First fic in a long while... feel free to tear it apart in con-crit. I could use the suggestions!
Also, for copyright disclaimer (as in I don't claim to own the Legend of Zelda or any of it's content) please see my profile. Thank you very much!
On with the show!
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Earth and blood – the basest components of life served always as the best foundation for the Old Magic. Over time, the art of magic has degraded into gaudy flashes of light and pungent tonics, little more than glorified tea, slapped with the label 'potion'. Such cheap imitations bear only trace remnants of the powers the Old Ones wove their magic with. The merest suggestion of the methods of Old Magic have become taboo, though nonetheless they have been and will always be the most powerful of any synthesis of man.
The synthesis of materials is complex; the ritual weaving of energy even more so, and the smallest imbalance will result in catastrophic failure. There have been many; their remains littered the floor. As such, the only successful creation is, by the very definition of success in magic of this volatile nature, perfect. A statue made by molding the potent clay of earth and blood to a frame of feather, leather, and bone. However, alone this is but a grotesque statue, the mere shadow of what it will be.
It is a violation of the very laws of nature to create a life from nothing. Basic physical principle demands that no matter can be created or destroyed, and the same holds true for the energy required to animate this organic doll. The Caster has failed many times. She has become quite knowledgeable as to what should be avoided. Typically speaking, a sacrifice must be made to breathe life into the golem, but by the same laws of nature, birth out of a death is an abomination. This creation must be more perfect than the equation of this alchemy required. She has found a manner in which to make this possible.
True, the equation, to be balanced, still requires a death, but nowhere in the vast tomes of knowledge is it stated the death had to be forced. The Caster is old. She is dying, some disease beyond even her grasp eating her living heart. Such is the fate of humans gifted with such magical prowess – man was not meant to hold such power.
She lights her final candle, and whispers words not meant for any human to hear, let alone speak. It catches, rises brilliant, and she lays at the feet of her last, perfect creation, holding the flame to one of its feet, and lets the candle draw her life into it, instead of drawing her spirit to the peaceful lands where mortals go to rest.
Too late does she realize her mistake. When she has gone, who will teach this creature? Who will care for it? She had poured her very soul into her work, love that she never had the opportunity to give a child of her own, and there will be no one to continue in her stead once she is gone. She knows it will take years until the creature awakens, and she knows no one will find him in that time. She dies with regret.
When the creature finally opens its eyes, there is no one. Just dark earthen walls and the smell of iron, though it cannot identify it as such just yet. It has no frame of reference. It is a blank slate, an infant born into the body of a man with all a man's intelligence, and no idea how to use it. It is then that the first living being it ever sees, and in fact the first thing it ever beholds other than those earthen walls, steps into its line of sight.
Had the Caster known how wrong she was, she would not have been relieved that her creation would be found and taught. Had she any idea the type of man who would find it, she would have wept, and then she would have destroyed it.
A being such as this, whose finder had never bothered to grant a name, just a rough description, was completely malleable. Had he had any concept of like and dislike, he would have liked to call himself 'Dark', for somewhere in his impressionable psyche he found it distasteful to be named simply as a counterpart to another. He lacked the knowledge of the concepts necessary to articulate this, even to himself, so he simply referred to himself as 'Dark', though never aloud. He, in fact, barely ever spoke aloud. There was no need to. From the time of his advanced birth, he had been taught all he knew for a single purpose: defeat his counterpart. If he found this distasteful as well, in his odd manner of identifying feelings that were alien to him, he never said so. The only other person he had ever been in contact with was the man who found him, and he could never be considered gentle, especially in light of anything that could be perceived as rebellion. To avoid the harsh punishment so characteristic of this man, Dark spoke only to learn language. He never used that language, as even a cry of pain would agitate his captor further.
His life revolved around learning to kill. Though he, as a perfect creation, needed no physical training to strengthen muscles that were already more than sufficient to defeat his opponent, nonetheless, his captor forced him through drills until he could endure no more, and beat him mercilessly when he finally succumbed to exhaustion. Though a creation, he was made to be human, and still felt pain. He could still be wounded, still scar.
