A/N: Hi there! I am 6teenana, and welcome to another of my Zelda one-shots! But this isn't like any of the other one-shots of written; this is a paper I wrote for my AP Comp class. We were learning about narratives and were asked to do an "On Being..." assignment. We could do basically anything, (examples: one girl did "On Being a Younger Sister," my friend wrote "On Being a Cosplayer,") and I chose to write about my obsession with the Legend of Zelda series.
I am proud to say I got a 94 on this paper, which was an extremely high grade for that class. It has nothing to do with any game in particular, but I greatly enjoyed writing it, my teacher enjoyed grading it, and hopefully you'll enjoy reading it :)
So I hope you enjoy this, feel free to leave a review. If you enjoy this, check out my other one-shots and my chapter story Sky Child on my profile page. See ya later!
On Being a Zelda-Freak
Sometimes, school is boring. Sometimes your day starts out with a math test, followed by a really disappointing lunch, and topped off with the most frustrating period of French class that you have ever had the displeasure of sitting through. So you get on the bus, which rumbles and sputters its way to your house and dumps you off in the rain. And as you finally stumble your way up the steps and dig out your keys, a ray of light twinkles through your mundane routine. The door swings open, and after relieving yourself of your heavy load, you take up your sword and journey to a distant land, where the fate of the world rests entirely on your shoulders. I am, of course, talking about the ultimate in adventure stories, the never-ending battle between good and evil: The Legend of Zelda.
The Legend of Zelda, created by Shigeru Miyamoto and published by Nintendo, came out in 1986 for the Famicom Disk System. It told the story of a small boy who, against all odds, was able to fight his way through armies of terrible beasts and rescue Zelda, princess of the land of Hyrule. It may sound like any other cliché story about heroes and villains, but it is so much more. As you wander in to the first room of the game, the flickering glow of torches lead you to a mysterious old man. He holds out his hands, seemingly empty in the dim light of the cave, and says, "It's dangerous to go alone. Take this." He conjures a sword out of nowhere, and after presenting it to you, disappears without a trace, never to be seen again. And now, 27 years later, the Zelda series is still going strong.
I, as you can probably tell, am a player and purveyor of these games. I buy the merchandise, download the music, and squeal with excitement when the newest commercial plays on the TV. I buy and sell hundred-dollar gaming consoles for the express purpose of playing the latest release in the series. I excitedly unwrapped the Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword Game Guide last Christmas and am always sure to dust off my copy of Hyrule Historia at least once a week. Every month, I carefully flip the lamented pages of my limited edition 25th Anniversary calendar and spend a few moments admiring the artwork. I spend hours delving into each and every unique game world. I shout for joy as I plunge the master sword through the eye of Spider-Queen Gohma. I wince with pain when a lumbering, armored Dark Nut catches me in the side with his broad sword. I sob uncontrollably as my faithful companion says her final goodbye, I scream with fear at the sight of towering enemies, and let out a victorious yell as I defeat the temple boss. The Legend of Zelda isn't just a game or a pile of merchandise: it's an experience.
You may be wondering what about the Legend of Zelda series is so amazing; after all, there are those who would call the Legend of Zelda a "baby game." Those people have obviously never experienced the awe of meeting Princess Zelda in her throne room, the wonder as the Great Light Spirit reveals that you are the Chosen Hero of the Goddesses, or the triumph as you remove the Master Sword from its pedestal in the Temple of Time, the god light pouring down around you while the trumpets crescendo into a beautiful symphony of victory. Just thinking about it, I get chills: my hands shake with excitement, a huge grin spreads from ear to ear, and suddenly I'll need to take a break to play for a few hours.
