The Legend of Zelda

Ocarina of Time: Da Capo al Fine

I

"I'll have another," hiccupped the gangly fourteen year old seated on a rickety, splintering barstool. The fire haired barmaid offered a smile mixed with both politeness and sympathy as the young man seemed to sway unsteadily on an equally unsteady stool. She grabbed the tin cup out of wavering hands and filled it with a crown of strong, frothy beer. After his beverage returned, he slurped at it; froth flowing down a sharp, stubbly chin down onto his tunic. Wiping away his beard of froth with a sleeve, he wondered at the sense of drinking while on a mission. Particularly since, as a squire of the elite Royal Knights of Hyrule, his body's experience with alcohol consumption consisted only of the occasional goblet of ceremonial wine. The sudden blurring of his vision, accompanied by a revolt in his intestinal tract, redoubled his insecurities. However, he conceded that he would look rather silly—as well as extremely conspicuous—sitting at a bar and doing nothing but staring about. After all, the man he was ordered to observe would easily notice.

The big man on his left stirred and planted a gloved hand on his shoulder. "Eyes up, Colin," he whispered in his gruff brogue. "Over there." The big man gestured to a dimly lit corner of what was otherwise a bright and lively tavern. The booth in the corner seemed to belch faint halos of pipe smoke which masked the sole occupant with a wispy veil. Mud caked boots propped lazily upon the table while two long muscular arms hung limply by his side. There he was—the greatest war criminal in Hyrule's history…and he was asleep.

Colin stirred; his hand dropping instinctively to a non-existent scabbard on his left side. Preempting him, the big man laid a meaty palm on his back to stay him. "Easy lad . . . we do this together. Just wait for the signal." That answer provided little comfort to Colin. The big man held his gaze an instant longer before the golden mutton chops on his face parted to reveal a toothy grin. "Jus' relax lad, and remember . . ." a smirk accompanied a wink ". . . You're drunk." Colin winced as he stopped sipping at his nearly empty beer, realizing that if he kept drinking at the present rate then he would no longer be pretending. The big man, detecting Colin's consternation, chuckled as he ruffled tufts of Colin's hair of cream between calloused, rough fingers. Then, in an instant, the mirth on the big man's face was replaced with a stony countenance—the kind which naturally evolves from decades spent as leader of Hyrule's most elite warriors.

But to Colin, he was more than just a warrior; more than a friend; more than a master; to Colin, this man was simply Rusl—and he was sure he was the greatest knight who had ever lived. Colin attempted to draw on an expansive fourteen years worth memory he had accumulated since his birth, and he could not recall a better leader, fighter, gentleman, or friend; which is why he felt sorry for the man dozing in the corner of the tavern. The plan itself was fairly straight forward. Rusl's voice echoed in his memory: Let the sod booze his brains out then we nab 'em. That plan was simple enough but for the nagging realization that he had never participated in a mission before, particularly a mission ordered personally by the King of Hyrule himself. Until a few weeks ago, Colin had lived as a page. That glorious breed of professional errand boys and janitors who obeyed their knight-master's every whim in return for the small hope of becoming a squire. Upon becoming a squire Colin, to his dismay, discovered that being a squire encompassed many of the same mundane and perfectly meaningless duties that made being a page so miserable. However, on the other hand being a squire substantially increased both his chances of being a knight and, more importantly, of being able to fight alongside Rusl.

As he saw the figure in the corner of the tavern stand, his deductive reasoning told him that chance to fight was about to be realized. Rusl stirred but a fraction, then slowly turned his head and toward another side of the room. He inclined his head in a small nod. Abruptly, Rusl's strategically positioned soldiers put down their mugs and ceased their revelry as one by one they surrounded the figure. They pulled out an assortment of daggers and short swords. As Colin and Rusl both approached the hedge of soldiers, the tavern went mute.

Rusl nodded to the sergeant-at-arms leading the circle of soldiers. "In the name of His Majesty, King Harkinian I of Hyrule, you are under arrest."

Steel eyes stabbed the sergeant beneath long bangs of bronzing wheat locks. "On what charge?" he demanded in an uncomfortably hard voice of gravel.

The sergeant ignored him. "The King has decreed you are to be detained for questioning."

