The Live House
Author's Notes:
Disclaimer: I don't own The Legend of Zelda or any of the established franchise characters. Link, Zelda, and co. are the intellectual property of Nintendo and are not used by this author for any profit beyond his own personal – and sometimes twisted – amusement.
This story is rated PG-13 for romance, sexual themes/suggestions, language, violence, and thematic elements. There are adult themes at work here, and it may dip into the R rating occasionally, but there will be no NC-17/X material here. You have been warned.
-= Chapter 1 =-
The dull crackling of flames was the first thing he heard. The next was the screaming.
Oily smoke filled his lungs, causing him to cough violently. He gasped, choking on the acrid air, and forced his eyes open.
All he could see was darkness, and for a muddled moment he thought that he had been struck blind. But no, the shadows flicked, and in an instant the veil was thrown back as bright, burning sunlight lit the inside of the vehicle. Hot, impossibly hot. Just another day in the sandbox. Hoo-ah.
He recognized the form sitting slumped in the driver's seat to his left. Gordell, the nametag read on the brown and beige camouflage body armor. It was the only reason he was able to discern who it was. The head was missing, a smear of blood and gristle splashed through the shattered window and across the dirty sand-colored wall that their vehicle had rolled up against.
He tasted copper. Half of the world was tinged crimson, and he reached his gloved fingers up, wiping across the tacky blood that oozed from a shallow head wound. His helmet was gone. Where was his helmet...
The screaming stopped, almost. He looked around, craning his head even against the stabbing pain in his neck, and saw Jacobs in the back seat. His screams had turned into desperate panting, small whimpering curses as he clenched his hands tightly around the rusted rebar that had speared through the unarmored door and impaled his thigh. Blood pulsed with every heartbeat, a veritable geyser of life that began to die even as Link watched. Soon the screaming stopped entirely, and Jacobs slumped forward, no longer in any pain.
The heat began to build, the shadows replaced by their opposite. Brilliant tongues of fire flickered gleefully in the engine compartment. He tried the door. Jammed shut by the blast. The pounding in his head was intensifying as the flames leapt higher.
His weapon was missing, either thrown to the back seat or out the shattered windscreen. He tried his seat belt, but it too was jammed. He reached across with his good arm, the arm that didn't hurt quite so much, and drew his Ka-Bar. Slashed the belt over his armor, scoring the ballistic plate. Didn't matter, the pounding wasn't just in his head now. It was outside, and getting closer.
Now freed from his seat, he twisted, biting back a scream at the pain. Everything was pain now. In Basic they learned that pain was just weakness leaving the body. Apparently he had a lot of weakness to get rid of.
He searched frantically, his eyes coming to rest on Jacobs' weapon. He reached out, straining, his fingers barely brushing against the heavy stock of the rifle.
Gunfire...
"Sir?"
Link jerked awake from his dream as his seat was gently shaken. He removed the magazine from over his eyes and blinked groggily against the light streaming in through the windows. His eyes focused on the carefully manicured hand laid on the headrest, up the slim uniformed arm, and into the concerned face of the young lady standing in the aisle next to him.
"I'm sorry to wake you, sir," she said, smiling prettily. "But I'll have to ask you to set your seat in an upright position. We'll be landing shortly."
Link nodded his understanding, wiping the last of the sleep from his eyes, and she turned and made her way further down the aisle, firmly informing others who had not heeded the captain's announcement.
He adjusted his seat, patting his sides out of habit to ensure that no one had made off with anything vital. He glanced out the window, surprised that they were already so low on their approach. Castleton glittered below in the coming twilight, office buildings and skyscrapers sparkling beneath a sheen of freshly fallen rain, the jewel of the west coast. Small wisps of clouds were whipping by as the plane banked, and for a movement he was staring straight down over the Hylian Bay waterfront. Tugs, freighters, and private vessels all mingled and bobbed on the waves, tiny from his vantage point, running lights blazing in the shadows cast by the city.
In a brief moment of vertigo, he felt that he might be staring not at the sea, but at a star-filled sky, impossibly vast. Hard to believe that every one of those lights represented a person in the Emerald City.
It had been seven years since he had been home, not counting the occasional Winterdael holiday, and those had been spent mostly at the airport hotel. He hadn't thought that he would be returning so soon in his career, but it appeared that fate had other plans for him.