For those who may not know much about the game series, I will do my best to accurately depict the depth and diversity that each game in the series portrays. The constants through each game are as follows: the main character is Link, usually a peasant or a farm boy. Link somehow learns that he has been chosen to be the hero of the Three Golden Goddesses who created the land, and embarks on a journey to thwart whatever evil is threatening the world of light. Usually this unknown evil takes the form of the Thief King Ganondorf, a man-turned-demon who is bent on collecting all three pieces of the Triforce. The Triforce is the ultimate magical object. Though broken into three pieces that embody three separate attributes, when combined it grants the wielder power that rivals that of the Goddesses themselves. Your job as Link is to protect the Triforce and seal Ganondorf away into the Scared Realm (because just killing him would interfere with sequels). Link can be anywhere in age from ten to eighteen, depending on which title you play. And believe me when I say that there are a lot of titles.
Each adventure in Hyrule is different. In games like Twilight Princess and Ocarina of Time, you will traverse the great expanses of fields that litter Hyrule, as well as hike up mountains and trek through deserts. But in Wind Waker and Phantom Hourglass, you find yourself sailing across the never-ending Great Sea, the wind in your sail and pirates at your back. Some may say that the Legend of Zelda, though using different locations, constantly reuses their simple game formula. This is true, to some extent: in every single game, you pass through a series of temples—complete with treasure, mini-bosses, and main bosses—to accomplish some sort of goal. After completing this set of temples, you will learn through a dramatic cut-scene that there is yet another set of temples you must navigate in order to save Hyrule. It is, admittedly, repetitive. But some of the best and most rewarding moments in the game come in these temples.
I remember a particular challenge from Twilight Princess. With my GameCube controller clutched tightly in hand, I was following the mysterious Skull Kid through an ancient forest. I was looking for a place called the Sacred Grove, where the blade of evil's bane was said to rest. After defeating Skull Kid's puppet lackeys, (which, by the way, are the most terrifying monsters ever. Seriously, don't play that part in the dark,) I finally stepped into the dim light of the Scared Grove. Up ahead was a crumbling stone archway, undoubtedly leading up to the legendary blade I was searching for. I went to climb the steps, only to be stopped by two massive stone statues that, with a heart-stopping roar, came to life. (Note: I screamed.) After being assured that no, the two stone statues with the massive spears did not want to fight me, I started their puzzle challenge.
I was stuck there for days. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't figure out the puzzle. I would throw my remote down with frustration, ready to punch something. I even broke a pencil with my bear hands. (I was eleven, this was a big deal.) It was one of the most annoying moments in my, at that time, very short Zelda career. And then, after days of failed attempts, I solved it.
The feeling was amazing. As all the pieces finally clicked in to place, I felt empowered. I had solved a challenge left by the Goddesses. I was clever enough to figure out the proper moves and outwit the statue guardians. And I had done it without help. It's that same feeling you get after you finally understand a difficult math problem: that sweet tightness in you chest, like you're holding down a relieved giggle. The stupid grin that you can feel spreading across your face, but you don't even try to hide it because you just did something awesome, gosh darn it. That feeling is what makes the ridiculous amount of temples worth it.
I am not the only one who feels this way, as much as you may like to think. So many others will echo what I have described, as well as tell you stories of their own. One such person is my brother. He is my partner in crime when it comes to the Zelda series, although it wasn't always like that. When we started our first Zelda game, we were in constant competition. ("I could beat that boss way faster than you!" "No way, you always screw up the 'A' and 'B' buttons!") We didn't get along at all. That is, until we played through the Palace of Twilight.
The Palace of Twilight is the second to last temple in the Twilight Princess game. I had reached the temple first, so naturally, I was playing. He was sitting on the couch next to me, his arms crossed in a bitter attempt to seem nonchalant while he discreetly struggled to memorize every hallway I went through. After defeating a few fairly easy enemies, I reached a dead end. I was instantly put on edge. There were never pointless dead ends in Zelda games.
A closer inspection of the room proved me right. In the shadows sat a large, stone hand, its fingers clenched tightly around a glowing sphere. I recognized the sphere: retrieving it and its twin were my current goals. But how was I to get it out of the stone hand? I moved to investigate.