The figure crooked a slight smile. "Tad problem with that. You see, I'm Terminian. Not my King. I got diplomatic immunity."

The sergeant looked at his other soldiers, and then to Rusl, scarcely containing his confusion. The soldier to the sergeant's left began eagerly scratching at his scalp. The figure frowned. "No? Well, I'm from Koholint." Silence answered him. "Holodrum? Gamelon? Aw bugger it."

"Get him!" The sergeant bellowed. Colin felt his legs reflexively rush toward the figure, only to be impeded by Rusl's massive paw impeding his path.

The sergeant rushed head first, attempting to use inertia and mass to tackle the figure to the ground long enough to clamp him in irons. His head was instead met with a precision palm strike to his nose. As a high pitched snap rang out, the sergeant reeled back and collapsed to the ground as he cradled a shattered globular mass of cartilage and bone in blood caked hands. The figure rushed through the opening left by the sergeant's incapacitation and sprinted for the tavern's exist. A soldier blocked the fugitive's exist and juggled a dagger between his hands as he waited for his comrades to tackle him from the back. The fugitive attempted to bypass him anyway, maneuvering around tables populated by either swearing or panicking patrons. The soldier attempted a wild stabbing motion with his dagger arm—an arm that the fugitive caught in mid-motion. Grasping onto the soldier's hand clutching the dagger, the fugitive wrapped his hand around the soldier's fingers and in one smooth motion ripped them back. Colin would never forget the unique sound that accompanies the dislocation of four fingers from their sockets, nor the shriek of a grown man experiencing it. The soldier crumpled to the ground.

In a haze of motion, Colin saw several more soldiers go fall to the ground. As soon as the fugitive looked cornered he would deliver a surgical punch or kick to the windpipe. In other cases he would just charge and trample over his assailant. Colin even saw a head butt. Regardless of how it happened the result was the same. And now the tavern was filled with screams and moans of grown men. Colin had had enough, and he certainly could not stand back idly. His body did the thinking for him as by reflex his legs maneuvered around the overturned tables and unconscious soldiers straight into the fugitive.

At least that's what he thought had happened. It took a couple of seconds to realize that the fugitive had side stepped at the last second and that his glorious tackled had instead deposited him onto the floor. And now, narrowed eyes of steel bore into him. He was quite sure he would be finished off now; an ignominious end to a career not yet begun. However, as the fugitive stared quizzically at him, confusion and even doubt played over his sharp features. Those precious seconds of doubt were all that was needed. As the fugitive turned around, Rusl tackled him to the ground. The remaining hand full of soldiers who were not grievously injured, responded in kind with a make shift body pile over the fugitive. Colin would later reflect that he had never seen so many clamps of irons on one person before. Colin heard a dull thud as Rusl brought the pommel of his sword down on the fugitive's scalp, depriving him of consciousness.

[*]

When the fugitive finally regained his sense of being, Rusl feared that he would instantly flail about in wild abandon—particularly since irons firmly bound his arms to a small wooden chair which was in turn bolted to the ground. Rusl also expected him to utter all sorts of obscenities and profanities his way. Shattering his expectations, the fugitive merely darted half dazed eyes back and forth, taking in the most relevant information—his imprisonment—and then the rest of his surroundings in turn. If he showed any surprise that he was not in a dungeon, instead being in one of the royal studies in the depths of Hyrule Castle, then he didn't show it. His eyes looked to the row of three massive windows on the left side of the room—probably identifying potential escape routes. He then systematically looked at the massive pair of doors in front of him with their intricate facings and ornamentation. He craned his head behind his right shoulder to assess the possibility of escaping through the single door that led to one of the castle's many corridors. Finally, his gaze averted to one of the many portraits above the row of gilded book cases, where a fair haired girl with violet eyes and a stern, snow bearded man were immortalized on oil canvass. Rusl noticed his eyes lingering on the painting, his jaw clenched tight. Then, almost in answer, the man in the painting materialized and burst through the pair of doors. Rusl straightened and bent his back low. "Your Majesty."