And scar he did. When his captor was not inflicting torture upon him for his perceived failures, he was placed in battle again and again with creations unlike himself, reanimated skeletons and ghosts. He was wounded again and again, until he learned the dance that all swordsmen eventually must learn, or perish. Finally, when no foe could land a blow on him and battles ended with them all slain at his feet, and even his pitiless captor lacked the energy to oversee his week-long exercise drills, he thought he might be released. It had been seven years.
He was contained in a different prison instead. It was a room of illusions, small and made of stone but appearing as a vast lake with a single island bearing a lonely, stunted tree at its center. Here he waited many long months, alone, unchallenged, and left only with the promise that upon his opponent's defeat he would be granted true freedom.
He spent his time examining his reflection in the false lake's surface. He had only known the art of killing in his years before, and with no overseer to strike him for losing his focus, his mind was left to pursue that which interested him. He was fascinated to learn that his appearance was nothing like that of his captor. Where his captor's skin was an olive so intense it was almost true green, his own was fair as ivory but seemed to be hidden behind shadow despite the brightness of the room. His captor's face was strong but difficult to look upon without some measure of revulsion, and his instead was finely-boned and pleasant. Instead of the matted shock of red hair that his captor bore, he instead had soft, fine ebony hair. The only similarity seemed to be in the red of their eyes, but while his captor's were narrow and calculating, his were large. Had he a notion of what wonder was, he would have recognized it in his own eyes as well.
Ever his thoughts would return to his goal, defeating this man he had never met before. He understood it meant freedom for him, but he began to question why his captor might want to kill this man, and why he himself would not do it. The Caster had been a master of her art; her creation had resisted the attempts of his captor to make him a mindless tool. Leaving him alone with his flawless mind would be his greatest mistake. Dark wondered at the implications of killing another. He could understand that it would cause great pain, as he himself had endured that in hundreds of mock battles. He had never died himself, so he could not truly understand if it brought an end to such pain. No one had ever told him. His captor certainly had not. He imagined that death would end pain, as it looked rather much like sleeping, and sleep was the only respite he ever received, brief and long overdue as it was.
Still, he wondered at how it would be to kill one who didn't know him. He had endured pain of a different sort when wounds were inflicted on him by those twisted creatures he fought in order to prepare. He had not understood why they had wanted to harm him, nor why they seemed unaffected by his pain. He wondered idly if he was the only one who felt that sensation. He certainly did not want to inflict it on anyone else, but reasoned that he would to avoid it inflicted upon him.
It was still many months before his opponent appeared, but by then he had come to a decision: his freedom was important, and he would fight for it, but only if necessary. He watched as his counterpart surveyed the room, even so far as to check the door opposite of the one he entered from, despite it being very obviously barred. Dark felt for the first time what anyone else would have identified as pity. He had already tried that route many, many times. It was then that his counterpart turned around, and Dark spoke his name.
"Link," he said, and was startled at the sound of his own voice, though he did not show it. He had not heard anyone's voice in many months, and his own had not been used for years.
Link drew his sword and readied his shield, saying nothing. Dark did not draw his weapon, instead held out his hands. Neither spoke for long minutes. Neither was used to speaking, least of all to negative mirrors of themselves.
"Will you fight, then?" Link asked. Dark did not recognize the option to surrender in his voice, and had he recognized it, would not have forfeited his freedom for it. The fight was essential to his liberation.
"If it is necessary," he replied. He readied his own sword, a weapon seemingly comprised of shadow, but was merely enchanted steel. The two clashed.
Link was skilled, but battle was all Dark had ever known. True, he had landed several blows on his shadow, but Dark seemed to be just that to him: a shadow. Link had been slashed, stabbed, and knocked down at least half a dozen times for each blow he landed on Dark. Unlike Dark, he grew tired. The battle had been long, and he had been fighting legions of monstrous creations right until the time he walked into his domain. He fell to one knee, and froze when he felt the cold tip of Dark's sword on the back of his neck.
Dark had made a realization. He was so like his creator, the Caster. At no point was it ever stated in his captor's oath that he had to kill this man. His captor had said, 'Defeat Link and I shall grant you your freedom.'
"Yield," said Dark, and did not move. Nor did Link. He said nothing.
"Yield!" Dark demanded. This time there was a hint of desperation in his voice, and the cold steel was lifted from Link's neck. Confused, Link turned to see the face of the man who had bested him.
The world went black as Dark landed the heavy pommel stone of his sword against the back of Link's head.