he clambered into the trees, swinging casually from limb to limb as he pleased. An owl barely reacted to his passing—other than that, he had to chitter to calm a squirrel, but he disturbed nothing and was left to pass.
There was a large limb overlaying the river, snapped off from a tree. It was surrounded by inaccessible pines—he would find no refuge in them, the branches not quite sturdy enough to hold him and no room to catch grip—and steep banks that offered no shore to wade in. It was the only way he could get into the river without too much sound—this part was calm and deep, with no rapids to hide his massing. From that limb, there was a tree on the other side of the river that had partially fallen over several others on the night of some storm—and a large branch wider than him could be accessed by jumping on the log partially submerged in water. From there, he would leave a false trail north, backtrack in the trees, hide his scent in the water once more, then find the tracks left by those alien beings. He needed to follow them.
And he made it sound so easy.
Shrugging that off, he casually slipped off the branch he had been perched on for his pondering, holding on with his hands. If he fell, he knew, he would hurt himself, and he would be unable to continue his flight. He would be caught, and would die. That simple.
That couldn't happen. He must time the jump perfectly…
He began to swing back and forth, muscles in his arms taught and teeth clenched, determined not to make more noise than necessary. Heart throbbing against his ribcage so loud he thought he'd be found, he let go, flying through the air for what he deemed was the longest moment of his life.
He almost overshot his goal—he managed, miraculously, to cling to the fallen tree before he went over, although his momentum caused him to be swung around to the underside of his long. Ignoring the stinging bite of the splinters in his skin, he clambered back to the top of the log in a painfully enormous amount of time, then shimmied down its length closer to the water.
He submerged himself in water at the end, making sure every part of him was soaked in the cleansing element. Releasing his breath in a wild moment of exhilaration once he surfaced, he gingerly ran his tongue along his teeth. Were they always this sharp…?
He ignored that. Of course they were. He was always so wild.
With an extra burst of strength that came from his cleansing of the foul smells, he swung back over to the top of the fallen limb and jumped to catch the branch overhead. He crawled onto it and dashed down its length on all fours, leaping with a wild, newfound sense of freedom whipping through his veins in a wild frenzy of belonging. Stripping himself of misgivings, he snatched the spear from its make-shift holder on his back and left the string lying where it fell. He was only leaving a false path, after all.
He darted northwards for some time, then swung into the trees and wound his way south-and-east, rapidly speeding up as he found hidden reserves of power within. Yes, they had always been there, he knew as he drew his strength from them. He always had known they were there. He hadn't even forgotten.
He crossed the river again, this time with no ill, and overshot the tree he'd flung himself from earlier. Not caring much, he latched onto another tree farther away, not pausing in his flight from the predator as he wound his way about, wildly leaping from tree to tree in an endless frenzy brought about by his freedom. He was always so free, he knew. Something inside begged to differ, but he shoved that aside and paused to catch whiff of his surroundings.
The predator was back on this side of the river, farther away than before but rapidly approaching. Stiffening a howl of anger, he flung himself back to the forest floor and began to dart off, away from the trail he'd been following. A dampness was on the air—he had to do this fast, lest it rain and he lose his only hope of keeping to the tracks.
He ran through the trees at a pace that had his heart pounding in his ears, then, after a good deal of running, jumped and began to fly through the trees again, waiting until he found what he was looking for.
He jumped through a particularly leafy tree, with numerous branches and creeping mold to snag on. Just as he suspected, the spear caught and held, suspended in the wood forever. Good—he wanted to look like he was fleeing blindly in one direction. He continued on for some distance, then swung west and darted off in that direction, silent and slowed down quite a bit to mask his passing.
Convinced that he'd lost her once again, he recovered the tracks and darted after them.
Eventually, he became aware of someone watching him. He didn't mind—they were not in league with the predator, he knew, or they would have killed him by now. They were simply observers in this strange and winding dance, waiting for the end to come about. They smelled familiar, all of them; smelled like he did, after his cleansing in the river. After his wild flight through the trees.
He abandoned that train of thought as he paused to smell for her again. Yes, she had caught on to his trick and was pursuing again. He bared his teeth, wildly, and continued on through the trees, then dropped to the ground and laid another false trail. After a brief moment of running, he laid several more at random intervals, whenever he felt necessary. This was slowing him down immensely—but the predator seemed to be falling for most of them.