King Harkinian, however, either ignored or was unaware that his royal knight had spoken. His gaze was fixed on the man clamped to the wooden chair. Harkinian stood motionless with strong, rigid hands clasped behind his back. When not in the throne room, he abandoned his royal vestments of crown, scepter, and robe for a simple red tunic with matching dark trousers. However, he did not abandon nearly four decades of regality spent as Hyrule's sovereign. And yet, for all his rigid formality, he looked unsettled: his eyes were filled to the brim with hate.

The fugitive's jaw muscles clenched, accompanied with a slight sneer, as Hyrule's monarch spoke. "Link, you are charged with vandalism, assault on royal agents of the king, numerous parole violations, and defiance of a royal decree. I think the legal term is known as treason."

Link shrugged as much as he could with his arms clamped to his chair. "Aye? Awful sorry 'bout that. Seems that a dozen or so of your blokes were hungry for a fight. Only happy to provide—charitable service and all that. Doing my civic duty."

Rusl found it considerably more difficult to ignore Link's insolence than Harkinian did. Rusl looked at Harkinian, praying to the Three Goddesses that he would agree to let him throttle the cheeky bastard—especially considering what he had to answer for. Harkinian continued. "So tell me, Link, why should I not let you rot in the dungeon for violating the agreed upon terms of parole?"

"I suspect because you know there's no dungeon that'll hold me. Forget the fact that I know the dungeons better than your grunts or—" Link looked at Rusl deliberately "—your armored wankers."

"Bastard!" Rusl spat behind clenched teeth."

Link continued, pretending not to notice. "Also, I can't believe his Imperial Godlyness would take the time out of his busy napping schedule to see me beg like a Scrub." He paused—his voice lowered to a whisper. "You want something."

Harkinian's beleaguered patience finally gave way to a surge of visceral rage as he clenched his fists and approached Link's chair. "Listen you, I'll tell you what I want. I want you to—"

"Help us." A surprisingly cheerful, yet fatigued voice chirped in Harkinian's wake. Rusl recognized him as Chancellor Potho. The small, ancient man with a cottony mustache that enveloped most of his face and a professorial demeanor took his usual place at Harkinian's side. His wizened voice continued. "His Majesty was passionately arguing for your assistance in an extremely urgent endeavor."

Link seemed to unimpressed. "Dungeon it is then."

"Link, while I understand you are probably not pleased with our hospitality, please allow us to expl—"

"They took her!" The words seemed to erupt from Harkinian's now quavering lips. Link's demeanor altered noticeably. The "perma-smirk" etched onto Link's features gave way to his mouth hanging agape.

"Who?" He asked cautiously.

"My daughter. They dared to take my Zelda! That bastard Ganondorf and his nation of inbred desert dwellers!" Mist pooled at the corners of Harkinian's eyes.

Potho nodded, though he winced at the racial slur. "Quite right, Your Majesty, which is why we believe that you, Link, can be of some help."

Harkinian stalked back and forth uncontrollably; a predator imprisoned by the jail of his own anxieties. "They escaped with her southwards last night. They were not detected—the sentries were all eliminated through stealth or subterfuge. We pursued them of course after we realized what had happened, but none of the scouting parties pursuing them have returned. We know at some point their party broke formation and divided up. We have received no ransom and no list of demands." Harkinian's eyes now narrowed intently on Link. "Link, your years of murdering and thievery have given you at least one redeemable skill set—"

"Yes, indeed." Potho interjected to attempt to ward off another argument. "Your skills as a tracker are unmatched. Furthermore, the hospital fees of the soldiers you dispatched the other night lead us to believe that you are an exceptionally skilled fighter for a man of twenty-four years."

Link was visibly growing tired of this "good guy/bad guy" routine between Potho and Harkinian. "Get to the point."

"We want you to lead a unit of our best royal knights to find Zelda and bring her home. In return, you will be given a full pardon for your past offenses, and your exile will be revoked. Additionally, on behalf of the Royal Treasury I am authorized to grant you an unspecified amount in compensatory damages to accommodate the hardships you experienced as a result of those criminal convictions."

Link's eyes bored into Harkinian's. "That's very clever—trying to bribe me with the freedom I should already have. You get to pretend to be the good guy and I end up owing you one." Link's voice became deadly quiet. "I told you they would do this one day. None of you sods listened. Why should I wipe your royal arse and clean up the mess you made?"