"It's probably a trap," said my brother. "You're gonna fall for it if you go over there."
"Shut up," was my gracious reply.
I searched for a way to release the sphere (technically called a Sol), but I could find no switch, button or lever on that side of the room. The music had faded out to loud silence, and I was getting twitchy. I mashed some buttons and wound up slapping the stone hand with my sword. With a quiet hiss, the hand recoiled and let the sphere drop to the ground.
My brother and I were frozen. "Well… that was easy," I remarked apprehensively. He and I exchanged a look.
"Well, pick it up already," he said, smacking me in the arm. I complied after returning the gesture with much more force than strictly necessary. As soon as the sphere was in my hands, all hell broke loose.
The camera whipped around of its own accord, focusing on the giant hand. We watched in horror as it wrenched itself from the ground and rose high into the air, its fingers wriggling as it reached for us.
We both screamed.
"GET TO THE DOOR! GET TO THE DOOR!" my brother shouted.
"I'M TRYING, I'M TRYING!" My fingers were too sweaty; they kept slipping off the joystick. My brother grabbed the other half of the controller and helped me navigate. We yelled and screeched in unison as obstacles popped up to hinder our progress, the hand flying ever closer. We couldn't even see it; we could just hear the ominous music grow louder as it approached from the darkness behind us.
Finally we made it through the door, sighing with relief as the stone slab slid shut behind us. We flopped back on the couch, letting the controller fall out of our hands. Somehow we were both terribly winded, even though the only physical exertion had been shrieking and random flailing. After a few moments of rest, we both started laughing.
"That was the scariest thing," I gasped in between giggles.
"You can play that part for me," agreed my brother. I laughed.
"Well, it's really not that bad. At least it can't follow us through walls."
And as if Shigure Miyamoto himself had heard us, the giant hand we had just spent a good five minutes nearly crying about phased through the wall right above our heads.
At this point, the story ends, because my mother came in and turned off the GameCube because "your screeching is giving me a headache!"
The point is, my brother and I really bonded over the panic that the Palace of Twilight induced, and we banded together to get through the temple. It was like actually being part of the game: one of us was Link, and the other was his companion, the Twilight Princess Midna. Together we saved the realm, just like in the game. We looked at Link and Midna's friendship as an example of our own: they made fun of each other, sometimes lied to one another, but they always had each other's backs. It may seem strange, but the fact is that Midna and Link collectively helped us get along.
We all need heroes. People and characters that we can look up to and aspire to emulate in our everyday lives. As a child, there was no one more amazing to believe in than Link. He's not a prince, and he's not some rich-man's son. He is a poor boy who is chosen to do amazing things. He can succeed, not because he is destined to, but because of his Courage. As the Hero of the Goddesses, Link is endowed with the Triforce of Courage. This gives him the strength to move through his fear, and to do battle with terrifying creatures of darkness. His wit and dedication are what help him survive. If you can't see the message in that, then you probably need glasses. The idea that anyone, of any age and status, can save the world with just a little bit of bravery is something that was so important to me as a kid. When life got hard, or when it felt like I would never be able to go on-stage for my first play, I could think of Link. And sure, maybe saving the world and preforming Seussical Junior are a little different, but the result is the same. I believed in myself, because if a ten-year-old boy could save Hyrule, then I could sing and dance at the same time.
So yes, I'm a Zelda-Freak. I obsessively play one genre of videogames from one series, all of which are released from the same company. I spend amounts of money I am not proud of in order to keep up with every update, re-release, and teaser-trailer. I idolize characters that do not exist and believe that yes, a videogames that is "for babies" can teach me quite a bit about life in general. You can call it stupid, and you can even call it crazy.
But as I sit through the long tests, the endless homework, and the sub-par sustenance, I think of the moment when the main theme will play and I will ride away on my horse to victory, and suddenly school doesn't seem quite so bad.