He'd taken to following the trail on the ground for some time, now—not only had it aided in his trickeries, but it was faster as well. In spite of himself, he snarled wildly when he felt the beginnings of the rain. He searched for another reserve of strength and wildly flung it open, following the tracks in a desperate attempt to catch sight of his haven before the rain came.
But alas, his efforts were to no avail. The downpour eliminated all clear traces of any passage by the strange creatures, and he eventually began running blind. He'd given up on false trails, and his pursuer would have caught up to him if he hadn't been running so fast.
Eventually, he stumbled over the corpse of… something. Its sudden appearance sent him flying, and he barely avoided crashing into the tree nearby. With a snarl, he spun around to see what it was.
A wolf. A large one, at that; with grey-black fur and eyes left wide open to stare at whomever happened upon the sight. A crystalline colour that looked oddly familiar, for some reason. A reason he couldn't place, so he turned to leave.
Then he was standing face-to-face with someone.
She possessed wolf features—eyes that burned a brilliant gold so unnaturally set apart from anything he'd ever seen, a long nose and the defined facial setting. Her hair was a blur of off-white and soft greys, anything that wasn't braided plastered on any part of her skin it could—and there was plenty. She was cast in a summer garb, with tight-fitted furs about anything that could be offensive. He blinked. What did that… mean? Was there something to that?
She strode evenly over to the dead wolf's body and beckoned he come close. He obeyed, remembering his flight from the predator and knowing he should be continuing.
He was aware of more slipping out of the woods about them and into view—a handful of these wolven creatures, all carrying no weapons, but an air that signified they didn't need to.
The young woman dipped her fingers into the wolf's blood—of which there was plenty, and then reached over and touched his lips.
The flight was forgotten, and he immediately began to lick clean the stained hands. Once finished, he knelt down beside the dead wolf and began to drink from the still-fresh wound, devouring the life-giving substance as if it were another cleansing—and that it felt. The river had left him free of the stink, and this was draining out the bad in him—something holding him back, something that prevented him from being everything he was born to be.
When he fell back, the bottom half of his face was coated in the crimson. He lay on the ground, unmoving for a moment, then suddenly began to convulse. His body shook and tossed wildly, as if something was still fighting exactly what was going to happen. There was agony all over, twisting and pulling at his innards like some form of poison. He wrestled with himself as such until a curtain was flung open, and suddenly he lay still.
Then he felt the outward changes begin. His face began to elongate, then his limbs started to twist and reform, shifting in their sockets and rearranging themselves as they saw fit. The rest of his body followed, gleefully, the process hurrying as he suffered through it, the unimaginable torment about him climaxing as his body twisted and re-formed itself.
Then, suddenly, it stopped.
He slowly opened his eyes, and was aware of how much more keen his sight was. He could clearly distinguish faces that had lain in shadow moments before. He caught scent of so many things he had missed; the predator's own confusion lay heavily on the air. So close…!
He caught whiff of the haven, then, and sprung to his feet. Before he even had time to clamber and stand up straight, he was off.
After a few moments, he didn't bother to stand. He was running faster, and standing on only two paws—paws?—would have been silly. When had he ever stood on only two paws?
The first arrow whizzed past his leg once he caught sight of the safe haven. With a howl of wild, untamed fury mingled with surprise, he cast aside all doubts and bolted towards this place. He was forced to jump over a fallen log, although he aborted the movement as soon as he was clear of the fallen wood to avoid a shot that would have killed him. This cost him precious seconds, as he had to scramble into a running position again, and he was forced to dance to the right to avoid another shot. This one grazed his neck, and, with a snarl, he found his footing again and pressed forwards.
Two more arrows forced him to move slightly left, and he had to pause in his flight as he moved to avoid a tree. The sixth arrow took hair off his tail—when had he had a tail?!—as he slipped around the trunk.
It was a straight line—a path leading straight to his destination. All he had to do was keep on it—but he started to stray even as two more arrows whizzes dangerously close to the right side of his face, forcing him left yet again. And again, he had to slow slightly to move around yet another tree. But he was almost there! He could taste it-!
The ninth arrow took hair off the top of his head, and he snarled his defiance at the predator. He was winning! Victory was within his grasp!
The tenth sliced a deep gash in his side just as he dove into the entranceway of the strange, foreign piece of architecture. He yelped in pain as he tumbled onto the cold stone floor, and was aware of his body rapidly morphing back into what it used to be before he slipped into the grace of darkness.