A short introduction:
I won't talk long. If my story's no good on its own, it isn't going to improve by me going on about it. Just as a brief synopsis, this is basically "Wind Waker" told from the point of view of all major characters, not just Link. "Wind Waker" has a cast as good as "Majora's Mask" and I thought it was a shame we didn't get more insight into them. The plot will parallel the main story lines, sometimes from very close, sometimes from a distance.
Of course, some details have been changed a little (I treat Link as a mute in this work because the idea of him being unable to speak isn't explored enough) but there's no new characters, no major changes. Just speculation through the eyes of Wind Waker's extensive cast.
Comments and criticism are appreciated. Especially criticism. I want to improve, and not just "misplaced a comma there" improvements. But, above all, I hope you enjoy it.

If you don't know that I don't own Zelda and all that goes with it, then I pity you.

Orca:

I have seen the beast.

A dozen eyes cover its body, flitting, yellow, capable of finding the smallest flotsam in the deepest trench. Its arms, massive, strong enough to change the tides of the water, to pull one down, to hurl the greatest warriors out to sea.

I have seen the beast.

My brother and I were warriors once. I wielded a blade then; he, his mind. I dare not admit it now, but Sturgeon was always the better warrior. No matter how much I have trained or how strong my arm or how sharp my blade, I have never beaten an opponent without at least raising my hand against them. Sturgeon, he mastered an art I never could, the art of thought. Now he locks himself in his home, ten paces side to side, twenty fore to aft. Such a tiny cell for such a powerful force. His wall lined with his writings, shadowboxing for his intellect, his shelves heavy with books his eyes can barely read anymore. My stronger brother.

The boy has been coming to him often these days. I know this because I hear them at times, their voices drifting down through the floor. Or I should say Sturgeon's voice. He does talk, that brother of mine. Even if the boy wanted to get a word in, he never would be able to. As Sturgeon locked himself up in his cell, so he's locked his mind away in his skull, even refusing to pour it out to Sue-Belle, reigned by the sad thought that a female mind does not have the ability to hold his wealth of knowledge. But the boy he trusts with his art. He speaks to him, for hours. And the boy listens.

We were warriors, warriors from this very island. It was a harder time then, a heavier time. I carried a blade, not this fisherman's spear. I cleaved wood to harden my arms. I climbed the sharp spires of Outset to harden my legs. I honed my blade against the winds. Sturgeon read. He tired his eyes on tiny, smeared words, he tired his minds on the weapons of ideas, on knowledge, on truth. He never raised a hand.

Our mother left us at my birth, taken by the winds even as they supplied me breath to cry. Our father left us nothing but a fishing boat and our mother's books. He left this island when I was old enough to work. I watched him go, deep in the night, while my brother slept. I thought he did not see me, until he, out in the surf, already out to sea, called to me, "You were a beast boy. To slay your own mother, you must have no heart at all. You are a thing of darkness. A curse, from an ancient legend. To think I brought you here."

He did not say it, but it was not my mother that separated my father from me. It was my brother, my brother who looked up to me, though I was younger, for my strength, for my wildness, who sought to match me on his own grounds. It was my brother who had loved mother and who loved me more than he did our constantly missing father. Our father was ever the stranger in our house. So like a stranger, he wandered away.

I hear the boy now, or, at least, I seem to. The house is always quiet. Even when Sue-Belle goes upstairs or visits me, silence sits here. But when the boy comes, the words flow. I hear the ages and ages of lonely thought from my brother pouring out, overfilling this place, filling me too. And when the boy comes to me, I find something strange. My life since seeing the beast has been one of lonesome, regret-less peace. But when he comes to see me, when we exchange blows, strike blade to spear, when I see his smile as he understands, as his young mind understands the motions and flow of battle, I feel a very different peace. A full peace, a peace earned, not simply had. I feel as if this could have been my son. I feel as if this is the father I could have been, had I been brave enough.