The engines began to whine as the pilots vectored around to their final approach. A faint thnk of the landing gear extending, more felt than heard, and the sense of gravity finally winning the battle against a 300 ton aluminum tube filled with people.
He gripped his armrests loosely and forced himself to relax, breathing deep. It wasn't that he was afraid of flying. It was more like he had an inherent distrust of being in a vehicle that he had no control over. A recently learned trait, to be sure.
The cabin began to rumble, and the wheels touched down. The engines opened up in reverse, bleeding off the last of their speed, and they turned and rolled at a stately pace towards the brightly lit terminal.
Easy.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Castleton," the pilot said over the intercom. "The current time is 6:24 PM. The temperature is a balmy 56 degrees, with a chance of rainfall later tonight, so please take care as you make your way into the city. We here at Loftwing Airways thank you for choosing us..."
Link unclenched his fingers and cracked his knuckles with nervous energy, eager to be off of the plane. He had been bouncing between airports across the globe for almost a full 24 hours now, and he was eager to find some food, a shower, and a nice soft bed. They didn't even have to come in that order.
People began to filter into the aisle as soon as the plane parked, eager to be out of their seats after the four hour flight even if the doors hadn't yet opened. The man across the aisle waited patiently, shushing his ten-year-old son to sit still, so Link stood and flipped open the overhead compartment.
I guess it's true what they say, he thought, seeing that the bags stored inside had indeed shifted while in flight. His small canvas backpack was crushed beneath a metal and plastic monstrosity that had somehow been wedged into the overhead bin. He tried pushing it aside, but found he couldn't lift the suitcase and get a good grip on his backpack at the same time.
He flexed his scarred hand. Damned thing. The car bomb that had given him these scars, that had ended his career in the Royal Marines, had been powerful enough that the APC ahead of them in the convoy had been completely obliterated, with no survivors. He was lucky to have somehow made it out of the burning wreckage of his own vehicle mostly intact. The doctors said that with proper physical therapy he would regain most of his usual motion and dexterity, but in the meantime he felt a burning frustration at his weakness.
The man across the aisle noticed the difficulty he was having and reached across to grab his bag. "Here, son, let me get that for you," he said. Link nodded his thanks, biting back the irrational impulse to snap at the man, even though he was only trying to help. He was injured, not a cripple, damnit. He would have figured it out eventually. Instead he let the man hand him his bag, hefted the backpack over one shoulder, and quietly joined the rest of the herd slowly filtering towards the exit.
Even so, as he shuffled forwards, many of the passengers took notice of his uniform. He wasn't sure who started, but in seconds the entire plane was clapping, and the aisle cleared itself to the front of the plane. He blinked in surprise, his mouth suddenly dry, and strode forward.
"Welcome home."
"Thank you for your service."
"Goddess bless you."
He nodded at the well-wishers and spoke simple, meaningless acknowledgments as he hurried towards the front of the plane, eager to be out from under the adoration. He'd never liked being the center of attention, least of all when he didn't deserve it.
He rushed through the connecting bridge, so eager to get out of the cramped confines of the plane that he rocked back on his heels when he exited into the bustling main terminal. Castleton was a real Hylian city, not some backwater, dusty little hellhole where camels were the most advanced form of transportation. The colors and sounds and smells were so much more vivid here, the bustling throngs of people an almost elemental wave of humanity. People going about their lives, free and in good spirits, without the constant threat that someone might be smuggling a grenade in their satchel.
It wasn't like he was expecting an actual attack here in his home town. But old habits die hard. He scanned the crowd, taking in the scene with his trained eyes, even as he found the ease to relax and enjoy it. This was home.
Three figures caught his attention, standing amongst the ring of people waiting expectantly for the rest of his flight to disembark. There was a muted cheer from two of the figures, one holding up a sign with his name stenciled in large font, while the second momentarily disappeared.
A flash of pink, yellow, and black darted through the crowd, looking for all the world like a giant deranged honey-bee as the girl threw herself at Link's chest with a wordless cry. He grunted at the impact but wrapped his free arm around her waist, which only encouraged her to coil her arms and legs around his torso.