Shock played over Rusl's features when he saw the fury on Harkinian's face. "You malicious…petulant cur! If not for your actions years ago my daughter would be home! Instead, because the Goddesses have honed a scathing sense of irony, I have to ask the man who is the cause of all my misery to save this kingdom! Goddesses take you and your line to the Dark Realm! Damn you to hell!" Harkinian perched, hands trembling, on a velvet sofa as the silence tangibly held the room. Potho stirred.

"Yes well, Link, I believe the reason you should help us, besides the rewards we have already stated, should be quite clear. As I seem to recall, you and Her Highness were friends."

"Aye. A long time ago." Link replied softly.

"I wish to see my future queen returned safely." Potho approached Link, the smallness of his frame quite visible despite voluminous official robes. "I have had the honor of serving this nation in the highest office available to one who is not of royal blood: the office of Chancellor. For over half a century I have crafted laws and policies to service two kings and hundreds of thousands of this kingdom's subjects. But, in this I do not take pride. If there is one source of pride in the eighty-three years the Goddesses have given me it has been as royal tutor. I have trained numerous princes and princesses, but none of them has given me as much joy as Princess Zelda. If you'll pardon me Your Majesty, but as I don't have children of my own, I always thought of myself as a doting grandfather, and she as my granddaughter." Link inhaled sharply as Potho produced a key from his sleeve and unlocked the metal clamps that bound him to the chair. Potho's kneeled on skeletal legs and wrapped wiry arms around Link's earth-stained trousers. Crystalline streaks descended from squinting eyes.

"As a non-royal, I don't have any royal dignity to sacrifice in begging. So, I beg you! Please find her!" Rusl was surprised as the permafrost etched on Link's face suddenly, almost imperceptibly, thawed.

"Just answer my questions then."

Potho arose with a deep sigh of relief. "Anything."

"Why Zelda? Why not this sod?" He gestured to Harkinian who frowned in mild annoyance.

Potho shrugged as he suppressed his remaining sobs. "Fewer guards perhaps. Also, a king would not be so easily missed. Other than that, I admit that Ganondorf's strategy here escapes me. What is certain is this: that war between Hyrule and Gerudo has been going badly for quite some time. I know you are aware of some of this, but Ganondorf's armies could easily attack Castleton. His cavalry patrol all the way from Lon Lon to the outskirts of Lake Hylia. We…really aren't sure why he doesn't attack now. We suspect that he probably doesn't have the siege equipment seeing as there's little wood in the desert. Castleton would still be a proverbial "tough nut to crack," but, sadly, it is now only a matter of time. Lady Impa has been preparing the settlement of Kakariko for some time now in the event that it becomes necessary to…" His voice trailed off "…to evacuate the capital. Princess Zelda is dear not only to His Majesty and I, but to the people of this Kingdom. As the kingdom's sole heir, if word of her abduction spreads to the people, then the morale of the entire kingdom will collapse: desertion; panic; surrender; The war will be as good as lost."

Rusl tried to steel his nerves against a vision he had seen thousands of times in the wilds of his imagination: Hyrule ablaze. And yet, here they were, talking about the end of modern civilization. Everything he had fought for, everything he believed in, in the space of a couple of weeks could be erased from existence. Link's utterly aggravating voice interrupted his foreboding.

"Who's in command of the rescue mission?"

"You shall exercise discretion in choosing the appropriate route and the course of action necessary to rescue Her Highness. The Knight-Commander will of course command the squadron of knights."

Link cleared his throat impatiently. "And this 'Knight Commander' is?"

For some reason, Rusl felt incredibly apprehensive about what Potho was about to say. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry. Why, Captain Rusl of course."

In that moment, Rusl was convinced that the Goddesses hated him.

Author's Note: I have not given up on my large epic, His Fist. However, I wanted to belt out a short story before I get back to writing something as expansive as that. Tell me what you think through your reviews please. I will continue to update it regardless, but admittedly it is much easier to donate your existence to a computer for several hours at a stretch knowing that it is for the enjoyment of somebody besides yourself. I am unsure of using a musical metaphor as the title so I may alter that. Other than that read, review, enjoy.