We survived together, Sturgeon and I. He knew the secrets of fishing; I knew the secrets of labor and work. We refused to let the other out match us, so that we constantly honed one another, like stone to edge. We brought in catches that almost sank our tiny boat. He knew the motions of the fish, the ebb and flow of the tides, the drift of the currents and wind. I hauled the nets, drove the oars, guided the sail, hefted the load. So often we were lost in that wide blue, but never alone. We saw islands unfamiliar and strange. A reef perfectly square, higher than our mast. A rocky waste of land where a stone face sat year after year leering out at the salty waters, as if close to comprehending them. A heart shaped island we dared not step foot on for the strength of the powerful presence that laid there.

It was on these voyages that my brother and I became warriors. We would drift, with scant supplies, for our boat could hold little in the way of rations, until we found land and there we would brave whatever danger for food and water. We were each determined that, no matter what extreme, the other must survive. In so doing, we preserved each other.

My boy, you would have been proud to face me in those days. What lessons I could have taught you with those able arms. You would have seen my blade like a vapor over the grass, cutting down the creatures of prey. If only I could see you now, wielding my sword as you deserve, wielding it with an arm better suited than my own. My boy.

Sturgeon. What manner of terrible, powerful art would you have taught our boy? The way you stepped from the boat, legs swaying every time, never used to the switch between land and sea. The way your eyes, far sharper than mine, took in the land, familiar or strange, small or wide. The way you knew the danger before it came. How often you told me what to do, to prepare for the creatures that waited in the underbrush or the bandits in ambush. Your strategy, your maneuvers. You would have taught him war.

The ring of your sword stays here my boy, even after you have gone. It fills this house with the energy of what could have been. The pots shake in fear even now. The walls groan, tired from the strain of holding your energy in. My arm still aches, do you know? Did you ever see the small flinch on my face when I guarded wrong? Did you ever notice how I preferred my left hand to carry the weight of your blows? I'm certain you did, but you did not know the reason. You, too, carry the weight of your battles in your left hand, but not like I do.

The creatures and bandits left treasure. We often hoped for an ambush, so we would be able to raid some store of stolen gems and wares to sell. No one could match us. My hand was too strong. Sturgeon's mind too keen. I broke any shield, beat dull any sword, crushed any armor. My brother never raised a hand.

Then we faced the Knight.

Where He came from, I do not know. The island we encountered him on was a twist of land north of Outset, shaped like a fish. Sturgeon had seen a cave there several times; perhaps that was where He emerged. I do not know.

He attacked us in the night. Were it not for our campfire and Sturgeon's eye, He would have cleaved my head open. It was a hideous struggle, waged in weariness, surprise, and, I will admit, fear. His armor was dark, blending in with the shadows. The fire caught the spines of metal and gave him a dozen eyes (so like the beast). He threw his arm and my guard broke. He nearly hurled me into the fire, into the ocean, into my own blade. I floundered. How could I have known there was a force more wild and savage than me?

But Sturgeon did not falter. He saw the opening in the Knight's armor, along His back. He directed my blows, comprehended His pattern and warned me of his attacks. I dodged his blade, found the opening, and laid my sword into it up to the hilt. The Knight never made a sound as He collapsed, His armor falling off to reveal a body covered in fur. Beneath His helmet, the face of a dog, caught in a snarl, threatening even in death.

My attack cut loose the belt the Knight wore. It fell to the ground and I lifted it, marveling at its weight. The thick leather, the studs clean of blood or stain, the crest in the center depicting a helmeted bird.

This spoil we did not sell. It rests here. It has caught your eye before, I know. I see you at times peek at it, I see the curiosity that my brother loves so much rising behind that gaze. Even without me telling you, I believe you understand the symbol of the belt, if only a little. You know it is the sign of a true warrior, don't you boy? You know it is a spoil of savage violence, won only with the sharpest mind and strongest arm and toughest will. You know you will seek such a spoil one day, don't you my boy?

I can still hear you listening attentively to Sturgeon's lectures on conduct, on sailing, on horticulture, on biology, on women (it always pleased me to see that that particular lecture never took much hold in you). But he never told you of the belt did he?