"Saria, c'mon," he sighed as his sister clung to him like a limpet. "I just got out of the hospital a couple weeks ago. Go easy on me for a little while."
The girl clinging to his chest blew out a disappointed breath, sliding down to the floor. "Fiiine," she said, taking a step back and tilting her head up to look him in the eyes. Way up.
At four-foot-ten and ninety pounds soaking wet, Link out-massed her by more than twice, towering over her with his six-foot-three frame. He had regularly carried ruck sacks that weighed more than she did. She was 24 years old, a year younger than himself, but she looked like a girl half her age, much to her continued chagrin.
"You look funny with short hair," Saria said, reaching up on the tips of her toes to ruffle his high-and-tight cut.
"Yeah, well you're not exactly normal yourself," he countered with a grin. "Neon pink with yellow streaks? Really? Are you trying to give me epilepsy?"
Saria gave a girlish giggle and swept a hand threw her tawdry locks. "You like? I wanted blue instead of yellow since I was aiming for a cotton-candy look, but they were sold out," she pouted. "Honestly, who else around here besides me uses that much blue hair-dye?"
Saria had been dying her hair since as long as he could remember, even before she had been able to earn the money to buy proper hair products. He wasn't even sure what her original hair color was. He assumed brown, but he had seen so many shades of that color alone, from chestnut to sienna, that he wasn't quite sure. It might have been green for all he knew.
Her style of dress was equally eccentric, with lots of sparkling beads and black frilly lace, complete with a fitted corset. She had chosen yellow and pink ribbons to accent her hair, which ran up her sides, down her arms, and through her elbow-length fingerless gloves.
A pair of silvery, gossamer wings completed the ensemble. Link could hear a tiny motor whirring away between her shoulder blades, causing the wings to slowly open and close. Samhain was still over a month away. This was just how she dressed year-round.
A gothic pixie princess. A sugar-plum vampire. She made it work, somehow.
"What's with the duds?" she asked, fingering the course fabric of his uniform. "I thought you were already out of the service?"
He looked down. He had worn his dress greens for the flight, seeing as it was technically the last time he would be able to wear them in public. If there was one thing the Royal Marines were fond of, it was tradition, and as a result the style hadn't changed much in a couple hundred years. He wasn't sure when it was officially adopted as the HRMC dress uniform. Since the advent of gunpowder at least.
They were comfortable, if utilitarian. The one problem he had with them was that the bottom quarter of the blouse flared out and in the right light (like, say, at a dimly lit club whilst attempting to earn the affections of a pretty girl) they ended up looking like the world's shortest mini-skirt. There was a reason that "The Dress Uniform" was regularly shortened, derisively, to just "The Dress."
"I thought I'd give them one last hurrah before I retire them for good," he said. "But I'm starting to think that was a mistake."
He ignored his sister's curious look, and gestured towards the crowd as he continued walking. "You didn't tell me you were bringing friends."
They wound their way through the crowd, finally coming to the two other figures he had seen. The taller of the two was a powerfully built man, ex-military by the looks of it. Finely dressed, he stood towards the back with his hands crossed, his eyes hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses, which looked ridiculous indoors. Link didn't know the man personally, but he was very familiar with his type. He would have no less than three weapons on him, never-mind the normal security procedures at the airport terminal, and even if he were to be disarmed any would-be assailant would likely just be beaten to death with his own weapon. Two more like him would be circling farther out, likely disguised in civilian dress. Harkinian Enterprises did not skimp on security for their heir apparent.
The other figure was much more familiar. Champagne blonde hair was tied back in a simple plaited style that swept down to her shoulders, the tips dyed black in the only form of protest she could readily express. Thin wire-frame glasses rested on a dainty nose, covering long lashes and a pair of eyes the color of the summer sky. She was dressed conservatively, never having been comfortable in flaunting her wealth with the latest fashions, and her winter jacket even appeared second-hand.
Link came to a stop a short distance in front of her, letting her bodyguard get comfortable with him. She held the sign low in front of her, as if unsure of what to do with it now that it had served its purpose.
"Hey there," she finally said.
"Hey yourself, princess," he replied with a smirk.
Zelda sighed in disgust, letting her hands fall to her sides. "I was hoping you would have forgotten that by now," she said, then held out her arms. "Come here, you idiot."