We were warriors, my brother and I, and this spoil was finally the proof of it. We had overcome the Knight, the hardiest warrior he and I had ever encountered. We put aside the nets. We used our assortment of spoils to purchase a larger boat, supplies, a sharper blade. No more of this quiet life. We would find more of this Knight's brotherhood. Nine more at least. We would show that the brats abandoned by the fisherman were not to end up like their father, lonely rowers of dingies. We would prove that we were warriors, to be respected by even the finest holder of blades.

Can you guess my boy that we did not succeed? In all our years of travel, we encountered no more of the Knight's brothers. It was as if He'd strayed from some squad of soldiers marching deep under the sea to a dark goal and wandered up onto the surface by chance. We searched every land, every barren rock. I even dared to step foot on one of the heart shaped islands so crushed by the awful presence of Someone of terrible power and feminity. I think it was Sturgeon's inability to brave the presence of the powerful Lady of that island with me that gave him his view of women.

Though we fought and destroyed countless monsters, we never found another Knight. But what finally drove us back here, to Outset, was the beast.

We were sailing far to the north. There was no land in sight, only the call of the sea gulls, thick in the sky. We had no warning before a powerful current swept our boat into a circling pool. Sturgeon moved faster than me, taking the sail, keeping us from capsizing as water filled the ship and the air. The sun was blotted out, there was so much spray, covering us in darkness. In the midst of this storm, the creature emerged.

You know what it looks like, don't you boy? You know. You haven't seen it, but you know its tough hide, its flailing arms, its eyes. If not, you will. You will, I know.

It towered above our boat. Sturgeon was too busy fighting the sail, rain pouring down on us. Amid the cloud of water, its eyes glowed like ball lightning. It was trying to pull us in, trying to pull us down. I could not let it take us.

I took my sword, I leapt from the boat. I aimed for those eyes.

Water. The great pressure of being tossed, pulled, whirled in the deep. Somewhere far above, Sturgeon shouting. A pain in my arm.

I have hurt you before, haven't I my boy? But you never show any sign of lasting pain. You grit your teeth, you bite your pain, devour it, swallow it whole, and never let it overtake you. I remember during one of our early practices, you came down on your foot wrong. Your guard fell as my swing came toward you. You had no defense, and I was moving too quickly to pull back. The tip of my spear parted the shirt above your belly. I was terrified to see you bleed. I would have landed on my own spear rather than hurt you. But you did not stop. You wrapped your stomach, took up your stance. You never stopped.

When I awoke, I was beside our boat on stepped land, covered in rocks and moss. We were in a gulch between two of the steppes, the tide rising up to lap at our feet, our boat knocking against the stone outcroppings. My brother's squinted in the sun. Even then, he had already grown older.

"Did you see the beast?"

"I saw bravery wasted. I saw what we cannot best brother. I'm done playing the hooligan."

After that day, Sturgeon put his weapon aside. He has never taken it up since. For my part, I can no longer hold my blade as I once did. The beast took what even the Knight could not. I could train myself to lead with my left arm, but the dance I once led with my enemies has ended. It shames me to be such a sad teacher to you my boy. You deserve the man who leapt out into the rain. Instead, you have only the fisherman that washed up on the shore.

You are growing quickly Link. Your arm is strong, your stance sure. Does your belly still have the scar? I doubt it pains you. Sturgeon's voice has grown softer and softer in his lectures. His cup to you is almost empty. You are, or, at least, you will soon be, a warrior my boy. In you, there is potential to be a better warrior than either I or my brother. There is potential to be the greatest warrior. So far. For after you, of course, there will be the one you teach. But that is the stuff of legends, is it not?

I will not tell you the story of the knight's belt or of the beast. Not yet. I will only help you to learn, even if there is little left for me to teach. But I know that it is not just for your benefit that I teach you. It is for me too. You can be what I almost was. I want you to carry on the swing, the stab, the dance of Orca.

I want you to be a beast. My beast.