She acted like a normal young woman, but her full name was Zelda Harkinian, heir to the Harkinian fortune, assuming her father hadn't had her excommunicated. Judging by the imposing bodyguard behind her, that hadn't happened yet, but with Zelda it was always a close thing.
If there was a princess of the city of Castleton, it was Zelda. Her father was the founder, majority shareholder, and current CEO of Harkinian Enterprises, which had its fingers in everything from pharmaceuticals to weapons manufacturing to computer software and ultimately employed nearly ten percent of the entire city's workforce. "Rich" did not even begin to describe her. She could have bought the entire airport, and it wouldn't have made a noticeable dent in her trust fund.
And yet, here she was, "slumming with the plebs" as Saria had once put it. It turned out that running such a successful company left Mr. Harkinian little time to devote to his own daughter. What had initially started as rebelliousness in an effort to gain her father's attention had several times in the past come close to full-blown civil war between the two. It was a constant trade-off between what Mr. Harkinian would allow and what Zelda could get away with, and Link suspected that she liked it that way, if only because her father was finally paying some attention to her.
When Zelda was young, what had started as a runaway attempt had briefly landed her at the same orphanage that Link and Saria were raised in. Even after the limousine and police escort came to take her away, she had managed to sneak past her guards at least once a month to come visit, and the friendship had remained firm ever since.
Secretly, Link had had a crush on her a long time ago, back when they were children. Back then she had seemed so perfect, and yet so far out of reach. Then after he had graduated secondary school he joined the Royal Marines, and the rest was history.
The old feelings were still there as he moved in to hug her, but quieter now, tempered into a fond friendship. Both of them carefully ignored the slight tensing of the bodyguard behind her. The faint, fruity scent of her hair, her arms hooked around his chest … it was familiar. He needed familiar right now.
"How are you, Zel?" he asked quietly.
"Me?" She blinked and pulled back, surprised that he would ask. "I'm fine. I'm not the one who got blown up. How are you?"
"Ah, I'm not dead yet, so I guess it's a good day," he replied dryly.
Saria ducked her head beneath Link's elbow, wrapping a slender arm around his waist. "Are you kidding? Link's immortal, remember? Or are you forgetting that time he fell off the roof of the orphanage?" She looked up at Link. "Speaking of which, can we go eat? The food court has an awesome pizza place I wanna try."
Zelda frowned, confused. "How did you even connect … no, never mind." She shook her head with a sigh and adjusted her glasses. Saria's mind just worked liked that sometimes. She turned back to Link. "You had us all worried you know, when we first heard about it. Saria even showed us the pictures."
"What?" he said in shock. He had seen some of the pictures himself, and he hadn't recognized the person lying in the hospital bed in some of them. In fact, they had had to open a small hole in his skull at one point to relieve the intracranial pressure, and he had been surprised to learn that someone had had the free time to photograph him mid-operation.
"Oh yeah, even the ones before they dug the shrapnel out of your face," Saria said, nodding enthusiastically. She threw up a pair of horns with her fingers and lowered her voice to a gravely pitch. "You were totally metal."
Link reached up, rubbing at the faint trace of scar tissue on his upper and lower jaw. The doctors had done an excellent job patching his face up. Most people could barely even tell he had facial scars unless he grew his beard out. He was reminded though, every time he had to look in the mirror to shave.
They said he was lucky that the shrapnel hadn't torn across what the doctors called the vermillion border – the darker portions of his lips – which would have left him with noticeable clefts that were nearly impossible to fix properly. As it was he found that the only real downside now was that the scar tissue tugged at the corner of his mouth when he smiled, leaving him with the look of a perpetually amused half-grin.
"I told them to just take a little off the top," he said, referring to the pictures. "Turns out a barber doesn't do surgeries anymore. Who'd have thought?"
"Well, if you can make bad jokes about it, then I guess you'll be okay," Zelda said, tucking the sign beneath her arm. "Come on, let's go get your luggage."
"Then can we go eat?" Saria asked imploringly.
Link chuckled, giving his sister's shoulder a friendly squeeze. "Sure, Saria. I'll buy."
"Woohoo!"
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Ciao!
Raynre Valence – Sage of Time
